you breathe, i bleed
gdragon/sohee
pg-15, 1820w
jiyong might have loved an enigma once. she might have broken him.
written for naladot
A chorus of what the fucks and rough yelling when he sweeps his arms over the table and dumps everyone’s drinks on the floor. A haze of cigarettes and bright lights zigzagging across his mind in long white and orange motion blurs. Throwing up on the side of the road.
“Go home mate, you’re drunk,” says the bouncer, grasping him around the arms and pushing him away from the door. He fights anyway, fights to get in for another round of drinks and cigarettes and long white and orange motion blurs.
He doesn’t win.
She’s an enigma.
Sitting in the corner of the club, thin legs crossed over each other, her hair in a bun on the top of her head. Minimal makeup. A blue jumper and black skinny jeans. A bored look on her face. It’s clear from the her appearance that she would be more at home in a café with a book rather than here in this dark club with the bass thumping so loud no one can hear themselves think.
She looks up, and their eyes meet.
Jiyong doesn’t hear himself think.
He weaves between cigarette smoke and tightly packed bodies until he’s standing before her. She looks up at him, but she doesn’t smile. She doesn’t look bored anymore either.
“Hey,” Jiyong yells in her ear. “Want to get some fresh air?” He pulls back and holds his hand out to her, maintaining enough distance for her not to feel uncomfortable. Because Jiyong thinks he knows girls like her - girls who are forced here by their friends and would never ever talk to a stranger if they didn’t feel like they trusted them. Her eyes search his face uncertainly; he smiles.
She stands up. “I was just leaving,” she says shortly, pushes past him and disappears into the crowd. Jiyong doesn’t try to stop her. He thinks he might know girls like her even less than he thinks he does.
“Good morning,” says the girl behind the cashier. “What can I get for you?” She’s too chirpy, too bright, and Jiyong is nursing too big of a hangover to deal with happy idle chatter with Ms. Perky.
“Triple shot espresso to go,” he says brusquely, almost throwing the money at her. He slouches against the counter, the sunlight streaming through the windows too bright, the indie music playing through the speakers too pretentious. He hates the days when he has to wake up and realize that there is another world beyond his, one that doesn’t involve cigarettes and alcohol and crushing pills in the toilets of clubs.
The ping of the bell sounds like an alarm going off in his brain, and he turns to glare at the barista behind the counter. “I’m sorry,” she blinks at him, but it doesn’t quite sound like an apology. “One triple shot espresso to go?” She places the cup in front of him, and Jiyong recognizes the enigma from a few nights before, her hair still in a bun, her makeup still minimal, her expression still disinterested. And she recognizes him too, he can tell, by the way her eyes widen slightly.
“I meant it when I said I only wanted to get some fresh air,” he says, scooping up the cup and striding away.
He thinks he knows enough about girls like her to make her feel guilty.
The enigma’s name is Sohee.
She doesn’t smoke, hardly drinks, and definitely does not do any kind of drug. Her ideal type of day involves being curled up in her apartment with a steaming mug of tea and a good book, her pet cat curled up on the windowsill beside her. She doesn’t believe in doing or saying things she doesn’t mean just to please people and she doesn’t really give a shit about what everyone thinks of her anyway.
“If you don’t care about what anyone else thinks then why don’t you just go wild?” he asks her.
“Because that’s exactly what people think I should be,” she tells him.
Jiyong realizes that he really doesn’t know much about girls like her, but he falls for her anyway.
Jiyong likes his cramped, tiny apartment with the bare floorboards and minimal furniture because he spends most of whatever money he has on alcohol and pills that keep him sane. It isn’t like people come over to visit him - all his friends are picked up during the night and discarded during the day. Jiyong likes how he doesn’t have to commit himself to anyone, doesn’t have to pick anyone up off the floor when they’ve thrown up or collapsed at his feet.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Sohee exclaims when he turns up at her door at 3 in the morning covered in the stench of alcohol and cigarettes. But she drags him over to her couch anyway, pulling off his shoes and leather jacket before throwing a blanket over him.
“You know,” she says, crouching down beside him. “If you weren’t stone cold drunk all the time I might actually let myself like you.”
He lifts his head and kisses her clumsily, but she kisses him back anyway.
Jiyong spends most nights at her apartment, drinking mugs of her tea, smoking on her balcony when he can’t take the feeling of having clean lungs anymore. Her cat likes him enough to jump on his lap for a nap when he comes over, and Sohee likes him enough to let him put a little drop of brandy in his Earl Grey.
For the first time in a long time, Jiyong feels calm and at peace with himself. His heart doesn’t beat quite so hard (except when she looks at him) and he doesn’t wake up with hangovers anymore. He hasn’t smoked a joint in weeks. He hasn’t felt like going to the backstreets for a long time.
And he thinks he likes it. He thinks he’s happy.
“Hey, Jiyong!” someone yells after him as he strolls through the streets one day, his hands in his pockets and his polo buttoned up to his collar. “See you tonight, eh?”
He laughs, turns and shakes his head. “Nah, I’m over that life,” he grins. “Got myself a girl, you know?”
“Hah,” the guy spits on the ground. “Should’ve known you were a pathetic little wanker anyway. Knew you didn’t have the stamina the moment I met you.” He walks away shaking his head.
Jiyong’s smile fades.
He lets her drag him around the city, visiting parks and museums and churches that he would never have touched with a five foot pole, let alone step into them. But he goes with her and he stays for hours with her and he realizes that maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t actually hate this other world beyond his.
During a stroll through Hyde Park he tries to kiss her again. This time she doesn’t let him.
That night he goes home - home is his apartment with the paper and the remains of his crushed pills strewn all over the floor and the rickety couch and the cracked walls and bare floorboards - and goes to sleep without drinking anything.
He wakes up the next morning feeling disgusted with himself.
He’s staggering out of the entrance of the club when he spots her standing on the other side of the street, hair in her usual bun. He stumbles, trips over the bouncer’s feet, and falls flat on the asphalt, dry heaving when the bile rises in his throat. He looks up at her, calls to her. She’s looking at him. Looking at him with the disinterested stare she first wore when he first met her.
And then she turns and walks away.
“I changed for you,” he slurs in the doorway after a hard night of partying, his clothes reeking of alcohol and weed. Sohee clings to the doorknob. “I threw away everything about myself for you, and you never changed for me. You never - hic - never said I was a good person. You…” he pounds the wall with his fist. “You never fuckin’ told me that I could be myself. I let you be yourself, you know? I never told you to change. And you… you…”
“Don’t come around here anymore,” Sohee says adamantly. “And I told you I don’t say things I don’t mean.” She tries to close the door but Jiyong slams his hand against it.
“You said you would’ve liked me if I wasn’t always drunk but you kissed me anyway, didn’t you?” he demands, his voice echoing down the empty hallway. “You fucking did, didn’t you?”
“Goodbye Jiyong,” she says, but her cheeks colour all the same. “I thought I could make you better, I thought I could save you but I couldn’t. You’ll always be a sad, lonely man who will never grow up. All you ever cared about was what everyone else thought about you, I thought I could make you see that you don’t even like who you are right now, that you could be so much more -.”
“Like hell you know anything about me,” Jiyong says vehemently.
“Then we’re even,” she snaps, and the door slams shut in his face. A few seconds later it reopens, his almost full bottle of brandy hitting him in the stomach.
By the time he gets home the bottle is empty.
She’s an enigma.
Sitting in the corner of the club, thin legs crossed over each other, short hair in a neat bob. Minimal makeup. Skinny jeans and a white singlet. It’s clear from the way she looks that she doesn’t belong here in this dark club with the bass thumping so loud no one can hear themselves think.
He’s not here to think. So when the enigma’s eyes turn towards his direction, he crushes the pill harder in his hand, downs it without water, feels it sliding down his throat, feels the familiar haze settling down inside him.
He thinks he might have loved an enigma once. He staggers through the crowd of tightly packed bodies, cigarette smoke, sweat and the scent of people letting themselves go permeating the air.
He might have loved an enigma once. She might have broken him.
A chorus of what the fucks when he sweeps his arms over the table and dumps everyone’s drinks on the floor. A haze of cigarettes and bright lights zigzagging across his mind in long white and orange motion blurs. Throwing up on the side of the road. Crying on the floor of the club bathroom stall while he waits for the effects to kick in.
“Go home mate, you’re drunk,” says the bouncer, grasping him around the arms and pushing him away from the door. He fights anyway, fights to get in for another round of drinks and cigarettes and waiting for the high to come. Fights to forget.
He doesn’t win.
(He’s never won.)
pg-15, 1820w
jiyong might have loved an enigma once. she might have broken him.
written for naladot
A chorus of what the fucks and rough yelling when he sweeps his arms over the table and dumps everyone’s drinks on the floor. A haze of cigarettes and bright lights zigzagging across his mind in long white and orange motion blurs. Throwing up on the side of the road.
“Go home mate, you’re drunk,” says the bouncer, grasping him around the arms and pushing him away from the door. He fights anyway, fights to get in for another round of drinks and cigarettes and long white and orange motion blurs.
He doesn’t win.
She’s an enigma.
Sitting in the corner of the club, thin legs crossed over each other, her hair in a bun on the top of her head. Minimal makeup. A blue jumper and black skinny jeans. A bored look on her face. It’s clear from the her appearance that she would be more at home in a café with a book rather than here in this dark club with the bass thumping so loud no one can hear themselves think.
She looks up, and their eyes meet.
Jiyong doesn’t hear himself think.
He weaves between cigarette smoke and tightly packed bodies until he’s standing before her. She looks up at him, but she doesn’t smile. She doesn’t look bored anymore either.
“Hey,” Jiyong yells in her ear. “Want to get some fresh air?” He pulls back and holds his hand out to her, maintaining enough distance for her not to feel uncomfortable. Because Jiyong thinks he knows girls like her - girls who are forced here by their friends and would never ever talk to a stranger if they didn’t feel like they trusted them. Her eyes search his face uncertainly; he smiles.
She stands up. “I was just leaving,” she says shortly, pushes past him and disappears into the crowd. Jiyong doesn’t try to stop her. He thinks he might know girls like her even less than he thinks he does.
“Good morning,” says the girl behind the cashier. “What can I get for you?” She’s too chirpy, too bright, and Jiyong is nursing too big of a hangover to deal with happy idle chatter with Ms. Perky.
“Triple shot espresso to go,” he says brusquely, almost throwing the money at her. He slouches against the counter, the sunlight streaming through the windows too bright, the indie music playing through the speakers too pretentious. He hates the days when he has to wake up and realize that there is another world beyond his, one that doesn’t involve cigarettes and alcohol and crushing pills in the toilets of clubs.
The ping of the bell sounds like an alarm going off in his brain, and he turns to glare at the barista behind the counter. “I’m sorry,” she blinks at him, but it doesn’t quite sound like an apology. “One triple shot espresso to go?” She places the cup in front of him, and Jiyong recognizes the enigma from a few nights before, her hair still in a bun, her makeup still minimal, her expression still disinterested. And she recognizes him too, he can tell, by the way her eyes widen slightly.
“I meant it when I said I only wanted to get some fresh air,” he says, scooping up the cup and striding away.
He thinks he knows enough about girls like her to make her feel guilty.
The enigma’s name is Sohee.
She doesn’t smoke, hardly drinks, and definitely does not do any kind of drug. Her ideal type of day involves being curled up in her apartment with a steaming mug of tea and a good book, her pet cat curled up on the windowsill beside her. She doesn’t believe in doing or saying things she doesn’t mean just to please people and she doesn’t really give a shit about what everyone thinks of her anyway.
“If you don’t care about what anyone else thinks then why don’t you just go wild?” he asks her.
“Because that’s exactly what people think I should be,” she tells him.
Jiyong realizes that he really doesn’t know much about girls like her, but he falls for her anyway.
Jiyong likes his cramped, tiny apartment with the bare floorboards and minimal furniture because he spends most of whatever money he has on alcohol and pills that keep him sane. It isn’t like people come over to visit him - all his friends are picked up during the night and discarded during the day. Jiyong likes how he doesn’t have to commit himself to anyone, doesn’t have to pick anyone up off the floor when they’ve thrown up or collapsed at his feet.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Sohee exclaims when he turns up at her door at 3 in the morning covered in the stench of alcohol and cigarettes. But she drags him over to her couch anyway, pulling off his shoes and leather jacket before throwing a blanket over him.
“You know,” she says, crouching down beside him. “If you weren’t stone cold drunk all the time I might actually let myself like you.”
He lifts his head and kisses her clumsily, but she kisses him back anyway.
Jiyong spends most nights at her apartment, drinking mugs of her tea, smoking on her balcony when he can’t take the feeling of having clean lungs anymore. Her cat likes him enough to jump on his lap for a nap when he comes over, and Sohee likes him enough to let him put a little drop of brandy in his Earl Grey.
For the first time in a long time, Jiyong feels calm and at peace with himself. His heart doesn’t beat quite so hard (except when she looks at him) and he doesn’t wake up with hangovers anymore. He hasn’t smoked a joint in weeks. He hasn’t felt like going to the backstreets for a long time.
And he thinks he likes it. He thinks he’s happy.
“Hey, Jiyong!” someone yells after him as he strolls through the streets one day, his hands in his pockets and his polo buttoned up to his collar. “See you tonight, eh?”
He laughs, turns and shakes his head. “Nah, I’m over that life,” he grins. “Got myself a girl, you know?”
“Hah,” the guy spits on the ground. “Should’ve known you were a pathetic little wanker anyway. Knew you didn’t have the stamina the moment I met you.” He walks away shaking his head.
Jiyong’s smile fades.
He lets her drag him around the city, visiting parks and museums and churches that he would never have touched with a five foot pole, let alone step into them. But he goes with her and he stays for hours with her and he realizes that maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t actually hate this other world beyond his.
During a stroll through Hyde Park he tries to kiss her again. This time she doesn’t let him.
That night he goes home - home is his apartment with the paper and the remains of his crushed pills strewn all over the floor and the rickety couch and the cracked walls and bare floorboards - and goes to sleep without drinking anything.
He wakes up the next morning feeling disgusted with himself.
He’s staggering out of the entrance of the club when he spots her standing on the other side of the street, hair in her usual bun. He stumbles, trips over the bouncer’s feet, and falls flat on the asphalt, dry heaving when the bile rises in his throat. He looks up at her, calls to her. She’s looking at him. Looking at him with the disinterested stare she first wore when he first met her.
And then she turns and walks away.
“I changed for you,” he slurs in the doorway after a hard night of partying, his clothes reeking of alcohol and weed. Sohee clings to the doorknob. “I threw away everything about myself for you, and you never changed for me. You never - hic - never said I was a good person. You…” he pounds the wall with his fist. “You never fuckin’ told me that I could be myself. I let you be yourself, you know? I never told you to change. And you… you…”
“Don’t come around here anymore,” Sohee says adamantly. “And I told you I don’t say things I don’t mean.” She tries to close the door but Jiyong slams his hand against it.
“You said you would’ve liked me if I wasn’t always drunk but you kissed me anyway, didn’t you?” he demands, his voice echoing down the empty hallway. “You fucking did, didn’t you?”
“Goodbye Jiyong,” she says, but her cheeks colour all the same. “I thought I could make you better, I thought I could save you but I couldn’t. You’ll always be a sad, lonely man who will never grow up. All you ever cared about was what everyone else thought about you, I thought I could make you see that you don’t even like who you are right now, that you could be so much more -.”
“Like hell you know anything about me,” Jiyong says vehemently.
“Then we’re even,” she snaps, and the door slams shut in his face. A few seconds later it reopens, his almost full bottle of brandy hitting him in the stomach.
By the time he gets home the bottle is empty.
She’s an enigma.
Sitting in the corner of the club, thin legs crossed over each other, short hair in a neat bob. Minimal makeup. Skinny jeans and a white singlet. It’s clear from the way she looks that she doesn’t belong here in this dark club with the bass thumping so loud no one can hear themselves think.
He’s not here to think. So when the enigma’s eyes turn towards his direction, he crushes the pill harder in his hand, downs it without water, feels it sliding down his throat, feels the familiar haze settling down inside him.
He thinks he might have loved an enigma once. He staggers through the crowd of tightly packed bodies, cigarette smoke, sweat and the scent of people letting themselves go permeating the air.
He might have loved an enigma once. She might have broken him.
A chorus of what the fucks when he sweeps his arms over the table and dumps everyone’s drinks on the floor. A haze of cigarettes and bright lights zigzagging across his mind in long white and orange motion blurs. Throwing up on the side of the road. Crying on the floor of the club bathroom stall while he waits for the effects to kick in.
“Go home mate, you’re drunk,” says the bouncer, grasping him around the arms and pushing him away from the door. He fights anyway, fights to get in for another round of drinks and cigarettes and waiting for the high to come. Fights to forget.
He doesn’t win.
(He’s never won.)