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music_withme
Kikwang has mastered the art of looking like he doesn’t think about his clothes. Or so he thinks. The truth is, he reeks of careful calculation, from his tight wifebeaters to his oversize glasses to his childish knit hats. It’s obvious what he wants people to think of him. Dongwoon isn’t quite sure if he’s irritated or a tad jealous. Sometimes, when he watches Kikwang pick a scarf for a trip to the convenience store, he wonders what people think when they see him. Clothes don’t make the man, he reassures himself, and spends an extra hour in the practice room.
Dongwoon doesn’t think about clothes when Kikwang isn’t around. Occasionally, when they’re about to get on stage, he looks in the mirror and realizes Oh my god, I look like a fucking marshmallow. It’s not the way Kikwang does, though, with a color for each mood or where he’s going that day. It’s just about moving, about comfort, about not looking ridiculous. (Kikwang, apparently, doesn’t think about that last one, but then again, Kikwang and Dongwoon have never agreed on the definition of ridiculous.)
Sometimes when he goes out, Kikwang stops him at the coat rack. He shoves a hat, sometimes a scarf, in Dongwoon’s face, usually in awfully shouty colors. “Don’t get frostbite, Dongwoonie,” he whispers, giving him that stupid smile. “Stay warm, okay?” Kikwang pouts if he doesn’t take them, so he does, wincing a little when he passes the mirror.
He’s warm, though, as he walks through the city, his breath in puffs ahead of him. Maybe it’s the man that makes the clothes.
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