what i have, i held in these hands (part two)
what i have, i held in these hands - version two
g-dragon/top
rated r (sexual situations)
part two: 6,206 words
alternate reality. top fails his audition and gives up on yg.
notes: this is a loose remix of gdgdbaby's what i have, i held in these hands. thank you for letting me borrow the idea, lucy. ♥ apologies for any mistakes i made as far as the k-hiphop scene goes. i’m definitely not an expert at all of the different groups and their members.
for anyone that's been waiting for this, i'm sorry i took so long! this will make no sense at all unless you've read part one.
2008
"You look weird today," Teddy laughs, bopping him on the back of the head as he sits. Jiyong scowls at him, the obscenely large Chanel necklace bouncing against his chest with the movement. "Like a raver or something. Pink pants and shit."
"He looks fine," Youngbae offers. He flashes Jiyong a grin and a thumbs up from the couch, where Seungri is snoozing on his shoulder. "You look good, Jiyongie."
"I always look good."
Teddy groans and cues up the track. "Can we get on with it?" He eyes the sofa and the figures on it before he claps his hands together. Seungri jerks upright and wipes drool from his mouth. "Hey, come on!"
Jiyong frowns as Seungri crosses the room, shutting the door to the booth behind him. The YG studios are plush, soundproofing quilted thick onto the walls and posters hung up in frames. The boy behind the glass is small in his surroundings but his grin is cocky. "I'm ready."
The first few notes are flat, Seungri's posture ramrod straight as he sings. Youngbae frowns and stands up next to Teddy, says some encouraging words into the mic before he tries again. It takes an hour and some minutes for the first few lines and by the time they get to the chorus, Teddy sends out for food and calls a break, stepping outside for some air.
Seungri won't meet his eyes as Jiyong steps into the booth, shutting the door behind him. He watches Youngbae chase Boss into the hallway before he sidles up beside him, reaching over to point at the lyrics. "You can do this," he says.
"Hyung, I know I can do better." He offers a smile. "You know I’m usually really good."
Jiyong nods and hides his smirk under his hand, moving until he's flush behind the boy. Seungri stiffens as he breathes into his ear.
"Hey, Seungri," he breathes, "just do it like this," and then he's singing, ignoring the way his voice thins out in favor of holding the note. Eventually Seungri takes a shaky lead, Jiyong's arm curled around his waist, voice demoted to harmony. "Perfect," he says, and he's stepping away again, reveling in how Seungri's mouth moves soundlessly, eyes following him as he steps out. He sprawls onto the couch, patting the cushions as Youngbae and Boss come bounding in. The dog leaps onto the black leather and stays there, Youngbae settling onto the chair next to Teddy's as they wait. "He's got it now," Jiyong says, scratching behind the terrier's ears.
"How'd you do it?"
Jiyong shrugs. "Leader's duties."
---
“Straight across.”
“Just straight across the middle?” The hairstylist frowns, a set of clippers in her hand. She ruffles the sleek crop of Jiyong’s hair and tuts. “Such a waste, it’s so healthy.”
“It’ll still be there,” he soothes, “just less of it.” He reaches up and takes the scissors away, setting the electric shaver into her hand. “Just across here,” Jiyong says, drawing a line down his head with his palm. “The other half can stay long. You can trim it with a razor, right?”
“Right,” she says faintly. “Jiyong, if you...”
“Noona,” he grins, “trust me on this.”
-
A Naver search yields photos from all angles, the excited posts of hormonal fangirls and grudging respect from some of the more fashion-centered music blogs. They call his hair a Mohican and Jiyong likes the name, sounds it out in his mouth before he texts Teddy to ask what it means. Indians, Teddy says, and then Native Americans two seconds later. Jiyong tries both out, the way he imagines Teddy would say it, the i in ‘Americans’ slurred into the latter half of the word.
“I think they’re the same thing,” Daesung says faintly, buried in a blanket and huddled on the sofa. A bottle of cold medicine sits on the coffee table in front of him. “It’s a bad word or something like that.”
“How do you know?”
He shrugs. “I saw it in a movie once.”
Jiyong powers the computer down and sits next to him, nudging until Daesung gives up half of his blanket. “We can share body heat,” he says cheerfully.
Daesung rolls his eyes. “If you get sick, it’ll be your fault.”
“I have a good immune system.”
He shakes his head but tilts it enough so that Jiyong can rest his chin against his shoulder. They watch television in silence, punctured here and there by idle commentary.
“That guy,” Daesung says, “he’s good, right?”
There’s a rapper on stage now, in a baseball jacket and jeans, hat cocked to the side. It’s a special on the underground, but Jiyong knows most of their names and their songs already. “He’s really good,” he agrees. “It’s Dok2. That’s the Movement, his crew.”
“I think we can take them, Jiyong.”
Jiyong laughs. “Not really. We’re an idol group.”
“So?”
“So it’s different.” He shifts under the thick fleece, bitterness tainting his breath when he exhales. “Some people will always like them better.”
“Who cares what they think,” Daesung says, and Jiyong wants to answer I do.
Instead he says “thanks.”
They continue to watch. Daesung’s foot taps along to the beat of its own accord; the answering jiggle of his side gets Jiyong drifting in and out of sleep as the documentary drones on.
“That guy’s really handsome,” Daesung yawns. “He could be an idol star too.”
“Mmm.”
A slight exhale. “He’s probably better-looking than all of us.”
Jiyong raises an eyebrow.
“Okay,” Daesung amends, “all of us but Seungri.” They both laugh, then, and then Jiyong looks back at the screen. Someone is sitting hunched inside of a studio, long bangs swooping to brush against a forehead and the wrinkles at the corners of eyes. The whole crew erupts in laughter and he brushes that hair away, exposing high cheekbones. When he laughs, it’s about two beats behind the rest and that sets them off again. It sounds like it’s broken, deep and low, and Jiyong’s heart turns over, twists inside of him.
“Handsome, right?” Daesung nudges him again. “He just kinda looks like a rapper.” His next words come out sheepish. “Really cool.”
“No,” he says. “Fucking... not at all.”
Daesung’s cheeks color and Jiyong kneads at his shoulder, channeling the tightness in his chest into a more immediate avenue. “I didn’t mean you, I meant... I know that guy. I think.”
“How can you not know if you know someone or not?”
“He looks different,” Jiyong says, defensive. And he really does, leather jacket zipped tight around him, dark jeans hugging slim legs as he stands to give the camera a tour of the rented studio. He focuses on the label hanging from the jacket’s back before it’s tucked back in and the camera’s offered a sheepish smile, deep dimples sinking into cheeks. “It’s Seunghyun,” he says against Daesung’s shoulder. “Choi Seunghyun.”
“Friend of yours?”
“Used to be,” Jiyong says, quiet.
Daesung stops speaking. Now he’s the one putting an arm around his leader’s shoulder, reaching for the remote.
“Stop.”
“What?”
“Leave it on,” he says, so Daesung holds him, baffled by the confusion and then the intense scrutiny Jiyong gives the rest of the show.
Later, he wolfs down his dinner and strides into his room, the door jiggling the way it does when it’s being locked.
---
“I wish I could do it,” Youngbae says, voice echoing down the table. “Hip-hop stage. I can still rap.”
They both laugh.
“Okay, sorta.”
Jiyong taps a foot against the floor, the high top squeaking against the wood of the meeting room. He braces his chin against his hand, spinning his pen against the notepad he’d brought as Youngbae checks the messages on his phone, both of them draining water bottles with the waiting.
Then the door creaks open.
“Yeah, they’re in here; they got the director’s stuff with them and all of that.” It’s Teddy’s voice, calm and cocksure, the shuffle of shoes behind him making Youngbae and Jiyong stand and turn, almost bowing on instinct.
Gaeko and Choiza greet them with slaps to the shoulder and an open-faced, sliding handshake. They pull beanies and hats from their heads and slouch into seats across from them, Teddy at the head of the table.
-
The discussions for Gayo Daejun are tedious, but the jokes fly thick and fast. Youngbae stays and Choiza leans back in his chair, compliments on him on his solo album.
“That’s good shit,” he says, “I was telling Seunghyun he should listen--”
Gaeko cracks a smile. “Wait, where is he?” He pulls his phone out, mashing down keys and putting it to his ear. “I’m not catching him up on this stuff, it’ll take forever.”
“Who’s Seunghyun?” Teddy asks.
“T.O.P,” Choiza says, and Teddy nods.
“That album was on point.” His eyes narrow. “I don’t even know how he got some of that stuff past the censors.”
Jiyong scribbles a line down his notebook and grits his teeth. “He the Movement guy?”
“Yup,” Gaeko says, putting the phone down. “He’s not answering. Fucker never answers. He just texts.”
“Where is he?”
“Got lost.” Gaeko grins. “He’s in one of the hallways or some shit like that right now.”
The duo erupt in laughter and Teddy stands, saying, “I’ll get him,” before he slips out the door.
“You gotta hear this guy’s voice if you haven’t already,” Choiza notes. He wipes at an eye, tucking arms across his chest as he settles back into his chair.
Gaeko nods. “Kinda gets ruined when you meet him, though.”
“I’ve already met him,” Jiyong says. Youngbae frowns.
“Oh yeah?”
He nods. “We used to live in the same neighborhood.”
Youngbae’s eyebrows climb into his baseball cap, staying there as the door squeaks open again and the two other men stand up and make their way across the room. He sneaks a glance at Jiyong, but he’s already standing, setting his pen on the table with stiff fingers.
Choiza pulls him into a handshake. “How come you didn’t tell us you already knew Big Bang?”
Seunghyun steps back, his eyes settling on the two members. His smile fades a little. “I dunno,” he says. “They’re famous now, might not remember me anymore.”
“Aw, hyung,” Youngbae protests as Teddy flops back into his seat.
“They’re dumbasses, don’t mind them. Sit down.”
Seunghyun does, at the other end of the table, across from Jiyong.
He can’t help but sneak a glance.
Seunghyun’s hair is short now, gelled into a crooked kind of fauxhawk that leans to one side. His face is thin, but the hands folded on the table are decorated with rings and he’s wearing glasses, thick black ones with square frames. The eyes behind them flick to Jiyong’s face and he looks away, schooling his mind to focus.
---
Afterwards they go to a restaurant. Teddy, brandishing a company credit card, puts himself in charge of ordering dinner. Seunghyun, Choiza and Gaeko immerse themselves in conversation: from the words Jiyong chooses to listen to, it sounds like crew beef. The knot in his stomach doesn’t loosen, even with the addition of alcohol and food.
He’d half wanted Seunghyun to keep his game face on, controlled and hard. He’d wanted Seunghyun to ignore him, the idol star, for his underground rapper friends and the drinks being passed around, the waitress who bent lower and lower over the table with each round she made to their corner. Instead, he’s polite, the way an elementary school acquaintance would be. He doesn’t seek or avoid his conversation: instead, he monopolizes Youngbae’s.
“I have your cd,” he says, setting his drink down.
Youngbae tilts his cap upwards. “Remember?”
“No, yours. Your solo.” Seunghyun stirs ice cubes out of the way with his straw. “I set the last song as my ringtone.”
“Oh.” Youngbae smiles proudly but nods Jiyong’s way. “I think our group stuff is good too.”
He shrugs. “I downloaded some, but I haven’t listened to it yet.”
“We’ve been out for two years,” Jiyong interrupts, setting his chopsticks down, “and downloading’s illegal.”
“How do you know I downloaded it illegally?” Seunghyun asks, his voice mild. “I got the songs off Melon.”
Youngbae shifts uncomfortably as they exchange a glance.
“Really?”
“No,” he admits. “I just said it to see your face.” He grins then, so crooked and familiar that Jiyong has to blink away, chest going tight with a tangle of emotions he can’t begin to decipher.
Youngbae laughs for him, but Seunghyun is already ducking his head, the smile slipping off of his mouth.
-
After dinner, while they put on jackets and sweatshirts, Seunghyun corners him next to the bathrooms. “I’m sorry if I offended you with the joke.” He clears his throat. “I mean, you always had a sense of humor, so I thought...”
“It’s fine,” Jiyong says tightly.
“Are you sure? Because...”
“I said it was fine.”
“Okay.” He leans against the wall. Jiyong can’t stop looking at him, all long legs and dark clothes, Adam’s apple exposed when he tilts head back. “You know,” he says, “we should write our parts together. Gaeko and Choiza are doing theirs.”
“I write alone.”
Seunghyun frowns. “No, you don’t.”
“I produce all the records.”
“I know that.”
“Because you’re stalking me?”
“Because you’re really famous.” When Seunghyun looks at him, he lifts his head, meeting his eyes. “Everyone knows who you guys are, how you work.”
“So don’t flatter myself is what you’re saying.”
“I was trying to give you a compliment, but that works too.”
Jiyong busies himself with zipping up his jacket.
“I’m glad you’re successful, Ji.”
When he looks up again Seunghyun’s staring at him with watchful eyes.
“For an idol group.”
“No, in general. I mean it.” He smiles, dimples barely peeking out from his cheeks. “I don’t think I could’ve done the dances anyway.”
“Probably not.”
“So come over.”
“I told you, I don’t write with other people.”
“So come over and have a beer.”
“I don’t have your number.”
Seunghyun looks towards his friends, nodding as they gesture to a cab. Then he looks back at Jiyong. “I never changed it.”
---
Seunghyun is late.
He comes jogging up the stairs, not the elevator Jiyong was contemplating just getting into not two seconds before.
“Hey,” he pants, “sorry about that, I had to stay late and do some extra stuff--”
“You said 8:30.”
“It’s only...” Seunghyun checks his watch. Then he grimaces. “Okay, I’m half an hour late. I’m sorry.”
“I almost left,” Jiyong mumbles.
“Did you park your car in the back lot or the front? Because they tow after ten.”
“My driver took me.”
“Oh.” A pause. “Anyway,” he continues, digging his keys out from the depths of his pockets, “I was thinking of some stuff at work. I wrote it down somewhere. Come in.”
Jiyong trudges in behind him once he opens the door. There’s a weak trickle of heated air that wisps into his face as he toes his shoes off, so he keeps his jacket on. “Should I turn up the heat?”
“Nah, it starts running weird if it gets too high.”
As he flips lights on Jiyong takes the chance to look around. It’s sparse, mostly furniture, a few knick-knacks scattered on shelves next to the television.
“I moved in a couple months ago,” he explains, “so it’s kinda empty right now.”
“Isn’t that your mom’s couch?”
Seunghyun grins, a little sheepishly. “Couches are expensive.”
Jiyong shrugs. He’s never bought a couch before.
“Anyway,” he continues, crossing the room to disappear into the kitchen, “how’ve you been doing? I saw you on TV last night.”
“I’m okay. Kind of tired.” Jiyong trails him into the room. The linoleum is old, yellowing at the corners, but the room is cleaner than he’d expected. A shopping bag sits on the counter full of boxes he can’t identify. “Been shopping?”
“My mom brought them over,” he admits. “Sometimes I forget to go.” He pulls open the fridge, coming out with two beers. “You want one?”
“Sure.”
Seunghyun lopes around the room with an easy familiarity. He pops the tabs open and hands a bottle to Jiyong, who can’t help but notice the almost affectionate way he opens and closes drawers, jiggling the handles in a way that tells him this cabinet is finicky, that one doesn’t close right unless you touch it this way.
At Jiyong’s dorm they would’ve hired someone to fix these things.
“Anyway,” Seunghyun says, pulling a wad of receipts out from his back pocket, “I had something going but I’m not sure.” He spreads them out on the kitchen island, smoothing the wrinkles with his fingers. “I kept having to stop and deal with customers, so I got distracted.”
“Customers?”
“I have a job.”
“You produce for other people?”
“No,” Seunghyun says. He looks down at the papers. “I work at a job job. Selling clothes.”
Jiyong frowns. “Like you used to?”
“Same place, actually. I’m assistant manager now,” he adds. He makes an abortive movement with his hands. “It took me this long to convince them to trust me.”
He looks at Jiyong. Jiyong looks at him.
“I’m kidding,” he clarifies, and Jiyong shakes his head, snorting.
“That was barely a joke.”
“I’m really irresponsible.”
Jiyong looks down at his beer. Seunghyun takes a hasty gulp of his.
“This is awkward,” he mumbles.
Seunghyun leans forward, elbows on the island. He looks at Jiyong earnestly. “It doesn’t have to be.” His fingers scrabble at the bottle’s label, scratching at its corner. “I want us to be friends again.”
“I thought we were working on Gayo Daejun.”
“We are, I just...”
“You invited me here to work on Gayo Daejun,” Jiyong says again, “so I think that’s what we should do.”
The heat kicks up, scattering the receipts onto the floor. Seunghyun ducks to retrieve them.
When he straightens up again his face is curious. “Is that what you want?”
Jiyong takes a long sip of his drink. “We haven’t talked in years, how are we supposed to be friends?”
They aren't seventeen anymore, Jiyong thinks, and Seunghyun shouldn't be like this, placating and likeable and a little bit shy, the neat angles of his figure scrunched a little. "I was just… I don't know."
"Stupid," Jiyong says, and a bit of goodwill slips off of Seunghyun's face. He focuses on unclipping his nametag and putting it on the table instead. "And a shitty friend."
"I never changed my number," Seunghyun fires back. "You could've called anytime."
It's true, he could have. Jiyong weighs his options as quiet fills up the room.
"Sorry," Seunghyun says eventually. He drags a line across the linoleum with his big toe. His teeth clench and Jiyong's eyes follow the line of his jaw, something half-forgotten burning through his stomach. "I didn't mean to snap at you."
"Okay." Jiyong leans down, picks up one of the pieces of paper scattered against the floor. "Is this what you wanted me to look at?"
"No," he says, "I have it here somewhere, hold on…"
Jiyong watches him move around, arms awkward-skinny and jutting from the sleeves of his t-shirt. "I know it’s here."
His voice is deeper, now, rough around the edges from smoke. "You write anything?" he asks, and Jiyong has to blink before he shakes his head.
"Not yet."
"If you want," he says slowly, "I can help." He sits down again, across from Jiyong, their knees nearly touching. "I can't find mine but it wasn't that good anyway. I can always start over."
"That's fine."
"Are you even taking this seriously?" Seunghyun asks. He tries to smile. Maybe it's that that does him in, the way he smiles. It's the same and different all at once, dimples carved deeper into his cheeks, the way the irises of his eyes light up. When Jiyong straightens up, he tries to scoot backwards.
"What are you doing?"
"I don't know," Jiyong admits, and the hurt and the want slurry together, and Seunghyun's swallowing nervously, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat so that when Jiyong kisses him it sucks the air right out.
He tries to pull away, at least at first. The angle is all wrong, or maybe it's Seunghyun that's making it all wrong, like this is his first time all over again and he doesn't quite know what to do. Jiyong pushes his tongue into his mouth, swipes it along his. Seunghyun's breath is harsh and stuttery along his cheek. "This isn't…" he breaks the kiss, his eyes wide and troubled, "I wasn't trying to do anything like this, I swear."
It's almost cute. Jiyong wants to laugh. Instead he leans in, presses his lips to that jaw and licks along it, feeling Seunghyun's chest hitch, his hands touch at his elbows loosely, like he's afraid Jiyong will push him away.
He should be. He did it first.
It’s easy to push him into the chair again, Jiyong’s knees digging hard into his thighs as he moves to sit against him. He shifts, and their hips meet, and his hands sneak under Seunghyun’s shirt. He ignores the way Seunghyun tries to get them out again, large hands over his under the smooth cotton, and when Seunghyun makes a noise, fingernails digging into Jiyong’s fist, Jiyong takes the opportunity to mouth at his jaw again. He can feel Seunghyun thrumming underneath him, the way his legs draw up like he’s getting up to leave, the way he fits his hand behind Jiyong’s neck and brings his mouth to his again, perfect. Jiyong’s head swims, and he wants to make it hurt, sharp like the concrete under his knees when he’d tried to comfort him outside of the YG building.
Before he has the chance to, Seunghyun pushes him away.
“What is this?” he asks.
“Use your head,” Jiyong replies, but when he reaches for him again Seunghyun stops him.
“Did you plan this?”
“No,” Jiyong says, and the way Seunghyun draws in on himself, the way he smoothes out his shirt like he wants to erase whatever Jiyong had left there stings. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he spits.
“Then what are you doing?”
“I told you, I don’t know.” He watches Seunghyun shake his head, try to get up, and it makes him scramble to stand. “But I’m done now.”
“Yeah, you are.” There’s steel behind his words. “I don’t know what game you’re trying to play with me, but maybe you should go.”
It hurts. Jiyong ignores it. “Maybe I should.”
“Do you even know how to drive?” Seunghyun asks, his voice still deep, his eyes still foggy. He turns away. “Maybe you can call a taxi.”
“I don’t need to learn,” Jiyong says, his voice turning nasty, “I have other people to do that for me.”
Seunghyun shrugs, and it’s infuriating, the way he can’t get to him with words anymore.
“Door’s that way,” he says. He tucks shaking hands into his pockets. Jiyong takes it as a small victory.
The receipts crumple under Jiyong’s feet as he makes his way out, his cheeks pink.
---
Kush stares at Jiyong’s pale face in the car.
“I’m not sick,” Jiyong murmurs.
He tells him everything: the audition, Gayo Daejun, Seunghyun’s apartment. By the time Jiyong finishes the car’s way past YG building and Kush is unnaturally silent.
“Guess you fucked up, huh.”
Jiyong shrugs.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” When Jiyong looks over he coughs. “I mean before. When he didn’t get in.”
“What?”
“It was fucked up calling him fat but you were pissed off. Heat of the moment.”
“Still fucked up, though.”
“Well, yeah.” He drums his fingers against the steering wheel.
“Yeah.” Jiyong slumps in his seat. The radio sells an advertisement for mattresses.
“Where are we?” he asks.
“Don’t really know,” Kush says. “I just figured you wouldn’t want to go back to work.”
“Not really.”
“Want to find a bar?”
“I shouldn’t,” he says. He doesn’t remember exactly what he’s got to do tomorrow, but he knows there’s something. There’s always something.
“I’ll cover for you,” he says. “It’s on me.”
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
“Cut me off when it’s three.”
“Atta boy,” Kush says, and the car rumbles back to life.
---
He doesn’t stop at three. He finds Seungho at the bar and three a.m. turns into four and then five, because Seungho calls Hyuksoo who calls Daniel who calls Justar, and by the time Jiyong stumbles outside the sun is bleeding into the sky. He takes a deep breath, nausea pricking the back of his throat, and leans forward, hands on his knees as he fights not to vomit.
It doesn’t work. The pavement is splattered with the expensive shots Kush had promised he’d buy. The taste of it is acrid in his mouth, so he wanders over to a corner store to buy gum and mouthwash. He strolls around the aisles snapping the spearmint in his mouth, smashing it against his picture on a magazine as he leaves. The mouthwash he gargles and spits against the sidewalk of the building at the end of the street.
Jiyong sits on the pavement. The mouthwash doesn’t help with the dizziness, and as he rests his head on his knees the world spins around him slowly. Dully, he wonders how far the bar is, if he can make it back without anyone recognizing him.
One step, two and then three. He’s almost past the apartment complex now, but the sky is tilted in a scary way so he leans against the building, taking deep breaths from his nose. Soon it’s going to be six and the schoolgirls will start filtering out to go to class. He’ll be screwed if he doesn’t get home.
Four, five, and six are easy enough, only the pavement leads to more apartments, a cluttered maze of them so high they almost block out the sun. There’s a spa on the corner he could sleep in if he absolutely had to, but the idea of sitting in all of that steam makes him retch again, hard and deep. He vomits quietly into a grate, hand propped against someone’s Hyundai Sonata. After that he sits down, head in his hands.
He doesn’t want to do Gayo Daejun with Seunghyun, doesn’t want to do the hip-hop stage with Dynamic Duo. He doesn’t want to go back to the bar and see the knowing looks on his friends’ faces, doesn’t want to deal with Kush being quiet and still, or the gossip that will spread around YGE.
Fuck it, let someone recognize him. What’s the worst that could happen? He’s human too. Sometimes he needs to have a drink. He runs fingers through his greasy hair and pops another piece of gum. After a few chews he stands unsteadily, leaning back against the car.
The schoolgirls really are coming out now. Jiyong’s not scared of them, he’s not. But if he goes down, Big Bang does too. He ducks around the car, pressing himself into the alcove of the apartment building as they approach.
He hates the smell of himself, cheap cologne and jajangmyun, vomit and vodka, but he buries his nose in the collar of his jacket as the girls pass directly in front of him. He turns his face away but one of them slows down, her eyes squinting as she takes him in.
Jiyong considers turning around and facing the corner. Maybe he can just give them autographs and they’ll leave. He tugs on the door. Locked, of course. He tries again out of sheer desperation, but this time it opens. Backwards.
He’s smashed against the door and the wall, and someone slams the door shut and starts to apologize, dusting him off before they stop.
“You’re a mess.”
Seunghyun’s standing before him, in pajama pants and an old sweatshirt, house slippers on his feet.
“What are you doing here?”
Jiyong blinks up at him. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out.
“Jiyong-oppa?”
Jiyong turns. The schoolgirls have stopped completely now.
“Do you know them?” Seunghyun asks in an undertone.
“No.”
Seunghyun purses his lips. One of the girls nudges the other. She pulls out a phone.
“Come on,” he sighs. He punches a code onto the keypad and pulls the door open, not waiting for Jiyong before he slips inside.
---
Seunghyun’s apartment is a mess, now. Papers on the coffee table, a box of takeout cradled in the corner of the couch. Dog toys on the floor, the mail scattered around the slot. Jiyong almost slips on a past-due cell phone bill and yesterday’s flyers for Kyochon Chicken. “Do you ever clean?”
“What are you doing here?”
Jiyong shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to be here, I got lost.”
Seunghyun’s eyes travel from his head to his shoes. Jiyong toes his sneakers off belatedly.
“I’ll just call Kush, they might still be at the bar.”
He shrugs. Jiyong scrolls through his phone and watches him disappear into the hall. He’s still listening to the callback tone when Seunghyun emerges, his face clean and damp. He says nothing as he goes into the kitchen.
“He’s not picking up,” Jiyong calls.
No response.
He gets to his feet unsteadily. There’s a print on the wall of something bright and patterned that makes him dizzy, so he decides to try for a glass of water.
Seunghyun’s at the coffee maker. His jaw tightens imperceptibly as Jiyong walks in. “What?”
“I said he didn’t pick up.”
“Oh.” He scoops coffee grounds into the filter, moves to the sink to fill the pot up.
“Can I have some water?”
“What?”
“I need water,” Jiyong grates out.
Seunghyun puts the coffee pot aside and fishes a cup out of the cupboard. “Here."
Jiyong doesn’t move.
“What now?”
“From the tap?”
"...There’s a pitcher in the fridge.”
Jiyong fills his glass. He makes his way towards the table, sitting down gingerly and taking deep gulps. It’s bare now, except for a paper plane made out of another flyer and a picture of Seunghyun with some guys he doesn’t know. “Who are they?” he asks, holding the photograph up.
Seunghyun looks over. “My friends.”
“Oh.” He watches Seunghyun’s back as he moves, readying his mug with creamer and sugar. His hands brace against either side of the maker, staring down into its depths like his life depends on it.
“You sound sick.”
Jiyong chokes down his water. The coffee percolates in its pot.
“Just drunk. But I’m always sick.”
“I heard idols sleep so little they have to get IV drips just to stay standing.” The pot begins to boil. “That true?”
Jiyong shrugs. “Sometimes.”
“Charmed life.”
He says nothing as Seunghyun pours himself a cup. The water in his stomach churns.
“You could’ve just blown me off,” he bites out. “You didn’t have to pretend like--”
“I wasn’t pretending.”
“Then what?” Seunghyun leaves his cup on the counter. He looks down at the floor and then up at Jiyong, his eyes dark. “Was it going to be some big fuck-you? Seunghyun-hyung’s still hard for his friend?”
Jiyong reels back. “I don’t know, okay?” He clutches the glass in his hand. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“No shit.”
“I just want things to be like they were before,” he says quietly. The words surprise even him as they trip out, one by one into the silence.
Seunghyun says nothing.
“I never thought about you getting rejected, hyung, I swear.”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“I do.”
Seunghyun leaves the kitchen. Jiyong wobbles upright before he follows.
“Honestly, I wouldn’t do that to you. How could you even think that?”
“Because you did.”
“And you gave up!”
Seunghyun stops. The hall is still morning-dark, swathing his face in shadow. “What?”
“You gave up,” Jiyong says. He steps forward, prodding his finger into Seunghyun’s chest. “You said it was your dream, right? But the second someone told you ‘no,’ you gave up just like that. How is that my fault?”
Seunghyun scoffs. He pushes Jiyong’s hand away. “My dream?” he says. “My dream was never to be on stage with four little boys in matching outfits. I don’t want to go on variety shows or wear animal costumes for twelve-year-old girls.”
“Fuck you.”
“Is it fun?” Seunghyun asks. “You like it when they tell you to cut your shit short because it’s not clean enough for broadcast?”
“I don’t and you know it.”
Seunghyun crosses his arms.
“Unlike you, when something bad happens to me I don’t let it get in the way. I work with it.” When Seunghyun opens his mouth Jiyong talks over him. “What, you think you’re better than me now? Underground rapper running with the Movement? M-Net owns your asses, don’t think it’s anything different.”
“It is.”
“How so?” Jiyong challenges. “I tried getting you into YG, who brought you to them? You sure as hell didn’t do it yourself.”
“Don’t think,” Seunghyun says, his eyes blazing, “that you know anything about me or my friends.”
Jiyong steps forward, knocking him into the wall. “But you can tell me everything I’ve ever done is just stuff for little girls?”
“Don’t push me.”
“Why, what are you gonna do?” Jiyong pushes him again. Seunghyun’s head thumps against the wall. “You not gonna fight back?”
“You’re drunk.”
“So what?”
“This isn’t the time to talk about this.” Seunghyun’s mouth hardens. He grabs at Jiyong’s wrist. “Stop it.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do.” He twists his wrist free, grabbing Seunghyun’s shirt collar. “I’ll even let you have the first hit,” he says.
Seunghyun grabs his fist, tries to peel his fingers apart.
“Come on,” Jiyong teases. A small smirk appears on his lips. “Don’t go easy on me.”
Seunghyun’s eyes widen. He drops his hand.
Jiyong’s head bobs. He swallows hard. “What, am I not allowed to talk about that?”
“Don’t.”
“You’re just uncomfortable,” he slurs. “You don’t want to talk about it. But I do.” He retches, and Seunghyun’s hands steady him reflexively. “I’m fine,” he says. But he’s tired, from the recording and the drinking and the talking, he’s so tired. He sags defeatedly against Seunghyun, tucking his head right into the crook of his neck. “You’re so skinny, hyung.”
“Jiyong.”
“That fucked me up for a while,” he says. “And then we debuted and no one really liked us, at least at first. It was hard. Can you just…”
He grabs hold of Seunghyun’s elbow, flops it upwards. He feels the air leave Seunghyun’s lungs, the slight touch of his hand to the small of his back.
“Just for a little bit.”
Seunghyun is quiet. His breaths rise and fall under Jiyong’s cheek.
“You lost so much weight,” he murmurs, “are you okay?”
“I’m okay now.” His voice is strained.
“No one liked us,” he mumbles into Seunghyun’s shirt, “and when they did they said I copied the song.” Jiyong touches the thin span of Seunghyun’s waist, the hard ridges of his ribs. “You’re too skinny.”
Seunghyun lets go of his back. He holds Jiyong’s hands still. “I’m fine.”
“Kush-hyung says you being in the Movement is a waste of a face.”
Seunghyun laughs, incredulous. “Your Kush-hyung?” When Jiyong looks up the morning light’s shining against his face. His eyes are wide, his lip shaking very slightly.
“You guys would get along really well.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah.” When he untangles himself he straightens Seunghyun’s jacket for him. “You would’ve fit in so good.”
Seunghyun laughs wetly. “I can’t dance.”
“I would’ve helped you. Me and Youngbae, we would’ve stayed behind every practice. It didn’t matter.”
Jiyong’s phone rings, the lights going bright in his pocket.
“Answer it,” Seunghyun says quietly. “Your friends are probably looking for you.”
---
Kush picks him up. He eyes Seunghyun warily, but when Jiyong nods and pulls him in for a hug he just starts the car, lets Jiyong settle into the passenger’s seat and sleep until they reach the dorms.
“He was really out of it,” Kush explains. Jiyong can hear him talking with Youngbae out in the living room. “It was shitty, yeah, but he kinda needed to get out for a while.”
Jiyong peels his clothes off. He reeks of cigarette smoke and spilled alcohol and vomit, but over it is coffee, just a whiff of it, sweet and weak with sugar and cream. He can smell it on his cheek when he turns his head, just a little, so he drops his shower things, changes into a clean pair of boxers and crawls into bed.
g-dragon/top
rated r (sexual situations)
part two: 6,206 words
alternate reality. top fails his audition and gives up on yg.
notes: this is a loose remix of gdgdbaby's what i have, i held in these hands. thank you for letting me borrow the idea, lucy. ♥ apologies for any mistakes i made as far as the k-hiphop scene goes. i’m definitely not an expert at all of the different groups and their members.
for anyone that's been waiting for this, i'm sorry i took so long! this will make no sense at all unless you've read part one.
2008
"You look weird today," Teddy laughs, bopping him on the back of the head as he sits. Jiyong scowls at him, the obscenely large Chanel necklace bouncing against his chest with the movement. "Like a raver or something. Pink pants and shit."
"He looks fine," Youngbae offers. He flashes Jiyong a grin and a thumbs up from the couch, where Seungri is snoozing on his shoulder. "You look good, Jiyongie."
"I always look good."
Teddy groans and cues up the track. "Can we get on with it?" He eyes the sofa and the figures on it before he claps his hands together. Seungri jerks upright and wipes drool from his mouth. "Hey, come on!"
Jiyong frowns as Seungri crosses the room, shutting the door to the booth behind him. The YG studios are plush, soundproofing quilted thick onto the walls and posters hung up in frames. The boy behind the glass is small in his surroundings but his grin is cocky. "I'm ready."
The first few notes are flat, Seungri's posture ramrod straight as he sings. Youngbae frowns and stands up next to Teddy, says some encouraging words into the mic before he tries again. It takes an hour and some minutes for the first few lines and by the time they get to the chorus, Teddy sends out for food and calls a break, stepping outside for some air.
Seungri won't meet his eyes as Jiyong steps into the booth, shutting the door behind him. He watches Youngbae chase Boss into the hallway before he sidles up beside him, reaching over to point at the lyrics. "You can do this," he says.
"Hyung, I know I can do better." He offers a smile. "You know I’m usually really good."
Jiyong nods and hides his smirk under his hand, moving until he's flush behind the boy. Seungri stiffens as he breathes into his ear.
"Hey, Seungri," he breathes, "just do it like this," and then he's singing, ignoring the way his voice thins out in favor of holding the note. Eventually Seungri takes a shaky lead, Jiyong's arm curled around his waist, voice demoted to harmony. "Perfect," he says, and he's stepping away again, reveling in how Seungri's mouth moves soundlessly, eyes following him as he steps out. He sprawls onto the couch, patting the cushions as Youngbae and Boss come bounding in. The dog leaps onto the black leather and stays there, Youngbae settling onto the chair next to Teddy's as they wait. "He's got it now," Jiyong says, scratching behind the terrier's ears.
"How'd you do it?"
Jiyong shrugs. "Leader's duties."
---
“Straight across.”
“Just straight across the middle?” The hairstylist frowns, a set of clippers in her hand. She ruffles the sleek crop of Jiyong’s hair and tuts. “Such a waste, it’s so healthy.”
“It’ll still be there,” he soothes, “just less of it.” He reaches up and takes the scissors away, setting the electric shaver into her hand. “Just across here,” Jiyong says, drawing a line down his head with his palm. “The other half can stay long. You can trim it with a razor, right?”
“Right,” she says faintly. “Jiyong, if you...”
“Noona,” he grins, “trust me on this.”
-
A Naver search yields photos from all angles, the excited posts of hormonal fangirls and grudging respect from some of the more fashion-centered music blogs. They call his hair a Mohican and Jiyong likes the name, sounds it out in his mouth before he texts Teddy to ask what it means. Indians, Teddy says, and then Native Americans two seconds later. Jiyong tries both out, the way he imagines Teddy would say it, the i in ‘Americans’ slurred into the latter half of the word.
“I think they’re the same thing,” Daesung says faintly, buried in a blanket and huddled on the sofa. A bottle of cold medicine sits on the coffee table in front of him. “It’s a bad word or something like that.”
“How do you know?”
He shrugs. “I saw it in a movie once.”
Jiyong powers the computer down and sits next to him, nudging until Daesung gives up half of his blanket. “We can share body heat,” he says cheerfully.
Daesung rolls his eyes. “If you get sick, it’ll be your fault.”
“I have a good immune system.”
He shakes his head but tilts it enough so that Jiyong can rest his chin against his shoulder. They watch television in silence, punctured here and there by idle commentary.
“That guy,” Daesung says, “he’s good, right?”
There’s a rapper on stage now, in a baseball jacket and jeans, hat cocked to the side. It’s a special on the underground, but Jiyong knows most of their names and their songs already. “He’s really good,” he agrees. “It’s Dok2. That’s the Movement, his crew.”
“I think we can take them, Jiyong.”
Jiyong laughs. “Not really. We’re an idol group.”
“So?”
“So it’s different.” He shifts under the thick fleece, bitterness tainting his breath when he exhales. “Some people will always like them better.”
“Who cares what they think,” Daesung says, and Jiyong wants to answer I do.
Instead he says “thanks.”
They continue to watch. Daesung’s foot taps along to the beat of its own accord; the answering jiggle of his side gets Jiyong drifting in and out of sleep as the documentary drones on.
“That guy’s really handsome,” Daesung yawns. “He could be an idol star too.”
“Mmm.”
A slight exhale. “He’s probably better-looking than all of us.”
Jiyong raises an eyebrow.
“Okay,” Daesung amends, “all of us but Seungri.” They both laugh, then, and then Jiyong looks back at the screen. Someone is sitting hunched inside of a studio, long bangs swooping to brush against a forehead and the wrinkles at the corners of eyes. The whole crew erupts in laughter and he brushes that hair away, exposing high cheekbones. When he laughs, it’s about two beats behind the rest and that sets them off again. It sounds like it’s broken, deep and low, and Jiyong’s heart turns over, twists inside of him.
“Handsome, right?” Daesung nudges him again. “He just kinda looks like a rapper.” His next words come out sheepish. “Really cool.”
“No,” he says. “Fucking... not at all.”
Daesung’s cheeks color and Jiyong kneads at his shoulder, channeling the tightness in his chest into a more immediate avenue. “I didn’t mean you, I meant... I know that guy. I think.”
“How can you not know if you know someone or not?”
“He looks different,” Jiyong says, defensive. And he really does, leather jacket zipped tight around him, dark jeans hugging slim legs as he stands to give the camera a tour of the rented studio. He focuses on the label hanging from the jacket’s back before it’s tucked back in and the camera’s offered a sheepish smile, deep dimples sinking into cheeks. “It’s Seunghyun,” he says against Daesung’s shoulder. “Choi Seunghyun.”
“Friend of yours?”
“Used to be,” Jiyong says, quiet.
Daesung stops speaking. Now he’s the one putting an arm around his leader’s shoulder, reaching for the remote.
“Stop.”
“What?”
“Leave it on,” he says, so Daesung holds him, baffled by the confusion and then the intense scrutiny Jiyong gives the rest of the show.
Later, he wolfs down his dinner and strides into his room, the door jiggling the way it does when it’s being locked.
---
“I wish I could do it,” Youngbae says, voice echoing down the table. “Hip-hop stage. I can still rap.”
They both laugh.
“Okay, sorta.”
Jiyong taps a foot against the floor, the high top squeaking against the wood of the meeting room. He braces his chin against his hand, spinning his pen against the notepad he’d brought as Youngbae checks the messages on his phone, both of them draining water bottles with the waiting.
Then the door creaks open.
“Yeah, they’re in here; they got the director’s stuff with them and all of that.” It’s Teddy’s voice, calm and cocksure, the shuffle of shoes behind him making Youngbae and Jiyong stand and turn, almost bowing on instinct.
Gaeko and Choiza greet them with slaps to the shoulder and an open-faced, sliding handshake. They pull beanies and hats from their heads and slouch into seats across from them, Teddy at the head of the table.
-
The discussions for Gayo Daejun are tedious, but the jokes fly thick and fast. Youngbae stays and Choiza leans back in his chair, compliments on him on his solo album.
“That’s good shit,” he says, “I was telling Seunghyun he should listen--”
Gaeko cracks a smile. “Wait, where is he?” He pulls his phone out, mashing down keys and putting it to his ear. “I’m not catching him up on this stuff, it’ll take forever.”
“Who’s Seunghyun?” Teddy asks.
“T.O.P,” Choiza says, and Teddy nods.
“That album was on point.” His eyes narrow. “I don’t even know how he got some of that stuff past the censors.”
Jiyong scribbles a line down his notebook and grits his teeth. “He the Movement guy?”
“Yup,” Gaeko says, putting the phone down. “He’s not answering. Fucker never answers. He just texts.”
“Where is he?”
“Got lost.” Gaeko grins. “He’s in one of the hallways or some shit like that right now.”
The duo erupt in laughter and Teddy stands, saying, “I’ll get him,” before he slips out the door.
“You gotta hear this guy’s voice if you haven’t already,” Choiza notes. He wipes at an eye, tucking arms across his chest as he settles back into his chair.
Gaeko nods. “Kinda gets ruined when you meet him, though.”
“I’ve already met him,” Jiyong says. Youngbae frowns.
“Oh yeah?”
He nods. “We used to live in the same neighborhood.”
Youngbae’s eyebrows climb into his baseball cap, staying there as the door squeaks open again and the two other men stand up and make their way across the room. He sneaks a glance at Jiyong, but he’s already standing, setting his pen on the table with stiff fingers.
Choiza pulls him into a handshake. “How come you didn’t tell us you already knew Big Bang?”
Seunghyun steps back, his eyes settling on the two members. His smile fades a little. “I dunno,” he says. “They’re famous now, might not remember me anymore.”
“Aw, hyung,” Youngbae protests as Teddy flops back into his seat.
“They’re dumbasses, don’t mind them. Sit down.”
Seunghyun does, at the other end of the table, across from Jiyong.
He can’t help but sneak a glance.
Seunghyun’s hair is short now, gelled into a crooked kind of fauxhawk that leans to one side. His face is thin, but the hands folded on the table are decorated with rings and he’s wearing glasses, thick black ones with square frames. The eyes behind them flick to Jiyong’s face and he looks away, schooling his mind to focus.
---
Afterwards they go to a restaurant. Teddy, brandishing a company credit card, puts himself in charge of ordering dinner. Seunghyun, Choiza and Gaeko immerse themselves in conversation: from the words Jiyong chooses to listen to, it sounds like crew beef. The knot in his stomach doesn’t loosen, even with the addition of alcohol and food.
He’d half wanted Seunghyun to keep his game face on, controlled and hard. He’d wanted Seunghyun to ignore him, the idol star, for his underground rapper friends and the drinks being passed around, the waitress who bent lower and lower over the table with each round she made to their corner. Instead, he’s polite, the way an elementary school acquaintance would be. He doesn’t seek or avoid his conversation: instead, he monopolizes Youngbae’s.
“I have your cd,” he says, setting his drink down.
Youngbae tilts his cap upwards. “Remember?”
“No, yours. Your solo.” Seunghyun stirs ice cubes out of the way with his straw. “I set the last song as my ringtone.”
“Oh.” Youngbae smiles proudly but nods Jiyong’s way. “I think our group stuff is good too.”
He shrugs. “I downloaded some, but I haven’t listened to it yet.”
“We’ve been out for two years,” Jiyong interrupts, setting his chopsticks down, “and downloading’s illegal.”
“How do you know I downloaded it illegally?” Seunghyun asks, his voice mild. “I got the songs off Melon.”
Youngbae shifts uncomfortably as they exchange a glance.
“Really?”
“No,” he admits. “I just said it to see your face.” He grins then, so crooked and familiar that Jiyong has to blink away, chest going tight with a tangle of emotions he can’t begin to decipher.
Youngbae laughs for him, but Seunghyun is already ducking his head, the smile slipping off of his mouth.
-
After dinner, while they put on jackets and sweatshirts, Seunghyun corners him next to the bathrooms. “I’m sorry if I offended you with the joke.” He clears his throat. “I mean, you always had a sense of humor, so I thought...”
“It’s fine,” Jiyong says tightly.
“Are you sure? Because...”
“I said it was fine.”
“Okay.” He leans against the wall. Jiyong can’t stop looking at him, all long legs and dark clothes, Adam’s apple exposed when he tilts head back. “You know,” he says, “we should write our parts together. Gaeko and Choiza are doing theirs.”
“I write alone.”
Seunghyun frowns. “No, you don’t.”
“I produce all the records.”
“I know that.”
“Because you’re stalking me?”
“Because you’re really famous.” When Seunghyun looks at him, he lifts his head, meeting his eyes. “Everyone knows who you guys are, how you work.”
“So don’t flatter myself is what you’re saying.”
“I was trying to give you a compliment, but that works too.”
Jiyong busies himself with zipping up his jacket.
“I’m glad you’re successful, Ji.”
When he looks up again Seunghyun’s staring at him with watchful eyes.
“For an idol group.”
“No, in general. I mean it.” He smiles, dimples barely peeking out from his cheeks. “I don’t think I could’ve done the dances anyway.”
“Probably not.”
“So come over.”
“I told you, I don’t write with other people.”
“So come over and have a beer.”
“I don’t have your number.”
Seunghyun looks towards his friends, nodding as they gesture to a cab. Then he looks back at Jiyong. “I never changed it.”
---
Seunghyun is late.
He comes jogging up the stairs, not the elevator Jiyong was contemplating just getting into not two seconds before.
“Hey,” he pants, “sorry about that, I had to stay late and do some extra stuff--”
“You said 8:30.”
“It’s only...” Seunghyun checks his watch. Then he grimaces. “Okay, I’m half an hour late. I’m sorry.”
“I almost left,” Jiyong mumbles.
“Did you park your car in the back lot or the front? Because they tow after ten.”
“My driver took me.”
“Oh.” A pause. “Anyway,” he continues, digging his keys out from the depths of his pockets, “I was thinking of some stuff at work. I wrote it down somewhere. Come in.”
Jiyong trudges in behind him once he opens the door. There’s a weak trickle of heated air that wisps into his face as he toes his shoes off, so he keeps his jacket on. “Should I turn up the heat?”
“Nah, it starts running weird if it gets too high.”
As he flips lights on Jiyong takes the chance to look around. It’s sparse, mostly furniture, a few knick-knacks scattered on shelves next to the television.
“I moved in a couple months ago,” he explains, “so it’s kinda empty right now.”
“Isn’t that your mom’s couch?”
Seunghyun grins, a little sheepishly. “Couches are expensive.”
Jiyong shrugs. He’s never bought a couch before.
“Anyway,” he continues, crossing the room to disappear into the kitchen, “how’ve you been doing? I saw you on TV last night.”
“I’m okay. Kind of tired.” Jiyong trails him into the room. The linoleum is old, yellowing at the corners, but the room is cleaner than he’d expected. A shopping bag sits on the counter full of boxes he can’t identify. “Been shopping?”
“My mom brought them over,” he admits. “Sometimes I forget to go.” He pulls open the fridge, coming out with two beers. “You want one?”
“Sure.”
Seunghyun lopes around the room with an easy familiarity. He pops the tabs open and hands a bottle to Jiyong, who can’t help but notice the almost affectionate way he opens and closes drawers, jiggling the handles in a way that tells him this cabinet is finicky, that one doesn’t close right unless you touch it this way.
At Jiyong’s dorm they would’ve hired someone to fix these things.
“Anyway,” Seunghyun says, pulling a wad of receipts out from his back pocket, “I had something going but I’m not sure.” He spreads them out on the kitchen island, smoothing the wrinkles with his fingers. “I kept having to stop and deal with customers, so I got distracted.”
“Customers?”
“I have a job.”
“You produce for other people?”
“No,” Seunghyun says. He looks down at the papers. “I work at a job job. Selling clothes.”
Jiyong frowns. “Like you used to?”
“Same place, actually. I’m assistant manager now,” he adds. He makes an abortive movement with his hands. “It took me this long to convince them to trust me.”
He looks at Jiyong. Jiyong looks at him.
“I’m kidding,” he clarifies, and Jiyong shakes his head, snorting.
“That was barely a joke.”
“I’m really irresponsible.”
Jiyong looks down at his beer. Seunghyun takes a hasty gulp of his.
“This is awkward,” he mumbles.
Seunghyun leans forward, elbows on the island. He looks at Jiyong earnestly. “It doesn’t have to be.” His fingers scrabble at the bottle’s label, scratching at its corner. “I want us to be friends again.”
“I thought we were working on Gayo Daejun.”
“We are, I just...”
“You invited me here to work on Gayo Daejun,” Jiyong says again, “so I think that’s what we should do.”
The heat kicks up, scattering the receipts onto the floor. Seunghyun ducks to retrieve them.
When he straightens up again his face is curious. “Is that what you want?”
Jiyong takes a long sip of his drink. “We haven’t talked in years, how are we supposed to be friends?”
They aren't seventeen anymore, Jiyong thinks, and Seunghyun shouldn't be like this, placating and likeable and a little bit shy, the neat angles of his figure scrunched a little. "I was just… I don't know."
"Stupid," Jiyong says, and a bit of goodwill slips off of Seunghyun's face. He focuses on unclipping his nametag and putting it on the table instead. "And a shitty friend."
"I never changed my number," Seunghyun fires back. "You could've called anytime."
It's true, he could have. Jiyong weighs his options as quiet fills up the room.
"Sorry," Seunghyun says eventually. He drags a line across the linoleum with his big toe. His teeth clench and Jiyong's eyes follow the line of his jaw, something half-forgotten burning through his stomach. "I didn't mean to snap at you."
"Okay." Jiyong leans down, picks up one of the pieces of paper scattered against the floor. "Is this what you wanted me to look at?"
"No," he says, "I have it here somewhere, hold on…"
Jiyong watches him move around, arms awkward-skinny and jutting from the sleeves of his t-shirt. "I know it’s here."
His voice is deeper, now, rough around the edges from smoke. "You write anything?" he asks, and Jiyong has to blink before he shakes his head.
"Not yet."
"If you want," he says slowly, "I can help." He sits down again, across from Jiyong, their knees nearly touching. "I can't find mine but it wasn't that good anyway. I can always start over."
"That's fine."
"Are you even taking this seriously?" Seunghyun asks. He tries to smile. Maybe it's that that does him in, the way he smiles. It's the same and different all at once, dimples carved deeper into his cheeks, the way the irises of his eyes light up. When Jiyong straightens up, he tries to scoot backwards.
"What are you doing?"
"I don't know," Jiyong admits, and the hurt and the want slurry together, and Seunghyun's swallowing nervously, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat so that when Jiyong kisses him it sucks the air right out.
He tries to pull away, at least at first. The angle is all wrong, or maybe it's Seunghyun that's making it all wrong, like this is his first time all over again and he doesn't quite know what to do. Jiyong pushes his tongue into his mouth, swipes it along his. Seunghyun's breath is harsh and stuttery along his cheek. "This isn't…" he breaks the kiss, his eyes wide and troubled, "I wasn't trying to do anything like this, I swear."
It's almost cute. Jiyong wants to laugh. Instead he leans in, presses his lips to that jaw and licks along it, feeling Seunghyun's chest hitch, his hands touch at his elbows loosely, like he's afraid Jiyong will push him away.
He should be. He did it first.
It’s easy to push him into the chair again, Jiyong’s knees digging hard into his thighs as he moves to sit against him. He shifts, and their hips meet, and his hands sneak under Seunghyun’s shirt. He ignores the way Seunghyun tries to get them out again, large hands over his under the smooth cotton, and when Seunghyun makes a noise, fingernails digging into Jiyong’s fist, Jiyong takes the opportunity to mouth at his jaw again. He can feel Seunghyun thrumming underneath him, the way his legs draw up like he’s getting up to leave, the way he fits his hand behind Jiyong’s neck and brings his mouth to his again, perfect. Jiyong’s head swims, and he wants to make it hurt, sharp like the concrete under his knees when he’d tried to comfort him outside of the YG building.
Before he has the chance to, Seunghyun pushes him away.
“What is this?” he asks.
“Use your head,” Jiyong replies, but when he reaches for him again Seunghyun stops him.
“Did you plan this?”
“No,” Jiyong says, and the way Seunghyun draws in on himself, the way he smoothes out his shirt like he wants to erase whatever Jiyong had left there stings. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he spits.
“Then what are you doing?”
“I told you, I don’t know.” He watches Seunghyun shake his head, try to get up, and it makes him scramble to stand. “But I’m done now.”
“Yeah, you are.” There’s steel behind his words. “I don’t know what game you’re trying to play with me, but maybe you should go.”
It hurts. Jiyong ignores it. “Maybe I should.”
“Do you even know how to drive?” Seunghyun asks, his voice still deep, his eyes still foggy. He turns away. “Maybe you can call a taxi.”
“I don’t need to learn,” Jiyong says, his voice turning nasty, “I have other people to do that for me.”
Seunghyun shrugs, and it’s infuriating, the way he can’t get to him with words anymore.
“Door’s that way,” he says. He tucks shaking hands into his pockets. Jiyong takes it as a small victory.
The receipts crumple under Jiyong’s feet as he makes his way out, his cheeks pink.
---
Kush stares at Jiyong’s pale face in the car.
“I’m not sick,” Jiyong murmurs.
He tells him everything: the audition, Gayo Daejun, Seunghyun’s apartment. By the time Jiyong finishes the car’s way past YG building and Kush is unnaturally silent.
“Guess you fucked up, huh.”
Jiyong shrugs.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” When Jiyong looks over he coughs. “I mean before. When he didn’t get in.”
“What?”
“It was fucked up calling him fat but you were pissed off. Heat of the moment.”
“Still fucked up, though.”
“Well, yeah.” He drums his fingers against the steering wheel.
“Yeah.” Jiyong slumps in his seat. The radio sells an advertisement for mattresses.
“Where are we?” he asks.
“Don’t really know,” Kush says. “I just figured you wouldn’t want to go back to work.”
“Not really.”
“Want to find a bar?”
“I shouldn’t,” he says. He doesn’t remember exactly what he’s got to do tomorrow, but he knows there’s something. There’s always something.
“I’ll cover for you,” he says. “It’s on me.”
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
“Cut me off when it’s three.”
“Atta boy,” Kush says, and the car rumbles back to life.
---
He doesn’t stop at three. He finds Seungho at the bar and three a.m. turns into four and then five, because Seungho calls Hyuksoo who calls Daniel who calls Justar, and by the time Jiyong stumbles outside the sun is bleeding into the sky. He takes a deep breath, nausea pricking the back of his throat, and leans forward, hands on his knees as he fights not to vomit.
It doesn’t work. The pavement is splattered with the expensive shots Kush had promised he’d buy. The taste of it is acrid in his mouth, so he wanders over to a corner store to buy gum and mouthwash. He strolls around the aisles snapping the spearmint in his mouth, smashing it against his picture on a magazine as he leaves. The mouthwash he gargles and spits against the sidewalk of the building at the end of the street.
Jiyong sits on the pavement. The mouthwash doesn’t help with the dizziness, and as he rests his head on his knees the world spins around him slowly. Dully, he wonders how far the bar is, if he can make it back without anyone recognizing him.
One step, two and then three. He’s almost past the apartment complex now, but the sky is tilted in a scary way so he leans against the building, taking deep breaths from his nose. Soon it’s going to be six and the schoolgirls will start filtering out to go to class. He’ll be screwed if he doesn’t get home.
Four, five, and six are easy enough, only the pavement leads to more apartments, a cluttered maze of them so high they almost block out the sun. There’s a spa on the corner he could sleep in if he absolutely had to, but the idea of sitting in all of that steam makes him retch again, hard and deep. He vomits quietly into a grate, hand propped against someone’s Hyundai Sonata. After that he sits down, head in his hands.
He doesn’t want to do Gayo Daejun with Seunghyun, doesn’t want to do the hip-hop stage with Dynamic Duo. He doesn’t want to go back to the bar and see the knowing looks on his friends’ faces, doesn’t want to deal with Kush being quiet and still, or the gossip that will spread around YGE.
Fuck it, let someone recognize him. What’s the worst that could happen? He’s human too. Sometimes he needs to have a drink. He runs fingers through his greasy hair and pops another piece of gum. After a few chews he stands unsteadily, leaning back against the car.
The schoolgirls really are coming out now. Jiyong’s not scared of them, he’s not. But if he goes down, Big Bang does too. He ducks around the car, pressing himself into the alcove of the apartment building as they approach.
He hates the smell of himself, cheap cologne and jajangmyun, vomit and vodka, but he buries his nose in the collar of his jacket as the girls pass directly in front of him. He turns his face away but one of them slows down, her eyes squinting as she takes him in.
Jiyong considers turning around and facing the corner. Maybe he can just give them autographs and they’ll leave. He tugs on the door. Locked, of course. He tries again out of sheer desperation, but this time it opens. Backwards.
He’s smashed against the door and the wall, and someone slams the door shut and starts to apologize, dusting him off before they stop.
“You’re a mess.”
Seunghyun’s standing before him, in pajama pants and an old sweatshirt, house slippers on his feet.
“What are you doing here?”
Jiyong blinks up at him. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out.
“Jiyong-oppa?”
Jiyong turns. The schoolgirls have stopped completely now.
“Do you know them?” Seunghyun asks in an undertone.
“No.”
Seunghyun purses his lips. One of the girls nudges the other. She pulls out a phone.
“Come on,” he sighs. He punches a code onto the keypad and pulls the door open, not waiting for Jiyong before he slips inside.
---
Seunghyun’s apartment is a mess, now. Papers on the coffee table, a box of takeout cradled in the corner of the couch. Dog toys on the floor, the mail scattered around the slot. Jiyong almost slips on a past-due cell phone bill and yesterday’s flyers for Kyochon Chicken. “Do you ever clean?”
“What are you doing here?”
Jiyong shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to be here, I got lost.”
Seunghyun’s eyes travel from his head to his shoes. Jiyong toes his sneakers off belatedly.
“I’ll just call Kush, they might still be at the bar.”
He shrugs. Jiyong scrolls through his phone and watches him disappear into the hall. He’s still listening to the callback tone when Seunghyun emerges, his face clean and damp. He says nothing as he goes into the kitchen.
“He’s not picking up,” Jiyong calls.
No response.
He gets to his feet unsteadily. There’s a print on the wall of something bright and patterned that makes him dizzy, so he decides to try for a glass of water.
Seunghyun’s at the coffee maker. His jaw tightens imperceptibly as Jiyong walks in. “What?”
“I said he didn’t pick up.”
“Oh.” He scoops coffee grounds into the filter, moves to the sink to fill the pot up.
“Can I have some water?”
“What?”
“I need water,” Jiyong grates out.
Seunghyun puts the coffee pot aside and fishes a cup out of the cupboard. “Here."
Jiyong doesn’t move.
“What now?”
“From the tap?”
"...There’s a pitcher in the fridge.”
Jiyong fills his glass. He makes his way towards the table, sitting down gingerly and taking deep gulps. It’s bare now, except for a paper plane made out of another flyer and a picture of Seunghyun with some guys he doesn’t know. “Who are they?” he asks, holding the photograph up.
Seunghyun looks over. “My friends.”
“Oh.” He watches Seunghyun’s back as he moves, readying his mug with creamer and sugar. His hands brace against either side of the maker, staring down into its depths like his life depends on it.
“You sound sick.”
Jiyong chokes down his water. The coffee percolates in its pot.
“Just drunk. But I’m always sick.”
“I heard idols sleep so little they have to get IV drips just to stay standing.” The pot begins to boil. “That true?”
Jiyong shrugs. “Sometimes.”
“Charmed life.”
He says nothing as Seunghyun pours himself a cup. The water in his stomach churns.
“You could’ve just blown me off,” he bites out. “You didn’t have to pretend like--”
“I wasn’t pretending.”
“Then what?” Seunghyun leaves his cup on the counter. He looks down at the floor and then up at Jiyong, his eyes dark. “Was it going to be some big fuck-you? Seunghyun-hyung’s still hard for his friend?”
Jiyong reels back. “I don’t know, okay?” He clutches the glass in his hand. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“No shit.”
“I just want things to be like they were before,” he says quietly. The words surprise even him as they trip out, one by one into the silence.
Seunghyun says nothing.
“I never thought about you getting rejected, hyung, I swear.”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“I do.”
Seunghyun leaves the kitchen. Jiyong wobbles upright before he follows.
“Honestly, I wouldn’t do that to you. How could you even think that?”
“Because you did.”
“And you gave up!”
Seunghyun stops. The hall is still morning-dark, swathing his face in shadow. “What?”
“You gave up,” Jiyong says. He steps forward, prodding his finger into Seunghyun’s chest. “You said it was your dream, right? But the second someone told you ‘no,’ you gave up just like that. How is that my fault?”
Seunghyun scoffs. He pushes Jiyong’s hand away. “My dream?” he says. “My dream was never to be on stage with four little boys in matching outfits. I don’t want to go on variety shows or wear animal costumes for twelve-year-old girls.”
“Fuck you.”
“Is it fun?” Seunghyun asks. “You like it when they tell you to cut your shit short because it’s not clean enough for broadcast?”
“I don’t and you know it.”
Seunghyun crosses his arms.
“Unlike you, when something bad happens to me I don’t let it get in the way. I work with it.” When Seunghyun opens his mouth Jiyong talks over him. “What, you think you’re better than me now? Underground rapper running with the Movement? M-Net owns your asses, don’t think it’s anything different.”
“It is.”
“How so?” Jiyong challenges. “I tried getting you into YG, who brought you to them? You sure as hell didn’t do it yourself.”
“Don’t think,” Seunghyun says, his eyes blazing, “that you know anything about me or my friends.”
Jiyong steps forward, knocking him into the wall. “But you can tell me everything I’ve ever done is just stuff for little girls?”
“Don’t push me.”
“Why, what are you gonna do?” Jiyong pushes him again. Seunghyun’s head thumps against the wall. “You not gonna fight back?”
“You’re drunk.”
“So what?”
“This isn’t the time to talk about this.” Seunghyun’s mouth hardens. He grabs at Jiyong’s wrist. “Stop it.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do.” He twists his wrist free, grabbing Seunghyun’s shirt collar. “I’ll even let you have the first hit,” he says.
Seunghyun grabs his fist, tries to peel his fingers apart.
“Come on,” Jiyong teases. A small smirk appears on his lips. “Don’t go easy on me.”
Seunghyun’s eyes widen. He drops his hand.
Jiyong’s head bobs. He swallows hard. “What, am I not allowed to talk about that?”
“Don’t.”
“You’re just uncomfortable,” he slurs. “You don’t want to talk about it. But I do.” He retches, and Seunghyun’s hands steady him reflexively. “I’m fine,” he says. But he’s tired, from the recording and the drinking and the talking, he’s so tired. He sags defeatedly against Seunghyun, tucking his head right into the crook of his neck. “You’re so skinny, hyung.”
“Jiyong.”
“That fucked me up for a while,” he says. “And then we debuted and no one really liked us, at least at first. It was hard. Can you just…”
He grabs hold of Seunghyun’s elbow, flops it upwards. He feels the air leave Seunghyun’s lungs, the slight touch of his hand to the small of his back.
“Just for a little bit.”
Seunghyun is quiet. His breaths rise and fall under Jiyong’s cheek.
“You lost so much weight,” he murmurs, “are you okay?”
“I’m okay now.” His voice is strained.
“No one liked us,” he mumbles into Seunghyun’s shirt, “and when they did they said I copied the song.” Jiyong touches the thin span of Seunghyun’s waist, the hard ridges of his ribs. “You’re too skinny.”
Seunghyun lets go of his back. He holds Jiyong’s hands still. “I’m fine.”
“Kush-hyung says you being in the Movement is a waste of a face.”
Seunghyun laughs, incredulous. “Your Kush-hyung?” When Jiyong looks up the morning light’s shining against his face. His eyes are wide, his lip shaking very slightly.
“You guys would get along really well.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah.” When he untangles himself he straightens Seunghyun’s jacket for him. “You would’ve fit in so good.”
Seunghyun laughs wetly. “I can’t dance.”
“I would’ve helped you. Me and Youngbae, we would’ve stayed behind every practice. It didn’t matter.”
Jiyong’s phone rings, the lights going bright in his pocket.
“Answer it,” Seunghyun says quietly. “Your friends are probably looking for you.”
---
Kush picks him up. He eyes Seunghyun warily, but when Jiyong nods and pulls him in for a hug he just starts the car, lets Jiyong settle into the passenger’s seat and sleep until they reach the dorms.
“He was really out of it,” Kush explains. Jiyong can hear him talking with Youngbae out in the living room. “It was shitty, yeah, but he kinda needed to get out for a while.”
Jiyong peels his clothes off. He reeks of cigarette smoke and spilled alcohol and vomit, but over it is coffee, just a whiff of it, sweet and weak with sugar and cream. He can smell it on his cheek when he turns his head, just a little, so he drops his shower things, changes into a clean pair of boxers and crawls into bed.