i'm a rainbow for you
Pairing: gd-centric, gd/seungri, gd/top
Rating: pg-15 (mentions of sex, alcohol, language) (and ANGST)
Summary: Jiyong is a fuck up and they don't exactly make it any better. Au. (4,325 word count)
Takes place in the dreary setting of the Blue MV where having eccentric hair and running on rooftops is totally normal. gay title amuses me so
Jiyong is an artist. Or at least, that’s what he classifies himself as when the cops come by and tell him to quit loitering. It’s 3am and he has nowhere to go, just this familiar stretch of dirty concrete that was just starting to get comfortable. He’s young and rebellious and much too drunk, and so he thinks he has every conceivable right to be here.
“I’m a fucking artist…’m working,” he slurs, cigarette smoke curling out of the corner of his Cheshire grin, and he’s nowhere even near happy right now. “So fuck off,” he cackles, flicking the butt of his smoke too close for comfort towards a cop’s shoe.
He hums a tune, strums his fingers to it, and imagines all the colors in the spectrum. What is he now? What is he now?
“…’m blue. Paint me blue,” he mumbles as a cop takes his wrist and handcuffs it. The hard cold metal bruises his skin.
He wakes up a couple hours later at the police station, the smell of robust burnt coffee filling his lungs. He’s on a chaffing leather chair that whines with his every squirm, and there’s a horrible crick in his neck as he lolls his head back into an upright position.
Seungri's staring back at him and he doesn’t want to think about just how long it’s been. He’s taller, shoulders broader, hair shorter; he looks good. But Jiyong doesn’t say that. Instead he pokes fun at the all too noticeable shadows under his eyes.
Two years since they’ve last seen each other and the first thing that comes out of Jiyong’s mouth is, “…haven’t you been eating your broccoli?”
Seungri can’t help but smile at that. He pulls at Jiyong’s arms with a loose grip, shoves a paper cup of cold water into his hand.
“Come on, I bailed you out.”
-----
It’s a week later and somehow “I’ll crash for the night” extends into a little something more.
“It’s okay though, stay as long as you need.”
Seungri never minds things like that, like borrowing and lending, or personal space, or possessions. He’s carefree and easy going about the things normal people sue for, kill for. He doesn’t fret, doesn’t nag. And it’s nice…sometimes.
But other times Jiyong wants more, wants stress, wants worry and anxiousness. He wants someone who actually cares enough to genuinely do those things.
He’s tired of being seen as a stray cat, easing in and out of people’s lives so often. Seungri should have said, “No”. He should have left him with the police, left him on the street, left him all those places that he didn’t.
But Seungri says, “It’s okay.” He whispers sweet things that Jiyong doesn’t deserve, gives lingering looks that burn into his skin, and pulls with pleading tugs towards the bed.
Seungri says, “…stay,” and so Jiyong does.
-----
“Never seen you in this complex before. You new?”
And Jiyong doesn’t dare look up to the source of the deep voice. His long black bangs are the only thing between his face and the stranger’s. Any slight movement, any goddamn draft that’s stronger than it needs to be, and then his flushed cheeks and pink ears will be known to the world.
So he opts for a soft “Mmm…” adds in, “just staying with a friend right now,” just as the elevator door bings with a close.
“What floor?”
“Eleventh.”
“Oh, same as me.”
Perfect.
And Jiyong suddenly feels like this is the longest elevator ride of his entire life, feels like the walls are closing in on him, like the silence is going to fucking engulf him. He starts to think his breathing's too loud, too fast, so he stops breathing altogether. And of course it only makes matters worse.
As soon as the elevator doors open, he jolts out, heads towards the apartment without a glance whatsoever over his shoulder. 1103. 1104. 1105. Fucking-1106. And then finally, finally, 1107. Jiyong fishes out the copy of keys Seungri gave him and fumbles with the locks for only a second before swinging open the door and shutting it swiftly behind him. There. There.
He lets the air out of his cheeks and breathes again as if he had been holding his breath underwater. And he practically had. He was stupid. Who holds their breath that long? Why did he do it?
Thankfully Seungri isn’t home yet, still at school. And Jiyong cringes at the idea of his dongsaeng seeing him so rattled.
He goes to the bathroom, examines his reflection in the mirror. “God, I’m so red,” he says as pats his cheeks, willing the blush to disappear.
-----
Seungri isn’t home. Again.
Apparently he has exams to prepare for, classmates to study with, some side job internship in some fucking office, and oh yeah, a girlfriend. Funny thing about the last one, Jiyong mulls, considering Seungri was the one who initiated all those late night make-out sessions and cuddle fucks.
He never voices his frustrations at him though. What right does he have when he gets a roof over his head, food in his belly?
Instead just decides to drink all his soju, smoke all his cigarettes, figures that the best time to go out is right when he comes home. And soon he starts to find the floor, the couch, the futon, anything at all, much more comfortable than any bed Seungri’s lying in.
Call it passive aggressive. Call it Jiyong.
And of course, Seungri doesn’t mind.
-----
Two bottles of soju, a few shots of whiskey, and a bit of coke and rum later and…
fuckshitfuckmotherfuckingbitchughhhhhhh.
Only when coming home from another late night escapade does Jiyong realize he’s forgotten his keys. But it’s too late, Seungri’s already asleep. And Jiyong’s too drunk and too prideful to do something as pathetic as knock on his own door. (Ok, it’s not his own door, but fuck it all, he’s too smashed to deal with petty details like that.)
He doesn’t want to see Seungri’s face, that shit eating smirk, the eye roll, the icantbeliveyouwokemeupjustforthis face. So he decides that the floor in the hallway is quite nice, there’s even a bit of carpet padding. No big deal, Jiyong’s slept in much worse than this. He settles himself on the floor, head propped against the wall, knees pulled to his chest.
Jiyong gets a slight kick out of the prospect that Seungri might wake up in the morning to find him passed out right outside the door. Maybe he’ll feel guilty. He should.
Eventually he gets too busy trying to count the patterns in the carpet, trying to distinguish the crimson from the maroon, that he doesn’t notice someone getting off the elevator.
“Hey…you.” That deep voice again mixed with the jingling of keys.
And this time Jiyong’s too intoxicated to restrain his eyes from seeking the source. Electric…no, mint. Blue. Fucking blue. For a couple of seconds that’s all he sees, all his eyes can register. Like a moth to a flame.
“Hey, you okay?” he tilts his head to the side and gives a quirk of a smile, probably because he already knows his answer.
“Yeah, just peachy.” Jiyong puffs, I don’t need your sympathy, but his eyes are still glued to the stranger. There’s a glint in his gaze but Jiyong can tell it’s not malicious.
“Yeah, you definitely look it. What’s wrong? Broke up with your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my fucking boyfriend,” Jiyong yells a bit harsher than he means and the stranger pulls back, his face slacken, less amused.
There’s a stretch of silence and just before it gets uncomfortable, the other man mumbles a soft “Okay…” and starts to walk away slowly. Within seconds he’s already at his door, which just happens to be a couple feet away because he’s apparently the next-door neighbor.
Perfect. Again.
“Hey…if you want…you can sleep here for the night.”
Jiyong turns to follow the voice. His front door is swung open and he’s peaking his head out towards him, waiting for an answer. His messy blue hair a stark contrast against the gray everything else.
And it’s almost funny, how many times Jiyong’s been in this predicament. Apparently he’s always going to be that lost little boy looking for his mommy, that stray cat everyone likes to feed, that trifling fuck up you can’t help but pity.
He should say “No”. That’s the logical thing. He doesn’t even know this man.
But he gets up, joints cracking, back straightening, body working faster than his mind can process. He just figures that subconsciously, he’s already accepted his fate.
“Never knew you were the neighbor,” Jiyong mumbles as he passes through the door opened for him.
“Yeah…you kind of ran away the other day before I had the chance to tell you,” the other man says as he shuts the door behind Jiyong, his slight smirk something between amused and annoyed. “Anyways…I’m Seunghyun. And you can take the couch for the night.”
“T-thanks.”
“...’s nothing. I’ve seen you around enough to know you’re living next door with him,” he gestures in the general direction. “Whatever happened…you can sort in the morning.” He finishes with a yawn and turns off the lamp and retreats to his room.
That couch might have just been the most comfortable couch Jiyong’s ever slept in his entire life. He wakes up refreshed and gone before the sun is even up.
-----
It takes two days for Jiyong to realize he just might like Seunghyun. Not in that way, but in some sort of way. Because he catches himself doing things he doesn’t normally do. Like lingering in the hallway, hoping just at that moment Seunghyun might be leaving his apartment or maybe getting off the elevator.
And despite the late winter wind, Jiyong finds himself going out onto the balcony whenever he needs a smoke now. A small gesture, with a small anticipation of seeing him maybe doing the same. He knows the other man smokes. He remembers the musky smell of his apartment, the ashtray and lighter on the coffee table next to the couch.
And Jiyong starts to think that maybe the Gods have a fucked up sense of humor. Because just as Jiyong develops his newfound infatuation, Seungri rediscovers his. He starts to make a show of his appreciation, giving Jiyong soft corner mouth kisses whenever he comes home, almost as often as greetings, like they’re a couple and this is totally normal. Seungri naturally reaches over, gives him neck and back rubs when they watch TV on the couch, and maybe a couple too close caresses if Jiyong’s in a good mood and doesn’t mind.
Seungri starts thinks that whatever relationship they have, that maybe, just maybe, it might be finally getting better. So one night, he grabs Jiyong’s wrist, pulls him by the waist onto his lap. Jiyong’s surprised but the pressure between them when he squirms just the slightest is all too pleasant, and he suddenly can’t find the heart to voice a protest.
“I left her,” Seungri whispers into his ear lowly, “…my girlfriend. I don’t want her.”
His hands roam under Jiyong’s shirt, ghosting over ribs, “…I don’t think I ever did.” He finds a nipple, tweaks it, until the nub is hard under his thumb and Jiyong’s cheeks are thoroughly flushed.
“I want you,” he mumbles into his skin, bites it into his shoulder.
And Jiyong doesn’t say a word, instead thinks that for perhaps the first time in a long time, the roles are reversed and Seungri is the one who needs to be pitied.
When they fuck, Jiyong’s more vocal than usual, moaning louder, muttering mindless curses. Seungri just figures he’s gotten better, takes it as an indication to go faster and rougher. Jiyong just hopes Seunghyun’s home.
-----
After the third time of conveniently getting locked out, Seunghyun just rolls his eyes and tells Jiyong that if he wants to come over he can just knock.
"Shut up, I'm trying not to be obvious." Jiyong has to bite his bottom lip to shoo the damn grin from creeping on his face.
"Kind of hard to do that with you sprawled on the floor right outside my door."
"Are you gonna let me in or not?"
Seunghyun sighs but swings the door open for him, mutters, "you fucking alley cat."
Jiyong kicks off his shoes and makes his way to the couch, smug in the fact that although they barely know each other, he already knows Seunghyun’s apartment layout so well. He knows that he has a sister, he’s seen enough of the family photo frames scattered around. He knows that he works as an editor, he’s seen the stacks of manual scripts, the notes etched in red and blue ink all over his desk. And he knows they smoke the same brand, Marlboro Reds, and as petty as it is, it still manages to get him giddy.
Jiyong relishes in the thought that he could know so little and so much about a person at the same time. He wants more, and he knows he’s within reach to get it.
“So, you like me or something? …’s that why you keep pestering me?” Seunghyun quips. He takes a seat next to Jiyong and goes back to his novel, eyebrows a bit furrowed as he tries to concentrate.
“Am I keeping you from your work?” Jiyong asks, feigning curiosity to scoot the slightest bit closer.
“Nah, I know it’s hard to believe with as much as I have to read,” Seunghyun chuckles, dimples nearly melting Jiyong’s heart, “but this here…this is just for pure recreation.”
A stretch of silence falls over them, with Seunghyun lost in his book and Jiyong idly sipping at his lukewarm coffee. It’s nowhere even near sweetened to Jiyong’s taste, but he can’t complain, not when the quiet is actually so comfortable and Seunghyun, with his frumpy sweater turtlenecks and blue fucking hair is so warm next to him.
It’s only after a couple minutes later that Jiyong voices a thought.
“Yeah.”
“Hmm…” Seunghyun hums, a few seconds late in catching on that Jiyong actually says something.
“You asked,” and Jiyong has to keep his eyes downcast, eying his empty mug, to keep his voice even, “…if I liked you. And yeah, I do.”
Quiet.
Quiet.
Quiet.
And Jiyong’s starting to wonder if it’s possible to find a crack within the couch to fall into and hide forever. But his curiosity gets the best of him and he’s stealing a glance before he can stop himself.
It’s still quiet, but Seunghyun’s staring at him. His eyes are somber and there’s a slight smile on his lips, completely unreadable, and it’s confusing the hell out of Jiyong. He kind of wishes he can evaporate into thin air or turn invisible or melt away into-
And then Seunghyun’s hand is ghosting over his cheek, slowly moving up to pull lightly on a lock of his black hair.
“You’re so pink right now. It’s cute.”
And hell hath no fury like the butterflies doing fucking gymnastics in Jiyong’s stomach at that very moment.
-----
“It’s kind of messed up. I don’t know anything about you.” Seunghyun says, hand reaching over to pluck the cigarette from Jiyong’s mouth and bring it to his own lips. (They’ve fallen into the habit of sharing cigarettes, because really, who would want to smoke their own when Seunghyun’s offering to share?)
Jiyong leans back, head lolling on Seunghyun’s shoulder. “Well…what do you want to know?”
“Anything. Everything.” He takes a puff and hands it back to Jiyong, all too satisfied with the brush of their fingertips, the growing smile on his lips. “Like…what do you do for a living?”
And Jiyong takes a breath, not really sure where to start, whether to tell the truth or not. He doesn’t want to break whatever expectations Seunghyun might have about him. But considering the way they met, and the casual air of their relationship, he figures maybe Seunghyun never had any high standards of him to begin with.
Truth it is then.
Jiyong takes a long drag of the cigarette and hands it over. Seunghyun takes it wordlessly and starts to think that Jiyong’s possibly trying to ignore the question, like he has with so many others, so many times before.
But Jiyong doesn’t, this time he clears his throat, this time he’s going to talk.
“Hmmm,” he purrs lowly, considering his words carefully, sliding an arm around Seunghyun’s waist, moving closer so their legs press together. “What if I told you I’m an artist?”
“You are?”
“I used to be, still do it when I have time. But I…dropped out of school, couldn’t afford it anymore.”
“Oh.” And Jiyong can feel his fingers get restless, trying not to watch as Seunghyun’s face falls into a slight frown.
“And…what if I told you…I let guys fuck me?” And Jiyong tries to think it’s almost adorable the way Seunghyun’s eyebrows raise so high they’re hidden under his bangs.
“Wha-what do mean-?”
“Blowjobs. Sex. I used to do it. For money, you know, to make ends meet.” I used to be a prostitute, he never straightforwardly says, still sort of am, he thinks considering his living situation with Seungri and the way Seunghyun's hand has already lingered up Jiyong's thigh, fingertips wedged between his legs.
It's all too easy, he realizes. It comes naturally, like art, as if fucking and lust were liken to his paint and brushes.
“Oh.” Oh. Ohhhhhhhhhh. And Jiyong tries to ignore how Seunghyun suddenly stiffens. “I…I’m sorry.”
Jiyong laughs only because he’s not really sure what else to do. “…Why?”
“…Don’t know…it’s just, you don’t deserve that.”
“And what makes you so sure?”
Seunghyun doesn’t answer and Jiyong doesn’t give him time to. He pulls the cigarette from his fingers and puts it out on the ashtray beside them, shifts his body to climb over Seunghyun and straddle him.
He groans out an “Oomph” but his hands are already naturally on Jiyong’s waist, fingers cold as they sneak under the hem of his shirt.
“I…I think I really like you. Like… really like…you.” Jiyong unnaturally fumbles with his words.
He searches Seunghyun’s face for an idea, a snippet of what the man could possibly be thinking. But nothing, his face is unreadable, his mouth’s a hard straight line, his eyes only slightly widened. And Jiyong bites his bottom lip because he doesn’t know what to make of it.
He decides to go for the easier route, the one he’s always taken. So Jiyong bends forward, closes his eyes, and crashes their lips together. He grips the backing of the sofa, just behind Seunghyun’s shoulders, for leverage.
And when they pull away to breath, he can’t help but feel slightly satisfied at how swollen Seunghyun’s lips are. But Seunghyun seems to think otherwise.
“God, Jiyong, what are you doing? You’re so-”
And then he rolls his hips experimentally, and whatever Seunghyun is trying to say will just have to wait. Because, God, Jiyong does it again, and both of their breaths hitch, catching the friction and pressure all too perfectly.
“You should fuck me…” Jiyong mumbles, breath hot and heavy against the other man’s ear, his hands already desperately trying to feel under Seunghyun’s shirt, pull if off.
And Seunghyun lets him. He never says “no”, never pushes him away.
But afterwards, when they’re both thoroughly spent, skins slicked with sweat and cum stained on the sheets, when Jiyong gets up to leave and Seunghyun doesn’t hold him back, doesn’t utter a word, no “stay”, no nothing, somehow that hurts so much more than the thought of Seunghyun rejecting him.
-----
“I paint.”
“You do? I never knew that.”
“You never asked.”
Seungri doesn’t look up, apparently the article he’s reading is too important to allow for such a distraction. But unfazed, Jiyong continues.
“I used to. I was really good. You…you would have liked them.”
Seungri hums a small, “Mmmm,” and gives an appropriate smile. And Jiyong starts to wonder if has always been this blind to his behavior. It hurts, honestly hurts, more than Jiyong would like to admit. You can fuck me but you can’t even look at me? Don’t I deserve at least that? And it takes so much control for Jiyong not to throw the glass of juice in his hand onto the kitchen floor, to shatter everything in sight, to punch that stupid kid.
“I was the fucking the neighbor.” That seems to get his attention now. Seungri lifts his head, features somewhat surprised but nowhere near angry. And Jiyong kind of wants to cry because no one ever reacts the way he wants them to.
Seungri’s voice is small, but still so clear, unwavering as he gazes right back at him. “I think I kind of knew…don’t be mad. I…I’ve seen the way you look at him.”
And you don’t care? Jiyong wants to say but doesn’t have the heart to. Instead he starts, “Seungri…I-”
“Oh no Jiyong, it’s okay, I’m not mad. You know you’re always free to do whatever you want with me, you don’t have to apologize.”
And Jiyong looses it. Glass shatters and orange liquid splatters in every direction, and “Fuck!” Seungri yells because some of it got on the carpet. And then the plates and then the bowls, and then Jiyong picks up a chair and swings and Seungri retreats back because he’s scared. Good, you should be.
-----
Jiyong leaves only after Seungri finally falls asleep. It's so late at night, it's almost morning. He steps out of the door with a small duffle bag slung over his shoulder and a bandage wrapped around his hand from the broken glass.
He looks around the dark familiar apartment and makes a promise to himself to step foot in here again. Who was he fooling? This was never home, this was nothing more than an over welcomed stay.
He shuts the door behind him with a gentle click. Jiyong didn't even say goodbye to him, but deep down, he figures Seungri won't really mind.
He lingers in the hallway. Stupid fucking creature of habit, he thinks to himself. Because his steps are so slow because he's still looking towards Seunghyun's door because he still hopes that any moment now Seunghyun will let him in and share cigarettes again and tell him he loves him and kiss him and hug him and-
Stupid.
Jiyong only allows himself to stand there in the hallway for two more minutes before walking to the elevator.
He leaves a post-it on Seunghyun's door on the way though:
We smoked the same brand and your voice made me shiver when you talked. Sorry, I thought that meant something.
-----
Only twenty thousand won in his pocket and Jiyong spends eighteen thousand of it on paints and a brush. The remaining two thousand he spends on a small cheap bottle of soju that he drinks in one-shot. It gets him no where near the drunkiness he wants, but it'll do.
He finds a small alleyway, illuminated only by the moon and nearby street lamps. The bricks are faded and crumbling, the asphalt wet and litered just underneath.
Here, he thinks.
And he pulls out his tubes of paint and his brush and gets to work. It been years since he's painted, but his posture and his strokes and the ease of mixing the colors and expressing what he wants, it all makes it seem like he never stopped.
It's nothing objective, abstract at best, and not even close to the beauty he used to paint before. But Jiyong has never been happier.
And when the cops come by and tell him to cease, yell at him to just go home, he doesn't tell them he has no where to go, or that this is his art, or that if they go to the Modern Seoul Gallery they'll find one of his works. His best one, a portrait of his mother.
Instead he tells them to fuck off.
And when the handcuff hits his wrist and they push him against the police car door, he wonders, what is he now? What is he now?
"Nothing." He mumbles as they push him into the seat and slam the car door.
-----
When Jiyong wakes up hours later, it's at the police station. Again. Burnt coffee. Again. Leather seat that squirms louder than he does. Again.
Except no one comes to bail him out this time and police get tired of waiting.
And when he's back on the street, he has no money in his pocket, nothing to call his own. But strangely, it suffices.
Jiyong glances down at his hands, dried paint still stained across his palms, colors muddied.
A/N: I swear I didn't mean to make it this long. It was supposed to be like 500 words and then I tried to end it like 6 times and each time I wrote more, so there you go.
Rating: pg-15 (mentions of sex, alcohol, language) (and ANGST)
Summary: Jiyong is a fuck up and they don't exactly make it any better. Au. (4,325 word count)
Takes place in the dreary setting of the Blue MV where having eccentric hair and running on rooftops is totally normal. gay title amuses me so
Jiyong is an artist. Or at least, that’s what he classifies himself as when the cops come by and tell him to quit loitering. It’s 3am and he has nowhere to go, just this familiar stretch of dirty concrete that was just starting to get comfortable. He’s young and rebellious and much too drunk, and so he thinks he has every conceivable right to be here.
“I’m a fucking artist…’m working,” he slurs, cigarette smoke curling out of the corner of his Cheshire grin, and he’s nowhere even near happy right now. “So fuck off,” he cackles, flicking the butt of his smoke too close for comfort towards a cop’s shoe.
He hums a tune, strums his fingers to it, and imagines all the colors in the spectrum. What is he now? What is he now?
“…’m blue. Paint me blue,” he mumbles as a cop takes his wrist and handcuffs it. The hard cold metal bruises his skin.
He wakes up a couple hours later at the police station, the smell of robust burnt coffee filling his lungs. He’s on a chaffing leather chair that whines with his every squirm, and there’s a horrible crick in his neck as he lolls his head back into an upright position.
Seungri's staring back at him and he doesn’t want to think about just how long it’s been. He’s taller, shoulders broader, hair shorter; he looks good. But Jiyong doesn’t say that. Instead he pokes fun at the all too noticeable shadows under his eyes.
Two years since they’ve last seen each other and the first thing that comes out of Jiyong’s mouth is, “…haven’t you been eating your broccoli?”
Seungri can’t help but smile at that. He pulls at Jiyong’s arms with a loose grip, shoves a paper cup of cold water into his hand.
“Come on, I bailed you out.”
-----
It’s a week later and somehow “I’ll crash for the night” extends into a little something more.
“It’s okay though, stay as long as you need.”
Seungri never minds things like that, like borrowing and lending, or personal space, or possessions. He’s carefree and easy going about the things normal people sue for, kill for. He doesn’t fret, doesn’t nag. And it’s nice…sometimes.
But other times Jiyong wants more, wants stress, wants worry and anxiousness. He wants someone who actually cares enough to genuinely do those things.
He’s tired of being seen as a stray cat, easing in and out of people’s lives so often. Seungri should have said, “No”. He should have left him with the police, left him on the street, left him all those places that he didn’t.
But Seungri says, “It’s okay.” He whispers sweet things that Jiyong doesn’t deserve, gives lingering looks that burn into his skin, and pulls with pleading tugs towards the bed.
Seungri says, “…stay,” and so Jiyong does.
-----
“Never seen you in this complex before. You new?”
And Jiyong doesn’t dare look up to the source of the deep voice. His long black bangs are the only thing between his face and the stranger’s. Any slight movement, any goddamn draft that’s stronger than it needs to be, and then his flushed cheeks and pink ears will be known to the world.
So he opts for a soft “Mmm…” adds in, “just staying with a friend right now,” just as the elevator door bings with a close.
“What floor?”
“Eleventh.”
“Oh, same as me.”
Perfect.
And Jiyong suddenly feels like this is the longest elevator ride of his entire life, feels like the walls are closing in on him, like the silence is going to fucking engulf him. He starts to think his breathing's too loud, too fast, so he stops breathing altogether. And of course it only makes matters worse.
As soon as the elevator doors open, he jolts out, heads towards the apartment without a glance whatsoever over his shoulder. 1103. 1104. 1105. Fucking-1106. And then finally, finally, 1107. Jiyong fishes out the copy of keys Seungri gave him and fumbles with the locks for only a second before swinging open the door and shutting it swiftly behind him. There. There.
He lets the air out of his cheeks and breathes again as if he had been holding his breath underwater. And he practically had. He was stupid. Who holds their breath that long? Why did he do it?
Thankfully Seungri isn’t home yet, still at school. And Jiyong cringes at the idea of his dongsaeng seeing him so rattled.
He goes to the bathroom, examines his reflection in the mirror. “God, I’m so red,” he says as pats his cheeks, willing the blush to disappear.
-----
Seungri isn’t home. Again.
Apparently he has exams to prepare for, classmates to study with, some side job internship in some fucking office, and oh yeah, a girlfriend. Funny thing about the last one, Jiyong mulls, considering Seungri was the one who initiated all those late night make-out sessions and cuddle fucks.
He never voices his frustrations at him though. What right does he have when he gets a roof over his head, food in his belly?
Instead just decides to drink all his soju, smoke all his cigarettes, figures that the best time to go out is right when he comes home. And soon he starts to find the floor, the couch, the futon, anything at all, much more comfortable than any bed Seungri’s lying in.
Call it passive aggressive. Call it Jiyong.
And of course, Seungri doesn’t mind.
-----
Two bottles of soju, a few shots of whiskey, and a bit of coke and rum later and…
fuckshitfuckmotherfuckingbitchughhhhhhh.
Only when coming home from another late night escapade does Jiyong realize he’s forgotten his keys. But it’s too late, Seungri’s already asleep. And Jiyong’s too drunk and too prideful to do something as pathetic as knock on his own door. (Ok, it’s not his own door, but fuck it all, he’s too smashed to deal with petty details like that.)
He doesn’t want to see Seungri’s face, that shit eating smirk, the eye roll, the icantbeliveyouwokemeupjustforthis face. So he decides that the floor in the hallway is quite nice, there’s even a bit of carpet padding. No big deal, Jiyong’s slept in much worse than this. He settles himself on the floor, head propped against the wall, knees pulled to his chest.
Jiyong gets a slight kick out of the prospect that Seungri might wake up in the morning to find him passed out right outside the door. Maybe he’ll feel guilty. He should.
Eventually he gets too busy trying to count the patterns in the carpet, trying to distinguish the crimson from the maroon, that he doesn’t notice someone getting off the elevator.
“Hey…you.” That deep voice again mixed with the jingling of keys.
And this time Jiyong’s too intoxicated to restrain his eyes from seeking the source. Electric…no, mint. Blue. Fucking blue. For a couple of seconds that’s all he sees, all his eyes can register. Like a moth to a flame.
“Hey, you okay?” he tilts his head to the side and gives a quirk of a smile, probably because he already knows his answer.
“Yeah, just peachy.” Jiyong puffs, I don’t need your sympathy, but his eyes are still glued to the stranger. There’s a glint in his gaze but Jiyong can tell it’s not malicious.
“Yeah, you definitely look it. What’s wrong? Broke up with your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my fucking boyfriend,” Jiyong yells a bit harsher than he means and the stranger pulls back, his face slacken, less amused.
There’s a stretch of silence and just before it gets uncomfortable, the other man mumbles a soft “Okay…” and starts to walk away slowly. Within seconds he’s already at his door, which just happens to be a couple feet away because he’s apparently the next-door neighbor.
Perfect. Again.
“Hey…if you want…you can sleep here for the night.”
Jiyong turns to follow the voice. His front door is swung open and he’s peaking his head out towards him, waiting for an answer. His messy blue hair a stark contrast against the gray everything else.
And it’s almost funny, how many times Jiyong’s been in this predicament. Apparently he’s always going to be that lost little boy looking for his mommy, that stray cat everyone likes to feed, that trifling fuck up you can’t help but pity.
He should say “No”. That’s the logical thing. He doesn’t even know this man.
But he gets up, joints cracking, back straightening, body working faster than his mind can process. He just figures that subconsciously, he’s already accepted his fate.
“Never knew you were the neighbor,” Jiyong mumbles as he passes through the door opened for him.
“Yeah…you kind of ran away the other day before I had the chance to tell you,” the other man says as he shuts the door behind Jiyong, his slight smirk something between amused and annoyed. “Anyways…I’m Seunghyun. And you can take the couch for the night.”
“T-thanks.”
“...’s nothing. I’ve seen you around enough to know you’re living next door with him,” he gestures in the general direction. “Whatever happened…you can sort in the morning.” He finishes with a yawn and turns off the lamp and retreats to his room.
That couch might have just been the most comfortable couch Jiyong’s ever slept in his entire life. He wakes up refreshed and gone before the sun is even up.
-----
It takes two days for Jiyong to realize he just might like Seunghyun. Not in that way, but in some sort of way. Because he catches himself doing things he doesn’t normally do. Like lingering in the hallway, hoping just at that moment Seunghyun might be leaving his apartment or maybe getting off the elevator.
And despite the late winter wind, Jiyong finds himself going out onto the balcony whenever he needs a smoke now. A small gesture, with a small anticipation of seeing him maybe doing the same. He knows the other man smokes. He remembers the musky smell of his apartment, the ashtray and lighter on the coffee table next to the couch.
And Jiyong starts to think that maybe the Gods have a fucked up sense of humor. Because just as Jiyong develops his newfound infatuation, Seungri rediscovers his. He starts to make a show of his appreciation, giving Jiyong soft corner mouth kisses whenever he comes home, almost as often as greetings, like they’re a couple and this is totally normal. Seungri naturally reaches over, gives him neck and back rubs when they watch TV on the couch, and maybe a couple too close caresses if Jiyong’s in a good mood and doesn’t mind.
Seungri starts thinks that whatever relationship they have, that maybe, just maybe, it might be finally getting better. So one night, he grabs Jiyong’s wrist, pulls him by the waist onto his lap. Jiyong’s surprised but the pressure between them when he squirms just the slightest is all too pleasant, and he suddenly can’t find the heart to voice a protest.
“I left her,” Seungri whispers into his ear lowly, “…my girlfriend. I don’t want her.”
His hands roam under Jiyong’s shirt, ghosting over ribs, “…I don’t think I ever did.” He finds a nipple, tweaks it, until the nub is hard under his thumb and Jiyong’s cheeks are thoroughly flushed.
“I want you,” he mumbles into his skin, bites it into his shoulder.
And Jiyong doesn’t say a word, instead thinks that for perhaps the first time in a long time, the roles are reversed and Seungri is the one who needs to be pitied.
When they fuck, Jiyong’s more vocal than usual, moaning louder, muttering mindless curses. Seungri just figures he’s gotten better, takes it as an indication to go faster and rougher. Jiyong just hopes Seunghyun’s home.
-----
After the third time of conveniently getting locked out, Seunghyun just rolls his eyes and tells Jiyong that if he wants to come over he can just knock.
"Shut up, I'm trying not to be obvious." Jiyong has to bite his bottom lip to shoo the damn grin from creeping on his face.
"Kind of hard to do that with you sprawled on the floor right outside my door."
"Are you gonna let me in or not?"
Seunghyun sighs but swings the door open for him, mutters, "you fucking alley cat."
Jiyong kicks off his shoes and makes his way to the couch, smug in the fact that although they barely know each other, he already knows Seunghyun’s apartment layout so well. He knows that he has a sister, he’s seen enough of the family photo frames scattered around. He knows that he works as an editor, he’s seen the stacks of manual scripts, the notes etched in red and blue ink all over his desk. And he knows they smoke the same brand, Marlboro Reds, and as petty as it is, it still manages to get him giddy.
Jiyong relishes in the thought that he could know so little and so much about a person at the same time. He wants more, and he knows he’s within reach to get it.
“So, you like me or something? …’s that why you keep pestering me?” Seunghyun quips. He takes a seat next to Jiyong and goes back to his novel, eyebrows a bit furrowed as he tries to concentrate.
“Am I keeping you from your work?” Jiyong asks, feigning curiosity to scoot the slightest bit closer.
“Nah, I know it’s hard to believe with as much as I have to read,” Seunghyun chuckles, dimples nearly melting Jiyong’s heart, “but this here…this is just for pure recreation.”
A stretch of silence falls over them, with Seunghyun lost in his book and Jiyong idly sipping at his lukewarm coffee. It’s nowhere even near sweetened to Jiyong’s taste, but he can’t complain, not when the quiet is actually so comfortable and Seunghyun, with his frumpy sweater turtlenecks and blue fucking hair is so warm next to him.
It’s only after a couple minutes later that Jiyong voices a thought.
“Yeah.”
“Hmm…” Seunghyun hums, a few seconds late in catching on that Jiyong actually says something.
“You asked,” and Jiyong has to keep his eyes downcast, eying his empty mug, to keep his voice even, “…if I liked you. And yeah, I do.”
Quiet.
Quiet.
Quiet.
And Jiyong’s starting to wonder if it’s possible to find a crack within the couch to fall into and hide forever. But his curiosity gets the best of him and he’s stealing a glance before he can stop himself.
It’s still quiet, but Seunghyun’s staring at him. His eyes are somber and there’s a slight smile on his lips, completely unreadable, and it’s confusing the hell out of Jiyong. He kind of wishes he can evaporate into thin air or turn invisible or melt away into-
And then Seunghyun’s hand is ghosting over his cheek, slowly moving up to pull lightly on a lock of his black hair.
“You’re so pink right now. It’s cute.”
And hell hath no fury like the butterflies doing fucking gymnastics in Jiyong’s stomach at that very moment.
-----
“It’s kind of messed up. I don’t know anything about you.” Seunghyun says, hand reaching over to pluck the cigarette from Jiyong’s mouth and bring it to his own lips. (They’ve fallen into the habit of sharing cigarettes, because really, who would want to smoke their own when Seunghyun’s offering to share?)
Jiyong leans back, head lolling on Seunghyun’s shoulder. “Well…what do you want to know?”
“Anything. Everything.” He takes a puff and hands it back to Jiyong, all too satisfied with the brush of their fingertips, the growing smile on his lips. “Like…what do you do for a living?”
And Jiyong takes a breath, not really sure where to start, whether to tell the truth or not. He doesn’t want to break whatever expectations Seunghyun might have about him. But considering the way they met, and the casual air of their relationship, he figures maybe Seunghyun never had any high standards of him to begin with.
Truth it is then.
Jiyong takes a long drag of the cigarette and hands it over. Seunghyun takes it wordlessly and starts to think that Jiyong’s possibly trying to ignore the question, like he has with so many others, so many times before.
But Jiyong doesn’t, this time he clears his throat, this time he’s going to talk.
“Hmmm,” he purrs lowly, considering his words carefully, sliding an arm around Seunghyun’s waist, moving closer so their legs press together. “What if I told you I’m an artist?”
“You are?”
“I used to be, still do it when I have time. But I…dropped out of school, couldn’t afford it anymore.”
“Oh.” And Jiyong can feel his fingers get restless, trying not to watch as Seunghyun’s face falls into a slight frown.
“And…what if I told you…I let guys fuck me?” And Jiyong tries to think it’s almost adorable the way Seunghyun’s eyebrows raise so high they’re hidden under his bangs.
“Wha-what do mean-?”
“Blowjobs. Sex. I used to do it. For money, you know, to make ends meet.” I used to be a prostitute, he never straightforwardly says, still sort of am, he thinks considering his living situation with Seungri and the way Seunghyun's hand has already lingered up Jiyong's thigh, fingertips wedged between his legs.
It's all too easy, he realizes. It comes naturally, like art, as if fucking and lust were liken to his paint and brushes.
“Oh.” Oh. Ohhhhhhhhhh. And Jiyong tries to ignore how Seunghyun suddenly stiffens. “I…I’m sorry.”
Jiyong laughs only because he’s not really sure what else to do. “…Why?”
“…Don’t know…it’s just, you don’t deserve that.”
“And what makes you so sure?”
Seunghyun doesn’t answer and Jiyong doesn’t give him time to. He pulls the cigarette from his fingers and puts it out on the ashtray beside them, shifts his body to climb over Seunghyun and straddle him.
He groans out an “Oomph” but his hands are already naturally on Jiyong’s waist, fingers cold as they sneak under the hem of his shirt.
“I…I think I really like you. Like… really like…you.” Jiyong unnaturally fumbles with his words.
He searches Seunghyun’s face for an idea, a snippet of what the man could possibly be thinking. But nothing, his face is unreadable, his mouth’s a hard straight line, his eyes only slightly widened. And Jiyong bites his bottom lip because he doesn’t know what to make of it.
He decides to go for the easier route, the one he’s always taken. So Jiyong bends forward, closes his eyes, and crashes their lips together. He grips the backing of the sofa, just behind Seunghyun’s shoulders, for leverage.
And when they pull away to breath, he can’t help but feel slightly satisfied at how swollen Seunghyun’s lips are. But Seunghyun seems to think otherwise.
“God, Jiyong, what are you doing? You’re so-”
And then he rolls his hips experimentally, and whatever Seunghyun is trying to say will just have to wait. Because, God, Jiyong does it again, and both of their breaths hitch, catching the friction and pressure all too perfectly.
“You should fuck me…” Jiyong mumbles, breath hot and heavy against the other man’s ear, his hands already desperately trying to feel under Seunghyun’s shirt, pull if off.
And Seunghyun lets him. He never says “no”, never pushes him away.
But afterwards, when they’re both thoroughly spent, skins slicked with sweat and cum stained on the sheets, when Jiyong gets up to leave and Seunghyun doesn’t hold him back, doesn’t utter a word, no “stay”, no nothing, somehow that hurts so much more than the thought of Seunghyun rejecting him.
-----
“I paint.”
“You do? I never knew that.”
“You never asked.”
Seungri doesn’t look up, apparently the article he’s reading is too important to allow for such a distraction. But unfazed, Jiyong continues.
“I used to. I was really good. You…you would have liked them.”
Seungri hums a small, “Mmmm,” and gives an appropriate smile. And Jiyong starts to wonder if has always been this blind to his behavior. It hurts, honestly hurts, more than Jiyong would like to admit. You can fuck me but you can’t even look at me? Don’t I deserve at least that? And it takes so much control for Jiyong not to throw the glass of juice in his hand onto the kitchen floor, to shatter everything in sight, to punch that stupid kid.
“I was the fucking the neighbor.” That seems to get his attention now. Seungri lifts his head, features somewhat surprised but nowhere near angry. And Jiyong kind of wants to cry because no one ever reacts the way he wants them to.
Seungri’s voice is small, but still so clear, unwavering as he gazes right back at him. “I think I kind of knew…don’t be mad. I…I’ve seen the way you look at him.”
And you don’t care? Jiyong wants to say but doesn’t have the heart to. Instead he starts, “Seungri…I-”
“Oh no Jiyong, it’s okay, I’m not mad. You know you’re always free to do whatever you want with me, you don’t have to apologize.”
And Jiyong looses it. Glass shatters and orange liquid splatters in every direction, and “Fuck!” Seungri yells because some of it got on the carpet. And then the plates and then the bowls, and then Jiyong picks up a chair and swings and Seungri retreats back because he’s scared. Good, you should be.
-----
Jiyong leaves only after Seungri finally falls asleep. It's so late at night, it's almost morning. He steps out of the door with a small duffle bag slung over his shoulder and a bandage wrapped around his hand from the broken glass.
He looks around the dark familiar apartment and makes a promise to himself to step foot in here again. Who was he fooling? This was never home, this was nothing more than an over welcomed stay.
He shuts the door behind him with a gentle click. Jiyong didn't even say goodbye to him, but deep down, he figures Seungri won't really mind.
He lingers in the hallway. Stupid fucking creature of habit, he thinks to himself. Because his steps are so slow because he's still looking towards Seunghyun's door because he still hopes that any moment now Seunghyun will let him in and share cigarettes again and tell him he loves him and kiss him and hug him and-
Stupid.
Jiyong only allows himself to stand there in the hallway for two more minutes before walking to the elevator.
He leaves a post-it on Seunghyun's door on the way though:
We smoked the same brand and your voice made me shiver when you talked. Sorry, I thought that meant something.
-----
Only twenty thousand won in his pocket and Jiyong spends eighteen thousand of it on paints and a brush. The remaining two thousand he spends on a small cheap bottle of soju that he drinks in one-shot. It gets him no where near the drunkiness he wants, but it'll do.
He finds a small alleyway, illuminated only by the moon and nearby street lamps. The bricks are faded and crumbling, the asphalt wet and litered just underneath.
Here, he thinks.
And he pulls out his tubes of paint and his brush and gets to work. It been years since he's painted, but his posture and his strokes and the ease of mixing the colors and expressing what he wants, it all makes it seem like he never stopped.
It's nothing objective, abstract at best, and not even close to the beauty he used to paint before. But Jiyong has never been happier.
And when the cops come by and tell him to cease, yell at him to just go home, he doesn't tell them he has no where to go, or that this is his art, or that if they go to the Modern Seoul Gallery they'll find one of his works. His best one, a portrait of his mother.
Instead he tells them to fuck off.
And when the handcuff hits his wrist and they push him against the police car door, he wonders, what is he now? What is he now?
"Nothing." He mumbles as they push him into the seat and slam the car door.
-----
When Jiyong wakes up hours later, it's at the police station. Again. Burnt coffee. Again. Leather seat that squirms louder than he does. Again.
Except no one comes to bail him out this time and police get tired of waiting.
And when he's back on the street, he has no money in his pocket, nothing to call his own. But strangely, it suffices.
Jiyong glances down at his hands, dried paint still stained across his palms, colors muddied.
A/N: I swear I didn't mean to make it this long. It was supposed to be like 500 words and then I tried to end it like 6 times and each time I wrote more, so there you go.