fic: beautiful in the lowlight
Title: beautiful in the lowlight
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Seunghyun/Jiyong (GTOP), Seunghyun/Seungri
Notes: I have no idea where the Seunghyun/Seungri came from, honestly. Argh I am not particularly satisfied with this, so any crit is welcome.
Summary: Seunghyun only knows love, or whatever one would call this, late at night.
Jiyong develops a distressing habit of not sleeping. He also picks up an always worsening coffee addiction somewhere along the way, plus a smoking habit when he thinks no one’s looking. And as no one else is crazy enough to stay up until the wee hours of the morning, Jiyong gets away with quite a lot.
“You’re taking this starving artist thing a little too far,” Seunghyun comments from the doorway, eyes dark and brows furrowed as he watches Jiyong tap out a melody only he can hear.
Jiyong scowls at him. “I have stuff to do,” he says shortly, and turns back to the music sheets spread around him on the kitchen table, lifting one sheet to find his coffee mug and wrinkling his nose when he sees the half-finished cigarette he’d tossed in there about two minutes back.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the lyrical genius,” Seunghyun mutters, a little hurt, and turns on his heel and stalks out of the kitchen. Somewhere along the way, he’d thought he’d come to understand Jiyong and Jiyong to trust him. “Whatever, Jiyong. Just remember that you won’t have a debut album if you die of exhaustion.”
“I sleep,” Jiyong shoots back absentmindedly. “Night, hyung,” he adds, ever polite, even when he is being a difficult little bitch with no sense of self-preservation.
Seunghyun walks down the hallway back to his room, and wonders where he started caring so much about what Jiyong was doing to himself. Jiyong, he knows, has always been a little bit in love with the idea of calling himself an artist. Not that he isn’t, no, anyone who read his compositions could never say that, and Seunghyun has read plenty of his compositions, but still - there is something about the way Jiyong holds a cigarette and looks under the single light bulb of their kitchen that says he is always posing for some kind of camera, some kind of audience, even when there is no one to witness him but their white walls. There are circles under his eyes now, Seunghyun knows, but it is not just makeup that makes them disappear when Jiyong is on stage.
But for all his ridiculous, ridiculous vanities, Seunghyun likes Jiyong. There is no one who doesn’t in their band, even when Jiyong treads the thin line between joking and cruelty when he teases Seungri and Daesung or when Jiyong is the self-same asshole that Youngbae has known since they were kids.
The problem is that Seunghyun likes Jiyong, wants to run his hands through his ridiculous bleached-blonde hair, wants to smooth out the wrinkle of a frown Jiyong sometimes gets when he’s either thinking too hard or when he’s upset. Seunghyun pushes his bedroom door open to Seungri sitting on his bed, finger tracing the pattern of Seunghyun’s covers. Seunghyun pauses at the doorway before walking over, taking in Seungri’s thin shoulders, dark bowed head, and can’t help but make the comparisons to Jiyong.
“How’s Jiyong-hyung, hyung?” Seungri asks softly, and reaches up to touch the ends of Seunghyun’s sleep-crazy hair.
“He’s going to kill himself,” Seunghyun growls, and lets Seungri press fingers into his cheek, head cocked to the side and eyes thoughtful. “What,” Seunghyun sighs, and he kind of hates himself for this, when he knows how grateful Seungri is for the dark because, that way, Seunghyun won’t see the hurt on his face.
“Nothing,” Seungri whispers, and presses a light butterfly kiss to the corner of Seunghyun’s mouth.
“Oh, Seunghyun, come on,” Seunghyun says, annoyed, definitely more viciously than he should. He has never gotten used to this, having his own name roll off his tongue whenever he is with Seungri; it makes him feel vaguely narcissistic, especially with Seungri’s eagerness to please always getting the better of his personality. Even beyond that, Seunghyun is clumsy with this, with affection, with love, or whatever semblance of it all this is. “It’s, like, 2. Go to sleep.”
Seungri nods, and stands up. “Sorry,” he says, twisting the hem of his shirt, and even waits the two extra seconds, just to see if Seunghyun will play the comforting hyung. Seunghyun doesn’t; he never has. It is wishful thinking on Seungri’s part, and he knows it. He shuts Seunghyun’s door quietly, and maybe he will cry tonight, maybe not.
Seunghyun feels like a terrible person, but he can’t help thinking that if it were Jiyong, Jiyong would’ve reached out for Seunghyun’s hand, would’ve ghosted his mouth over Seunghyun’s cheekbones, would’ve slammed the door, would’ve just looked at him, eyes flashing and defiant, would never have apologized.
-
“No more, hyung,” Seungri says the next time Seunghyun is angry and tired and wants Jiyong so much he has to clench his teeth together to keep the desire from making himself do something he would regret. “I don’t want this, not anymore. Not like this.” It is the bravest and the smartest thing Seungri has ever done, even if he is half-mumbling it to his shoes and still reaching out for Seunghyun’s wrist.
Seunghyun is hurt, but mostly he is sorry. “Okay,” he says softly, softer than he ever did when they were - together, or whatever one would call it. “Sorry, magnae.”
“No apologies,” Seungri says, and smiles that lopsided, still-mischievous smile that had once made Seunghyun think it could work.
There is nothing about Seungri that is like Jiyong, Seunghyun realizes, and this is where he is sorry - for trying to force Seungri into a mold he never had any hope of fitting in.
-
Jiyong doesn’t even look up anymore when Seunghyun visits him early in the morning, pen always scratching something out, whether it be letter or lyric or nonsense.
“Hyung, you must be tired,” Jiyong murmurs when Seunghyun yawns not-so-discreetly for the fifth time, trying to hide it behind a drink of cold coffee. “Why don’t you go to sleep? I’m okay here.” He hesitates, and then lightly, as if unsure whether or not it is an acceptable topic to breach - “Magnae will get lonely.”
Seunghyun looks up, surprised and a little ashamed. He hadn’t known Jiyong had known, but then again, he had never practiced much prudence when it came to the white expanse of Seungri’s throat, bruised with kisses. He’s gotten more than one reproachful look from Youngbae and even Daesung had looked at him askance once, so he really shouldn’t be surprised Jiyong would know.
“Ah,” Seunghyun says, and coughs. “That’s not - we’re not.” He stops, thinks about his next words. “Not anymore,” he continues softly, head bowed. “I’d rather stay here.”
“Oh,” Jiyong says simply. “Alright.” There is no blame in Jiyong’s voice, no probing, no questions, and Seunghyun just wants Jiyong to look at him.
“More coffee?” He asks instead, and picks up his own cup.
“Please,” Jiyong says, and hands him his own half-full cup.
Seunghyun busies himself with the coffee, guessing on Jiyong’s preferences and adding one cream and two sugars. When he hands it back, Jiyong takes a sip without even asking and grimaces.
“More sugar,” he says, holding out the cup, plaintive expression on his face. “Please.”
“Okay,” Seunghyun laughs. “Where would you be without me?” He asks fondly and absentmindedly, as he hands the cup back to Jiyong.
“I would still be here,” Jiyong answers seriously. “But with cold coffee. Thank you, hyung.”
“Oh.” Seunghyun nods, a little touched by Jiyong’s sincerity. “No problem.” And then - “I’m going to sleep, Jiyong. Don’t stay up too late.”
“Mhm,” Jiyong hums. “I took a nap earlier. No worries. Thanks for staying up with me. Night.” It is this quiet indifference, this nonchalance that Seunghyun hates the most.
“Jiyong,” Seunghyun says, frustrated. “Jiyong, do you - ”
“What, hyung?” Jiyong finally, finally turns bright eyes to Seunghyun, eyebrows raised, no hint of fatigue marring the expression of slight irritation. “Do I what?”
Seunghyun swallows. “Come to bed with me,” he finally says, holding his breath in anticipation of Jiyong’s answer.
Jiyong puts his pen down on the stack of papers Seunghyun knows he was just using to doodle on, nothing worthwhile or meaningful tonight. He is silent for so long, head tilted slightly to the side, just studying Seunghyun, that Seunghyun wonders if maybe he missed the rejection somewhere and should just leave before he makes even more a fool of himself.
Finally, Jiyong stands up, brushes off his clothes. When he gets to the doorway and Seunghyun still hasn’t followed him, he looks back, impatient. “Well?” He demands, and Seunghyun knows this Jiyong, spoiled and self-entitled, so familiar and so precious that Seunghyun wants only to keep this Jiyong all for himself.
He hides a smile, pushing his chair back and standing up. When he reaches Jiyong, he holds his wrist like he is something delicate, and pulls him close until Jiyong is looking up into his face, expression half-annoyed and half-amused.
“Don’t mention this in the morning,” he pleads quietly, and touches fingers to the ends of Jiyong’s ridiculous hair, traces his quirked eyebrows. “Do you even know,” he breathes, a little desperate, a little at a loss for the right words - “do you even know how long I’ve wanted this?”
“Not particularly,” Jiyong says, always blunt, but fits his mouth carefully against Seunghyun’s, pushing him back until his back hits the wall and Jiyong has one hand curled around the collar of his shirt, the other sliding up into his hair. They kiss each other quietly, moving mouths soft like whispers over collarbones, breaths not any louder than what Jiyong’s scratching pen would’ve been.
Jiyong is a showman, born to strut on a stage. Everything he does, he performs, as if for an invisible audience, as if he’s lived for so long in front of cameras that he’s forgotten how, exactly, to behave when there are none around. He holds his pen and cigarettes like he holds a microphone, drinks coffee like a dying man will with water. Seunghyun has seen Jiyong sleep like he is waiting for a hidden camera, head tilted at optimal angle for attractiveness, but this Jiyong - the Jiyong that presses his thin body against Seunghyun’s shamelessly, breath catching when Seunghyun’s tongue runs over the roof of his mouth, the Jiyong whose hands fist in his hair, who moans low and sweet in Seunghyun’s ear - this Jiyong Seunghyun wants to keep in the back of his throat so he can taste the same desperation every time he sings.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Seunghyun/Jiyong (GTOP), Seunghyun/Seungri
Notes: I have no idea where the Seunghyun/Seungri came from, honestly. Argh I am not particularly satisfied with this, so any crit is welcome.
Summary: Seunghyun only knows love, or whatever one would call this, late at night.
Jiyong develops a distressing habit of not sleeping. He also picks up an always worsening coffee addiction somewhere along the way, plus a smoking habit when he thinks no one’s looking. And as no one else is crazy enough to stay up until the wee hours of the morning, Jiyong gets away with quite a lot.
“You’re taking this starving artist thing a little too far,” Seunghyun comments from the doorway, eyes dark and brows furrowed as he watches Jiyong tap out a melody only he can hear.
Jiyong scowls at him. “I have stuff to do,” he says shortly, and turns back to the music sheets spread around him on the kitchen table, lifting one sheet to find his coffee mug and wrinkling his nose when he sees the half-finished cigarette he’d tossed in there about two minutes back.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the lyrical genius,” Seunghyun mutters, a little hurt, and turns on his heel and stalks out of the kitchen. Somewhere along the way, he’d thought he’d come to understand Jiyong and Jiyong to trust him. “Whatever, Jiyong. Just remember that you won’t have a debut album if you die of exhaustion.”
“I sleep,” Jiyong shoots back absentmindedly. “Night, hyung,” he adds, ever polite, even when he is being a difficult little bitch with no sense of self-preservation.
Seunghyun walks down the hallway back to his room, and wonders where he started caring so much about what Jiyong was doing to himself. Jiyong, he knows, has always been a little bit in love with the idea of calling himself an artist. Not that he isn’t, no, anyone who read his compositions could never say that, and Seunghyun has read plenty of his compositions, but still - there is something about the way Jiyong holds a cigarette and looks under the single light bulb of their kitchen that says he is always posing for some kind of camera, some kind of audience, even when there is no one to witness him but their white walls. There are circles under his eyes now, Seunghyun knows, but it is not just makeup that makes them disappear when Jiyong is on stage.
But for all his ridiculous, ridiculous vanities, Seunghyun likes Jiyong. There is no one who doesn’t in their band, even when Jiyong treads the thin line between joking and cruelty when he teases Seungri and Daesung or when Jiyong is the self-same asshole that Youngbae has known since they were kids.
The problem is that Seunghyun likes Jiyong, wants to run his hands through his ridiculous bleached-blonde hair, wants to smooth out the wrinkle of a frown Jiyong sometimes gets when he’s either thinking too hard or when he’s upset. Seunghyun pushes his bedroom door open to Seungri sitting on his bed, finger tracing the pattern of Seunghyun’s covers. Seunghyun pauses at the doorway before walking over, taking in Seungri’s thin shoulders, dark bowed head, and can’t help but make the comparisons to Jiyong.
“How’s Jiyong-hyung, hyung?” Seungri asks softly, and reaches up to touch the ends of Seunghyun’s sleep-crazy hair.
“He’s going to kill himself,” Seunghyun growls, and lets Seungri press fingers into his cheek, head cocked to the side and eyes thoughtful. “What,” Seunghyun sighs, and he kind of hates himself for this, when he knows how grateful Seungri is for the dark because, that way, Seunghyun won’t see the hurt on his face.
“Nothing,” Seungri whispers, and presses a light butterfly kiss to the corner of Seunghyun’s mouth.
“Oh, Seunghyun, come on,” Seunghyun says, annoyed, definitely more viciously than he should. He has never gotten used to this, having his own name roll off his tongue whenever he is with Seungri; it makes him feel vaguely narcissistic, especially with Seungri’s eagerness to please always getting the better of his personality. Even beyond that, Seunghyun is clumsy with this, with affection, with love, or whatever semblance of it all this is. “It’s, like, 2. Go to sleep.”
Seungri nods, and stands up. “Sorry,” he says, twisting the hem of his shirt, and even waits the two extra seconds, just to see if Seunghyun will play the comforting hyung. Seunghyun doesn’t; he never has. It is wishful thinking on Seungri’s part, and he knows it. He shuts Seunghyun’s door quietly, and maybe he will cry tonight, maybe not.
Seunghyun feels like a terrible person, but he can’t help thinking that if it were Jiyong, Jiyong would’ve reached out for Seunghyun’s hand, would’ve ghosted his mouth over Seunghyun’s cheekbones, would’ve slammed the door, would’ve just looked at him, eyes flashing and defiant, would never have apologized.
-
“No more, hyung,” Seungri says the next time Seunghyun is angry and tired and wants Jiyong so much he has to clench his teeth together to keep the desire from making himself do something he would regret. “I don’t want this, not anymore. Not like this.” It is the bravest and the smartest thing Seungri has ever done, even if he is half-mumbling it to his shoes and still reaching out for Seunghyun’s wrist.
Seunghyun is hurt, but mostly he is sorry. “Okay,” he says softly, softer than he ever did when they were - together, or whatever one would call it. “Sorry, magnae.”
“No apologies,” Seungri says, and smiles that lopsided, still-mischievous smile that had once made Seunghyun think it could work.
There is nothing about Seungri that is like Jiyong, Seunghyun realizes, and this is where he is sorry - for trying to force Seungri into a mold he never had any hope of fitting in.
-
Jiyong doesn’t even look up anymore when Seunghyun visits him early in the morning, pen always scratching something out, whether it be letter or lyric or nonsense.
“Hyung, you must be tired,” Jiyong murmurs when Seunghyun yawns not-so-discreetly for the fifth time, trying to hide it behind a drink of cold coffee. “Why don’t you go to sleep? I’m okay here.” He hesitates, and then lightly, as if unsure whether or not it is an acceptable topic to breach - “Magnae will get lonely.”
Seunghyun looks up, surprised and a little ashamed. He hadn’t known Jiyong had known, but then again, he had never practiced much prudence when it came to the white expanse of Seungri’s throat, bruised with kisses. He’s gotten more than one reproachful look from Youngbae and even Daesung had looked at him askance once, so he really shouldn’t be surprised Jiyong would know.
“Ah,” Seunghyun says, and coughs. “That’s not - we’re not.” He stops, thinks about his next words. “Not anymore,” he continues softly, head bowed. “I’d rather stay here.”
“Oh,” Jiyong says simply. “Alright.” There is no blame in Jiyong’s voice, no probing, no questions, and Seunghyun just wants Jiyong to look at him.
“More coffee?” He asks instead, and picks up his own cup.
“Please,” Jiyong says, and hands him his own half-full cup.
Seunghyun busies himself with the coffee, guessing on Jiyong’s preferences and adding one cream and two sugars. When he hands it back, Jiyong takes a sip without even asking and grimaces.
“More sugar,” he says, holding out the cup, plaintive expression on his face. “Please.”
“Okay,” Seunghyun laughs. “Where would you be without me?” He asks fondly and absentmindedly, as he hands the cup back to Jiyong.
“I would still be here,” Jiyong answers seriously. “But with cold coffee. Thank you, hyung.”
“Oh.” Seunghyun nods, a little touched by Jiyong’s sincerity. “No problem.” And then - “I’m going to sleep, Jiyong. Don’t stay up too late.”
“Mhm,” Jiyong hums. “I took a nap earlier. No worries. Thanks for staying up with me. Night.” It is this quiet indifference, this nonchalance that Seunghyun hates the most.
“Jiyong,” Seunghyun says, frustrated. “Jiyong, do you - ”
“What, hyung?” Jiyong finally, finally turns bright eyes to Seunghyun, eyebrows raised, no hint of fatigue marring the expression of slight irritation. “Do I what?”
Seunghyun swallows. “Come to bed with me,” he finally says, holding his breath in anticipation of Jiyong’s answer.
Jiyong puts his pen down on the stack of papers Seunghyun knows he was just using to doodle on, nothing worthwhile or meaningful tonight. He is silent for so long, head tilted slightly to the side, just studying Seunghyun, that Seunghyun wonders if maybe he missed the rejection somewhere and should just leave before he makes even more a fool of himself.
Finally, Jiyong stands up, brushes off his clothes. When he gets to the doorway and Seunghyun still hasn’t followed him, he looks back, impatient. “Well?” He demands, and Seunghyun knows this Jiyong, spoiled and self-entitled, so familiar and so precious that Seunghyun wants only to keep this Jiyong all for himself.
He hides a smile, pushing his chair back and standing up. When he reaches Jiyong, he holds his wrist like he is something delicate, and pulls him close until Jiyong is looking up into his face, expression half-annoyed and half-amused.
“Don’t mention this in the morning,” he pleads quietly, and touches fingers to the ends of Jiyong’s ridiculous hair, traces his quirked eyebrows. “Do you even know,” he breathes, a little desperate, a little at a loss for the right words - “do you even know how long I’ve wanted this?”
“Not particularly,” Jiyong says, always blunt, but fits his mouth carefully against Seunghyun’s, pushing him back until his back hits the wall and Jiyong has one hand curled around the collar of his shirt, the other sliding up into his hair. They kiss each other quietly, moving mouths soft like whispers over collarbones, breaths not any louder than what Jiyong’s scratching pen would’ve been.
Jiyong is a showman, born to strut on a stage. Everything he does, he performs, as if for an invisible audience, as if he’s lived for so long in front of cameras that he’s forgotten how, exactly, to behave when there are none around. He holds his pen and cigarettes like he holds a microphone, drinks coffee like a dying man will with water. Seunghyun has seen Jiyong sleep like he is waiting for a hidden camera, head tilted at optimal angle for attractiveness, but this Jiyong - the Jiyong that presses his thin body against Seunghyun’s shamelessly, breath catching when Seunghyun’s tongue runs over the roof of his mouth, the Jiyong whose hands fist in his hair, who moans low and sweet in Seunghyun’s ear - this Jiyong Seunghyun wants to keep in the back of his throat so he can taste the same desperation every time he sings.