Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hello?”

Nothing.

“Hello?”

Jiyong might have thought there was something wrong with the line if he hadn’t heard the faintest rustle on the other end.

“Listen, if this is a prank call or something-” he trailed off with pursed lips. The military and the fans changed him- he was no longer confrontational or threatening at all. He didn’t even make music anymore. There wasn’t an official disbanding, but it was more framed by the other two as a ‘mental health break’, though they had a scheduled studio meet-up in a few days. He tried to convince himself that it was for the better, but sometimes he couldn’t help but wish he still had a single bone in his body that could stand up to someone again.

“Hyung.”

He blinked a few times.

“Who is this?”

Silence again.

“Hello? Listen, I…” Jiyong swallowed anxiously. “I don’t do fan-calls.”

“Hyung… it’s me.”

The man paused, eyebrows furrowed. “Who…?” He couldn’t place whether the voice was familiar or not, not for sure at least.

“Haven’t you been keeping up with things?”

Yes, of course Jiyong had been keeping up with the news, or at least, Instagram reels. He was one of those people Gen-Z call ‘chronically online’, what with his unconstrained distribution of ‘likes’ and niche meme references. But what would any of that have to do with anything this caller could be referring to? Unless it wasn’t something online… He carded through any news or information he had received lately, but nothing seemed important enough for a phone call…

Jiyong suddenly froze, eyes wide with every muscle in his body tense.

Absolutely not. It couldn’t be. He had blocked out the news as soon as it hit him the other day.

“S… Seungri?”

But it so could be. Yes, while the voice sounded quite different, hushed even, it could definitely be him.

“Hyung,” the voice began again, but the rest of the sentence was lost at that confirmation when Jiyong let the phone drop out of his hand and clatter to the floor.

His breathing grew shallow and rapid, and he pulled his knees up to his chest, feeling like the air was becoming thinner in the room. Seungri had promised not to contact them again right before he went to prison. He promised- why was he calling?!

Like a baby, tears spilled down his cheeks before he knew it, and he cried until the phone turned off.

SUNSHINE LINE

Sat, 15:42

Dae: he’s grown so big!

YB: Haha yeah, he grows out of his clothes every few weeks

Today, 22:32

GD: im sure you’ve all heard the news, and i know we’ve been avoiding talking about it.. hate to mention it, but has seungri contacted any of you?

YB: No not me

Dae: thankfully not, idk if i could handle it if he did

YB: I don’t think any of us could handle it if he did

GD: okay..

YB: Did he contact you?

GD: no

And he left it at that- no lengthy explanation. He just pulled up his sleeve and wiped at his puffy eyes to dry them, and curled up further in his bed, lying in that position until he fell asleep.

Chapter Text

The knock at the door startled Jiyong. Everything startled him nowadays, but this felt different. It felt wrong. No one just knocked on his door, any of his friends always texted and they would go out somewhere to meet- Jiyong barely hosted anyone at his house anymore at all. The night before had already been cruel enough, his thoughts gnawing at him like rusted blades, and now… with the way he was shaken by that phone call, there was only one man on his mind.

Still, he walked up to the door and touched the doorknob. It was searing. He hesitated, yes, but in the end he opened the door, as if on autopilot.

He wouldn’t know what to say if he was asked why.

Then, as if he was shot back into reality, he felt his heart seize.

He wasn’t supposed to be there.

Not now, not ever again.

Jiyong had told himself that all this time- like a mantra, like a curse. Like a desperate wish he could rewrite time. But there he stood, something completely out of his control.

Seungri.

Older, less energetic. Wearing the years like they weighed more than his body could carry. No press, no cameras, no warning. Just him, standing in his doorway like a ghost who had found his own name again.

“Hyung.”

Said the voice from the phone call again. The voice hadn’t changed. That made it worse.

It hit him harder than he expected, winding him. The nausea, the betrayal all over again, crawling its way in through his ribs.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. He meant to shout, he meant to scream, but it came out too soft. Too scared. Borderline pathetic.

“I know.” Seungri looked down for a moment, then back up, and the memories of the past haunted Jiyong in the moment their eyes met again. “I wasn’t sure you’d even look at me.”

“I shouldn’t.”

It wasn’t that he looked older in years- those had always sat lightly on him- but in weight, in face shape. His posture wasn’t cocky or charismatic anymore, he didn’t have an audience. It was careful. He knew he wasn’t welcome but came anyway. “I didn’t think you’d even open the door.”

Silence cracked like glass between them.

“But you did.”

“You think this is brave..?” Jiyong asked, trying his hardest to swallow his anxiety and sound sharper, sterner. “You think this is some kind of redemption arc? You think walking in here, after everything-”

“I’m not here to ask anything,” Seungri interrupted, shocking Jiyong enough to shut him up. He shouldn’t cut off his elder like that. “I don’t want forgiveness, I don’t think I deserve it… I just wanted to see you. I’ve heard all kinds of things about you. You’re… not okay, are you, hyung?”

Jiyong laughed, sharp and humourless. “See me? Like a tourist? Come to take in the wreckage for yourself?”

Seungri flinched, eyes flickering down like he had expected that after his stupid comment. “I deserve that.”

Jiyong didn’t say anything, his lips pursed, but the gloss to his eyes was unmistakeable.

The younger continued, “I think I lost the right to call you hyung a long time ago… but it still hurts like hell not to.”

That hit deeper than Jiyong was prepared for. He took a step back, the walls felt like they were folding in. The brutal ache of every memory this man still carried in his face suffocating.

Seungri didn’t move closer. Just stood, making his hands visible, keeping his voice steady. “Like I said. I’m not here to ask for anything. I just wanted to see you, one last time. As me. Not… the version they talk about.”

Jiyong turned his head away, unable to bear it. He let out a shuddering breath, and as he squeezed his eyes shut, a single tear rolled down his cheek. The younger’s eyebrows twitched into a furrow, and it seemed instinctive that he reached out a hand to him.

“Don’t,” Jiyong gasped, his hands shaking as he stepped back further. “You wanted to see me. Then look… and go.”

And Seungri did look. Like he was trying to memorise him as he was now- face puffy from crying, hands trembling, eyes forced to focus on the Judas before him. Jiyong knew he looked pathetic, but he couldn’t, he just couldn’t bring himself to be strong anymore.

“I still think about that night we stayed up on the rooftop,” Seungri said, his own voice breaking for the first time. He glanced upwards and inhaled deeply while Jiyong shook his head.“You said we’d grow old in music together. You said you’d write until your hands didn’t work anymore.”

“I was wrong.” Jiyong whispered, turning away properly. “Please close the door… don’t make me throw you out, please.”

And Seungri did, without a word.

Everything felt slightly unreal when Jiyong opened his eyes again, his house still looking the same as it did a few minutes ago. It was almost like Seungri had never even been there. The only thing he disturbed in this house was Jiyong.

The idol tried to will his trembling hand to pick up his glass of water to soothe his dry and tightened throat, but he didn’t notice his fingers looseing until the sound hit him.

A sharp crack, then the soft tinkle of glass spreading around his feet. Jiyong stared down, watching the remants of the glass cup bloom across the floor, clear shards fanning out like a spiderweb, glittering under the light.

His hand still hung midair, useless, still trembling. The water stained the hem of his pants. He didn’t move, didn’t curse- just stood there, blinking too slowly, like his mind was buffering.

It wasn’t about the glass.

Why now? Why him? Why did he open the door?

He glanced back to the shut door, eyes dry now. Something was left in his mail slot, hanging out and begging him to take it.

He did. A small handwritten note.

‘They still care about you, hyung. They just don’t know how to show it when you isolate. But they will. I know it.’

What?

How did Seungri know all that? Had he… already been in contact with the other members? He looked up from the paper at his reflection in the small mirror by the door. Was he spiralling? Was it his paranoia putting on Seungri’s voice to say ‘I’m already ahead of you.’?

Chapter Text

SUNSHINE LINE

GD: too tired for studio. sorry. please dont wait up

Dae: hyung you never show up, we can’t do much without you

YB: It’s been like this for ages. It’s like we gave up in 2015

GD: fair.

Dae: what are you even working on tho? you’ve been so cryptic lately

GD: just stuff. not ready to show yet

YB: Since when do you not overshare or send voice notes at like 2am

GD: okay. i’ll be back to whining soon

Dae: are you okay tho hyung?

GD: im fine

YB: …You’re lying

GD: what

YB: You’re off. You’ve been off. I think I know why

Dae: ??

GD: bae don’t

YB: No. I will. Because it’s eating you alive and you think we won’t notice.

GD: drop it

Dae: guys?? what’s going on???

YB: He saw Him.

Dae: …Him him??

GD: i didn’t

YB: Don’t play dumb. You saw Seungri

Jiyong’s eyes stung. He scrubbed at them, red from a whole morning of crying.

Dae: when..?

GD: few days ago. just showed up
   i didn’t ask for it. didn’t invite it.

YB: And you just weren’t gonna tell us?

GD: what would’ve been the point? it didn’t mean anything. it was 2 mins. i shut the door in his face.

YB: Still, we should’ve known

Dae: we trusted you to talk to us hyung not bottle it up like always and let it bleed into everything

GD: i didn’t want to make it a thing. i didn’t want him to become a thing again

YB: Too late, you already let him in. Even if it was just for a second

Dae: and you lied about it

Jiyong put the phone down. He rolled over onto his back in bed and stared at the ceiling. Blank faced. The phone buzzed again five minutes later.

Dae: hyung

GD: i don’t know what to do

YB: Start by not shutting us out.

Chapter Text

The café was small, private, tucked into a quieter side street. One of the rare places Taeyang could sit in peace without heads turning or phones flashing.

But when he glanced up from his coffee at the movement at the door and saw a man heavily disguised, every part of him froze. It had to be a hallucination, a cruel trick too rooted in memory. But it wasn’t- the eyes above the facemask were too familiar.

There Seungri stood. Just him.

Their eyes met. Taeyang didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

The younger did. He didn’t walk over. Didn’t wave. Just gave the smallest, almost imperceptible nod- like he was unsure if he was allowed to exist in this space.

He didn’t know who moved first, but a moment later, Seungri was standing in front of his secluded table, pulling his mask off.

“Hey…” he offered softly.

Taeyang stared. The silence between them was too loud.

“You look the same,” Seungri added, attempting a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The elder still didn’t speak. His throat had gone dry despite the drink in his hand. His heart beat far too fast for someone sitting still.

“You can tell me to leave,” Seungri said, voice low. “I know the risks of being seen with me… I won’t stay. I just… didn’t expect to see you here.”

Youngbae finally found his voice. It came out hoarse. “I didn’t expect to see you anywhere ever again.”

That made him flinch, just a little. “I know.” A pause, then, still standing, he asked, “can I sit?”

Taeyang stared at the empty seat across from him. It felt like a betrayal just to consider it. But his hands didn’t stop Seungri when he gently pulled the chair out and sat down opposite him.

“I’m not here to ask for anything,” Seungri said quickly, hands politely in his lap. “Not forgiveness, not understanding…”

“Good,” Taeyang said, a little too sharp. “Because you won’t get it.”

The younger nodded again. He looked down at the table, then at his own hands. His fingers fidgeted- a habit Youngbae remembered from years ago. He used to do that during award shows and just before speeches… or when he was scared. He hated that he remembered that.

A long silence stretched. Then Seungri opened his mouth and said something that felt like a crack in Youngbae’s wall.

“You were always the one who saw through me. You always understood me the most.”

Taeyang’s eyes narrowed. “And you still lied to me.”

That handed hard. The younger didn’t argue. He nodded, slowly, like he’d been expecting that. “You’re right.”

The admission felt too easy. Too polished.

“Why are you really here?” He asked, voice low. “Because if you wanted closure, you should’ve gone to Jiyong.” Would he lie?

Seungri’s eyes flickered up at that name, and for a second- just a split second- something cold passed through them. Then it vanished, replaced by something softer. Wounded. “I did. He basically slammed the door in my face.”

“…Good.”

He smiled faintly, hurt. “Yeah. He should have.” He looked away, then added more quietly, “I didn’t come to you because I want something from you. I came because… I missed having you to talk to.”

That sentence felt like a punch to Taeyang’s ribs. He wanted to scream, curse, throw his coffee in Seungri’s face. Instead, he just clenched his jaw. “You’re not that person anymore.

“I know,” he whispered.

“But you want us to think you are.”

At that, Seungri’s voice dropped to a whisper so small it barely reached across the table. “No. I want to believe it myself.”

That… that did something dangerous to Taeyang. Because for one fleeting second, he believed it. Believed the hollow look in Seungri’s eyes. Believed the softness. The regret. The yearning for something irretrievably lost.

But just as fast, he reminded himself: Seungri knows how to perform.

And yet.

Before either of them could say anything more, Seungri stood up and pulled out the mask again. “I won’t stay, I meant that.” After hiding half of his face with the mask, he gave him one last look. “Fatherhood really suits you. You look great.”

Taeyang said nothing, just watched as he placed something onthe table- a simple envelope with no name.

“I don’t expect you to open it,” he muttered, “but I need to leave something behind. He turned to go, but just before he left earshot, he said one last thing.

“Even after everything… it’s still you I hoped would remember me.”

And then he was gone. Taeyang stared at the envelope. He didn’t touch it for a long, long time.

Chapter Text

Daesung wasn’t expecting mail from anyone important. He pulled out the usual stack: bills, charity newsletters, a flyer for a local performance. He sifted through them absently, half-focused, already mentally shifting to the practice session they were forced to reschedule because of Jiyong again— until his thumb caught on something that wasn’t supposed to be there. There was no name to it, no postage either. Just folded precisely, tucked neatly between the newsletters like it belonged there. He turned it over in his hands as he walked to his door, completely absorbed in the anonymity of it.

He blindly tossed the rest of the letters on the kitchen worktop and leaned against it, peeling the flap of the letter open carefully. Inside was a single glossy photograph.

Daesung swallowed as he pulled it out, forcing himself to blink a few times just to make sure he had seen it properly.

The rooftop. Their rooftop.

He stared at it like it had teeth.

The peeling paint on the railing, the plastic chairs faded by sunlight, the ivy he once tried to train along the wall. It hadn’t changed much. Still cracked in the same places. Still lonely in the way only memory can make something feel. He flipped the photo over.

Six words. Familiar handwriting, just slightly neater than it used to be.

‘You used to love the quiet.’

Daesung’s breath caught in his throat. It was his phrase. One he’d said, what, years ago? One night when Seungri had dragged him up there, complaining about insomnia and heat, and they’d sat shoulder-to-shoulder in silence until sunrise. No music, no jokes. Just the soft hum of the city below and a cheap convenience store beer between them.

“You used to love the quiet.” He had whispered it like a confession that night, half-asleep.

That Seungri remembered it now… That he had the nerve to send it back like this…

Daesung’s chest ached in a way that scared him.

He stood still for a long time in his kitchen, unmoving, the edges of the photo trembling slightly between his fingers. He told himself he wouldn’t go. That he’d rip it in half, throw it away, never look at that rooftop again and eventually forget it. Block out the whisper of curiosity curling around his stomach.

But hours later, he still had it. He didn’t mention it in the group chat. Didn’t text Jiyong. His phone sat snug in his pocket, almost forgotten. He just put the photo in the other pocket, zipped it up, and walked out the door.

The city was quieter than it should have been for this hour. Daesung walked like he didn’t know his feet were moving, almost dissociative. Like maybe if he stayed unfocused enough, he could pretend he was just running a regular errand, just stretching his legs- not chasing an old ghost without even knowing what he’d do with it once he caught it. The photograph was still in his pocket, warn soft now at the corners from pulling it out again and again. Not to look at the image… just… to feel it. To remind himself it was real, that this wasn’t a delayed dream, rooted in the wreckage they never talked about.

By the time he reached the building, dusk had fallen in that tired, dull way that made everything feel suspended. A little too still. Like something was waiting.

He hadn’t been here in years.

The front door buzzed when he pressed in the entry code to the block, still the same, miraculously- and he tried not to think about the fact that Seungri must have kept it that way on purpose, not for convenience, but for sentiment.

He climbed the stairwell slowly, hand brushing the railing out of habit, eyes flicking over graffiti and peeling paint. With every step, the air thinned. His heartbeat crawled higher in his throat.

He didn’t know what he was expecting. A note on the floor? A joke? Silence?

What he wasn’t ready for— what he didn’t want to admit he feared— was him. Not just a whisper of Seungri. The real one.

He reached the top. Daesung’s fingers hovered near the handle. He breathed in once, deep, trying to brace himself against whatever version of the past waited for him on the other side. Whatever this game was. Whatever Seungri wanted from him.

With a quiet exhale, he pushed the door open.

The air was cold, but not biting, and the sun was bleeding orange behind the buildings over on the horizon. Oh, the evenings they had spent there so many years ago. Memories Daesung had forced down.

He saw him instantly. Seungri was sitting on the far bench- their bench- not pacing, not rehearsing. Just sitting. Arms folded, head slightly bowed. He didn’t raise his head, just spoke softly.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

Daesung stayed where he was. “Neither was I.”

Silence stretched between them like wire under immense tension, worked thin. One wrong word and it would snap. Finally, Seungri looked up at him. And when he did, he smiled. It wasn’t smug, not bright either. It was soft, gentle. Familiar. “You look the same, just a little tired. More tired than I ever remember seeing you.”

Daesung didn’t reply to his comment. His arms crossed over his chest if only to hide the fact that his fingers were curling into the sleeves of his coat to ground himself. “Why me?”

“Because I thought you’d be the least likely to punch me.”

That forced a breath out of Daesung- not quite a laugh, but close. “Don’t test your theory.”

The younger nodded once, solemn. “I won’t. I didn’t come to make excuses or ask you to defend me. I know what I did to us…” He paused, eyes flickering down to his lap, hands clasped so tightly they trembled. “I just wanted to see you again. Even if you didn’t say anything. Even if you walked away.”

Daesung shifted, the first real movement since he arrived. He stepped closer, just one step. Enough to make something glitter in Seungri’s eyes. “Stop asking for sympathy. You don’t get to play the ghost. You didn’t die.”

That small smile came back. “No… but I think parts of me did.”

Another long pause.

The city murmured beneath them- traffic sighing, a dog barking faintly in the distance. The sun was almost gone now. “It’s strange,” Seungri continued. “You all hated me so loudly, but I think I hated myself more. I just… couldn’t show it. Didn’t know how. I didn’t even know if I should. You know what the worst part is?”

Daesung didn’t answer.

“I stopped believing I deserved to miss you.” He saw Daesung’s breath hitch, just slightly. His voice almost cracked. “I do. Every single day. I miss the stupid shit. I miss the jokes. The way you were so talented in making me laugh even when I didn’t want to. I didn’t come here to fix anything, I just… I needed to remember what it felt like to stand in front of you. Without cameras. Without lawyers. Just… just us. Like it used to be.” This time, he didn’t smile as he locked eyes with his hyung. “You don’t have to say anything- you don’t have to forgive me. I wouldn’t, if I were you, I don’t think. But if there’s even a part of you- a tiny, stupid part- that still remembers me as more than a headline…”

Daesung finally moved again. He walked forwards, taking slow, deliberate steps, until he was standing right in front of Seungri. He gestured for him to stand up, and the younger did without hesitation. He looked at him, really looked. Not at the man on the screen, or the shattered image of the member who ruined everything. But at the person who ysed to stand beside him, who used to laugh until he cried, who once called him ‘hyung’ with such wide-eyed affection it was impossible not to melt a little.

Now? It just felt like a wound with no bandage. Gaping, open.

Daesung’s voice was low, quiet. “I don’t forgive you. I can’t. Not yet.” He watched the other blink, then nod just once, slow and understanding. “But… I’m not pretending I don’t miss you either.”

That time, Seungri flinched. Like he truly didn’t expect it.

Before he could reply, Daesung stuffed his hands in his coat pockets, turned, and walked towards the rooftop door. He paused at the threshold, eyes trained forward. “…Don’t tell the others I said that. Also… we shouldn’t meet again until things settle down.” And then he left.

Seungri sat still. Didn’t smile. Just exhaled, one slow, aching breath, and allowed his eyes to fall closed.

The garden behind him was silent, but something had changed.

That night, Daesung received a phone call. He knew who it was. Still, he picked up without a word, waiting.

“Hyung…” Seungri’s voice began. “Listen… there was something else I wanted to say, but you left before I could…” he sighed, like it was difficult to say. “Jiyong-hyung, he- he doesn’t seem like himself anymore, hyung.”

The voice eschoed in Daesung’s skull, low and tentative, full of an uncharacteristic gentleness.

“He looked… raw. Like he hadn’t slept in days. He barely blinked when he saw me, like he didn’t even recognise me at first… He’s not okay, is he?”

Daesung wanted to tell him to shut up, go to hell, stop it, but the words didn’t come. Because the image did match. The weight loss, the shadows under Jiyong’s eyes, the distancing, the absences. The way his texts sometimes read like a person typing with gloves on- stiff, cautious, off… and then Seungri said the worst things:

“You see it too right? It’s in his eyes… he needs help, hyung. But he’d never take it from me. Someone should check on him. Even if it’s you.” At the silence, Seungri continued. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to get between you guys. I just… I don’t want him to get worse. That’s all.”

Worse.

Like he’s already unwell. Like he’s already lost.

“I just worry about him. Doesn’t feel like anyone else is.”

When Daesung hangs up, he buries his face in a cushion and lets out a sound that isn’t quite a scream but wants to be.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Daesung doesn’t tell anyone about the rooftop.

He didn’t even mention the building. The view. Nothing. It was as if it never happened— except it did, and now it was eating him alive.

He stood in front of his bathroom mirror with a toothbrush hanging from his mouth, Seungri’s voice whispering through his thoughts like a breeze through cracked windows.

“He’s not okay, is he?”

Daesung spat into the sink too hard, like the force might knock the memory loose. He glared at his reflection, cheeks pink from frustration.

“I just worry about him. Doesn’t feel like anyone else is.”

Why had that felt so sincere?

Why had it sounded like something he should’ve said?

He finished getting ready in silence, phone buzzing in the background, but he didn’t pick it up right away. Not until much later, when he was sprawled on his sofa with an ache in his head that just wouldn’t go away.

It had been the group chat. Taeyang sent a meme— something light, something dumb. No one replied. And Jiyong, who usually would’ve said something sarcastic or random by then, had still left no trace. Not a single bubble.

He opened a private chat with Youngbae.

Dae: he hasn’t said anything since we called him out.

It didn’t take long for his friend to reply.

YB: I know.

Dae: you don’t think he’s actually mad, do you? like… avoiding us?

YB: Maybe. Or maybe he’s just tired of pretending.

Daesung stares at the words for a long time.

Tired of pretending.

Seungri’s voice slips back in, soft and laced with concern. ‘You see it too right? It’s in his eyes… he needs help, hyung.’

Dae: do you think he’s okay?

YB: Idk man. Honestly.

Dae: what if he really is messed up..? what if he needs help?

Daesung waited for Youngbae’s reply intently, eyes intent on the bright screen. He was taking ages. Finally, the sleeping screen lit up again with a new message.

YB: You talked to Seungri too, didn’t you.

And he froze. Then, slowly, he typed.

Dae: im sorry hyung. he said jiyong hyung’s not okay

The typing bubble appeared, then disappeared. Then reappeared. The whole time, Daesung’s heart was lodged in his throat.

TB: It’s okay. So did I.

They didn’t say anything after that. The weight hung in the air between them heavy enough.

Both of them had crucified Jiyong for meeting Seungri. And now both of them were quietly nursing their own shame for doing the very same- and for feeling a growing, insidious sympathy toward the one person they swore they would never forgive.

Daesung laid back in bed, eyes on the ceiling, phone on his chest. He hadn’t meant to be cruel. That was the worst part, really. The fact that it didn’t feel like cruelty when he told Jiyong off in the group chat. It had felt like justice. Like something overdue. Like drawing a line in the sand and saying, Enough, hyung. You don’t get to lie to us.

But now?

Now he was replaying it all in his head with the awful hindsight of someone who might’ve just kicked someone who was already on the ground.

He thought back to the chat, the part where he jumped in and doubled down. And then Jiyong had disappeared. Not in the dramatic way he sometimes did, with all-lowercase sad poetry or vanishing off social media. No, this was worse.

He’d just stopped replying, stopped picking up calls.

A read receipt. Then radio silence.

The envelope stared back at Taeyang like it knew something.

He told himself he wasn’t going to open it. That nothing good ever came from reading something written by a man like Seungri— someone who’d mastered the art of smiling with knives tucked under his tongue.

But now Daesung’s message won’t stop echoing in his mind. "He said Jiyong-hyung’s not okay."

Taeyang leaned back in his chair, rubbed at his temples. The studio was quiet around him, but his head was loud. Louder than usual.

He’d saved the envelope in the side compartment of his bag like an idiot— told himself it was just in case. And now there he was, sliding his finger under the seal, heart pounding like he was diffusing a bomb.

Inside, a single folded sheet of paper.

Taeyang smoothed it open with slightly shaking hands.

Youngbae-hyung,

I don’t expect this to change anything. I just wanted to say something where your voice wouldn’t interrupt mine.

I’m not trying to crawl back into your lives. Not really. That version of me doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe that’s a good thing.

I just want you to keep an eye on him.

Jiyong-hyung doesn’t let people see him fall apart. He’s good at hiding it— that cracked porcelain kind of way. You know that as well as Daesung-hyung. But lately… I don’t know. He seems more break than bone. I thought you’d want to know since it seems like you havent noticed.

If you think I’m wrong, fine. It’s my bad.

But if he ever scares you a little… even just once… please don’t ignore that.

S

Taeyang exhaled so slowly he felt the air shaking in his throat.

He read it again.

And again.

No threats, no pleas. It was almost… sad. Like Seungri wrote it while sitting on a cold bench somewhere, watching people pass him by. But it confirmed a concern.

‘If he ever scares you a little…“

That line hooked into Taeyang’s chest like barbed wire. Because truth be told, Jiyong had been scaring him. Just a little. The mood swings, the radio silence, the defensiveness, the lack of energy, the isolation. Jiyong had been unwell before, seriously unwell. Youngbae knew the signs now. Why hadn’t they done anything yet?

That night, his phone buzzed. He picked it up.

did you read it?

His mouth goes dry. Of course it’s Seungri, who else would it be? He didn’t respond, but a minute later:

you don’t have to reply. i just hope it can help.

i’m not trying to turn you against him. i just don’t want him to end up alone. he could seriously be suffering…

or doing worse.

Taeyang dropped the phone on the desk like it might bite him.

Everything wass moving too fast. Too slippery. And worst of all- it was true.

Because now, he was the one staying quiet in the group chat. He was the one holding something back from Jiyong. And for the first time in a long time… he really though maybe Jiyong wasn’t okay.

Not just sad.

Not just angry.

But not well.

Chapter Text

The keycard beeped the same way it did the last time they were all in the studio together. Seungri stood back as Taeyang tapped it to the scanner and waited for the flicker of green before pushing the door open. The studio was almost just like he remembered it. The room smelled the same: polished wood, old vinyl, air freshener, and something else… youth. The kind they’d bottled in every cracked lyric sheet, every demo track never released, every couch cushion they once collapsed into after midnight sessions that stretched until dawn.

While Taeyang set down his drink on the coffee table and pulled out chairs, and Daesung stood awkwardly, Seungri took in the room he so comfortably used to call home. A stain on the carpet no one bothered to take care of, the whiteboard stained with dry-erase ghosts. A beat pad blinked red, steady like a heartbeat. Seungri ran a hand over the edge of the mixing console. “I used to sleep right here sometimes,” he muttered, as if cautious not to break the quiet. “Remember that? Curled up on the floor right here like a raccoon. Jiyong-hyung always made fun of me for it.”

Daesung let out a quiet chuckle, probably just to be nice.

Taeyang sat on the edge of the couch. “He used to spend hours in here. Alone. Just looping the same two bars over and over.”

“Yeah,” Seungri said, and his voice was softer now. “Even back then, he wasn’t… always here, you know? He’d vanish into himself.” A pause. “I used to think it was genius,” he added. “Now I wonder if it was something else.”

The words hung in the air, thick and still.

Daesung shifted uncomfortably. “Do you think it’s always been like that?”

“I don’t know,” Seungri said. “But I think we missed the signs until it was too late that time. Maybe we were too close to see it.” He sat down across from Taeyang, resting his hands on his knees like he was bracing himself. “The Jiyong I saw…” he trailed off and looked at the carpet.

Taeyang stiffened. “What?”

“I mean—” Seungri shook his head like he regretted saying anything. “Sorry. I don’t want to be the guy who starts rumors or drama. I just… I thought maybe you’ve seen it too.”

Daesung frowned. “Seen what exactly? What exactly are you talking about?”

“That he’s not… well.” Seungri’s voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “Mentally. Emotionally. I don’t think he’s okay. The Jiyong I saw… he looked right through me. Like he was watching something behind my eyes.”

“That doesn’t mean—” Taeyang started, but stopped.

Seungri didn’t push. He just waited. Let the silence pull them in.

“He told me he hasn’t been sleeping. That his thoughts are loud. That he keeps forgetting what day it is.” Seungri shook his head slowly. “He was shaking so much… I didn’t say anything before, because… I thought maybe it was just me. But now? I’m scared for him.”

Neither of them spoke.

So he leaned in — gently, carefully. “I think something’s really wrong, and I don’t think he’ll tell us. Not directly. He’s always been proud, you know that. He’d rather burn out than admit he’s not okay.”

Daesung’s face was pale.

“I’m probably overreacting,” Seungri added quickly. “I’m sure he’s just stressed. But… guys.” He looked at them both. “What if he’s not okay and we’re just watching it happen? What if we lose him because we’re all too scared to bring it up?”

The words settled like a heavy fog.

“I should’ve said something sooner,” Seungri whispered. “But I didn’t want to make things worse.”

“You didn’t,” Taeyang said, finally. His voice was low. “You didn’t.”

Seungri exhaled. It sounded like release. Like grief. “I just… I’ve been losing sleep wondering if I broke him. Maybe if I… if I hadn’t messed up, he wouldn’t be like this now…”

Suddenly, Seungri looked like someone burdened by remorse. Daesung’s heart softened before he can stop it.

The silence lingered like smoke in the studio air.

Daesung blinked slowly, hands clasped between his knees. “You… so… you’re really serious?”

Seungri didn’t answer right away. He looked down, swallowing hard. “You think I’d lie about something like that?”

Taeyang leaned forward as well, elbows resting on his thighs, his expression unreadable— too still, too calm. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t think you’re lying.” But the way his voice sounded, almost flat, almost careful — it carried the weight of something. A hesitation. A guilt, maybe.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” Seungri continued, letting his shoulders slump just the right amount. “But I couldn’t not. I don’t know how to help him. I tried. And maybe it’s not my place anymore, but… I just didn’t know where else to go.”

The words landed. I tried. Like he’d done his part. Like this was all for Jiyong’s sake.

Daesung shook his head slowly, lips pressed together. “He doesn’t talk about any of this. He doesn’t act like he needs help.”

“Exactly,” Seungri said. “He doesn’t act like it. But he does.”

Taeyang’s jaw flexed. He looked away, gaze drifting toward the corner of the studio where Jiyong used to sit and write alone. God, how many times had they brushed past this? How many signs had they ignored because they thought he was just being… Jiyong?

“I was harsh with him,” Daesung mumbled, more to himself. “In the group chat. I didn’t think—”

“No one did,” Seungri cut in gently. “That’s the thing. He’s been hiding it for a long time. You all thought he was being defensive, or angry. But maybe it was just… scared.”

Taeyang closed his eyes for a breath. “We need to do something.”

Seungri didn’t smile, but his expression shifted— that subtle flicker of satisfaction buried under the concern. He waited for them to reach this point on their own.

“I was thinking that too,” Daesung said. “But we can’t just tell him we’re worried. He’d hate that. He’ll shut down.”

“Yeah,” Seungri murmured, quiet.

A beat of silence again.

Taeyang straightened up, eyes sharper now, more focused. “Okay. Then we go slow. We build a support system around him without making it feel like one.”

Daesung looked at him. “Like how?”

Taeyang began counting on his fingers, each step forming with measured purpose. “Check-ins. We keep in touch more regularly. Make sure he’s never fully alone for too long. One of us should always know where he is, what he’s doing.”

“He won’t like that either,” Daesung warned.

“Then we make it feel natural. Just casual. Friendly.” He glanced between them. “We can stagger it. One of us every few days. Small things. No pressure.”

“I can do that,” Seungri offered, quiet.

Daesung frowned sudenly. “Seriously? You?” He sent a sideways glance to Taeyang, worried. “I thought he would have behaved worse towards you.”

“I’m already kind of talking to him again. We’re not as close as you guys are, he might not be as guarded with me.”

Neither of them objected. It made sense. Kind of…

Taeyang nodded. “Alright. That’s one part. Second— let’s get him back in here. Slowly. Ask for help. A verse. Some feedback on a beat. Something to pull him in, make him feel… useful.”

“He is useful,” Daesung said quickly, defensively.

“I know,” Taeyang replied. “But he doesn’t feel that way. Not anymore. We need to remind him.”

Seungri sat back, folding his arms, voice low. “And maybe… maybe we should just have someone on standby. Like a therapist. Just in case.”

Neither of them responded right away, sharing looks together. It was a line they hadn’t crossed yet— the quiet, blurry line between ‘we’re worried’ and ‘he might be a danger to himself.’

“That’s not a bad idea,” Taeyang admitted, finally. “We don’t use that card unless we have to. But… I’d rather have it and not need it.”

Daesung nodded, hesitantly. “Yeah. Okay.”

Seungri looked at the studio walls, soft smile on his lips. “Feels weird being back here.”

Taeyang gave him a look, unreadable.

There was a strange, full silence then. The kind that came with planning a rescue before anyone had admitted someone was drowning.

And Seungri only tilted his head slightly toward the soundboard, like he could already see Jiyong’s empty seat occupied again.

Just the way he wanted it.

Chapter Text

The knock at the door wasn’t loud. It was soft. Too soft. Like whoever was behind it didn’t want to be heard.

Jiyong stared at it from across the living room, frozen with a strange, crawling sense of déjà vu. No one had messaged. No one called. He hadn’t ordered anything. His phone hadn’t pinged with a delivery alert. It was just there— a knock and silence.

He forced himself to his feet, slippers dragging across the floor, and opened the door slowly. The hallway was empty. Just a plain brown box resting at his feet. No label. No address. His name wasn’t even on it. He took it inside, hands already cold.

Jiyong didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to know who the package was from, so he told himself that was the reason his hands were trembling as he picked at the ends of the tape to peel it off.

The first thing that stuck out to him was a glint of metal, a lighter. His old gold Zippo with scratches on the lid where he’d carved his initials once. He hadn’t seen it since maybe 2014. Or was it that messy move from his second apartment? A pair of sunglasses caught his attention next, and he stared at them while his hands warmed the cold metal of the lighter. The exact pair he had lost on tour in Tokyo, the ones he used to wear religiously. Seungri had kept these things?

A polaroid of them, blunt at the corners with age, arms slung around each other, laughing at something just out of frame. He dropped it from his shaking grasp and it flipped over as it fell back into the box. ‘I thought maybe you forgot how happy you used to be.’ Seungri had written on the back.

Jiyong audibly whimpered. He’d never told anyone about the lighter, or the glasses… he’d just moved on.

You’re the one who changed, Jiyong. You’re the one who abandoned joy.

There was a hoodie at the bottom of the box.

He hadn’t noticed it at first, buried under the lighter and the sunglasses and the photo with that writing on the back... But when he reached to close the box again— to shove the whole thing into a corner of his closet and pretend it didn’t exist— his fingers brushed it.

Soft. Familiar. Well-worn. He pulled it out slowly, already dreading the confirmation. It was the old, oversized grey hoodie he’d practically lived in during one winter— stretched out at the sleeves, ripped there from Jiyong worrying the fabric and biting it. It had an unfamiliar smell.

“I borrowed it that night, remember?”

The voice wasn’t real— not out loud, anyway. It played in his mind with Seungri’s tone. Light. Casual. Intimate in a way that made Jiyong’s stomach knot.

That night. He didn’t want to remember that night. They’d fought. Shouted in the car. Seungri had gotten out halfway, slammed the door so hard it rattled. Then showed up to the hotel later, drunk and grinning like nothing had happened. Wrapped himself in Jiyong’s hoodie like it was his right. That hoodie had disappeared the next day.

Jiyong sat down hard, hoodie in his lap. He stared at it for a long time, something dry and sour crawling up his throat. His fingers curled into the fabric before he even realized what he was doing— clutching it like a lifeline as tears brimmed at his eyes. Or like he wanted to destroy it.

“Why are you doing this,” he whispered. But no one answered. The silence pressed in thick, and Jiyong suddenly stood up. Pacing. Breathing hard. He took the lighter and flicked it once. The flame jumped. His thumb stayed on the spark wheel, skin already warming. He stared at it like it might give him answers.

He slammed the lid shut. Threw the lighter across the room. It hit the far wall with a hollow clatter. His hands were shaking again. He couldn’t tell if he wanted to scream or sleep. His reflection in the mirror didn’t look like him anymore. His eyes were rimmed red. Skin pale. Hair unwashed.

He felt like a ghost haunting his own home.

When his phone buzzed for the second time that night, the screen lit up the dim room.

YB: Jiyongie
   Thinking about you today. You okay?

That was the message from not even ten minutes ago. Now, there was a new one.

Dae: hyung! you alive?

Jiyong stared at the messages, thumb hovering. He typed. Erased. Typed again. Finally, he sent ‘yeah. just tired.’

He tossed the phone on the couch and leaned against the wall, hoodie still on the floor.

Just tired.

That’s what they’d want to hear, right?

And maybe if he said it enough, he’d believe it too.

Chapter Text

Taeyang leaned against the mixing desk, arms folded, staring at the digital board, but he wasn’t seeing any of it. “He barely replied,” he said. “One message. Two words.”

Daesung exhaled sharply from where he sat on the low couch. “He used to write paragraphs. Emojis. He’d scold us if we didn’t answer within two hours. You remember that?”

Seungri nodded, quiet. Too quiet.

“I feel like…” Taeyang’s voice dropped. “I feel like we’re losing him.”

At that, Seungri spoke for the first time that meeting. “I was afraid of this.”

Both heads turned toward him.

“I didn’t want to say anything last time,” he began, wringing his hands with practiced hesitation. “Because I know it sounds dramatic, and I didn’t want to scare you. But it’s getting worse. Much worse than you know.”

Taeyang’s expression tightened. “What do you mean?”

Seungri swallowed. Looked down. Perfect timing.

“There was a night,” he said softly, “just a few days ago. I passed by the Han River on my way home. And I…” He caught the other two’s eyes widen in alarm. “And I thought I saw him.”

The air shifted. Even the studio monitors felt like they were holding their breath.

Daesung sat up straighter. “What?”

“I don’t know if it was him,” Seungri continued, voice fragile. “But I remember how he used to get when things were bad. When he’d go for those walks and not answer anyone for days. I— I didn’t want to assume, but it didn’t feel right.” He looked up, letting just a flicker of worry crack through. “He really needs help.”

The room stayed silent.

“He’s not sleeping either,” Seungri said. “I could tell. You guys see how thin he looks, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Daesung murmured.

“And now he’s isolating again. He’s responding just enough to keep you at bay. That’s textbook for him.”

“You think he’s back there?” Taeyang asked. “Like… the way he was before?”

“I don’t know,” Seungri replied. “But I don’t want to wait and find out the hard way.”

A beat.

“I could go over,” he offered softly. “Just to check in. Drop off some stuff. Maybe he won’t push me away.”

Neither Taeyang nor Daesung argued.

And that was the most dangerous part.

Jiyong hadn’t left the house for days. The package still sat in the corner like a rotten memory. He hadn’t touched the hoodie since yesterday, but it still haunted the air. Jiyong sat on the floor with the curtains drawn, cold tea beside him and an untouched sandwich wilting in its plastic.

The doorbell rang. He didn’t answer. It rang again. Then a knock.

“Hyung?” Seungri’s voice.

Jiyong stiffened. He didn’t want this. Not now. Not ever again. But he didn’t move, either.

“I’ll leave this here, okay?” Seungri called through the door. “Just something to help. You don’t have to open the door. I get it. I’m… leaving now.”

Jiyong waited. Eventually, the footsteps retreated. Another minute passed before he cracked the door open.

A small white tote bag sat on the mat. Curiosity got the better of him. He pulled it inside.

Inside were a few simple things: a bottle of vitamin supplements, a box of herbal teas with a sticky note “You used to like chamomile, remember?”, a small lavender-scented candle, and—

A pill bottle.

Familiar. Prescribed.

His name on the label, even though it had been ages.

He picked it up. Antidepressants.

He blinked.

He hadn’t refilled these in a while. It had slipped his mind.

“You used to forget to refill these.” Seungri’s voice whispered again in his head as he read the note.

He sat down with it in his hand.

How did he get this?

He twisted the cap. Counted the pills. Full.

Something like shame curled in his chest.

He had forgotten, hadn’t he? Lately his moods had been a mess. The panic, the insomnia. He thought he could manage it, but— maybe he couldn’t. Maybe Seungri was just… trying to help. That’s what the tea was for, right? That’s what the candle meant.

He lit it. Immediately regretted it. The scent was too nostalgic, too pointed. He blew it out, but the scent doubled with the strand of undulating smoke that crawled up towards the ceiling.

The bottle stayed in his hand.

He looked down at it, and for a long, long time… he didn’t trust himself to move.

He sat with the bottle in his hand for hours.

Every now and then, he’d glance at it, as if it were going to move or speak. At some point he opened the tea, brewed it without thinking, and then forgot to drink it. It went cold on the windowsill. The candle, extinguished earlier, left a thin ring of scent in the air that he couldn’t quite escape.

He held the hoodie in his lap. Soft. Familiar. He’d forgotten he even owned it— the memory was smudged. Blurred at the edges.

“I borrowed it that night, remember?”

Had he even asked for it back? Had he wanted Seungri to keep it? Had he—

His heart thudded against his ribs. He looked down at the hoodie. Suddenly it felt heavy. Like something he hadn’t earned. The fabric smelled like something different now. He pressed it to his face, inhaled, memorised the smell.

He dropped it on the floor and stood up too fast. His chest hurt. He opened the window. Closed it. Paced. Thought about calling Taeyang. Thought about throwing the hoodie in the trash.

He didn't do any of those things. Instead, he texted Taeyang back.

thanks for checking. i’m just tired. can we talk another day?

He replied almost instantly. Sure. Just let us know. We’re here, okay?

He stared at it. The words were kind. Too kind.

He felt like a monster.

And that, more than anything else, made him want to disappear again.

Taeyang sat near the console again, headphones resting around his neck, scrolling through vocal samples without pressing play. Daesung had a coffee in hand but hadn’t sipped it.

They both looked up as Seungri walked in.

“Well?” Taeyang asked.

Seungri gave a small shrug. Just enough to say not great.

“I was right,” he said, pulling off his jacket. “He was quiet. Like… too quiet.”

Daesung frowned. “Did you say anything?”

“Yeah. Told him I was dropping off some stuff. I didn’t want to push him.”

He lowered himself onto the couch beside Daesung, voice soft and steady. “I left him some things. Stuff that might help. Candle, tea, some vitamins… I figured he would need them if he wasn’t sleeping or eating, or going outside…”

Daesung rubbed at his face.

“Maybe it’ll help,” Seungri added. “But honestly… I don’t think he’s in a place where he even knows what he needs right now.”

Taeyang’s jaw tightened as he saw Daesung’s shoulders shake. “So we wait? Again?”

“No,” Seungri said quickly. “We watch. We stay close. We keep offering help in ways that won’t make him shut down. If you push too hard, he’ll run. You know that.”

Daesung nodded, talking through tears now. “May- maybe we can drop by with food next- next time. Pretend we’re just… just bored. Like old times, he liked it when we just- just hung out with no pressure.”

“Yeah. Like old times,” Seungri said, smiling faintly. He cautiously placed a hand on Daesung’s shoulder, like he wasn’t sure if it was welcome. “It’ll be okay, hyung.” When Daesung seemed to curl into his touch, Seungri took the opportunity and pulled him gently into his arms.

Taeyang finally leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “God, I hate this,” he muttered. “We should’ve noticed earlier.”

“It’s not your fault,” Seungri said smoothly. “You all had your own lives. He got really good at pretending.” He let that linger in the air a second too long.

Then softer, almost a whisper: “I just… I don’t want to lose him.”

Neither of them noticed the twist in his smile as he buried his face in Daesung’s hair.

Chapter Text

They chose somewhere quiet. A tucked-away café with warm lights and empty booths. The kind of place that played soft jazz over the speakers and served overpriced herbal teas no one actually liked. Finally, Jiyong had agreed to meet up.

Taeyang was already there when Daesung arrived. He’d ordered three drinks but hadn’t touched his own. They didn’t speak much—just kept glancing at the entrance.

Jiyong was ten minutes late. Then fifteen. Then—

The door creaked open. He walked in wearing sunglasses despite the overcast sky, a mask covering half his face. His hair was styled, but messily so, like he’d touched it up in a rush. The hoodie under his coat didn’t look like his usual style. It was the same one Seungri had returned.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as he slid into the booth, pulling off the sunglasses but keeping the mask on. “Traffic.” His voice was hoarse. Dry.

Neither of them believed the excuse.

Taeyang studied him. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Jiyong said, finally pulling his mask down. He smiled as he said it, which made it worse. Because the smile didn’t reach his eyes. His hands were jittery. His knuckles red. He hadn’t shaved. There were faint shadows under his eyes that no amount of concealer could hide, and despite his usual effort to look composed, he looked thin. Brittle, almost.

“Have you been eating?” Daesung asked carefully.

Jiyong blinked, as if the question didn’t compute. “Yeah, sure.” He glanced down at the untouched drinks. “What’s this?”

“Chamomile,” Taeyang said. “Thought it’d be good.”

Jiyong reached for the cup, but his fingers trembled. He quickly wrapped both hands around it to steady the shake. “You guys are quiet,” he said. “Makes me nervous.”

Daesung leaned forward slightly. “Jiyong-hyung…”

“I’m okay,” Jiyong said quickly, with too much energy. “I know I’ve been acting weird. Just tired. I’m good now.”

Taeyang’s jaw clenched. “You’re not good.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Something in the air cracked.

Daesung's eyes welled up. “You haven’t answered any of my calls in ages, hyung. You didn’t even open the door last time I came by. I thought—” His voice broke. “I thought something happened.”

Jiyong looked down at his hands.

Daesung wiped at his eyes roughly, then gave up and let the tears fall. “You’re scaring me. You’re scaring us. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Jiyong said finally. Just that. Quiet. Small. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” His voice was hollow. Like the words were rehearsed but had lost their meaning. “I try to sleep and I can’t. I try to work and nothing comes out. People keep looking at me like I’m broken. Or worse— like I’m dangerous.”

“No one thinks that,” Daesung said immediately.

“Yes they do,” Jiyong replied, almost laughing. “You just cried in front of me.”

Daesung opened his mouth. Closed it, tears still in his eyes.

“You think I’m going to do something, don’t you?” Jiyong said softly, tapping the side of his cup. “That’s why we’re here. It’s not about checking in. It’s… damage control.”

Taeyang leaned forward. “That’s not true. We just—”

“I’m not mad,” Jiyong interrupted. “I get it. I wouldn’t trust me either.”

That hit Daesung so hard he winced. “You’re wrong,” he whispered. “We trust you. We love you. That’s why we’re scared.”

Jiyong finally looked at him. And for a second, Daesung saw something behind his eyes. Something tired. Lost.

“I wish I felt that,” Jiyong said. “But I don’t feel much of anything lately.”

Silence fell again. The tea had gone cold.

“I’m okay,” Jiyong said for the fifth time, trying to shake off his friends as they left the café.

“You’re not walking alone,” Taeyang replied, firm as ever. “We’re coming with you.”

“It’s not even far.”

“We know,” Daesung added gently. “We just want to see you home.”

Jiyong sighed, but his shoulders dropped in surrender. A kind of defeat that didn’t look dramatic— just tired.

The three of them walked in silence, no one commenting on the fact that Jiyong had lied about traffic since he hadn’t even driven.

Every now and then, Daesung glanced at Jiyong from the side, as if to check if he was still really there. Jiyong didn’t speak, didn’t make jokes. His hood was pulled up, his hands shoved into his coat pockets. His body was there, but something about him didn’t feel present.

He hesitated before unlocking the door. The hallway light buzzed slightly as it flickered on. “…Sorry,” he muttered as he stepped aside. “It’s a mess.”

That was an understatement. It wasn’t filthy— but it was neglected. Shoes were scattered. A few dishes sat in the sink. Some takeout containers, half-finished bottles of water, and empty wrappers littered the coffee table. The curtains were still drawn shut, casting the place in dull shadows.

Taeyang looked around quietly. The air was stale. He immediately opened a window.

Daesung walked in slowly, his eyes scanning everything with growing unease. There was something deeply personal about seeing Jiyong’s space like this. It felt intrusive. But also necessary. The couch was covered in a blanket that had clearly been slept on. The coffee table had notebooks— one of which was open to an empty page with a pen still on top.

“Didn’t feel like going to bed last night,” Jiyong explained flatly, toeing his shoes off. “Or the night before.”

Daesung moved toward the kitchen counter to tidy something- instincts kicking in— but paused. His eyes had caught something. A small, amber pill bottle, half-tucked behind a mug. He blinked. He knew that label. Knew that name.

Taeyang appeared at his side, following his gaze.

“…Hyung,” Daesung said softly, holding it up. “Are these…?”

Jiyong turned to look, and for a split second, something flickered across his face— guilt, maybe.

“You’re taking these again?” Taeyang asked, his voice low.

“I just… they were in the drawer.” He lied. “I thought maybe they’d help.”

Daesung looked from the bottle to Jiyong, then back. He hadn’t even said anything about them earlier. Hadn’t mentioned feeling that bad. Hadn’t mentioned he was reaching for those again.

“I didn’t tell you,” Jiyong added quickly, “because I didn’t want you to freak out. And now you’re freaking out.”

“We’re not,” Daesung said, but his voice was shaky. “We just— hyung, if you’re back on these… why didn’t you tell anyone you felt like this?”

Jiyong didn’t answer right away. He looked at the pills in Daesung’s hand like he wasn’t sure they were real. Like maybe he’d forgotten they were even there. “I didn’t want to worry you,” he said. “Isn’t that the whole point of pretending to be fine?”

Neither of them responded.

Daesung’s eyes filled again, and he quickly turned away, pretending to focus on washing the days-old dishes.

Jiyong walked toward the couch and sat down heavily. The three of them remained in that dim, too-quiet apartment, the air thick with unspoken fears and questions. Jiyong stared at the blank TV screen.

Taeyang finally sat beside him, placing a hand gently on his back.

“We’re not leaving you like this.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“No,” Taeyang agreed. “You’re our friend. And you need us. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

“You’re treating me like a psych patient.”

“We’re treating you like someone we love.”

Jiyong didn’t answer. But for the first time that evening, his hand moved— just slightly— and rested over Taeyang’s.

Not gripping. Not holding. Just touching.

Barely there. Like even that much effort took everything he had.

The door clicked shut.

Jiyong stood in the middle of his apartment, arms hanging limp at his sides. For a long time, he just stared at the door, as if it might open again. As if one of them might step back inside and say something more— anything, really. But no one came. The silence was enormous. Thicker than usual. Like a fog had descended on the room.

He walked back to the couch and sat where he’d been before, in the exact same dent in the cushions. The imprint of where Taeyang had been beside him was still there. It made his chest ache.

He stared at the pill bottle. Amber orange, white cap, worn label. He hadn’t taken any of them. Not yet, but they were sitting there like an accusation.

“God,” he whispered, pressing his palms over his eyes. “What the fuck is wrong with me.”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, the weight of his body pressing in on itself. His brain was buzzing. Not loud— just persistent, like static behind glass. The kind of noise you couldn’t turn off. Every thought a quiet punch to the ribs.

They saw the pills. They think I’m falling apart. Am I? Maybe.

The hoodie Seungri had sent him earlier was still balled up on the armrest. He hadn’t touched it again. He could smell it now, somehow. That winter night, that fight. That look on Seungri’s face when he’d borrowed it, laughing like nothing in the world could break them. He reached out and shoved it to the floor.

The knock on the door was so soft at first, he almost thought it was in his head. But it came again— three little taps, hesitant, like they were afraid he wouldn’t answer. He stood slowly. Dragged himself to the door. Looked through the peephole. It was him. Of course it was.

Seungri stood on the other side, shoulders hunched slightly, arms full—another bag in his hands, like a late-night delivery.

Jiyong stared for a moment longer before unlocking the door. “…You shouldn’t be here.”

“I just… wanted to check in,” Seungri said quietly. “You didn’t message anyone after they left.”

Jiyong opened the door wider, but didn’t step aside. “How did you know they were here?”

“They told me they were going to meet you.”

Jiyong didn’t answer. So they were talking behind his back. After a pause, he stepped back and let him in.

Seungri entered slowly, eyes scanning the place. “Did they upset you?”

Jiyong gave a hollow laugh. “I think I upset them.”

“Ah…” Seungri said softly, placing the bag on the kitchen counter. “They care about you. That’s why they came.”

He pulled a water bottle from the bag, some fruit, and what looked like comfort snacks— chocolate, gummies, even one of those stupid old drink bottles they used to steal from set between takes.

Jiyong stared at it, heart suddenly tight in his chest. “…You really didn’t have to.” More like he wished he wouldn’t. He just wanted the man to leave.

“I wanted to.” Seungri unpacked gently. “I know how you get when you’re like this. You forget to eat.”

Jiyong looked away.

Seungri’s voice dropped into something quieter, more personal. “Did you take any yet?”

“No.”

A tiny, fleeting, tight smile. “Mm.” Seungri leaned on the counter, arms folded, watching him. “You know,” he said softly, “they said you didn’t look okay at that café.”

“I’m fine.”

“I know you’re not, hyung, you can drop it.”

Silence stretched between them.

Seungri took a slow breath and looked down at the items he’d brought. “You used to hide it better.”

Jiyong flinched slightly.

“I’m not judging,” Seungri added quickly, eyes wide and soft. “I’m just… worried. Like, really. It scared me, seeing you like that. I thought—” he broke off. “I thought maybe I’d already lost you.”

Jiyong blinked, throat dry. “Don’t say that.”

Seungri nodded. “Sorry. Just… please don’t push me away. Not now. I’m not trying to hurt you.”

And in that moment— surrounded by the snacks, the pills, the hoodie, the old memories that wouldn’t die— Jiyong couldn’t tell if it was love or guilt pressing on his chest. He didn’t know if Seungri was saving him or burying him. He lingered at the counter, eyes lowered, fiddling with the corner of the snack bag.

Jiyong still hadn’t moved from where he stood near the couch, arms crossed tight over his chest, hoodie from earlier still crumpled on the floor between them.

The silence was tense but fragile— like glass about to crack, not from volume but from weight.

Seungri finally broke it.

“You know…” he said gently, “you used to trust me with this kind of thing.”

Jiyong’s head tilted slightly.

“I mean… when it got bad,” Seungri continued, voice almost shy. “You used to say I made it easier to breathe. Even when you were scared of everything else.”

Jiyong didn’t respond. But he didn’t walk away either.

Seungri looked down at the counter, then slowly picked up the orange bottle. “I’m not saying you need these,” he said. “But I remember what happened when you stopped cold turkey before. How hard it hit you. Remember that week? You were shaking so bad, and you said it felt like your brain was melting.”

Jiyong flinched at the memory. The sleep-deprived nights. The emotional whiplash. The rage. The crying.

“Maybe just one,” Seungri said, softer now. “To take the edge off.”

“I don’t—” Jiyong’s voice cracked halfway through, his eyes darting around momentarily, as if searching for words.

Seungri stepped closer, careful, like approaching a wounded animal. “I’m here,” he said, and held out the bottle in his open palm. “Just one.”

Jiyong looked at it for a long time.

His jaw worked soundlessly, and he closed his eyes. Just for a second. Just to shut the world off. But it didn’t help. He took the bottle from Seungri’s hand.

His fingers brushed his. Warm. Too warm.

He turned away. Walked into the kitchen. Retrieved a glass from the sink with trembling hands. Filled it.

Seungri didn’t say a word, just watched.

Jiyong stared at the pill for a moment in his palm. That tiny, chalky thing. It used to mean survival. Now it felt like surrender. But he put it in his mouth. Swallowed. The water tasted sharp.

When he turned around, Seungri was still in the same spot. Quiet. Watchful. “…Good,” he said, just under his breath. “That’s good.”

Jiyong looked at him, but the light behind his eyes had dimmed, like something had quietly been turned off.

A few minutes later, Seungri led him to the couch, turned the lights off, and helped him lie down. The TV flickered low with no sound, just static shapes and dim lights painting the room. The other pulled the blanket over half of him, and he picked up the hoodie too, nestling it between Jiyong’s arms. He couldn’t help a smile as the older seemed to snuggle into it. His eyes were open, yet glassy. Not focused on anything.

The pill didn’t make him feel better. Not calmer, not clearer. If anything, it made him feel slower. Duller. Like there was cotton packed around his thoughts. Like he was underwater, somehow, drowning. Everything was too far away- the world, his own thoughts.

He blinked up at the ceiling, lips barely parting.

“Why don’t I feel better?” he whispered, but Seungri was long gone. And in the dark, alone, he didn’t remember if it was like this last time. He just knew Seungri had told him it would help again, and he trusted that, because they helped last time.

Chapter Text

The living room was dim, shades drawn even though the sun was still setting. The orange pill bottle sat on the coffee table again— half empty now. The reminders Seungri sent each day were almost comforting, in a way. Mechanical. Simple. Easy to obey. Jiyong was too tired to even think about what Seungri had done. The way he had betrayed them. His hate.

Take it now, hyung. 💊
Don’t forget. You’ll feel worse if you skip.
Just one and you can sleep.

He’d stopped questioning it. He’d stopped questioning a lot of things. Even now, seated motionless on the edge of the couch, he barely registered the sound of the door unlocking.

“Hyung,” came the familiar voice— so warm, so steady— from the hallway.

Jiyong didn’t respond. Just blinked slowly, the way he had been doing for days. Seungri stepped into view carrying nothing this time, no bag, no care package. Just himself. And that same goddamn calm.

“You haven’t taken one today, have you?” he asked, head tilting slightly.

Jiyong gave the smallest shake of his head.

Seungri smiled gently, like it was a shared joke. “No wonder you look like that.” He stepped closer, knelt in front of him again. Like last time. “Let’s fix that, yeah?” he murmured. He didn’t wait for an answer. Just opened the bottle, shook out a pill.

“It’s early,” Jiyong said, voice soft, slow, unsure. He looked like a child, sitting there with the hoodie on his lap. “Isn’t it..?”

Seungri’s smile didn’t falter, but something flickered in his eyes. “That was when you were better,” he replied softly. “Now? You need a little more help. It’s okay. You’ve always needed help, haven’t you?”

Jiyong’s eyes flicked down to the pill in Seungri’s hand. Something in him hesitated. A knot. A flare. Something. He held the hoodie to his chest, like a comfort.

Seungri touched his jaw, coaxing it open like before.

The scent from the hoodie again. Warm, steady. Familiar.

He took it. Swallowed. And just like that, the knot dissolved into fog.

Seungri stood slowly. Moved behind him. Rested a hand lightly on his shoulder. And then everything shifted.

Because Seungri’s voice dropped. Low. Flat. Unfeeling. “You’re easy to break, you know that?”

Jiyong’s spine stiffened slightly. His eyes blinked, trying to clear.

“Like glass,” Seungri murmured, bending close, breath at his ear. “So fragile. All I have to do is press a little.” On cue, his fingers dug into Jiyong’s shoulder slightly.

Jiyong’s mouth parted, but no sound came but a shaky exhale.

“You always were too soft. You hid it behind eyeliner and screaming, but it was obvious. I saw it. I kept your secrets, didn’t I?” A quiet chuckle. “Because I knew one day I’d need them.” He stepped around the couch, crouched again— no longer comforting. Just studying him. “Look at you. Can’t even speak. You’re high on your own weakness.”

Jiyong’s hands trembled faintly. He let out a soft whimper.

“I’m glad I gave that hoodie back,” Seungri said with a smirk. “You’re always holding it. Smells like me, doesn’t it? Isn’t that pathetic?”

The world was tilting. His body was heavy. Nothing felt real anymore.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Seungri snapped, sudden and sharp. “This is what you wanted, right? You wanted to feel safe. You wanted me here. You always wanted me. You’re worthless without me.”

Jiyong’s lips trembled, but his limbs wouldn’t move. His body wouldn’t respond.

Then, just as quickly, Seungri straightened. Voice light again. Mask back on. “I’ll tell the others you’re sleeping. They’re really worried. I think they’re going to want to talk to a doctor about you.” He turned to leave. Paused. Glanced over his shoulder. “Oh. And if you do decide to go off the meds again?” His smile was thin, sharp. “Don’t. You’re unbearable when you’re lucid.”

And he left. Just like that. The door clicked softly behind him.

Jiyong sat frozen on the couch, body heavy with drugs and terror.

The smell still lingered in the air.

His body remembered comfort.

His brain remembered fear.

But his mouth couldn’t say a word.

Seungri was already at the studio. He'd made sure of that.

He stood near the mixing console, a bottle of water in one hand, posture casual— too casual. Stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the soft morning light filter in through half-drawn blinds. He looked calm— harmless even. He turned when he heard them, and for a second, something flickered behind his eyes before he masked it with a warm, subdued smile.

Taeyang walked in first, holding his toddler son, the child’s small hand clutching the strap of his dad’s bag as he looked around the room his dad and his brothers had spent what felt like their whole lives curiously. Daesung followed close behind, playfully poking at the child’s cheeks and arm.

“Ooh, drinks,” Daesung said, smiling faintly, his eyes on the coffee table.

Seungri gave a gentle laugh, looking a little embarrassed. “I thought I’d get you all your orders… then I realised, it’s been a while, I don’t know if your go-tos have changed…”

Taeyang chuckled under his breath, then lowered his son to the floor. “Doesn’t matter, it’ll taste nostalgic.”

Seungri let the laughter settle. His voice softened, his eyes on the little boy, uncertain at this point. “I’ve been thinking about Jiyong-hyung a lot.” Seungri said, and just like that, the shift came. “He told me things, guys. Things I didn’t know how to respond to. He’s been having nightmares again, constantly. He said he can’t sleep. Said sometimes he just… sits on the floor and forgets how to get up.”

Taeyang looked down at his son, who was now quietly sitting on the carpet, humming to himself and picking at the fabric, then back at Seungri. “You sure?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t,” Seungri said, eyes glossed just enough to make him look sincere. “He cried when he told me. And then he… he apologized for existing.”

Daesung swallowed thickly. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

“That’s the thing,” Seungri whispered, as if afraid Jiyong might be listening from the walls. “It doesn’t. And that’s what terrifies me.”

Taeyang stared at him, heart crumpling like paper. Then, slowly, gently, he scooped his son up again and stepped forward. “Want to hold him?”

Seungri blinked, staring at the curious boy who sat calmly in his fathers outstretched arms. “What?”

“My son,” Taeyang said with a tired smile. “You’ve changed, right? You’ve grown. You’re here for him— for Jiyong. I know that. So yeah. Hold him.”

Daesung stopped mid-sip of his coffee, stunned, but said nothing.

Seungri cradled the boy with comforting arms, rocking him slightly as the child blinked up at him with innocent curiosity. His expression— soft, fatherly, almost reverent— was near angelic. “Are you… are you sure..? This is…” he sighed, reaching up a hand to stroke the child’s hair. “This is such an honour. I’ve dreamt of this moment.”

But while he bounced the toddler, his phone buzzed softly in his pocket. Without a doubt, Jiyong, replying intermittently to his text that they were together at the studio.

The door slammed open minutes later, disturbing the calm Seungri had created for Youngbae’s son.

All eyes turned, and there he was. Jiyong.

Hair unkempt, hoodie half-zipped, pupils dilated too wide, skin pale and damp with a cold sweat. His eyes darted from Daesung to Taeyang, to Seungri— who still held Taeyang’s son— and finally landed on the child.

“You—” he gasped, pointing at Seungri. “Put him down.”

Taeyang stepped forward. “Jiyong, what the hell—”

“You let him near your son?” Jiyong’s voice cracked with disbelief, fury, despair all twisted into one. “You LET HIM? Do you even know what he’s done? What he’s said to me?!”

“Ji—”

“He drugged me!” Jiyong shouted, louder this time. “He- and he- and he whispered things into my ear— things no one should ever say! He made me feel like I was losing my mind, and I thought it was just me, but it wasn’t, it wasn’t—”

Youngbae’s son began to cry, clutching onto Seungri’s shirt.

Seungri immediately shushed the boy, bouncing him gently, and then looked at Jiyong with soft, wide eyes full of sadness. “I never said those things,” he said, voice low, almost trembling. “Hyung, I think you were dreaming again. You were so out of it, I thought you knew… I only wanted to help—”

“NO!” Jiyong staggered forward, nearly tripping. “Don’t you dare—don’t you dare say that. You were there! You said— you said I was worthless! Don’t act like— like—”

“Hyung.” Seungri’s voice shook, his hold on the boy tightening. “I think you’re remembering a nightmare. I never said that.”

Jiyong’s breath caught in his throat. It had been dark. The room had swayed. His mind had been fogged. Was it…?

No. No. No.

He stumbled back. “You— you’re lying.”

“Hyung, calm down,” Daesung said, stepping forward. “We want to help—”

“Don’t you see it?!” Jiyong shrieked. “He’s manipulating all of you, and you’re just- just handing him your kids like he’s a saint!”

Suddenly, Youngbae’s voice cut through the air. “Jiyong, enough!” He raised his voice for the first time in years, reminding the leader that he was in fact, the oldest one in the room. Jiyong froze. “Not in front of my son.”

The studio fell to a silence so complete it almost hurt.

Jiyong stared at him. Something inside him shattered at the words.

Not what are you talking about, not are you okay, not let’s talk this through— but not in front of my son.

Taeyang’s jaw was tight, brows furrowed. “Whatever’s going on with you, whatever this is— you don’t scream like that in front of my kid.”

“I didn’t mean—” Jiyong’s voice crumbled.

Taeyang’s son whimpered again, pressing his face against Seungri’s shoulder, where he was being comforted with slow, rhythmic hushes.

“You need help,” Taeyang said, softer now, but it didn’t hurt less. “Real help.”

“Ji,” Seungri said gently. “Let’s get you home. You need rest. We all just want to help.”

Jiyong backed away like he’d been burned, expression caught somewhere between terror and heartbreak.

“No,” he said softly. “No— you’re all wrong.”

He looked at Daesung then, silently begging for something—understanding, a nod, anything. But Daesung’s face was unreadable.

Jiyong stood frozen. The world felt distant, his vision tunneling in. The sound of Seungri soothing a crying child. The weight of Daesung’s pitying glance. The unbearable ache in Taeyang’s voice.

And Seungri.

Still holding the child, like a martyr at the gates.

Still playing the saint.

Still smiling, just faintly, behind his eyes.

The walls of the studio didn’t follow him home, but the echo did. Jiyong had barely spoken after they left, the sounds of Taeyang’s voice and Daesung’s concern still swirling somewhere behind his eyes. They hadn't stayed long. A few awkward goodbyes at his front door, like they were afraid they might catch something from stepping too far in. He didn’t blame them anymore. He knew they would be talking about him behind his back again.

Now, with only Seungri left there, his apartment sat too still. A different kind of silence than usual. Heavy. Waiting. He had convinced the other two that some alone time to convince him it was a nightmare was needed. He walked around to where Jiyong was sat with that same gentle presence he'd adopted lately. Like he was the one holding something fragile. Like he was the one trying to keep Jiyong from cracking. “You left the door unlocked again, when we came in,” Seungri said with a small sigh, setting a hand briefly on Jiyong’s shoulder. “Hyung... you used to be so careful.”

Jiyong didn’t answer. Just sat on the edge of the couch, as if waiting for something to pull him back into himself.

“I know you’re scared,” he said quietly, crouching down in front of him. “I’d be scared too, if I couldn’t discern dreams from reality. I know what you’re like when you don’t take care of yourself. You forget to eat. You spiral. You start thinking things that aren’t real…”

Jiyong blinked. His eyes were dry, but it felt like he’d been crying for hours.

“I’m not scared.” he mumbled, but it came out wrong. Small. Unsure. He absently sought the hoodie, shaking hands reaching behind himself blindly.

Seungri didn’t correct him. Didn’t argue. Just offered a small smile and glanced toward the bottle on Jiyong’s lap. He took the hoodie and gave it to Jiyong, who gripped it in his hands to his chest like a baby with its blanket. “Hyung… I’ve seen you like this before,” he said. “Back then, remember? You wouldn’t sleep. You didn’t eat. You forgot lyrics, forgot meetings, forgot people were even around you.”

Jiyong’s fingers tightened around the hoodie. “I didn’t forget.”

“You did,” Seungri said softly. “And that’s okay. It wasn’t your fault. You were hurting. You’re still hurting.”

Jiyong looked at him then— really looked— and for a second, the air shifted. His mouth opened, something heavy poised on his tongue, something like I saw your face change. I saw you. I know what you're doing.

But then Seungri leaned in, just slightly, just enough that Jiyong caught it again— the faint, familiar scent. Clean. Warm. Like the hoodie. But the scent was stronger now — from the hoodie, from Seungri himself, standing so close. The same indistinct, intrusive comfort. Like the world tilting toward something he didn’t understand but didn’t resist either. He didn’t question it. It became safety.

And just like that, whatever he was about to say dropped back down into his stomach and curdled there.

“You haven’t been taking them, have you?” Seungri asked, voice like velvet.

“No.”

“Then let me help you.”

Jiyong didn’t move when Seungri took the bottle from his hand, uncapped it smoothly, and shook out two white tablets into his palm. “Just tonight,” Seungri said. “Just enough to quiet the noise.” He held them out gently.

Jiyong didn’t want to. But something in his body moved anyway. His fingers took the pills without his mind catching up. He stared at them in his palm like they were pieces of himself he didn’t recognize.

Seungri handed him a glass of water, eyes soft. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

There was no struggle. No resistance. Just a slow, dull compliance. Jiyong swallowed them, each one like a nail into something he used to trust.

Seungri smiled and sat beside him, just close enough for the scent to wrap around Jiyong like that damned hoodie.

“See?” he murmured, as Jiyong blinked heavily, vision already beginning to blur around the edges. “This is better. This is good. You’re doing good.”

Jiyong let his head fall back. His limbs didn’t feel like they belonged to him anymore. His thoughts drifted like fog, unable to take shape. And as the weight of it all settled in his chest like a stone, a small, terrified part of him whispered:

Maybe it really is me.

The apartment was dimmed with the curtains drawn, drenched in the gentle amber haze of the lone lamp Seungri left on. Jiyong was curled up on the couch under the blanket the younger pulled over him, small and quiet, as though he was shrinking day by day. Seungri himself sat beside him, one arm draped along the back of the couch, fingers brushing against Jiyong’s shoulder in slow, calculated comfort.

The coffee table was a mess. He would get Daesung to do some cleaning around here. A cold cup of tea, takeout containers, wrappers, the pills.

Jiyong’s eyes were open, but heavy. Distant. He had been like that for an hour, occasionally responding to Seungri’s gentle reassurances, but mostly just letting them wash over him like background static.

Seungri watched him quietly, brushing his fingers through Jiyong’s hair in languid, slow strokes. “You’re safe,” Seungri mumbled, voice low and soothing. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Jiyong swallowed but didn’t speak. Too far gone in his own head, too dulled by the medication. Because Seungri was making it feel like safety.

The younger shifted slightly, angling closer. “You’ve been so tired lately. Just let yourself rest, hyung. Please.”

There was a flicker of resistance- Jiyong’s jaw tightened- but then Seungri leaned in just enough for the scent of his cologne, faint but familiar, to waft across Jiyong’s senses as he pulled him closer.

That same scent.

The hoodie.

The pills.

The warmth.

A shiver crawled down Jiyong’s spine, but it was not fear. It was resignation. Some corner of his brain connected the smell with relaxation, with sleep, with surrender, and he allowed his body to go slack against him.

Seungri pulled the blanket higher around him, nestling Jiyong against his side. The world went fuzzy at the edges, Jiyong’s breathing slowed, and within the minute, he was out cold. He stayed still for a moment- completely still.

Then the shift came again.

He slowly turned his head towards Jiyong, lips pressed into a flat, unreadable line. The softness faded from his expression like a dropped veil. His hand lingered at the nape of Jiyong’s neck. Not stroking now- just resting there. Possessive.

“I told you…” Seungri whispered so faintly it was almost inaudible. “They would believe me first.” He leaned back slightly, studying Jiyong’s sleeping face with an unsettling calm. “All it takes is a little concern. A little worry. A few late-night messages and some trembling in my voice.” A faint smile curled his lips. “And now look at you. Swallowing my pills without even a fight.” His soft chuckle was almost affectionate. “I’ll take care of you, hyung,” he mumbled, almost mockingly tender. “Whether you like it or not.”

Then, he adjusted the blanket one last time, brushed a strand of hair off Jiyong’s forehead, and sunk deeper into the couch. Eyes open, awake, and watching. A guardian in the dark. Only this one kept the wolves close, and taught them to doubt their own teeth.

Chapter Text

The night had grown deep, the sky outside an inky blur, and the gentle hum of the air purifier was the only thing filling the quiet living room. Daesung sat cross-legged on the floor, his back against the couch, while Taeyang perched close beside him. Cradled in Daesung’s arms was Taeyang’s baby, finally asleep after a few quiet songs hummed between them. One tiny fist was curled into Daesung’s shirt, his voice now a low hush.

Taeyang rubbed his temples, gaze distant. “He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.”

Daesung nodded slowly, eyes flicking to the baby. “He looked horrible.”

“He looked…” Taeyang murmured. “So gone.”

They both went quiet. The silence pressed in from all sides— not uncomfortable, just weighted. Daesung gently shifted the baby to his other arm. “I didn’t want to cry this time,” he said finally, voice thick, “but when I saw him like that, all I could think was— we let this happen. We were so focused on the past... we didn’t even see he was slipping.”

Taeyang leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We told him we’d help. We failed.”

Daesung’s breath caught. “Hyung... do you think he’s been like this for a while? And just hid it?”

Taeyang’s jaw tightened. “I think he’s worse than we even imagined. I keep thinking about that bottle. The meds. He didn’t say anything about them. Just brushed it off.”

“And they’re his old meds, right?” Daesung asked. “The ones from back then?”

“Yeah. Same ones. I saw the label.”

Daesung looked down at the baby in his arms, eyes softening at the peaceful, unknowing face. “He’s going through hell and hiding it so well we almost missed it.”

“Not anymore,” Taeyang said firmly, eyes dark. “No more letting things slide. No more second-guessing if it’s ‘too much’ to reach out.”

Daesung nodded. “But we can’t overwhelm him either. He’s fragile. You saw him.”

Taeyang leaned back, running a hand over his face. “We’ll figure something out. We’ll keep checking in, keep being there. But...”

“But what?”

Taeyang hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t think we can do this alone.”

They sat with that truth for a long moment. Outside, the wind knocked softly against the windows. The baby stirred but didn’t wake.

“We need to watch for signs,” Daesung said, voice hushed. “Not just from him. From everything around him. His space. The way he talks. And…”

He trailed off.

“And Seungri,” Taeyang finished, saying the name with a thick guilt. “This is so wrong, isn’t it? But…”

“I know,” Daesung whispered. “We need him too. He’s been helping so much.”

Neither of them said anything more. But their silence now felt heavier. And the baby in Daesung’s arms kept sleeping, blissfully unaware of the storm that brewed quietly between adults learning far too late how to navigate the wreckage of the past.

The morning light slanted through half-closed curtains, painting a long, thick bar across the wooden floor of Jiyong’s apartment. The silence was thick, broken only by the soft scratch of something being tapped.

When Jiyong blinked awake, his mouth was dry, his head heavy— not with pain, but fog. He was still on the couch, blanket twisted around his legs, hoodie half-zipped. For a moment, he couldn’t remember falling asleep.

Then he saw him.

Seungri was sitting on the windowsill, one leg pulled up, cigarette between his fingers, lips pursed around the filter like it was the most natural thing in the world. He turned his head just enough to glance back, the smoke curling from his mouth like a sigh.

In his other hand, Jiyong’s lighter. The one Seungri had returned in the first box. He twirled it between his fingers, flipping it open, igniting the flame, killing it, again and again.

Click. Fwoosh. Click.

Click. Fwoosh. Click.

"You’re up," Seungri said, voice soft and smooth like freshly made tea. "Didn’t hear you stirring."

Jiyong sat up slowly, his spine protesting, vision still fuzzy at the edges. “You’re… smoking?”

“I’ve picked up a lot of old habits lately,” Seungri replied, not looking at him. He gestured with the cigarette. “Want one?”

Jiyong shook his head, rubbing his face. “I quit.”

A pause. “Yeah, but you always said it helped dull the noise.” Seungri pushed off the ledge, barefoot on the cool floor, and walked over. He didn’t press the cigarette into Jiyong’s hand— he offered it, careful, slow. Just an option. “You seemed restless last night,” he murmured. “Agitated. The pills probably didn’t do enough.”

Jiyong’s hands twitched in his lap. “I don’t…” he started. “I don’t remember.”

“That’s why I stayed.” Seungri gave him the gentlest smile as he handed Jiyong the hoodie to hang onto like he was growing used to doing. “You lashed out again. Nothing serious. Just… upsetting. Scary, even.”

Jiyong’s chest went tight, he clung onto the hoodie in his hands. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Seungri cut in, so tender it ached. “I’m not blaming you. I’m worried about you.” He crouched in front of him now, close but not smothering. The kind of closeness that said, I see you. “You clearly need a bigger dose,” he said carefully. “Your body’s used to it. The small ones won’t be enough to keep you steady.”

Steady.

“Isn’t it… too early?” Jiyong mumbled, nervously picking at his nails.

“To take something that might stop you from hurting like that again?” Seungri raised a brow. “Is there a wrong time for that?” The lighter clinked as he set it beside the pill bottle on the table. His voice softened further. “Light up. Calm your nerves. Then take them.”

Jiyong stared at the cigarette. Then the bottle. Then the lighter.

And suddenly it all bled into the same thing—the same scent, the same haze. The warmth of the hoodie. The quiet voice that never yelled. The smell that clung to his clothes. He didn’t realize his hand had moved until the cigarette was between his fingers.

Seungri lit it for him, gently brushing his hand. “Atta boy,” he said, voice velvet, as he watched Jiyong take the first drag from the cigarette.

And Jiyong, dulled and slow, felt himself slipping under again before he even took the pills.

Chapter Text

The knock came just after midnight.

Not a soft one. Not friendly. Not like Taeyang’s hesitant tap or Daesung’s worried knocking. This one was sharp, official. The kind that vibrated through Jiyong’s bones.

He dragged himself to the door in the hoodie Seungri had returned, pupils wide and limbs heavy from the medication Seungri had sweetly “reminded” him to take, and the faint, bitter taste of a cigarette in his mouth. He opened the door— and blinked at the two uniformed police officers standing on his porch.

“Mr. Kwon Jiyong?”

“Yes?”

“We received a welfare call. Someone was concerned about your safety.”

He froze. The moment stretched. Behind the officers, someone across the corridor paused, glancing curiously. Heads peered out from neighbouring doors.

“I didn’t call anyone,” he muttered, shame instantly settling deep in his bones.

“We understand. But would you mind answering a few questions? It won’t take long.”

The officers stepped inside, polite but firm, glancing around at the dim, cluttered apartment— pill bottles on the counter, dishes unwashed.

He answered everything with tight restraint, trying to keep his voice calm. Trying to replicate his behaviour from that time he was accused of taking drugs and was forced to do a media press. But the shame sank into his skin like rot, because this was different. When they finally left, after insisting he call someone if he needed anything, he stood in the silence, fists trembling at his sides.

Jiyong didn’t cry. He just sat on the floor.

By the morning, his phone was exploding with messages from the groupchat he never read.

Seungri stood by the old soundboard, brushing his fingers over the faders like they were relics of a past life.

“You heard what happened last night?” he asked, gaze lowered.

Taeyang nodded slowly. “The police thing?”

Seungri hesitated— then let out a breath and looked up, eyes soft with fabricated guilt. “It was me.”

“What?” Daesung’s head snapped up.

“I just… I thought I’d say it outright so I can’t be accused of lying later on. I’m so worried about him. The pills, the silence, the outburst, the way he looks— I didn’t know what else to do. I just wanted someone to check. I wasn’t trying to scare him…”

He trailed off, the perfect picture of worried regret.

Daesung looked down, chewing his lip. Taeyang leaned back, arms crossed, conflicted.

“It’s just… I think he’s in danger,” Seungri said, trying to keep his voice from quivering as his eyes watered. “And I know he’d hate me for it, but I’d rather he hate me and still be alive.”

Silence. Just the low hum of the studio equipment still plugged in. Neither of them had the strength to argue with that.

That same day, Daesung didn’t even know why he texted Seungri to meet. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe confusion. Maybe something even heavier he couldn’t name— a hollow pit in his chest that grew each time he looked into Jiyong’s eyes and didn’t find him there.

Seungri arrived late, but Daesung didn’t complain. He just sat in the corner booth, hunched over his untouched drink, coat still on, like he hadn’t meant to stay long.

"Hyung," Seungri greeted gently, slipping into the booth across from him. No smile, no theatrics. Just quiet concern. "Thanks for messaging me."

Daesung looked up slowly. “You were right.”

Seungri tilted his head, as if he hadn’t heard correctly.

“About Jiyong. He’s… he’s in danger.”

Seungri said nothing for a moment. He just sighed softly, setting his phone aside like he didn’t want any distractions. His voice, when it came, was low. Careful. “I wish I wasn’t.” There was no victory in his tone. No smugness. Just weary sadness, almost too perfect in its restraint.

“I thought maybe seeing us again so often would help him. But it just…” Daesung looked down at his hands. “It’s like it cracked something open instead.”

Seungri leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice almost whispering. “It’s not your fault, hyung. None of this is. You weren’t the one who locked himself away.”

Daesung flinched slightly, and Seungri noticed.

“I think he wanted to disappear long before we ever saw it,” Seungri continued, adjusting his tone- softer now, more soothing. “He’s been carrying something heavy for years. We all saw pieces of it. But I don’t think any of us ever really knew.”

Daesung's voice cracked. “He was always the strongest. Even when he was falling apart, he… he made us feel okay.”

“That’s what scares me,” Seungri murmured. “That he’s too good at pretending.”

Daesung reached for his drink but didn’t sip it. “I wonder how the intervention went.”

Seungri’s eyes dropped to his hands.

“You didn’t say anything to us before.”

“I wasn’t sure if I should.” A beat. A tear. “I wasn’t thinking, I’m sorry. I- I just- I was so fucking worried about him.”

Daesung shook his head, voice small. “Don’t cry...”

“He doesn’t know he needs help,” Seungri said slowly. “But that’s the thing about depression. It tricks you. Makes you think getting help means you’ve lost.”

Daesung was quiet for a long time. “Do you seriously think he’s… dangerous to himself?”

Seungri let the silence settle for just long enough. “I told you I thought I saw him at the River Han. I… I think he’s exhausted,” he said finally. “And people can do really dark things when they’re that tired. Especially when they think no one would really care.”

The words landed like a knife. Daesung blinked fast, his face twisting. “I care.” he whispered, childlike.

“I know,” Seungri said, reaching across the table to gently squeeze Daesung’s arm. “That’s why I… I had to get someone to step in. We need to step in more. Gently. But clearly. We can’t let him drown just because he says he’s okay.”

“He’ll push us away,” Daesung warned.

“We don’t let him,” Seungri said simply. “Even if he hates us for it. I’d rather he hate me and stay alive.”

There it was again— that perfect, trembling devotion. Daesung’s chest ached. He suddenly felt like Seungri was the only person who really understood the weight they were carrying. The only one who saw Jiyong through the right lens— not as a fallen idol, or a misunderstood artist— but as a fragile, suffering human being.

“He- he used to call me his sunshine,” Daesung choked on his tears, wiping his cheek. “Said I lit up rooms so he didn’t have to…”

Seungri gave a soft smile, touched by sadness. “Then let’s light it up again, hyung. For him.”

Daesung nodded, swallowing back another tear.

“I’ll talk to Taeyang,” Seungri added, wiping his tears before sliding out of the booth. “We’ll come up with a plan. I think Jiyong-hyung needs stability. Familiar faces. Routines. Maybe even someone to stay with him for a bit.”

Daesung looked up. “You think he’d let us?”

“No,” Seungri said truthfully. “But he might not have to know right away.” Something in Daesung faltered at that, but Seungri’s voice was already shifting— soothing again, persuasive. “We’ll take it slow. Step by step. And one day, when he’s better, maybe he’ll even thank us.”

Daesung gave a small, helpless laugh. “You think?”

“I hope.”

They stepped out into the chilly air together, and as Daesung tucked his coat tighter around himself, he felt like maybe he wasn’t alone in this mess after all.

But he didn’t see Seungri’s eyes linger on him for just a second too long.

Didn’t feel the way Seungri’s gaze flicked to his phone the moment Daesung turned away.

Didn’t hear the faint hum in Seungri’s throat as he walked off into the dark— not a song, not a tune, but the sound of a plan slowly, perfectly unfolding.

The morning sun filtered through slats of blinds as Seungri leaned back against Jiyong’s window. His face was carved in soft concern, voice low and measured over the video call on the phone.

“Hyung,” he said gently, “I wanted to check in about Jiyong.”

Taeyang’s sigh on the other end was heavy. “Yeah. He hasn’t replied to any of my texts since yesterday.”

“I came by,” Seungri said slowly, like it hurt him to say it. “Just to drop off a few things… you know, stuff to help him out. Vitamins, some proper meals, even his old hoodie… thought maybe it’d bring some comfort.” Seungri continued with a soft laugh that barely masked the sadness. “Actually… hyung, I didn’t want to say this to worry you, but—” There was a pause. “I noticed something,” Seungri said, quieter now, like he was confessing. “I think he’s been scratching again.”

“…What?”

“His arm. That same place, the same nervous, compulsive thing he used to do when things got really bad. I saw faint marks… maybe I’m wrong, but I know what it looks like.”

Taeyang went silent. Then, just barely above a whisper, “He hasn’t done that in years.”

“I know. That’s why I’m scared. I think he’s hiding how bad he really is. And I hate to say it, hyung, but… maybe he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.”

Not even fifteen minutes later, Seungri was preparing some meals for himself and his host; the apartmetn was quiet except for the controlled frying of the oil on the pan.

Jiyong silently appeared behind him, shoulders hunched, fingers tugging absentmindedly at the sleeves of the same hoodie. He looked like he was trying to make himself as small as possible.

Seungri stood nearby, carefully placing things back into Jiyong’s small kitchen. Calm, too calm. “You alright?” he asked gently, without turning around. “You’ve been quiet.”

Jiyong didn’t respond at first. Then, as if his own thoughts startled him, he murmured, “I… did you say I scratched my arm?”

He turned slowly. “What?”

“You said it to Youngbae, right? That I’d been doing that again. I heard.” His voice trembled, haunted and unsure. “But… I don’t remember that. I don’t remember doing that.”

Seungri hesitated just long enough for it to sink in, then offered a sad, broken smile. “Ji… it’s okay. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just… I figured you didn’t know. Sometimes we do these things when our mind is trying to protect us. Maybe that’s what’s happening. You’ve been through so much. It makes sense that you’re not aware.”

“No,” Jiyong muttered, his voice rising slightly, more desperate now. “No, I’d know. I’d know if I did that.”

Seungri moved closer, slowly taking his hands and leading him without resistance to the couch. “Ji,” he whispered, reaching to gently place a hand on Jiyong’s knee as he sat beside him. “You’ve always had these blank spots when things got bad. You used to forget full nights, remember? This… it’s not your fault. But I think it’s happening again.”

Jiyong blinked fast, breathing uneven. “I—”

And then, almost unconsciously, his fingers found the inside of his forearm, nails digging in slowly, scraping at skin that wasn’t even itching. A mimicry of a pain he didn’t recall, yet believed was real.

Seungri watched, gaze soft and unreadable. “…See?” he whispered.

Jiyong stopped, looked down, horrified, at what he was doing. “Why… why?”

“You need help, Ji,” Seungri said, pulling a new bottle of pills from his bag and placing them carefully on the coffee table. “You used to forget to refill them, remember? That’s why I brought them.”

Jiyong stared at them, wide-eyed, breath catching. The scent of the hoodie wrapped around him again—faint cologne, warmth, something unplaceable but so familiar. His mind spun. It wasn’t that he trusted Seungri. It wasn’t even about the pills. It was that everything was slipping out of his control, and Seungri, for all his shadows, felt like something to hold onto.

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t push them away either.

Within half an hour, the pills had taken full effect. Jiyong’s head felt stuffed with cotton and fog again, everything slightly delayed. When he turned his head, the motion didn’t end with him. His thoughts dragged like heavy coats behind him.

Seungri sat on the floor beside him, leaning against the sofa, watching Jiyong in the way a cat watches a bird trapped in a cage. “You know,” Seungri said softly, “I’ve been thinking about that day. At the studio.”

Jiyong didn’t respond.

“I know it wasn’t really you. I mean— it was you, but... not the real you, right? The sick you.”

Jiyong blinked. His mouth parted like he wanted to speak but didn’t know the word he was looking for.

“You scared Taeyang’s kid, Ji.”

A sharp breath caught in Jiyong’s throat. He hadn’t forgotten. He just... hadn’t let himself think about it.

“You remember how he cried in my arms?” Seungri said, tone gentle, like he was soothing him. “He wouldn’t even look you in the eye. You were screaming. I’ve never seen you like that. None of us have.”

Jiyong’s nails clawed at his arm, then he clasped his hands together by his forehead, clutching them like he was praying, but his thumbs trembled against each other. “I— I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t—”

“I know. I know you didn’t.” Seungri leaned his head against Jiyong’s thigh, voice soft, almost pitying. “That’s the scary part, though. You didn’t mean to, and you still did.”

“I was just… overwhelmed,” Jiyong said. His voice cracked. In truth, he couldn’t even remember why he had been so angry.

“I know. That’s why I gave you the pills again,” Seungri murmured, stroking his sleeve. “Because this isn't your fault. You're sick. And when you're sick, things get messy. People get hurt.”

Jiyong closed his eyes. His head swam. He couldn’t trust the pace of his own heartbeat anymore. Couldn’t tell if this was shame or dizziness.

“I think… you should apologise. To Taeyang. Not for you. For him. For his kid. You scared him, Ji. You don’t want to leave that mark on a child, do you?”

Jiyong shook his head slowly. He looked nauseous.

“Then say sorry. I’ll help you. I’ll be there when you call. Or we can write it together, if you want. But it has to come from you.”

“I—” Jiyong bit down on the inside of his cheek. “I didn’t mean to scare him.”

“But you did.”

He flinched, buried his face in the pulled-up sleeves. The hoodie smelled like safety. Seungri’s voice sounded like safety.

Except it wasn’t. Something was off. Something was crawling just under the surface of his skull, scratching. He couldn’t find his center.

“Come on,” Seungri said, pulling himself up onto the couch beside him and lifting his hand to Jiyong’s cheek, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “You’re a good person. You feel bad. That means you still have a heart.”

Jiyong’s eyes welled up, but no tears fell. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I really… I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want to…”

Seungri kissed his temple, a soft hum escaping him. “I know. That’s why I’m here.”

Jiyong nodded, small and slow, like a child. Seungri pressed the pill bottle into his palm again.

“Let’s make sure it doesn’t happen again, okay?”

And Jiyong took them.

Not because he wanted to. Because maybe Seungri was right. Maybe he couldn’t trust himself anymore.

Chapter Text

Jiyong didn’t remember leaving the window open the night before. But the breeze curled through the apartment anyway, soft and strange. When he padded over to the kitchen in mismatched socks, hair matted from sleep, Seungri was already there, smoking by the window.

He was holding the hoodie in both hands like it was something sacred, cigarette angled away from it.

“You left this on the chair,” he said gently. “Thought you might want it back.”

Jiyong blinked at it. Wasn’t he wearing it the night before..?

The fabric was limp, the colour long faded. But it was warm in a way that didn’t come from the sun. His fingers reached out, slow, quiet—then clutched it to his chest.

That smell again. The one that had started living in his apartment. On the blanket. In the air. Under his skin. “I didn’t—” Jiyong started to say something, but the words dropped somewhere on the floor between them.

Seungri flicked his cigarette into the sink, and stepped out of the kitchen and closer to him without waiting. “You used to forget everything when things got bad,” he said, leading him back to the couch. “Even your meds.” His voice was so soft now, like he didn’t want to scare him.

Jiyong stood there where Seungri left him, holding the hoodie tighter like a safety net. His sleeves swallowed his hands. “I’m fine,” he murmured, but it sounded small, like a child’s lie.

Seungri was already by the table. He picked up the orange pill bottle, shaking it just once. It rattled loud in the quiet room. “You didn’t take today’s, did you?”

Jiyong just looked at him. His mouth was slightly open, his eyes glossy and unsure.

He wasn’t sure what day it was.

He wasn’t sure if he had eaten recently.

“You haven’t been sleeping well,” Seungri said softly, now sitting beside him. “You look so tired, hyung.” He reached out, brushed Jiyong’s fringe out of his eyes like a parent might. “You’ll feel better. I promise.” That smell was stronger this close. The hoodie. The blanket. The arms that sometimes held him when he couldn’t remember lying down at all.

“I don’t want to feel like this,” Jiyong whispered, voice cracking.

“I know,” Seungri murmured. “That’s why I’m here.” He placed the pill in Jiyong’s palm. Warm, gentle fingers curled his hand closed over it. “Just one.”

Jiyong stared at his hand. Then slowly, so slowly, he nodded. Like he was giving up something. He swallowed it with a glass of water from yesterday.

Within no time, his head tilted and he leaned slightly against Seungri’s arm, quiet, too quiet. His grip on the hoodie loosened. He looked younger, softer. Slower.

Seungri turned just enough to catch the side of his face. And smiled, small and cruel, just for himself.

“Good boy,” he whispered, thumb stroking his cheek fondly.

Chapter Text

The first headline didn’t even hit a major outlet.

Just a blurry Dispatch shot. Grainy. Zoomed in. Two figures sitting across from each other in a quiet café. One in a mask. One without. The caption was vague, speculative.

“Unconfirmed: Is That BIGBANG’s Taeyang and Seungri Together?”

Then the internet did what it always does— filled in the blanks, dug into timestamps, tracked clothing from past posts.

By the time the second article dropped, it wasn’t vague anymore.

“BREAKING: Members of BIGBANG Secretly Reuniting with Seungri Despite Past Scandal Statements?”

Underneath were shots from a security camera- timestamped— of Daesung entering a building known to be linked to Seungri’s old apartment block.

Then the headlines started to hit like a slap.

“BIGBANG Members Spotted Reuniting with Disgraced Ex-Member Seungri – Fans in Uproar”
“YG Under Fire After Secret Meeting Surfaces – Netizens Demand Answers”
“‘Criminal Sympathy?’ – Internet Explodes Over Alleged Reconciliation”

Photos leaked anonymously. Blurry shots of Seungri at the quiet café. Another of him ducking into a car that looked too much like Taeyang’s. And the worst—an overhead grainy image of three shadows leaving the studio at night.

All timestamped. All too well-framed to be coincidence.

The fan forums were in meltdown. Hashtags exploded.

Then came the second wave. Even worse.

A leaked police report.

Just a single PDF attachment on a Twitter thread gone viral:

“Police reportedly intervened in a welfare check after concerning silence from Kwon Jiyong’s residence.”
Underneath:
“The artist was found safe, though visibly disoriented. No crime committed. Officers left shortly after.”

Then, just key phrases bolded by clickbait sites:

“Officers responded to a welfare concern…”
“…individual appeared disoriented, agitated…”
“Was not violent, but uncooperative…”
“Possible medication interaction…”
“…no charges filed.”

The story spun like wildfire.

“BIGBANG Leader in Crisis? GD Involved in Police Welfare Incident”
“Fans Express Concern—and Betrayal—As Seungri Re-enters the Picture”

Comment sections flooded. Fan forums imploded. Twitter trended with #ProtectGD and #CancelGDragon and #SeungriOutAgain at the same time.

It didn’t matter what the report actually said.

The damage was already done.

Taeyang stared at the screen in his car outside the studio, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

The comments were brutal. Photos of Jiyong looking thin, captions mocking his eyes. Some even questioned if the “welfare check” was a euphemism for something worse.

Worse than that? The betrayal claims.

“I defended you, and this is what you do?”
“You said you’d never let him back into your life.”
“How dare you make us feel sorry for you just to crawl back to him.”

He closed his eyes. Breathed in through his nose. His phone buzzed.

Dae: hyung i saw it.
    you saw it right?

YB: Yeah.

Dae: what the fuck do we do

Taeyang didn’t answer right away. Because what could they do?

YB: I don’t know yet.

Daesung’s chest tightened. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Taeyang always had an answer. A plan. But now?

There was nothing. No one had spoken to Jiyong since the police report dropped. He hadn’t let anyone.

Inside Daesung’s apartment, the TV was on but muted. His phone was in his hand, the article still open. His thumb hovered over Jiyong’s name in his contacts.

you okay?
please answer me.
say something, hyung.
He didn’t send any of them.

Instead, he opened his chat with Taeyang.

Dae: we’re gonna be crucified for this.

A few seconds passed.

YB: I don’t care about us right now.
 I care about him.

Dae: they’re saying he was incoherent, that he fought the police
what if he’s worse than we thought

YB: He didn’t fight anyone. They’re twisting it.

Dae: he was alone. he didn’t call any of us.

YB: No. But he must have called someone.
 And it wasn’t us.

There was a long pause. And then, finally:

Dae: oh.
it was him, wasn’t it

YB: Yeah.

Dae: so now everyone thinks we forgave him. that we welcomed him back.

YB: Well…
  Didn’t we?

Daesung could feel his hyung’s guilt from across the screen.

Dae: they’re blaming us. saying we betrayed him. betrayed everyone.

YB: I know.

Dae: was this a mistake? trusting him again?

No response. For several minutes.

Then finally:

YB: It doesn’t matter if it was. We did. It’s done.
  We need to get to Jiyong. Now.

Seungri was alone when he read the fallout.

Not in some dim apartment or lonely motel. No. He sat on a plush leather couch, in a quiet suite that overlooked the river, tablet in hand, espresso going cold on the table beside him.

The headline glowed bright on the screen.

“BIGBANG: Sympathy for the Devil?”

Underneath it, a timeline of photos. Of speculated meetings. A blaring expose of Jiyong’s police welfare check. Commentators ripping into the hypocrisy, the supposed lies.

Seungri let it wash over him.

At first, silence. Then, a slow, measured smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The kind that didn’t reach his eyes— because nothing ever really did anymore unless he was acting. And he had long discovered that he really was quite the actor.

He scrolled.

Click.

The footage played— grainy CCTV of Daesung’s car. Taeyang’s silhouette in a reflection. Speculation about a late-night studio session. Theories flying. People demanding statements. Begging Jiyong to “do the right thing.” Pleading with the others to “stop betraying him.” Some netizens even pushed for Jiyong to just kill himself.

Twitter was even trying to get their ex-member, who had them all blocked, to get involved, begging him to wake up.

Another headline.

“Kwon Jiyong Found ‘Disoriented’ in Police Report—Concerns for Mental Health Rise”

There it was.

That word again.

Disoriented.

He tasted sweet on his tongue, tooth-rotting.

Seungri leaned back in his seat, eyes never leaving the screen. The press had taken the bait perfectly. The public outrage. The pity. The confusion. The divide.

And Jiyong? Poor, unstable Jiyong? He’d crumble now. Wouldn’t he? And no one— not Daesung, not Youngbae, not even T.O.P in his high, desolate, private tower— could undo what Seungri was unravelling.

He’d watched Jiyong slip further each day, feeding him quiet reassurances. Soft triggers. Familiar scents. Lingering touches. Just enough to blur the line between fury and comfort.

Just enough to pull— then push.

And now? Now the world would whisper what Seungri already knew:

“Maybe he’s not all there anymore.”
“Maybe he can’t handle the truth.”
“Maybe Seungri wasn’t the dangerous one after all.”

Oh how he enjoyed reading what his fans wrote about him, flaming Jiyong, flaming the others for how they treated their poor Seungri- they were few in number, but they were resilient.

He reached for his coffee, finally cold, and took a long sip.

“Good boy,” he murmured, lips barely moving. “Right on cue.”

He picked up his phone. No draft. No hesitation. Just tapped it out with surgical grace:

It hurts, doesn’t it?
It’s all your fault everything’s falling apart now.
I warned you.
But I’ll always be here when you fall apart.

You were always so beautiful in pieces.

Sent. Delivered. Read.

He didn’t expect a reply.

He didn’t want one.

The read receipt was enough.

Jiyong was already raw when it came in. Sitting on the floor of his bedroom, back against the closet door, trying to make sense of the headlines— the public disgust at him, the betrayal posts from fans, the silence from the label.

His phone buzzed once.

And he knew. He knew who it was before he even touched it. The words burned. He read them twice. Once in anger. Once in surrender. And then the phone fell from his hand and hit the carpet with a soft, final sound.

He didn’t pick it back up. Didn’t even look at it again as the screen dimmed, flickered, then died. He just sat there. Staring at nothing. Not crying. Not moving.

Because there wasn’t anything left to do but break.

Daesung got out of Taeyang’s passenger seat, jaw clenched, hand nervously fidgeting with his sleeve, heart thudding too loud.

The gate to Jiyong’s apartment building was ajar. His door, though, locked.

“Try him again,” Taeyang muttered.

Daesung did. Five times. Nothing.

Then, before Daesung could even react, Taeyang stepped back and kicked the door. It didn't break, but the sound echoed like a gunshot through the hallway. “Jiyong!” he yelled. “Open the door!”

Daesung grabbed his big brother in a hug, trying to stop him from causing a scene. “Hyung, hyung- hyung, the keycard!”

Taeyang stopped, gave Daesung a look. One they hadn’t shared in years— panic wrapped in guilt. He watched as Daesung pulled out a slim wallet and found the old keycard he still had from years ago. He hesitated only a second before slotting it in.

The door creaked open.

Chapter Text

Jiyong’s place wasn’t destroyed. Not in the way they’d feared.

Shoes still lined up by the door, cushions still fluffed on the couch. But the quiet was unnatural. Too perfect. Like the house was trying to pretend no one lived there at all. A single mug lay shattered under the table. The hallway mirror cracked down the centre, blood on the shards, no tape, just broken and left there like it didn’t matter.

“Ji?” Taeyang called out softly, but it felt like shouting in a church.

They found him in his studio room. Slumped against the far wall, head tilted at an odd angle, headphones barely clinging to one ear. His eyes were open, barely— but unfocused. Not looking at the screen, not blinking. Just staring. Through them. Through everything.

His phone was dead on the desk, screen black. The only light in the room came from the monitor, flickering with an unfinished track looping endlessly.

Daesung froze. “Hyung?” he whispered. Like if he spoke louder, the whole room might shatter.

No answer. Just the slow, soft sound of breathing. Not rhythmic. Shallow. Uneven. Almost like someone had to remind him to do it.

Taeyang crossed the room, dropping to his knees beside him. “Hey,” he murmured, gently reaching out. “Hey, come on, look at me. Did you…” he trailed off, glanced up at Daesung, then back down, “…take something?”

But Jiyong didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink until Taeyang brushed a hand against his shoulder— and then, finally, his eyes flicked. Just slightly. Just enough to prove he was still in there.

Daesung crouched in front of him, more hesitant now. His throat was tight. “Ji… can you hear us?”

Still no response.

He was breathing, but he wasn't there. Not really. There was nothing in his face. No spark. Not anger, not grief. Just a haunting, glassy absence. Like his body had remembered how to sit up, but his soul hadn’t caught up yet.

“Jiyong,” Taeyang said again, firmer now. “Say something.”

A pause. Then finally. “I’m fine,” Jiyong whispered. But it didn’t sound like him. It didn’t sound like anyone. It sounded like an echo. Something he’d told himself so many times it stopped meaning anything.

Taeyang tried to ease Jiyong forward, hand gentle on his back, but the weight was dead. He wasn’t resisting, he was… limp. Hollow. Like he didn’t remember how to move unless someone gave him permission.

Daesung sat frozen, watching him. He’d never seen Jiyong like this. Not after fights. Not after heartbreak. Not even after the worst years. This was different.

This was vacant.

Daesung’s hands trembled as he gently took the headphones off his head.

“Do you want some water?” Taeyang tried. “Food? Anything?”

No answer.

The room had sunk into a heavy silence. Jiyong hadn’t moved in over an hour. Taeyang and Daesung hovered close. Whispering, soothing, trying everything. But he didn’t blink. He didn’t even flinch.

The door burst open with such a loud sound that Daesung yelped.

“Jiyong—!”

The voice cracked through the stillness like a whip. Seungri stumbled inside, breathless, panicked— hair wild, shirt clinging to sweat-soaked skin. His eyes were red already. From running or crying— it wasn’t clear. But the fear on his face was real.

Or at least, it looked real.

He dropped to his knees in front of Jiyong like he was about to beg for his life. “Oh god— oh my god, Ji, I’m so sorry— I didn’t know— I didn’t mean for this to happen—!”

Taeyang surged forward instinctively. “What the hell are you doing here?”

But Seungri didn’t look at him. He only looked at Jiyong. At the way he sat motionless, slack and gone. “I— I saw the coverage,” Seungri gasped, hands shaking as he reached out but didn’t touch. “I saw everything. And when I realised what they said— what they made it look like— I panicked, I came straight here, I—” He broke off, voice cracking, eyes full of terrified regret. “I didn’t even want to come back into your life, Ji, all of you. I swear to god, I didn’t,” he sobbed. “But when I saw how bad you were— how far gone— I thought maybe I could help. I thought maybe I owed it to you.”

Daesung’s throat worked as he swallowed. His voice, when it came, was soft. “Seungri…”

“I didn’t think I’d still… care this much. But I couldn’t stand by,” Seungri sobbed, curling in on himself now. “And I— I didn’t know I was hurting you worse, I didn’t. I thought— fuck— I thought I was saving you.”

Taeyang didn’t move. But his face cracked. Just slightly.

“And now it’s everywhere,” Seungri choked, rocking slightly, tears streaming. “The media— the fans— everyone thinks I forced myself in. Like I wanted the attention. But I just— I just wanted you to live. I didn’t even think about the press when I— when I called the police. I just wanted to save you before it was too late—”

Silence.

Seungri’s words hung in the air like smoke.

Jiyong blinked.

Once.

Then his head slowly turned.

Eyes glassy. Hollow. But focused— on him.

Taeyang turned too. So did Daesung.

“...What did you just say?” Jiyong’s cracking voice came like a whisper scraped from stone.

Seungri faltered. “Ji—?”

“You…” Jiyong’s pupils dilated, chest beginning to rise and fall— unsteady, shallow. “You called them.”

The words landed like thunder.

Daesung’s eyes widened. “What— hyung, wait, no, calm down—”

“You sent the police,” Jiyong murmured, numb. “You told them where I was. Not a fan. Not some stranger. You.” His face crumpled with tears for the first time.

Seungri looked like he’d been shot. “I didn’t mean to— I just— you weren’t answering! You wouldn’t eat, you wouldn’t move, and I thought—”

“I was fine!” Jiyong snapped suddenly, voice rising like a crack in the glass. “I was handling it! And you— you pretended to be worried, but it was you— you called them—”

Daesung stepped in quickly, voice tight. “Hyung, please, stop. He didn’t know what to do— he was scared.”

Jiyong was trembling. Not from fear or grief. From something colder. Something sharp and ancient and sick. Betrayal. “You…” he whispered, staring at Seungri. Then he turned, slowly, to look at Daesung and Taeyang. “You knew.” His voice cracked on the word, but there was no mistaking it. “You two…” A dry laugh escaped him, bitter and gutted. “You two knew he called them.”

Neither answered fast enough.

“You’re all liars,” Jiyong said. Still soft. Still stunned. Still unraveling. “I knew something was off. But you— you let him come here. You let him stand here and cry like he’s the one who got destroyed.”

“Hyung, please,” Daesung started, moving toward him.

Jiyong shuffled away, backing up against the wall further. “Don’t touch me. Don’t you fucking touch me.”

Taeyang tried instead. “You’re not seeing it clearly. He was scared, we were scared. You weren’t answering anyone, you were shutting us all out—”

“Because I had to!” Jiyong screamed, fists clenching. “I had to shut you out! I didn’t know who to trust— I thought at least you two—” He stopped, chest heaving. Then he looked at Seungri again. Still on the floor, still crying. But now his hands were over his face. His body shook with deep, agonizing sobs.

“I didn’t want this,” Seungri sobbed. “I didn’t— I didn’t want any of this— I just wanted to help, Ji, I swear to god—”

“You wanted to save me?” Jiyong’s voice cracked. “Save me by humiliating me? By reporting me? You knew exactly what would happen—how they’d spin it— how I’d look—”

“I wasn’t thinking straight,” Seungri choked. “I panicked! I thought you were gonna die—”

Jiyong moved suddenly. Wild, broken, lunging for him— but Taeyang caught his arm halfway, holding him back with an ease that terrified him. “Ji— enough!”

“Let go of me!” He thrashed, furious, screaming with a voice that didn’t sound like his own anymore. “He’s lying! He’s faking this whole thing— look at him— look at him!”

“Stop!” Daesung yelled, tears streaming down his own face. “He’s not lying. He’s not. He didn’t do this to hurt you.”

Jiyong froze.

And Seungri, still on his knees, sobbed harder. “I’ll leave,” he whispered. “I’ll leave, right now, and I swear won’t come back. I didn’t want to make things worse. I’ll disappear forever if that’s what you want, I’ll—”

“No,” Taeyang said, gently but firmly, still holding Jiyong tightly, restraining the weak man. “You did what you thought was right. Don’t blame yourself for trying.”

Daesung joined him, voice softening. “We all made mistakes here. But you were trying to help.”

Jiyong stared at them, chest heaving from the effort of the struggle. But no words came. One mess of grief and soft words and forgiveness. And none of it was for him. Because suddenly it hit him.

The way they were looking at Seungri. The way they were not looking at him.

And in that moment, Jiyong saw it clearly: He was alone in the room.

Slowly, quietly, Jiyong’s rage… faded. His hands loosened. His chest stopped heaving. His face emptied out, as if someone had flipped the power switch inside him.

He went limp in Taeyang’s arms, eyes unfocused, breathing slow and thin, silent, forcing Taeyang to take his weight. He set him down gently, alarmed. “Ji?”

No answer.

Daesung stepped forward, kneeling. “Hey. Say something.”

Still nothing. Just… stillness. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t there anymore.

Seungri watched, wiping at his tears, and whispered brokenly, “I didn’t mean for this...”

But now, no one spoke.

Jiyong hadn’t spoken in hours.

Taeyang had carried him and laid him gently on the couch, covered him with a blanket, tried to get him to drink water. Nothing worked. He laid there like a corpse— eyes open, unfocused, lips slightly parted, silent. Daesung had tried to play soft music. Nothing. Now, the two of them stood in the kitchen. The light was low. The city outside buzzed, uncaring.

Seungri sat on the floor against the cabinets, knees pulled to his chest. His face blotchy from crying, voice rough from it. “I shouldn’t have come back,” he murmured. “I just made everything worse.”

“No,” Taeyang said, voice hoarse. “You didn’t.”

Daesung glanced toward the living room. “He’s never been like that before.”

“I think I… I broke him,” Seungri whispered, hugging himself tighter. “I really didn’t know how bad it was until today. Until I saw it with my own eyes.”

“You were trying to help,” Taeyang said, firmer now. “Don’t do that to yourself. We all saw how far gone he was.”

Seungri shook his head. “I thought I was helping, but maybe… maybe it was selfish. Maybe I just missed being needed. I told myself I was checking in on him because I cared, but maybe it was just guilt. Or… maybe I wanted to fix something that can’t be fixed.” He let the words fall softly, like confessions that hurt to admit.

Daesung sat down across from him, cross-legged, causing Seungri to raise his gaze in surprise. “You’re not the only one who feels guilty.”

“I should’ve left it alone,” Seungri said, quieter now. “When he didn’t answer my messages, I should’ve stopped. I shouldn’t have told the police. But I just— I didn’t know what else to do.” He looked at them, eyes watery again. “Tell me honestly… do you hate me now?”

Taeyang’s expression cracked again, and Daesung’s chest tightened.

“No,” Taeyang said, without hesitation. “Not for this. You did what none of us could do. You acted.”

Daesung nodded slowly. “I think… I think we were too afraid to step in. You weren’t.”

Seungri looked down, blinking quickly. “I’d give anything to take his pain away,” he whispered. “Even if he never forgives me.”

They all went quiet. The only sound was the low hum of the fridge. The distant murmur of city traffic. Jiyong’s silence, louder than anything.

Chapter Text

Empty takeout containers still cluttered the low coffee table. Curtains half-drawn, casting long grey streaks across the floor like shadows trying to flee. Jiyong hadn't left in days. It had been days since the fallout. Since the leaks.

When the knock came, it was soft. Too soft. Almost apologetic. He didn't move. Another knock. Firmer this time, but still... hesitant. And then the door creaked open. Footsteps. Familiar, hated.

“Hyung… please,” Seungri said, voice barely above a whisper. “I just want to talk.”

Jiyong didn’t turn. His head lowered slightly, like the sound physically weighed on him. “I didn’t ask you to come,” he said, flat and cold.

“I know.” Seungri stepped inside like a trespasser, like he was walking into fire, his arms open in something between surrender and helplessness. “I just— I swear, this is the last time. I needed to see you. I was worried.”

Jiyong laughed. It was hollow and sharp, a sound with edges. Still turned away, he was pacing like a cornered animal. “Worried,” he repeated. He turned, slow, dangerous. Jiyong’s eyes were wild. Bloodshot. His jaw tightened like it might snap. “You mean like when you called the cops on me? Like when you played saint to Daesung and Taeyang while making me look like some strung-out lunatic? Like some psycho junkie to the world?! That kind of worried?!”

Seungri’s jaw tensed, lips parting like he wanted to defend himself, but the words tangled and died before they reached the air. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Then WHAT were you trying to do?” Jiyong’s voice rose suddenly, violently. “Save me? From what— myself?! You don’t even know me anymore! None of you do.”

Behind Seungri, the door eased open again. Daesung. Taeyang.

They stood in the threshold behind Seungri— hesitant, uncertain, already pulled toward him like gravity.

“Hyung,” Daesung said, hands up, soothing. “Please, just calm down. Let’s just talk.”

“No.” Jiyong’s voice cracked like thunder. “Don’t you dare. You— both of you— you knew. You knew he did it. And you just… stood there. You let me think I was insane.”

He looked between them, wild and betrayed, then pointed accusingly to Seungri. “You watched me fall apart, and you held his hand.”

Taeyang’s voice was quiet, cautious. “He was trying to help…”

“Liars!” Jiyong lunged, not to hit but to shove, and Seungri stumbled backward, crashing into the coffee table with a yelp. He didn’t get up right away. Just sat there, breathing fast at the pain, lips quivering like he was already halfway through the breakdown.

“I didn’t mean for it to be like this,” Seungri choked. His voice was soaked in something raw and guttural. “I didn’t even want to come back. At first, I just wanted to see you all again for the last time- to apologise— but then I saw how bad you were, hyung. How scared they were. I panicked.” He wiped his face with his sleeve, his body trembling. “I thought I could help. I didn’t think it would explode like this. I wasn’t even thinking about the media when I called them. I just… I thought I was saving you.”

That stopped Jiyong cold. His breath hitched. Eyes wide in disbelief at his defence. “…It was you,” he whispered. Then, louder, like the words themselves cut him open: “You did this. You destroyed me. And you’re still playing the fucking victim?!”

“I’m sorry,” Seungri gasped. “I’m so sorry— please— I’ll go. I’ll leave. If that’s what you want, I’ll never speak to any of you again.”

He started to push himself up, trembling. His hand brushed against a crumpled hoodie on the couch— Jiyong’s old one. He recoiled from it like it burned, hands trembling as he cried.

“No— Seungri, wait,” Taeyang said suddenly, stepping forward and helping him up, checking for bleeding.

Daesung followed. “Don’t leave. You did what you thought was right.”

Jiyong watched them. Staring. Silent. He watched his brothers comforting Seungri. The world spun off-axis. His body started to sway slightly, like his bones had forgotten how to hold him. “You…” His voice was faint now. “You’re still on his side.”

They both looked at him, caught.

He took one step back. Two. Then just... stopped. His breathing slowed. Shoulders fell. Eyes glassy. “I’m alone,” he murmured. The words fell with a dead finality.

Then he folded, right where he stood. His knees buckled and he dropped, back sliding against the wall until he sat in a heap, legs sprawled and arms limp. His head tilted toward the ceiling head tilted up to the ceiling like he was praying to something long dead, eyes open, unseeing.

“Jiyong?” Taeyang moved closer.

Nothing.

“Hyung…” Daesung’s voice broke.

Still nothing.

Not even a blink.

Seungri, still crouched near the table, slowly turned to look at them— terrified. “What have I done…” he whispered.

And in the silence, the apartment seemed to exhale. Like it had witnessed a death.

They didn’t speak for a long time.

It felt like the same story. Jiyong hadn’t moved. Not even a twitch. His body had gone slack like a puppet with the strings cut, back resting against the wall, head leaned up as if watching ghosts drift across the ceiling. His lips were slightly parted, breath shallow but steady. It was like he had vanished inside himself.

Daesung stood frozen in the middle of the room. He kept glancing between Jiyong and Seungri like he couldn’t decide which tragedy to attend to first.

“Is he… breathing?” Taeyang’s voice cracked, low and hoarse.

Daesung nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just… not here. Again.”

Taeyang knelt beside Jiyong, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. No response. Not even a blink.

“This is worse than last time. He’s never shut down like this before,” he whispered.

“I told you,” came Seungri’s voice, rasping from the corner.

They both turned.

He was sitting with his knees pulled to his chest now, fingers tangled in his own hair, tear tracks drying on his cheeks. He looked wrecked. Broken. But there was something behind his eyes— some dim flicker of strategy buried beneath the sorrow. “I told you how bad it was getting,” he went on, voice trembling. “You thought I was exaggerating. But I see it. Every time I come here, he’s worse. Thinner. Jittery. Paranoid. He keeps the blinds closed. He doesn't answer calls. He doesn’t sleep, I keep telling you.” He looked at them like he was begging for forgiveness. But not from Jiyong. From them. “I just wanted to help him,” he whispered. “I love him.”

Taeyang closed his eyes briefly, as if the words physically hurt. He looked at Seungri, then back at Jiyong’s still, vacant body. “…I know,” he murmured.

Daesung remained quiet, frowning hard. His eyes flickered to the hoodie on the couch— the one Jiyong always wore when he was spiraling. It was bunched up now, still creased from where Seungri’s hand had brushed it. He noticed the faint scent in the air. Not Jiyong’s usual cologne. Seungri’s. He said nothing. Just clenched his jaw at his brother’s deteriation.

Across the room, Seungri wiped his eyes again and slowly pushed himself up. He limped slightly, favouring his right leg where he’d fallen, making no effort to hide the stumble. It only made him look more pitiful. “I’ll go,” he said softly. “I swear- I’m not looking for sympathy. He doesn’t want me here. I’ve already ruined enough.” He moved toward the door. And paused. “I just… if he gets worse…” he looked back over his shoulder, voice barely audible. “Please call me. Even if he hates me. I’ll come.”

The door clicked shut with a sound far too gentle for what had just happened.

Inside the apartment, Daesung exhaled shakily and finally moved to crouch beside Jiyong. He hovered a hand near his shoulder, then gently touched him.

Still no reaction.

“Jiyong-hyung…” he murmured. “Please say something.”

Silence.

Taeyang sat back, rubbing his temples with both hands, staring into the distance.

“…What if Seungri’s right?” he said, quietly.

Daesung shot him a look. “Don’t.”

“I’m serious. Ji’s not… he’s not well. And we’ve tried everything. Maybe— maybe Seungri is the only one he responds to.”

“Yeah,” Daesung muttered, “until he explodes like that again.”

Taeyang looked down at Jiyong, and something pained flickered in his expression. “He was calm when Seungri showed up. Then we came in and he exploded. Not Seungri.”

He didn’t need to say it explicity. Maybe they were the problem. Daesung didn't answer.

Because a small, guilty part of him was starting to think the same.

The door clicked shut behind him, and for a second, Seungri just stood in the empty hotel hallway, listening to the silence settle in.

No more screaming. No more gasps. No more wide, glassy eyes staring at him like he was something monstrous. No more Jiyong.

He let out a shuddering breath, staggering slightly as if still caught in the storm of it all.

But when he reached the elevator and pressed the button, something changed.

His shoulders straightened.

His hands steadied.

And the tremble in his jaw— gone.

By the time he entered his room, the performance had drained from him like sweat evaporating off skin. The tears had long dried, but he still walked over to the bathroom mirror and splashed cold water on his face.

He leaned against the sink, staring at himself.

Then, slowly, a smile curled the corners of his mouth. Small. Contained. Surgical.

“Well,” he murmured to his reflection, “that was one for the books.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone. Pressed play.

Taeyang’s cautious, quiet voice. “He was trying to help…”
Jiyong’s voice, screaming “Liars!”
The sound of Seungri hitting the coffee table.
Then his dramatic, tearful performance.

The sounds filled the quiet, warped and raw. Seungri closed his eyes and let it play again. And again.

He wasn’t smiling now.

He was studying it.

Like a scholar. Like a sculptor examining a nearly finished piece.

“That tone,” he whispered to himself. “The way he spat it. Like an animal cornered.” He chuckled.

He turned to the bed and sat, setting the phone down beside him. Reached for the small box tucked under the mattress and slid it out like a secret he hadn’t touched in weeks. Inside: copies of prescriptions, screenshots, a few notes.

But the real prize?

Photos.

Photos of Jiyong.

Pale. Wild-eyed. Speaking to no one. Holding that stupid hoodie like a security blanket. Arms shaking. Refusing food.

Seungri thumbed through them like memories from a vacation.

“You wanted me gone,” he whispered, softly now, almost lovingly. “You thought pushing me out would fix everything. That you could bury me and move on.”

His voice darkened.

“But they let me back in. And now…”

He picked up his phone again and tapped on Daesung’s contact. He typed out a single message:

Please keep me updated. I’m so worried. I just want him safe. 💔

He stared at it a moment longer before locking the phone and setting it down.

“Now they’re watching you, not me.”

He stood up, glanced at himself one last time in the mirror, and smoothed his hair back. The same hands that once trembled in front of them were steady now, clinical.

“I’ll give you some space, Jiyong,” he murmured. “Let them see what happens without me around. Let them see who you become.”

His smile returned, just a ghost of it now. One not meant for any camera.

“And when you finally break, when they’re dragging you out of that apartment half-alive, whispering my name through tears—”

He paused. Tilted his head.

“I’ll come back like I never left.”

He turned off the lights.

Chapter Text

The next morning came wrapped in grey. That dull, post-rain morning that left everything soggy and silent. Like the world itself had been crying all night and didn’t want to talk about it.

Taeyang answered the door in sweatpants and tired eyes, his son in one arm.

And there he was. Seungri. Shoulders hunched, hoodie too big, bangs falling over red-rimmed eyes under a hat. No makeup. No bravado. Just a soft, pained smile like he'd barely made it there in one piece.

"Hyung..." His voice broke before it fully formed. “Sorry… I came disguised,” he showed the facemask in his pocket as proof, “I didn’t want to put you in a more uncomfortable posiiton… I- I didn’t know where else to go.”

Taeyang let him in without a word. That’s how good he was.

Daesung was already in the living room, curled up with a blanket and a pit in his stomach that hadn’t left since yesterday. But when Seungri walked in— tear-stained, shaking like a leaf, eyes glassy like he hadn’t slept all night— Daesung stood up so fast he almost dropped his phone and tripped over the blanket. “Seungri?” he said, stepping forward. “Are you okay?”

And right on cue, Seungri cracked.

He broke down into heaving sobs, arms wrapping around himself like he could physically hold his shame in. “I’m sorry, I- I don’t want to break down in front of your son, Youngbae-hyung.” he squeezed his eyes shut and turned away.

“I-…” Taeyang hesitated, then sped off to lend his son over to Hyorin, his wife, in the other room.

“It’s all my fault.” He sobbed to Daesung, “I didn’t think it would make things worse— I didn’t know he’d react like that—”

Taeyang was back at his side instantly, hesitantly rubbing circles into his back, whispering that it wasn’t his fault, that he’d done what he thought was right. “He’s hurting, Seungri. We all are. But you didn’t make him like this.”

Seungri shook his head violently. “I should’ve stayed away. I should’ve never tried to come back. But when I saw how bad he was— I couldn’t— I couldn’t not do something. I thought I was helping him…” His voice broke again. Just enough. “But I made him worse. I— I ruined everything. Fuck, I can’t sleep with the guilt eating me alive.”

Daesung, eyes already wet, crossed the room and pulled him into a hug so tight it made Seungri wince. “You’re not the villain here,” he said, firm. “You tried to save him when the rest of us didn’t know how.”

And Seungri cried harder— quiet, pretty tears that dripped onto Daesung’s shoulder.

“I didn’t even think about the media,” he whispered hoarsely. “When I called the police... I just wanted someone to help before it was too late. I never meant for it to escalate like this. I never thought he’d... hate me so much.”

Taeyang looked away, jaw tight. “He doesn’t hate you for this. He’s just... scared. Lost.”

The world didn’t end. It just… dulled. The days didn’t pass so much as blur. Bleed. Drag.

No crash. No scream. No cinematic climax. Just silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.

The kind that crept in through the cracks of his mind and made itself at home. The kind that stretched the hours thin until they were just fabric, pulled taut over the same agonizing routine: wake, exist, regret, sleep— if sleep ever came.

Sunlight stopped reaching Jiyong’s apartment the way it used to— now shy behind clouds or maybe just avoiding him entirely. The windows, though large and beautiful, stayed shut, locked, curtains drawn. The air turned still, stale. Time thickened. Glasses and mugs stacked on every surface, gathering dust, but he never moved it. He barely noticed it.

He moved like a ghost through the ruins of his own life— pale and fragmented. A whisper of a man in baggy clothes that no longer fit, stumbling from room to room as if trying to remember what living felt like. He counted pills he wouldn’t take. He turned off his phone but kept picking it up anyway.

Sometimes, he’d wake up crying and not know why. Sometimes, he’d sleep for hours and wake up more exhausted than before.

The weight of betrayal had long since stopped being sharp. It was dull now, blunt like a bruise that wouldn't heal. A wound that no one else seemed to notice— because they were too busy checking Seungri's scars.

Daesung texted every other day. Taeyang left voicemails— soft-spoken, warm, hesitant, like he was talking to a wild animal that might bite.

But Jiyong didn’t respond.

He couldn’t. Not when their voices triggered something vile in his throat.

Not when just hearing their names filled his chest with glass.

They had believed him. Believed Seungri. Over him.

Seungri’s performance that day had been the role of a lifetime. An Oscar-winning spectacle of trembling lips and watery eyes, of frantic guilt and love-soaked lies. Jiyong had watched the man who he was sure broke him wrap himself in victimhood like a blanket— and then watched Taeyang and Daesung hold it tighter around him.

They didn’t see through it.

They didn’t even try.

When Seungri had cried out, “I didn’t know it would make things worse!” they comforted him. When Jiyong had screamed, they had restrained him. Physically. Holding him back like a child throwing a tantrum. Like the problem. Like a psycho.

That was the moment he knew he was alone.

Not metaphorically. Actually.

Completely.

Utterly.

The world got smaller after that. Rooms he used to find comfort in now felt foreign. His home wasn’t safe anymore— it was a holding cell, a padded box to contain his paranoia. He drew the blinds. He unplugged the TV. He stopped checking the weather because who cared if it was raining when you hadn’t left the house in twelve days?

He sat in corners with his knees to his chest, breathing shallow, like the air was poison. And maybe it was. Everything smelled of him—Seungri— somehow. His ghost, his fingerprints, his presence woven into the fibers of Jiyong’s sanity like static.

His hoodie still sat on the bed.

Jiyong couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. He told himself he didn’t have the energy. But the truth was, part of him still craved it. Craved comfort. Craved the memory of a time when Seungri’s touch had felt like safety and not sabotage.

That was the cruelty of it all. The confusion. The way his body missed what his mind now feared.

By week two, he’d stopped even trying to eat properly.

By week three, he barely left his bedroom.

He slept in a twisted mess of blankets and nightmares, curled into himself like a question mark. And when he did manage to rise— skin clammy, throat dry— it was usually to stare blankly at the bathroom mirror.

Sometimes he saw himself.

Sometimes he didn’t.

He stopped taking his pills. At first, it was rebellion. A middle finger to the narrative they were painting of him, that he was unstable, unhinged, sick.

Fine, then. He’d go without.

He’d show them he was lucid. Clear.

Defiantly— like reclaiming his mind meant reclaiming control.

But withdrawal was a beast with long teeth.

The nights stretched longer. The thoughts turned cruel. Paranoia seeped into everything— emails, shadows, the spaces between words. The last time he had gone outside (god, how long had it really even been?) he bought packs upon packs of cigarettes. He’d find himself talking to himself in the bathroom mirror, voice hoarse and trembling.

“They think I’m crazy.”

“They want me gone.”

The worst part? He couldn’t even trust his own brain anymore. Couldn’t tell if the fear was real or chemical.

He didn’t know which possibility was worse.

Chapter Text

On the fifteenth night, it happened.

He broke.

It wasn’t dramatic. There were no screams or shattered mirrors. Just stillness. An aching stillness that hummed in his bones.

It was cold.

He hadn’t showered in days, hadn’t eaten anything but a half slice of bread and a mouthful of instant coffee. He was dizzy. Hollow. The world felt slightly tilted, like gravity had become optional.

He curled up on the floor beside the bed, holding his legs like a child. And for the first time in days, the tears didn’t come. There was nothing left in him to cry out. Just this unbearable weight pressing into his chest. As if his ribs had caved in.

And then… he saw it.

The hoodie.

Soft. Familiar. Still folded where it had been. Still carrying the scent. Still a siren song wrapped in cotton.

He crawled to it, reached for it.

Pressed it to his face.

Breathed in.

And for a moment— just a flicker— the storm in his head quieted. His heartbeat slowed. His fingers stopped twitching.

He felt safe.

And he hated it.

But he didn’t stop.

He curled up with it, like a child hugging their favorite toy, and let it cradle him. Let it lull him. Let it whisper lies in Seungri’s voice, soft and steady:

“I never meant to hurt you.”

“I just wanted to help.”

“You’re not crazy, you’re just tired.”

He didn’t mean to open the drawer.

He didn’t mean to take the pills.

But his hands moved anyway. Muscle memory. Habit.

One.

Two.

Three.

He forgot the dose.

Didn’t care.

The world didn’t stop spinning, it just faded at the edges.

And when he finally closed his eyes— hoodie clutched like a lifeline, pill bottle still open on the floor— he didn’t know if he’d ever open them again.

But in that moment, he didn’t care.

Because at least the silence was finally winning.

And somewhere, like a devil whistling in a church pew, Seungri smiled.

A glass of whiskey sat untouched. Lights dimmed. The city blinking outside his window, unbothered. The mask long gone. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low like he wass speaking to no one.

“They think I care what he says now. They think I didn’t know what I was doing. Please.” A slow smile curled on his lips— too soft for the thoughts behind it.

“I handed them the pieces. One by one. Whispered my apologies between sobs and broken breath, let them see just enough of the old me to forget what I became.He’s unraveling. That’s not my fault. I didn’t make him stop sleeping. I didn’t make him throw his mirrors out. I didn’t make him stop trusting the only people left who were still stupid enough to care.”

His fingers tapped the glass once. Twice. No sip. Just rhythm. “But I gave him the push.” Whispered now. Like a confession to the dark. “He was already standing at the edge.” A beat. His eyes flickered toward the city lights like they held some quiet punchline.

“All I did was tell him to look down.” And he chuckled— low and breathless. Almost like it hurt.

“Let him claw his way back, sure. Let him scream that it was me. That it’s still me. But they won’t believe him now. They can’t. Because I’m the one who stayed.” He tilted his head. “Isn’t that what matters in the end? Who stays? Like how no one stayed for me?”

He leaned back into the chair, finally lifting the glass— but not to drink. Just to watch the light catch on the surface.

“And if the worst happens?”

A shrug. Cold. Effortless.

“Then I was just too late to save him.”

Chapter Text

He hadn’t meant to come back. Never again.

Choi Seunghyun had watched the drama unfold from the periphery like an outsider peering through frosted glass. Headlines. Messages. A tense call from Taeyang weeks ago— long-winded, circular, filled with hesitations and muffled regret. He’d listened. He’d grunted. He hadn’t said much. Because what was there to say when he knew none of them had truly understood Jiyong?

They loved him. Yes.

But understood?

No.

Only Seunghyun had seen that brand of fragility before. That particular shade of brilliance that burned so hot it scorched its own bearer. And he had known, deep in his bones, that this wasn't just another fallout or creative tantrum. This was something colder. Wilder. Like a slow rot setting into the heart of a man who once danced with fire and called it art.

So he came.

Without telling the others. Without warning.

He used the spare key Jiyong had given him years ago, the one they joked about over too many drinks. “In case I ever implode, you’ll be the one to find the body.”

He never thought he would use it, but something told him to hang onto it.

The door creaked open into a cave of shadows.

It hit him all at once: stale air, the sour smell of isolation, the silence that felt more like abandonment than peace. The apartment was still the same in shape, but stripped of life. Cluttered, unwashed, dim. A hollow skeleton of a home. His footsteps echoed on the wooden floor as he moved through it, cautious, heart tight with something ugly and growing.

“Jiyong?” he called softly. No answer.

And then he saw it.

A figure, curled at the foot of the bed like something broken in half. Loose hoodie. An empty bottle on the floor, pills strewn across the carpet. The kind of stillness that made his throat close up.

Seunghyun didn’t rush. He didn’t scream. He calmly dropped to his knees beside him, gently, flipping the ends of his long coat back, like approaching an injured animal.

“Hey,” he murmured, touching Jiyong’s shoulder. “Jiyong. Wake up.”

A groan. Barely.

Seunghyun exhaled— half relief, half grief.

His fingers curled just slightly tighter on Jiyong’s shoulder, grounding himself in the frail heat of the man beneath him. Jiyong stirred again, faint as a flicker, and Seunghyun leaned closer.

“It’s me,” he whispered, expressionless. “It’s Seunghyun.”

A pause. Then the softest sound from Jiyong’s throat— not quite recognition, not quite disbelief. Just… something he couldn't name. A tremor. His eyes fluttered, glassy, dilated, bloodshot, unfocused. Like it took effort to find the world again.

“…Hyung…?”

It barely escaped his lips, more breath than word.

Seunghyun’s heart clenched.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter. “Yeah, Jiyong. I’m here.”

Jiyong’s head tilted slightly, like he was listening underwater. His brows pulled together faintly, as if confused by his own senses. Then, almost imperceptibly, his cracked lips parted. “You’re not… real…”

Seunghyun swallowed hard, kneeling fully now, brushing damp strands of hair from Jiyong’s clammy forehead. “I’m real enough.”

Jiyong’s eyes closed again. A tear slipped sideways into the pillow. “You left…” The words barely shaped themselves. They broke apart in the middle, dissolved on his tongue.

“I know,” Seunghyun murmured. “I know I did.”

A long silence. Jiyong’s breathing rasped— shallow, too slow. His fingertips twitched against the sheets like he was trying to hold onto something, searching for the very hoodie he was wearing.

“You were gonna… find the body…” he slurred, faintly echoing the old joke they once shared. It barely registered as humour now— more like a prophecy.

Seunghyun blinked hard. He didn’t let go. “You didn’t make me find a body,” he said, voice low, reverent. “You let me find you. Still breathing. Still here.”

Jiyong made a soft sound, half-laugh, half-cry— so weak it was almost imagined. Then, like a ghost, he whispered “…you came back…”

Seunghyun gently tucked the blanket around him, as if any chill might shatter what little warmth Jiyong had left. His hands were steady. His heart wasn’t.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he said. “Even when I was gone. Especially then.”

No response. Jiyong was fading again— eyes closing, jaw slackening. Somewhere between waking and dreaming. A haze of chemicals and exhaustion pulling him under.

And Seunghyun stayed. Quietly. 

He sat on the floor beside the bed, one arm still resting lightly over Jiyong’s frail shoulder, thumb brushing idly over the fabric of his hoodie— grounding him, even if Jiyong didn’t know it. Even if he forgot by morning.

Old flames didn’t always come back with fanfare. Sometimes they returned in silence. In the steadiness of someone finally arriving when it mattered most.

Jiyong slipped under like a stone sinking into deep, dark water.

And Seunghyun stayed right where he was, crouched at the bedside, watching each fragile rise and fall of his chest as if daring the next one not to come.

He didn’t cry.

He just sat there, breathing in the cold stink of a room that had forgotten what sunlight felt like. Of sweat and old clothes, rotting food, and the faint clinical bitterness of pills and pills and pills. His hand remained on Jiyong’s shoulder, unmoving, like a lifeline. Like a vow.

God, he looked so small. So thin.

There had been a time when Jiyong’s presence could silence a room. Now he looked like something left behind after a fire. All colour burned out of him. All light buried in the soot.

Seunghyun didn’t speak. Not to him. Not to himself.

But his mind screamed.

Where were you when it got this bad?

Why did you wait for him to break like this?

He wanted to believe it was time. That time had healed him. That he’d stepped away from the old life for the right reasons: to find his peace, to untangle the mess in his own head. And it had worked. Slowly. Painfully. But it had.

He had gotten better.

He was better.

His days now were quiet. Sober. Honest. Full of long walks and warm coffee and books he finally had the clarity to finish. He painted again— not for galleries, not for anyone. Just because it made him feel whole. He still couldn’t being himself to face his parents, but one day the time would be right. His hands barely shook anymore when he looked in the mirror. The monsters had grown quiet.

But this?

This was the part he hadn’t prepared for.

Because he had clawed his way out of hell only to find Jiyong still down there, burning slow, too proud or too lost to scream for help.

And now he was watching the man he once loved unravel, one shallow breath at a time.

Seunghyun sat back against the wall. Still quiet. Still calm.

But inside, he shattered. Again and again and again.

He would stay the night.

And the next, if he had to.

Because someone had to be here when the fire turned to ash.

When Jiyong woke, it wasn’t sudden. It was sluggish. Slow. Like surfacing from a deep, drugged dream where everything had been nothing and nothing had hurt, like he was growing used to as the weeks passed. His mouth was dry. His limbs ached. His head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton.

The light leaking through the blinds was too soft to be natural. Filtered. Pale. Morning, maybe. Afternoon? He couldn’t tell. And for a while— a long while— he didn’t move. He wasn’t sure if he could move. He just stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the heater and the low, muffled sound of… breathing?

Wait.

Not his breathing.

Slowly— painfully— he turned his head, squinting.

There, slouched in the armchair by the window, was a figure.

Asleep. One ankle resting on his knee, arms crossed, chin tilted toward his chest in that strange, elegant way only he could ever sleep.

Seunghyun.

Jiyong stared.

For a while, he thought he was hallucinating again. His mind had conjured stranger things these past weeks- memories warped into daydreams, voices that weren’t there. Maybe this was another one.

But then Seunghyun stirred. Exhaled through his nose. Shifted a little.

Real.

And the weight of that crushed Jiyong’s chest.

He let out a dry, broken sound— halfway between a laugh and a sob. His eyes stung. He turned away, pressing his face into the pillow, humiliated by his own tears.

He didn’t hear Seunghyun rise. Didn’t hear the chair creak or the quiet footfalls.

But he felt the hand brush lightly over the prominent ridges of his back. Warm. Familiar.

“Morning,” came the soft, deep voice.

Jiyong didn’t answer. His shoulders shook once. Twice. “I didn’t dream you, did I…” His voice cracked.

“No,” Seunghyun said. “I’m really here.”

Another long pause. “…Why?”

Seunghyun sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to shift the weight too suddenly. “You’re scaring everyone. You’re worse than you’ve ever been. And that scared me too.”

Jiyong swallowed, throat raw.

“You weren’t supposed to care anymore.”

“I tried to forget you,” Seunghyun said, and his voice was so achingly human it made Jiyong flinch.

A silence fell between them.

Seunghyun looked around the room again. Nothing had changed from the night before. But somehow, the light made it all feel sadder. More honest. There were notebooks scattered on the floor. One had his name scribbled on the cover in tiny, erratic handwriting. “You’ve been writing again,” Seunghyun said gently.

Jiyong said nothing. He knew it was filled with paranoia.

“You haven’t eaten in days.”

Still nothing.

“I’m not leaving this time. You’re going to get better.”

That finally made Jiyong turn his head. Just a little. Just enough to see Seunghyun’s face.

There was no judgement there. Just a quiet kind of strength. Older. Gentler. Like he had walked through his own fire and come out harder, but softer at the same time. Jiyong hated how much it made him want to cry again. “…You look so different,” he whispered.

“So do you.”

A weak, pitiful smile touched Jiyong’s lips.

Seunghyun reached out, tucked the blanket around his shoulders again.

“Rest,” he said softly. “We’ll talk later.”

And for the first time in weeks— maybe longer— Jiyong let himself exhale.

Not a sob.

Not a scream.

Just a breath.

And sleep pulled him under again, this time like a hand holding his.

Jiyong had fallen asleep fully, this time. Seunghyun could tell by the way his face slackened, muscles unclenching bit by bit until what was left resembled something almost childlike. Vulnerable. His breathing had evened out, slow and shallow, but steady. The rise and fall of his chest was the only sign of time moving.

Seunghyun stayed crouched beside him for a moment longer, hand still resting on his shoulder, eyes memorizing every detail. His pulse had slowed now too, but a strange ringing still lingered in his head, like a leftover echo of fear. He had found him. Jiyong was alive. But just barely.

He hadn’t expected it to hurt this much.

When he finally rose to his feet, his knees cracked— age, sobriety, and something weightier. The apartment was dim and colorless, save for the late morning light filtering in through half-closed blinds, casting pale stripes across the clutter. The space hadn’t changed, and yet everything in it felt like a ghost.

He took a long, slow breath and stepped into the living room. There were clothes strewn over furniture, unopened packages, tangled cords, ashtrays with cigarette butts squished into it. Takeout containers—some empty, some half-eaten. Bottles, orange-capped and knocked over. A cracked phone face-down on the table. Papers and notebooks strewn about the place.

It was a museum of someone who had stopped caring.

Seunghyun said nothing. He just moved. Quietly. Carefully.

He gathered dishes first, scraping hardened bits of rice and old soup into the bin, rinsing with hot water that stung his hands. He tied up trash bags. Dusted surfaces. Rearranged scattered books back onto shelves. Threw open the windows. Let the light in. Let the air change.

He didn’t hum. He didn’t sigh. His body moved like he’d done this before, like his bones remembered the rhythm of saving someone who no longer knew how to live, only this time the person was not himself.

When he passed Jiyong’s sleeping form again, he paused to brush a lock of hair from his face. His skin was warm now. Thank God. He allowed himself a faint smile, and if he had leaned down to press the gentlest kiss to Jiyong’s forehead, he wouldn’t have told him.

He moved into the kitchen again. There wasn’t much in the fridge or the pantry. Some old condiments. A few eggs. Rice. Green onions. A sad-looking carrot. But it was enough.

He set water to boil and began chopping. His hands were steady, knife rhythmic against the board. And as the rice started to simmer— a gentle, simple task— he let his shoulders drop.

This wasn’t how it had been, back when he was the one everyone whispered about.

Back when his hands shook for different reasons. When his mind played cruel tricks and every smile was paper-thin. When the world felt too bright, too loud, too sharp for someone who just wanted to disappear into silence.

But he'd made it through. Somehow. He’d climbed out of the wreckage of himself and built something quieter. Simpler. No longer a myth, no longer a headline. Just a man, with a healthier weight to his body, a healed liver, and eyes that saw clearer now.

He didn’t drink anymore. Didn’t even smoke.

He wrote music again, for himself now.

He planted herbs on his balcony and read books without skipping pages and answered texts from his therapist within the hour. He went to therapy. He kept plants alive.

He had grown. Finally.

But this… this was the one thing he hadn’t outgrown.

Jiyong.

Even now, broken and burning out like a dying star, Jiyong was still tethered to some place in Seunghyun’s chest that refused to sever. It didn’t matter what they were now. That had never mattered.

He ladled the rice into a bowl, added a drizzle of sesame oil, a sprinkle of salt, some sliced green onion. Soft, warm, nourishing.

A different kind of love.

When he brought the tray into the room, Jiyong was still asleep, this time curled tighter into the blanket, as if the warmth had finally sunk in.

Seunghyun sat beside the bed again, bowl in hand, and waited, stroking the sleeping man’s hair with the gentlest touch.

This time, he wasn’t here to fight or argue or resurrect the past.

He was just here to stay. And that had to be enough.

Jiyong stirred with a sound that wasn’t quite a groan, yet wasn’t quite a breath either. His eyes fluttered, lashes damp, stuck together with sleep and leftover tears. He looked… unfinished. Like he hadn’t fully returned to his body yet.

Seunghyun was already sitting at his side, bowl in hand, watching the change with a silence so heavy it felt sacred.

He didn’t speak.

He waited.

Jiyong’s eyes cracked open just slightly, unfocused and searching, pupils small and strange. His lips were dry and parted, chapped at the corners. His whole body seemed too light, like there was nothing inside to anchor him.

“…hyung…?” It came out broken, high and uncertain. Not a greeting. A question. A memory.

Seunghyun shifted forward instantly, setting the bowl down on the side table, his hand moving to gently cradle the back of Jiyong’s head. “I’m here,” he said softly. “I’ve got you.”

Jiyong blinked once. Twice. His eyes darted around the room like he was seeing it for the first time. Or maybe the last. Everything about him was trembling. He tried to move. Tried to push himself up, but his limbs gave out halfway. His elbow slipped against the mattress and he let out a soft, pained whimper, more helpless than frustrated.

“No, no— slow,” Seunghyun murmured, already reaching out. One arm around his back, the other sliding beneath his knees.

“Can’t,” Jiyong whispered, breath hitching. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. I’ve got you.” And he did. He lifted him with a gentleness and ease that was almost reverent, guiding his body slowly into a seated position, supporting all his weight until Jiyong slumped forward against him like a child too tired to sit on his own.

Jiyong didn’t fight it. Couldn’t. His head rested against Seunghyun’s chest, breath ghosting through parted lips. He was burning up, flushed and trembling slightly.

Seunghyun held him there for a moment. Just held him. His hand came up to cradle the back of Jiyong’s head, thumb stroking gently over the sweat-damp hairline. “I’m here,” he said again. “You’re not alone.”

A sound escaped Jiyong’s throat. Not a word. Just grief, unshaped.

Seunghyun let him lean, then slowly reached for the glass of water. He held it to Jiyong’s lips, whispering, “Small sips,” as he tilted it carefully.

Jiyong tried. But the water ran down his chin after the first swallow, and he let out a soft, confused sound, too tired to manage the simple act of drinking.

Seunghyun was already there, wiping his mouth with the edge of a sleeve. “It’s okay. We’ll try again in a second.” He reached for the bowl. “Just a little food. You’ll feel better. I promise.” He brought a spoonful to Jiyong’s lips. And Jiyong— dazed, childlike, barely registering— opened his mouth without question.

He chewed slowly, like he’d forgotten how. Like tasting something again felt like a betrayal of the numbness.

Seunghyun fed him one more bite. Then another. Jiyong shook his head after the third. Barely a movement. Just a whisper of refusal. “No more,” he whispered. His eyes were glazed again, heavy with exhaustion. His body had already begun sagging back down.

Seunghyun took his full weight without any issue at all. “Alright,” he said. “Alright. No more.” He set the bowl down and guided Jiyong back, gently, slowly, until his head met the pillow again. He wiped the corner of his mouth once more, pulled the blanket up to his chin. Brushed a thumb under his eye where a tear had crept out and stuck. And then he just sat there, his hand resting lightly on Jiyong’s chest— right over his heart. Feeling the rhythm. Weak, but still beating.

Still here.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he whispered, voice nearly shaking. “I don’t care how long it takes.”

Jiyong didn’t answer. His breath came in soft stutters. His fingers twitched once against the sheets, then stilled again.

Seunghyun stayed.

There was nothing left to do now but be there.

And if he had to become the walls, the warmth, the water— he would.

Chapter Text

The fever had crept back in slowly. Subtle at first— just the flush along Jiyong’s cheeks, the glassiness in his eyes. But now his whole body was trembling beneath the blanket again, and Seunghyun could feel the heat radiating off his skin. Jiyong whimpered quietly, shifting restlessly in the sheets, breath ragged and uneven. His skin was clammy. He kept curling in on himself, pulling the blanket up and then kicking it off again, unable to find comfort in either.

Seunghyun sat beside the bed, bowl long since taken away, water untouched. His brows furrowed. He placed a hand lightly on Jiyong’s forehead. Burning.

He didn’t panic. He was staring Withdrawal in the face, half-tempted to greet it in the bittersweet way that meeting with an old schoolmate where the friendship had ended in argument eminated. He simply rose, quietly, and crossed the room to where the drawer had been cracked open. Inside, two pill bottles, one upright, one on its side. One still half-full.

He turned it over in his hand. Just like the others had, he recognized them too.

He remembered the last time Jiyong had taken them, back when things were fraying. They’d worked then. Had brought the fever down when Jiyong insisted he didn’t need them anymore. Had helped him sleep through the worst.

Seunghyun trusted that memory.

He popped the cap and took out a single pill, turning back to the bed.

Jiyong’s eyes were open now, barely. Murky. Half-aware. His limbs twitched beneath the blanket, his whole body tight with the ache of withdrawal.

Seunghyun knelt beside him again.

“Jiyong,” he said softly. “You’ve got a fever. You need to take something, alright?”

But the moment Jiyong saw the pill, he recoiled— just slightly, but enough. His face contorted into something fearful and small. He pulled his head back against the pillow, hands fisting weakly in the blanket.

“No,” he whispered, barely audible. “No… no, not that. Please.”

“It’s okay,” Seunghyun said gently, lowering his voice like a lullaby. “They’ll help, I promise. Just one. It’s to help you sleep. For the fever, remember?”

Jiyong shook his head, barely moving it, but his mouth twisted like he might cry at the familiar words. “Don’t want it,” he whispered. “He gave me— he gave me those. I don’t— don’t want—”

Confusion flickered across his face. “Who?”

But Jiyong was already fading again, eyes unfocused, breath hiccupping like a child trying not to sob. He wasn’t fully there. His mind was too splintered, too buried.

“Hey,” Seunghyun said, gentler now, taking his hand and holding it in both of his. “Shh… you don’t have to be scared. I’m here. Just me. No one else.” He brought the pill to his lips again. “It’s just one. For the fever. For the shakes. Then you can sleep, okay? Just sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

Jiyong’s bottom lip trembled. He didn’t nod. Didn’t agree. But his lips parted just slightly.

That was enough. Seunghyun placed the pill gently on his tongue, then brought the water to his lips. He guided the glass, one hand still holding Jiyong’s jaw steady. “Good,” he whispered. “Just sip. That’s it.”

Jiyong swallowed with effort, barely managing, then sagged back into the pillow, eyes wet but silent now. His hands gripped the blanket again.

Seunghyun brushed a hand through his damp hair. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he said softly. “Even if you hate me later. Even if you scream when you wake up. I’ll take it. You just have to get through this.”

Jiyong didn’t respond. He was already drifting again, the edges of consciousness slipping through his fingers like water.

He didn’t know who had given Jiyong those pills. He didn’t know why he was afraid of them now, but clearly he needed them.

Seunghyun swore to himself that whatever it took, he’d carry him through this. Even if it meant walking through fire barefoot.

Again.

Jiyong had barely moved all day, which Seunghyun expected entirely. He dozed, mostly, drifting in and out, barely tethered to the room, limbs heavy and still feverish. The rice had stayed down, which was celebrated like a victory. The pill hadn’t made him worse. But the shadows still clung to him. He hadn’t spoken again since the morning. Hadn’t opened his eyes for more than a few moments at a time.

Seunghyun knew this state. Too well. The weight of yourself becomes too much. The thought of movement is unbearable. Even standing feels like a punishment. So you rot slowly, hoping no one notices. Hoping someone does.

It was nearly dusk now, and the light through the blinds had turned the color of wet ash. The air was stale again. And Jiyong smelled like fever, sweat, and days of not leaving bed.

So Seunghyun stood up. He filled the kettle. Warmed a bucket. Checked the water pressure in the bathroom, cleaned out the tub with practiced hands. Turned the heater on and tested the towels until one felt soft enough. He left the lights dim.

He came back to the bedroom and sat gently on the edge of the mattress. “Hey,” he mumbled.

Jiyong stirred slightly, lashes fluttering.

“I’m going to help you get cleaned up, okay?”

No response.

Seunghyun didn’t wait for one. He pulled back the blanket slowly, speaking softly the whole time. “Just a quick shower. Warm water. That’s all.”

Jiyong made a small sound, a weak protest from somewhere deep in his chest. But his body didn’t fight. It barely registered.

Seunghyun slid his arms under him and lifted— he was too light. Bones wrapped in exhaustion. The way his head fell against Seunghyun’s shoulder as he carried him so effortlessly made something ache so deep in his chest it stole his breath.

“It’s alright,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

In the bathroom, the tiles were cold but the air was warm. The steam had started to rise, fogging the mirror and softening the walls. Seunghyun knelt beside the tub, cradling Jiyong as he sat him down gently on the little wooden stool tucked in the corner.

The moment Jiyong touched the floor, he shivered.

“Too cold?”

Jiyong didn’t answer. Just hunched in on himself slightly, arms around his stomach, eyes barely open.

Seunghyun took a small moment to pat the top of his head gently, "you're like a little cat."

He didn’t rush. He peeled the sweat-soaked shirt off carefully, frowning at the way it stuck to Jiyong’s back. He helped him step out of his stained sweatpants. Every movement slow. Every movement of fabric loud in the silence.

Jiyong didn’t speak. Only nodded with a soft sigh when Seunghyun’s fingers paused at the waistband of his underwear, waiting. Didn’t even look at him as Seunghyun gently pulled them off and helped him into the bathtub.

The older man poured warm water down his back slowly, using a washcloth to wipe away layers of fever and fear. He was gentle around the ribs, the bruises he hadn’t asked about. There was nothing sexual about touching his naked body this time- not like there had been those nights he didn’t dare think about anymore. This was about helping Jiyong because he knew better than anyone how difficult basic hygeine was when this shit took over a life. He worked shampoo through his hair with both hands— fingers steady, massaging lightly, like he was coaxing life back into him one touch at a time.

Jiyong swayed under the water, eyelids heavy, like he could sleep sitting upright.

Seunghyun rinsed him off carefully, hands supporting his shoulders when he started to slip forward. “There you go,” he murmured. “Almost done.” The final rinse took longer. He didn’t rush it. When he finally wrapped him in a towel and held him close, Jiyong didn’t pull away. He sagged against him like a child after a long cry, and Seunghyun just held him there, soaking wet and heartbreakingly still.

He helped him into clean clothes. A fresh hoodie. Soft sweats. Thick socks. Jiyong sat like a puppet the whole time, limbs heavy, eyes fogged, but the fresh feeling was undeniably welcome.

“I’m going to help you with one more thing,” Seunghyun said, leading him gently to the bathroom sink. “Then you can go lie down again, okay?”

Jiyong didn’t speak. Just followed with unsteady steps, his shoulder brushing Seunghyun’s side. The toothbrush felt foreign in his hand. His fingers barely closed around it.

Seunghyun stood behind him, reached around, and gently placed his own hand over Jiyong’s. Guided it to his mouth. Helped him move. Back and forth. Tiny motions. Toothpaste foamed weakly at the corners of his lips. He spat once, missed the sink slightly. Seunghyun wiped it away with a tissue before Jiyong could even notice.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You’re doing great.”

Jiyong’s eyes welled suddenly- unexpected, fast.

“I feel so stupid,” he whispered, voice small and ashamed. “Useless.”

“No,” Seunghyun said immediately. “Don’t.” His voice didn’t rise. He didn’t try to soothe it away with empty comfort. “You’re sick. You’re healing. That’s not weakness. That’s just surviving.” He rinsed the brush. Helped Jiyong rinse his mouth. Patted his face dry with a clean towel. And when it was done, he pulled him gently into a hug. Arms around thin shoulders. Jiyong didn’t hug back right away, but eventually, slowly, his hands curled into the front of Seunghyun’s shirt.

“Come on,” Seunghyun murmured. “Bed.” And he led him back into the dark, quiet bedroom. Clean now. A little lighter. A little warmer. Air fresh.

They didn’t say another word.

But Seunghyun sat beside him as he drifted again, eyes glassy and half-lidded, smelling of shampoo and fresh laundry. And when Jiyong fell asleep this time, he didn’t look like he was disappearing. Just resting.

The clock on the wall flicked past 3:40 a.m. when the sound came: sharp, gasping, muffled. Not quite a scream, but close. It cut through the silence like something wounded.

Seunghyun was on his feet from the couch before his mind caught up, heart thudding. The hallway was dim and cool as he walked down it, barefoot. Jiyong’s room door was slightly ajar, the way he had left it for this reason exactly. Another sound. A broken whimper. A breath cut short like it couldn’t make it out of a throat clamped tight with fear. Seunghyun pushed the door open gently.

Jiyong was curled tightly beneath the covers, small and trembling, his fists twisted in the sheets, the whole shape of him folded like a child trying to make himself disappear. His mouth moved in panic but no sound followed. Sweat beaded across his brow, plastering hair to skin. The whimpers came again, sharper this time— mewling, helpless.

Seunghyun crossed the room in a few long strides and knelt beside the bed. “Jiyong,” he said, voice low. “You’re dreaming. Hey... you’re safe. It’s okay now.”

No response. Just frantic, shallow breathing.

Seunghyun hesitated only a second before reaching out, brushing back the wet fringe from Jiyong’s forehead. His fingers found skin, hot with fever, and beneath them, Jiyong flinched like he’d been burned.

“Ji,” Seunghyun tried again, firmer, closer. “It’s me. You’re not there anymore. You’re home.” The moment his voice cracked on the word home, Jiyong’s eyes flew open.

Wild. Glazed. Haunted. His whole body snapped upright like a coiled spring unwinding violently, eyes darting like a cornered animal. He tried to speak, but his mouth opened only for a ragged breath that caught and trembled.

“Shh,” Seunghyun responded quickly, cupping the back of his head to steady him. “It’s okay. You’re here. I’ve got you.”

Jiyong looked at him, really looked— his pupils blown wide in terror, chest heaving. Then his gaze flicked to the room around them, then back to Seunghyun’s face, like he was trying to place everything through a fog. He didn’t say a word, just reached out with shaking fingers and clutched Seunghyun’s wrist lightly, like it might vanish.

That was all.

Seunghyun moved slowly, never breaking the grip. He sat on the edge of the bed and gently pulled back the covers, then eased Jiyong back against the pillow with an arm behind his neck. His body was rigid, limbs unsure, still breathing too fast. Seunghyun climbed in beside him without a word, careful, slow. The mattress dipped, and Jiyong’s eyes darted up again like a startled animal… then they softened. He didn't fight it.

Seunghyun reached over and pulled the blanket over them both, then turned onto his side to face him. “Try to sleep,” he whispered. “You’re okay now.”

And something in Jiyong gave way. His hand never left Seunghyun’s wrist. But his breathing slowed. Shivers faded. His eyelids drooped, fluttered, then shut again— this time without terror behind them. A sigh, barely audible, left his lips.

Minutes passed. Seunghyun stayed still. He didn’t close his eyes. Not yet. He just watched him. Watched how peaceful Jiyong finally looked, even if only for now. Watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, the smallness of his frame beneath the covers, the way his fingers stayed curled around Seunghyun like a lifeline.

It had been years since he’d seen him sleep like this. Years since they’d shared a bed. They hadn’t since… since before his scandal. Something about that settled deep in Seunghyun’s chest— a quiet ache, bittersweet.

Eventually, when Jiyong’s grip loosened slightly in sleep, Seunghyun let himself breathe. Then, finally, he closed his eyes.

It was the warmth that woke him. Not the sun— though that crept shyly through the blinds in gold-tinged stripes— but the heat of a body beside him for the first time in years. Warmth pressed into his side, steady breath just barely brushing against his shirt.

Seunghyun blinked slowly. It took a moment to remember where he was. A moment more to realize Jiyong was still asleep— curled into the curve of his body like he’d grown into it overnight, fragile and soft, a hand half-tucked against Seunghyun’s chest like it had wandered there sometime while they slept. Beneath the blanket, Jiyong’s legs had tangled with his.

And he was so light. So heartbreakingly light.

Seunghyun stayed still, afraid to move. He watched the way Jiyong’s lashes trembled with dreams, the small frown that still hadn’t entirely left his face, even in rest. His breathing had steadied sometime in the night. His fever, too, seemed to have ebbed into something gentler. His body no longer shuddered with withdrawal, but it had been replaced with this deep, eerie quiet.

Jiyong shifted slightly in his sleep, breath hitching, and Seunghyun tensed on instinct, ready in case the nightmare was coming back. But it didn’t. Jiyong just let out a hoarse little sound, then stilled again.

Minutes passed. Then, a blink. A twitch of lashes. A tiny furrow of the brow.

Seunghyun whispered gently, before the panic could return. "Hey. I'm here."

Jiyong didn’t respond at first. Just blinked up at him, slow, hazy, like waking from underwater. His face was flushed from sleep, hair flattened in strange directions, lips cracked and pale.

“You slept,” Seunghyun said softly, brushing a knuckle against Jiyong’s cheekbone. “You did good.”

Jiyong blinked again. His eyes were so dark this close, and wide. He looked confused. Small. His mouth parted, like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. Then a slow, almost shy shake of the head.

Seunghyun smiled, soft and lopsided. “You don’t have to talk.” He sat up, careful not to disturb him too much, and eased out from under the covers. Jiyong made a quiet noise of protest, barely audible, and Seunghyun paused. “I’m just getting you water,” he promised, voice low. “I’ll be right back.” And he was. Moments later, he returned with a glass. He sat on the bed, cradled the glass in one hand, and held the other out gently. “Come on,” he murmured. “Sit up for me.”

Jiyong hesitated. Then, with Seunghyun’s help, he slowly, stiffly pushed himself upright. His body folded in on itself, shoulders hunched, like the weight of his own skin was too much.

Seunghyun slid an arm behind him, guiding him.

The younger tried to take the glass with a trembling hand, but couldn’t. His fingers shook too badly, and he dropped them after only a second.

Seunghyun didn’t react. He just lifted the glass himself and held it to Jiyong’s lips. “Small sips,” he murmured, and tilted it carefully.

Jiyong drank. Not much, but enough. When it was done, Seunghyun set the glass aside and smoothed a hand over Jiyong’s back, light and steady. “I made rice for you yesterday,” he said. “Do you think you could eat a little?”

Jiyong looked unsure. But when Seunghyun came back with a small bowl and spoon, he didn’t protest. Not when Seunghyun sat beside him again. Not when he fed him the first few spoonfuls, slow, careful, like he was made of glass.

But after the third bite, Jiyong turned his face away again.

“That’s okay,” Seunghyun said. “It’s okay.” He set the bowl down. Wiped the corner of Jiyong’s mouth with his thumb. Everything he did, he did gently. Like he’d learned exactly how to care for someone this fragile— not just with love, but with muscle memory. Like he’d been here too.

He had.

The quiet lingered between them. Not uncomfortable. Just full of things neither of them were ready to say.

Jiyong leaned slightly into his shoulder.

And Seunghyun, who had never once asked for permission to be trusted again, just stayed still and let it happen.

Jiyong sat on the edge of the bed, motionless, small hands limp in his lap.

The morning had grown brighter; the rice bowl was mostly untouched. His fever had broken but left behind a hollow, paper-thin version of him, like the shell after the storm.

Seunghyun knelt in front of him, holding out soft, clean clothes. “I brought these from your closet,” he said, voice low, careful not to spook him. “Something easy to wear. Warm.”

Jiyong didn’t move.

Seunghyun waited. Then gently placed a hand on his knee. “Can I help you get dressed?”

A slow, near-imperceptible nod.

So he did. Piece by piece, slowly, reverently, he helped him change out of the sweat-soaked shirt he’d worn through the worst of the night while ignoring the too-prominant ribcage that his skin seemed to just stretch over. He unbuttoned it gently, careful not to startle him, folding it away like it was a page from a story best left behind.

Jiyong didn’t fight it. He barely reacted at all. He let Seunghyun ease his arms into the sleeves of a soft black jumper, tug the hem down carefully over his hips. Even lifting his arms looked like effort. Every time Jiyong swayed, Seunghyun steadied him. Every time his head dipped low, Seunghyun lifted his chin with soft fingers and quiet breath. Next, the pants. Nothing tight. Just a loose, worn pair of sweats. Seunghyun helped him step into them, one leg at a time. Jiyong’s body folded in on itself as Seunghyun guided him upright, arms around his waist.

“There we go,” he murmured, breath ghosting against Jiyong’s collarbone. “Just like that.”

When it was done, Jiyong slumped against him briefly. Not collapsing, just resting, as if even this small act of care had worn him out. Seunghyun held him without a word.

Then, he reached for the brush. It had been sitting untouched on the nightstand, half-buried under a scattering of wrappers and neglected essentials. He took it without comment, then moved to sit behind Jiyong on the bed. “I’m going to brush your hair now,” he said softly, like speaking to someone half-awake. “It’s a little tangled, but I’ll be gentle.”

Jiyong didn’t respond. But he didn’t move away, either.

Seunghyun parted the strands with his fingers first, smoothing them down. The hair was longer than before. Messier. The brush moved through slowly, carefully, catching on knots with delicate precision. Every stroke was a lullaby. Every tug met with quiet apology.

Jiyong didn’t cry. But the quiet in the room grew heavier, more saturated, like grief had curled itself between them and settled in for the long haul.

Halfway through, Jiyong leaned back slightly, his shoulder resting against Seunghyun’s knee. His eyes were shut. His breathing slow. He looked impossibly young, impossibly breakable.

And then, in a voice barely above a whisper. “…thank you.”

The words were dry, soft, frayed at the edges. They hit Seunghyun like a knife through the ribs. He paused mid-stroke, hand frozen in Jiyong’s hair. His throat tightened around everything he could never say aloud— how long he’d waited to hear that voice, how much it meant, how much it broke him. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said, finally. Quiet, thick. “You don’t ever have to thank me.”

But Jiyong’s eyes were still shut. He wasn’t trying to be polite. Or grateful. He was just… trying. Trying to hold onto the version of Seunghyun who stayed. Who brushed his hair and helped him get dressed and made rice and sat through the nightmares. The version who had changed so much it hurt to look at him.

And Seunghyun, still brushing, still watching him fold inward like a petal at dusk, just let the silence stretch. Because that was the language they knew now. Not confession. Not apology. Just this. Care in pieces.

Chapter Text

The screaming didn’t start loud. It was a sound like choking on a dream— raw, confused, almost animal. A scrape in the back of the throat. Seunghyun heard it from the kitchen and was running before it formed into words.

By the time he burst into the bedroom, Jiyong was already tangled in the sheets, legs kicking, chest heaving, crying. His eyes were open but wild, wide with the kind of fear that didn’t belong to the present. Like something was hunting him from inside.

“Jiyong,” Seunghyun said, crossing to him in two strides. “Hey. It’s me.”

But Jiyong flinched away like he’d been struck. His hands came up, clawing at the air. He was breathless and shuddering.

“Don’t touch me— don’t— don’t—” He begged, his voice cracked, feral, high.

“It’s me, Seunghyun. You’re home. You’re safe.” He didn’t touch him yet. Didn’t crowd him. Just stayed low to the ground, where he could be seen but not towering. Steady. Present.

Jiyong shook his head violently, eyes darting around the room like the walls were closing in. Like he didn’t see Seunghyun— just shadows, teeth, ghosts. “He— he said—he—” he stammered, eyes unfocused. His arms wrapped around himself like he was trying to disappear. “He said he wouldn’t— he said he wouldn’t—”

And then he just broke. A sob tore out of his chest, and his whole body shook like it was trying to shed him from the inside out.

That’s when Seunghyun finally moved. He stepped in slowly. Sat on the edge of the bed and gently reached forward, hands open. “Jiyong,” he said, voice low like a lullaby. “You’re dreaming. You’re not there anymore.” When he touched Jiyong’s shoulder, the smaller man flinched again— but didn’t pull away this time. He was trembling hard now, teeth chattering. A mess of sweat and shivers. Seunghyun eased closer, gathered the shaking frame in his arms like he might break just from being held. “It’s just me,” he whispered. “You’re here. I’ve got you.”

Jiyong made a wounded sound. Let himself curl into Seunghyun’s chest like a child seeking shelter from a storm.

And Seunghyun just held him. For minutes. Maybe longer. Until Jiyong’s breathing slowed. Until his fists loosened. Until his eyes, glassy and wide, finally started to see the room again.

He looked up at Seunghyun, dazed. Ashamed.

“Was I… loud?” he asked, hoarse.

Seunghyun smoothed a damp strand of hair off his forehead. “No,” he lied.

Jiyong’s lips parted. But no apology came. Just a brittle silence.

“Can you lie down again?” Seunghyun asked gently.

Jiyong nodded, boneless now. Exhausted.

Seunghyun helped him lower back to the pillows. Tucked the blankets around him like he was something fragile.

“Will you stay?” Jiyong murmured, already drifting.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And he didn’t.

He sat there, beside him, watching him breathe. Watching his lashes settle. Waiting until the nightmare no longer chased him into sleep.

In his sleep, sweat beaded at his temples despite the cool air. His fever was climbing, shallow breaths huffing through cracked lips.

Seunghyun hovered, restless, worried. He soaked a cloth in cold water and returned to kneel at the edge of the bed, wringing it out with care. The water dripped down his fingers like something holy. Gently, he pressed it to Jiyong’s burning forehead.

Jiyong stirred with a soft sound, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper, but didn’t wake. His body curled slightly inward, like it had forgotten how to exist outside of defense. Seunghyun’s chest ached at the sight.

His eyes drifted down. Their hands lay close— his own resting on the edge of the bed, Jiyong’s lax and pale beside it. The contrast struck him silent.

Seunghyun’s hand was broad, solid. Steady. The hand that had once clenched through detox. That had punched mirrors, held cigarettes, covered his own trembling mouth in moments of near relapse. But it was calm now. Still. Healthy.

Jiyong’s was thin. Fragile. Bones etched under pale skin, fingers twitching faintly as if caught in dreams or tremors. And smaller than he remembered.

Once, they had held hands under tables. Late-night recording booths. Packed dressing rooms. Once, these hands had written lyrics that changed people’s lives. Now they just looked tired.

He reached out, slowly, and placed his hand over Jiyong’s.

The difference was impossible to ignore.

It used to be that Seunghyun was the one falling apart. The one being saved. Now he was the only one left with anything to give.

“I should’ve come sooner,” he whispered, but Jiyong didn’t stir.

When he left the bedroom, it was only for a moment. Just enough to breathe. He sat in the dim kitchen, elbows braced on the counter, hands dragging down his face.

Everything inside him trembled, quietly, invisibly.

He’d kept it together. Had to. The moment he saw Jiyong half-conscious, soaked in fever and shame, he’d stepped into the role without hesitation. The older one. The stronger one. The survivor. But here, alone in the silence, he bowed his head and let the weight fall.

No sobs. No sound. Just that awful, hollow feeling in his chest, like he was mourning someone still alive as tears dripped onto the counter below him.

He’d lived through his own hell. Rehab. Isolation. Years of self-hatred. But he’d come out the other side bruised, but heavier and wiser. He’d learned what mattered. He’d learned how to be alone without falling apart.

Jiyong hadn’t. And it was so unfair. They used to be equals. Mirrors. Wild dogs with matching locked YG leashes. Now Jiyong was a ghost, and Seunghyun was the man left with a key.

He dragged shaky hands through his hair, fingers catching in strands. His eyes burned. He wanted to scream.

Instead, he stood, filled a glass with water, and walked back to the room like nothing had happened.

The soup barely steamed in the bowl, but the smell was warm. Miso, mushrooms, soft noodles, slivers of tofu, and quiet effort. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t aesthetic. But it was made for him.

Seunghyun set it down on the table without a word, wondering if it was the right time to reintroduce more diverse foods.

Jiyong shuffled into the living room, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, hair still damp from the earlier shower. He looked better. Not well— but not on the verge of death anymore. A little less ghost, a little more person.

He stared at the soup for a long time before sitting down across from Seunghyun. No talking. Just the creak of the chair.  He picked up the spoon with one hand and dipped it into the broth. It trembled slightly as he brought it to his lips, but he didn’t spill. He sipped. Swallowed.

Seunghyun didn’t watch him eat. He sat with his own bowl, ate normally, then let his gaze drift toward the window.

Jiyong took another bite. They ate like that. Quiet. Steady. The weight of past years resting in the room between them like a third presence. But it wasn’t crushing. Not now.

About six spoonfuls through, Jiyong slowed. Put the it down with a gentle clink. Leaned back in his chair.

Seunghyun finally looked at him. “You want to go outside for a bit?” he asked. “Just the balcony.”

Jiyong nodded, faintly. Then stood, quietly, following him.

The balcony was cold. Seunghyun leaned against the railing, arms crossed loosely, eyes soft. He couldn’t help but glance around below, knowing that it only took one picture for his private life to become public again.

Jiyong pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his hoodie pocket.

Seunghyun didn’t say anything right away.

He waited until Jiyong had one between his lips and was flicking the lighter open and closed with weak fingers. He fumbled it. Missed the spark.

Then Seunghyun reached out and took it from his mouth.

Jiyong blinked. He didn’t protest. Just stared up at him, tired and curious.

“You know that shit’s not helping,” Seunghyun said gently. “Not right now.”

Jiyong glanced away.

“It’s the only thing I have left,” he murmured.

“That’s not true.”

Silence.

Seunghyun dropped the cigarette into his own palm and slipped it back into the box, then tucked the whole pack into his own pocket.

Jiyong leaned against the wall, arms tucked into his pockets, looking far away again.

“I’m not going to make you quit today,” Seunghyun said. “But… can I trade you something?”

Jiyong looked at him.

Seunghyun pulled something from the big pocket of his coat. A sketchbook. Brand new, plain cover, spiral-bound. A pencil clipped to the side. “I thought maybe you’d want this instead.”

Jiyong didn’t reach for it. Not at first. Just stared at it like he wasn’t sure it was for him. “I haven’t drawn in months,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Seunghyun replied. “You don’t have to do anything with it today. Or tomorrow.” He handed it to him anyway.

Jiyong took it slowly. Turned it over in his hands. His thumb brushed the edge of the cover. He looked down at it the way people look at a box they’re afraid to open. “What if I forgot how?” he whispered.

“You didn’t.”

They stood in silence for a while longer.

Jiyong pressed the sketchbook to his chest. The cigarettes sat forgotten in Seunghyun’s pocket.

The apartment was still, the TV was off. Just the low hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the old floorboards under Seunghyun’s socks.

Jiyong sat cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table, head bent low, a faint curl of his long fringe hanging near his eyes. The sketchbook lay open in front of him, pristine— too white. Too blank.

The pencil hovered above it. Then dropped. He hadn't even touched the page. He let out a breath like it weighed him down. Rubbed his fingers over his temples. Quiet frustration coiled in his shoulders like a cat refusing to be held. Nothing was coming into his head, no inspiration at all.

Seunghyun was folding laundry nearby— well, pretending to. Watching, mostly. Letting Jiyong try. Giving him space.

Jiyong reached for the pencil again. Pressed it to the page this time. Drew a line. It was wobbly. Barely more than a squiggle. Childish. He frowned. Another line. A circle, maybe. Or something close. His lips pressed tight. Then he sighed. Heavy. Deep. Gave up on the third try. “Can’t I just have a smoke?” he mumbled, voice scratchy from silence.

Seunghyun didn’t look up right away. He took his time folding the last shirt, smoothing the sleeves like he was thinking about it. Then he walked over, knelt down beside Jiyong and looked at the page. “It’s not a bad start,” he said gently.

“It’s pathetic,” Jiyong whispered.

Seunghyun didn’t argue. He reached out and turned the page to a fresh one. Then, slowly, deliberately, he put the pencil back in Jiyong’s hand. Closed his fingers around it. “Start again.”

Jiyong stared at the pencil like it was too heavy. “I forgot how,” he said, voice cracking.

Seunghyun sat back on his heels. Watched him quietly. No pressure. Just presence. “Then pretend it’s the first time,” he said. “That’s allowed.”

Jiyong’s hand shook. The pencil touched down. Drew a line. Another.

It was nothing. A shape. A doodle. A shy attempt from someone who used to command entire stages with a flick of his wrist. Someone who used to design jackets, logos, shoes, dreams.

But it was something.

Seunghyun said nothing else. Just moved a cushion behind Jiyong’s back, like it might make him sit easier. Then brought him a glass of water. Set it down nearby.

He sat across from him and waited.

Jiyong didn’t ask for a cigarette again.

He just kept drawing. Quietly. Like a child.

Chapter Text

The front door was open before he knocked. Just like old times.

But the house wasn’t the same— not really. There were tiny shoes lined up near the hyeongwan. A child’s coat hanging crooked on a low hook. Windchimes that weren’t there before. It smelled like miso and softwood and faint baby lotion.

Seunghyun froze in the doorway.

“You came,” Taeyang said, gently. No smile at first— just quiet surprise. Then something warmer bloomed behind his eyes. “Come in.”

He stepped inside like he was trespassing on a memory.

Taeyang hadn’t changed much. Still warm in his presence. Still soft around the edges. But something was steadier now, calmer— fatherhood etched in the lines around his eyes.

Seunghyun’s voice cracked from disuse. “Where’s…?”

“Napping,” Taeyang smiled. “He’s a good sleeper.”

“Hyorin?”

“She’s well.” His smile radiated warmth, loving.

Seunghyun gave a single nod, awkward. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He half-raised one like he might wave, then dropped it again. What do you say to the people you once bled beside, after everything?

And then there was Daesung.

He came from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, mid-laugh at something unheard— and then he saw Seunghyun.

The laugh cut off like a thread pulled tight.

His mouth fell open. His eyes brimmed. The towel fell to the floor.

“Hyung,” he breathed, one hand over his chest.

Seunghyun stood still, a shadow of who he used to be, healthier but quieter. Less styled, more substance. But the look in Daesung’s eyes was like seeing someone rise from the dead.

And then Daesung surged forward and pulled him into a hug so tight, it knocked the air out of him. “You look so good,” he choked, the words coming fast and cracked. “You look so good. God, I thought— I thought maybe I’d never see— fuck—”

Seunghyun wrapped his arms around him slowly. Held him firm, a hand at the back of his head pulling him into the crook of his neck. Like he’d forgotten how good it felt to be missed. “I missed you too,” he whispered.

Daesung sniffled, half-laughing through the tears now. “You’ve gained weight, hyung. You look like someone who sleeps and eats food and fuck…”

The older tapped the back of his head in faux warning, a faint smile on his face, “dongsaeng, don’t swear so much.”

Taeyang chuckled from behind them, a hand on Seunghyun’s back now too, the other hesitantly touching his cheek, a gesture full of affection. “He’s right. You look… older. But in the good way. Peaceful.”

Seunghyun blinked fast. He wasn’t used to this kind of kindness anymore. Not directed at him. “I didn’t think I’d ever be back here,” he murmured.

“You’re not back,” Taeyang said gently. “You’re forward. And you’re here.”

They all stood there in the hallway for a moment. Three of them. Half a constellation, reformed.

There was laughter still stained into these walls. Unspoken things too. But in that moment, they were just the ones still standing. Still reaching.

Then there was a soft thud from down the hall. A faint rustle. Then the unmistakable patter patter patter of small feet on wood floors.

“Appa?” a voice whispered.

Taeyang turned immediately, voice already warm and full. “Yeah, baby, I’m here.”

A little boy— all sleepy curls and flushed cheeks— shuffled into view rubbing his eyes, wearing light blue pajamas with little suns on them. He stopped at the threshold of the room, eyes wide and blinking up at the unfamiliar man.

Seunghyun felt like he forgot how to breathe.

“This,” Taeyang said gently, crouching to his son’s level, “is your uncle. He’s Appa’s old friend.”

The boy looked up at Seunghyun with unfiltered curiosity. No hesitation, no fear— just big brown eyes scanning his face like he was a storybook come to life.

Seunghyun crouched without thinking. Tried to soften his presence, tried not to indimidate him with his height. His voice was quiet. “Hey there.”

The boy inched closer. Peered at his big hands. “You have a deep voice,” he said, baby voice edging around the words.

Seunghyun smiled, small and crumpled at the edges. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

“Samchon,” the kid said simply.

Daesung snorted. Taeyang looked like his heart had grown three sizes in one second.

“Yep,” Seunghyun said solemnly. “That’s me, your uncle.”

The little boy seemed to consider this. “Play in my room?”

Seunghyun glanced up at Taeyang.

“Samchon’s too big for your playhouse, my love,” the father chuckled, “but after we have a little conversation, I’m sure he’ll love to see all your toys.”

And then, without fanfare, the boy stepped right into Seunghyun’s space and leaned lightly against his knee, one hand resting on his thigh for balance. Trusting. Gentle.

Seunghyun blinked down at him like he’d just been struck by lightning. Tiny fingers sprawled out on his thigh, little nails scratching against the fabric of his pants. Soft skin. A completely new life born while he was away. For a second, Seunghyun’s mouth didn’t work. Then, quietly: “Yeah. I’d love to.”

Taeyang’s smile behind him was soft. “He’s not shy anymore. Not around good people.”

And Seunghyun— still crouched on the floor like the weight of this small moment had floored him— realized something painful and sweet all at once:

This child had never known T.O.P.

But he might still grow up hearing their music in his father’s car. Might see a photo someday and know that man once knelt down and agreed to look at his toys in that memorable deep voice.

“Babe,” Taeyang called softly toward the hallway, one hand pulling his son back by his small arm, “can you come get this little guy?”

Moments later, Hyorin appeared, calm and angelic, her long cardigan trailing behind her like a soft breeze. Her hair was up, a mug in her hand, looking every bit like she had been mid-relaxation before stepping into something emotional.

The moment her eyes landed on the stranger, her breath caught. She almost dropped the mug. “Seunghyun,” she said, like she hadn’t said it in years but still owned the syllables. Her face softened, years folding away.

“Hyorin-noona.” His voice cracked a little around the 'noona', like something small in him was still young and guilty.

She smiled gently. “You look like you slept.”

He huffed a laugh through his nose. “I’m getting better.”

Her eyes shined, pride tucked in her expression. “It shows.”

Their hug was unspoken until it happened: she moved first, unhesitant, and Seunghyun accepted it like he hadn’t been held in forever. She smelled like clean laundry and warmth. Her arms were firm. He melted.

“Good to see you,” she murmured into his shoulder. “Really good.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, eyes wet, “you too.”

She pulled back with a small grin, brushing her hand over his forearm like she might check he was really there. “Alright, sunshine, you’re with me,” she said, gently lifting her babbling son into her arms.

“Ah,” Seunghyun chuckled under his breath, like he was a bit bashful, pointing between Taeyang and his son, “the Sun’s little sunshine.”

Daesung snorted again, lightly punching his hyung’s arm.

“Samchon… draw later?” the boy asked around a yawn, the sentence broken.

He nodded. “Of course.”

As she turned to go, she looked back once. “We missed you, more than you know.” It wasn’t heavy. It was just true. And it filled the quiet of the living room as she disappeared down the hallway with her son on her hip, murmuring about snacks and crayons and leaving an air of something clean and safe in her wake.

Then Taeyang and Daesung sat back down with Seunghyun, who felt just a little more human again.

When Hyorin's footsteps faded down the hall, a silence settled over the room. Not awkward, just fragile. Like everyone was waiting for someone else to breathe first.

Taeyang got up suddenly, “do you still take your coffee black?”

“Ah, no.” He noticed both pairs of eyes on him. “Too bitter…”

The man smiled softly. “Tea, then.”

They sat in the living room, tea cooling in their mugs, warmth curling up through the air but not quite touching the things that still sat unsaid between them.

Taeyang was the first to speak, voice low and thoughtful. “We watched you come back,” he said. “Through the screen, I mean.”

Seunghyun blinked. “You watched Squid Game?”

The other laughed, “Jiyong watched it twice just for your scenes. You looked…” Taeyang paused, trying to find the word. “Different. Not just physically. You looked like someone we didn’t know anymore. Like… someone calmer. Like time had sanded you down. Behind the crazy character, of course. In your interviews especially.”

Daesung nodded, fingers wrapped around his cup. “We were scared, honestly. Scared we didn’t fit in your life anymore. You blocked us all and we had no easy way of really contacting you…”

Seunghyun looked down at his hands. They were still. No tremors. No rings. No polish. Just clean nails and steady breath. “I was scared of that too,” he admitted. “For a while, I didn’t want to fit anywhere. I felt too guilty. Felt like I didn’t deserve a second chance with you. I didn’t want to stain your reputations any more. I just wanted to disappear.” He traced the rim of the mug, eyes distant. “But Squid Game… that wasn’t about coming back. That was about proving to myself that I wasn’t gone. That I could be something else. Something new.”

Daesung let out a breath. “You looked like someone who finally started sleeping.”

“I did.” Seunghyun gave a faint, almost-smile at the fact that everyone seemed to be saying that to him. Fair enough, he knew how bad he used to be. “Still do. Most nights.”

Taeyang tilted his head. “How long sober now?”

He pursed his lips as he considered, “well over two years.”

Both men sat a little straighter.

“That’s…” Taeyang’s voice faltered, but only for a second. “I’m proud of you, hyung.”

Daesung smiled with teeth. He looked older too. “You’re still our hyung, you know.”

Seunghyun looked up at them slowly. Even now— quieter, humbler, stripped of all the things that once defined him— he still carried that same gravity. Just softer. More earned. Less performed. “I didn’t know if I’d ever be this version of me,” he said. “But I like him. He’s quieter. Smarter. Less angry.”

“Still stubborn, though,” Daesung teased.

“Obviously.”

They laughed, and for a moment, it was like no time had passed.

But when the laughter died down, Taeyang asked softly, “So… what made you come back now?”

And that was when Seunghyun looked up again, the calm in his voice suddenly heavier, no trace of a smile anymore.

Taeyang’s question lingered in the air, quiet and real.

“Jiyong,” Seunghyun said again, this time like it cost him something.

Daesung’s face fell immediately. “How bad is he now?”

Seunghyun didn’t blink. “Bad.”

He looked down at his hands. The knuckles were starting to callous again— he’d been doing things lately. Real things. Cooking. Cleaning. Holding. Guiding.

“He doesn’t eat unless I help him. Doesn’t sleep without shaking first. Doesn’t even remember how to draw, there’s no inspiration. I had to help him take a shower the other day. I brush his hair. Help him brush his teeth.”

The words were matter-of-fact, but they stung. Taeyang’s hand curled slightly over his knee. Daesung’s eyes glassed over and he wiped at his face.

“He still has fevers, tremors. I’ve been giving him cold compresses, soup. Small things.” Seunghyun exhaled. “I know the steps. You know I do.”

And that made the silence heavier.

Because they did know.

They knew he went through it. The withdrawal. The hollowing out. The slow crawl back to being human. They had stood at the edges of his wreckage once, helpless, because Seunghyun wouldn’t let them in.

Now it was his turn to stand in Jiyong’s.

“Sometimes he doesn’t talk,” Seunghyun continued. “Sometimes he wakes up and doesn’t know who I am. He cries like a kid and then stares at the wall for hours. He thinks he’s broken.”

Taeyang swallowed hard. “And you…?”

“I sit with him,” Seunghyun said softly. “I feed him. I hold him when the nightmares come. I try not to talk too much. He doesn’t need speeches. He needs someone steady.”

Daesung finally let his tears fall freely.

“He’s still in there,” Seunghyun said, more to himself than them. “I see him sometimes. Little flickers. Like a match catching flame before the wind takes it.” He paused, then added, like unsure whether to tell it. “He thanked me the other day. Just whispered it. Out of nowhere. Like he was afraid saying it too loud would make it disappear.”

Taeyang leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. “You’ve always taken care of him, hyung,” he murmured.

“I didn’t do it right before,” Seunghyun replied. “Not when it counted. Not when we were both falling.”

“But you are now,” Daesung said through thick breath. “You’re doing it now.”

Seunghyun nodded slowly. “I’m just showing him what the first steps look like. Baby ones. And when he can’t walk, I carry him.”

Chapter Text

The knock at the door wasn’t expected. At least not by Seunghyun. He turned toward the hallway, brows drawing slightly together.

Taeyang stood, almost too casually, brushing his palms on his jeans. “I, uh… I thought it might help,” he said, glancing briefly toward Seunghyun. “For everyone.”

Before Seunghyun could respond— before the breath could form into words— the door creaked open.

And there he was.

Seungri stepped in like he didn’t belong in the skin he wore now. His stance was smaller. Shoulders curled inward slightly. His eyes darted too quickly around the room before landing on Seunghyun.

He looked like someone afraid to be hit but walked into the room anyway.

“Hyung…”

The word was delicate, almost brittle. Like if he said it too loud, the whole house might shatter.

Seunghyun didn’t speak. Not immediately. He blinked once, slow. The inside of his chest had gone taut. Not anger. Not even hatred. Just… disbelief, that he was really standing there. In the flesh. The man whose silence had been louder than his scandal. The last domino in the chain that sent BigBang toppling down.

Daesung watched nervously from the couch. Taeyang stepped in beside Seungri, giving him a light pat on the back before motioning toward the living room like this was natural. Like it wasn’t soaked in years of rot and silence. “Come on in,” he said. Too lightly. Too hopeful.

Seungri walked in like he expected the floor to give way. He crossed his legs as he sat, careful to put space between him and everyone else. “I saw Squid Game,” he offered with a cautious half-smile, trying for warmth. “You were really cool.”

Seunghyun tilted his head slightly. “That wasn’t me,” he replied simply, voice flat. “That was someone I played.”

And in that single sentence was years of pain. A life fractured into versions. The man before the incident. The man after. The man watching now.

Seungri blinked, faltering for a beat. “You look… healthier,” he tried, quieter now. “I’m glad.”

Seunghyun nodded slowly. It was polite. Civil. But the war inside him hadn’t stopped raging.

Something in Seungri’s smile twitched. Almost imperceptibly. But Seunghyun caught it.

“Been seeing Jiyong, haven’t you?” Seungri continued, more casual now. “I know he probably told you things. He's… not well. And I’ve been worried about him. I always tried to help.”

Taeyang was nodding along gently. Daesung’s mouth tightened, clearly trying to hold back tears again.

Seunghyun’s voice, when it came, was smooth. Low. Barely above a murmur. “I know.”

Seungri blinked.

“I know exactly what he told me. And I know what I’ve seen with my own eyes.”

He remembered Jiyong screaming into a pillow until his voice cracked. Remembered how he shook like a child, how he asked over and over why no one believed him. He remembered the way Jiyong shrank from mirrors. He remembered how Seungri’s name had been the trigger that sent Jiyong into one of the worst spirals he’d ever seen.

And now here he was. Sitting across from him. Looking like a boy who lost his way, not a man who burned down a dynasty.

“I’ve missed this,” Seungri said quietly. “Us. Even like this.”

Seunghyun simply looked at him. Really looked.

Taeyang cleared his throat, offering a weak smile. “We’ve all been through so much. Maybe this is a start, yeah?”

Seungri gave a small, awkward nod. “I just… I know Jiyong’s sick. I never wanted that. I always tried to help.”

Something in Seunghyun’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not quite a frown either. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees now. “You’re right— he’s not well. But what you call madness, I’ve learned to call damage. And damage,” he said, pausing, “has a root.”

His voice wasn’t confrontational. Just… heavy. Honest. He turned his head slightly, addressing Taeyang and Daesung without tearing his eyes away from Seungri.

“I’m not here to argue. Or punish,” Seunghyun continued. His tone was even. Careful. Like walking across a rope made of memory. “I didn’t come back for that.” He stood slowly, gently. With maturity. “But I think you’ll understand why I can’t stay.”

Taeyang’s mouth opened. Closed.

Daesung’s eyes shimmered with something that looked suspiciously like guilt.

“I’ve changed,” he said. “I had to.”

And maybe he meant to stop there. But something deeper, sadder slipped through.

“I wish more of us had.”

He walked out of the room. Quiet steps. No door slammed. No words bitten back. Just the echo of a man who had once shattered rooms, now choosing silence as his loudest response.

And Seungri— small, wrung out, still stuck in the shadow of a world he helped collapse— just sat there, knees together like he was a kid at church, hands curled tight in his lap. Staring at the spot where Seunghyun had sat.

Silence folded over the room, thick and wary. Daesung sat motionless, not daring to move. Taeyang leaned against the back of the couch, one hand rubbing absently at his chin.

It was Daesung who broke first.

“‘A root,’” he murmured. “What do you think he meant by that?”

Taeyang didn’t answer right away. His eyes were distant, thoughtful. “I’m not sure,” he said finally. “But he said it like he’d spent a long time thinking about it. Like… it wasn’t just something happened to Jiyong, but something that grew. Slowly. Quietly.”

Daesung nodded, biting his bottom lip. “Like a splinter under the skin.”

They both looked at each other, searching for meaning. Maybe even a speific thought was shared between them.

Suddenly, Seungri shifted, sitting forward just slightly. He didn’t meet their eyes, didn’t interrupt, just spoke lowly, carefully. “He’s probably talking about the pressure,” Seungri said, voice laced with something between guilt and strategy. “The expectations. The years of everyone picking Jiyong apart. He was never allowed to be human, not really. We all know he had it the worst of all of us.” A pause. Then in a softer, sadder tone, he mumbled “I think… he’s saying that Jiyong didn’t just break. He was being chipped away, long before any of us saw it.”

Daesung’s shoulders sank. “God…”

Taeyang stared at Seungri a moment longer. Something in him wanted to disagree, but the words did make a sort of sense. Familiar sense. Something they'd said in late-night phone calls before, when trying to justify all the ways they’d failed Jiyong without knowing how they’d failed him.

“I don’t think Seunghyun-hyung blames you,” Taeyang said slowly, even though something sharp in his chest doubted the truth of it.

But when he looked at Seungri, what he saw wasn't relief. It was hurt. The younger man was slumped inward, face pale, eyes trained somewhere on the floor like a kid who’d been called into the principals office. “I… I feel so stupid. For some reason I-… didn’t think he’d just leave,” Seungri said. His voice cracked, just once, right at the end. “Not again.” And suddenly he didn’t look calculated. Or composed. Or manipulative. He just looked like someone who had lost too much and didn’t know how to carry the weight of it anymore.

Daesung moved first, reaching out to wrap an arm gently around Seungri’s back (though not without a moment’s hesitation, like it still felt wrong to be so close to Seungri). “Don’t think about it too much,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” Taeyang added, his voice soft. “We’re all figuring it out.”

No one said Seunghyun would come back. No one said he’d forgive. But for now, Seungri was warm and surrounded.

Seungri sat in the driver's seat long after he'd pulled up in front of his apartment. The engine was off, headlights dimmed to black. A thin fog clung to the windshield, breath-warmed glass turning opaque from the inside out. Outside, the street murmured with distant traffic and the occasional flicker of footsteps, but inside the car, tension bloomed like a bruise. His hands were still clenched around the steering wheel. Knuckles drained of color, nails faintly biting into his palms as he gripped it like it might give him the stability he no longer had.

He didn’t move. Not yet. His breath was steady, but only just. Each inhale felt like it had to claw its way up through his throat.

His jaw ticked once. A muscle flexed in his cheek.

Then he exhaled through his nose- a long, steady breath that shook despite his best efforts.

He actually came back.

That thought landed like a stone at the base of his stomach. A bitter, sharp laugh barely made it past his lips before dissolving into silence again. He leaned his head back against the headrest and stared at the ceiling like it held the answers he didn’t have yet.

He hadn’t accounted for this.

He had planned for Taeyang: sunshine-hearted, faithful Taeyang. Always looking for redemption, always believing in people.

He had planned for Daesung too: gentle, guilt-ridden Daesung, who never let himself feel like enough and was always aching to make things right.

They were open. Warm. Willing to believe the best of him. Maybe not right away, but eventually. He just had to wear them down. Just had to seem fragile, apologetic. Contrite. And he’d been doing it well. They were easy to reach. Easier to steer. Even now, they clung to the belief that things could be okay, that all the shattered pieces could be rearranged into something like before.

He’d softened them, reshaped their memories, fed their guilt little by little until it did the work for him.

But Seunghyun?

Seunghyun’s eyes had been different. Not cold, not accusing. He hadn’t smiled when he saw him. He hadn’t cursed either. He didn’t look angry. Just still, like deep water.

Just knowing.

There had been knowing in his eyes. That calm, tired knowing Seungri couldn’t stand. Like he saw through him. Like he’d already mapped the shape of Seungri’s damage, traced the architecture of it in his own mind— and wasn’t fooled by tears or tremors or trembling hands.

That pissed him off more than he expected.

It was the look of someone who'd survived madness and didn’t flinch around it anymore. It was the look of someone who wouldn't fall for tears. Wouldn’t get tangled in remorse if he sensed it wasn't real. Wouldn’t be swayed by pitiful sighs or guilt-laced speeches because he’d seen real damage— he carried it himself.

Seunghyun was no longer the volatile man who stormed out of rooms, or the eccentric artist who crumbled under pressure. This Seunghyun was quiet. Cautious. Grounded.

He’d learned how to survive himself.

And that made him harder, wiser. Stronger. And infinitely more dangerous to navigate.

A bead of sweat rolled down Seungri’s temple, unnoticed. His grip tightened again, palms clammy, jaw locked so tight his molars ached.

He hadn’t miscalculated. Not really. Just... underestimated how different Seunghyun would be now. How quiet power could cut sharper than anger. He’d have to adjust. Re-route. This wasn’t a man who could be coaxed like Taeyang or comforted like Daesung. This was a fortress. A mirror that reflected Seungri's performance back at him with too much clarity. With Seunghyun, it wasn’t about winning hearts. It was about strategy. Tact. Precision.

He would have to be smaller. Meeker. More careful in how he tilted the script.

One wrong move, and Seunghyun would see the whole web.

He’d already seen too much.

“I had to act like that because he showed up,” Seungri whispered, bitterness curling at the edge of his tongue. “Like a damn kicked dog.” The words tasted humiliating. Sharp-edged and raw. He hated how his own voice sounded, too soft, too breathless, like defeat.

He hadn’t expected to feel this rattled. He hadn’t expected Seunghyun to be the one to rattle him.

The performance had gone well, all things considered. He knew how to look vulnerable. He knew which expressions softened people’s edges. He knew how to cry just enough, when to tremble just slightly, when to look down and break eye contact, like shame.

It had worked on Taeyang. On Daesung. They were already trying to pull him close again, to tell him they believed him, to convince themselves he wasn’t really that person.

But Seunghyun?

Seunghyun hadn’t told him he looked well. He hadn’t said he missed him. He hadn’t smiled.

He’d stared. Not cold, not warm. Just quiet. Watching. Judging. Knowing.

And then he left.

Not in anger. Not in disgust.

Just… because he’d seen what he needed to see.

And that was what scared Seungri most.

He let go of the steering wheel finally, uncurling his fingers out as pins and needles prickled through his palms. He flexed them once, twice, then reached for his phone without looking. His reflection stared back at him in the camera.

He looked tired. Small. Disarmed.

Good.

Let them keep thinking that. Let them keep holding him like a fragile thing.

Let Seunghyun keep watching from his perch of wisdom and weight. Let him try to unravel the knots.

But Seungri would be ten steps ahead next time.

Because now?

Now it was personal.

And personal made him careful. Dangerous. Focused.

“Okay, hyung,” he whispered to himself, a curl of something like a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s see how long you can hold onto that halo.”

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet as usual except for the faint clink of ceramic and the soft hiss of the kettle. Seunghyun moved like he’d been trained for silence, pouring water into two mugs even though he wasn’t sure Jiyong would drink anything. One was coffee. The other was herbal tea.

The footsteps came soft and uneven: slippers dragging, then pausing, then dragging again. Seunghyun didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. A moment later, he felt the weight.

Jiyong didn’t say anything, just pressed his forehead to Seunghyun’s back, the crown of his head fitting perfectly between his shoulder blades, like it used to. Thin arms wrapped loosely around his middle. It took everything in Seunghyun not to breathe too sharply. Not to speak. “Hyung…” Jiyong whispered, voice hoarse and frayed, like it had been left out in the rain. He didn’t even know what he was saying.

Seunghyun reached one hand down, resting it lightly over Jiyong’s fingers where they clutched the hem of his hoodie. His hand completely covered them; he frowned. Jiyong flinched— his hands twitched— but didn’t let go.

This wasn’t love. Not now. This was something cracked and ghost-shaped, a thing that used to be alive and was now stitched together by muscle memory and ache. Jiyong didn’t even realise what he was doing. That he was seeking warmth from someone he’d once burned with it.

Seunghyun finally turned, slowly, gently peeling Jiyong off him so they stood face to face. Jiyong’s eyes were glassy but open. Awake, if not all the way there. He blinked like it hurt. His head wouldn’t stay up on its own so he cupped the younger’s cheek with his hand. “I made tea,” Seunghyun told him, quiet.

Jiyong closed his eyes, disoriented but comfortable resting his cheek in his hyung’s hand. “Mm.”

“You want to sit down?”

Jiyong’s mouth parted, like he might say no, like he might say something else entirely. But all he did was lean forward, pressing his face into Seunghyun’s chest. Like he remembered. Like this was safe.

Seunghyun stood there, arms hesitating midair, before folding around him. He didn’t ask for permission. He didn’t need it. Not when Jiyong was already trembling in his arms like that.

When he finally pulled back, Jiyong whispered, “I missed you.”

And Seunghyun didn’t say me too. He just helped him sit down, slid the tea in front of him, and stayed close enough that his presence filled the space without pushing.

The low hum of the heater filled the apartment, broken only by the occasional rustle of fabric as Jiyong wandered back in from his room, barefoot and drowsy in a hoodie that hung off one shoulder.

Seunghyun was on the couch, flipping through a book for the past hour.

Jiyong padded over and, without a word, sat down right next to him—too close. Their thighs touched. Then he slipped his hand into Seunghyun’s lap, slow and sleepy, and curled his fingers loosely around Seunghyun’s.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like this hadn’t ended.

“Your hands are warm,” Jiyong mumbled.

Seunghyun didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But his pulse jumped.

He looked down at their joined hands— those ink-marked fingers, that gentle grip— and suddenly his own skin felt like fire. “Ji…”

“I didn’t dream last night,” Jiyong murmured. His head tipped sideways until it rested on Seunghyun’s shoulder. “That’s rare. Usually there’s too many. Like bubbles popping. You know?”

Seunghyun nodded, silent. Afraid to speak, to interrupt him, because this was the most he had talked in ages.

Jiyong exhaled, almost in a sigh. “But with you here, it’s quiet again. Like my body knows it’s okay to sleep.” The grip on Seunghyun’s hand tightened slightly, fingers weaving in.

“I loved you so much,” Jiyong said. Not dramatic. True. “Maybe I still do. Can’t tell anymore. Everything’s all soup.”

Seunghyun closed his eyes at the weak giggle.

God.

He remembered those nights. Long after the shows, the awards, the screaming fans. The nights when it was just the two of them— silent, side by side, pressed close in dark hotel rooms or studio floors. The feeling of Jiyong’s voice muffled against his neck, whispering nothing. The taste of shared late-night cigarettes on his lips. The heat of something they never really defined.

And now he was here, again. So close. Too close.

But not whole.

“Ji… this isn’t fair,” Seunghyun said, barely above a breath.

“I know,” Jiyong murmured. “But you’re warm. Stay like this. Just for now.”

His thumb brushed across the back of Seunghyun’s hand, absentminded. Trusting. Sweet.

And Seunghyun…

He didn’t pull away.

Not for a while. But eventually, he had to. He couldn’t handle actions such as these when Jiyong was like this.

“Come on,” he mumbled, getting up slowly and pulling the younger along with him. “It’s bedtime.”

The younger man’s steps were unsure, slow and sluggish. He was coming down from haze the pills put him in, pupils wide, skin too pale. But his hand never let go of Seunghyun’s. “I can make it,” he muttered, unconvincingly, swaying slightly.

“You’re barely standing,” Seunghyun replied softly, steadying him.

They reached the edge of the bed. Jiyong collapsed backward into the mattress like a string-cut puppet. A breathy sigh left him, then a whisper, “stay.”

Seunghyun didn’t answer. Just pulled the blanket over him and stepped back.

“Hyung,” Jiyong slurred, blinking up at him. “Hyung— no. Don’t go.” His hand reached out, fingers catching Seunghyun’s sleeve with a weak tug. “Please.”

“I’ll be in the next room again,” Seunghyun said gently. “You need sleep. Not— this.”

“No,” Jiyong mumbled, his voice cracking. “Please, just… stay. Just for tonight. I— I don’t feel real when you leave.” He tugged again, harder this time, desperate. His lip trembled. “Please. Don’t leave me again.”

The word again landed like a brick.

And Seunghyun— damn him— sat down. Just for a moment, he told himself. Just to make sure Jiyong didn’t choke in his sleep or wake up panicked. Just to help.

But Jiyong was already curling into him, soft and small and broken. “I missed you,” he whispered into Seunghyun’s chest, and he had no choice but to lie down with him. “You smell so nice.”

Seunghyun lay still, every muscle locked, heart thudding loud enough to drown his thoughts. The blankets were warm. Jiyong was warmer. His arms slipped around his waist with aching slowness, like he didn’t remember how to hold someone anymore.

“I’m tired of being cold,” he murmured.

And Seunghyun… he stayed.

Let Jiyong wrap around him. Let him rest his cheek against Seunghyun’s collarbone; let his leg lie over his own. Let his fingers hook lightly in the hem of his shirt, possessive in that soft, drunk way he used to be years ago. Seunghyun didn’t move, didn’t respond, except to exhale once, shakily, and close his eyes.

But he didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Not with guilt crawling like frost beneath his skin.

He stared up at the ceiling while Jiyong breathed unevenly against him, letting the younger man’s scent fill him, letting the familiarity choke.

This isn’t love anymore, he thought. But it used to be. And that was the part that hurt most.

Because the man in his arms wasn’t who he used to be. He was haunted, hollowed out. Too small for the body of a star. And Seunghyun knew that being here like this was wrong.

But he still couldn’t let go.

Not tonight.

Not when Jiyong said please like that.

Not when he whispered Seunghyun’s name like it was the last thing tethering him to this world.

And so he lay there, eyes dry but stinging, arms tight around a man who used to feel like home.

The early morning crept in softly, with grey light spilling through slanted blinds and dust hanging in the air like ghosts.

Seunghyun’s eyes opened first. His body was stiff, an unfamiliar warmth shrouding his body. His shirt was bunched around his ribs, and Jiyong’s breath ghosted steadily across his chest, warm and rhythmic.

For a moment, Seunghyun let himself stay there— just one more second, just one more.

And then guilt rolled in.

Fuck.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Hadn’t meant to wrap both arms around him, hadn’t meant to hold him like something he still loved. He was supposed to stay awake. Keep his guard up. Remember that Jiyong wasn’t well. That this wasn’t real. That he couldn’t lead Jiyong on.

He exhaled through his nose. Careful. Slowly, then moved. One arm untangled first. Then the shift of a leg. Then his hand gently, so gently, slid under Jiyong’s wrist to lift it from where it lay limply across his ribs.

But the second the contact broke, Jiyong whimpered.

Seunghyun froze.

“Mmnn…” Jiyong stirred, face twitching, brows furrowing in confusion.  His voice cracked, barely coherent. “Hyung..?”

Seunghyun tried to soothe him, voice low. “Shh, sleep. It’s alright. I’m just— getting up.”

But Jiyong’s eyes blinked open, glazed and glassy, and before he knew it, a sob. Small. Sharp. Then another.

And then Jiyong was crying like a child. That kind of raw, sudden sadness that babies feel when they wake up and their mother is gone. Not reasoned. Not quiet. Just panic and heartbreak in its most instinctual form.

“No— don’t— don’t-” he gasped through hiccupped breaths, clutching wildly at Seunghyun’s shirt, his arms, anything he could find, trying to find words to thread into a sentence and failing.

“I’m not— I’m not going far,” Seunghyun said, guilt cutting through him like a blade. “Ji, it’s okay— shh—”

Jiyong wasn’t listening. Couldn’t. He was trapped in that half-awake haze, somewhere between dream and reality, overwhelmed and too fragile to parse it. “Please, please— don’t go,” he sobbed, his fists tightening into Seunghyun’s shirt. “I’m sorry— don’t go, hyung, I’ll be good, I promise— just stay, please stay, I need—”

Seunghyun sank back down. His hand found the back of Jiyong’s head and held him there, pressing him gently into his chest as he rocked them once, just once.

“I’m here,” he whispered, voice ragged. “I’m here.”

And Jiyong, broken and clinging, just sobbed harder, letting out all the loneliness he'd swallowed for weeks.

Seunghyun closed his eyes.

This wasn’t love.

It was grief, maybe.

Or something older. Something twisted. A bond too tangled to ever really sever cleanly.

But whatever it was, he couldn’t rip himself free. Not yet.

Not when Jiyong begged like that.

Not when he cried like he’d lost him all over again.

Rarely, things would look hopeful for a moment.

Jiyong sat at the table, sleeves too long, hair still messy from sleep. But his eyes were clearer today. Not sharp, not bright, but not vacant either. Just tired in a human way.

Seunghyun was at the stove, flipping the thinnest egg pancake he could manage without breaking it. The kind Jiyong used to eat wrapped around rice when he was too sick for anything heavier.

“Are you trying to cook or start a fire?” Jiyong asked suddenly, clearing the scratchiness from his throat.

Seunghyun turned, startled. Jiyong had one brow lifted. His mouth twitched— almost a smile.

“Rude,” Seunghyun said, mock-offended, though his heart fluttered with the lucidity.

Jiyong gave a faint shrug. “Just wondering if we should call the fire department now or later.” And there it was— the glint. The echo of the boy Seunghyun used to know. The one who was too clever for his own good, who smirked through fear and wrote lyrics on napkins. The one who teased because he didn’t know how else to ask someone to stay.

Seunghyun cracked a smile. A real one. “Eat it first. Judge it later.”

Jiyong blinked slowly, then looked down at the tea Seunghyun had placed in front of him earlier. He picked it up. Sipped. Didn’t say anything. But his hand, resting on the table, slowly shifted until it brushed Seunghyun’s when he set the plate down.

Not a grab. Not a plea. Just contact.

Just real.

Seunghyun didn’t move away.

And Jiyong whispered, quiet as air, “Thank you.”

Seunghyun looked at him, really looked, and said, “You’re welcome.”

And for a moment— just one quiet, unshattered moment— they were two men sharing breakfast again.

Chapter Text

The sky was washed out, one of those dim, colourless mornings that barely felt like morning at all. Seunghyun liked it that way: quiet skies meant quiet minds, in his experience. And Jiyong had been calm lately. Not better. Not whole. But soft. Touchable. Lucid enough to sit through breakfast without flinching at the sound of cutlery. Gentle enough to fall asleep tangled in Seunghyun’s hoodie, thumb grazing the edge of the sleeve like a child’s security blanket.

Jiyong was curled up in bed, wrapped in the blankets like a cocoon, face slack in sleep. His lips were parted just slightly. He looked younger like this, softer. Less like a ghost and more like the boy who’d once ruled stages with gold teeth and thunder.

Seunghyun sat on the edge of the bed, still zipping up his jacket, not quite ready. He hated to wake him, but the time on his watch wouldn’t wait.

“Ji,” he said, gently, like a breeze under a door, leaning down, a hand brushing through hair that had grown long and wild.

Jiyong blinked awake, groggy and slow, pupils unfocused. “Mm?”

“I have to head out for a bit, alright?” Seunghyun said, smoothing a hand over his hair. “Just a routine thing.”

Jiyong stirred with a grunt. His eyes blinked open, cloudy but not vacant. Present enough. “What kind of thing?” he asked, voice thick with sleep and meds, words tumbling into each other like they were drunk.

“It’s nothing. Just a check-in. I’ll be back before you know it.”

A small line formed between Jiyong’s brows. He frowned slightly. “…court?”

“No.” Seunghyun smiled faintly, brushing a thumb along his temple. “Drug test. Compulsory. It’s... just something I have to keep doing.”

“Oh.” Jiyong sounded disappointed, though he probably didn’t know why. He shifted under the covers like they weighed more than he did, fingers searching blindly until they found Seunghyun’s wrist. He gripped it weakly, like a child trying to hold onto a parent in a dream. “You’re not… using,” he slurred, voice sleepy, confused.

“I know,” Seunghyun said. “But the system doesn’t.”

A pause. Jiyong’s hand didn’t let go. “You’ll come back?”

“I promise,” he said, quiet and sure. He leaned down and kissed the side of his head. “I’ll bring you something.”

Jiyong cracked the smallest smile. “Strawberry milk?”

Seunghyun chuckled. “Whatever you want.”

The fingers slowly slipped from his wrist. Jiyong turned his face back into the pillow, already halfway gone again.

Seunghyun just stood there for a moment. Watching. Memorising. It was the first time in days Jiyong hadn’t woken up shaking. The golden threads of progress were real, thin as spider silk, but there.

It hurt to leave, but he had no choice if he wanted to keep his peace.

He stepped out the door and locked it behind him.

Two blocks away, hidden behind tinted glass, someone waited with a still engine, a quiet smile, and a plan already changing shape.

Jiyong hesitated when the knock came.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t rushed. Just a soft, courteous tap, like someone who knew they’d be let in. Someone confident in the weight of their name on the other side of the door.

He had been floating all day, brain fogged and soft-edged, barely holding his body up as he shuffled through rooms, motivated by the idea of making Seunghyun proud that he could handle himself on his own finally. When the knock came again, gentle but firm, he flinched. For one stretched second, his heart lurched and he thought— Seunghyun. But that hope snuffed out quickly.

He didn’t open the door right away, hand hovering near the knob like it burned.

“Hyung,” Seungri called softly through the wood. “I’m not here to fight. Just… just wanted to see how you were doing.” That voice. It still carried that old warmth, tinged with something sweeter now: concern, patience. A dangerous balm. Jiyong frowned. Part of him knew he shouldn’t open the door. The part that was still afraid. The part that remembered.

But it had been weeks. And his mind… God, his mind was cotton-wrapped, half-memories drifting like static. He didn’t know what truly happened that night anymore. Did Seungri truly say all those things? Did he push that far? Or did… did Jiyong really just imagine it?

The doorknob turned in his hand like it was on autopilot. When he finally opened the door, it was with a cautious pull, eyes peeking through like a child checking for monsters.

Seungri stood there, dressed clean and casual, all smiles and warmth like nothing had ever happened. Like he hadn’t shattered Jiyong once, only to act like the pieces had never mattered in the first place.

“Hey, hyung.”

Jiyong’s heart thudded uncomfortably. He didn’t speak.

The man stepped inside, not pushing his luck but at the same time ensuring he wouldn’t be shut out. He didn’t immediately close the space between them, just smiled, easy and open-palmed. Like they were just old friends.

“I thought you might be lonely,” he explained. “Didn’t want you spending tonight by yourself. You look good,” Seungri added, eyes sweeping across him with a kind of unspoken familiarity. “Like you’re getting better.”

Jiyong’s tongue was dry. “Why are you here?”

“To see you.” Simple. Unapologetic.

There was a long pause— just long enough for Jiyong to doubt himself. Because the memory of that night… of the things Seungri had said, the way he’d looked at him… it was all too hazy now. Maybe he’d misremembered. Maybe he really had dreamt it. A lot of things had bled into dreams back then. His whole life had.

“Hyung,” Seungri said softly, tilting his head with a smile just shy of mockery. “You gonna leave me in the doorway like a stranger?”

The line dug somewhere old. Familiar. It used to make him laugh.

He stepped aside and looked at the floor. Not quite welcoming, but enough.

The younger walked inside like he belonged there.

His eyes flicked around, discreet but deliberate. Fewer pill bottles. Clean dishes stacked neatly. The faint scent of something herbal burning. Lavender, maybe. Or chamomile.

“You’ve been taking care of yourself,” he said, stepping out of his shoes like muscle memory. “I’m proud of you.”

Jiyong watched him with the kind of stare reserved for ghosts. “What do you want?”

Seungri held up a paper bag. “I brought something.”

He pulled out a bottle: dark, ambered, rich-looking. The kind with a cork, not a twist cap. Expensive. Familiar.

Jiyong’s breath caught. “What is that?”

“Remember this one? From Tokyo? You almost made the bartender cry with all your picky orders. Like a prissy billionaire’s daughter.”

Jiyong’s lips twitched, involuntary. Not a real smile. He looked at the bottle, then back at him. His brows drew slightly together. “I remember… sort of. I think.”

“This is it. Same label. Same year.” He offered it like an olive branch. Like communion. “I thought we could celebrate. Just… being here. Together again. Your progress.”

Jiyong’s fingers curled slightly at his sides. He didn’t reach for it. “I can’t drink. Not with the meds.”

Seungri gave a small, understanding smile. Not mocking. Not pushy. “Then don’t drink much. Just a sip. You’re not even on the stronger dose anymore, right?”

Words threatened to form on his lips, but nothing came out, like his mind couldn’t quite choose how to defend himself.

“It’s just wine, hyung. It’s not like I brought vodka. One sip. For old times.” His voice dropped lower. Closer.

His gaze lingered somewhere behind Seungri, on the door that had clicked shut earlier that morning. It shouldn’t have hurt. Seunghyun had only left for a day, maybe a little longer, for a test he had to do. But the flat had felt colder the second he was gone, like the silence turned sharper in his absence. Jiyong hated how quickly the emptiness pressed in, hated even more how used to it he was. Jiyong’s throat worked. He didn’t nod, but didn’t shake his head either. Just watched as Seungri went to the kitchen for glasses. “Go ahead and sit down, hyung, I’ll do it.”

The cork gave a gentle pop.

Seungri poured two glasses— filled them both properly.

Jiyong took the glass with both hands, afraid of embarrassing himself by dropping it and spilling the expensive wine all over himself and his couch.

“To being here,” Seungri said, holding his up, “and to progress.”

Jiyong took a second, and then clinked his glass hesitantly. He didn’t drink right away, and then, against every ounce of what remained of his reason, he raised the glass to his lips slowly. The first sip was shallow. A ghost of a taste. He winced. “It’s stronger than I remember.”

“You were younger,” Seungri said with a small laugh. “And higher.”

Jiyong smiled despite himself. That first sip was nothing. Barely registered. The second warmed his chest. The third started to loosen his tense jaw.

The minutes passed in haze-tinted warmth. Jiyong relaxed by degrees, his back slumping into the couch, his legs curling beneath him. He took another sip. And then another. The wine was heavy but velvety, golden and seductive, like memory soaked in honey.

Seungri watched every movement. He didn’t drink much, just held his glass and sipped from time to time, always watching Jiyong over the rim. He sat closer, right beside where Jiyong curled in on himself like a child, giggling at something funny in his head even when they weren’t talking. His gaze remained trained on the older man, his eyes never leaving, not when his hands shook and he fumbled the heavy bottle, and Seungri caught it mid-tip like he had anticipated.

He set the glass down, poured another for Jiyong and handed it back to him. Placed a hand on Jiyong’s thigh to steady him. Kept it there too long. “You still make that same face when you’re tipsy,” he mumbled while Jiyong took a sip. “Like you’re trying not to smile.”

Jiyong blinked slowly, skin flushed. The warmth of the second glass had begun to settle in Jiyong’s limbs by now, just enough to soften the edges of his thoughts.

“Your eyes go soft when you drink too,” he murmured. “Like they used to whenever I touched you.” To punctuate his point, he raised a hand and gently brushed his fingertips over the older man's cheekbone.

Jiyongs cheeks dusted pink. “You didn’t… used to touch me like that.” he replied quietly, slurring slightly.

“No?” Seungri’s eyes narrowed fondly. “Not even once?”

Jiyong laughed— light and tipsy and uncertain. “You’ve got it twisted.”

“Mm, I don’t think so.”

Jiyong chose not to reply to that, instead, he let his eyes close for a moment. “You’re warm,” he mumbled.

“I missed this,” Seungri said, softer now. “Missed you.” He leaned in further. The closeness was heavy. Intimate. Commanding.

Jiyong leaned into him in turn, head on his shoulder, fingers clumsily tugging at Seungri’s sleeve. His voice slurred. “I dunno what happened. I don’t remember... You didn’t hurt me, right..?”

Seungri didn’t answer. Just threaded his fingers through Jiyong’s hair and shushed him like a lullaby. “Don’t think about that. It’s okay now.”

And Jiyong nodded, small and sleepy, like a child who just needed permission to forget.

“You’re loosening up,” he said softly when he saw Jiyong empty that glass too.

Jiyong blinked, slowly. “Not really.”

“You are,” Seungri said. “It’s in your shoulders.”

“Huh?”

He leaned forward, fingertips grazing Jiyong’s shoulder without asking. “They’re not clenched. You’re not trying to protect yourself for once.”

Jiyong stared at the contact, but didn’t move. “I forgot I did that.”

“You always forget.” He gave him a soft smile. “But I never do.” The words sank in slow, like honey through cloth. Seungri reached for the bottle again.

“Hey,” Jiyong said, quiet, frowning slightly. “You’re not drinking.”

“I am,” Seungri lied smoothly, pouring himself another shallow sip. “I just don’t need as much as you. I’m not the one who’s tense.”

“I’m not— tense,” Jiyong said, slurring just enough to betray himself.

Seungri gave him a smile that was all nostalgia and soft menace. “That’s what you used to say, too.”

Jiyong huffed, pouted, and took another drink. This one was longer. Deeper. Defiant.

Seungri’s smile widened, just a little.

The silence turned syrupy. They sat even closer now.

Jiyong’s body leaned naturally toward him, as if pulled by gravity or memory or some invisible string that never really snapped. His legs were still tucked under him, head lolling slightly, the empty wineglass slack in one hand.

“This feels fake,” Jiyong mumbled.

“What does?”

“Everything. This.”

Seungri tilted his head. “Does it feel bad?”

Jiyong didn’t answer.

Seungri took the glass from his hand, gentle, slow, and refilled it without asking.

Jiyong took it back just as silently. The ritual was familiar now. Trusted. Like breathing.

“You know,” Seungri said, tilting his own glass and watching the liquid shift, “we used to do this all the time. Drink like this. Just us. Do you remember?”

“Yeah,” Jiyong whispered, barely audible. “But we didn’t talk this much.”

That made Seungri laugh— low and private. “True,” he said. “Back then, we didn’t need to.” He turned slightly, angling himself more toward Jiyong, their knees brushing now, subtle and unspoken. He let that linger for a moment, cautious. Jiyong seemed to be thinking a lot about the past. He didn’t want to accidentally trigger memories of the way he had ruined their careers. “You’d just look at me,” he added, voice dropping. “And I’d know.”

Jiyong didn’t answer.

But he didn’t pull away.

The amount of wine left in the bottle lowered. So did the volume of their voices, until they were talking in murmurs, secrets, soft threads of language that didn’t even need full sentences.

Jiyong giggled at one point— really giggled— and covered his mouth like a child caught being happy.

“You’re drunk,” Seungri said gently.

“I’m not,” Jiyong insisted, eyes bright and wrong.

“You are,” he said, more fondly this time. “But that’s okay. You’re prettier when you are.”

That made Jiyong fall silent for moment, like his mind was computing a response. Then he looked away, lips pressing into a trembling line.

Seungri brushed their shoulders together, trying to disrupt any incoming memories and keep him there, in the past. His voice was velvet. “I would never hurt you,” he whispered. “You believe me, don’t you?”

And Jiyong— tired, warm, unguarded— nodded.

Because in this moment, with wine humming in his blood and memories buzzing at the edges of his thoughts, he almost did.

By the time the bottle was half-empty, Jiyong’s eyes couldn’t hold a steady line. He blinked too slow. Smiled too fast. Laughed at things Seungri didn’t even say.

His limbs moved like they belonged to someone else— languid, stupid with warmth. The wine and the medication were oil and flame in his blood, and he was glowing from it, soft and ruined.

Seungri didn’t say much anymore. He didn’t need to. He just watched.

Close. Hungry. Patient.

Jiyong shifted on the couch, trying to tuck his legs beneath him again but missing slightly, slipping sideways into Seungri’s shoulder. He let out a dumb little sound when their skin touched, then laughed— God, it was such a helpless sound.

Seungri caught him, of course. Both arms, effortlessly gentle around him. Protective. Possessive. “Too much?” he asked, voice silk-soft. “You’re okay,” he murmured into the crown of Jiyong’s hair. “I’ve got you.”

Jiyong didn’t respond. His face just stayed there— buried in the crook of Seungri’s neck, hot breath ghosting down his collarbone.

And Seungri smiled.

A beat passed.

Then two.

“You smell like my hoodie,” Jiyong slurred, not lifting his head.

Seungri’s fingers twitched where they rested on Jiyong’s back. He let the silence hang, delicious. “You like that one a lot don’t you,” he said softly. He let his hand rest low on Jiyong’s back, fingers tracing lazy, invisible circles through the fabric of his thin shirt.

Jiyong shivered. His reply came like a sigh. “Doesn’t smell like it anymore. You always smelled like comfort.”

The moment snapped tight in Seungri’s chest— sharp with possession. There it was. That old script, falling into place with no effort at all. He slid one hand up, threading into Jiyong’s hair, stroking lazily. It was intimate without pressure, like something he was entitled to. Like something Jiyong had offered without knowing it. “You used to fall asleep like this,” Seungri whispered. “Backstage. Hotel rooms. My couch.”

“I miss how things use to be,” Jiyong mumbled.

Seungri didn’t reply, urging him to go on silently.

“I miss you.”

“I know,” Seungri said, and pressed his lips to the top of Jiyong’s head— slow, controlled. “But I never left. You did.”

That quiet little hit landed exactly where he wanted. Jiyong stiffened. A flinch that didn’t make it past his shoulders.

Seungri exhaled against his hair. “You’re always leaving me,” he added, quieter now, just for show. “And then when I’m back, you act like it’s all okay. Just like this.”

Jiyong tipped his head back, dazed, eyes shining with alcohol and guilt and something older than both as he tried to find his eyes. “I didn’t mean to,” he whispered. “I don’t even— remember. What’re you… talking about?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Seungri said. “You’re here now.” And with that, he brushed the hair from Jiyong’s face slowly, reverently. The pads of his fingers lingered at his temple, then drifted to his cheekbone.

Jiyong didn’t move.

He didn’t blink.

He just looked up at him, lips parted, breathing uneven, like he’d forgotten how to do it right.

Seungri’s thumb slid across his cheek.

Then lower. His jaw. His chin.

“You always looked at me like this,” he murmured. “Like I was gravity.”

“I think I’m drunk,” Jiyong breathed, voice fragile.

“You are.”

“I shouldn’t be—”

“But you are,” Seungri said, softly interrupting, tilting Jiyong’s face up more fully. “And you let me in. You poured the first glass.”

“I don’t r—”

“You did,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to Jiyong’s now.

And Jiyong— so far gone, so drugged by the wine and the weight of his past— just closed his eyes.

Didn’t fight it.

Didn’t run.

Didn’t even breathe properly.

“You look beautiful like this.”

Jiyong blinked up, too dazed to reply.

“Undone.”  That landed.

Seungri felt it ripple through him— felt the way Jiyong stilled under his hand, then melted even further. “You were always so careful,” He whispered, lips brushing Jiyong’s temple. “So perfect. So guarded. I forgot what you look like when you stop performing.”

Jiyong’s response was a soft, broken noise. Almost a whimper.

Seungri didn’t press— he coaxed. His hand moved now, openly exploring. Not rough. Not rushed. Down the curve of Jiyong’s spine. Over his hip. Resting at the edge of skin where his shirt had ridden up.

Not once did Jiyong pull away.

He couldn’t.

Not with the fog blooming in his mind. Not with the weight of Seungri’s body and that damn familiar smell grounding him. Not with the way everything felt like a memory he couldn’t quite name.

“I missed this version of you. Open. Soft. Mine.” He tilted Jiyong’s chin up, slow and reverent.

Jiyong’s breath caught. He was silent for a few moments. “I’m not— I was never-”

“You were. And you could be again.”

And in the thick silence that followed, Seungri tilted his head just enough to taste the air off his lips. Almost kissing. Almost claiming.

But he didn’t.

He let the threat of it hang.

Because the real pleasure wasn’t in the taking.

It was in the knowledge that he could.

That was the control. That was the game.

Let Jiyong fall into him. Let him fall.

Chapter Text

His mouth was dry.

Not just dry- scorched. Like he’d swallowed ash in his sleep. Breathing hurt. Even blinking took effort. Jiyong’s eyelids fought him as he tried to open them. A pulse thundered at his temple. Then behind his eyes. Then in the fragile base of his skull. Fuck. He winced, trying to move, and his stomach lurched in response, the room tilting in a slow, ugly pirouette.

Panic flared, muffled at first, then sharp.

He was on his back. He never slept on his back.

He always rolled to the side, curled up tight, tucked away from the world. But now, he felt exposed. Splayed out. Limbs limp and boneless, blanket twisted low around his hips, one leg half-kicked out like he’d thrashed in his sleep.

Where…

The ceiling above him didn’t register. Neither did the pattern of light slanting through the curtain: it could’ve been early morning or late afternoon. Time had lost shape.

He groaned softly and rolled his head to the side.

That’s when he saw it.

Saw him.

A figure. A body. Another person.

Curled under the same blanket, close enough to touch- bare shoulder half-exposed, hair tousled, mouth parted slightly against the pillow.

Seungri.

Jiyong’s breath stuttered.

His whole chest clenched, sharp and tight like something had just dropped down through it. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The wine buzz was gone, but something much worse had taken its place.

There was no memory. None. A total blankness in his mind like someone had blacked out a reel of film. One moment he was on the couch, maybe— Seungri’s hand on his face, warm, heavy, and then…

Nothing.

Just this.

Just now.

Seungri.

In his bed.

God, his head… it felt like someone had cracked it open and filled it with static. His fingers buzzed with it.

His stomach turned. A slow, sick churn that warned him not to move too fast. But the panic was blooming now, tight in his chest, clawing at his ribs, and he had to do something. Had to know if this was real.

He tried to sit up. Instant mistake.

The moment he lifted his head off the pillow, the whole world tilted violently to the side. His vision blurred— went white, actually, just for a second— and then nausea surged up from his gut, thick and brutal, bile at the back of his throat.

He clamped his mouth shut and froze, eyes squeezed shut against the spin.

Fuck. Fuck.

He was going to be sick.

He reached a trembling hand out, found the edge of the mattress, and gripped it tight like it could anchor him to the earth. The sheet bunched under his fingers, damp with sweat. He could feel the room breathing around him, walls pulsing in and out like lungs.

He gasped, sucking air in through his teeth.

His heart was racing. Or maybe palpitating. It didn’t feel right. Nothing felt right.

What the fuck happened?

He swallowed, throat raw, and forced his eyes open again, slowly, carefully. The world sharpened just enough to let the panic fully land.

Seungri.

Still there.

Still close.

Still asleep, maybe.

He couldn’t breathe.

A cold sweat broke over his back, beading along his spine. Every instinct screamed wrong, wrong, this isn’t right, but he didn’t know why. Couldn’t remember enough to place the horror properly.

All he had was this awful emptiness in his mind. This absence where memory should be.

And the fact that Seungri was here— half-naked, face soft with sleep, his body relaxed in a way that felt intimate— made his stomach twist all over again.

Jiyong felt sick. Shame was crawling up his throat like a living thing.

And he still couldn’t remember.

Seungri stirred with a soft, breathy sound.

Jiyong flinched.

The noise was so human, so intimate, it made his skin crawl. He didn’t look. Couldn’t. But he felt the shift in the mattress, the subtle pull of weight beside him. A rustle of sheets. Then stillness.

“Jiyong?” The voice was rough with sleep. Low, morning voice. Reminiscent in a way that made him ache.

He didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

His mouth was dry, and his throat felt like it had been scraped raw. Something inside him was screaming— run, get out, do something— but he just sat there, hunched, clutching the edge of the bed like it could stop him from falling apart.

Seungri shifted again. Slower this time. Closer. “…Are you okay?” he asked, quieter now. Almost cautious.

Jiyong didn’t turn his head. He just stared at the far wall, heart thudding dully in his chest.

“What… what happened?” he rasped. His voice sounded foreign. Smaller than it should’ve.

There was a pause.

Too long.

And in that pause, a hundred horrible possibilities bloomed.

Then, finally, the reply came. “You um… really don’t remember?”

Jiyong’s stomach dropped.

“No,” he whispered. It was barely a sound.

Another pause. This one felt deliberate.

Seungri exhaled, like something heavy had landed on his chest. Like he was the one feeling ashamed. “…You were really drunk,” he said, voice careful now. Too careful. “I tried to stop you, but…” He trailed off, let the silence fill in the blanks.

And Jiyong— broken open, dizzy, dry-mouthed and terrified— let it. He turned then, slow and brittle, and found Seungri looking at him with that same unreadable softness he always wore when things got complicated. His eyes were half-lidded, lashes heavy. His hair was a mess.

He looked like someone who had every right to be there.

He looked like someone who had been there.

All night.

Jiyong’s breath hitched. “Did we…?” he couldn’t even say it.

Seungri didn’t answer.

Not with words.

He just let his expression falter. Just a fraction. The corner of his mouth dipped. His gaze lowered.

And that was enough.

Enough to confirm something, even if nothing had happened.

Enough to make Jiyong’s blood run cold.

He turned away again, pressing both hands to his face like he could rub the shame off. But it was sinking in deep, clinging to his skin, tightening around his ribs.

“I- I need to get up,” he muttered.

But he didn’t move. His legs wouldn’t cooperate. His head spun in slow, queasy circles. The air in the room was too warm, too thick, like it wasn’t his anymore.

Seungri didn’t say anything. Just sat up behind him, shifting so the mattress dipped again, close enough for Jiyong to feel his presence along his back like static. “I didn’t mean for anything to happen,” Seungri said, voice barely above a whisper. “You know that, right?”

Jiyong didn’t answer. His hands were still on his face. His palms were damp now. He didn’t know when he started crying, but the tears were there, hot and silent, sliding past his knuckles.

“It wasn’t like before,” Seungri continued, and that sentence hit him like a slap. Jiyong dropped his hands, turned his head slightly, eyes wide.

“Before?” he croaked.

Seungri blinked slowly. Regret. Regret painted all over him like a sad little masterpiece. He ran a hand through his short hair, eyes cast down now like he was ashamed.

“You let me in again, hyung,” he murmured. “Last night… I thought— just for a moment— I really thought maybe we were back there. Back to… before everything broke.”

The room tilted.

Jiyong felt nauseous.

“But I don’t— I don’t remember anything,” he stammered, desperation bleeding through. “If something happened, I— I didn’t mean—”

“You don’t have to explain,” Seungri cut in, soft and firm all at once. “I know you were out of it. I know you didn’t mean to.”

And yet somehow, that made it worse.

Jiyong’s breathing stuttered. “Then why— why were you in my bed?”

Seungri didn’t speak right away.

He just looked at him for a long, breathless beat. And then, like it hurt to admit, “You asked me to be there.”

The silence that followed cracked like thin ice underfoot.

Jiyong swallowed, but his throat was too dry, and the motion only burned. His whole body pulsed with shame. Shame, and confusion, and something much, much darker clawing its way up from the pit of his stomach. “I wouldn’t— I wouldn’t ask you to—” His voice broke on itself.

“I know,” Seungri whispered. “That’s what made it so hard to say no.” His voice trembled just enough. Not too much. Just enough to sound human. Just enough to drive the guilt in deeper.

And then he did the worst thing imaginable.

He smiled.

Soft. Sad. Forgiving.

Like he was the one trying to make Jiyong feel better.

“I’m sorry if I crossed a line,” he added, barely audible. “I just… wanted you to feel safe again. I couldn’t just… leave, after you begged…”

That was the killshot.

Jiyong turned away, clenching his fists in the sheets, because if he didn’t he might scream.

Or sob.

Or throw up.

Or confess something that never even happened, just to feel like he had some control.

He didn’t.

He never had.

Jiyong stumbled through the bathroom doorway, one hand bracing against the frame, the other gripping the edge of the sink like his life depended on it.

His knees hit the floor too fast, his body folding in half over the toilet before he could think, before he could breathe. The heave came from somewhere low and primal, wretched and dry at first, then bitter, sour, wine-laced bile. Each retch dragged pain from his ribs, tore his throat raw. His stomach cramped with the violence of it.

He didn’t even try to shut the door.

Didn’t care if Seungri heard.

Let him hear.

Let him watch.

Let him know what he’d done to him.

Or worse— what Jiyong might’ve done to himself.

When it was over, he didn’t move.

Just slumped sideways against the cool tile, cheek pressed to it, mouth open and gasping. The world blurred around the edges, his pulse a thunderous throb behind his eyes. He could feel his heart like it was too big for his chest, slamming against bone and panic and shame.

He forced himself up, swaying, grabbing the sink again for balance. He turned the tap. Splashed cold water on his face. Did it again.

Then, finally, he looked up.

The mirror was merciless.

Eyes red and wild. Hair flattened on one side. His skin pale, splotchy, wet with sweat and water and tears he didn’t remember shedding. His lips were chapped. There was a bruise blooming under his jaw— he didn’t know where from. He looked like he’d been hollowed out and forgotten.

A stranger stared back at him.

No.

Not a stranger.

Someone worse.

Someone who’d allowed something to happen. Someone who didn’t stop it. Someone who—

He gripped the sink harder, knuckles whitening.

Behind him, the bed creaked.

But Seungri didn’t come.

Not yet.

He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, elbows on knees, palms together like he was praying. But he wasn’t. He was remembering.

The way Jiyong had gone pliant in his arms last night, all loose limbs and heavy head, muttering nonsense against his shoulder. The way he’d carried him through the darkened flat, brushing past furniture. He’d placed Jiyong on the mattress with precision, arranging him like a sculpture: one leg curled, one hand across his chest, his shirt halfway up his ribs. His face turned toward the pillow, lips parted in sleep.

Then Seungri had stripped. Not all the way. Just his shirt.

He’d wanted it to feel normal. Familiar.

He’d crawled in beside him and closed his eyes, smiling like he had won a Nobel Prize. Oh, did sleep come easy that night. 

He could’ve left. Could’ve taken the couch. Could’ve covered Jiyong up and walked away.

But he didn’t.

Because this was the moment he’d been orchestrating all along.

Now, in the bathroom, he finally moved.

Soft footsteps. A pause in the doorway. A sharp inhale.

“Hyung?” His voice was small. Like he was the one who was afraid.

Jiyong didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.

Seungri stepped closer, kneeling slowly behind him. “I heard you…” he trailed off, voice catching just a little. “God, I’m sorry.”

Jiyong kept staring at the sink. The water still ran.

“I didn’t know it’d hit you this hard,” Seungri murmured. “Your meds, I— I should’ve stopped you from drinking. I should’ve—” He broke off. There were tears in his eyes now. They caught on lashes but didn’t fall. Perfectly placed. He reached out gently, fingertips ghosting the damp back of Jiyong’s shirt. “Come here,” he said. “Let me help you.”

But Jiyong didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t breathe.

And that stillness— so fragile, so tense— made Seungri lean in just a little closer, lips almost brushing his ear.

“You’re not alone, hyung,” he whispered. “You never were.” Seungri waited for a reaction, anything: a blink, a breath, a word. But Jiyong stayed frozen, hunched over the sink like the porcelain was all that tethered him to the present. When he did move, it was his knees failing him, him sinking to his knees under the still running sink.

So Seungri did what he was best at. He moved closer.

He knelt fully now, knees clicking against the tile as he slowly wrapped one arm around Jiyong’s middle, the other reaching up, hand brushing sweat-matted strands of hair off Jiyong’s forehead. His movements were careful, reverent, like he was soothing a skittish animal, or something sacred. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Jiyong didn’t answer. But his body didn’t resist when Seungri pulled him upright with agonising gentleness. The weight of him sagged into the younger’s arms, dead-heavy and trembling.

He eased Jiyong to sit on the closed toilet lid, one hand steadying him at the shoulder. Then Seungri turned, dampened a clean towel under cold water, and knelt again between Jiyong’s knees. The towel came up, dabbing softly at his face: around the mouth, down the neck, under the chin. Every touch was ghost-light, like he was afraid Jiyong might shatter if handled too roughly. He cleaned the corner of Jiyong’s lips.

He looked up. Met Jiyong’s bloodshot, hollow eyes, and for a second, Seungri looked like he might cry. “You looked so peaceful,” he murmured. “After. Last night. I didn’t want to ruin that.”

He cupped the back of Jiyong’s neck then, thumb stroking small circles, grounding him. Owning him. “You fell asleep on me. Right on my chest. Like you used to… back then.”

Jiyong flinched— just slightly. “I don’t… remember.”

Seungri noticed. But his smile stayed soft.

He pressed the towel into Jiyong’s hand like he was offering him control, a choice.

“You okay to stand?”

Jiyong nodded, slow and tight, like his bones were grinding together inside him.

Seungri helped him up again— an arm firm around his waist as he shut off the tap. “Come on, hyung. Let’s go back to bed.”

The wine glasses on the nightstand looked obscene in the morning light— two sinful empty vessels, stained red, waiting to be washed clean.

Seungri led Jiyong in like he was guiding a blind man. He kept an arm tight around his ribs, careful with his steps, guiding him down to sit on the bed’s edge. He crouched in front of him again, hands resting lightly on Jiyong’s knees. “You need to lie down,” he said softly. “Your heart’s going a million miles a minute.”

Jiyong shook his head once. Barely. “I can’t.” His voice was cracked sandpaper. It didn’t even sound like his own.

Seungri tilted his head, watching him like he was trying to see through him. “You’re safe,” he said, and it came out almost scoldingly kind. “You’re home.”

Jiyong gave a low, joyless laugh. “This isn’t home.”

Something flickered in Seungri’s expression, too quick to name. He sat beside him slowly, letting their knees touch. Letting the silence settle. “I didn’t know you were hurting this much,” he said after a long beat. “I… didn’t know I still mattered enough to make it worse.”

That— that— landed like a blow.

Jiyong’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.

“I thought… maybe last night helped,” Seungri added, voice breaking at the edges. “Just being close again.” He turned to face him.

And that’s when Jiyong finally looked at him. Really looked at him.

The bare shoulders. The deep circles under his eyes. The tiny red scratch on his collarbone. Jiyong didn’t remember putting that there. Didn’t remember anything after that second glass of wine.

“I don’t feel right,” he whispered.

Seungri nodded, understanding eyes full of too much knowing. “You’re just overwhelmed,” he murmured. “It’ll pass.” He brushed a hand across Jiyong’s knee, then up to his jaw, tilting his face slightly. “You trust me, right?”

Jiyong blinked slowly.

And Seungri leaned in— too close again, but not quite touching. “Because I’ve got you, hyung,” he whispered. “I always have.”

Jiyong’s breath hitched as Seungri’s fingers pressed gently against his jaw, turning his face up like he was something precious, fragile, even.

Too much.

Too intimate.

Too close.

And suddenly, some instinct— buried deep and battered raw— flared up. A ghost of self-preservation. The last vestige of a boundary he hadn’t known still existed.

He slapped Seungri’s hand away.

Not hard. Not even really conscious. Just a shaky twitch of his wrist and fingers.

But it landed.

The sound of skin meeting skin was soft, but the silence that followed roared.

Seungri’s hand hung in the air for a second longer than necessary.

His eyes flickered blank for a flash. And there it was.

The slip.

Gone was the soft sorrow in his gaze. Gone was the tender regret.

Just for a second.

Something dark slithered up from the depths. Thin, sharp, cold.

Offended. Not by pain, but by audacity.

The moment dragged.

Then, like a magician snapping the cloth back over the trick— Seungri dropped his gaze, let his hand fall to his lap, and laughed.

Softly. Warmly. Like nothing had happened.

“Still got fight in you,” he said, voice velvet and smoke. “That’s good.”

He reached out again, slower this time, brushing the air just above Jiyong’s shoulder but not quite touching.

“I’ll back off,” he murmured. “Only if you really want me to.”

Jiyong didn’t answer.

Didn’t even look at him.

His eyes were trained on the wall now— glassy, unfocused, half-lost again.

Seungri tilted his head slightly, watching him for a moment longer. And then he rose. He stood there in front of Jiyong, shirtless, backlit by the pale sliver of light that crept in through the half-shut blinds. The faint outline of old scars traced lines across his torso. “I’ll make tea,” he said finally, gentle as ever. “Maybe something warm will help.” He turned and walked out, footsteps soft on the floorboards.

But as he reached the door, he paused. Just for a second. The smile on his face melted away like it had never been there. His eyes narrowed. Jaw tight.

Click.

He closed the door behind him with care.

The kitchen was too quiet. No kettle hissing, no mug being set out, no cabinet creaking open. Just the faint hum of the fridge and the ticking of the wall clock like a countdown to something that had already gone off.

Seungri stood still in front of the counter. His hands rested on either side of the sink, gripping the edge so tightly his knuckles blanched white. His shoulders were tense, biceps locked, spine pulled rigid like a bowstring.

And that smile, that calm, sorrow-tinged, caring smile he’d worn like second skin for hours, melted. It didn’t crack. It evaporated, like it had never belonged to his face in the first place.

He exhaled through his nose. Slow. Controlled. Then he laughed, quiet and humorless. Frustrated.

He pushed off the counter and rolled his shoulders once, then opened the nearest cabinet with a soft thud. No clattering, no slamming. Everything Seungri did was precise. Quiet. Like he didn’t want to be caught, even by the walls.

He pulled down a mug. Then a second one. Filled the kettle. Switched it on. As it started to heat, he leaned against the counter again and stared blankly at the opposite wall.

“I give you everything,” he whispered, under his breath. “And you flinch like you still matter. Like I couldn't do anything I wanted to you.”

His lips curled— not in a smile, yet not in a snarl, but something worse: a private amusement. He looked like someone who’d been disrespected. Someone whose plan— meticulously constructed— had been lightly bruised by something small and stupid. A hand being pushed away.

“He’ll be sorry within the hour,” Seungri muttered with a clenched jaw, and this time there was venom under it. “He’ll crawl back the second he feels alone again.” 

He poured hot water into the mugs. One with honey, the other plain. Then, ever so gently, he picked up his coat and pulled out a small, unlabeled vial. Pale amber liquid. He turned it once between his fingers, watching the light catch the glass. Measured two drops into one of the mugs, and stirred slowly.

That soft, saintly smile was back now. Slipping over his features like a mask of gold leaf.

By the time he returned to the bedroom, it was as if none of it had ever happened.

Jiyong sat still for a moment, unsure of what part of him was shaking. His fingers were twitching in his lap, his knees drawn up slightly, shoulders curled in like he was trying to fold himself smaller. Vanish into the bedsheets.

His hand still buzzed. The one that pushed Seungri away.

He looked at it. It was trembling slightly. The knuckles white. He flexed his fingers, slow and uncertain, like maybe they didn’t belong to him anymore. Like he wasn’t sure if that movement had been an accident… or a scream his body managed when his voice couldn’t.

He should’ve said something.

He should’ve screamed, Get out. He should’ve thrown the blanket off, stormed into the bathroom, called someone, done anything but sit there like this.

But he didn’t. He just sat. Wearing the same creased and sweaty shirt from last night. Still tasting wine and bile in the back of his throat. Still unsure if the ache in his stomach was from crying, from throwing up, from drinking, or from something far worse he couldn’t name.

He pressed his palm over his chest, trying to catch his breath. Everything ached in the shape of something he didn’t remember.

Seungri’s voice was a velvet hush as he returned, soft footsteps muffled by carpet. In his hands were two mugs. Steam rose like breath in the low light. “I brought you tea,” he said, crouching gently beside Jiyong, who hadn’t moved from the edge of the bed. His arms were wrapped around himself like he might shatter. His eyes didn’t leave the floor. The younger sat beside him, not too close. Not yet. He held out the mug like an offering. “It’s only tea,” he murmured. “Chamomile, your favourite, like always. It’ll help settle you.”

Jiyong glanced over. The warmth in Seungri’s eyes— God, it was too much. Too patient. Too understanding. He shouldn’t have been this kind. He shouldn’t have been here. He—

“Drink a little, you threw up.” Seungri said gently. “Then lie down again. You’ll feel better.”

He took the cup. The mug was warm. Heavy. Real. And Seungri’s fingers brushed his as he let go, just for a moment too long.

The taste was sweet. Softer than he expected. Maybe honey. Maybe something floral. Not quite right, but pleasant enough. His stomach turned at first, raw from the vomiting, but the warmth helped. It slid down easier than water had, sweetening the rawness of his throat.

Seungri watched him drink, eyes fixed like worship. “There you go,” he whispered.

Jiyong handed the mug back, inhaling deeply through his nose. “Thanks.”

“No,” Seungri murmured, gaze lingering. “Thank you.”

At first it was nothing. Just warmth in his chest. A little lightness in his head.

Then it deepened.

The fog wasn’t like before. It didn’t slam down. It crept. Like velvet over skin. Like warm water up the spine. A slow shift in gravity. The corners of the room began to blur.

The lights dimmed, or maybe his eyes did. His muscles slackened. His heartbeat slowed. The ache behind his eyes dulled into nothing at all.

He didn’t realize he was swaying until Seungri steadied him with a hand on his back. “There you go,” he murmured again. “That’s it.”

Jiyong let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He was warm. So warm. He wanted to lie down and sleep until the world ended.

He sat with him, just breathing beside him, steady and quiet and present in a way that felt unnatural in the stillness of the room. His hand remained against Jiyong’s back, just light pressure, a grounding point. A claim.

The warmth bloomed bigger. Spread wider.

Jiyong blinked slowly. His thoughts felt like feathers in water. Disconnected. Soft. He tried to remember how long they’d been sitting here. What time it was. Whether he’d spoken aloud just now or only thought he had. The weight of the day, the grief, the spiral— it all felt distant. Not gone, but blurred, like someone had drawn lace over the pain.

His fingers twitched.

Something was…

He furrowed his brow slightly, just enough for the skin between his eyes to pull. It didn’t last long.

A pulse of quiet. A low hum.

Something wasn’t right.

He tried to shift his legs. They felt heavy. Not immobile… just… slack. Sleepy. His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth like it was coated in syrup. The taste of the tea lingered, floral and sweet and… he didn’t know what else.

He opened his mouth to say something.

“Lie down,” Seungri said softly, before the words could come. Not a suggestion.

Jiyong blinked again. Slower this time. The moment passed. The unease dissolved like sugar in heat.

He nodded. Obedient. Boneless.

He guided Jiyong backward with impossible tenderness, like he’d done this before. Like Jiyong was something fragile and precious. A china doll in need of precise handling. “Good,” Seungri murmured. “That’s it. Good boy.”

Pillows cradled Jiyong’s head. The blanket came up around his shoulders.

Seungri leaned in closer, the warmth of him like a blanket in itself. He brushed Jiyong’s hair back, fingertips lingering for just a beat too long. “Just rest,” he whispered, voice melting into the dark. “You’re safe now.”

Chapter Text

Jiyong had fallen asleep in Seungri’s arms, or at least, that’s what his body remembered. The scent of him, the warmth, the way fingers had combed slowly through his hair until dreams took over.

He’d drifted off to the sound of a heartbeat against his ear. Safe.

That was the last thing.

But before that, Seungri had made a careful move, quietly. A chess player claiming one last piece before stepping back from the board.

Jiyong’s phone lay on the bedside table, screen faintly glowing with a new message.

Seunghyun: You okay? Didn’t hear from you last night. Just checking in.

Seungri glanced toward Jiyong’s slack form: he was limp, breaths deep and uneven, pulled under something thicker than sleep. He wouldn’t wake. He picked up the phone, thumb poised. No hesitation.

Me: sorry hyung, i was so exhausted i passed out.. didn’t even brush my teeth lol. all good tho promise. miss you ❤️

He added the little heart without flinching. He even mimicked Jiyong’s erratic lowercase typing. Seunghyun wouldn’t question it. Not today.

Seungri locked the phone again, placed it gently back where it was. Then he stood, peeling Jiyong’s limbs off him.

Watched Jiyong for a moment, something unreadable passing across his face. A flicker of guilt? No, not quite.

Possession.

He bent down, brushed one last strand of hair from Jiyong’s brow. Leaned close.

“I’ve got you exactly where I want you,” he whispered, breath soft against the shell of Jiyong’s ear.

Then he slipped out the door.

Jiyong just stared at the ceiling. He didn’t sit up. Didn’t move. Just lay there, still and quiet, like if he waited long enough, Seungri might drift back into the room and pick up where things left off— might slip into bed again, wrap around him again, whisper again.

But the room stayed empty.

No footsteps. No weight shifting beside him. No scent of him clinging to the sheets. Not even a crease where his body might’ve been. Just Jiyong. Just him.

His throat clenched.

He finally sat up— slowly, unsteadily— and the cold hit him all at once. The room felt unfamiliar. The sheets felt foreign. Before his mind could catch up with his hands, he fumbled for the hoodie, eyes darting around to look for it— the one Seungri returned like a symbol, like a peace offering. That hoodie he held like a damn teddy bear in the dark when Seunghyun was still gone and the world felt loud and Seungri felt like the only person who didn’t look at him like he wanted to slam him in a mental hospital.

Gone.

It wasn’t there.

It wasn’t there.

Panic slithered in quietly at first, then sank its teeth into his chest.

He pulled open drawers, checked the floor, the closet— nothing. Nothing. Not a thread of it. His breaths came quicker now, shallow and sharp like he couldn’t quite fill his lungs.

“Where is it,” he whispered, voice breaking like wet paper. “Where—where is it—”

Like if he said it out loud, it would just appear. Like Seungri would come back with it and press it into his arms and tell him to hush.

But there was no sound.

No one came.

His knees gave out halfway across the room and he sank to the floor, knuckles white around the hem of his shirt, eyes burning.

Seungri left.

Without a word. Without a goodbye. Without the hoodie.

Just gone.

And Jiyong… Jiyong didn’t know how to cope with that kind of silence. He didn’t do silence.

Not this kind.

His fingers curled into his hair. “I didn’t mean to push him,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean it.”

The words came out in a child’s voice— barely audible. Helpless.

He’ll be sorry within the hour.

Seungri’s voice hummed somewhere outside.

He’ll crawl back the second he feels alone again.

And god, he was right.

He tore the bedroom apart.

It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t calm. It was desperate.

Drawers slammed open, the closet door rattled on its hinges. Sheets were flung, pillows hurled. He even checked under the bed— twice— like his hoodie might’ve slipped away from him and cowered there. Like it was scared too.

It was gone. And so was Seungri. The man who’d held him so close the night before. Who’d whispered in that soft, hypnotic voice like nothing in the world could ever touch him again.

Gone.

He didn’t miss him, no, he missed what he gave- that security. Filling the loneliness and muffling the impending doom.

He stumbled into the living room, chest heaving now, full of that strange, trembling air that never quite made it into his lungs. His hands were shaking. His vision blurred, then he made out his phone. It was sitting facedown on the coffee table, perfectly still, like nothing had ever touched it. Like Seungri hadn’t cradled it in his palm that morning and typed out a soft, fake lie.

Jiyong didn’t even remember typing that, didn’t remember reassuring Seunghyun.

But Seungri had already stolen his voice and sent it out into the man, concealed behind a screen.

He picked the phone up with both hands, like it might break if he breathed too hard.

And then he found the contact.

He knew he shouldn’t.

He knew it like he knew how to breathe in rhythm with a song, like he knew the burn of stage lights in his eyes— some part of him screamed not to.

Calling Seungri— begging like this— felt like betrayal.

To himself.

To every ounce of control he’d scraped together with bloodied palms and fake smiles.

Please pick up. Please don’t leave me.

The first call rang out.

No answer.

He tried again.

Still nothing.

The third time, he didn’t even wait for the beep. He hung up halfway, clutching the phone to his chest like it might warm him, soothe him. Like it might whisper to him if he just held it hard enough.

Tears burned behind his eyes, but he squeezed them shut.

He didn’t want to cry. Not yet. Not unless he had to.

He thought of Taeyang. Of Daesung. Of the times they’d walked in on him curled up, distant, breaking in slow motion. The way Taeyang’s face would tighten, and Daesung would flinch, like they didn’t know how to touch him without making it worse.

He didn’t want them to see him like this.

Didn’t want them to see he was still this Jiyong. Still the broken little thing in designer threads and trembling limbs.

His thumb hovered over the call button one more time.

And he hit it.

“Please,” he whispered, to no one.

To the empty apartment.

The phone slipped from his hands and clattered to the floor.

Jiyong folded in on himself— knees buckling beneath him, palms flat to the floor, forehead pressed to it like he could disappear into it. Like he should.

He didn’t sob.

He wailed.

A sharp, broken sound. One that sounded more animal than man, more boy than anything he’d ever let himself be. It shook through his ribs like a fever, clawed up his throat like poison.

And then the door opened.

Softly.

Quietly.

Jiyong didn’t hear it at first— too wrapped up in his own storm, sobs wracking his small body like a beating. But then a footstep. Then another. And suddenly—

He knew.

He jerked his head up, a blur of tears and wild hair and flushed skin, and there, just inside the doorway, stood Seungri.

Just him.

Jiyong didn’t ask where he’d been.

Didn’t wait.

He crawled.

Hands and knees across the hardwood like a kid who’d been left at the grocery store. A desperate thing. Like a ghost trying to drag himself back into a body.

“Ri—” he gasped, voice cracked. “S- Seungri, I— I’m sorry—”

Seungri’s expression shifted. Guilt, maybe. Concern. That perfect storm of softness that made him seem so real, so human in the worst of ways.

But Jiyong didn’t stop to analyze.

He crashed into him. Weak, trembling arms wrapping around Seungri’s waist, face buried in his shirt, shaking with every breath like it might shatter his chest. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” he began, barely forming words, slurring them between gasps. “I didn’t— sh- shouldn’t’ve pushed you— please— don’t go again— please—”

Seungri stood frozen for just a second.

Just one.

Then his arms came down around him, slow and warm, like wrapping up a shivering child. He knelt with him, pulled him fully into his lap, hands carding gently through his hair. “Shhh…” he whispered, lips against Jiyong’s temple. “I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.”

Jiyong whimpered and clung tighter, nails digging into Seungri’s back, fists clutching the fabric like it was all he had left.

And Seungri held him through it. Held him until the sobs turned to hiccups. Until the breathing slowed. Until the apology turned to nothing but a slurred, broken echo of his name.

Seungri just rocked him, gentle, soothing.

A hum deep in his chest, like a lullaby made of lies.

“I was so scared,” Jiyong whispered, fists clinging to Seungri’s shirt, the smell of him anchoring something inside. “You weren’t here— I didn’t know where you—”

Seungri brushed hair from his forehead, soft and absentminded, like he wasn’t even really listening. “I’m here now,” he said quietly. “That’s what matters.”

“But…” Jiyong’s voice cracked. “Where did—”

“Shh,” Seungri murmured, lips at his hairline. “Don’t worry about it, baby.”

He didn’t answer.

Jiyong clung tighter, so tight Seungri might’ve said something, if the shaking wasn’t so violent.

The tears came again, all at once this time. Not soft, not leaking—ripping. Like something had finally given way, deep inside his chest, and now it was pouring out like floodwater.

He didn’t even know why he was crying again, not at first.

But the image hit him suddenly: waking up this morning with Seungri beside him, the pillow warm where Seungri’s breath had landed in sleep. His bare chest. The memory lodged itself in his gut like a needle.

Baby.

His face scrunched up against Seungri’s neck. He couldn’t stop the noise that came out of him, choked and wet and ashamed.

“I— I let you— I woke up and you were holding me— and I didn’t even—” He sucked in a ragged breath, face crumpling as the words dissolved into sobs. “What’s wrong with me?”

Seungri didn’t speak. He just wrapped his arms tighter around Jiyong’s trembling body, rocking him gently, fingers brushing slow patterns on his spine.

Jiyong whimpered, guilt thick in his throat. The disgust wasn’t for Seungri. It never was. The shame lived in him, settled like rot, and it festered in silence every time he let himself feel comfort in Seungri’s arms. Every time he needed him like this. “I’m so messed up,” he whispered, breaking again, curling tighter into Seungri’s lap like a child trying to disappear.

Seungri let him cry.

Let the sobs come, loud and ugly and unfiltered. Let Jiyong collapse in on himself while he sat there, calm as ever, holding him like a secret he’d already decided to keep.

He didn’t say “you’re not messed up.”

Didn’t say “it’s okay.”

He just rocked him, slow and quiet.

Let the guilt eat him alive.

“I didn’t mean it,” Jiyong sobbed, breath hiccuping in his throat as he buried himself against Seungri’s chest. “Please don’t go again— I was scared— I didn’t know where—”

“Hey,” Seungri whispered, gently rocking them both. “Shh. It’s okay. I just stepped out.”

“But. Why… why did you—”

“You were sleeping,” he said with a low, sweet hum. “I didn’t wanna wake you. You looked peaceful.”

Jiyong blinked up at him, eyes swollen and red. “I— I wasn’t. I— I don’t remember sleeping…”

“You crashed,” Seungri smiled softly. “Completely out. You must’ve been exhausted. I just ran out to grab a couple things. I thought I’d be back before you even noticed.”

Jiyong’s fingers tightened in his shirt. That made sense. Didn’t it?

He nodded slowly, head pressing back into the crook of Seungri’s neck, like if he hid far enough in the warmth he wouldn’t have to think about how he didn’t even know what time it was. Or why the apartment felt colder.

Seungri’s hand moved gently down his back, rhythmic, comforting. Too comforting. “I’m here now,” he murmured again, words like silk. “That’s all that matters.”

And Jiyong— desperate, broken, and still dizzy from crying— nodded like a child being tucked back into bed after a nightmare.

Even if the monster had never left the room.

Seungri didn’t say anything for a while. He just stroked Jiyong’s hair, let the silence hum between them like a wire pulled taut. The moment held… and then it didn’t.

“Jiyong-ah,” he murmured, soft. Too soft. Like the calm before a storm. “Do you know how many times I’ve woken up with tears on my shoulder from you?”

Jiyong stilled.

“You cry so much in your sleep,” Seungri continued, voice syrupy now, a touch too sweet. “Mumbling things you never say when you’re awake.”

Jiyong’s stomach twisted.

“I lie there, and I listen,” Seungri went on. “I hold you when you shake. I keep you safe when you don’t even know you need it.” He tilted Jiyong’s chin up with two fingers, gently. “And the moment you’re lucid, you push me away like I’m the problem.”

His eyes were dark now, unreadable.

“Tell me, hyung.” The honorific was not affectionate. It was sharp. “Why is it okay for you to sob into my chest all night, clutch my hand like it’s the only thing keeping you alive, but the second you remember where you are, you act like I’m the one who crossed the line?”

Jiyong tried to shrink back, but Seungri’s arm held him firm.

“I don’t mind taking care of you. I never have. I like it, actually,” he said, voice dropping to something quieter, colder. “But I think you need to ask yourself— who else would put up with this?”

There it was. The twist of the knife.

“I’m the only one who doesn’t look away when you fall apart. Youngbae and Daesung, they pity you. Seunghyun-hyung? He can’t even look at you properly anymore. You’ve noticed that, right? It’s not like before.” A pause. “But me? I see you. I want you, even when you’re a disgusting, crying, weak mess.”

He smiled then, affectionate. But something behind it flickered. Something wrong.

“You don’t have to keep pretending, Jiyong.” His thumb brushed a tear off his cheek. “You don’t want them. You want me.”

Jiyong couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t even think, really.

Because somewhere— some twisted, broken corner of his mind— something about those words… felt true.

Jiyong couldn’t answer even if he wanted to. His throat was thick with guilt and confusion and something heavier he couldn’t name, couldn’t even fight. His fingers curled into Seungri’s shirt like a child, seeking safety even from the storm that was him.

And just like that, Seungri softened.

The storm cleared. The shadows retreated from his face, leaving only moonlight and hush behind. “Shhh,” he cooed, thumb tracing along Jiyong’s jaw. “You’re okay. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just telling you the truth.” His voice dropped into that quiet lullaby tone again, familiar and sickeningly sweet. “You’re okay, baby.”

Jiyong’s eyes welled again at the name. And Seungri leaned in, so gently, like he could break him with too much breath, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Jiyong’s cheek. Right on the tear track.

It burned.

“I’m not angry with you,” he whispered. “Not really. I know you’re scared.”

Another kiss, this time to his temple.

“I know you didn’t mean to push me away. You were just overwhelmed, right?” His arms wrapped tighter around him, rocking slightly now. “You didn’t mean it. You were hurting. That’s all.”

Jiyong nodded against him, the motion frantic and small, like a child desperate to make it right.

Seungri hummed low in his throat, a soothing sound that crawled down Jiyong’s spine and settled like chains around his ribs.

“There he is,” he murmured. “There’s my sweet boy.”

And then, so quiet it could’ve been mistaken for a thought: “You’re safest with me. Always with me.”

Seungri sat beside Jiyong on the couch, fingers still curled around his hand. The tears had dried on Jiyong’s cheeks, though his eyes were still puffy, lashes damp, cheeks pink. He leaned into Seungri without thinking now— instinctively, automatically.

“I have to go for a little bit,” Seungri said gently, like he was announcing a trip to the store. “I’ve got a few things to handle.”

Jiyong stiffened slightly.

Seungri’s hand moved to the back of his neck. Warm. Anchoring. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Jiyong nodded, barely. It felt wrong— wrong to let go. But he didn’t ask him to stay. He didn’t want to sound needy. Not again.

Seungri kissed his cheek again— soft, affectionate, sealing something there— and whispered, “Be good for me, hmm?”

Jiyong closed his eyes as the kiss was pressed to his cheek, choosing not to react.

Then he was gone, leaving a ghost beside Jiyong.

The silence was suffocating.

Jiyong sat there for a long time, not moving. He could still feel the weight of Seungri’s hand on his neck. The echo of the kiss. The softness of that last smile.

And something under it… something he couldn’t name, started to rot.

He exhaled shakily, looked around the room like he didn’t recognize it anymore.

What am I doing?

The question surfaced out of nowhere and settled like a stone in his chest. He stood slowly. The walls felt closer. His own skin felt tight around him. Too tight.

He went to the bathroom, stared at himself in the mirror again, and this time, he really looked.

His cheeks were hollow.

His eyes dull.

And suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.

“I got in bed with him,” he whispered to himself. “I let him hold me. I let him—”

He remembered the way Seungri looked at him that morning. That pause when he asked his question.

That was enough.

He didn’t need to be told.

He sank to the floor.

The sobs came slower this time. Deeper. Like a drain unclogging at the center of his soul. Like all the denial was finally collapsing in on itself.

He was so far from where he used to be. From who he used to be. He didn’t even know what part of himself he was grieving anymore: the man who made stadiums roar with his words, or the boy who used to be able to sleep without someone watching him.

“I don’t even know who I am anymore,” he whispered.

And then— quietly, so quietly— he laughed.

When he finally peeled himself up off the floor and stumbled back into the living room, the quiet had grown thick. Tangible. Watching.

And that’s when he saw it.

Jiyong stared at the table like it had betrayed him.

It didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Didn’t glow or beckon. It just… sat there. Still. Innocent.

The cigarette pack.

The half-empty wine bottle.

A single glass left out.

The lighter.

And—

He hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe because he wasn’t supposed to. Maybe because it had been hidden just long enough to make it look like a mistake.

But there it was.

The pill bottle.

The same one Seungri used to hand him like a lifeline.

The same one that dulled the noise.

That made everything float.

His stomach twisted. His hands trembled. He looked away.

His chest rose sharply. His breath caught. A small, broken sound slipped past his lips.

No.

He turned. Took a step. Another. But his legs buckled halfway to the bedroom, and he caught himself on the edge of the wall like the world had tilted just to remind him who he was.

Who he’d become. Alone. Left. Left again.

He spun back, fingers twitching, jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Why would he leave me? Seunghyun? Seungri? He didn’t know who he was talking about anymore.

Back to the table. Shaky fingers tore at the plastic cap. He poured two into his palm, then hesitated.

The cigarettes hit his palm like they belonged there. The lighter clicked once. Then again. Then flame.

He hadn’t smoked in weeks. Not since Seunghyun’s hands had steadied his and taken the pack away.

But Seunghyun wasn’t here now.

No one was here.

He brought it to his lips, lit it with trembling hands. Inhaled.

The burn hit fast. Hard. It made his eyes sting. Made his lungs scream, but he welcomed it.

And then, like instinct, he poured the wine.

Sloshed it carelessly into the glass. Didn’t bother worrying about it spilling from the edge. Didn’t even look at it.

His jaw clenched. His eyes burned. He took the pills.

Brought the glass to his lips with shaking hands and drank. Washed the pills down with the wine like he needed it to chase them. Like one vice deserved another.

It wasn’t a sip. It was desperation.

It filled the space that had been carved open in his chest. It numbed the ache in his ribs. It drowned the voice in his head whispering this isn’t you.

It hit fast. Too fast.

Tears spilled down his cheeks before he even noticed.

He finished the cigarette. He drained the glass, then poured another, and collapsed onto the couch. His eyes fluttered. The room swam.

He laughed just once, breathless and broken. “Look at me,” he whispered. “Look what I’ve become.”

But no one was there to hear it.

The walls didn’t answer. The lights didn’t flicker.

The wine glass slipped from his hand and clinked against the carpet, the dark colour bleeding into the fabric.

He blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, tears rolling sideways down his cheeks now as the pills melted into his bloodstream.

He didn’t just feel numb this time. He felt empty. He didn’t feel better. But he didn’t feel at all.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

Seunghyun unlocked the door with one hand, groceries in the other. Nothing big. Just essentials. Stuff Jiyong might want if he was feeling better: soup, electrolyte drinks, a few snacks he used to like.

He stepped inside, and froze immediately.

The air was wrong. It wasn't that it was still— it was dead. 

He dropped the bags hard. The thud echoed, but nothing moved.

Because there on the couch, bathed in the sick gold of the setting sun, was Jiyong.

And he wasn’t moving.

His body was half-slumped against the armrest, legs sprawled unevenly like he’d tried to stand and given up halfway. One arm dangled off the couch, face turned toward the window, but his eyes were open. Blank. Unmoving. Half-lidded. Unfocused.

Wrong.

His shirt was twisted and damp with sweat. His skin had that greyed-out pallor Seunghyun hated that he recognised. His lips were parted slightly, too dry to close, cracked. Dried tear tracks smeared across his cheeks and nose, and there were dark, sick hollows under his eyes. Not just exhaustion or  sadness. Decay. His whole face was flushed, feverish. His hair was sticking to his forehead.

The ashtray beside him had cigarette butts dropped into it, not pressed down, just left there. The room stank of smoke, wine, stale panic. The wine bottle was empty now, completely. It lay on its side near the table, a slow drip of red soaking into the rug.

The pill bottle was open. Half-empty, some pills had rolled to the floor and laid there like a discarded confession.

Seunghyun didn’t move for a second.

Didn’t breathe.

He thought…

He honestly thought…

He’s dead.

His stomach turned inside out. His heart stopped, then started again in a violent lurch that nearly sent him to his knees.

“Jiyong,” he said. Quiet. Testing.

His breath—

Oh, God.

“Jiyong,” Seunghyun repeated, louder that time, voice cracking.

He dropped to his knees in front of the couch, shaking hands reaching forward. He didn’t want to touch him. Didn’t want to confirm what he was terrified to find.

But he had to.

He pressed two fingers to the side of Jiyong’s neck.

Nothing. Seunghyun’s stomach rose to his throat. Then— thump thump.

Faint. Weak. But there.

He exhaled a sound like a sob, like a prayer.

“Jesus Christ, Ji, what the fuck—” he whispered, eyebrows furrowed with worry.

Still nothing from him. Not a blink. Not a sound. Not even a flinch or a twitch when Seunghyun cupped his face. Jiyong’s skin was burning, but his eyes… they weren’t seeing. They weren’t there. Like he was halfway out of his body. Lost in some void Seunghyun couldn’t follow him into.

His lips moved. Just barely. No words. No sound. Only a breath. His chest moved in shallow, unsteady bursts like each breath had to ask permission first. Like a ghost trying to be real again.

Seunghyun couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. He gathered Jiyong against him slowly, terrified that he’d break him if he moved too fast. Jiyong slumped forward like dead weight, forehead thudding softly against Seunghyun’s shoulder.

“Ji,” he whispered again, voice tearing in the middle. “You’re okay. You’re here. You’re— fuck, I’m so sorry.”

But Jiyong didn’t respond.

Didn’t even know he was there.

Seunghyun gripped Jiyong tighter, anchoring him to his chest, something solid. The body in his arms was fever-hot and limp, head lolling against his shoulder because it took too much effort to hold it up. Still no recognition in his eyes. Just dull shine. Just void. He eased Jiyong back against the cushions and fumbled to check his pulse again: neck, wrist, anywhere that might reassure him it wasn’t slipping away.

It was there. Faint and inconsistent, but there.

“Okay. Okay, okay…” he muttered, mostly to himself. “You’re still with me. That’s good, that’s good…”

The coffee table was a minefield with empty glasses half-smashed, mugs, pills. Fuck, the pills. It wasn’t even a matter of dosage anymore— it was stacking. Alcohol. Pills. God knew what else.

“Jesus, Ji, how many did you take?” he whispered, already peeling away at the shirt, checking for cold sweats, skin tone, any sign that something worse was about to hit.

Jiyong twitched. It was small, almost imperceptible, but Seunghyun stilled.

“…Jiyong?”

Nothing. Just that same dull shimmer in his eyes. Wide, unfocused. A tear rolled down from one, slow and quiet.

And then, like a glitch in reality, his lips moved.

“…s’fine…” A breath. Not a voice, not clarity.

“No, it’s not fine,” Seunghyun whispered fiercely, brushing the sweat-matted hair off his forehead. “You scared the shit out of me, do you understand that?”

He didn’t. Couldn’t.

Seunghyun moved quickly then, into the kitchen, damp towel, water, empty basin. Back again. Talking as he worked, the way people do when they’re terrified and trying not to sound it. “I’m gonna clean you up, alright? Gotta bring that fever down. I’ve got you. I’m here. You’re not alone, okay?”

Still no response.

He gently wiped down Jiyong’s face, his neck, his trembling hands. The towel came away stained with sweat, ash, dried wine tracks near the corner of his mouth and down his neck. He cleaned that too.

He went back for a glass of water, but couldn’t get Jiyong to drink more than a sip. Most of it slid down his chin, soaking into the already damp shirt.

Jiyong let out a sound then. Quiet, hoarse. Like a cracked record of something meant to be a cry, but never quite got there. His body shifted subtly, fingers twitching against Seunghyun’s knee like he’d forgotten what touch was supposed to do.

Seunghyun stared at him. How had this happened? He hadn’t even been gone that long.

How had this— this wreck, this shell, this near-corpse on the couch— formed in the space of a single day when he had been doing so much better just the day before?

And why the fuck hadn’t he seen it coming?

“…I’m so sorry,” he whispered again, placing a trembling hand on the back of Jiyong’s head, pulling it gently to rest against his chest. “I shouldn’t have left. It’s all my fault. I swear to God, I’m not leaving again. Not ever. Not like this.”

Jiyong didn’t move. He just breathed, barely.

And Seunghyun held on like it might stop him from disappearing altogether.

Seunghyun hovered with the phone in his hand.

Ambulance. Hospital. Monitors. Restraints. White lights. Questions. Sedation. Another round of “you’re a danger to yourself.”

He saw it all play out, every sterile second of it.

He saw Jiyong: fragile, drugged, wrists bound to a bed— and in that moment it was himself he saw too. A younger version. A body in a hospital gown, sobbing without sound into the pillow, drugged to stillness while the world outside moved on.

No.

He dropped the phone. Quietly. Onto the floor. Never even dialed.

His hands were steadier now, eerily so, like muscle memory had taken over— like the ghost of that old version of himself had stepped in to guide him. He didn’t need instructions. He knew.

First, the wet cloth again. Cool it more. Press it to the pulse points: neck, wrists, ankles. Keep the fever down. Make sure he didn’t sweat himself into a seizure.

Second, air. Windows cracked. Blanket loosened. Let his skin breathe.

Third, fluids. He coaxed more water between Jiyong’s lips, murmuring between each failed sip like it was a lullaby. “There we go. Just a little more. That’s it. I’ve got you.”

No eye contact. No response. But the water went in. That was enough.

He stripped the wine-soaked shirt off with a gentleness that didn’t belong in moments like these. He shrugged off his jacket, pulled off his own shirt and changed him into that, sleeves too long, collar stretched, but warm, scented, safe. The shirt he'd once said made him look like a dad. Jiyong had laughed. Called him boring.

“Not so boring now, huh?” Seunghyun whispered, bittersweet, brushing damp hair from Jiyong’s brow before pulling on his jacket again over his black vest.

The towel went to his knees. His arms. Under his chin. He cleaned him like a parent would a fevered child, and when he was done, he tucked him under a throw blanket— no weight, just something soft— something grounding.

And still Jiyong hadn’t spoken. He hadn’t cried either, but Seunghyun could feel him slipping back into that unreachable space as he carried him oh so gently to the bedroom.

He sat down beside the bed. On the floor. Back against the frame. Just breathing. “This is temporary,” he said softly, mostly to himself. “You’re gonna wake up. We’re gonna get you through this. I’m not calling anyone. They don’t get to have you.”

He tilted his head back. Shut his eyes. The grief welled up fast and heavy in his chest, but he swallowed it down.

“I won’t let them put you in that place,” he said again, firmer now. A vow. “I won’t let them do that to you.”

He glanced at him. So still. So small.

“You’re not alone, Jiyong,” he whispered. “Even if you can’t hear me right now. I’ll carry this for you.”

And then he sat.

And waited.

A silent guardian on the floor, unmoving through the sunset— holding vigil like a ghost from Jiyong’s past, re-shaped into something new: a lifeline, a keeper, a man who refused to let him break alone.

The sun had dipped low, casting a dark golden hush through the windows, touching every corner of the apartment. Shadows stretched long across the floor, swallowing the wine-stained carpet and pill bottles in the living room.

Seunghyun sat beside him on the bed for what felt like hours: just watching, waiting, making sure each shallow breath came after the next.

He couldn’t bear the floor anymore.

So, with slow, practiced hands, he gathered Jiyong into his arms, letting the blanket fall away, one arm under his legs, the other supporting his back, like he weighed nothing. And in that moment, maybe he did. Just a bundle of bones, breath, and everything he’d ever meant to Seunghyun.

He manoeuvred him gently against his chest again, settled himself against the headboard. Legs outstretched. Jiyong slack in his lap.

He started humming. A song never heard by anyone else. Not his label. Not even Jiyong.

He’d written it years ago, in a spiral-bound notebook now yellowing at the edges, now tucked away in a storage box buried under all the things he didn’t have the strength to throw out when he was blacklisted from the entertainment industry.

Back when they were young, untouchable, and too afraid to define what they were.

The lyrics poured from him like breath.

“If I could fold the sky in half

And climb the rope to the stars

I’d bring the moon to your hands,

Just to show you where you light me.”

His voice cracked on the third line, but he kept going.

“And if I break—

I hope you catch me,

Let me break in your arms.

So I know it meant something.”

His fingers brushed through Jiyong’s hair, over and over.

“You don’t have to call it love.

You don’t have to call it anything.

We don’t need definition, baby,

We’re perfect just this way.”

The words faded out on a whisper.

His throat felt raw now. His heart, worse.

“I wrote that for you,” he murmured against Jiyong’s temple, a soft chuckle blew through his nose. “But I was always too scared to let you hear it.”

He rested his cheek there for a moment. Against the same skin that used to flush with laughter in the glow of studio lights. Against the boy he loved so silently for so long, too scared to wreck what they never named.

“You’re safe now, baby,” he breathed. “No one’s gonna take you. Not from me.”

Jiyong didn’t stir.

But that was okay. He didn’t need to.

Seunghyun adjusted the blankets around them. Tugged them up to Jiyong’s shoulders. Pulled him closer, tight against his chest, his own body curled protectively around him. His hand remained tangled in Jiyong’s hair, soft strokes, steady. The other rested gently over Jiyong’s ribcage, feeling each breath like a lifeline.

And just before the last of the daylight died, Seunghyun’s eyes began to close. Not all at once. Not sleep, exactly. But rest.

A man guarding a ghost. A ghost still breathing.

It  was just a twitch at first. A flutter beneath Seunghyun’s palm. Then a sharp, uneven breath. Jiyong’s lashes stirred against his cheek.

A broken sound slipped out of him, something between a groan and a whimper, like a child waking from a nightmare. His body shifted slightly, legs tangling deeper into the warmth holding him. His brows furrowed, but he didn’t open his eyes yet.

Seunghyun’s heart nearly gave out. “Ji?” he whispered, instantly more alert. “Hey— hey, I’m right here. You’re okay.”

Jiyong flinched at the sound. His whole body tensed, and he tried to pull away, sluggish and trembling. His limbs weren’t listening to him. His brain felt bruised. Vision a blur of color and warmth and... Seunghyun?

His eyes cracked open, barely, then his lips moved, though dry, cracked, unsure. “You’re here?” It was a whisper. A breath. Like it couldn’t be real.

Seunghyun nodded, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. “Yeah. I’m here.”

Something flickered in Jiyong’s gaze: recognition, pain, confusion, all crashing down at once.

His face crumpled. Not because he was frightened. Not because he was in pain. But because it was him. It was Seunghyun here. Holding him. Seeing him like this.

And that was somehow worse than being alone.

“I didn’t mean to—” he choked, and then the sob hit like a car crash. “I didn’t know— I don’t remember— Seunghyun, I’m sorry—”

“No, no,” Seunghyun soothed, pulling him in tighter, like that could undo it all. “You don’t need to say anything, baby. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

“I’m not okay,” Jiyong cried, burying his face in Seunghyun’s shoulder. Seungri’s words came crashing back. “I’m not, I’m— I’m disgusting, I’m—”

Seunghyun hushed him. Pressed kiss after kiss into his hair, his temple, wherever he could reach. Like he could smother the shame out of him with softness. “You’re not disgusting. Don’t ever say that. You hear me?”

“But you saw me— like that—” his voice was small, childlike again, broken in the kind of way that rewires a person forever.

Seunghyun just held him.

“You’re here,” Jiyong whispered again, like that was the only thing keeping him tethered.

“I’ll never leave again.” And for once... he meant it in a way that reached deeper than all the years of silence and almosts.

Chapter Text

A soft, unspoken dread lingered in the silence of the studio as the members filed in, each wearing the weight of worry on their shoulders. They sat: Taeyang and Daesung beside each other, tense and quiet. Seungri across from them, poised like a cat. Listening.

Seunghyun stood by the window at first. Hands in his coat pockets, like an army admiral about to break the news of war and devise a battle strategy. Though he looked like something inside him had died and refused to rot.

He turned, slowly. “I need to talk to all of you.”

Eyes lifted.

“About Jiyong.”

Even Seungri blinked a few times, not expecting him to get straight to that. He knew exactly what he had done.

“He wasn’t okay when I came back this time,” Seunghyun said, trying to steady his voice. “Not even close. He… he wasn’t lucid. He was high out of his mind. Pills, wine. I don’t know how much. I thought—” he stopped. Pressed his lips together. “I thought he was gone.”

A soft curse from Daesung. Taeyang lowered his head. Seungri… didn’t blink.

“I got him to wake up. Barely. Cleaned him up. He’s asleep now. But he’s not stable. Mentally. Emotionally. I shouldn’t have left him alone—”

“Hyung,” Seungri interrupted gently, “I know you want to handle this yourself. And I get it. We all do. But you can’t anymore.”

Taeyang nodded, his voice low. “He’s not just your responsibility. He’s ours. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Daesung added, “We should know everything. Every detail. So we can help.”

Seunghyun studied them, eyes lingering on each one, then they landed on Seungri last.

And Seungri met his gaze like a man offering solidarity.

Like a man who hadn’t spent the last 48 hours making sure Jiyong would be absolutely shattered the moment Seunghyun walked back in.

“I agree,” Seungri said softly. “Please. Tell us everything.”

And in that moment, he looked perfect. Composed. Devastated. The most concerned in the room. His voice dipped into the same register he used during serious interviews. Eyes wide, glassy. Chin trembling, just a little.

It took all his will not to smile. He wanted to hear it. All of it. Every dark, ugly detail. Every way Jiyong had cried out, broken down, lost himself. He wanted to taste it.

And no one— not Taeyang, not Daesung, not even Seunghyun— could see anything but concern.

They sat in silence now, humming with dread.

Seunghyun remained standing. Back straight, hands behind his back. Voice steady, even though something behind his eyes looked tired. He took a deep breath. “Jiyong was on the couch when I got in. He wasn’t... there. Just a body. Eyes open, but they didn’t track me. Barely breathing. Skin cold. I seriously thought he—” his jaw twitched. “I just ran to him.” His fists clenched, like he was trying to hold the memory back. “I checked his pulse. It was there, but it was faint. His pupils were so blown I could barely see the brown. I said his name again and again, but he didn’t blink. Didn’t see me.”

A choked sound came from Daesung. Taeyang gripped his shoulder tight.

“I didn’t call the ambulance,” Seunghyun said. “Because if they took him... You know what they’d do. The same shit they did to me. Strip him down, lock him up, make him explain himself while he's still half-dead. No. I did it myself.” His voice cracked— but only slightly. He recovered fast with a slow and steady inhale. “I stripped him down and washed him with a cold cloth. I kept whispering to him, hoping something would reach him. Got water in him… He was crying the whole time, but he didn’t know it. It was like his body remembered how to cry without him.”

Daesung burst into sobs. He buried his face in Taeyang’s shoulder, his hand gripping at his shirt like a child. Taeyang closed his eyes, tears slipping silently down his cheeks as he held him tight, rocking them both.

Seungri sat still. Perfectly still.

Not even breathing too hard. On the outside: a quiet storm of worry. Eyes wide. Brows drawn. Lips pressed together. On the inside?

Ecstasy.

Every word was a symphony. He devoured it like a starving man. He needed it. That image- Jiyong, limp and unconscious, body trembling, lost and helpless— fed something dark in him. Something he’d spent years dressing up in love and loyalty.

The chaos he’d sewn was blooming now. But no one could see it. Because Seungri was good.

He was so good.

He reached for a tissue, wiped his eyes, nodded gravely. “We have to stay close to him,” he said. His voice barely trembled. “We have to get through this.”

And in his mind, he was already picturing the next move.

Seunghyun’s voice, still calm despite the devastation he recounted, was the only thing cutting through the suffocating quiet. He sat now, finally. But he hadn’t relaxed. His back was ramrod straight, hands clasped tightly between his knees, the only hint of how hard he was holding it together.

Taeyang didn’t look at anyone. He rubbed small, steady circles on Daesung’s back, murmuring something low— just enough to keep him grounded. But it wasn’t working.

Daesung kept fidgeting. Shifting in his seat. Picking at the skin on the side of his thumb until it turned red. His eyes were wide, shiny, overwhelmed. He hadn’t spoken in a while. Not since the bit about Jiyong crying but not knowing it. That had wrecked him. Now he looked like he couldn’t breathe. “We… we have to do more,” he finally whispered. “He can’t keep— he can’t—”

“We are,” Seunghyun said, gently. “We’re going to.”

“But what if we’re too late?” Daesung’s voice cracked. “What if— what if we already were and we just don’t know it yet?! What if he dies for real?!”

“Well we have to keep trying until he either gets better or dies.” Seungri raised his tone slightly, immediately regretting it as all eyes turned to him.

Daesung stood abruptly, like the couch had burned him.

“Dae—” Taeyang reached for him.

“I can’t do this!” Daesung’s voice cracked into a high sob as he stumbled backward, knocking a glass off the low table with a sharp clink that didn’t quite break it. “I can’t—” he choked, hand over his mouth now, shoulders curling in on themselves. “I can’t hear about this anymore—”

And then he ran. A breathless bolt out of the room. Out the door. The sound of it slamming echoed like a gunshot behind him.

“Shit,” Taeyang hissed, already on his feet. “I’ll go— I’ll talk to him. He just— he needs a second.” He looked at Seunghyun briefly, and his eyes said please don’t blame him.

Seunghyun nodded once, still composed.

Taeyang turned to Seungri, looking like he was being stretched thin trying to take the leader role, up until Seunghyun had returned, as the oldest. “You’ll stay with him?”

Seungri nodded quickly. “Of course, hyung.”

“Good.” And then he was gone, chasing Daesung’s echo down the hall.

And just like that, the air shifted.

Silence returned, but it was a different kind of quiet now. Thicker, coiled with something unspoken.

Only two people remained in the room now: one trying to save a life, the other smiling behind his eyes.

The silence was almost reverent.

Seunghyun didn’t speak at first. He just sat there, gaze turned toward the floor. His thumb rubbed slow circles over his knuckle, a nervous tic he thought he’d killed years ago.

But Seungri didn’t move either. Not at first. Just sat still in his seat, hands folded in his lap. Then he broke the silence. Of course he did.

“…You didn’t want to be left alone with me.” His voice was low. Careful, like he was handling broken glass.

Seunghyun’s jaw flexed, and he stayed silent.

“It’s okay,” Seungri added, soft and almost apologetic. “I understand. After everything…”

Finally, Seunghyun looked at him. Not fully. Just a glance.

It was sharp. Suspicious. Now you bring this up?

“You were quiet the whole time,” Seungri continued. “While Dae broke down.” He tilted his head, watching. “You didn’t say a word after that.”

“You said enough for everyone,” Seunghyun said flatly.

It should have stung. It didn’t.

Seungri smiled gently. “I’ve been learning when to talk, and when to listen.”

Seunghyun exhaled through his nose. Short. Dry. “Since when?”

That one almost cracked Seungri’s mask, but he recovered quickly. “I’m serious,” he said. “I’ve been watching. And I saw the way you held it together. The way you described everything like it didn’t wreck you.”

Seunghyun didn’t respond. But his hand flexed.

“I’m not asking about Jiyong right now,” Seungri said, voice lower. “I’m asking about you.”

That stopped everything.

Seunghyun turned his head, finally looking at him fully. His stare was unreadable— tired, wary, still holding so much distrust it practically radiated from him.

Seungri held his gaze. “No one asked you how you’re doing,” he said. “You were the one who found him. Cleaned him. Sat up with him. But everyone’s worried about him.”

“I’m fine,” Seunghyun said curtly.

“You don’t look fine.”

“I said I’m fine.”

They stared at each other a moment longer.

And then Seunghyun sighed. Looked away. He didn’t say anything else. But he didn’t end the conversation either.

So Seungri leaned forward, elbows to knees, voice gentler.

“You always take it on yourself, hyung. That’s the problem. You let it eat you.”

Seunghyun didn’t correct him. Didn’t tell him to stop.

And in that silence, Seungri felt something shift.

Not acceptance. Not forgiveness. But a sliver of space. A toe wedged in the door.

So he softened his voice even more. “I know I messed up. I know how you all look at me now. But I still… care. About him. About all of you.”

He let it sit there. Heavy. Subtle.

And Seunghyun didn’t refute it. He just sat there, knuckles pale, gaze cast toward the door like he didn’t quite trust himself to look at Seungri again.

But he didn’t walk out. Didn’t say “get out.” Didn’t push him away.

And that was a win for the man named Victory.

Seunghyun’s footsteps faded as he went to go back to his little patient. The door clicked softly behind him.

Seungri didn’t move for a long time. Just sat there, hands folded neatly in his lap, the picture of quiet reflection.

Then it was as simple as a twitch at the corner of his mouth. A breath that sounded like a laugh. Soft. Incredulous.

With practiced grace, he stood from the couch. His reflection caught in the glass of the vocal booth— calm, composed, harmless.

He smiled at it.

Then it cracked. A slow, sinister, blooming thing.

The calm slipped from his eyes like silk falling from a blade. His shoulders rolled back. His jaw loosened. He exhaled long and slow, finally free to be what he was.

The breath he released was trembling with satisfaction. His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned back against the edge of the console and just… basked.

Everything was working.

Jiyong— beautiful, broken Jiyong— was his. Just as soft. Just as delicate. Just as easily undone as he’d dreamed.

“‘I’m asking about you, hyung,’” he mocked gently, smirking to himself. “Oh, poor Seunghyun. Carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. You want me to hold some of it? No? That’s okay. You will.”

He sat in the producer’s chair. Spun once. Stopped. Faced the empty room.

“You left him alone,” he whispered to the air. “And I was the one he crawled back to. Like a good boy.”

He laughed. A quiet, breathless thing.

“God, I missed you like this, Jiyong. You look the best this way.” he murmured to the empty room. “Crawling. Whimpering. Shaking in my arms like you were made to be there.”

His hands twitched, like they could still feel Jiyong clutching him, knuckles white, face pressed into his chest as he sobbed and apologized for pushing him away.

He could still hear the slurred, broken whisper: “I’m sorry, Seungri, I didn’t mean to— please don’t leave again—”

His head tipped back. Eyes closed.

It was bliss. Pure bliss.

“I told you you’d crawl back,” he whispered. “And you did. Didn’t you?”

He turned slowly, fingers trailing over the soundboard, the surface cool beneath his touch.

“So easy,” he murmured. “He was so easy. I didn’t even have to push. I just left. That’s all it took.”

He spun in the chair, let it rotate lazily once more, then came to a stop.

“And now he believes me,” he said, eyes half-lidded, voice soft like velvet. “Every word. Every lie. I’m his comfort. His constant. The only thing left that doesn’t scare him. Except… except you, Choi Seunghyun. But… oh, that’s right. You left him. You broke that, you saw what happened…”

He smiled. With teeth now.

It looked nothing like love.

“I’m going to own him. Completely.”

His fingers laced together. Pressed against his lips. Thoughtful.

He stared into nothing. But in his mind, it was all there: Jiyong sobbing on his lap. Seunghyun folding with guilt. Daesung broken. Taeyang torn.

And him?

In the center.

Always watching. Always waiting.

The heart of it all.

The crown sat easy tonight, and no one had even noticed it was there.

Chapter Text

Jiyong lay curled beneath the blanket on the bed, eyes barely open. He was clean, warm, and hydrated. But he looked small. Thin. The long-sleeved shirt Seunghyun had dressed him in hung off his frame, just a memory of a boy who used to fill it.

He blinked up at the ceiling. Then at the wall. Then, slowly, turned his head.

Seunghyun was sitting in the armchair by the window. One hand resting on his knee, the other clutching a mug he hadn’t sipped in twenty minutes. His eyes had been fixed on the skyline, but he felt Jiyong’s stare.

He looked over. Didn’t speak. Just rose from the chair without a word, and sat beside him on the bed.

Jiyong’s throat worked. “You’re still here.”

Seunghyun nodded.

“I thought maybe you left.”

The older man reached out, touched his cheek, so gently, like if he pressed too hard Jiyong would vanish into mist. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jiyong’s lip trembled. His body shifted, instinctive and needy, like his own skin didn’t feel safe anymore unless it was pressed to someone who’d stay.

Seunghyun slid beneath the blanket without hesitation and opened his arms.

And Jiyong folded into him without a word. His head found the dip in Seunghyun’s shoulder like it had always been meant for it. His fingers curled into his shirt, bunching it like a lifeline. Seunghyun wrapped his arms around him, held him tight. “I can’t stop shaking,” Jiyong whispered, voice cracked and paper-thin.

“I know,” Seunghyun said. “It’s okay.” His hand moved slowly up and down Jiyong’s back. A soft, steady rhythm.

“I feel like if I let go, I’ll disappear.”

“Then don’t let go,” Seunghyun murmured. “I’ll hold you until you're ready to get up.”

Jiyong said nothing more. Just… breathed. And little by little, his grip loosened… his shoulders dropped… the trembling slowed. His eyes fluttered shut.

Safe.

Seunghyun pressed a kiss to his hair and whispered into the dark, “I’ve got you.”

The sun rose slow. It poured through the slats of the blinds in golden lines, cutting across the floor, the bed, the messy covers, and the two tangled figures underneath.

Jiyong was still asleep. Sort of. He stirred just enough to shift, his face pressing deeper into the chest he was curled against, the arm slung protectively over his waist tightening slightly in response. He made a small sound: half-sigh, half-question.

Seunghyun was already awake, he had been for a while. Not moving. Just watching the sunlight move across the ceiling and feeling the weight of Jiyong’s breath rise and fall against him. There was something sacred about it. Something terrifying, too.

Because he almost hadn’t made it back in time. Because there was still so much to fix. But right now there was warmth, there was quiet.

And Jiyong hadn’t let go. The younger blinked slowly awake against him, squinting at the light, his brows twitching like it physically hurt to be conscious again. His voice cracked, hoarse and childlike. “…You’re still here.”

Seunghyun smiled faintly. “I told you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Jiyong shifted just a little, not pulling away— never pulling away now— just enough to tilt his head up, eyes glassy and half-lidded, curls a mess over his forehead. “…Was I bad?”

Seunghyun frowned. “No.”

Jiyong blinked hard, like he didn’t believe it. “I don’t remember much. Just… being cold. And the couch. And your voice. I thought—” He stopped himself. Voice breaking.

Seunghyun gently reached up and brushed a strand of hair from his face. “You were sick,” he said softly. “But you’re okay now. You’re safe.”

Jiyong stared at him for a long moment.“…Can we have coffee?” he asked, small, weak.

Seunghyun’s smile widened, he couldn’t hide his pleasure at the question. “Yeah. I’ll make you some.”

Jiyong’s hand clung tighter to his shirt, eyes lowering. “Not yet,” he murmured. “Just… not yet.”

Seunghyun kissed the top of his head again. They didn’t move, not for a long time, because sometimes healing didn’t look like walking. Or talking. Or fighting to be whole again.

Sometimes healing looked like two people in bed: one broken, one steady, and the morning light creeping in carrying the hope that it might be okay again someday.

Seunghyun stood at the stove, stirring hot water into two mismatched mugs, his sleeves pushed up, his face still sleepy and serious in the quiet.

Behind him, there was a shuffle. Soft. Bare feet against the floor.

He didn’t have to turn. “I was going to bring it to you,” he said, gently.

Jiyong didn’t answer— just padded forward, swimming in that oversized grey shirt, sleeves hanging long past his fingers. It might’ve been one of Seunghyun’s from years ago, now that the older man thought about it more intently, but he’d filled it out more back then. Now? It practically swallowed him. Still, he wore it like a shield.

“Didn’t want to be alone,” Jiyong mumbled, voice raspy.

Seunghyun turned then. He didn’t say anything, just reached out and guided him, gentle and wordless, to sit on the counter.

Jiyong let himself be placed there like he weighed nothing. Legs dangling. Eyes half-closed. Still recovering, slow and shaky, but present.

Seunghyun stood between his knees, their faces close now. Closer than they should’ve been. One hand found Jiyong’s thigh, and the other gently rested on the sliver of waist just visible where the shirt hem lifted.

Jiyong looked up at him. Eyes huge. Quiet. Holding a thousand things he wasn’t ready to say.

And Seunghyun just stood there a moment, letting the silence stretch. Letting it mean something. He gave the softest smile as he pulled away. “Come sit. I’ll bring it over.”

Jiyong blinked, the breath he didn’t know he was holding slipping out of him. He nodded. Slid carefully off the counter.

They moved to the couch together— Seunghyun setting the mugs down, fluffing the blanket, making sure Jiyong was warm, tucked in.

Jiyong looked so small like that. But better. Less ghost, more boy.

His hands curled around the mug with effort, trembling a little.

A buzz startled him. A message on Seunghyun’s phone.

He picked it up. “It’s from Taeyang,” he said. “Just checking in. Wants to know how you’re doing.”

Jiyong looked down. His voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t know what to say.”

Seunghyun sat beside him and wrapped one arm around Jiyong’s shoulders, pulling him gently against his side, the phone still in his hands.

“Say what you can,” he murmured. “I’ll help.”

Together, slowly, they came up with a message:

thank you for checking in. still tired. but i’m okay. hyung’s here. we’re having coffee.

Jiyong stared at the words, then pressed send himself.

Seunghyun squeezed his shoulder.

“You’re doing good,” he whispered.

And for a pure, fleeting moment, Jiyong believed him.

The coffee had gone lukewarm.

Jiyong didn’t care. He was curled into the corner of the couch, knees tucked up, sleeves covering his hands, mug resting carefully in both palms like it might fly away if he didn’t grip it just right.

Seunghyun was in the kitchen again, humming softly. Something without lyrics. Familiar.

The light was warm. The room felt… okay.

Jiyong shifted slightly, stretching his legs out, blanket slipping just a little off his lap. But the mug wobbled in his hands.

He tried to adjust, though his fingers didn’t move fast enough.

It slipped.

Hit the edge of the coffee table.

Shattered.

Sharp porcelain scattered across the floor, coffee pooling like blood.

The sound was too loud in the quiet, like a gunshot.

Jiyong froze.

Staring at the broken pieces.

And then, just like that, his bottom lip quivered. “I didn’t mean to,” he whispered. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to—”

Seunghyun was already there. One glance, one look at Jiyong’s wide, terrified eyes and he knew this wasn’t about the mug.

Jiyong scrambled up, cowering back like he expected to be scolded, like he was bracing for it. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, faster now. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll clean it up, I’ll—”

“Ji,” Seunghyun said gently.

But Jiyong didn’t stop. “I shouldn’t have touched it— I’ll do it— please don’t be mad, I just—” He hiccuped on a breath and covered his face with both hands. Like a kid. Not a man on the dark end of his thirties.

A panicked, small kid who thought breaking something meant breaking everything.

Seunghyun stepped over the shards. Didn’t even look down. He pulled Jiyong into his arms without hesitation. “I’m not mad,” he murmured, voice low against his ear. “It’s just a mug. That’s all.”

“But I ruined—”

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

Jiyong’s hands fisted in the back of Seunghyun’s shirt, face pressed hard to his shoulder, shaking. “I’m so tired,” he whispered. “I’m so tired of messing things up.”

Seunghyun kissed the side of his head, hand cradling the back of it like he was something delicate. “You didn’t mess up. It's just a mug. You're okay. You’re here. That’s all I care about.”

Jiyong nodded weakly, still crying.

Seunghyun didn’t move. He just stood there, in the middle of the mess, arms full of trembling boy, holding him like a promise.

The mess was gone. The coffee had been cleaned from the floor. The shards carefully discarded. Seunghyun had changed Jiyong into fresh clothes again— loose and warm— and now they were curled up together on the couch.

No words. Just warmth. A quiet hum from the TV, low and distant.

Jiyong sat tucked into Seunghyun’s side like he belonged there, his cheek resting just below his collarbone. Fingers laced weakly with Seunghyun’s over his knee. Every so often he blinked like he might fall asleep, then didn’t.

“…Did I always cry like that?”

Seunghyun glanced down.

Jiyong wasn’t looking at him, rather, at his lap. Blank. Tired. Vulnerable.

“Like what?” Seunghyun asked gently.

Jiyong swallowed. His voice was smaller the second time. “Like a little kid.”

A pause lasted longer than it should’ve. “…Yeah,” Seunghyun said softly. “You did.”

Jiyong’s eyes flicked up to meet his at the unexpected answer, filled with something fragile. Shame. Maybe fear.

Seunghyun didn’t look away. “You used to hide it better,” he added. “Back then. But yeah. When it cracked through, it always looked like this.”

Jiyong nodded once. Like that hurt more than helped. He tried to look away again, but Seunghyun cupped his jaw gently and made him meet his eyes.

“It wasn’t a bad thing,” he said. “It was one of the only times I ever got to see the real you.”

Jiyong blinked fast.

“Back then, you always had so many faces. So many versions of you for other people. But when you cried like that? You were just… Jiyong.”

“I don’t… I don’t like that version,” Jiyong whispered.

“I do,” Seunghyun replied without missing a beat. “Because he let me hold him.”

That silenced the air between them.

Jiyong’s lip trembled, but no more tears came. Just a tiny, breathless nod as he leaned back in against Seunghyun’s chest. “…I’m still him, aren’t I?”

“You always have been.”

Chapter Text

The morning sun spilled through the blinds in sleepy stripes, painting the walls gold. Jiyong sat cross-legged on the couch, blanket pooled around him, a sketchbook balanced awkwardly on his lap. His pencil moved in hesitant, soft lines, barely confident enough to press. But he was drawing again. Sort of.

The lines didn’t make sense yet. They weren’t coherent. A loop here, a face maybe, the hint of a bird’s wing curling into something else. It wasn’t about what it was. It was about the fact that it existed at all, about motion, and presence.

From the kitchen, Seunghyun watched. Quiet. Reverent. As if the sight of Jiyong drawing again was sacred, and he didn’t want to break the spell. He didn’t say anything, just leaned there a moment, towel over one shoulder, spatula in one hand, heart bursting with the kind of love he didn’t have a name for anymore.

He stirred the pot on the stove, the soft clink of metal against ceramic filling the quiet.

“Orange juice or tea?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Jiyong blinked up, pencil pausing mid-line. “Orange juice,” he mumbled, then added, “Wait. No. Tea. Please?”

Seunghyun smiled. “Tea it is.”

By the time the food was ready, Jiyong had nestled himself deeper into the couch. Seunghyun brought the tray over like it was the most natural thing in the world, like they were always meant to be domestic like this, setting it on the coffee table before helping Jiyong sit up and get the blanket around him properly. They were sitting side by side, knees touching. Jiyong ate slowly, carefully, like chewing still took energy— but he was eating. And every few bites, he’d nudge his shoulder into Seunghyun like a cat wanting attention without asking.

Seunghyun gave it to him. Every time.

He didn’t ask if Jiyong needed help eating. He just watched. And when Jiyong’s chopsticks trembled, when the rice slipped, when his fingers couldn’t quite fold the lettuce wrap the way he used to— Seunghyun said nothing. Just passed him another napkin. Another bite. A little smile. Like it didn’t matter.

Because it didn’t.

When Jiyong accidentally dropped a bit of kimchi onto his hoodie sleeve, he wrinkled his nose and muttered a small apology, as if he thought Seunghyun might scold him.

“Hey,” Seunghyun said softly, brushing it off with the corner of a napkin. “You’re eating. That’s what matters.”

That made Jiyong go quiet for a moment. “I like when you say things like that.”

Seunghyun gave him a grin that showed a hint of teeth, one Jiyong hadn't seen in a long time. “Then I’ll keep saying them.”

The younger nuzzled his cheek against Seunghyun's shoulder affectionately in response.

After breakfast, laundry.

Jiyong followed him down the hall, still in that same oversized shirt, steps slow but steady. He clung to a hoodie sleeve like a security blanket, dragging slightly behind Seunghyun like a shy child at a sleepover.

The older man loaded the washing machine, humming something soft under his breath.

“I want to help,” Jiyong said suddenly, voice small.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. But I want to.”

So Seunghyun gave him a small pile to fold. Nothing heavy. Just T-shirts. Socks. One hand towel.

Jiyong sat cross-legged on the floor beside the machine, folding a shirt with intense concentration, tongue peeking out between his teeth as he tried to fold the sleeves just right. His hands moved carefully, still a little shaky. Still unfamiliar with effort.

It came out wrinkled and uneven, but he grinned at it anyway, holding it up like a child showing a crayon drawing.

Seunghyun crouched beside him. Smoothed the wrinkles without fixing the folds. “Well done,” he said, and kissed his forehead.

Jiyong leaned into it with a soft smile.

After that, they didn’t talk much. Nothing really needed to be said.

Jiyong moved through the apartment like he was slowly remembering what it meant to live inside a home, not just a body. He watched Seunghyun dry the dishes, sketchbook tucked under his arm. He sat on the floor next to the window and watched dust dance in sunbeams. He stood at the fridge for five full minutes trying to decide if he wanted a grape or not.

He didn’t eat the grape. He just looked at it and put it back. And Seunghyun didn’t say a word.

Later, he curled up in a sunlit patch on the couch, sketchbook forgotten beside him. Seunghyun brought him a new hoodie, clean and warm from the dryer. He helped him into it, pulling the sleeves gently down over Jiyong’s cold fingers, adjusting the hood around his curls. Jiyong leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut.

And after a while, Seunghyun sat beside him and opened a book. Not to read to him or make conversation, rather just to be there, to let the younger be aware of his presence. Their legs brushed. Jiyong’s foot curled lightly against his shin. Every now and then, Jiyong would glance over at the book, not really reading the page, just… watching. Feeling. 

At some point, he even smiled and pointed to a line of words, claiming he could turn that particular line into lyrics, and Seunghyun ruffled his hair with a gentle 'you can do anything'. He responded positively, leaning into the touch, his cheeks dimpling with his wide smile as he laid his head on the man's shoulder.

There was no chaos today.

No crying. No screaming.

Just the sound of laundry tumbling.

The smell of tea cooling on the table.

The brush of paper as Seunghyun turned a page.

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be nothing.

Seungri had left his phone on the couch while he stepped into the kitchen, just for a second. Jiyong hadn’t meant to touch it. Really. He didn’t even know why he did.

But the screen lit up, and the notification was right there. A message. From a name he didn’t recognise. And above it, another message. Still open.

"He’s so far gone it’s sad. I barely have to try anymore."

Jiyong blinked at the screen. Blinked again. His fingers hovered like they’d burned him. His heartbeat stuttered.

No.

No, that wasn’t real. That had to be—

That couldn’t be from—

He put the phone down like it was made of glass.

Too slow. Too careful. Like he thought it might explode.

The floor beneath him didn’t feel solid anymore. He stumbled back a step, breath starting to stutter.

“It wasn’t real.”

He whispered it aloud.

“It wasn’t real. I didn’t see that. I’m— I’m just tired. I’m tired.”

His vision blurred at the edges. Hands gripping his arms now, squeezing tight, shaking.

The whisper turned into a choke. “I’m tired— I didn’t see that. I didn’t— I didn’t—”

By the time Seungri came back in with a drink, Jiyong was backed into the wall, wide-eyed, fists clutched at his chest like a shield. “Ji?”

No answer. Just shallow, rapid breathing. A look Seungri hadn’t seen in a while. A flicker of the past.

“What’s in that?” Jiyong’s voice cracked like glass.

Seungri blinked. “What?” He didn’t move closer. Smart.

Jiyong’s hands curled tighter. “What did you put in it?”

“It’s orange juice.”

“No. No, you—” Jiyong shook his head, tears threatening now, the panic rising in waves. “You put something in it before. I know you did. That tea, it- I knew… and- and when else? The wine? I was— I woke up next to you, and I didn’t remember, and you said—”

“Hey— Ji, hey, hey.” Seungri’s voice dipped, low and calm. “That’s not what happened.”

“You said I poured the first glass—”

“And you did. You did, Ji. Don’t you remember? I even asked if you were sure—”

“I didn’t— I don’t remember—!”

“Because you were tired. You were safe. You’re still safe.”

Jiyong shook his head again. But weaker this time, torn between wanting to believe it, and not being able to.

Seungri stepped a little closer. Held the glass out. “Smell it. I’ll taste it myself if you want. Nothing’s in it. I’d never do that.”

Jiyong’s eyes flicked to the glass. Then to Seungri’s hand. Then back.

He didn’t reach for it.

Didn’t speak.

Just stood there, shaking, a mess of broken breath and cracked memory.

And inside, Seungri watched the fracture deepen.

The glass shook in his hand. Jiyong’s fingers trembled so badly that the orange juice inside rippled— little waves rising to the rim, like even the drink was scared of what came next.

Seungri stood a few feet away now, calm. Patient. Like he already knew what would happen. Watching like a snake waiting to see which way the rabbit would run.

But Jiyong didn’t run.

He cracked.

Jiyong’s breath hitched violently, sharp and shallow. He wasn’t even blinking anymore. Just staring— at the glass, at Seungri, at the air between them that felt thicker than smoke. His chest rose too fast. Too tight. "I don’t trust you," he whispered.

Seungri’s expression didn’t move. Not right away. He just tilted his head. A flicker of something unreadable passed over his face, surprise, maybe. Or amusement. “Ji.” Soft. That voice he used when Jiyong was curled on his chest. The one that used to make him feel safe.

Now it felt like acid in his ears.

“Don’t—” Jiyong backed up, hand clenching around the glass. “Don’t call me that.”

“You’re tired,” Seungri said, stepping forward, just a little. “You’re not thinking straight.”

“I am!” Jiyong screamed.

And then the glass slipped.

It hit the floor with a sickening crash— exploding in a halo, glass shattering like lightning around his bare feet.

He just stood there, shaking. Tears welling and falling without warning, spilling down his cheeks like something inside him had cracked and wasn’t going to stop leaking. “I’m not okay,” he sobbed. “I’m not okay and you keep— you keep twisting everything and I don’t know what’s real and I feel like I’m losing my mind—” He gasped for breath, staring at his hands. “I don’t trust you!” Jiyong cried this time, voice breaking, high and desperate. “Get out— just get out—!”

Seungri didn’t respond for a moment. He just looked at the puddle on the floor like it was inconvenient.

And then, he laughed. A short, low, breathy thing.

Not amused. Offended.

“Fine,” he said coolly. “My pleasure.”

Jiyong gasped on a sob.

He turned. Took two steps, then paused at the door.

Just stood there a moment, fingers tightening around the door handle.

Then he said it, quiet and low.

“But don’t come crying back to me later.” And the door shut with a whisper, where all of Seungri's actions contrasted to the loudness and chaos of Jiyong's.

Jiyong stood frozen, then he collapsed.

Sank down into the mess— knees hitting the floor still scattered with glass, hands shaking as they gripped at his own hair, tugging like he wanted to wake himself up from this. From everything.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

All he could do was cry: ugly, broken sobs that ripped through his throat like glass. His chest heaved. His lips parted uselessly, trying to form words, apologies, something—

But no one was listening.

No one was there.

Just orange juice around him, glass sharp under his knees.

He dragged himself to the couch. Curled into the corner. Clutched the corner of the blanket and cried until the sound didn’t even come out anymore, until there was nothing left to give.

Seungri had arrived more than an hour early.

The girl at the counter hadn't recognized him, or if she had, she'd been too polite (or too cautious) to say anything. Good. That’s what he wanted.

The private room in the back was small and plain. A door with no window, and a basic plant standing in the corner, trying to create a comforting atmosphere in the room. Booth seats either side of a table. Neutral ground.

He sat there, fingers laced on the tabletop, forcing himself to breathe slow, shallow breaths. He kept checking the clock. Checking his phone. Checking the empty hallway outside the door.

When Seunghyun finally arrived, the door creaked open slowly. No greetings.

Just a long coat, a pair of sharp black boots, and the unmistakable slouch of a man who never wanted to be seen here.

He stepped inside and closed the door firmly behind him, the click of it somehow final. His hands stayed buried in the deep pockets of his coat, his face carved from stone. Unreadable.

Not cold, exactly, but unreachable.

Seungri offered a tight, sad little smile, nerves buzzing under his skin. “You can, um… hang your coat over there, if you want.”

Seunghyun's gaze didn’t waver. “I’m okay.”

Flat. Final.

He moved to the seats opposite Seungri and sat without a sound, his posture stiff, the tension crawling up his spine.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Then the door opened again as the barista left a tray with two coffees, and Seungri noticed how Seunghyun’s body reacted.

A single twitch. A flicker of widened eyes before it was snuffed out again, buried under layers of armor.

He didn’t touch the coffee once it was placed down. Just kept his hands in his lap, fingers pressed tightly together, like holding himself steady.

Seungri gave a weak laugh— forced, awkward— and tried to break the ice the only way he knew how. "So, uh... haha... this leak would ruin us for life, huh?"

Seunghyun didn’t blink. "We're already ruined for life." The words were said so simply it didn’t even feel cruel. Just… true.

Seungri swallowed hard. "Okay… fair enough."

Silence stretched between them again.

Heavy.

Fragile.

Waiting to either shatter or settle.

Seunghyun sat back slightly, coat still draped over his shoulders, legs crossed, hands folded loosely in his lap.

Seungri shifted. Smiled again, wider this time, the way he used to when he was nervous. When he was fifteen, desperate to charm his way into rooms he wasn't ready for. "It's funny," he said, voice too light, "you and me. After all this time. Still... ending up in rooms like this." Seungri plowed on, fingers tapping lightly against the side of his coffee cup. He risked a glance up.

Seunghyun didn't move.

Still nothing.

No smile. No twitch of recognition. Just that steady, unreadable gaze.

Seungri felt something coil tight in his chest— something stubborn, aching.

So he pushed a little harder. "You and me, hyung. Always kind of... different from the others, right? Little more—"

"Don't act like we're the same."

Seunghyun’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

Cold and definite.

Seungri’s mouth snapped shut.

For a second, he just stared at him— really stared— like he couldn’t quite process being spoken to that way anymore.

Like he'd forgotten, somewhere along the line, that there had always been a hierarchy between them. That no matter how much he schemed, how high he climbed, how close he got…

Seunghyun had never been his equal.

He had been his hyung.

His ceiling.

His limit.

The man he would spend years following like a puppy.

Seungri dropped his gaze, lips tightening, the smile falling away completely now.

It wasn’t a mask anymore. It was a real frown. Something truly real flashing through his face: a flash of hurt, of bitter understanding he didn’t want to admit.

He picked at the sleeve of his jacket absently, a restless little movement he thought he’d killed.

Across from him, Seunghyun said nothing more.

He didn’t have to.

The silence between them said enough. And in that silence, Seungri thought.

It hadn’t even been a big moment. Not a fight. Not a public humiliation. Nothing anyone else would’ve noticed.

He’d been seventeen, maybe.

Another late night at the studio, the air thick with exhaustion and ambition. Their producer shouting about missed beats, missed opportunities, missed chances to be great.

Seungri had thrown himself into it harder than anyone.

Dancing until his knees burned. Singing until his throat tore raw. Smiling even when he wanted to cry.

And at the end of it, when the producer stormed out and the door slammed, he had turned. Bright-eyed, panting, waiting for someone to say good job.

Especially him.

Seunghyun had been leaning against the wall, arms crossed, sweat darkening the collar of his oversized shirt. He was older. Bigger. Cool. Already carrying the weight of presence.

Seungri had walked up to him, nervous, hopeful. “Did you see? I fixed the choreography! I stayed behind yesterday and—"

Seunghyun had smiled, not mean or mocking.

Just a hyung smile.

A hand ruffling his hair like he was a puppy that had fetched a stick. "Good work, maknae."

And then he’d turned away. Jiyong had called him from across the room— something about lyrics— and Seunghyun had gone, not looking back.

Seungri had stood there, heart beating too fast for what had just happened.

Small.

He'd realized, in that moment, that no matter how hard he worked, how good he got, how close he came… he would always be the kid.

The one patted on the head, not clapped on the back like the others. The one kept just outside the real conversations. The one who didn’t belong, not really.

And he smiled too. Back then.

Smiled so no one would see the first crack in the mirror he’d been trying to build.

The memory flickered out.

Seungri blinked back into the harsh, stale light of the coffee shop room. Seunghyun still sat across from him. Unmoved.

And Seungri bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood.

You're still the kid, aren't you? Even now.

But he smiled again anyway. Because he knew how to play the long game better than anyone, even if it meant smiling while his own ribs cracked under the pressure.

Seungri sat back in his chair, fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve. The fake smile had dropped completely now, replaced by something smaller, more human. He looked at the table instead of at Seunghyun, his voice softer when he spoke."You know," he said, almost like an afterthought, "sometimes... I wonder if we ever actually knew each other."

The room stayed heavy. Seunghyun didn’t even blink.

Seungri let out a breathy laugh, quick and broken. "You all... you were family to me. And I think I was just..." He trailed off, eyes still fixed on the scratched surface of the table. "...there." He pressed his knuckles against his mouth for a second like he was forcing the emotion back in. "You never really saw me, did you? Not the way I saw you."

It hung there between them, as ugly as it was true, and for a small, flickering moment, it felt like he meant it. Like Seungri wasn't playing. Like he was finally saying something he hadn’t dared say when it would have mattered. The younger finally looked up, meeting Seunghyun’s eyes with something raw in his own.

There was a tight andd fragile thread stretched between them as Seunghyun held his gaze. Then, without so much as a flicker of softness, he leaned back against his chair, folding his arms across his chest.

"I saw enough." he replied, final.

Seungri blinked. Swallowed once. That thread snapped.

And Seunghyun just kept watching him.

Like he was waiting to see what Seungri would do next, holding the line because he knew the game now. Like he wasn’t about to be played so easily. He had survived. He had learned.

Then Seunghyun shifted just slightly, his voice as quiet and heavy as falling stones. "Why did you call me here?"

Seungri hesitated. Eyes darting once to the door, like he needed to make sure they were still alone. Then he leaned in just enough to make the space between them feel conspiratorial. "It's about Jiyong again."

Seunghyun didn’t react outwardly, his posture didn't change.

Seungri swallowed, shoulders curling in a little. He twisted the coffee cup and spoke low, almost like he didn’t want to say it. "I didn’t want to bring it up in front of Youngbae and Daesung. Not after... after how bad Daesung got last time, you know?"

Seunghyun gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

Go on.

Seungri’s voice dropped even lower. "But... hyung..." He looked up now, meeting Seunghyun’s eyes, and there was fear there. "He's paranoid. Jumping at shadows. Seeing things that aren't there. Saying things that don't make sense sometimes. And I—… I know he’s fragile. I know we all expected that." A shaky breath. "But this feels different to last time."

Seunghyun’s jaw tightened slightly.

Seungri pushed the knife in further, voice soft, breaking. “His mental state is just going to get worse and worse… this isn’t just… depression… anxiety… I thought... if anyone could help him... If anyone would understand what it feels like to lose everything and come back from it—" His eyes glistened. "It’s you."

The weight of those words landed heavily.

Seunghyun stayed still, a stoic expression plastered on his face. But his hands, loose on his lap, curled ever so slightly into fists. "What do you mean," Seunghyun said at last, voice low, steady, "by 'seeing things'? What things?"

The real conversation started there.

And Seungri’s smile, hidden behind his cast-down eyes, curled slow and victorious. He hesitated, played with the edge of the coffee cup again, turning it slowly in his fingers like he was working up the courage. "Last time I was over there... he had a really bad moment." He swallowed, glancing at the door again before dropping his gaze like he couldn’t bear the weight of his own words. "He... he was convinced I put something in his drink."

Seunghyun’s eyes narrowed, the slightest tension creasing his brow.

The younger let out a slight, self-deprecating little laugh. "Screamed at me. Accused me of poisoning him. Said I was trying to control him or something, or—" He shook his head, voice breaking a little. "I don't even know what he thought." He sniffed once, fast, wiped under his nose like he was embarrassed. "I mean... it’s not funny. I know it’s not. But it caught me so off guard. I would never do that to him, hyung."

He looked up finally, eyes all glossy, open, innocent.

Deadly.

"You know me. I— I can be a lot of things. But I'd never hurt him. Not like that. That’s…" he trailed off with a sigh.

For a moment, Seunghyun said nothing and just stared at him, his expression unreadable.

Seungri pressed the advantage, voice thick with carefully measured hurt. "He’s seeing things that aren’t there. Believing things that don't make sense. It’s not just sadness anymore, hyung. It's... it's… he’s really slipping." He rubbed his palms against his jeans, like trying to scrub away the guilt. "Again, I… I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others. Daesung—" He shook his head again, pain flickering across his features. "You saw him. He’s hanging on by a thread too. This is affecting all of us."

Inside, Seungri was suppressing a giggle.

I did that. I did all of that.

He leaned forward slightly, earnest, like a man begging. "But you... hyung, you’ve been through darkness. You came back. You’re the only one who might still be able to reach him. I know you didn't want to get him sectioned..." he trailed off for a moment, taking in the twitch under Seunghyun's eye at the notion of psych wards. He shook his head, "you know best, hyung."

Seunghyun sat rigidly still, breathing slow. Processing. Measuring. Concern etched faintly in the lines at the corners of his mouth.

Poisoned.

Controlled.

Accusing the people who loved him.

All the signs sounded like a mind beginning to rot from the inside out.

Just like Seungri wanted.

The silence between them stretched taut, so fragile it felt like breathing wrong might shatter it.

Seunghyun stared down at his coffee for a long moment. Then, in a slow and deliberate movement, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone, without rush or announcement. Only the casual, terrifying certainty of a man who didn’t need to ask permission.

Seungri’s stomach dropped.

He watched, frozen, as Seunghyun swiped the screen open, thumb moving toward Jiyong’s contact.

It felt like slow motion. "Wait," Seungri blurted, voice just a little too sharp.

Seunghyun’s thumb paused an inch above the button. His gaze lifted, heavy and unreadable.

Seungri scrambled, heart pounding against his ribs. "I mean—" He forced a laugh, rough and awkward. "Maybe he’s resting. He’s been... you know, bad lately. He probably needs sleep more than anything."

Seunghyun said nothing. Just kept looking at him. Just looking.

And somehow that was so much worse.

Seungri shifted in his chair, skin prickling. The inside of his mouth tasted sour. "You wouldn't want to disturb him if he's finally calm, right?" he added, softer, trying to coat the panic in reason.

Still nothing.

Seunghyun’s thumb pressed down.

The screen blinked— calling.

Seungri clenched his fists under the table so hard his nails bit into his palms.

Stupid. Stupid. You keep underestimating him.

Seunghyun didn’t trust words. He trusted what he could see.

And now… now Seungri had to pray Jiyong wouldn’t expose everything.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

Seungri sat stiff in his chair, the tension vibrating off him in waves.

Then the call connected. The screen lit up with a shaky, too-close image of Jiyong’s face.

And for a second, Seunghyun forgot how to breathe.

Jiyong looked… destroyed.

His eyes were swollen, bloodshot, wet with fresh tears. His hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands. He was clutching the phone with trembling hands, the screen tilting wildly as he struggled to focus. "Seung- Seunghyun?" he sobbed, voice breaking apart on the second syllable. "Hyung— please— I— I need you—"

Seunghyun’s whole body went taught. He looked devastated. "Jiyong..." he said lowly, steadying the phone closer to his face. "Have you been drinking again?"

“I don’t… remember, I-” A hiccuping sob from the other end. A whimper. "I didn’t mean to— I didn’t—" His words blurred into incoherence, slurred and panicked, the way a child sounds when they've already realized no apology can undo the damage.

Seungri watched. Silent. A ghost in the chair opposite. His white-knuckled fists hidden under the table slowly loosened.

He hadn’t planned for this exactly. Hadn’t expected the desperation to be this raw, this bloody on the surface.

But oh, how it served him.

Jiyong hiccuped again, tears streaming. "Please— please come— hyung, please— I’m scared— everyone’s against me everyone’s trying to- to- I'm being poisoned hyung, I-"

Seunghyun swallowed hard. Every instinct in his body screaming to get up. To save him. "I’m coming," Seunghyun said, voice low, firm, already moving to stand. "Stay there. Don’t do a thing."

Jiyong nodded frantically, the screen bouncing with the movement, like he was afraid Seunghyun might disappear again if he looked away.

Seungri sat perfectly still. Watching Seunghyun. Watching the way his whole soul bent toward Jiyong without hesitation.

A slow, acidic smile curled inside him. But on his face… only concern. Sad, helpless concern.

Seunghyun shot him a curt glance— a soldier already moving to war— then refocused entirely on the broken boy crying for him through the screen. He shoved the door open, half into the hall already, phone clutched tight in his hand.

Jiyong’s broken voice spilled through the speaker in hiccuping gasps.

Seunghyun’s jaw tightened, his steps clipped and sharp. But just as he crossed the threshold, he stopped. He turned half-back toward Seungri without fully facing him. Then, flat and heavy, without warmth, he spoke his final words to the younger. "I wouldn’t have known he was that bad if you hadn’t told me. Wouldn’t have known he needed me that badly."

The words dropped like stones between them. They weren’t gratitude, or forgiveness. They were just fact.

And then Seunghyun was gone, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click, leaving Seungri sitting alone with the untouched coffee cooling between them. Still smiling. Not the bright, eager smile he'd shown at the start of the meeting.

Something smaller. Darker. This smile was satisfied, because he had felt it. The smallest slip. The tiniest fracture in Seunghyun’s thick, thick armor.

And if there was a crack... he would make it a chasm in no time.

Seungri leaned back in his chair slowly, and took a long sip of his cold coffee. Crossed one leg over the other and tapped a rhythm against the side of his cup with one steady, satisfied finger.

"Good boy, Ji…" he murmured under his breath.

He exhaled once, slowly, like letting smoke drift from between his teeth. He leaned back in the seats, letting his spine stretch lazily against the back. Rolled his head once on his neck, a casual, private stretch, not unlike a cat after the hunt.

Because he had felt it. The crack in Seunghyun’s armor. Not enough to call trust. But enough to call weakness.

And weakness was a door. It was an invitation.

"One step closer," Seungri murmured under his breath, fingers drumming a slow, victorious rhythm against the side of his coffee cup again.

He hadn't been foolish enough to think he could bulldoze him the way he had with the others. But in the end, Seunghyun was human, after all. And Jiyong was his soft spot. His unraveling thread. His blind side.

Seungri licked his lips absently, savoring the taste of it.

"You’re going to break for him, hyung," he whispered, voice so soft it barely disturbed the stale air of the empty room. “I wonder if you can handle it all again. But it won’t matter…” He allowed himself a laugh. “Because when you do... he’ll already be mine."

He stood, brushing off imaginary dust from his jeans, and straightened his jacket. He paused one last time at the door, glancing back at the table where Seunghyun had sat— so tall, so rigid, so convinced he was above being touched from his high tower.

A slow smirk curved Seungri’s mouth. "You’re not untouchable, hyung."

He tucked his hands into his pockets and slipped out the back door without a sound.

The air in the alley behind the coffee shop was thick with the smell of rain and rotting leaves, but Seungri didn’t care. He leaned against the damp brick wall, tilted his head back, and laughed.

Soft at first, almost silent. Then breathless, biting it back into a grin that split his face wide open. The adrenaline was still there: crackling under his skin, buzzing in his fingertips, making his hands shake a little.

God.

He hadn’t planned for that. He hadn’t expected Seunghyun to be that sharp. The video call had caught him completely by surprise.

For one nauseating second, he thought he’d fucked everything.

But Jiyong… poor Jiyong, broken, sobbing, begging… had performed better than Seungri thought he ever could have orchestrated.

Perfect.

Raw.

Undeniable.

It was nothing but sheer luck. Divine, sickening luck was on his side.

Seungri pressed his palms flat against the wall, feeling the cold seep into his skin, grounding him, reminding him that this was real. That he was winning. Living up to his name: Victory.

That Seunghyun was folding. That Jiyong was already gone.

His heart hammered against his ribs. Not fear anymore.

Exhilaration.

He laughed again, low and giddy, unable to help it. "Oh, Jiyong…" he whispered into the wet, empty night.

Luck was a beautiful thing. And tonight, it was smiling at him.

Chapter Text

Seunghyun pushed the door open quietly, stepping into the dim, heavy silence of the apartment.

He knew the drill by now.

Knew not to call out. Knew not to startle him. His steps were slow, careful, deliberate.

And there, curled up small against the far wall, phone still clutched loosely in one trembling hand, was Jiyong. He was shaking, rocking slightly in place, like a child left out in the cold too long.

Seunghyun’s heart twisted painfully. He crossed the room in three strides, dropping to his knees beside him. The first thing he did was check his pupils, gently tilting his chin up, brushing the hair from his damp forehead.

Medication, alcohol, terror, it could have been anything, or everything- all of it singing through his blood at once.

Seunghyun exhaled slowly through his nose, steadying himself, then, carefully, as if lifting something made of glass, he slid his arms under Jiyong and lifted him up against his chest.

The younger whimpered, small and broken, but he didn’t fight. He did the opposite. Tiny, shaking hands fisted in Seunghyun’s shirt, grabbing on with desperation, holding him like a lifeline.

Seunghyun carried him to the couch, sat down slowly, keeping Jiyong cradled in his arms- the boy’s too-thin frame trembling against him. He shifted so Jiyong could bury himself deeper, head tucked under his chin, breath hitching in sharp, broken little gasps. One hand rested against the back of his head, the other rubbing slow, steady circles between his shoulder blades. Nothing was said, nothing was asked, he only held him, anchored him. Protected him.

Jiyong clung to him with all the strength his wrecked little body could muster, shaking so hard it rattled Seunghyun’s ribs.

He just closed his eyes and leaned back into the couch. Let the weight of Jiyong's body— fragile, feverish, and trembling— settle against him like a silent promise. I have you now. 

The seconds stretched into minutes, heavy and silent except for the ragged, broken little gasps Jiyong let out against his chest. Finally, a tiny voice, barely there, muffled by Seunghyun’s coat, mumbled, "‘m sorry... Didn’t mean to be bad..."

The words sheathed into his chest like a knife. Seunghyun closed his eyes briefly, forcing the burn behind them down. He loosened his hold just enough to tilt Jiyong’s face up gently, guiding him with slow, careful hands.

Jiyong blinked up at him, dazed and glassy-eyed, cheeks damp with tears.

The older man brushed his thumb slowly across Jiyong’s cheekbone, wiping away the wetness without a word. "You’re not bad," he murmured, voice low and firm. "You were never bad."

Jiyong sniffled, small and aching, and buried his face back against Seunghyun’s chest.

The older man just held him tighter. Rocked him a little more. Kept his hand rubbing slow circles into his back, grounding him, anchoring him, like he could stitch the broken pieces together if he just stayed steady enough. "You’re okay," he whispered into Jiyong’s hair. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now."

Another shaky little whimper. Jiyong's fingers loosened in his shirt, but only to curl tighter again, clinging.

They stayed like that for a long moment. No rushing, only breathing. Together. Like Seunghyun was his guide, his anchor.

Finally, when Jiyong’s trembling eased a little, Seunghyun tilted his head down, brushing the side of his nose against Jiyong’s temple— a soft, almost playful nudge. Just enough to coax his face sideways.

Jiyong blinked up at him, dazed.

And Seunghyun, with the gentlest care, the quietest reverence, pressed a slow kiss to his tear-streaked cheek. He pulled back just slightly, resting his forehead lightly against Jiyong’s. "Tomorrow," he whispered, voice almost breaking with how much he meant it. "Tomorrow will be better. And we’ll do something nice together."

Jiyong let out a tiny, shuddering breath, not quite a sob this time. Almost a sigh.

The next day was better. Still slow and heavy, but better. Jiyong even let Seunghyun feed him a cooked breakfast: three shaky bites of scrambled eggs and a corner of toast- but it was progress.

Seunghyun didn’t push. Just smiled quietly when Jiyong nibbled at the food like a wary stray cat, chewing slowly, eyes down.

After breakfast, they settled into the living room, the sunlight drifting in lazy stripes across the floorboards.

Seunghyun sat on the couch with his legs stretched out, a coffee mug balanced carefully on the armrest.

Jiyong shuffled awkwardly, tugging at the hem of his hoodie and pulling it over his knees, fidgeting like he couldn’t quite get comfortable.

Seunghyun watched him for a moment, something knotting tight in his chest. There— the slightest grimace as Jiyong shifted his weight. A sharp little wince he tried to hide behind the droop of his sleeves.

"Ji?" Seunghyun said softly.

Jiyong blinked at him, wide-eyed. Too wide. Too innocent. Like he didn’t even realize he was in pain.

Seunghyun crouched down in front of him, steady and careful. "Let me see."

Jiyong frowned, confused.

Seunghyun’s hands were slow, deliberate as he lifted the hem of the hoodie up slightly, sliding it back from Jiyong’s knees.

He froze. His stomach turned.

Blood. Dried, flaking, crusted into the fabric of his pants. He lifted the ends of his loose pants to his knees. Red-rimmed cuts scattered across his shins— angry, swollen, starting to scab badly without being cleaned.

Seunghyun looked up at him, trying to control his expression for the sake of keeping the younger calm, despite being horrified. "Why didn’t you say anything?" he whispered.

Jiyong stared down at his own legs like he was seeing them for the first time. Then he began to tremble. Small. "I didn’t..." His voice cracked. "I didn’t know." Tears welled up fast, spilling before he could even blink them away. He looked lost. Terrified. He felt insane. Like his body wasn’t even his anymore. "I forgot," he whispered, as if confessing something shameful. "I forgot it even happened."

He swallowed hard, fighting back his own anger— not at Jiyong, never at him— but at whatever had made him this way. He stood up slowly, reaching for Jiyong’s waistband. "Let’s get these off, okay?"

The second his fingers brushed the fabric, Jiyong flinched, hard.

Seunghyun froze instantly.

The younger's hands darted out, grabbing weakly at the hoodie, yanking it down, face flushing dark with shame. His mind immediately snapped to that morning he had woken up beside Seungri. He wondered how much resistance he had put up to him that night… if any at all.

"It’s okay," Seunghyun said immediately, voice low and steady. "I’ll be careful. I’m not gonna hurt you."

Jiyong shook his head once, jerky and desperate, but then… slowly, awkwardly, he pulled his hands back. Looked away. Shut his mouth.

Seunghyun exhaled softly through his nose, every move exaggeratedly slow now, like handling a wounded animal. He eased the pants down, exposing the cuts: some shallow, some deep, angry red against pale skin. His chest ached.

How could he have walked around like this? How could he have not even known?

"You’re okay," he murmured again, fetching the first aid kit from under the sink. He cleaned the wounds gently, cool antiseptic on raw skin.

Jiyong whimpered once, hissed a little, but didn’t pull away.

The man worked quietly, dabbing at the blood, pressing gentle kisses of gauze against the worst of it, bandaging him with careful, steady hands. When it was done, he helped Jiyong step into a fresh pair of soft, clean lounge pants— his own, several sizes too big— cinching the waistband tight so they wouldn’t slip. Then he pulled the big hoodie down over him fully, tugging the hem until it seemed to swallow Jiyong whole. Like armor. Like safety.

Jiyong sat there in the middle of the room, drowning in Seunghyun’s clothes, legs bandaged, sleeves swallowing his hands.

Eyes glassy. Small.

Seunghyun crouched down again, level with him, cupping his face gently in both hands to make sure he was paying attention to him. "You didn’t do anything wrong," he said, voice steady. "You didn’t fail. You’re not crazy. You’re not broken."

Jiyong’s lower lip trembled. He shut his eyes tight, squeezing out a few more silent tears.

Seunghyun just kissed the crown of his head, slow and lingering.

"You’re still Jiyong," he whispered into his hair. "And I’m still here."

They ended up back on the couch, Seunghyun nursing his cooling mug of coffee now.

Jiyong curled into the opposite end, wearing Seunghyun’s oversized hoodie— sleeves swallowing his hands, hood pulled halfway over his head. His knees were drawn up to his chest, bare feet tucked under the hem of the hoodie, peeking out like something small and tentative.

Every so often, Seunghyun caught him glancing over. Not speaking, just looking. Like checking if he was still there. If he was still real. And every time their eyes met, Seunghyun gave him the smallest smile, soft and steady, with all the patience, and Jiyong would duck his head again, pretending to be fascinated with the worn stitching on the cuffs of the hoodie.

"You’re safe," Seunghyun said once, so low it barely stirred the air. "You don’t have to watch me like I’m gonna disappear."

Jiyong didn’t answer. But a few minutes later, he scooted a little closer. Inch by inch. Like a tide inching toward shore without even realizing it.

Seunghyun just let him come in his own time.

Eventually, Jiyong ended up tucked against his side, head resting lightly against his shoulder, not demanding anything.

Seunghyun shifted carefully, setting his coffee down so he could wrap an arm around Jiyong’s small frame. He felt the soft exhale Jiyong gave when he sank against him fully, and he stroked slow, lazy patterns along his arm through the thick cotton of the hoodie.

They stayed like that for a while: Seunghyun’s arms loose around Jiyong, the quiet weight of him pressed into his side.

Outside, the sunlight shifted, growing warmer, thicker, lazy midday light filling the room.

Seunghyun picked up his coffee again, cradling it in his free hand. He took a slow sip and wrinkled his nose. "Tastes like soap," he muttered.

Jiyong blinked up at him, eyes still a little puffy, a little glassy, but curious.

Seunghyun made a face, exaggerated and dramatic, sticking his tongue out like a child who’d been fed something terrible. "Soapy coffee," he said solemnly. "The final punishment for all my sins."

For a second, nothing.

Then, a small, sudden noise from Jiyong.

A breath. A hiccup. And then, a giggle.

Just a soft, broken little sound, crumbling out of him like something he forgot how to hold in. He clapped a sleeve-covered hand over his mouth instantly, as if embarrassed.

But Seunghyun turned toward him, smiling wide and stupidly proud. “There it is," he said, voice warm. "Knew you still had it in you."

Jiyong ducked his head again, cheeks coloring, the ghost of a shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He curled tighter against Seunghyun’s side, hiding his face in the fabric of his shirt.

And without thinking, he reached out and grabbed the edge of Seunghyun’s sleeve. Small fingers twisting into the thick fabric. Holding.

Seunghyun froze for half a second, not because he was startled, but because he felt the trust. Quiet and small and infinitely precious.

He shifted just enough to wrap his other arm around Jiyong too, pulling him fully into his lap now, cradling him like something sacred. Jiyong didn’t fight. Didn’t even hesitate. Just melted into him, cheek pressed against his chest, hands still gripping the sleeve like if he let go, he might drift away again.

Seunghyun rested his chin lightly on the top of his head and rocked him a little, until he thought he had fallen asleep.

However, suddenly, with a tiny, mischievous movement, the younger pressed two fingers into Seunghyun’s side. Right into the spot he used to poke when he wanted attention.

Seunghyun jolted, letting out a startled grunt that made Jiyong flinch for a second, until he saw that he was exaggerating. "You little—" Seunghyun grumbled.

Jiyong ducked his head into Seunghyun’s chest, muffling the first real giggle he’d made in what felt like a lifetime. It was small. It was breathless. But it was real.

Seunghyun shook his head, ruffling Jiyong’s hair lightly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a genuine smile. “Oh, so you do have energy," he said dryly. "Poking me like a brat."

Jiyong peeked up at him, the tiniest smile playing at the edges of his lips.

For a second he looked just like the Jiyong Seunghyun remembered.

The spark that had been snuffed out so long ago flickered back to life.

Seunghyun let out a slow breath, tucking Jiyong tighter under his arm. "You know what," he said after a moment, voice gentle. "I was thinking..."

Jiyong blinked up at him, curious.

"Maybe later," Seunghyun continued, "we could go outside. Just for a little bit. Get some fresh air. Feel the sun."

Jiyong hesitated. The idea of leaving the cocoon of safety felt terrifying, huge, but… the way Seunghyun said it. Like he wasn't going to force him. Like it was an invitation, not a command. He nodded once, small and shy. "Okay," he whispered.

Seunghyun smiled and tightened his arm around him a little. "Only if you feel up to it," he murmured. "No pressure."

Jiyong let out a shaky little breath against his chest. "With you," he mumbled. "I want to. With you."

The older man closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the fragile, sacred trust pressed into his chest. "With me," he confirmed, "always."

Seunghyun moved first, slow and steady, setting his empty coffee mug aside and stretching out a hand toward Jiyong. "Come on," he said gently. "Let’s get you dressed. Just a little fresh air.“

Jiyong hesitated. He glanced down at himself— swimming in Seunghyun’s hoodie, the ends of Seunghyun’s pants pooling around his feet, sleeves too long, cuffs swallowing his hands.

He felt like a child. Or worse, like someone who didn’t belong in the real world anymore.

The memory of the media leaks flickered across his mind: the headlines, the comments, the disgust.

The whole world had watched him fall.

Had laughed. Had hated him.

He stared at the floor, frozen.

Seunghyun knelt in front of him again, gentle and patient. Held out both hands, palms up, waiting and not pushing.

Jiyong’s breath hitched, and slowly he placed his trembling hands in Seunghyun’s.

He gave him a soft and steady smile, reassuring him that nothing in the world could ruin this moment. “Good boy," he said quietly, squeezing his hands lightly. He helped Jiyong to his feet with slow, careful movements. When Jiyong wobbled a little, he steadied him easily, strong hands warm and certain on his hips. "Stay still," Seunghyun said, a teasing lilt to his voice. "Let me do everything for you."

Jiyong let out the tiniest, shuddering breath: half laugh, half sob.

Seunghyun pulled out a thick jacket from the closet and carefully helped Jiyong slip his arms into it, tugging it up over his small frame. Pulled the hoodie’s hood up too, gentle and slow, like dressing a doll. When he knelt again to tie Jiyong’s shoelaces, Jiyong stared down at the top of his black hair, feeling something old and forgotten stir in his chest.

Being taken care of. Not because he had earned it, but just because he was loved.

He blinked fast and looked away.

When Seunghyun stood again, he caught the flicker of doubt in Jiyong’s eyes. "I don’t—" Jiyong’s voice broke. "What if someone sees?"

Seunghyun’s face softened. He reached out and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind Jiyong’s ear. "I have a plan," he said simply. "There’s a little path behind the building, isn’t there? Hardly anyone ever uses it. Just trees. Some benches. Some sun."

He cupped Jiyong’s cheek briefly in his big, calloused hand. "No cameras. No people. Just you and me."

Jiyong’s lower lip trembled. He swallowed hard and nodded. "Okay," he whispered.

Seunghyun smiled, real and warm and impossibly proud. He took Jiyong’s hand gently in his own and laced their fingers together without hesitation.

Anchoring him. Guiding him.

"Just you and me," he said again, squeezing his hand.

The air outside was cool and crisp, but not biting. The sun slanted over the rooftops, spilling gold across the pavement, catching in the bare branches of the trees that lined the narrow alley behind the building.

Seunghyun kept Jiyong’s hand tucked firmly in his own. He could feel the way Jiyong’s fingers trembled slightly, even through the fabric of their sleeves; the hesitation in every tiny, careful step.

But Jiyong, he followed Seunghyun down the cracked path, bundled up tight in his jacket and hoodie, head ducked low, as if bracing for a blow that never came.

But there was no one there. Just the sound of their shoes against the worn pavement, the soft rustle of wind through the bare trees, the distant hum of the city, muffled and far away.

Seunghyun led him to a bench nestled under a crooked old tree, half-sheltered from view. He sat down first, stretching his long legs out in front of him with a soft sigh. Held his hand out, inviting. And after a shaky little breath, Jiyong crawled into the space between his arms. He folded himself down carefully, almost shyly, and rested his head against Seunghyun’s thigh. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Seunghyun smiled and tugged the hood up higher over Jiyong’s head, shielding him from the breeze. Rested one hand lightly on his back, feeling the slow, unsteady rise and fall of his breathing. "See?" Seunghyun murmured, voice low and warm. "Told you. Just you and me."

Jiyong didn’t answer, but he shuffled a little closer, fingers curling loosely into the fabric of Seunghyun’s jeans.

Seunghyun kept his hand moving in slow, lazy circles across his back.

Above them, the branches swayed softly in the wind, scattering tiny shadows across the ground.

The world shrank down to just the two of them.

No cameras. No reporters. No voices. Just the slow stitching together of something that had been shattered too long.

At one point, Seunghyun shifted slightly to grab his phone from the side pocket of his coat, and Jiyong let out a tiny, sleepy noise of protest. Seunghyun laughed under his breath. "Needy," he teased gently while checking in with Taeyang and Daesung.

Jiyong mumbled something incoherent, hiding his face deeper against Seunghyun’s leg.

Seunghyun chuckled and smoothed his hand down Jiyong’s spine again, slow and affectionate. "Good," he whispered, so soft it was almost a prayer. "Stay needy."

Because it meant he was alive. It meant he still wanted to be held.

Still wanted him.

They stayed like that for a long time. Letting the sun warm them and the silence stitch itself into something safe and sacred.

Seunghyun leaned his head back, closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the soft, fragile weight of Jiyong against him. The breeze stirred Jiyong’s hair, lifting a few wispy strands across his forehead. He kept his hand moving slowly along his back, soothing and rhythmic, feeling the tiny shifts in Jiyong’s breathing as he relaxed more and more.

After a long stretch of quiet, Jiyong stirred. He lifted his head slightly from Seunghyun’s thigh, blinking sleepily up at him. His eyes were still glassy and soft, but clearer now, like the fog had lifted just a little. He shifted carefully, swinging his legs up onto the bench so he was almost sitting sideways across Seunghyun’s lap. One hand still clutched at Seunghyun’s sleeve, like he didn’t quite trust the world not to snatch him away again. "Hyung..." he mumbled, voice low and rough from disuse.

Seunghyun glanced down at him, smiling faintly. "Yeah?"

Jiyong hesitated. Chewed his lower lip. Then, in a voice so small it almost hurt to hear, he mumbled, "Have you... talked with Tae and Dae much?"

Seunghyun’s smile faltered. Right, he’s been out of the loop. He let out a slow breath through his nose, looking out at the trees swaying against the sky. "A little," he said finally. "It's... hard."

Jiyong tilted his head, frowning slightly.

Seunghyun gave a small, sad chuckle. "It’s hard to talk about BigBang. About... before. Feels like I’m remembering someone else’s life." He didn’t say the rest.

Didn’t say how he still woke up sometimes expecting it all to be a bad dream. Didn’t say how he still sometimes couldn’t watch old videos without feeling like he was watching a ghost.

Jiyong’s heart twisted painfully. He shifted closer, awkwardly crawling into Seunghyun’s side until he was practically curled on his lap, head tucked under his chin again. For a second, he just stayed there, listening to the steady beat of Seunghyun’s heart against his ear.

Then he tilted his head up, resting his cheek lightly against Seunghyun’s shoulder, looking up at him with wide, shining eyes. A hint of a mischievous smile ghosted across his lips.

Soft and shy… trying. "So..." Jiyong whispered, voice playful and tiny, "does this mean you'll finally unblock me on Insta?"

Seunghyun blinked down at him. For a second, pure silence. Then he huffed out a breath: half a laugh, half a sigh. "Brat," he muttered under his breath. But his hand tightened slightly against Jiyong’s back, holding him closer.

Jiyong smiled properly for the first time in what felt like forever.

Seunghyun shook his head, ruffling his hair roughly. "We’ll see," he said, voice low and teasing. "Don’t push your luck."

Jiyong giggled quietly against his shoulder, hiding his face.

And Seunghyun closed his eyes for a second, letting the sound of it, the weight of him, the miracle of him, settle deep into his bones.

Jiyong was still here. Still fighting. Still his.

For a while, he stayed still, breathing slow and shallow, safe against the steady drum of Seunghyun’s heartbeat. Then slowly, carefully, he moved, like testing the strength of a dream he didn’t trust to be real. Jiyong slid his hand down Seunghyun’s arm, found his hand resting open on the bench beside him. Hesitated, then linked their fingers together. Threaded them one by one, like weaving something sacred.

Seunghyun didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe for a second, as if he was afraid to spook a little bunny. Just let him. Let Jiyong take what he needed.

Their hands fit together so easily it almost hurt.

So familiar. So right. Like something lost and found again.

Seunghyun turned his head slightly and looked down at their joined hands. Then, without thinking, he lifted Jiyong’s hand gently to his mouth and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his knuckles.

When he pulled back, he was smiling, a small, private, aching smile.

Jiyong’s eyes widened, then a smile broke across his face too. He let out a tiny, breathless laugh and immediately ducked his head into Seunghyun’s shoulder, hiding his face away.

Seunghyun chuckled under his breath, the sound deep and low. But when he felt Jiyong's fingers tighten around his hand, refusing to let him go, he squeezed back. Like a vow. "I'm not letting go either," Seunghyun whispered into the crown of his hair.

And they sat there together as the sun dipped lower, painting everything in soft orange and gold. The air grew a little cooler, biting against the bare skin of their hands where they were still linked together.

Seunghyun squeezed gently, ready to guide Jiyong up from the bench. "Come on, baby," he murmured, voice low and warm. "Let’s get you back inside."

Jiyong nodded against his shoulder and pushed himself upright slowly. But the second he stood, the color drained from his face. He swayed dangerously, knees buckling, a soft little gasp catching in his throat.

"Ji—!" Seunghyun caught him instantly. One strong arm around his waist, the other catching behind his knees in a single, practiced motion.

Jiyong gave a startled whimper, fists curling into Seunghyun’s jacket, but Seunghyun just held him tighter. Lifted him effortlessly into his arms, cradling him against his chest like he weighed nothing. Like he was precious- because he was. He was precious, and fragile, and beloved.

"I got you," Seunghyun murmured into his hair, voice trembling slightly with the force of how much he meant it. "I’ve always got you."

Jiyong blinked up at him, dazed. His cheeks were pink.

…From the chill.

His lips parted in a tiny breath. He just curled instinctively against Seunghyun’s chest, head tucking under his chin, tiny hands fisting into the front of his jacket like a baby bird clinging to safety.

Seunghyun adjusted him carefully, shielding him from the cold with his body, and started walking slowly back toward the building.

“No more falling.

Not while I’m here.

Not ever again.“

Jiyong’s breathing evened out against his throat, slow and shallow.

When they reached the door, Seunghyun nudged it open carefully with his foot, easing them both inside without jostling him. He carried him straight to the couch and settled down slowly, still holding him close, unwilling to put him down even for a second.

Jiyong gave the tiniest sigh against his chest, a sound that displayed his trust, his safety.

Seunghyun smiled into his hair. Pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the top of his head. "Rest now," he whispered. "You're home."

Chapter Text

It was another rough night. Jiyong had woken up sobbing again and grasping at Seunghyun’s arms, trying to recollect his bearings desperately.

But he had stopped shaking some time ago, his breathing evening out in slow, uneven hiccups as Seunghyun rocked him gently in his arms. The panic had gutted him, the sheer, raw terror clawing its way out of his fragile body.

Seunghyun, of course, had taken it all wordlessly. Holding him, soothing him, sheltering him just like he used to shelter himself from the worst storms.

Jiyong lay cradled against his chest now, limp with exhaustion. His hands were twisted tightly in Seunghyun’s shirt, like if he let go, he’d fall straight through the earth.

The other rested his chin lightly against the top of his head. He was different now. Older, wiser, steadier. The boy who once snuck kisses behind concert halls and laughed breathlessly against hotel pillows was gone. Replaced by this man. This man who had been broken and rebuilt, scarred and remade. Who understood now that love wasn’t about fireworks– about post-concert highs and being three sojus into the night. But rather about choosing someone. Over and over, especially when it looked dire.

"Jiyong," Seunghyun whispered reverently.

The younger stirred weakly against him. Tilted his head back slightly, eyes bleary and wet and impossibly, unbearably open.

Jiyong was different now too. There was no mask left. No stage persona or any armour. Just him. Just Jiyong.

And when he looked up at Seunghyun, it was like a prayer written across his battered face. A plea he didn’t have the strength to speak aloud.

Seunghyun cupped his cheek in one big, careful hand, thumb brushing across the soft, damp skin under his eye.

And without thinking, without doubting, without needing permission, he leaned down and pressed their foreheads together. Breathed him in. Seunghyun murmured, so soft it might have been a prayer. "Still mine."

And then, slowly, so slowly it hurt… he kissed him.

Not the desperate kisses of youth.

Not the frantic, greedy things they used to steal between tour stops and hotel rooms.

This was different. This was careful. This was devastating.

This was them, weathered by fire and rain, stripped of glamour, laid bare to the bone.

Lips pressed together, eyes closed, Seunghyun kissed him like he needed it. He thought the younger would too.

Jiyong melted against him with a soft, broken sound. A sound that shattered something inside Seunghyun.

He tilted Jiyong’s chin gently with his hand, deepening the kiss only a little, only enough to anchor him there, to remind him he wasn’t alone, wasn’t unloved, wasn’t ruined.

When they finally pulled apart, Jiyong kept his eyes shut tight, as if afraid that if he opened them, it would all vanish.

Seunghyun pressed one more kiss, feather-light, to the corner of his mouth. "Still here," he whispered against his skin.

And Jiyong, so fragile and brave and breakable, finally let out a tiny sob against his chest.

Seunghyun just held him tighter. Rocked him gently. He kept his forehead pressed lightly against Jiyong’s, feeling every tiny tremble that ran through him.

The younger made a tiny helpless noise between sniffles and Seunghyun felt it like a crack splitting open his own chest.

"It’s okay," He whispered. "You’re okay. I’m right here." He shifted them gently, until he was leaning back properly against the headboard, pulling Jiyong into his lap more securely.

Jiyong hid his face against his neck, his breath hitching in sharp, uneven gasps.

The man stroked slow, soothing circles along his spine with one hand, the other smoothing gently over his hair. He didn't say anything else. There were no words big enough to stitch this kind of hurt.

As the minutes passed, Jiyong’s breathing slowly began to steady, and the other listened to the soft, heartbreaking sound of him trying to breathe calmly through the wreckage. Felt the weight of him curled up so tightly against his chest, small and breakable. He shifted his hand to Jiyong’s fingers, gently untangling them from the death grip on his shirt, only to weave their hands together instead, thumb stroking slow, lazy lines across the back of Jiyong’s knuckles. "Still with me?" he whispered.

A tiny nod against his throat.

Seunghyun smiled faintly. "Good." He leaned his head back against the couch, cradling Jiyong in his lap like a baby.

They stayed like that as the light faded from the windows, wrapped up in each other, wrapped up in something too fragile and too necessary to name.

Two people who had been through hell, one still there, holding onto each other with everything they had left.

The kitchen was bathed in soft late-morning light. Seunghyun moved carefully around it, brewing fresh coffee, frying a little rice- simple things, small domestic rituals meant to ease the day into something soft, something steady. And Jiyong shuffled in, small and quiet. Still wrapped in one of Seunghyun’s big hoodies that dwarfed his frame, sleeves dragging slightly past his hands, the hem reaching almost to his knees. He stood there uncertainly, watching, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Seunghyun caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and turned, smiling gently. "Come here, baby."

Jiyong hesitated, then shuffled forward.

Seunghyun met him halfway. His hands, warm and careful, found his waist and lifted him easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and set him gently on the counter.

Jiyong’s legs dangled slightly over the edge, but Seunghyun stepped closer, fitting himself between them, steadying him with a touch to his knee. "There we go," he said softly. "Comfortable?"

The younger nodded, but didn't meet his eyes. Instead, he stared down at his own hands, twisting them in the fabric of the hoodie.

Seunghyun’s hands moved up to his back, slow soothing strokes over the cotton, grounding him. "Are you okay? I'm here," he murmured. "I'm not going anywhere."

Jiyong bit his lip, still refusing to look up. His small body leaned subtly into the touch, like a plant drawn toward sunlight, but his mind warred with itself, terrified to ask.

Seunghyun could feel the hesitance, the hope, the storm inside him– so he stayed steady. Offered his patience like an open palm.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Jiyong peeked up at him. Big, dark eyes glistening with something raw and childlike and unbearably brave. In a tiny, fragile voice, he asked, "Could we... try that again?"

Seunghyun’s heart cracked clean open. He smiled, that tight-lipped, aching smile he reserved for things he loved too much to name. The younger’s behaviour reminded him amusingly of the way he had acted in those parodies they had done together that lifetime ago, and he had to force back a chuckle at the fond memory. Lifting one hand to cup Jiyong’s cheek, his fingers brushed lightly over skin that felt too delicate to touch any differently.

Jiyong tilted into the touch instinctively, eyes fluttering closed, lashes dark against pale cheeks.

Seunghyun’s thumb stroked softly along his jaw. He leaned in slowly, giving Jiyong all the time in the world to pull away.

But Jiyong didn’t. He leaned a little closer, trembling.

And when Seunghyun finally kissed him, soft, slow, and sure, the latter let out the smallest little breath against his lips.

It wasn’t a desperate kiss, just like the last one. It wasn’t hungry or wild. It was like finally planting something bright and gentle and hopeful in ground scorched by too many fires.

Jiyong’s hands found their way to Seunghyun’s chest, tiny and trembling, clutching at his jacket like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

Seunghyun kissed him again, just a little deeper this time, one hand at the nape of his neck, the other steadying him at the waist. A hint of a smile curled his lips as he felt Jiyong return the kiss.

And when he finally pulled back, Jiyong was blinking up at him, dazed and pink and perfect.

Seunghyun smiled again. Pressed their foreheads together. "Anytime you ask," he whispered. "I'll be right here."

And Jiyong- tiny and soft- smiled too. Small and shaky. He held onto Seunghyun’s jacket tighter.

Chapter Text

The morning was unusually bright. Jiyong squinted at the light pouring in through the gap in the curtains and curled a little tighter into the warmth beside him. Seunghyun was still asleep- or pretending to be- but either way, his arm was heavy over Jiyong’s side and his breath was slow and deep against the back of his neck.

“Hey,” Jiyong mumbled after a while. “You awake?”

“Mmhmm,” came the low rumble behind him, that made Jiyong shiver involuntarily and smile.

Soon, the apartment was filled with the strong scent of coffee mixed weirdly with fabric softener. Jiyong seemed to finally be getting used to having mornings again, and not just waking up whenever and wasting the day away before sleeping again. He was beginning to let these soft mornings with Seunghyun happen to him- not just endure, but accept.

Jiyong didn’t say much that morning. But he ate three of the little squares of toast that Seunghyun had cut for him and buttered lightly, chewing slow, his jaw a little stiff from sleep and old tension.

The older man watched quietly from across the table. He didn’t praise him, didn’t rush him. Just let the moment settle, a little domestic hush before the world knocked again.

He let Seunghyun dress him in a hoodie and joggers. He even brushed his teeth without being asked.

“I was thinking,” Seunghyun said quietly, setting his coffee down and rubbing his thumb gently against the back of Jiyong’s hand, “would you want to come to the studio today? Just for a little while.”

Jiyong looked up at him, blinking slowly. The hoodie sleeves half-swallowed his fingers. “The... studio?”

“Yeah. Not for anything big. I’ll be with you the whole time. Tae and Dae are there too, working on some lyrics. I thought...” He hesitated. “Maybe it’d feel nice. Something familiar.”

Jiyong looked down again, brows furrowed slightly like he was still trying to figure out how to feel things at the right time. “I don’t know if I can sing...”

“I don’t care if you don’t say a word,” Seunghyun said. “I just want you to come. Hear the music. See us laugh. Let yourself remember it’s still yours.”

A long pause as his fingers curled around the hem of the hoodie.

Then the smallest nod.

By noon, he was standing at the front door, arms limp at his sides, bag too light on his shoulder. Seunghyun adjusted the collar of his jacket and gave his arms a small, grounding squeeze. "You good?"

“Think so.”

They didn’t talk much on the drive. Seunghyun kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting on his knee, eyes flicking over to him now and then. Jiyong stared out the window the whole time, like the city had grown foreign while he’d been tucked away from it, recovering from the worst months of his life. His fingers nervously fidgeted with the cuffs of his sleeves as the other man drove, and he tried not to think about the way he had stormed in last time and made Youngbae’s son cry.

He wasn’t sure what he expected when they pulled into the studio lot. He didn’t know how it would feel, walking back into that world with the dust still clinging to him.

But the moment the car stopped, Seunghyun turned to him, voice low and firm.

“You don’t owe anyone anything in there. You’re just here. That’s all.”

Jiyong nodded.

Wood panels. Dust. That faint trace of soldering and old mic cables and coffee from three days ago. The studio was quieter than he expected.

Jiyong stood near the wall when they walked in, hoodie sleeves curled into fists, shrinking for a second, until Seunghyun’s hand slid gently to the small of his back. Grounding.

“You’re alright,” Seunghyun murmured quietly near his ear. “I’ve got you.”

Taeyang spotted them first. “Ji,” He crossed the room, pulled him into a hug before Jiyong could shrink away. It wasn’t rough or overbearing. Just arms. Familiar and safe.

Daesung gave a small wave from where he was crouched adjusting cables. “Good to see you here, hyung.”

His eyes darted around nervously, scanning the room for any sign of Seungri.

Seunghyun lingered by the door, coat still on. He didn’t move toward the equipment. Didn’t touch anything. The lines around his eyes were tight with something he wouldn’t name. His guilt kept him anchored in the shadows, far from where the others sat, just watching. Just... guarding. He’d told himself he wouldn’t let this pull him in. He wasn’t here for music. He wasn’t here for closure. This wasn’t his re-entry, he wasn’t here for BigBang. He was here for Jiyong.

Taeyang and Daesung didn’t ask him to sit at the mic, didn’t pull him into jokes or memories, didn’t ask for his opinions of interpretations or advice. And that small mercy landed deep in his chest. They understood: he wasn’t ready. Maybe he never would be. But he’d worry about himself later, right now Jiyong came first.

Jiyong didn’t say much either. He curled up on the old leather couch they always used to crash on after late-night takes, and just watched. Listened. Legs tucked under him, hoodie sleeves halfway past his fingers.

They didn’t ask him to sing. They didn’t ask him to talk. They just... let him exist in the room. It was maybe the kindest thing they could’ve done.

But Daesung started humming a melody while Taeyang worked on lyrics— and they let the track loop softly in the background, a simple beat that feltlike something he could touch. He even smiled faintly when Daesung made a dumb pun. Laughed quietly with a covered mouth when Taeyang’s voice cracked in the recording booth and he made a face and pulled the headphones off in defeat.

Jiyong closed his eyes for a minute. Just listened. And when Seunghyun handed him a warm mug of tea, he took it with both hands. Drew in a gentle sip. Looked up at him. Smiled.

Seunghyun stayed close, seated beside him in a non-crowding way. And somewhere between loops of soft melodies and old, safe rhythms, he leaned his head against Seunghyun’s shoulder.

He froze for a second, then let his body relax. He shifted slightly so Jiyong could get comfortable. Rested his hand gently atop the smaller one curled on his lap.

They got home just as the last gold of the sunset was bleeding out of the sky.

The flat was dim and still when they stepped inside, the hush welcomed them like a blanket instead of pressing down like a cage. Jiyong slipped off his shoes and walked in without hesitation this time— no hovering at the threshold, no darting glances at corners like they might be haunted. Just... walking in like a person who lived there.

Seunghyun watched that happen. Noticed it. His chest ached with something soft and heavy. He’s coming back to himself, little by little.

Jiyong moved toward the kitchen and opened a cabinet to grab a glass of water. He didn’t ask. Didn’t wait to be prompted. He just did it. It was such a small thing— stupidly small— but Seunghyun had to look away for a second because it felt like watching someone relearn how to breathe.

“You okay?” Jiyong asked, voice a little raspy from disuse, but steady.

Seunghyun looked up, smiling lightly. “I should be asking you that.”

Jiyong shrugged one shoulder, half bashful. “I’m tired. But... I didn’t hate it.”

That was somehow seismic.

Seunghyun crossed the room slowly, took the glass from his hands and set it down, and then just pulled him into his arms. Jiyong tensed, surprised, but didn’t pull away. In fact, his fingers curled lightly into the back of Seunghyun’s hoodie, holding on, a little confused.

“You did good,” Seunghyun said quietly against his temple. “Really good. I’m so proud of you.” He felt Jiyong smile against his neck. Just the curve of his lips. Small. Shy. But it was there. “They were happy to see you,” he added. “You know that, right?”

Jiyong nodded. His voice was muffled when he spoke. “They didn’t treat me like I was broken.”

“Because you’re not.”

That made Jiyong go quiet again, but he stayed close. Didn’t pull back. Just rested his cheek against Seunghyun’s chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it was, now. “It’s just... weird,” Jiyong murmured after a while. “To not feel like I’m drowning every second. I kept waiting for it to hit. For the panic. For something to go wrong.”

“And it didn’t.”

“No. It didn’t.”

Later, Seunghyun made dinner. Nothing fancy: just rice, a fried egg, some pickled radish on the side. Jiyong ate half of it without being coaxed, then stretched out on the couch under a blanket, hoodie hood pulled up, eyes soft with sleep.

Seunghyun sat beside him with a book, just occasionally glancing over to make sure Jiyong was still there. Still okay. Still breathing steady.

At one point, Jiyong murmured something too quiet to catch.

“Hm?”

Jiyong rolled over slightly, cheek pressed to a cushion, gaze blurry with exhaustion. “Thanks for today.”

Seunghyun reached out and ran his fingers through his hair under the hood slowly. He was warm and pliant and safe like this. “You don’t have to thank me. You did it.”

“Not alone.” A pause. “I think I forgot what it felt like. To be proud of myself.”

That hit something deep and quiet in Seunghyun. He bent down, brushing a feather-light kiss to Jiyong’s crown, and whispered, “Get used to it, baby.”

Chapter Text

The morning was soft in all the right ways. Jiyong sat cross-legged on the living room floor, sleeves pushed up and fingers smudged with pastels, charcoal, and little flecks of red paint. The sketchpad in his lap looked like it belonged to someone much younger- something about the lopsided strokes, the blunt colours, the way the lines wobbled like he hadn’t held a brush in years.

And he hadn’t. Not really. Not since before everything cracked and bled and closed up around him like a trap. He didn’t know what he was painting. It looked like a face at first. Then a hand. Maybe a tree. Then something else. It didn’t matter. It was his, and he was making it.

Behind him, in the kitchen, Seunghyun was humming low under his breath as he washed two mugs. The radio was playing quietly: one of those older songs, those ones that made Jiyong’s chest tighten with nostalgia without hurting.

“You’re gonna get charcoal on the couch,” Seunghyun called gently over his shoulder.

“Too late,” Jiyong said, grinning softly. “Thanks for getting me all these, by the way.”

Seunghyun turned and paused, because Jiyong was smiling. Really smiling.

“Come here,” Jiyong said, holding the sketchpad up with both hands, eyes wide with something almost like pride. “Tell me if it looks dumb.”

Seunghyun walked over, drying his hands on a tea towel, and knelt beside him with a stifled grunt. He took the pad without a word and studied it. “It’s not dumb,” he said.

“Be honest.”

“I am,” Seunghyun replied, setting the sketchpad gently down. “I love it.”

Jiyong bit his lip. Looked down at his smudged fingers. “I think I’m getting better.” It was said like a secret. Like he was afraid saying it too loud would make it stop being true.

Seunghyun didn’t answer right away. He just reached over and touched the edge of Jiyong’s jaw with his knuckles. A tiny gesture. Careful. Like touching sunlight. “You are.”

The knock on the door came mid-afternoon.

Jiyong startled, but Seunghyun was already on his feet. “It’s okay. It’s Youngbae and Daesung.”

The door swung open to reveal Taeyang holding a small paper bag and Daesung smiling like the sun. “We come bearing dumplings,” Daesung announced, stepping inside without waiting.

Taeyang followed, warm and calm and familiar. He caught sight of Jiyong, still sitting cross-legged on the floor with paint on his cheeks, and his smile softened immediately.

“Hyung,” the younger set down the plastic bag. “You look good.”

“He’s covered in paint,” Seunghyun said with a chuckle.

“That’s why he looks good,” Daesung replied, grinning.

They all sat down around the table, dumplings steaming between them, laughter light and real. Jiyong had forgotten that kind of warmth even existed, this easy friendship, this rhythm of teasing and affection and history that didn’t have to be painful. He only ate a dumpling or two, but the togetherness was enough.

At some point, Daesung leaned in and said gently, “You really do look better, hyung.”

Jiyong blinked. “Do I?”

Taeyang reached across the table and squeezed his wrist. “You seem like you’re here. That’s more than we’ve had in a long time.”

That nearly did him in. He blinked fast, looked away. The sketchpad was still on the floor. His little drawing. His little hope. “I’ve been painting,” he mumbled. “Not like, real stuff. Just... stuff.”

“That’s real,” Taeyang said. “That’s the most real.”

And maybe it was the dumplings or the warmth or the low music still playing in the background, but for a moment, Jiyong let himself believe he could really stay like this.

After the dumplings were eaten and the laughter had ebbed to a comfortable hush, Taeyang reached into the bag he’d brought and pulled out a folded bundle. “Oh,” he said, as if remembering something. “We found this while clearing out the studio stuff. I thought... you might want it.”

He handed it to Jiyong across the table. Seunghyun, curious, leaned closer as Jiyong took it with both hands.

It was a handkerchief. Patterned but mainly navy. Folded neatly. His staple. Jiyong stared at it for a long moment, fingertips brushing the material.

“I lost this?” he murmured, half to himself.

“Yeah,” Daesung said gently. “You used to wear it all the time during recording. You wouldn’t even take it off when it was thirty degrees in the booth.”

“I didn’t realise I lost it.”

“You left it behind,” Taeyang said, quieter now. “When things got... you know. Bad.”

Jiyong didn’t speak right away. He was still staring at it, expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he lifted it to his chest and hugged it to himself like a child, burying his cheek into the soft material. “I don’t remember,” he admitted, voice thick.

“That’s okay,” Taeyang said softly.

Seunghyun reached out under the table and laid his hand on Jiyong’s knee. No words. Just that steady presence, solid and warm.

A few moments passed like that: everyone just existing quietly in the same space.

Then Jiyong, muffled in the handkerchief, said with a wobbly smile, “If I put this on, I’ll get dumpling grease on it.”

Daesung snorted. “You’ve already got charcoal on your cheek.”

“You haven’t heard? It’s the latest trend by G-Dragon..” he replied quickly.

They all laughed again, less loud this time, but no less real.

And in that moment, Jiyong didn’t feel like someone recovering from disaster. He just felt like the old Jiyong. Messy. Smudged. Wrapped in Seunghyun’s hoodie that used to mean something different. Held together by threads that maybe, were stronger than they looked.

That night, after they left, Jiyong stood at the window for a long time, looking at the city with eyes that were so used to seeing darkness, now lit up.

Seunghyun came up behind him, arms wrapping loose around his waist, head dipping so his chin could rest on his shoulder. “You did so good today,” he murmured.

Jiyong leaned back into him, body pressed against his front as he glanced up to the night sky. “It felt like something. I don’t know what.”

“Whatever it is, it’s something good. I’m starting to see the boy I loved those years ago again.”

Jiyong blinked a few times.

Loved.

He didn’t mention it, but he hoped that the older man wouldn’t feel the way his heart thundered against his ribcage.

Chapter Text

Jiyong had dressed carefully that morning. Partly because he was trying to feel normal, partly because he was trying to impress his fellow members. His hands trembled slightly as he buttoned up his jacket. Seunghyun had left him a note saying he was at the studio with the boys, that he didn’t want to wake him up since he had been sleeping so well and peacefully, but if something was wrong to call him immediately. He would be back by 2pm.

He had woken up fine, drank a glass of water, sat up in his bed, then decided to be strong and do something all by himself that day. Maybe that way he could prove to them all that he was really doing better.

On the way, seated in the taxi, his anxiety began to play up. It started with the small double-take the driver did upon seeing him, so he stared out the window the whole way. The streets passed by like old memories, half-recognised, a little too sharp around the edges. He saw their old cafe. The alley where they used to smoke after rehearsals. He rubbed his palm against his thigh. Felt his heartbeat in his throat.

He almost asked the driver to turn around and take him back to his safe home.

He’d stood on the stairs for too long, hands shoved in his pockets, scarf pulled too tight around his throat like a noose made of habit. The building buzzed faintly: distant bass from someone’s speaker, the clatter of something dropped in the hallway above. He’d thought maybe... maybe today would be okay.

He even told himself he was strong enough now, with a deep breath.

The room had the gentle murmur of familiarity as he stood by the glass of the door. Seunghyun’s chuckle. Taeyang speaking low and kind. The clink of a glass. Daesung passing out snacks like they were boys again. It should’ve been comforting. Except it wasn’t.

Jiyong stood in the doorway a beat too long, fingers cold around his phone. The hallway light buzzed faintly overhead, a fluorescent hum like tinnitus, boring straight through his skull. His coat felt too heavy now. The air too thin.

He didn’t know why he’d come, not anymore, not really. He guessed the stupid hope that things might feel normal again, even for a second.

But he heard it.

Not necessarily words- just a shift in tone. The soft drop in Seunghyun’s voice, the way it always got when he meant something.

Jiyong’s eyes snapped to the couch.

Seungri was laughing at something. Not loud or cocky, but… laughing. Soft and human. His shoulders weren’t as tense as they’d been a while ago.

And Seunghyun was looking at him.

Not glaring. Not even guarded. His expression unreadable, but calm. And then— it was barely anything— but he nodded. A slow, almost imperceptible nod.

Understanding.

Then he cracked a small smile.

Jiyong’s pulse rang in his ears like sirens. His knees locked. The soft clink of a glass being set down was suddenly deafening. The lights too bright. The air too stale.

And still, Seunghyun looked at him.

Jiyong stopped breathing.

A pressure built in his chest like a scream held underwater. Every muscle in his body tensed to keep it from surfacing. He swallowed hard, but it didn’t go away. His tongue felt dry. His hands, still curled around his phone, were numb now.

He looked to the others: Daesung wasn’t even looking. Taeyang was sipping his drink.

Like it was nothing.

Like it hadn’t happened.

Like Seungri hadn’t cracked their entire world open and left it bleeding.

His heartbeat stuttered. It didn’t make sense. Seunghyun was the safe one. The one thing he could still count on, when everything else had crumbled. The one body he could collapse against without shame. The one man whose silence used to mean I’ve got you.

And now— he was looking at him like that.

Jiyong blinked too fast. His vision blurred. His ears rang. Every sound in the room was warping— distant, then too close, then distant again. Like he was underwater. Like he wasn’t really there. His heart thundered in his ears.

They didn’t see it.

They didn’t feel it.

But something in him had just snapped. Quiet and clean like glass.

It was just a look. But Jiyong had learned to read looks the way others read full novels. Especailly when they were directed at Seungri.

He stood behind the glass door of the studio, fingers curled into fists deep in his coat pockets, watching the scene unfold in that agonizing, slow-motion way grief always did. Seungri sat at the edge of the couch, head tilted downward, knees apart like he always did when trying to shrink himself without fully surrendering.

It wasn’t Daesung’s cautious tolerance. It wasn’t Youngbae’s hopeful need to believe people could change. No, this was worse.

This was Seunghyun, eyes soft and half-crinkled, nodding like whatever Seungri had said mattered. Like it deserved to be heard. Like he deserved to be heard.

The silence in Jiyong's chest cracked. He hadn’t even realised it had been holding.

He’d told himself Seunghyun would never forgive it. Would never forget the betrayals. Would never fall for the charm again.

But Seunghyun smiled. And Seungri laughed. And Jiyong couldn’t move.

He didn’t notice the way his breathing changed, ragged and high in his throat. He didn’t notice the violent tremor that took hold of his hands. All he could feel was the fragile scaffolding in his mind— the one holding back everything he’d buried— beginning to quake.

The door creaked as he pushed it open.

Everyone turned.

Seungri looked like he’d been shot, immediately dropping his smile and assuming innocence.

Seunghyun stood, not defensive, not apologetic. Just concerned at how dishevelled Jiyong must have looked. “Jiyong,” he said, too gently. “What’s wrong?”

And Jiyong broke.

Not loudly. Not violently. But in the quiet, terrifying way that glass doesn’t master.

Jiyong blinked slowly. The room was too quiet. Expectant. It felt like the air had been vacuumed out, like sound didn’t know how to exist anymore. The laughter that had echoed seconds ago was already gone, buried in the suffocating silence they’d left for him to fill.

Like they were waiting for him to speak.

But what the hell was there to say?

He looked at Seunghyun again. Not the idol. Not the oldest hyung. Not even the man who had whispered, I’ve got you, even if nobody else does. Just… at Seunghyun. The one person he thought would always see things the way he did. The only person who had looked at him like he wasn’t crazy when everything else cracked and twisted, who had still been his anchor.

And now here he was. Soft for Seungri.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Jiyong murmured, voice dangerously steady. He didn’t move from the doorway. His coat hung off his frame like it didn’t belong to him. His fingers had gone numb again. His ears still rang.

Daesung shifted in his seat and opened his mouth like he wanted to say something— maybe a joke, a light comment, a greeting, some desperate buffer to pad the collapse. But even he must’ve felt it. That there was nothing light about the air anymore.

Youngbae stood halfway between them all, eyes bouncing like a tethered conscience.

“Ji, what’s going on?”

Jiyong’s smile came too fast, too sharp. “So this is what that note was about? ‘Didn’t wanna wake me up’, right. So you could hang out with your old buddy without Jiyong making a scene about it!”

Seunghyun hesitated.

And that was the final nail.

Because he hesitated.

He laughed once. Harsh. Ugly. A sound born of disbelief. “You hesitated,” he said, nodding, more to himself than anyone else. “Wow.” His ears were ringing again. His heartbeat thudded so loud he thought it might burst through his chest. There was that dizzy thing behind his eyes again, like vertigo. Like the floor under him wasn’t real anymore.

Seungri stood now too, slow, careful, like he was approaching a wounded animal. “Hyung, I didn’t come here to start anything—”

“Then why are you here?” Jiyong snapped, voice finally cracking— fury bleeding through like blood through gauze. “Why are you here at all?”

Seungri’s lips parted, but no words followed.

And Jiyong— God, Jiyong hated him for that silence. That pitiful, delicate silence that made him look like the threat. Like he was unstable. Like he was the one who had shown up to ruin something whole. That made him look like the problem.

“You’re not part of BigBang! You killed it!“

He turned back to Seunghyun, mouth moving before his brain could catch up.

“You don’t get to look at me like I’m the one who's lost it,” he said, eyes glassy now, too full to keep holding back. His hands had curled into fists so tight his nails bit his palms. “I was the one who kept my mouth shut about everything wrong in this group for years. I was the one who bled trying to keep this group standing while he—” he pointed now, blindly “—was setting fire to everything we ever built.”

“Ji—”

“Don’t.” His voice cracked. This time it broke entirely.

The silence after was cavernous.

“I keep getting built up and torn down again and I’m sick of it- I cant take it anymore!” His chest rose and fell with the effort of his outburst. “I stood by you when you broke down in hotel rooms.” Jiyong continued, tears now sliding down cheeks that had blotted pink with emotion. “When you locked yourself away for weeks. When no one else knew what to say or do— I stood by you. I kept your secrets. I held the weight. I cut off anyone you had anything against.”

He was fully crying now, not the kind of tears that ask for comfort.. just because the dam had ruptured and there was no stopping what was already gushing out of him.

“And now you’re smiling at him like it never happened. Like he didn’t humiliate us. Like he didn’t spit on everything we gave our whole lives for.”

Still, no one spoke.

“I would’ve died for us,” Jiyong ended.

He didn’t remember walking out. Didn’t remember the door. Only the slamming— hard enough to rattle the frame, shake the walls, and knock whatever was left of him loose.

Inside the studio, nobody followed.

The hallway was too cold. Jiyong didn’t realise how fast he was walking until he hit the stairwell instead of the lift. His breath caught halfway up the first flight, but he didn’t stop. He needed to move. To run. To do something.

His heartbeat felt like it was lodged in his throat.

By the time he stumbled back into the apartment, his legs had gone numb and he was drenched in sweat.

He shut the door too gently. Like slamming it again would’ve hurt more. Like maybe someone was still following him, and if he just moved quiet enough, he wouldn’t have to feel how utterly, completely alone he was.

But nobody came.

Of course they didn’t.

The lights were low. The silence had teeth.

He made it to the living room before the shaking in his thighs started. Then all of him, like the strings holding him up were suddenly cut one by one and the weight of it, landed straight in the middle of his chest. He stood there for a second, then his knees gave out. The carpet muffled the sound of him hitting the floor. His coat crumpled beneath him as he curled in, shaking like something wounded and feral. He wasn’t even crying yet. Not properly. Just gasping— quiet, broken little sounds that barely made it out of his throat. His mouth was open but no air seemed to go in.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Saw the image again.

Seunghyun, smiling.

At him.

At the one who tore them apart. The one Jiyong had screamed about, cried about, fought about. The one who’d whispered things into his ear and then twisted the blade when no one was watching.

Seunghyun had looked at him like he mattered. And that was what broke him.

Not Seungri’s presence. Not the silence of the others.

But Seunghyun’s expression.

The same one Jiyong used to chase like a lighthouse in a storm, now shining for someone else.

The sob hit him so hard his ribs ached. He buried his face into his arm and clawed at the carpet like it might hold him together.

“I can’t—” he gasped, not knowing who he was speaking to. “I can’t— I can’t do this again—” His body rocked forward as the tears finally came full force. Ugly. Violent. Childish. “I was trying,” he cried into the silence. “I was doing everything right— I was— I was trying so hard—”

He crawled toward the coffee table like he needed something to hold onto. His hand landed on a sketchpad. He shoved it away. He couldn’t even look at it. What was the point in painting anything, when the person he painted for was gone? When the only safe thing left in his world had hesitated?

The sobs kept coming. Big and raw and broken, like a kid who had finally realised he was never going to be rescued this time.

He curled up on the floor and stayed there. Long after his body stopped heaving. Long after his voice went hoarse.

Long after it stopped feeling like pain and started feeling like nothing at all.

Taeyang’s eyes were still fixed on the door, like if he stared hard enough, Jiyong might come back through it. Like this wasn’t already the moment everything broke.

Daesung had frozen, trembling.

And Seungri just stood there, the picture of hesitant guilt, arms loose by his sides, head bowed slightly like he hadn’t expected the outcome, like he hadn’t counted on that reaction.

Seunghyun hadn’t blinked.

He was still standing where Jiyong had left him— one hand slightly extended, as if he’d meant to reach out and hadn’t gotten the chance. Or hadn’t dared to try. The weight of what had just happened settled in the space like smoke. Slow and inescapable.

And then Seungri spoke. Soft. Controlled. Playing the victim so well it didn’t even sound like acting. “I didn’t mean to upset him. I swear I didn’t.”

Seunghyun turned his head slowly. He looked at Seungri like he was trying to see through him. Through the words, the tone, the careful posturing.

But he didn’t say anything.

Taeyang cleared his throat, voice still brittle. “Maybe we all need to just… cool down. It’s been a lot for him. It’s been a lot for all of us.”

Seungri nodded quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah. Of course. I just—” He glanced at the door. “I didn’t even know he was coming.”

He was right, no one had said anything about his appearance.

Seunghyun finally stepped away from where he’d been standing. Slowly. Like he didn’t trust his own legs. He picked up the glass he hadn’t touched and set it down on the table like it had betrayed him. And then, without looking at anyone, he said quietly, “He meant it.”

They all turned toward him.

“Every word,” Seunghyun added. “That wasn’t a tantrum. That wasn’t drama. That was him telling us exactly what it cost him.”

Daesung looked sick. Like he wanted to disappear.

Taeyang had gone still. His shoulders tight.

Seungri— curiously— just nodded again. Not as fast this time.

Seunghyun’s jaw clenched.

He could still hear it. That final line: “I would’ve died for us.”

It echoed in his chest like a curse.

He stepped toward the door like he was going to follow— like if he just got there in time, if he just reached out fast enough, he could still pull Jiyong back before he unraveled completely. The echo of that slammed door still reverberated in his chest, a physical thing.

Daesung stood too, half-rising, like instinct alone had yanked him forward. “Hyung— should we—?”

“Wait,” Seungri said suddenly, lifting a hand. The way he said it— calm, composed, even gentle— froze everyone.

Seunghyun turned slowly, like his body resisted obeying.

“He just needs space,” Seungri said, voice soft. Measured and sad. “You know how he gets when he’s overwhelmed.”

Seunghyun’s eyes narrowed. “He was beyond overwhelmed.”

“I know.” Seungri nodded, his It hit like a pressure point.

“You said you locked the meds away too,” Seungri continued, just the right amount of concern in his voice. “He’s in a clean, safe space. Right?”

Seunghyun didn’t answer. Because yes. He had done all of that. He had checked the cabinets. Replaced the ashtrays with sketchpads. Hid the stronger meds where only he could reach. He’d made sure of it. That had to count for something. Right?

Seungri’s expression softened. “Hyung… I know how much you care. I know. But maybe the best thing you can do right now is give him a little time to breathe. Let him come back down on his own. Let him feel like his own person for once instead of like a kid who needs to be guided through everything.”

It was disarming. Reasonable. And somehow, Seunghyun, whose blood was still pumping like thunder, paused. Because Seungri hadn’t said anything wrong. But it still didn’t sit right.

Taeyang exhaled quietly and sat down again, visibly struggling, fingers wringing together on his lap. “Just… give him space,” he echoed, eyes low.

Daesung nodded, uncertain.

He looked at the door again. Stared at the handle. Thought about how Jiyong had looked at him. That devastation. That betrayal. That heart-shattered scream that never made it to his lips. And still, slowly, Seunghyun stepped back. He sat down again. Jaw tight. Shoulders locked. Fists clenched white in his lap.

And behind them all, where no one could see the flicker at the corner of his mouth, Seungri exhaled— quietly, coolly— and sat back in his seat.

He’d done it again.

They were still his, even now.

Chapter Text

There was still thick and electric tension in the room, like the aftermath of a lightning strike. No one had spoken since the last excuse fell flat, and the silence was starting to curdle into guilt.

Seunghyun spoke, his voice too calm to be genuine. “You should leave.”

Seungri only looked up at him with that wide-eyed sadness he’d perfected years ago, the same one he’d used when scandals first broke and interviews turned deadly, into a minefield. He nodded slowly, like he understood. Like he was the reasonable one. “…Of course,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to cause this. I—” he glanced around the room, meeting eyes like a wounded brother. “None of us knew he’d come, right?”

Taeyang dropped his gaze. Daesung exhaled shakily.

Seungri stood, folded his coat over his arm, and left without a further word.

And the second his back was turned— when none of them could see him anymore— that mask slipped like its shroud was made of silk. His mouth curled in a sick grin. He let out a full, slow, exhale of satisfaction.

Everything’s falling into place.

And the moment the door clicked shut behind him, his eyes lit up with a glee even rare for children.

This was so much better than he planned. Jiyong had cracked like glass, all over again. Right on cue. Right on schedule. And now Seunghyun— Seunghyun, the immovable mountain, the god upon the mountains, the being atop the tower— was shaken. Unsure. Hesitating at the one moment he should’ve stood firm.

It was beautiful.

Seungri walked slowly down the hallway, every step measured, relishing the weightless feeling in his chest.

He didn’t need to force anything. He didn’t need to push anymore. They were doing it all to themselves now. He could just picture it… his sweet, poor Jiyongie. Crying. Confused. In need of comfort. And Seungri would be there.

Open arms. Soft words.

I never meant to hurt you.

But I’m the only one who’s still here.

And this time he wouldn’t even need to enforce the lie, because Jiyong would believe it all on his own. The trust was broken, and once again the chessmaster, the Great Seungri, had outsmarted him- his biggest obstacle, the one thing he had failed to acocunt for when he devised his plans.

And oh, how masterful his moves were. Slipping out the door like a kicked dog only to smile like the wolf he had always been.

Now, he would go and pay him a little visit. Only he would have to make a stop first.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, cold and indifferent. The soulless glow made even the fruit look sad. Seungri walked the aisles like he was a nobody, like he wasn’t planning psychological warfare in the form of a shopping list. Mask tugged over his face, cap low, headphones around his neck like any other man who didn’t want to be recognised.

He scanned the shelves.

Wine first. Something soft. Familiar. Red: cheap enough to pass as casual, expensive enough to look thoughtful. Jiyong used to like this one. Back when everything was golden and he drank to celebrate, not to survive. Perfect. He placed the bottle in the basket. The sound it made when it hit the plastic was too loud. He smiled behind the mask.

This wasn’t about pleasure, or comfort. It was about association, memory, and control.

He would offer it like an old friend: a gentle indulgence, a callback to better times. Just enough to fog the line between reality and the past. Let Jiyong get lost in nostalgia. Let him reach for it himself. That was always the key. Don’t force him. Make him want it. Make him ask. All by himself.

He moved through the aisles slowly, taking his time. A few snacks. A bottle of electrolyte water, thoughtful. A quiet nod to his role as the caretaker. The saviour. The only one left who cared.

He didn’t need force. That was the beauty of it. They were already unraveling on their own.

Jiyong’s breakdown earlier wasn’t just satisfying: it was poetic. The timing. The delivery. The pain on Seunghyun’s face when Jiyong shattered in front of everyone, raw and betrayed. It had been almost elegant.

Seungri reached for a chocolate bar. Threw it in. Sweet things helped when you were coming down from something. He was thinking ahead, as always. He passed the cold medicine section and chuckled quietly to himself, not because he needed anything there, but because it reminded him of how easily people could be made to trust what was familiar. Kind packaging. A soothing voice. A warm smile. That’s all it took.

Not force. Just comfort.

That’s what he would be. Comfort. Safety. Dependability. A soft place to fall after every other place became a sharp, jagged bed.

His hand lingered over a bottle of lavender oil on the way to checkout. Aromatherapy. Sleep aid. Peace in a bottle.

He didn’t take it.

He already was all those things.

To Jiyong, he was the scent of calm, the taste of memory, the soft whisper of belonging. The only one who never turned away, never judged, never gave up. Even as he twisted every thread into a noose.

By the time he reached the till, he was already composing the script in his head: the gentle knock on the door, the soft ‘I just thought maybe you needed someone,’ as if he hadn’t been orchestrating this entire descent since day one.

It wasn’t manipulation anymore.

It was fucking art.

And by the time the receipt printed, he already knew which glass he’d use for the wine, which words he’d use to make Jiyong pour it himself, which silence he’d hold when Jiyong asked why he’d been by earlier.

He wouldn’t even need to answer.

He’d just smile.

The bag was heavy with promise. Seungri’s steps were slow, measured, calculated to feel casual. The streets buzzed with life around him: children shrieking on scooters, an old woman arguing with her dog and tugging its leash, music bleeding from the window of a passing car. All of it, just noise. All of it, irrelevant.

He had one destination. One performance to give.

He walked with his head down, mask still up, cap still pulled down as the building neared. To him, it might as well have been a stage, with Jiyong, the captive audience, desperate for the next act. The beauty of it was that Seungri wouldn’t need to break in. He wouldn’t need to lie. Not really. He had done all the groundwork already- whispered doubts, planted memories, blurred the lines just enough. The door would open for him.

It always did these days.

He reached the front of the complex and paused, checking his reflection in the glass. He tugged the mask down. Smoothed his hair. Rehearsed the expression— not too confident. Concerned. A little nervous. Apologetic, maybe.

Perfect.

He keyed in the entry code. The elevator was slow. Each floor it passed made his anticipation thrum stronger. This was the moment: the follow-through. The wine. The soft voice. The saviour’s role. It was delicious, the tension of it. His thumb brushed along the edge of the white pill bottle cap buried deep in his pocket.

He could already see it in his mind: the door creaking open. Jiyong, wide-eyed, tired, small. Maybe even tear-streaked still, from whatever fallout happened after he ran. Seungri didn’t need to know the details.

He already knew the result.

The power balance had shifted. And Jiyong... fragile, reeling, vulnerable... would grasp for something. Anything. Anyone.

And who would be standing there, at his lowest moment?

Who would bring wine and kind eyes and the scent of a memory he couldn’t place but felt safe inside?

He would.

Seungri stepped out of the elevator and adjusted the weight of the bag. His pulse was steady. Controlled. He took a slow breath as he approached the door, then he knocked. Three soft taps. Silence. Then another sequence of knocks, a little firmer.  “Jiyong?” he called softly. “It’s me.”

Another silence.

He stepped back half a pace and looked down, let his shoulders sag— vulnerable, careful, and sad. The picture of someone who just wanted to help. “I brought you something.”

No answer yet. That was okay.

“I just wanted to see if you’re okay. I… I got worried.”

He let that sit. And then, finally, there was faint movement from within. A shadow under the door.

The corners of Seungri’s lips twitched up.

There it was.

The crack in the door.

The opening.

All he had to do was wait.

Still curled where he'd collapsed after storming out, hands in his hair, the world spun slow and cruel around Jiyong. His ears were ringing from his own silence. His throat ached with unshed sobs. And the betrayal… the betrayal was burning a hole in his chest.

He’d felt it like a knife to the gut. One that slipped in quietly and twisted.

There was a knock. He froze, wondering if maybe he had imagined it.

“Jiyong?” came the voice from beyond the door. Muffled, warm. "It’s me."

His stomach turned. He looked at the door, blinking through the blur. His mind screamed don’t, but something else— lonelier, and pathetically desperate— whispered ‘just check’. He dragged himself upright, swaying slightly, like gravity was punishing him for standing. His fingers fumbled with the lock. The chain. The handle.

The door cracked open an inch.

And there he was.

Seungri stood in the hallway, mask hanging under his chin, eyes big and earnest. His voice was gentle. “I’m sorry about what happened, really.”

Jiyong didn’t speak, only stared at him with his wide, bleary eyes.

“Can I come in?” Seungri asked, softer now. “You don’t have to say anything. I just… I didn’t want you to be alone.”

That word, alone, shook something loose inside him.

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t.

But Seungri looked calm. Concerned. Like someone trying to do the right thing. And Jiyong was tired. Too tired to fight ghosts he couldn’t name anymore. His hands trembled as he opened the door just a little wider.

“I shouldn’t have been there,” Seungri continued. “I didn’t expect to see you. I— I get why it hurt. You don’t have to explain.”

Jiyong didn’t respond. His eyes were red, lips parted like he'd been about to cry again but got interrupted by breath.

“I brought tea,” Seungri added, lifting the bag a little. “And something to help you feel better. You don’t have to take it, but… I thought it might help.”

Still, nothing.

Seungri, patient and calculating as ever, softened his expression even more, tilting his head just slightly, voice low and impossibly careful. “Can I come in, Ji?”

It was the way he said his name that made Jiyong involuntarily glance up.

That old, sweet syllable. The one that sounded like it belonged to someone smaller. A family member.

Jiyong stepped back, just enough, zoning out as he stared at the floor.

Seungri entered like he was stepping into a chapel. He shut the door behind him with the softest click, then turned to face him— not too close, not too eager.

The older looked at the floor for a long, long moment. And then, without a word, he turned and walked back toward the couch.

Seungri followed.

He walked over slowly, like he might scare him off if he moved too quickly. The room was quiet save for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional hollow tick from the wall clock. Jiyong hadn’t turned the lights on.

Seungri crouched beside the couch. Watched him for a moment.

Jiyong was sitting hunched, blanket half-off his lap, sketchbook still discarded on the floor from earlier. His fingers twitched slightly where they rested on the cushion, like he didn’t know what to do with them. His face was pale, expression glazed, his eyes red-rimmed but dry now, like he’d run out of tears before the ache ran out.

“You okay?” Seungri asked, voice soft and noninvasive.

Jiyong blinked once. Twice. Then gave the barest nod. A shrug in motion. Vague. Noncommittal.

Seungri set the bag down on the floor beside them. His movements were slow, unthreatening, almost reverent. Then, after a pause, he did something he hadn’t done in a long, long time.

He touched him.

Just a hand on his shoulder at first. Gentle, but certain. A grounding kind of pressure. His thumb brushed a faint circle through the fabric of Jiyong’s hoodie, like he was memorizing the shape of him.

Then, without speaking, he leaned forward and pulled him in.

Jiyong didn’t resist.

The embrace was slow. Not needy or desperate. But solid. His arms came around Jiyong like a cradle, and Jiyong was rigid and unmoving.

Then the scent hit him, all at once.

That scent. The hoodie scent. The one burned into his bedsheets no matter how many times they had been washed. The one that clung to the pillow he curled around on the worst nights. The one that seeped into the folds of his dreams.

His body reacted before his mind could catch up. That sick little patch of his brain— the part that still associated comfort with ruin—relaxed, just slightly.

He let his heavy eyelids close.

Seungri didn’t speak. Just held him for a while. One hand rubbed slow, unhurried circles into the curve of Jiyong’s spine. When he finally pulled back, it was only enough to see his face. His hand came up to brush the messy, long fringe from Jiyong’s forehead. His touch lingered longer than necessary. “You haven’t been taking your medication lately, have you?” he murmured.

Jiyong didn’t respond. Just blinked. His breathing was shallow.

“You can always tell when you haven’t,” Seungri said, quieter now. “You get that look.” He tilted his head, thumb ghosting across the edge of Jiyong’s jaw. “Like you’re locked in your own head. Like you’re watching yourself drown.”

A shiver went through Jiyong, barely visible. His throat moved as he swallowed. His eyes remained unfocused on one spot behind the man.

Seungri’s hand left his face and reached into his pocket. He rummaged for a moment, then pulled out the familiar orange bottle. He opened it and shook one pill into his palm— slow and deliberate.

He didn’t press it into Jiyong’s hand. He didn’t ask. He just held it there. Waiting.

Jiyong stared at it for a long time. Long enough for doubt to curl in the air. But the scent was still there, somewhere deep in the fog. That same, disarming scent soaked into Seungri’s sleeves, wrapped around his body like a memory Jiyong couldn’t unwrite.

Safe. Still.

Like that hoodie.

Like now.

Like… him.

His mouth opened slightly. Just enough.

And Seungri, with the kind of tenderness that would’ve made strangers think he was an angel, placed the pill on his tongue. Not rushed. Not forced. He lifted the glass from the coffee table to the other’s lips with both hands, tilting it slightly to his lips. Like it was communion.

Jiyong swallowed with a shaky breath through his nose. His eyes never left Seungri’s.

“Good,” Seungri whispered, stroking his shoulder again. “That’s good.” He curled his hand just slightly around the back of Jiyong’s neck, thumb tracing idle patterns there, like he could soothe the mess right out of him.

And Jiyong— dulled now, soft again, too tired to see clearly— leaned into him once more. Breath shaky. Muscles loose. Mind slowing.

It wasn’t love, it wasn’t even care, really.

But it looked enough like it to fool the part of Jiyong that was still bleeding.

And Seungri smiled big where he knew Jiyong wouldn’t see.

The apartment fell into a heavy silence after the pill. 

Seungri stayed where he was, hand still warm on Jiyong’s neck. Ensuring he felt his presence, that he was there. The way no one else was. “You did really well today,” he said softly. “I know that couldn’t have been easy.”

Jiyong didn’t answer. Didn’t look at him anymore. He was staring off again now, eyes fixed on some invisible point past him. His whole body had slackened, like a sad little marionette. Still in pain. Still processing. But that jagged edge— the fight, the fury from earlier— was gone now.

Seungri took his time. He rose to his feet like someone used to being careful. Moved quietly to the bag he’d brought. Pulled out the bottle, familiar, and above all, comforting.

He uncorked it with a soft little pop and poured it into one of the mugs Jiyong had left scattered on the side table. No theatrics. No suggestion. Just the sound of wine meeting ceramic and a casual hum as he brought it back.

Jiyong’s eyes flicked toward the sound, unfocused. “What’re you…?”

“Shhh.” Seungri sat down beside him on the couch. Not too close. Not yet. “Just a sip, Ji. You don’t have to finish it.”

“I.. I don’t—”

“But you want to, don’t you. You want to let go. You want to get out of your head.”

Jiyong’s lips parted like he might say no, but nothing came out.

Seungri handed him the mug. Not placing it in his hand— just offering it, holding it out like a peace offering. Like communion again. Like something sacred and shared. “Don’t you, Ji?” he murmured, voice as soft as sin. “Even he thinks you’re crazy. Wasn’t he supposed to be on your side?”

Jiyong’s throat bobbed as his eyes welled up with tears again. His fingers moved without really deciding to, curling around the mug slowly. Almost like he wasn’t the one doing it.

Seungri controlled the corners of his lips. “Aren’t the voices just so loud..?”

Just one sip.

It wasn’t even strong enough to sting. Sweet enough to forget.

Seungri watched him swallow, eyes soft. “Good,” he whispered again. “You’re doing so good for me.”

He became comfort.

Every movement, every breath, was deliberate. Designed and crafted like a song only Jiyong could hear, and one he’d already begun to hum along to.

Jiyong sat back. Another sip. His eyes drifted downward, heavy, slow. Like sleep was beginning to blur the edges of the room. The wine and the pill together worked fast now. Especially with how empty his stomach must’ve been.

Seungri moved closer after he poured himself a glass too. He tucked the blanket more tightly around Jiyong’s legs. Brushed his knuckles lightly along the curve of his knee, like they were as close as Seungri’s delusions told him they were.

“You see, Ji?” he murmured, voice as soft as sin. “You can’t even trust him. You have no one.”

Jiyong’s brow furrowed faintly, but he didn’t protest. Didn’t blink.

“You saw it.” Seungri smiled, slow and secret. “He looked at me like everything was okay. Like he understood me. He doesn’t think you’re right, Jiyong. Not anymore. You saw it.”

Jiyong’s hand tightened slightly around the mug. His knuckles white.

“I’m the only one who’s never left you,” Seungri said, quieter now. “Even when you left me.”

And that made his bottom lip curl with guilt. Because somewhere in the hollowed-out cavern of Jiyong’s heart, that felt true. And feeling had always mattered more to him than fact. He’d spent so long trying to stitch himself back together, one trembling day at a time. But now the seams were loosening again. Jiyong— drugged up, numb, grieving— let go of the rope Seunghyun gave him.

Let himself fall. And Seungri was already there at the bottom. Arms open. Smile soft.

Waiting.

Chapter Text

The door clicked open and shut, but silence still hung like dust in the air.

Jiyong didn’t move, not even to see who had entered. He was still sitting where Seungri left him on the edge of his unmade couch, back hunched, eyes hollow. The apartment needed cleaning. His hands rested on his knees, twitching now and then.

He could still feel Daesung’s gaze on him. Wet eyes. That look he couldn’t even place anymore. He hadn’t known what to do with it. Still didn’t. Taeyang, who he had known the longest, he was supposed to be on his side. But Jiyong was just crazy to him too. Seunghyun, who he had loved, he was supposed to be on his side the most.

He startled at a knock about a full minute later, blinking fast, and raised his head.

Seungri stood there, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall beside the door, expression soft. “Hey,” he says. “Took you a sec.”

The older man didn’t answer. Just stared.

Seungri entered like he owned the air in the room. He glanced around at the messy place, the fading daylight, the bottles, the silence. Then at Jiyong. "You’re so quiet."

Jiyong ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling. “I’m tired,” he breathed shakily.

“I know.” He lowered his voice. “You try. But it’s a lot.”

He placed something on the table.

The hoodie.

Freshly laundered. Folded with near-military precision. But the scent was still there. Unmistakeably. Warm. Intimate. That same, strange comfort.

Jiyong swayed dangerously.

“I thought you gave it back already,” he whispered, voice thin.

“I kept it for a while,” Seungri replied smoothly. “Didn’t want to give it back before you were ready to wear it again.”

There was something strange in his tone. Not unkind, but curated. Jiyong frowned and gently picked it up with both hands. His eyes fluttered shut as he slowly raised it to his face, pressing it to his lips and inhaling the scent.

Seungri moved closer. Slowly. Softly. “You’ve been taking the meds again, right?”

A nod. Jiyong’s throat moved. “I feel... slow.”

The younger crouched beside him, one hand braced on the edge of the couch, close enough to feel the warmth of Jiyong’s skin. “Slow is better than broken, hyung.”

Jiyong’s eyes narrowed.

Something flickered behind Seungri’s eyes. Just for a second, his face shifted- not drastically, but the softness hardened. Just a little. “You don’t remember things the way they were,” he told him. “You think you do, but you don’t. Not when you’re like this.”

His stomach turned.

Seungri leaned in closer. His voice dropped. “You’re not the best version of yourself without me. You know that.” That was when the mask slipped just a second too long. The calm too measured. The words too casual.

Jiyong opened his mouth the moment his brain registered something was wrong. But he didn’t know what he would say. So nothing came out.

Seungri’s expression reset to soft. Apologetic even. “Sorry,” he murmured. “That came out wrong. I just... I want you to be okay.” He reached into his pocket, took out a pill, and held it out, palm up. When Jiyong leaned away from him, he reached up and pressed the sleeve of the hoodie to the other’s cheek. “You can use the hoodie to help you, Ji. Come on.”

Enveloped by the comfort of the hoodie that smelled like everything before everything went wrong, Jiyong stopped questioning.

He just leaned forward. Mouth open, eyes closed. Let Seungri place the pill on his tongue again.

The minute Jiyong was asleep, Seungri picked him up and carried him over to the bed, where he watched him for a while, fingertips idly stroking over his cheek as he sat beside. “My beautiful hyung.” He chuckled to himself, patted the sleeping man’s cheek, then stood up and stretched as he walked into the living room, then continued into the kitchen. He unlocked Jiyong’s phone and disabled any tracking applications, then pulled out his own.

He cleared his throat, braced himself against the kitchen counter, and pressed the call button. It rang a grand total of two times before the call timer started. Shit, Seungri rolled his eyes. He was counting on it being too late so he could just send a voicemail. How was he supposed to know that weirdo stayed up late at night doing god knows what?!

“Hyung,” he said lowly, in the perfect tone between anxiety and steadiness.

“What? I’m not your friend for late night chatting anym-”

“It’s- it’s Jiyong-hyung.” Seungri interrupted quickly, knowing he must have caught his hyung off-guard by cutting him off like that. Seunghyun’s silence following confirmed that. “He left a note, there’s-”

“A note?” Seunghyun’s voice sounded tight, strained. The younger heard a clatter from the other end of the line.

Shit, he made it sound like a suicide note. “Not- not like that!” He sighed, like he was unsure how to explain the situation. “I went round to check on him, when no one answered I got worried and entered. He wasn’t home, but I found the note he left. He said he checked himself into a mental hospital.”

“Which one? What did he say?” Rustling and the sound of keys.

Seungri scowled with the most hateful glare at nothing as he pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and read off the note that he had fabricated earlier. “I’ve reached out for real help. Please don’t contact or visit me, please respect me and give me the space I need to get better. I’ll come back to you all when my mental health has improved.”

There was silence on the other end. Seunghyun wasn’t even breathing into the phone.

Seungri let a pause hang. “I… I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner,” he said, pitching his voice low and weighted. “I didn’t want to cause panic. I thought maybe he’d text you all himself once he settled in. But it’s been hours and…”

“You saw this note? Handwritten?”

“Yes.” Seungri reached for the crumpled paper he’d planted on the counter again, its edges carefully torn and folded to look handled, anxious. He stared at it for effect. “It’s definitely his handwriting. And he signed it at the bottom, too. Just ‘Jiyong.’”

He heard Seunghyun’s breathing return, shallow and fast. “Where is he now?”

“I’m not sure. The note didn’t say which hospital, just that he didn’t want us to find him. I think he really meant it.”

Seunghyun cursed quietly under his breath. Metal jingled again, keys. Maybe a coat zipper. Then a door creaked somewhere on the other end of the line. “I’ll call the others. I’m going to check every place I can think of.”

“No, hyung- wait.” Seungri’s voice snapped with urgency, but he reeled it in. Softer, he continued, “I don’t think that’s what he’d want. The note was really clear. It said not to come looking. To give him space.”

“I don’t care what the note said.” Seunghyun’s voice cracked. “He shouldn’t be alone. What if he’s not safe?”

“He is safe,” Seungri lied, glancing toward the bedroom where Jiyong lay heavily asleep. “He’s somewhere clean and quiet. I think he just needed to reset. You chasing him down might make it worse.”

A long pause.

“If he wants space,” Seunghyun said finally, bitterly, “why did he say anything at all?”

“Because he didn’t want to disappear. Not entirely,” Seungri offered, like it pained him to admit. “Just… gently fade out. Let us all breathe for a bit.”

Another long silence. Seungri almost called his name to check he was still there.

“If you hear anything else, you call me immediately.”

“I will,” Seungri said. “Of course, hyung.”

The call disconnected.

"Fucking annoying..." Seungri exhaled, slow and steady, lowering the phone from his ear as the kitchen lights hummed softly around him.

He walked toward the bedroom, where Jiyong remained unconscious, curled slightly to one side under the blanket. “You really are mine now, aren’t you?” he murmured, almost reverently.

He deleted the call log, powered off both phones, and turned the lights off on his way back down the hallway, leaving only the faint orange glow of a lamp beside the bed.

Drawn curtains diffused the early morning into a blueish hush. Jiyong stirred on the bed, sluggish, eyes opening to a heaviness that wasn’t just physical. His limbs felt cotton-drenched, and the dull pulse in his skull reminded him that somewhere in the haze of the night before, he had cried too hard for too long and been fed something calm in a capsule.

He blinked, gaze drifting toward the living room. Seungri was sitting quietly nearby, legs folded up, hood over his head. When he noticed Jiyong moving, he stood, voice immediately soft.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, padding back over like someone walking on glass. “I didn’t want to wake you. You… finally looked peaceful.”

Jiyong didn’t respond at first. He stared at the ceiling. “I… I should probably check my phone. Could you please pass it..?”

There it was. The flicker of resistance. Seungri didn’t tense. He’d anticipated this. He moved slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed beside Jiyong and placing a hand lightly on his arm. “Hyung,” he said gently. “You really think they care enough to message you right now?”

Jiyong’s brows creased faintly.

“They haven’t even shown up. Not since you broke down.” Seungri’s voice remained quiet and low, like it hurt to say. “You broke down in front of them and what did they do once you ran off? Stayed there. Talked over you leaving. Treated you like a problem instead of a person.”

Jiyong’s throat tightened.

“I know it’s hard to accept,” Seungri went on, his fingers brushing along Jiyong’s forearm now, “but they only liked the version of you that smiled on cue. The version that could carry the group without showing cracks. You start slipping and suddenly they’re distant. Cautious. Like you’re dangerous.”

“That’s not-” Jiyong rasped, barely audible. But his voice cracked, betraying the uncertainty underneath. “Seunghyun… he looked at me like… like…”

“Then where is he now?” Seungri snapped, sharp enough to drive the words home. He caught himself and softened instantly. “Sorry. I just…” He exhaled, eyes glimmering with the fake sheen of concern. “It makes me so angry, hyung. For you. Because I know you. And I know how loyal you’ve always been to them.” He let the silence sit. “You don’t need them right now. Not when all they’ve done is doubt you, or talk behind your back like you’re losing it.” He leaned down slightly, gaze locking onto Jiyong’s. “Do you know how awful it was to see them tiptoe around your pain? Like it was inconvenient? I’ve seen it. I’ve heard it.” He reached over to Jiyong’s phone resting on the nightstand, then hesitated just long enough for Jiyong to think he had a choice. “I didn’t want you to wake up to messages that’d undo your healing. That’d make you question your sanity again.” He set the phone gently back down. “If they cared, they would’ve shown up yesterday. Or the day before. But no one did.”

Seungri’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Except me.”

Jiyong turned his head away slightly, lip trembling. “They just don’t know what to say. People don’t always know how to deal with-”

“With you?” Seungri interrupted, not harsh at all, just heartbreakingly gentle. “That’s what they’ve made you think. That you’re difficult. Too much. But you’re not. You’ve just never had anyone who actually listens without trying to change or label you.” Seungri’s hand was on his chest now, pressing over his heart like he was feeling for something sacred. “You don’t need their kind of love. It’s conditional. Fleeting. You deserve to rest, to feel safe, and not constantly question whether you’re a burden to someone.”

Jiyong’s breath hitched.

“They don’t get to decide when you’re worth responding to,” Seungri murmured. “So please… don’t text them. Don’t open the door. Don’t reach out to people who only show up when you’re performing ‘stable’.” He stayed silent for a moment, eyes locked with his elders. “You have me. Just me. And that’s enough for now.”

He reached up and gently stroked Jiyong’s hair, like soothing a fever. Jiyong closed his eyes, and tears slipped down the sides of his face without him noticing.

Chapter Text

Jiyong was quiet that morning. Not distant- he didn’t have the strength for anything- but quiet in a way that made the room feel oddly alert. His eyes were open but half-lidded, staring past Seungri’s shoulder as he folded and refolded the edge of the blanket in his lap. A slow, rhythmic fidget that suggested thought, not comfort.

Seungri noticed, of course. He always noticed. “Hyung,” he said softly, sitting at the foot of the bed. “You okay?”

Jiyong didn’t answer right away. His fingers paused. He wet his lips like he was trying to gather a voice. “I… I had a dream. I think,” he murmured. “That Seunghyun was calling. That he was knocking at the door.”

Seungri smiled gently. “It was just a dream.”

“...Was it?” Jiyong finally looked at him. His voice was thin, but steady in its doubt. “What if he did call? Or… or come by? What if I missed it?”

The younger tilted his head like he was listening intently, but inside, he was already calculating. “Hyung,” he said gently, “if they were worried, they’d have come. You’ve been breaking in front of them for so long. It’s been days, where are they?”

Jiyong’s eyes flickered. “But-”

Seungri stood, moved closer. His voice softened even further, wrapping around the words like silk drawn through blood. “Let them knock. Let them call. You don’t owe them anything anymore.”

He swallowed hard. “But it’s not about-”

“They abandoned you,” Seungri said, just enough edge under the softness to freeze the sentence forming in Jiyong’s mouth. “When you needed them most. When you were scared, spiraling, and they chose to be distant. Cold. Performatively concerned, maybe- but not present.” Silence again. “You’re allowed to want peace,” Seungri said, crouching in front of him, hand resting lightly on Jiyong’s knee. “You’re allowed to rest and not be flooded by their pity calls and damage control visits. You gave them everything for over a decade. What did they give you back?”

Jiyong blinked- he didn’t cry this time, didn’t even speak- but he stopped folding the blanket. His hands fell still in his lap, admitting defeat.

Seungri rose with a gentle exhale. “Come on, hyung,” he said, voice lightening just a touch. “Let’s take your meds. You skipped last night.”

“I… I did..?” Jiyong whispered, but the other was already leaving.

He moved to the kitchen, barefoot, graceful, pulling the pill case bottle from the shelf, and returned with a glass of water already cold. “Here,” he said, tapping two capsules from the case into his palm and placing them carefully into Jiyong’s hand. “They really help you, don’t they? Make things quieter?”

Jiyong looked at them blankly, then slowly nodded. “They… dull it. A little.”

“Good,” Seungri said warmly. “Let them. You deserve a quiet day.” He raised the glass and held it steady as Jiyong brought the pills to his mouth. His hands were slow but compliant. The water followed easily. Seungri watched the way Jiyong swallowed, then gently took the glass back, brushing his fingers deliberately against Jiyong’s. He smiled again, tender and soft, as if he hadn’t just poisoned the air. “There,” he said. “See? No more chaos. No phones. No doors. Just you and me, hyung.” He stood slowly, then leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Jiyong’s forehead.

“You’re safe now.”

And Jiyong, drug-dulled and bruised by doubt, leaned into it because the lie was warm and the truth had let him down.

The next time he had to take them, something was different. Maybe it had been long enough that Jiyong had some clarity to his thoughts. Maybe Seungri wasn’t being attentive enough. The pills sat in Jiyong’s hand like foreign objects that time. He didn’t move.

Seungri noticed immediately, but he didn’t rush. He waited, smiling, just enough warmth in his expression to keep things soft. Non-threatening. Familiar.

But he was staring at the capsules too long. “Where’s my phone?” His voice was hoarse, but clear. The most present it had sounded in days.

Seungri blinked, caught mid-reach for the glass of water again. “Hm?”

“My phone.” Jiyong looked up, eyes glassy but focused. “You said it was by the bed.”

Seungri tilted his head, feigning confusion. “Yeah, it was.”

“I just checked. It’s not there.”

The air shifted. Something imperceptible. Something sharp. Seungri’s smile stayed, but the muscles in his jaw twitched. “You must’ve moved it in your sleep. You’ve been restless-”

“I haven’t moved,” Jiyong said, firmer now. He stared straight at Seungri. “I remember the charger cable. I remember it being there.”

For a terrifying second, the fog had thinned. Just enough to show the shape of something underneath. Seungri knelt back down slowly, eyes warm but voice dipped in caution now. “Hyung… you’re not well. You’re remembering things in fragments. That’s normal. The meds help that. You said they help, remember?”

But Jiyong’s breathing had changed. Quicker now, brittle. His hand trembled slightly as he clutched the pills but didn’t move them to his mouth.

“I think you hid it.”

The accusation came out hollow. Small. But it hit like shrapnel.

Seungri’s expression didn’t change, but inside, something snapped taut. “I would never hide anything from you,” he said softly. “How can you say that?” His hand reached slowly, delicately, for the glass again. “They’ve lied to your face for years. I’ve watched them leave you behind over and over. You’re finally resting. You’re finally not chasing their scraps.”

Jiyong’s throat worked, but no words came. His fingers clenched harder around the pills.

“You think Seunghyun would’ve stayed by your side like this?” Seungri whispered. “He couldn’t even look at you last week. You saw it.”

Silence.

“You saw it, hyung. Don’t you remember?”

He didn’t. Jiyong’s eyes were wet now, from confusion. Doubt. A terrible, quiet war inside his head that he no longer trusted the outcome of.

Seungri raised the glass, gently pressed it to his lips. “You’re just tired. That’s all. The world’s too loud again. Let’s turn it down.”

Jiyong’s fingers, stiff at first, finally moved. The pills disappeared behind his teeth. He drank.

Swallowed.

Seungri kissed his forehead again and whispered something in a language of comfort that wasn’t real, and as the fog shrouded around him again, Jiyong forgot what he’d almost remembered.

Chapter Text

Seungri’s boots hit the pavement in a steady rhythm, breath fogging slightly in the early dusk as he turned the corner toward Jiyong’s building. The world felt quiet. Almost too quiet. He liked it that way: stillness before comfort. Before control.

He pulled his hoodie tighter around his face, adjusting the strap of the small paper bag in his hand. Inside was soup, a pack of wet wipes, a newly bought phone charger, and Jiyong’s favourite yogurt. The kind of errand someone would run for a sick partner. Innocent and intimate.

The glow of Jiyong’s building peeked ahead- and suddenly everything stopped.

Like a punch to the gut.

Standing at the main entrance, hands jammed into his coat pockets, head tilted slightly as if debating whether to knock or not, was Choi Seunghyun. Tall. Still. Watchful.

Seungri’s feet froze mid-step.

Shit.

The chill that shot through him had nothing to do with the weather. His fingers clenched tighter around the paper bag, joints stiffening as every possible excuse he could give scattered like birds startled by a gunshot. His heart dropped straight into his stomach, turned sideways, and started thrashing.

Why the fuck is he here-
He shouldn’t be here. He believed the note. I made sure-
Fuck. Did he talk to someone? Did he figure it out? Did he call a hospital-
Why the fuck is he here?!

His mind screamed it, but his face had to stay still- it had to. His mouth felt dry, pulse thudding in his ears. The bag in his hand suddenly weighed ten kilos. He couldn’t feel his fingers. His skin felt too tight on his face, like it would tear if he blinked wrong.

Of all people. Of all times.

Seunghyun. Standing right there, five feet from the door Seungri had just convinced him no one was behind.

He couldn’t turn around: that would look suspicious. He couldn’t look shocked: that would look worse. He had three seconds, maybe two, to unfreeze his face and become the version of himself he needed to be.

Seunghyun looked up. Their eyes locked.

Smile. Smile right now. If you look nervous, he’ll know. He’ll know. He’s always been the only one who knows things before anyone else.

Seungri forced the corners of his mouth up like he was lifting weights. He straightened his posture. Shifted the bag so it looked less… secretive.

You’re not guilty. You’re just concerned. Kind. The one who cared enough to show up. He didn’t. You did. That’s your angle. That’s your story. You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just thoughtful. Loyal. Caring. You’re a friend. A good one. You’re helping.

He took a breath so shallow it barely filled his lungs, then forced his face into that casual, tired-little-sibling expression. The one he used to use on variety shows. Familiar.

Just a bag of groceries. Just a visit. You’re not hiding anything. You’re not stealing anything.

“Seungri?”

The name sunk into his chest like a knife.

Act now. Do not freeze. You freeze, you lose.

And when he met his eyes, he smiled like it hadn’t pierced him at all.

“Hyung.” A small chuckle. “This is awkward. I didn’t expect anyone else to be here.”

Seunghyun’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you here?”

“I could ask you the same,” Seungri countered lightly, walking up. “Thought you believed the note.”

“I do,” Seunghyun said, stiffly. “I just wanted to make sure. Something didn’t sit right. He hasn’t replied to anyone. No hospital updates. No activity at all.”

Seungri tilted his head, as if genuinely concerned. “That’s… kind of the point, isn’t it? He said he needed to disappear for a bit. That he wanted space.”

Seunghyun’s eyes drifted to the bag in Seungri’s hand. “So why’d you come?”

Seungri laughed under his breath, shifting his weight. “You know me, hyung. I’m not good at doing nothing.” He held the bag up slightly, the edges of himself creasing at the face Seunghyun automatically made when he called him 'hyung'. “I brought some of his favourite stuff. I wasn’t going to go in. I was just going to leave it at the door with a note. In case he came back sooner than planned. Just… to remind him he’s not alone.”

Seunghyun didn’t say anything. He was still staring.

Seungri pressed on. “You know how he is. He could’ve left that note, changed his mind, and come back the same night. Hell, maybe he got out early. Doesn’t mean he wants to talk to anyone.”

Silence again.

Then Seunghyun looked at the buzzer. “I already tried knocking,” he said slowly. “No answer. Lights look off.”

Seungri nodded, putting just enough empathy in his voice. “Then he’s probably still gone. That’s good, right? It means he’s doing what he said. Getting better.”

But Seunghyun didn’t respond right away. He looked at Seungri. Really looked at him. Head tilted slightly. As if cataloguing every word, every inflection.

And Seungri knew this wasn’t someone one could fumble around. This wasn’t Daesung, all heart. This wasn’t Taeyang, always seeing the best in people.

This was Choi Seunghyun. Who could always tell when something didn’t add up.

“I didn’t know you two were that close again,” Seunghyun said finally.

Seungri’s smile didn’t falter. “We weren’t. Not really. But… I saw the look on his face the last time we spoke. You all seemed to have written him off.”

A pause.

“I didn’t want to make the same mistake.”

It landed on target.

Processing, Seunghyun’s shoulders shifted slightly. After a few seconds, he nodded. “Leave the stuff, then.”

Seungri did. He knelt and placed the bag beside the door, careful, reverent. Like someone doing their part. “Hyung,” he said, turning as he stood again. “I know this whole thing feels… weird. But maybe we owe it to him to not chase this time. To just… trust what he said.”

Seunghyun looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded slowly. “I hope you're right.” And with that, he turned and walked away.

Seungri watched him go, smiling softly to himself until he rounded the corner.

As soon as Seunghyun turned the corner and disappeared from sight, that smile dropped like a shattered plate.

He stayed frozen for two more seconds, then exhaled a breath that shook all the way down to his knees.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath.

He spun around, jammed the key into the lock with hands that were definitely trembling now, and shoved the door open. Once inside, he slammed it shut, flicked the deadbolt over, and leaned against it hard. Shoulders shaking. His pulse was still in his ears. His throat was dry. His hoodie suddenly felt soaked in heat.

“Too close,” he muttered, wiping his palms down his jeans. “Too fucking close.”

He slid down the door and sat for a second on the floor, head tipped back, staring at the ceiling like it might collapse just to spite him.

…

A slow, slow grin pulled at his lips.

He’d done it.

He'd looked Choi Seunghyun in the eye and lied to his face again. Sold it. Sold it so well that Seunghyun left. Turned around and walked away.

That buzz hit him, it was dark, dizzying, and addictive. Not adrenaline. Not even fear.

Power. The world bending again to fit his design.

From where he was against the door, he called out, “hyung? You awake?”

When no reply came, the younger closed his eyes and let his head drop back against the door, a wicked grin plastered on his face.

Chapter Text

Seungri’s pulse thudded harder than it should’ve. He pushed off the door, forcing his feet to move, forcing his hands to stop trembling as he crossed the dim living room. “Hyung,” he tried again, softer this time. No answer.

He exhaled through his nose, steadier now, and set the bag on the table. Bottles clinked as he pulled them out: soju, a cheap whiskey, a couple of mixers. He lined them up neatly and methodically, like an experienced murderer lying out tools before a job, before the victim was on their table.

“I did some shopping.” His voice carried, casual but careful, as if narrating to someone unseen. “Bought what I thought you’d like. Something strong. Just to take the edge off, y’know?”

Sloshing liquid pouring into glass broke the quiet. One measure, then another. Seungri filled two tumblers, his hand steady now, the glow of the liquor catching the low light like amber fire.

Finally, there was soft, almost reluctant movement from down the hallway. Jiyong appeared, shoulders hunched in an oversized hoodie, eyes rimmed with exhaustion and barely present.

Seungri looked up at him and smiled like as if he hadn’t just lied through his teeth to T.O.P minutes ago. He slid one glass across the table, the gesture smooth, inviting.

“Drink with me, hyung.”

Jiyong’s gaze silently flickered to the glass, then back to Seungri’s face. It seemed like a ritual at that point. Jiyong forgot how to say no.

Seungri lifted his own glass, swirling the amber liquid. “Come on, don’t let me drink alone.”

The whiskey went down like fire. Jiyong coughed once, then laughed at himself hoarsely, shaking his head. “God, I’ve totally gone soft,” he muttered, dragging the sleeve of his hoodie across his mouth.

Seungri smirked, nursing his own glass. “You were never hard, hyung. You could never handle alcohol like that anyway.”

That earned him a glare- a weak, half-hearted, glare that reminded Seungri warmly of the old days. Jiyong slumped into the armchair, glass dangling from his fingertips as if he’d already forgotten it was there. His face was paler, shadows carved too deep under his eyes, but that crooked grin still flickered at the corners like a flame refusing to die.

(The thought came fleetingly, but Seungri decided he didn't like that fire. He would have to invest in a better fire extinguisher.)

Minutes blurred, filled with little nothings that meant way more than the older ever meant them to: a bad joke here, a half-story there, both of them skirting carefully around the real weight pressing down on the room. The alcohol helped. So did the silence between words. It was fragile, like a glass balancing on its edge, ready to tip, but it held.

At some point, Seungri leaned forward, topped up Jiyong’s glass without asking, and shifted the bottles closer to the couch instead of the table. Jiyong noticed, but he didn’t comment. He only raised his glass again, obedient, the motion itself simply muscle memory.

The overhead light was switched off as the night dragged on, replaced by the warm glow of a yellow lamp in the corner. Shadows melted across the walls, softening the harsh features of the furniture.

Jiyong’s words began to slur. He laughed too freely at things that weren’t funny, his eyes glassy with a mixture of wine and whatever he’d taken earlier. The stem of his glass slipped in his grip more than once.

Seungri sat back, watching him quietly now, a small smile curving his lips. The idol was perfect this way: so loose, smiley, like nothing had happened between them. Like so much had happened that what Seungri did didn’t even matter so much anymore. He wasn’t drinking much anymore, not really. He didn’t need to. Watching Jiyong unravel like that was intoxicating enough. Silently, he extended a hand to him, gesturing for him to come over.

When the older man finally slid off the armchair and into the corner of the couch instead, sprawling like he had forgotten what posture even was, Seungri shifted, angled himself just enough so Jiyong’s clumsy lean had somewhere to land.

Slumped against him, laughter soft and stuttering, eyes hooded with exhaustion and haze, Jiyong laid against him. Seungri let him. He tilted his head, listening, waiting. Already knowing this was where the night was always going to end.

Soon, Jiyong’s laughter came in quiet stutters, light and worn thin from the wine and medication, slumped over on the couch with his fingers barely wrapped around the stem of his glass. His cheeks were flushed with the heat of the alcohol, his pupils blown wide.

Seungri watched.

He hadn’t touched his glass in twenty minutes.

"You're not drinking," Jiyong murmured, voice slurred and… weirdly affectionate? Blinking slow like a cat. His head lolled sideways, cheek pressing against the back cushion.

Seungris lips stretched into a smile, soft and soothing, one of a hyung’s and definitely not of a maknae. Then again, Seungri always struggled to fit into that role anyway. He was almost in his mid-thirties now, sue him.

"I don’t need to," he said, gently taking the glass from Jiyong’s slack fingers and setting it down. “You’re enough to get drunk on.”

Jiyong blinked at that. A slow, bashful giggle cracked out of him like it was rusted, unused. And it was, for Seungri at least. “You're so weird.”

But he was leaning. Seungri opened his arm just slightly, and Jiyong took the movement. He curled up into his side like a moth diving into flame. Heavy and clumsy, so trusting it almost hurt.

His breath hitched in Seungri’s hoodie, and he started talking: half-formed memories, old lyrics, shenanigans he shouldn’t remember, things he’d never said out loud.

“You remember Kuala Lumpur? That bed was so big… You said you liked when I wore those stupid… glasses…”

Seungri’s hand slid slowly into his hair. “The green ones. I remember everything.”

The silence that followed was thick. Jiyong’s breathing slowed. The house was too still, too private, too sacred in its secrecy.

“I miss how you used to be… Why did you have to change?”

To Seungri, it was a confession. It was both holy and ruined.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:

Seungri didn’t respond. Just turned slightly, enough for his lips to press against Jiyong’s hairline. He stayed there, lingering- one second, two seconds- before his mouth ghosted down.

Forehead. Nose. Cheek.

Jiyong’s head tilted just a little too far back, lashes heavy, lips parted, breath catching like he was about to speak.

His hand cupped Jiyong’s jaw with the kind of tenderness Jiyong had long forgotten. Fingers trailing behind his ear, thumb pressing lightly into the soft place beneath his cheekbone. Grounding him. Owning him.

The kiss wasn’t rushed.

He couldn’t even call it sweet.

It was precise.

Seungri pressed in like he was claiming him instead of asking. He didn’t kiss like he did when he was twenty anymore.

Jiyong made a sound, soft and startled, like the sensation caught him off guard. Like some forgotten part of him had snapped awake. His hands came up, unsure, grasping Seungri’s shirt tightly.

The younger deepened it, slow and luxurious, as if he had all the time in the world.

His tongue traced Jiyong’s lower lip before slipping past it, teasing, deliberate, addictive. He kissed like he was unwrapping a present, like every inch of Jiyong’s mouth was a secret worth savouring.

Lightheaded, poisoned, Jiyong moaned into it. Opened up. Got lost. With memories of late nights upon late nights, of memories he couldn’t distinguish between real or fake anymore, his body leaned forward without thinking and pressed into Seungri’s, needy and unbalanced and out of time. The world tilted on its side.

Seungri had never felt more in control in his life. His head spun with power.

He cupped Jiyong’s jaw, thumb brushing lazily against his cheek, deepening the kiss with the patience of a puppeteer. Not too much. Just enough to keep him compliant.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:

The wine had settled into Jiyong’s bloodstream, but now it clawed at the edges of his thoughts, dragging reason into a shallow grave.

The glass was gone. The bottle too, half-empty and tilted on the floor like a witness too stunned to make a sound.

He was sprawled across Seungri’s lap now, pliant and boneless, arms limply cradled around his waist. Every breath he took was shaky, like his body couldn’t remember what it was doing. His eyes, barely open, kept fluttering shut and open again, each blink a little slower, each glance a little more lost.

“Still with me?” Seungri asked, fingers tracing circles on Jiyong’s hip.

Jiyong nodded, or tried to. His mouth worked before any sound came out. “Jus’ dizzy.”

“That’s alright.” His voice was like honey-dipped live wire. “You don’t need to do anything. Just be here with me.”

It was starting to make sense, above the cotton his brain was stuffed with. The world was loud when Seungri wasn’t near. Too much space, too many thoughts. But like this: controlled, protected, hidden from the public eye, wrapped in the younger man’s arms… his skin buzzed but his mind was quiet. Seungri had always been good at that.

A soft laugh huffed against his ear. “You’re still so easy, you know that?”

Jiyong blinked, chocolate eyes rising. “Easy…?”

“Mhm. You just needed me to remind you how to stop fighting, didn’t you?” His hand slid beneath the hem of Jiyong’s shirt, brushing his ribs, deceptively gentle. “And you always trusted me to do that for you.”

Jiyong whimpered. It wasn’t quite fear yet.

“You remember Tokyo?” Seungri whispered, hot against his skin. “You cried in my hotel bed because you didn’t want to be famous anymore. You said you wanted to disappear.”

Jiyong didn’t speak, just curled closer as the memory cut him open again.

“I told you I’d make it all stop. That I’d take care of it. Of you.”

“You said you’d never let me fall.” Jiyong mumbled.

“I didn’t,” Seungri murmured back, his lips grazing Jiyong’s temple. “You left me.”

His hand slid higher. Jiyong gasped- a sound in the back of his throat, half-formed. He wasn’t even sure why. He just knew he couldn’t stop trembling, and Seungri’s grip was the only thing keeping him upright.

Like the sickest joke, the younger man pulled away just slightly, just enough to look at him properly. Victorious smirk plastered on his face.

“You like this, don’t you?”

Jiyong stared, slow and blank, head tilting like he didn’t understand the question.

“Being looked after. Being mine.”

He didn’t respond. Couldn’t. But his lips parted, breath shallow. And Seungri breathed a low and delighted laugh, half-0mocking and half-marveling. Conscious that he was holding a masterpiece, weak on his lap, his hand slid up his back, under the fabric..

“You’re so beautiful like this.”

Jiyong’s shirt slid off without resistance. The younger didn’t touch. He watched. Let his eyes roam, devour, consume. His possessiveness didn’t come with teeth, but with worship. Those eyes said ‘mine’ even when his hands were soft. “You could have had me this whole time. I could have looked after you.”

Jiyong flinched, even through the haze, and tears pricked at his eyes.

He kissed him again, like pressing a seal into soft wax. His hand slipped back into Jiyong’s hair, not tugging, but firm.

And Jiyong let him. Let it happen. Because in that moment, he wasn’t anyone. Not an idol. Not a leader. Not a name.

Just a body waiting to be used. Loved. Erased from the face of the Earth.

Someone with a psyche so stepped-on, so utterly destroyed until it stopped existing.

Seungri reveled in the fruits of his labour.

Every slow blink. Every pliant exhale. Every inch of skin that trembled under his gaze. He feasted on it.

This was finally his stage now, after so many years of being overshadowed by his hyungs, and Jiyong was finally his encore.

Jiyong was pliant in his arms, murmuring nonsense between shallow breaths, eyes finally too heavy to keep open. Seungri laid him down gently, tugging the blanket up over his bare shoulders like he was tucking in a child, but not without brushing his fingertips over the pale skin.

“Sleep,” Seungri whispered, brushing dark hair back from his forehead. “I’ll be right here.”

Seungri didn't need to take him that night. He didn't need to use that to force his power anymore- (look where that got him)- so he opted for the somehow more delighting strategy.

Seungri didn't need to fuck him. Anyone could force it. It took a real mastermind like him to be able to use it as an overhanging, looming, ceiling. Jiyong knowing that he could- that he would be powerless to resist- gave him that power trip he needed.

Jiyong’s lashes fluttered once more, then stilled. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, finally calm.

The silence stretched, and in it, a hollow coldness began to seep in like a slow leak through cracked plaster.

He should feel safe. That’s what his body kept saying. The arms around him, the soft words, the lull of a voice he had once trusted more than his own, a whole lifetime ago. He should feel safe.

He could still feel the press of Seungri’s lips against his temple, the deliberate patience in every touch, the way the younger had guided him like a marionette until he couldn’t tell which movements were his own anymore. His skin remembered it in sharp fragments: the hand at his jaw, the steadying grip on his ribs, the certainty in a voice that had never asked permission.

His body hadn’t resisted. That was the part of all this that cracked his chest open: the realisation that he had let it happen, let himself be kissed. Worse, he… he was acting like he wanted it, in those fogged-out moments when Seungri’s warmth was louder than the fear. Was alcohol really all that powerful anyway..?

A low, pained sound escaped him, too soft to wake the man beside him. He rolled onto his side, curling in on the ache that bloomed sharp in his gut, shame taking root in fertile ground.

Seungri shifted beside him, murmuring something too low to catch, his arm draping over Jiyong’s waist in unconscious possession. Heavy and inevitable.

And Jiyong lay there, eyes open in the dark, pinned by the weight of it. Remembering those debut days where the younger would let Jiyong, a notorious sleep-cuddler, wrap around him. He wasn’t that boy anymore- god, remember!- soft features, baby fat still clinging to his cheeks. As Jiyong glanced back at the man’s face,, he frowned. He’d seen that face too much on social media lately, speaking into microphones, well-dressed. The logical part of Jiyong chided him. Remember what he did. Remember. Remember! But…

Seungri’s arm tightened around his waist and pulled him back, enveloping him in his hold.

The warmth, the comfort, the trap.

It was already too late.

He could feel it sinking in, molecule by molecule, the terrifying thought that maybe this was all he deserved. That maybe it wasn’t Seungri doing something wrong.

Maybe it was him.

Across the river, Seunghyun sat alone in his apartment, a glass of tea sweating rings onto the coffee table. His phone lay on the couch arm, the last unanswered text from Jiyong still glowing faintly on the screen.

He rubbed at his temples, a humming groan that held years of weight escaping his throat. Something in his chest refused to quiet.

He’d seen Seungri earlier that night, too smooth, too ready, every answer like it had been rehearsed twice over. The bag of snacks, the smile, the half-shrug about just wanting to “remind him he’s not alone.”

On paper it fit. In his gut it didn’t.

Seunghyun replayed it again, that moment when he’d looked Seungri right in the eye and saw how dead they were, under everything. Almost perfectly masked with that twinkle he'd mastered for the variety shows a lifetime ago. Almost. But Seunghyun, ever the attentive one, noticed things. Just enough to stick. Enough to itch like a splinter he couldn’t dig out.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. His tea sat untouched, his thoughts circling darker than the steam crawling upwards in thin wisps.

If Jiyong really was gone like the note said, why couldn’t he shake the feeling that someone else was moving pieces behind the curtain?

Why did it feel like Seungri wanted him to believe it so badly?

Seunghyun exhaled through his nose, heavy. He didn’t have proof. He didn’t have anything but instinct. But instinct had saved him before, and tonight, it was telling him one thing loud and clear:

He needed to see that note.

Chapter Text

Outside the studio car park was chaos before they even reached the exit. Taeyang could hear it through the windshield: the static roar of voices, the metallic ring of camera shutters, the scrape of shoes on asphalt. He glanced at his dongsaeng. “They’re out here again.”

Daesung craned his neck, eyes wide and deer-like. “God… how many are there?”

A solid wall of people pressed against the barricades at the main entrance: phones raised, placards flashing under the streetlights. The air was thick with the high-pitched whine of microphones being switched on and the shouted overlap of a hundred questions.

Somewhere in the middle of it, Seunghyun was trying to walk.

He had arrived early, unaware of the enraged crowd. He hoped to slip in unnoticed, as he had been doing since his return. Instead, the crowd had seen him first. A ripple of recognition passed through the swarm like a spark through dry grass.

“Seunghyun-ssi! Is it true you forgave him?”

“Why now? Why would you-”

“Look here! One photo, please!”

“Are you clean?”

“Do you support him?”

“Where is Jiyong?”

Hands, lenses, recorders- he couldn’t tell them apart. Everything was a blaring blur of white light and open mouths.

He tried to keep his head down. The sound hit in waves, crowding into his chest until he couldn’t tell if he was breathing properly. Someone brushed his shoulder; another tugged at his sleeve.

He flinched. Don’t react. Just walk.

Are you clean?

But the voices built again, closer now, questions twisting together into one ugly, single demand: explain yourself.

His pulse beat so loud it drowned them out. His throat locked. He caught flashes of their faces between bursts of light: some angry, some disappointed, some almost curious. That was the worst.

Curiosity. Like he was an exhibit again.

Like he was back in that wheelchair and hospital gown years ago, paraded for the media and the whole of Korea to witness him at his lowest.

A camera was suddenly inches from his face. He froze where he stood, tense fists loosening by his sides.

“Seunghyun-hyung!”

Taeyang’s voice cut through, distant at first, then nearer. He felt a hand close around his arm- firm, familiar- and another at his back, pushing. Daesung on the other side, saying something he couldn’t process over the noise.

“Move, hyung, come on. We’ve got you.”

The world tilted. He let them steer him, boots sliding on the wet asphalt as they forced a path through the crowd. Taeyang’s jacket brushed against his; Daesung kept one hand up like a shield, repeating apologies that nobody heard.

The car door opened, and they all but shoved him inside, with the youngest taking the back seat beside his hyung. The moment it shut, the sound cut off. Just the thud of his own heartbeat and their heaving breaths.

Taeyang’s hands were shaking on the wheel. “They’re insane,” he muttered, voice raw and throat dry. “You okay?”

Seunghyun didn’t answer. He was staring straight ahead, eyes unfocused. His jaw twitched once, but nothing came out.

Daesung turned in his seat as the other started driving. “Hyung… They don’t- they don’t even know what they’re yelling about.”

The oldest blinked slowly, watching the pavement blur past outside. “They do. And they’re right.” A humourless breath left him. “I was always anxious around media. I used to be able to bear it though. Now even breathing feels like an interview. I can’t do it anymore.”

The car merged onto the main road. The headlights cut through the drizzle, catching the edge of his reflection in the window: pale, tight-lipped, eyes red at the corners from the flashes. After a long silence he gave Taeyang an address, voice hoarse. “Go to mine.”

Neither of them argued. The rest of the drive passed in near-silence, just the sound of the rain starting to fall harder against the glass. Daesung kept stealing looks at Seunghyun, whose hands were still clasped in his lap, shoulders set, expression carved out of shame and exhaustion.

By the time the elevator doors opened on the top floor of his building, the noise from outside already felt like it belonged to another planet. The quiet was almost garish in comparison.

Seunghyun’s apartment was even larger than the one they remembered. Daesung’s voice was the first thing to break the shrouding silence. “Hyung, do you actually live here or is it for display?” he said jokingly, trying to enter a new light and leave behind the hellscape of their fandom, stepping past the threshold. His shoes made no sound against the polished concrete floor before he toed them off at the designated area. The place looked more like a gallery than a home: high ceilings, walls lined with abstract paintings in impossible colours, half of them leaning unframed against the walls. A collection of unopened wine bottles sat by the window, the light bleeding through them into thin ribbons.

Youngbae laughed under his breath. “You could fit two of my places in here.”

“Three,” Seunghyun said, a hint of a smirk with his light tone. It was a weak joke, but the corner of his mouth twitched anyway, and his dongsaengs were glad to see him able to put what had just happened away for the moment. He didn’t offer drinks or tell them to sit though, he just let them take it in- the vastness, the emptiness. The last time they’d all been together in a space that big and quiet, Jiyong had been pacing in circles, muttering song lyrics to himself. Now, no one filled the silence.

They settled around a low glass table. Seunghyun leaned against the edge of a piano instead of sitting down. Taeyang was the first to speak again. “We should address the elephant in the room.”

The youngest blinked a few times, eyes flickering down to his hands as if he was the guilty one. “Yeah. So… that’s it? He just checked himself in?”

Seunghyun’s jaw tightened. “That’s what Seungri said.”

Youngbae’s brow furrowed. “You heard that from him?”

“Yeah.” He fished for the phone that wasn’t there in his pocket, then dropped his hand back to the piano lid. “He said Jiyong left a note. It said not to look for him.”

He exhaled hard. “You saw the note?”

Seunghyun hesitated. “…No. Seungri did.”

Their maknae’s mouth opened during the silence that fell, then closed again. He glanced at Taeyang, who was staring at the table’s reflection, tracing a smudge with his thumb.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Taeyang finally said. “That he’s the one who saw it?”

“It bothers me,” Seunghyun said simply, face void of expression as if often was these days.

Taeyang looked up. “So why aren’t we-”

“Because maybe it’s true,” the eldest cut in, voice low. “Maybe he really wanted to be left alone.”

Daesung shifted, uncomfortable. “It’s not like him. Ji never shuts us out. He gets angry, sure, he gets bad too, but not like this. Not without a word.”

Silence fell again. The faint hum of the city through the windows filled the gaps in their discussion. Seunghyun finally spoke, voice almost too quiet.

“Sometimes people get tired of being around people like that.”

Taeyang’s eyes softened. “And sometimes they don’t leave on their own.”

That made Seunghyun look up. There was something sharp there: surprise, maybe recognition. The thought that had been pressing on his ribs since the call from Seungri, the way the man’s voice had sounded steady, too steady, recounting what Jiyong supposedly wrote. The same even tone he used in interviews, in apologies, in rehearsed regret…

“Did Seungri say where?” Daesung asked suddenly.

“No.”

“Of course not,” Taeyang muttered.

The conversation thinned after that. They drifted, orbiting around their own thoughts, each pretending the silence was rest instead of grief.

After an hour of horrific small talk, Taeyang stood, pulling on his jacket. “We’ll try again tomorrow. Maybe someone knows more.”

“Yeah,” Daesung said, quieter. He hesitated before adding, “You’ll call us if you hear anything?”

Seunghyun nodded. He didn’t see them out or even move as they left, listening instead to the door shutting softly behind them.

Seunghyun crossed the vast living room and leaned against the window. From here, the city looked endless: a sea of light and glass, each one someone else’s life. He watched the smoke from a distant rooftop curl into the night sky.

Jiyong’s last message to him replayed in his mind, a line that never sat right: I’m fine, hyung. Don’t look for me.
He remembered staring at it for too long when it came through, how the phrasing didn’t sound like him, or the typing. Jiyong very rarely called him hyung in texts.

He picked up his phone and scrolled again. The message was still there, timestamped at 3:47 a.m. Sent after a week of silence.

The realization hit slow and cold, like water spreading across a tiled floor. He hadn’t noticed those things before. Hadn’t thought to check. For a long time, Seunghyun just stood there, the lights of the city catching in the glass around him, painting his reflection in fractured colours.

Then he said, almost to himself:
“Ji… what the fuck is going on?”

Chapter Text

Morning and evening had stopped meaning different things. Jiyong couldn’t remember when that happened: when the hours stopped dividing themselves cleanly, when light through the curtains became another texture of the same dream, when the days had blurred into a soft-edged, padded space.

His apartment didn’t look like his apartment anymore, but he didn’t remember giving anyone permission to change it. The blinds hung closed now, sealing in the dull amber light that gave the room a strangely nostalgic feel, like his apartment was part of an old photograph. Dishes sometimes gathered in the sink, without ever overflowing thanks to the pair of hands that took care of that. The TV droned endlessly- documentaries, k-drama, variety shows Seungri had approved.

Seungri came and went. Always calm, measured, and always carrying something, be it takeout containers, groceries, new medicine he never explained. “Just vitamins”, when Jiyong asked.

Sometimes Seungri stayed up late enough- or got up early enough- that when Jiyong would wake up, he would follow the cologne and find him, face illuminated by his phone screen. Other times, the boy woke up alone, but not without small signs of presence: a folded blanket, snacks he would never eat, and the thermostat was always set to Seungri’s preferred temperature. Jiyong hadn’t seen his phone in a long time.

He didn’t leave the apartment at all. At first it was because Seungri told him to rest, then because the outside world started feeling too hostile, what with the scandals and collapsing fandom. The few times he thought about leaving, his chest tightened. He would imagine the flash of cameras, the grabbing, the yelling, the questions and demands. He wasn’t ready for that. Seungri was right.

He didn’t even remember when his phone disappeared. Probably one of the mornings Seungri had tidied the nightstand and said gently, “you don’t need to look at that stuff right now.” And he had nodded, grateful, and let him take the screen from his hands.

Now, the rhythms of his life were soft, comfortable, strangely. Meals appeared in front of him and disappeared when he was done, music sometimes played, alcohol somehow ended up in his hands. Seungri’s voice was low and persuastive, effortlessly, shaping his thoughts in minute increments. “You’re so much calmer now. I’m proud of you, you’re better here. You don’t have to think so much anymore.”

Jiyong believed it. It felt like anaesthesia.

Most afternoons he would sit by the only window that was allowed to have the blinds up, watching dust drift in the thin light. He’d hum unfinished melodies sometimes. Once, when the sun fell quicker than he had kept track of, he caught his reflection in the glass and barely recognised it. Seungri never cut his hair on those days he shaved his face. There was a bruise fading yellow along his jaw, though he couldn’t remember how it got there in the first place.

The apartment was so painfully quiet when Seungri wasn’t there. All Jiyong did was cry.

His affection had weight. The way he would adjust Jiyong’s blanket, his hand would linger too long on his shoulder, he would hold him at night, stand behind him or sit beside him as he ate. There was tenderness in every gesture, but it left no space for air.

Seungri knew to crouch beside him, cup his face, press kisses to his cheeks and lips, and say things like “you’re doing so well, Jiyong-ah. It’s not so bad anymore, hm?” And Jiyong would agree with him because saying otherwise made Seungri’s eyes darken.

Then he’d be rewarded with praise, a squeeze to the back of the neck.

The human body could get used to anything. That frightened him somewhere behind the cotton that stuffed his head numb. The first time Seungri touched his neck like that, he flinched and his stomach curled in on itself. Now he was letting him kiss him.

Jiyong sat curled up on the edge of the couch, knees pulled close, blanket loosely draped over his shoulders. He had slept in fits, jolting awake to the faintest noise. It was safer to stay quiet, just take it on the chin, he’d learned. Safer not to ask too many questions. Not to speak unless spoken to.

There was a strange peace in predictability, routine. Meals at regular times. Seungri setting the TV to a volume that was just loud enough to fill silence, but not so loud that it disturbed peace. Morning pills lined neatly beside a plastic cup of water.

Routine was safe and familiar. Even cages can be comfortable with a pillow and a blanket.

He told himself he was lucky. Seungri looked after him well, didn’t he? The bruises faded, cuts disappeared. He ate, he slept. He didn’t need to think. Whenever his mind strayed too far, Seungri’s voice would reel him back in- and Seungri always could tell, apparently Jiyong would always get ‘this look’- with calm reassurances, soft reminders that he wasn’t well enough to be alone, that the world outside would tear him limb from limb. That only Seungri himself knew how to help him.

When Seungri left that morning, with an explanation Jiyong tuned out into white noise and a kiss to his forehead, he didn’t check the locks like he usually did. He didn’t know why, but he noticed it. The door only clicked shut ones, not twice. Jiyong noticed the difference instantly, like a dog conditioned to the sound of its master’s footsteps. His stomach twisted, and he didn’t know why.

He waited, still and silent, for the sound of the elevator.

Minutes crawled by.

He tried to focus on the windw instead- the one he was allowed to keep the blinds up on. From there, the world looked grainy. Fragments of movement- people walking, life happening beyong his reach- hurt to look at.

The door.

It was a small, foolish idea. But it was electric. The idea felt dangerous just to think, he didn’t dare move right away. His pale fingers twitched against the blanket. Pulse pounded at the base of his throat.

He waited longer, counting in his head, trying to convince himself to not think about it. Maybe Seungri had locked it without him hearing. He… he should check…

When Jiyong finally rose, knees cracking, his body felt foreign: legs unsteady, heart hammering. Every step towards that door felt like an act of defiance. It felt poisonous.

His trembling hand hovered over the handle, and he hesitated.

He’ll come back.
He’ll find you.
He’ll be angry.

He gripped the handle anyway and pressed down.

The latch clicked open with a deafening sound. Defiance. The door edged forwards, cool draft hitting the boy’s face like a first breath of oxygen after drowning.

For a heartbeat, he couldn’t breathe. In the next, he didn’t think. Just ran.

Barefoot, half-dressed, blanket slipping from his shoulders, Jiyong bolted down the hallway. The elevator was too slow, he wouldn’t wait for it- he bounded down the stairs instead, slipping more times than he cared to count. His chest ached, his breath sharp and uneven, but none of it mattered. He was tired. The air was real. The light was real. Every step hurt and healed at the same time.

He pushed the front door open. The outside hit him in the same way he had forgotten stage lights do- the sunlight, the wind in the grass. The concrete hurt his delicate, bare feet. He blinked hard, eyes stinging.

He stumbled forward, dizzy with disbelief. The noise, however quiet, was overwhelming. Still, he welcomed it. He had to run, hide, be someone else.

He didn’t look back once, didn’t need to.

For the first time in... he couldn’t put a time to it… Jiyong wasn’t G-Dragon. He was well and truly, nothing but a boy. Terrified, shaking, but free, and indeed, alive.

Chapter Text

The streets were only a turn away. He could hear it- real cars, real people, the beeping of a truck reversing by the curb. It was loud, unlike the muffled noises that seldom reached his window. The world was so close it almost hurt to look at. Jiyong trembled under the sunlight like it was something he wasn’t meant to touch.

The boy stumbled forwards, lungs burning from the exertion, air metallic in his mouth. Bare feet were finally being dug into by the concrete of actual pavement. He was halfway through the threshold when a voice- low, unhurried, and unbearably familiar- thrummed over the sound of his own heartbeat.

“Jiyong-ah.”

He froze.

That voice had lived insid ehis head for so long that it didn’t need to be loud to command him. The tone alone made his spine straighten, made the air around him contract. Slowly, he turned, like he wa afraid the movement alone would shatter him.

Seungri stood by the elevator doors. Calm and perfectly still. His hair was a little disheveled, but his breathing wasn’t. His chest didn’t move fast, his pulse didn’t show. He hadn’t even been chasing Jiyong. He stared at the boy with the morbid curiosity of a person watching as a wild animal wanders into traffic.

For a moment, nothing moved.

“You didn’t really think I wouldn’t find you, did you?”

There was no anger in his voice. There was nothing, that was what made it so terrifying. He didn’t even raise his tone. The words handed like a hand pressing on the back of Jiyong’s neck, guiding him back towards obedience.

Jiyong’s lips parted, but to no avail. His throat clicked, dry. He took a step back, shivering.

For the first time, Jiyong really looked at him. Not the Seungri shrouded with the soft voice, the patient hands. The real Him.

The light from the lobby ceiling caught in Seungri’s eyes, and it wasn’t warmth he saw there but instead something unfathomably cold. His face was still, every muscle practised into obedience. The faintest smile tugged at the corners of his lips- nothing human.

There was no anger, no tremor, no fear. Simply composure. So absolute it felt alien.

He realisd then that Seungri didn’t look hurt, or sad, or regretful even, all those emotions he used to display. He looked curious. Like a scientist studying some poor, small creature he was about to take apart to see just how its insides worked.

In the silence, Jiyong saw all the versions of Seungri overlap: the boy who laughed with him, the man who apologised, the caretaker who whispered promises of safety. All thin layers of the same mask. Beneath them was something black and impure, hollow and glittering, watching him with faintest amusement, waiting for his next move.

With the next step backwards, Seungri made his own move, closing the distance between them within a second. As the large hand reached out to him, Jiyong’s pulse hammered at his throat and he made a pathetic noise out of fear. Seungri’s fingers clamped around Jiyong’s arm and he yanked him close, wrestling him away from the outside world.

Jiyong screwed his eyes shut and his arms instinctively came to cross over his chest protectively, tears already streaming down his face.“I just w-”

Before he could finish his sentence, Seungri stopped by the elevator, grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him into the empty cabin.

As he crowded the older into the corner of the small space, he stared into those terrified eyes. They were close enough that Jiyong could smell the cologne- that same one that lived on his pillows, on his clothes, everywhere in that apartment. That scent that wrapped around him like a lullaby now invoked pure fear. “Look at you…” Seungri murmured, almost in awe. “You really thought you were ready for out there?” He tilted his head, eyes tracing the trembling. “You’re shaking.”

Jiyong flinched when the younger reached out, not harshly, but with an inevitability that felt worse than any grab or shove. His fingers brushed the fabric at Jiyong’s shoulder, gently adjusted the blanket that had slipped halfway down his arm, as if that was what this was about.

“There,” Seungri said softly. “Let’s go home, hm?” The illusion of choice shattered as the elevator was ascending.

Jiyong’s eyes stung. He stood there in the corner of the lift, still barefoot, the blanket clutched tight around his shoulders. Seungri didn’t touch him; he didn’t have to. The air between them was heavy enough. The hum of the elevator filled the silence until it almost became soundless. The world outside was still there- bright and loud and moving and alive- but alreadu it was fading behind Seungri’s voice, becoming a thing that existed only for other poeple. He didn’t resist anymore when Seungri’s hand settled lightly at the base of his neck. Didn’t resist when he was turned around, steered towards the door as the elevator reached their floor.

When the doors opened, he stepped out with him, unlocked the apartment like nothing had happened, held the door open, and waited. Jiyong hesitated a second too long. That, apparently, was enough.

The sound of the lock clicking behind them was sharp and deliberate.

“Sit down.”

Seungri’s voice was low and scary. Jiyong obeyed.

The younger walked to the kitchen counter, picked up a glass and filled it halfway. Jiyong’s dry throat worked, but the man drank it himself. When he turned, his expression was calm again. Too calm, stretched thin over something dead underneath. His jaw flexed once.

“You know,” he began, almost conversationally. “I really thought we were past this.” He smiled without warmth. “You were doing so well, Jiyong-ah.”

Jiyong swallowed hard. His voice was thin. “You… you left the door open.” The words escaped before he could stop them.

A twitch in Seungri’s face. He slammed the glass down onto the counter, shattering it in a single move, scattering shards of glass all over the marble and the tiles.

The stillness that followed was worse than any shout.

When Seungri finally looked up and laughed, it was dry. “Of course I did.” He said. “I wanted to see how far you’d make it if you really did escape.” He leaned in slightly, voice dipping lower, something nefarious, insidious. “Did you really think I wouldn’t know where you were? Are you really that stupid, Jiyong?”

Jiyong stared at him, jaw slack, unable to speak.

Seungri’s crazy-eyed smile widened as he held up his phone. A little pink icon displayed a pin in the apartment, where he was sat currently. “Cute, isn’t it?”

The pink dot pulsed faintly on the screen. Jiyong couldn’t tear his eyes from it. He felt it under his skin.

“How-” the word rasped from his throat, barely audible. “How did you-”

Seungri only smiled, tucking the phone into his pokcet like he’d just shown off a party trick. “Don’t worry about it.”

But Jiyong did worry.

The world tilted around him, colours draining, air thinning, as Seungri reached past him, picked up the blanket that had fallen to the floor, and draped it gently back over Jiyong’s shoulders as though nothing had happened. “Now,” Seungri said as he walked off, “let’s not make a habit of this.”

After Seungri left the room, something broke loose inside him, His hands trembled harder. He touched his wrists, his neck, the back of his ears, feeling for anyhting out of place. His breath came short and fast, as though the air itself was trying to get awau from him. He tore at the seams of his shirt, the hem, the cuffs- shaking it out, checking every stitch. Fingers ran over the thin chain at his neck, the inside of his wasitband, the soles of his feet even. Nothing. Nothing there.

He couldn’t stop. That itch.

The thought lodged itself deep behind his ribs. It’s inside you.

Seungri’s voice, patronising, looped in his head: ‘don’t worry about it.’

The boy stumbled into the bathroom and flicked on the harsh light. The mirror hit him like a slap, his own hollow eyes, hair plastered to his forehead. He looked like death, but death had to wait for him to find this goddamn tracker. He lifted his shirt, tracing trembling fingers over his own skin, pressing, feeling for something that didn’t belong. Anything alien. His breathing grew shallower and his consciousness grew fainter.

He put it in me. He did something to me.

For a moment, he thought he could feel it: a phantom pulse somewhere deep under the surface, like a second heartbeat that wasn’t his. The idea rooted itself and crawled up through the static fog in his brain until it became almost truth.

He backed away from the mirror, clutching at himself and scratching at his skin, shaking his head hard. The tiles blurred beneath his feet. He didn’t know if he wanted to rip his skin open or crawl out of it like some morbid rebirth.

“Jiyong-ah,” Seungri’s voice came form the other room, calm as ever, amidst the scrapes of glass shards being swept. Not loudly, just enough to remind him that the walls had ears too.

And Jiyong froze as usual, because maybe that was the point. Mayve Seungri didn’t need to put anything in him at all. Maybe it was just enough that he believed it. Either way, he had no idea of knowing. He would just have to accept it. Live with it. Be forever at Seungri’s mercy- under his control.

The bathroom door creaked. Jiyong barely had time to lift his head before Seungri’s voice cut through the silence- lower and raw. “What the hell are you doing?”

He stood in the doorway, shoulders taut, eyes sharp in the fluorescence of the light. The calmness was gone, completely. No trace of the soft-spoken charm that always disguised his malice.

Jiyong froze where he was, halfway between panic and shame, angry red scratches adorning his ribs and arms from searching himself.

“Did you think you could tear it out?” Seungri’s voice broke into a laugh. “God, you actually thought I put something in you?” He stepped forward, and the older instinctively stepped back until the cold sink pressed into his spine. Seungri tilted his head, studying him like he was an insect he’d pinned down. “Do you know what’s pathetic, Jiyong? You don’t understand that I don’t need to touch you to know exactly where you are.”

Jiyong couldn’t breathe. His mind was still spinning with the thought- inside me, it’s inside me- and now that cold and exact voice sliced through the noise.

When Seungri finally turned away, his reflection lingered in the mirror, the faintest smirk at the corner of his mouth: he’d peeled himself open on purpose, finally let Jiyong see what had been underneath all along. He didn’t need to pretend anymore.

Jiyong gripped the edge of the sink in a white-knuckled clasp, heart hammering, stomach twisting, the thought echoing again and again. Seungri put a tracker in him, he knew it.

Just as he began to sway and lose balance, Seungri grabbed him and tugged him out of the bathroom and into his room, promptly pushing him down onto the bed. Jiyong blacked out as soon as his head hit the softness of the bed, and he registered nothing after that.

Chapter Text

Before Jiyong even opened his eyes, he registered the cold. Felt the constant, ceaseless tensing of his muscles as he trembled in a futile attempt to generate body heat. Then there was a phone in his face. He followed it move down his body.

He let out a startled cry, flinching and trying to make sense of the situation through an alarmed, but sleep-sticky mind.

He was naked. That was why it was so cold.

His first thought was the army again. His military enlistment- one of the worst experiences of his life. The one that pushed him over the edge, when that resolve and confidence he was so well-known for began to fray and people started genuinely worrying for his mental health.

Fucking years too late, that is.

The military plagued his mind and dreams with the eternal memories of men touching him and recording his most intimate measurements, where Jiyong had never wished more for an ounce of privacy in his life, where somehow for the first time, life off-camera was more invasive than on-camera.

He whimpered fearfully as Seungri recorded his naked body, trying to curl up, trying to hide himself, but with Seungri’s other hand wrapped tightly around his ankle and his shin pressing on the other ankle, he couldn’t squirm away.

Even after the phone was put away, Jiyong felt too startled to even form any words. He laid there, eyes wide and panicked, chest heaving from the exertion and adrenaline, body taught.

“There, look.” Seungri held the glaring screen to Jiyong’s face, forcing him to watch his own horrific body unmistakably him. “Next time you even think of doing something as remotely stupid as running away, remember this. You might escape me, but you could never possibly escape this. No team of lawyers could ever save you from this.” He took the phone back to himself and watched for a second longer, sighing softly. “Look at you… just what would everyone say?”

Seungri shifted his gaze from the phone to the man before him when he heard the first choked sob. Before long, he was crying fully, curling in on himself and hiding his face in his hands. “Oh come off it, Jiyong-ah. It’ll stay put safe in my phone forever where no one will see it but me unless you act up, so stop crying.”

Jiyong pulled the covers over himself, pathetically curling in on himself and wetting the cotton with his tears as he screwed his eyes shut. When did all this happen? When did it all go from a strange comfort to this? This was all his fault.

“What, you think you can hide from me now?” Seungri snorted, standing up from the bed and yanking the covers off, “do you see? See how easy it is for me to do anything with you?” At Jiyong’s panicked cry, he grinned and grabbed the frail man’s arm, preventing him from getting off the bed, and yanked him closer. An arm supported Jiyong from the back, keeping him close to Seungri as he stared into those terrified eyes. “Do you know how lucky you are? Do you even realise evrything I could do right now to break you, Jiyong?” With a predatory lick of his lips, he traced over the other’s bottom lip, a dangerous suggestion.

At that, Jiyong jerked away from his hand and squirmed out of his arms, sobbing as he buried himself in the covers again- all he could do to preserve himself the slightest ounce of dignity.

“Relax,” the younger rolled his eyes and walked towards the door. “I’m not going to do anything to you. But don’t test me, okay Jiyongie? I know you’re a good boy. I’ll only hurt you if you make me do it.”

At the words, Jiyong screwed his eyes shut and squeezed more tears out, trying to just accept that this was his life now.

At first, it had been easier to believe the story they were given.

Jiyong was unwell. He needed time. He was somewhere safe, somewhere quiet, somewhere with white walls and schedules and professionals who knew better than they did. It was a clean explanation. A merciful one. It let them sleep at night.

But time had a way of corroding even the cleanest lies.

Taeyang noticed it first in the mornings.

He would wake before his alarm, the room still grey and silent, and for a few seconds he would reach for his phone with the same automatic motion he’d had for years—half-expecting a message from Jiyong sent at some absurd hour. A lyric fragment. A thought spiralling. A joke that made no sense without context. Something.

There was never anything.

He would lie there beside his wife, staring at the ceiling, feeling the quiet press in on him despite the warmth to his right. Jiyong had never been good at silence. Even when he was struggling, even when he was distant, there had always been noise. Presence. Proof of life.

Hospitals were quiet, he reminded himself. They were supposed to be.

Still.

Jiyong hated being unreachable to his members.

Taeyang carried that thought with him through breakfast, through rehearsals, through dinner with Hyorin, through meetings where Jiyong’s empty chair had become so normal it hurt in a dull, persistent way. No one commented on it anymore. That was somehow worse.

Daesung filled the silence with jokes.

He had always done that, but now it was constant: too loud, too quick, laughter spilling out before anyone had said anything worth laughing at. He talked over people, interrupted himself, forgot the ends of his own sentences. When the room went quiet, he felt like he might disappear into it.

Sometimes, late at night, he would scroll back through old messages. Voice notes from Jiyong, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Long paragraphs sent at three in the morning, overthinking something that didn’t matter, everything that mattered. Daesung would hold the phone like it was fragile.

He told himself that no news was good news, but the longer the silence stretched, the more that sentence sounded like something people said when they were afraid to admit the alternative.

Seunghyun didn’t say much at all.

He watched.

He noticed how Seungri never seemed worried— not really. How his concern was always perfectly measured, perfectly timed. How he deflected questions with practiced calm, reassured them with the same phrases repeated just often enough to sound sincere.

“He needs space.”
“He’s being monitored.”
“He asked not to contact anyone.”

Seunghyun tried to remember the last time Jiyong had asked for less connection instead of more. Tried to picture him willingly disappearing without leaving something behind. A note. A song. A mess.

It didn’t fit.

At night, Seunghyun poured himself a drink and stood by the window, city lights blurring together as his thoughts circled the same unspoken question. He hadn’t voiced it yet. None of them had.

What if they were wrong?

What if “safe” was just a word people used when they didn’t want to look too closely?

Weeks passed.

The world kept moving, absurdly indifferent to the hollow space Jiyong had left behind. Schedules were adjusted. Choreography reworked. Interviews deflected. Life went on in a way that felt almost insulting.

Taeyang found himself hesitating before sending messages, even to the others, afraid of acknowledging the thing that hovered between them. Daesung started sleeping with the TV on, the noise keeping his thoughts at bay. Seunghyun began driving past places Jiyong used to frequent without meaning to, slowing down every time.

None of them said it out loud, but the same thought sat in all of them now, heavy and unmoving.

None of this felt right.

They told themselves they would act if something concrete happened. If there was proof. If there was a crack big enough to put a finger into. Until then, they stayed where they were: trapped between trust and dread, guilt and relief.

Because acting would mean admitting they might have failed him, and that was a truth none of them were ready to face.

[BONUS]

NODUS TELLENS.

It was almost morning.

The city was starting to hum again: cars whirring down wet streets, shop signs flickering back to life. Inside his apartment, everything was still.

Seungri sat at the edge of his bed, one hand rubbing circles into his temple, the other holding a half-finished glass of water.

He hadn’t moved in an hour. Hadn’t slept.

There was no smile now. No mask anymore. No easy charm.

Just silence and a thought.

“This isn’t what I wanted.”

It came quietly. Slipped in through the cracks. The same way Jiyong had once slipped out of his arms.

He looked around the apartment- the expensive furniture, the clean lines, the soft hum of curated perfection. Everything in its place. Everything controlled.

And yet.

“Why doesn’t any of it feel like mine?”

He remembered laughter. Real, genuine laughter. Hotel rooms. Night drives. Hands intertwined behind backs in places no one was looking.

He remembered being loved.

He remembered loving.

And now?

What had he become?

What had he done?

The power didn’t feel good anymore. Not in this moment. Not when the apartment felt like a museum to a version of him that had stopped existing the moment Jiyong looked at him like a monster.

He tried to imagine the ending of this story.

Couldn’t.

He’d planned every chapter. Every twist. Every heartbreak. He’d orchestrated Jiyong’s spiral like a conductor. He was winning, wasn’t he?

Then why-

Why did it feel like the story had left him behind?

He’d failed to plan the ending to his masterful story.

He closed his eyes.

For a second- just one painful one- he wished none of it had happened.

Then the second passed.

And the mask returned.

He creaked the door open to Jiyong’s frail form, resting in deep sleep on the bed, sheets crinkled and duvet tangled in his sick body.

“Mine forever, Jiyongie.”

The second had passed. The mask had returned, yes.

But it had slipped.

And he felt it. That… feeling he had no name for. Even if no one else ever would.

Chapter Text

The apartment was too quiet for three people who had known each other for more than half their lives. None of them could bring themselves to make music or practice anything- drowning in work when times were rough was always Jiyong’s forte. And now with every scandal and every media outlet bashing them left right and centre, there was no motivation either.

Daesung noticed the way his chest tightened the moment he stepped inside, like the air itself was holding its breath. The lights were on, warm and soft, what Jiyong used to insist on because harsh lighting made him anxious and he couldn’t focus. Seunghyun always kept his lights that way, all these years later.

Youngbae sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He had been sat in that position for so long his shoulders had locked there, rigid, as if bracing for some invisible impact. He hadn’t looked up when their youngest entered, his gaze fixed on the floor.

And their oldest stood by the window, glass of water untouched in his hand. Instead of looking outside, the glass reflected his face back at him- older than it had any right to be, eyes shadowed, jaw clenched so permanently tight he was sure he was on a fast track to dental problems. He hadn’t realised he was gripping the glass with white knuckles until Daesung gently touched his arm.

“Hyung,” he sai quietly, “you’re gonna break it.”

Exhaling, he set the glass down. The sound of it clinking against the glass table was too loud.

No one spoke for a long moment in the crowded silence, thick and tense with things none of them could bear to begin a conversation about, with the same thought circling all three of them like a vulture.

Something was wrong. It had been for a long time.

They had been living with it in different ways: Youngbae with prayer, denial, and his family; Daesung with forced optimism and humour that didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore; Seunghyun with control- tight, suffocating control over whatever information he allowed himself to believe.

Jiyong had been checked in. He needed rest. He would call when he was ready.

They’d all privately repeated it so many times it had started to sound hollow even to their own ears.

The maknae sat down slowly, hands fisted in his lap. He stared at the coffee table, at the glass that had been set down. “Hyung…” he said, voice like a little kid’s. “Can I… see it?”

Seunghyun turned slowly. “See what?”

He swallowed, throat dry. “The letter. The one Ji- Jiyong hyung left.” He didn’t mean to stutter on the name, but this all weighed so heavy on them all, Daesung was truly breaking.

Taeyang’s head snapped up at that. The thing none of them had dared to touch since the night Seunghyun had shown up with shaking hands and a face drained of colour, and yet making the forever valiant effort of appearing put-together, breaking the news.

The oldest hesitated. He hadn’t meant to keep it to himself, really, he wasn’t making an active effort to hide it from them. He told himself that daily, but the uglier truth was that as long as the letter stayed folded, unread by anyone else, it could stay contained and manageable. As long as he was the one who read it, kept it, the responsibility stayed his alone. Sharing it made it so much more real. “Are you sure…?”

“I need to.” the younger said. “I think… I think we both do.”

Without argument, Seunghyun reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the letter, folded and fragile. He unfolded it carefully and smoothed it out on the table between them. No one else touched it, but Daesung leaned forwards, breath hitching the moment he read it,.

Youngbae followed, drawn in despite himself. His gaze scanned the words quickly, until something stopped him cold. His heart dropped. “Wait,” he whispered.

Seunghyun looked at him sharply. “What?”

“…Is that-” his voice broke. He tried again, softer, like there were a pair of hands around his throat. “Is that… Jiyong’s handwriting…?”

The room imploded, but remained silent.

Daesung inhaled sharply, eyes snapping back tot he page as he scanned it. The thought was planted, now it was impossible to unsee.

The familiar slant, the way certain characters curved too much, others too sharp, the pressure in the strokes, it… wasn’t there.

“Oh my god.” Daesung whispered, shaky. “It’s not.”

Seunghyun’s chest tightened painfully as he leaned forward, eyes scanning the page again with fresh terror. He saw it now. The absence. No hesitation marks. No sudden changes in pressure. No messiness. No urgency.

It didn’t feel like Jiyong.

“It’s not his,” Seunghyun said hoarsely, the words scraping out of him. “It’s not.”

The realisation hit all three of them at once: Jiyong hadn’t written this.

Taeyang’s hands were trembling now as he reached for his phone, fingers moving too fast, too clumsy. “No,” he said, shaking his head like he could undo it. “No, no, no- we need to call. Right now. Every place.” He stood abruptly, pacing, already googling and dialing. “If he wasn’t admitted,” Taeyang said, voice breaking as the phone rang, “then where the hell is he?”

They split up without another word. Calls overlapped, voices rose, names were repeated over and over again like prayers.

“Yes, Kwon Jiyong. Possibly under a psychiatric hold-”

“No, I don’t have a date. That’s the problem.”

“He’s a public figure, there may be confidentiality-”

“Please, I’m begging you-”

One by one, the answers came back. No record. No admission. No patient by that name.

But Seunghyun hadn’t even lifted his phone. He hadn’t moved from the letter, his eyes locked on the handwriting that now was so easily telling that it wasn’t Jiyong’s. How could he be so stupid? So trusting? All of this, all of this- whatever was happening to Jiyong, was his own fault.

Taeyang’s hand was shaking so badly he nearly dropped his phone. “This is impossible,” he said, voice cracking. “He told us- Seungri told us-”

Finally, Seunghyun’s eyes snapped up. “Seungri.” A quiet, horrifying clarity settled cold in his gut.

“Drive,” he said suddenly.

Both of them looked at him.

“Go,” Seunghyun commanded, already grabbing his coat. “Every hospital. Every private facility. Anywhere within two hours. Don’t call, show up. Ask in person.”

“What about you?” Taeyang asked.

Seunghyun hesitated only for a second. “I need to go somewhere.”

Daesung stood, fear and determination warring on his face. “Hyung- but what if-”

“I’ll call,” he said firmly. “The moment I know anything.”

Taeyang nodded, jaw set. “If he’s out there,” he said quietly, “we’ll find him.”

They moved fast after that: keys, shoes, doors slamming shut.

Seunghyun was alone again within minutes. The apartment felt emptier than it ever had. He stood in the centre of the living room, letter still lying open on the table, and finally let himself feel it: the dread, the guilt, the bone-deep certainty that they were already too late. He folded the letter carefully and slipped it back into his pocket, then turned toward the door.

There was only one place left that made sense.

And if he was right…

Seunghyun didn’t know what he would do, and that scared him.

Taeyang’s desperate pleas went unanswered, one after another. Facilities blurred together- names, locations, ladies at front desks who can’t have possibly been trying their best. Every rejections landed heavier than the last one. He gripped the steering wheel hard until his joints ached.

The younger was doing the same, pacing inside a building that smelled of disinfectant and machine coffee. “No, he’s not elderly, no he- don’t you even know who he is?!” His own outburst surprised him, and he caught himself with shock. After that, he promptly left the building and retreated to his car where he cried and cried.

How do you lose someone like Jiyong? How do three grown men lose the centre of their world and not notice?

Dead end after dead end, it was endless- like running down corridors where every door was locked.

Meanwhile, Seunghyun drove to a very specific place. The city slid past him in streaks of yellow and red, traffic lights bleeding into one another as his grip tightened around the wheel. He knew this route by muscle memory, had driven it countless times: late nights, early mornings, half-asleep and laughing, arguing over music, over nothing.

Jiyong’s place.

Their place.

His chest ached.

He remembered Jiyong sitting cross-legged on the couch at 4am, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, humming something unfinished. The way he would kick Seunghyun’s leg absentmindedly when he was deep in thought. He’d complain about the heater, about the neighbours, about everything that was complainable about- then fall asleep mid-rant.

Seunghyun swallowed hard. Please be there. The thought terrified him even as it anchored him. If Jiyong was there, alone. If he wasn’t. his mind kept trying to run ahead, but he kept foring it back. Focus, drive.

The apartment building came into view too soon and not soon enough. His pulse roared in his ears as he slowed, pulling over, staring at the darkened windows like they might answer him. He didn’t know what he expected. His phone buzzed, Taeyang.

Nothing

No records

Anywhere

Seunghyun closed his eyes for a second, a breath shuddering out of him.

Chapter Text

Seunghyun was halfway out of his car when he noticed him. A figure stumbling out of the apartment block entrance like he had been pushed out by the builing itself: bare feet hitting concrete wrong, knees buckling as though the ground was unreliable. He was too thin, clothes hanging incorrectly, oversized in a way that suggested they weren’t chosen that morning.

It took a second longer than it should have. His chest tightened so sharply he had to grab the edge of the car door.

Jiyong.

Not the boy he remembered, not the controlled posture, the stage-show, the presence that used to fill a room before he even spoke. This Jiyong moved like he was underwater, limbs lagging behind intention. His head jerked up, eyes wide, glassy in a way Seunghyun reognised instantly and hated.

Drugged.

Too medicated to run properly, too scared to stop.

Jiyong didn’t even see him, he just looked over his shoulder again and again, panic etched deep into his face- absolute, sheer terror. Trained into the body.

Seunghyun didn’t call his name. Instinct overrides emotion. He closed the distance in three long strides and caught him before his knees gave out completely- one arm around Jiyong’s ribs, the other bracing his shoulders. The younger flinched violently at the contact- a sharp, but delayed, automatic recoil.

“It’s me.” He said quietly, low and even, his lips by Jiyong’s ear. “Seunghyun.”

The younger’s breath stuttered, hands fisting weakly in Seunghyun’s jacket in disbelief. “Hyung,” he breathed, slurred, barely there.

“Yes.” No hesitation. “I’ve got you.”

That was all it took for Jiyong to collapse into him with a soft, broken sound, weight dead and unresisting. Seunghyun adjusted instantly, shifted his grip, lifted him to move. Without looking back at the building, he cut sideways between two parked vans, then behind a service corridor half-hidden by bins and concrete pillars. It was damp, smelled like oil and trash, and hummed faintly with electricity. Seunghyun pressed Jiyong back against the wall and shielded him with his body, one hand braced at Jiyong’s chest, the other steady at his jaw. “Look at me.”

Jiyong tried. His pupils blown wide, unfocused, struggling to track. Eyelids fluttered as if fighting sleep, a faint sheen of sweat at his temples, lips pale and dry. He breathed shallowly and harshly, pulse fast, skin too warm.

“What did he give you?”

The younger shook his head weakly, and the moment made him dizzy; he swayed forwards, forehead knocking lightly into Seunghyun’s shoulder.

“Shh, it’s okay.” he murmured, though his jaw tightened. “You’re safe now. You’re with me.”

Weak fingers clutched at his shirt again, urgent, frantic. His mouth opened, closed. He swallowed hard. “Tr-” his voice cracked. He tried again, “Tr… track…-”

The elder frowned, his full attention on him. “Track? Focus on me, I don’t… try again, baby.”

Jiyong’s eyes widened in frustration and welled up with tears. He lifted a trembling hand off the jacket adn tapped his chest, right over his sternum.

“Beep,” he whispered, resorting to this. Then again, a little louder, more desperate. “Beep. Beep. Beep.”

It washed over him like ice water down his back. “No,” he breathed.

Jiyong nodded weakly, panic spiking again, fingers clawing at his own shirt as if he might tear something out of himself. HIs breathing, uneven, verged on hyperventilation.

Stilling him instantly with firm hands on his wrists, Seunghyun got his attention again. “Hey, stop.” He kept his voice calm and controlled. “You did good. You did exactly right. You’re okay.”

Desperate eyes flickered up at him, searching, desperate for confirmation that he hadn’t misunderstood something, that he wasn’t imagining. When he leaned down, their foreheads nearly touching, Jiyong’s eyes wearily closed.

A voice carried from somewhere behind the building.

“Jiyong?”

The sound of his name being spoken like that- fond, familiar, almost playful- made Jiyong jolt violently. He tried to pull away, breath hitching, whimpers caught in his throat.

The man tightened his hold, body angling instinctively to block him from light. A hand came to clasp over Jiyong’s mouth. “Stay with me.” he murmured into his hair. “Don’t answer.”

Slow, unhurried footsteps revealed his direction carelessly where Seunghyun couldn’t see him. “I know you’re scared,” the voice continued, mildly reproachful. “But this isn’t funny.”

Jiyong pressed his face into Seunghyun’s chest, shaking, tears streaming over the hand on his mouth. His bare toes curled against the concrete as if bracing for impact.

“We talked about this, Jiyongie.” The voice said. “You don’t just leave.” Seomething metallic scraped. A bin nudged aside. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.” Seungri added, irritation bleeding through at last.

As Seungri’s footsteps grew erratic, and the sounds more frequent- frustration sharpening into something uglier- a cold, precise calm settled over Seunghyun, heavy and absolute.

“Come back.” Seungri snapped, the command cracking like a whip. “Now!” Something slammed against a nearby pillar, hard.

Jiyong whimpered softly, fingers digging into Seunghyun’s jacket like he was trying to crawl inside it. The elder pressed a kiss to his head.

A soft laugh, then, words flat and close and terrifyingly certain:

“I’m going to end you, you little bitch.”

Those words flipped a deeply rooted switch inside Seunghyun.

Chapter Text

“I’m going to end you, you little bitch.”

Those words flipped a deeply rooted switch inside Seunghyun.

The last thread of emotion disconnected cleanly, a cord being cut rather than snapped. Fear drained first, then panic. Even his anger burned down into something denser, infinitely more lethal.

Seunghyun considered himself a pacifist.

He eased Jiyong further back into the shadow of the service corridor, guiding him down until he was sitting with his back against the wall, knees drawn weakly to his chest. The older man shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it over his trembling body, firm and methodical, fingers lingering just long rnough to ensure Jiyong would stay still and not collapse from the position. “Don’t move.” He mumured, pressing another kiss to his head. “No matter what you hear.”

Jiyong, delayed, mind foggy, looked up. His eyes struglled to follow, his lips trembled. “Hyung…”

Seunghyun cupped his face gently, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. From this angle, finally studying him properly, the marks on his neck were clear even in the dark. “I’ll be right here.” He said, and for the first time, lying to Jiyong didn’t bother him.

Straightening up, he turned his head to the open and stepped out of the shadow.

Seungri was pacing the open space between the buildings now, agitation finally visible: hands raking through his hair, breath too sharp, movements no longer precise. He hadn’t noticed Seunghyun yet, eyes fixed instead on the dark corners, the exits, recalculating. “You can’t hide forever,” Seungri calls, voice tight. “You need me.”

Finally, Seunghyun made his presence known.

“You always had a problem with overestimating yourself.”

The younger froze. The silence stretched long enough for recognition to hit- slow and disbelieving, then violently sharp. He turned. Seunghyun, there, standing in full view, posture relaxed, arms loose at his sides. No rush. No tension. His face calm in a way that didn’t belong in moments like this, empty. It made Seungri’s spine want to curl with a primal unease. “Hyung…?” Seungri breathed, shock cracking his voice. “What-”

With a slight tilt of his head, Seunghyun studied him as if he was assessing the damage. “So,” he began quietly. “Pest control didn’t solve our problem after all.”

He took a step closer. Seungri instinctively stepped back.

“Funny,” Seunghyun continued, though nothing about his even voice or expression reflected humour. “I was always better at dealing with rats myself.”

There was no rage in it, no raised voice. Certainty. Absoluteness. That was what made Seungri’s heart thrum under the coldness of his ribs. The threat, the adrenaline- getting caught. Again.

Seungri’s mouth opened, words scrambling for shape- excuses and deflections- but Seunghyun didn’t let him find them.

Seunghyun considered himself a pacifist, but exceptions could be made. He closed the distance within a blink. One hand shot out and grabbed Seungri by the front of his coat, yanking him forwards with brutal finality, snapping tight like a trap finally sprung. From this proximity, he could see the dead calmness in the man’s eyes.

Oh god.

The first punch cracked out of place in the night air, knuckles making contact with Seungri’s face square. The criminal cried out, stumbling backwards and hands flying to his nose as tears pricked his eyes. Vision blurred, he was defenceless to the second punch which rocked his orientation so badly he crashed to the floor.

“Oh fuck- fuck!” He yelled, holding his face and struggling to scramble to his feet. He only made it to his hands and knees when Seunghyun kicked him in the side and grabbed the back of his jacket, wordlessly dragging him into the shadows, away from where Jiyong was hiding.

The protests reverberated like music in Seunghyun’s ears, pleas and tears rang satisfying. He crudely shoved Seungri to the brick wall, then whipped his coat back to sit over the criminal’s thighs to keep him pinned down.

Seunghyun considered himself a pacifist, but Lee Seunghyun was not human, and therefore the principle did not apply to him.

The image of Jiyong, drugged up to his eyes, scarily thin, terrified of every little sound… The knowledge that he had been under his nose that whole time, and he had chosen to believe the words of a fucking criminal over his Jiyong… That whole time. The whole time, his Jiyong had been locked in the clutches of that monster.

Something inside him settled. He thought, dimly, that this must be what clarity felt like. Every excuse he had ever made for Seungri peeled away in layers. Every benefit of the doubt. Every ‘he wouldn’t’, every ‘surely not’, to the ‘he’s changed’, every moment Seunghyun had chosen distance over confrontation because it was easier, safer, because it let him pretend the worst wasn’t possible.

He had been wrong. Not passively wrong but actively complicit.

The guilt wasn’t loud- it didn’t scream at him, but instead pressed in from all sides, dense and suffocating, and the only way through it was forwards. Through Seungri. Through what stood between this moment and Jiyong breathing freely without flinching.

He thought of Jiyong’s bare feet on concrete.

Of the way his hands shook when Seunghyun touched him, not in fear of him, but fear of everything else. How his voice fractured trying to warn him- the tracker- reduced to fragments because someone had taught him that even words were dangerous.

Someone had taken his Jiyong apart piece by piece and not even bothered to put him back together wrong, just scattered the pieces far and wide so no one would ever shape him back into the man he once was. And Seunghyun had stood by and let it happen.

No apology would ever be enough. No amount of gentleness would undo it. There was no redemption here, only consequence.

That thought steadied him.

It wasn’t anger. Anger would eventually burn out. There was no name for this.

Seungri was talking- he registered movement, sound, desperation- but it all blurred into noise. He was no longer human in Seunghyun’s mind, but a problem that persisted for far too long. A problem that should have been ended all those years ago. A contamination that spread because it was underestimated.

A rat thrives in dark places, unseen, feeding off what it shouldn’t have access to. And Seunghyun had always been the person his younger members would desperately call for to remove infestations.

The thought of how this would look didn’t cross his mind at all, or what would come after. What it would mean for him as an idol, a man, a person. Only Jiyong’s eyes flashed before his own, when he finally registered him- dull with chemicals, but still searching. Still trusting, reaching.

That trust was a debt, and Seunghyun intended to pay it in full. He would finally be the executioner.

Pinned down, the monster’s only defence was his arms flying up to protect his face, but Seunghyun had no problem yanking them away before the next forceful collision. It wasn’t fast, not an onslaught of punches, but instead a wearing down. It was scarier because it was slow, calculated, a hundred times more deliberate than a rushed attack.

Hit after hit, Seungri looked more and more out of it, his face increasingly reddening from preliminary bruising and smudged with blood. The protests and pleas died down until all that came out of him were wet gasps and sobs.

Seunghyun’s face was stone, only a slight clench in his jaw from the effort of beating this monster up. No tears came to his eyes, no crease in his forehead. He had the rest of his life to cry about what happened to Jiyong; he couldn’t find any tears in the moment.

Seunghyun got up slowly.

For a moment, he didn’t move at all, just knelt there, breathing hard, bloody fists still clenched as if they hadn’t received the message yet. The world felt distant, slightly unreal, like he was finally in sync with it.

Behind him, Seungri doesn’t move.

That was all he allowed himself to register- not the shape of him, the damage, the consequences. Just the absence of motion. Stillness in place of noise, manipulation, control.

Finished.

The feeling settles in his chest with a strange hollowness. It wasn’t quite satisfaction, not even relief, but… completion. The end of a task that never should have existed.

He forced his hands to unclench. The ache when he did, a deep, vibrating soreness that told him his body was still very much in the moment his mind had already left.

Seunghyun turned away before anything else could catch up to him. Before guilt, before doubt, before memory tried to reframe what he had just done into something negotiable.

Without looking back, he walked. Each step away from Seungri felt heavier than the last, as if the adrenaline was draining out of his bloodstream in uneven waves. His vision tunnelled slightly- the cold, sharp clarity he had been operating under began to fray at the edges, emotion pressing in now that it was finally allowed space to exist.

Jiyong.

That thought snapped him fully back.

He found him where he left him, curled in on himself, slumped, barely upright. Seunghyun’s breath caught painfully in his throat. Jiyong looked dead, and it wasn’t an exaggeration. If it wasn’t for his chest rising and falling like an animal’s under anaesthesia on a surgical table, he would have had to check. There was a hollowness that frightened himfar more than any visible injury could- his skin dull, stretched over bone, jaw slack like staying awake was too much to ask for.

His little baby had been surviving instead of living.

Jiyong didn’t need to see the visceral, animal panic that hit him, so he softened his posture instead, forced it to die somewhere behind his ribs, smothered it instantly. Dropped his shoulders, lowered himself carefully, deliberately, to his eye level. Non-threatening, solid. Real and safe.

“Hey.” He said quietly, steady. “It’s okay. It’s just me.”

The voice sounded strange to his own ears- too calm for the chaos still roaring through his bloodstream- but the younger responded to it. Barely, his gaze flickered and settled on him, recognistion dawning in small increments.

Seunghyun swallowed. Up close it was worse. The tremor in his hands, the way his body seemed permanently braced for punishment, flinching at sounds that no one would pay mind to. He kept his epression neutral through sheer force of will, despite everything inside him screaming.

This was what was done to him.

This was what he almost lost.

The fact threatened to unmoor him completely, but he locked it down. There would be a time later for grief, for rage, for the sickening what-ifs. Right now, there was only Jiyong, and Jiyong needed him functional.

Seunghyun reached out slowly, giving him time to pull away if he needed to. When the younger didn’t, he rested his hand lightly against his arm. “I’ve got you,” he promised. “I’m here now.” There was still a slightly shake in his hands- the aftermath of violence thrumming through his muscles like static. The tension hadn’t left him yet. It coiled under his skin, restless, but he breathed through it and forced his body to recalibrate.

It was done, now he just had to get Jiyong home.

He wiped the blood on his shirt and braced his arms under and around Jiyong, picking him up with a sickening ease.

Chapter Text

Seunghyun remembered opening the car door for Jiyong, remembered the way Jiyong hesitated, like the space between the pavement and seat was too wide, like he needed permission maybe. He remembered guiding him with a hand that never pushed, never rushed, and then suddenly they were underground, the car parked and engine off, the city sealed away behind concrete.

His apartment was dark when they entered- that felt like a mercy. Seunghyun closed the door behind them and checked the lock twice. Only then did he turn back to Jiyong.

The boy, no longer man, stood in the middle of the entryway, barefoot, Seunghyun’s large coat hanging off him in a foreign fashion. His hair was tangled, face pale and sick and tired and hollow. His eyes were open, but glassy and unfocused.

Seunghyun swallowed. “Okay,” he said gently, like he was talking to a child who might spook. “You’re home, Ji.”

The younger blinked in processing.

He guided him to the couch, slow, slow, narrating every movement. Sit. Good. I’m right here. You’re safe. He knelt before him once Jiyong was seated, lowering himself deliberately so he wouldn’t loom. He had to take control of him in such a state. He checked Jiyong’s pupils first, pretending to brush hair from his face. Too dilated. Too slow to react. His hands trembled faintly in his lap, breathing shallow and uneven, like he forgot he was allowed to rest. The elder folded his hands together and placed his own on top to keep them from shaking. “Can you hear me?”

Jiyong blinked, then nodded.

“Does anything hurt?”

The pause was so long Seunghyun almost repeated the question, then a small shake of his head stopped him. But that almost scared him more.

Seunghyun reached for the throw blanket and draped it around Jiyong’s shouders. He noticed then how light he felt- not when lifting him, but in the way his body seemed to fold inwards, like the throw was too heavy. He stood and moved to the kitchen, deliberately unhurried despite every nerve telling him to move faster. He filled a glass with water, added a pinch of salt in passing, then set it down carefully in front of him. “Small sips. You don’t have to finish it.”

Jiyong stared blankly at the glass, making no move towards it.

The older man picked it up and held it for him, then Jiyong’s hands came up, tentative, fingertips barely touchin the glass but moreso as a gauge of proximity as Seunghyun tilted it. He drank, fingers brushing against the larger hand, swallowed with effort, eyes fluttering shut like it took everything he had.

Despite his gut twisting violently, he kept his face neutral. He had known it would be bad. He had prepared himself for that, but knowing and seeing were two different things entirely. Far more than just exhaustion or fear, this was a body trained into compliance, a mind that had learned stillness as survival. And the worst part was that they were all so stupid to see past everything while it happened right under their noses.

Seunghyun sat beside him once the glass was half empty, leaving space but not distance. He did not touch unless jiyong leaned first, which he eventually did. The soft knock of his head against Seunghyun’s shoulder triggered him to move immediately, adjusting so he could lie comfortably against him.

Finally, the adrenaline began to drain. It left behind a shaking cold that crept up Seunghyun’s spine, a delayed tremor that he ruthlessly swallowed down. He could not afford to fall apart now. “You can sleep, I’ll be right here.” He murmured softly into his hair.

Jiyong frowned, but let his eyes droop shut. Seunghyun stayed like that for a long time: listening to Jiyong’s breathing even out fraction by fraction, watching the tension slowly leak from his shoulders, though it never fully left. He catalogued everything: the way Jiyong flinched at distant sounds, the way his fingers curled into the blanket like he was afraid it might be taken away, the way he murmured something once under his breath that Seunghyun couldn’t make out.

Later, when Jiyong finally drifted into a shallow, uneasy sleep, Seunghyun moved. He fetched clean clothes from his own closet and laid them out nearby, sure the younger wouldn’t mind. He filled another glass of water and set it within reach. He dimmed the lights, checked the locks again, then again. The phone was face-down on the table and he ignored the way it buzzed once- probably Taeyang, probably Daesung- because he could not speak yet.

Only then did he allow himself to really look.

The weight loss. The bruises blooming faintly at the edges of wrists, on his neck. The chemical stillness clinging to him like a fog. No fresh injuries, which made no sense and terrified him all the same. This kind of damage was quieter and deeper. Harder to treat.

Seunghyun sat back and pressed his thumb into his palm until it hurt. He had done the executioner’s work already. That part of him was done. Cold. Silent. Put away.

He watched Jiyong sleep and made a decision so firm it felt like a vow: no hospital tonight. No questions. No outsiders. Not until Jiyong could stand without flinching, speak without fear, look at him and know without doubt that he was safe.

Tomorrow, they would deal with the world. Tonight, Seunghyun stayed awake.

Jiyong woke up choking on air. It caught halfway up his throat, fractured into a sharp, panicked inhale that burned his lungs. His eyes flew open, unfocused, wild, immediately scanning the room like it was a trap he hadn’t mapped yet.

Too quiet. Wrong ceiling. His body locked.

Seunghyun was already moving. He’d been awake all night, dozing in fragments at best, his awareness tuned so finely that the smallest shift in Jiyong’s breathing had pulled him upright instantly. He crossed the space in seconds but stopped short of touching him. “Hey,” he said softly. “Jiyong. It’s me.”

Jiyong didn’t seem to hear him. His hands were clenched in the blanket, knuckles white, chest rising too fast, too shallow. His eyes darted to the door, then the windows, then back again- calculating, measuring. Escape routes. Consequences.

Seunghyun felt something cold settle in his gut. “It’s morning,” he continued, keeping his voice even. “You’re safe. You’re at my place.”

That word- safe- did something strange to Jiyong. His breath stuttered, his face crumpled in on itself like a fault line had finally given way. “I-” His voice broke immediately. He swallowed hard, tried again. “I didn’t- I didn’t hear-”

Seunghyun crouched slowly, deliberately, lowering himself into Jiyong’s line of sight. “You don’t have to explain anything. I’m right here.”

Jiyong’s gaze flicked to him then and immediately dropped, out of instinct.

Seunghyun noticed it instantly. The way Jiyong’s shoulders hunched, chin tucking down, body making itself smaller. The way his hands slipped free of the blanket and folded in his lap, fingers interlaced like he was waiting to be told what came next.

Seunghyun kept his face calm, but something inside him splintered. “Ji,” he said gently. “Look at me.”

Jiyong flinched.

Actually flinched- a sharp, full-body jerk like the words had struck him physically. His eyes snapped up immediately, too fast, too obedient, wide and terrified. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m- I’m awake, I- I didn’t mean-”

That was it.

Seunghyun closed the distance in one smooth motion and wrapped his arms around him before the apology could finish forming.

Jiyong froze for a second too long, then he broke. The sob tore out of him like it had been waiting behind a dam for years, raw and uncontrolled, his entire body folding forward as he clutched at Seunghyun’s shirt like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

“He- he said-” Jiyong gasped, words falling apart between breaths. “He said you’d never- you’d never come back for me-”

Seunghyun’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

“He said you forgot,” Jiyong continued, voice dissolving. “That you were done with me- that I wasn’t- wasn’t worth-”

“Hey,” Seunghyun murmured immediately, tightening his hold just enough for Jiyong to feel it. “That’s not true. None of that is true. I’m here, right?”

Jiyong shook his head violently against his chest, fingers digging in, desperate. “He- he said it every day,” he sobbed. “Said if I was good it wouldn’t hurt so much with time- said if I waited- if I waited long enough-”

Seunghyun closed his eyes. Every word confirmed what he already knew, and still it felt like a blade sliding in deeper. “You don’t have to be good,” Seunghyun said quietly, firmly. “You don’t have to earn anything. I’m here because I choose to be.”

Jiyong’s sobs hitched, confused by that. “You came,” he whispered, almost accusing. “You really came for me.”

“I came for you,” Seunghyun repeated. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Jiyong clung to him like the words might evaporate if he let go.

The elder rocked them gently without thinking, like a baby, his hand resting warm and solid between Jiyong’s shoulder blades. He felt the tremors slowly lessen, the panic bleeding off in exhausted waves.

When Jiyong finally pulled back a little, his eyes were red-rimmed, unfocused, searching Seunghyun’s face like he was bracing for the mask to slip.

Seunghyun met his gaze without hesitation. “Today, we do nothing you don’t want to do. You eat if you can. You sleep if you need to. You ask for anything- anything- and we talk about it.”

Jiyong hesitated, then nodded slowly, like he was filing the rule away, unsure if it would change later.

Seunghyun noticed that too, but he was the most patient person he knew.

Chapter Text

Seunghyun waited until Jiyong slept again.

It wasn’t deep sleep, he knew that much. Jiyong’s body never fully relaxed, breath shallow, muscles tight as wire even in rest. But his eyes were closed, lashes damp, fingers no longer curled like claws into the fabric of Seunghyun’s shirt.

Only then did Seunghyun move. He stepped into the kitchen, closed the door quietly, and took out his phone.

There was only one name he would call. The line connected after two rings.

“I need you,” He said simply. “Off the record.”

There was a pause from the other end. “…How bad?”

Seunghyun stared at the dark counter, jaw tight.

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “That’s the problem. It’s not for me.”

The doctor arrived an hour later.

No markings on the car. No medical bag with a logo. Just a man in a plain coat with a suitcase who let himself in through Seunghyun’s private entrance and didn’t ask questions he didn’t need answered.

Jiyong woke when Seunghyun gently shook his shoulder. Instant fear. He bolted upright, breath sharp, eyes already scanning the room.

“It’s okay,” Seunghyun said immediately. “No one new. Just someone to check on you.”

Jiyong’s gaze flicked to the doorway and froze.

The doctor stopped walking instantly.

Seunghyun caught it: the way Jiyong’s pupils dilated, the way his hands pressed flat to the mattress like he was bracing to be pinned down. “He won’t touch you without asking,” Seunghyun said calmly, firmly. “I’m staying right here.”

The younger swallowed. “…Doctor?” he whispered, uncertain. More confused than fearful, like the word itself had too many rules attached to it.

“Yes,” the man said gently. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Jiyong looked at Seunghyun. Not the doctor.

Seunghyun nodded once. “I won’t leave.”

That was enough, so Jiyong nodded too.

The examination was slow, painfully so. The doctor narrated everything before he did it- even sitting down, even reaching into his bag. Seunghyun stayed close enough that Jiyong’s knee brushed his thigh the entire time, a quiet anchor.

Weight loss: severe.
Dehydration: obvious.
Bruising: none recent- which somehow made Seunghyun feel worse.

Then the questions. “What have you been taking?”

Jiyong hesitated. His eyes flicked downward, fingers twisting together. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “He said it was… to help.”

The doctor didn’t react. “Every day?”

He nodded.

“Did he ever say you could stop?”

He shook his head slowly. “No,” he whispered. “He said stopping would make it worse.”

Seunghyun felt something cold settle behind his ribs.

The doctor glanced up at him briefly- not accusing or panicked, but factual. “We’ll need bloodwork,” he said. “Quietly. I can do it here.”

Jiyong tensed immediately. Needles.

Seunghyun caught it, his lifelong fear. “Hey,” he murmured, turning slightly toward him. “You don’t have to do it now.”

The doctor nodded. “It can wait.”

Relief flooded Jiyong’s face so fast it hurt to see. “…Thank you,” he whispered, like he hadn’t expected mercy to be an option.

When it was over, the doctor packed up quietly. “He’s not in immediate physical danger,” he said to Seunghyun near the door. “But whatever he was given… it wasn’t benign. Sudden withdrawal could be dangerous.”

Seunghyun’s voice was flat. “So we taper.”

“Yes,” the doctor said. “And he needs rest. Food. Stability.”

Stability.

Seunghyun almost laughed.

Before leaving, the doctor looked back at Jiyong one last time. “You’re safe here,” he said gently.

Jiyong didn’t answer verbally, but after a moment, he nodded.

That night, Seunghyun sat on the edge of the bed long after Jiyong fell asleep again. He watched him like a sentry, memorising every breath, every twitch, every soft sound. The adrenaline still hadn’t left his system entirely. His hands were steady, but inside, everything felt coiled and sharp.

Keeping Jiyong alive- not just breathing, but here, would be a challenge. Teaching him, slowly, that there were no rules anymore. That nothing bad would happen if he asked for water. Or food. Or comfort.

Seunghyun reached out and brushed Jiyong’s hair back gently. “I'm here,” he murmured into the quiet.

Seunghyun didn’t tell them anything over the phone. A ‘Come here, now.“ Was enough.

They arrived within twenty minutes, Daesung too frantic to knock calmly. As the owner unlocked it from the inside, they entered like it was their own home, Taeyang behind him, jaw tight and eyes already searching over Seunghyun’s shoulder like his oldest friend was going to be standing there, whole and smiling and furious at them for worrying. But the apartment was almost dead silenlt.

“Where is he?” Daesung asked immediately, voice already cracking. “Hyung- where is he? Did you find anything out? Did he-”

“He’s sleeping.”

Both men froze mid-step, eyes simultaneously snapping to meet their oldests’. Jiyong sleeping meant he was there. He was found.

Youngbae exhaled shakily, one hand over his mouth. “You… found him?”

“Yes.” Tone nor expression revealed anything.

Their maknae let out a sound that was not quite a sob yet, breath hitching violently as his eyes welled. “Is he- is he okay?”

The pause before Seunghyun’s answer was more telling than any words he could say.

They toed their shoes off and followed him down the hallway without a word to a bedroom door cracked oopen. Seunghyun pushed it wider slowly, making every effort to not wake his baby.

Jiyong laid curled on his side, too thin even noticable through the blankets pulled almost up to his chin. His hair was long and messy, face pale, facial hair neglected. One hand was fisted into the pillow like he was holding onto it so he wouldn’t fall.

Daesung covered his mouth instantly. “Oh my-” his high voice broke. “Oh my god.”

Youngbae stood there like he had been struck blind, eyes locked on Jiyong’s face, chest barely rising.

Their youngest stepped forwards without thinking, then stopped himself halfway, hands trembling at his sides as he tried to force the tears back. “C- can I-?”

“He startles easily,” Seunghyun said gently. “If you wake him, stay calm.”

Tears spilling over, the maknae nodded furiously and approached the bed as if it were sacred ground. “I’m so sorry Jiyong hyung… we should’ve listened, I’m so, so sorry.” He sniffled.

Jiyong stirred. His brow furrowed and his breathing instantly quickened. The eldest was at his side instantly. “Ji. It’s okay.”

The confusion bled into sharp fear the moment after his eyes fluttered open. He tried to sit up too fast, breath hitching, eyes darting.

“No- no wait-” Daesung cried softly, panicking. “It’s us- it’s Dae- hyung-”

The man froze, fingers curled into Seunghyun’s sleeve. “Dae…” he whispered, blinking slowly. As the final member stepped into view, Jiyong only stared. “You guys… you’re here.” His voice was high and disbelieving, holding back tears, and the tone broke Daesung.

He sobbed openly, shoulders shaking, “we- we should’ve trusted you, we should’ve known, I- I’m so sorry hyung, I-”

Jiyong flinched at the sound, and Seunghyun immediately placed a steady, grounding hand on Daesung’s shoulder. “Dae.” When that seemed ineffective, he pulled the youngest into a hug, which was returned tightly.

He tried desperately to quiet himself, tears still pouring freely. “I- I’m sorry, sorry, I’m trying-”

A hand touched Daesung’s arm, making him raise his head from the shoulder he was crying on to look at its owner. Jiyong, eyes wide and brimming with tears. He reached out to him, and Daesung had never hugged anyone so gently and yet so desperately in his life.

Daesung had never hurt Jiyong. Always the loving namdongsaeng, always smiling. Jiyong didn’t even hesitate to accept him again, and when the one he had known the longest of the three, Youngbae, approached, he released Daesung and allowed the elder to cup his face gently.

“Thank you guys… for coming for me. And being here…”

Youngbae sighed with relief, shoulders finally relaxing. “You’re safe now. We’re not leaving.”

Jiyong’s lip trembled.

Seunghyun watched something inside him finally give way- not collapse, but yield. Like he was allowing himself, just a little, to believe.

Chapter Text

Daesung climbed into bed without hesitation, like this was any other night in their youth they’d ended up piled together after schedules had run too late and exhaustion had won. He lay on his side and opened his arms wordlessly.

Jiyong barely even hesitated before he curled into Daesung’s chest like he had muscle memory for it- like his body remembered safety even if his mind was laggy to it. The younger wrapped around him fully, one arm slung firmly across his back, the other tucked beneath his head, hand threading into his hair protectively. “Got you.” The maknae mumbled, soft.

He let out a long, settling exhale, pressing his face into Daesung’s shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like an anchor. Shoulders loosening, jaw unclenching, he fell asleep almost immediately- for the first time since Seunghyun had found him, his expression had smoothed into content.

Daesung held him tighter, instinctive, possessive in the gentlest, most loving way.

From the doorway, the elder two watched. At first, nothing was said, instead they simply looked. At Daesung, the golden-hearted maknae, heart too big for his own body, who had never hurt Jiyong once- not by accident, not by yelling. At Jiyong, wrapped up and held like a precious thing, not fragile but cherished. They looked like kids who had finally fallen asleep after a nightmare.

Seunghyun exhaled slowly. “I haven’t seen him sleep like that in so long.”

The other nodded. “Dae’s good for him.”

“He always has been.” They stepped away gently, closing the door almost all the way but leaving it ajar just enough to hear them in Jiyong woke up afraid. Like parents dropping their children off at daycare and lingering too long in the hallway.

They sat at the dining room table with mugs of tea that were rarely sipped from. Dimmed lights, lamps soft and warm, everything was deliberately calm.

Seunghyun wrapped his hands around his cup.

“Tell me,” the other said quietly.

A nod, “He isolated him. Controlled absolutely everything, what he ate, drank, what he took. What he heard. He convinced him we’d abandoned him.”

Taeyang’s jaw tightened.

“He kept him drugged,” Seunghyun continued, keeping emotion out of his voice. “Enough to keep him confused, afraid, and dependent. You saw how thin he is. Terrified, flinching at everything. He doesn’t trust his own memory.”

Silence stretched where Youngbae was meant to say something, so he continued. “He didn’t tell me everything, and I’m not pushing yet.”

He nodded, staring into his tea as if it held answers. “He always protected us from the worst parts.”

“It’s not that. I don’t want to trigger him into something we can’t save him from.”

At that, Youngbae’s shoulders shook once. He tilted his head down, elbows resting on the table, hands clasped together as tears slipped free silently. They dripped onto his lap, one after another.

The older didn’t move or say anything, letting him have the moment.

A few seconds later, he roughly wiped his face with the back of his hand. “We failed him.”

“No,” he shook his head. “He was targeted. Don’t blame yourself.”

Silence stretched again for a long while, until Seunghyun’s mug was empty.

“What happened to Seungri?”

Seunghyun’s knuckles throbbed dully- swollen, bruising, split in places where teeth had torn skin- but he didn’t look at them.

Youngbae did.

His eyes flickered down, caught on the bruising, the abrasions that hadn’t been there earlier. Before he could say anything  else, Seunghyun shifted his hand off the table and rested it in his lap instead. The other looked away. Neither of them acknowledged it.

They sat there, two men who had been idols and brothers and leaders and mistakes all at once, carrying the weight of a past they couldn’t undo.

In the other room, Daesung shifted in his sleep, tightening his hold automatically. Jiyong didn’t wake.

Morning didn’t announce itself wiith alarms or urgency, just pale light creeping through the curtains, soft enough that it didn’t hurt.

Jiyong stirred, and instinct took over before thought did. His body went rigid, breath hitching sharply in his chest as he surfaced from sleep. Muscles locked, heart spiked. His eyes snapped open, unfocused, searching. A hard, full-body flinch ran through im, like he was bracing for hands that weren’t there.

Then warmth. A heavy and solid arm across his back. A chest rising and falling steadily against his cheek. Fabric that smelled unmistakably familiar. Daesung. Jiyong inhaled again, slower, grounding. The panic ebbed in real time, tension draining from his limbs as recognition settled in. His fingers twitched, then curled into the shirt. Shifting closer, almost burrowing, he pressed his forehead into Daesung’s collarbone.

Daesung made a low, asleep sound in his throat. His arm tightened automatically, pulling Jiyong right in without even opening his eyes. His hand slid up and rested between Jiyong’s shoulders, thumb brushing slow, absent circles that made Jiyong want to ask if Daesung was hiding a boyfrined or girlfriend. “Mm… m’here…” he murmured, voice wrecked with sleep.

Jiyong let out a shaky breath that turned into something dangerously close to a laugh. “You… you sound awful.”

The younger cracked one eye open, then the other, blinking blearily down at him. “Rude,” he said hoarsely. “Look who’s talking.” Daeusng was a creature of habit: he took a lot of care to stick to his regime of getting up at 6am every morning, having nothing but a glass of water and a spoon of honey, working out, then doing his singing lessons, but… they weren’t on schedule. The group were not active. Daesung could slack off a little, sue him.

“You’re drooling.”

“I am sacrificing the bloodflow in my arm.”

That did it- Jiyong laughed. Soft and surprised, like the sound had escaped before he could stop it. It startled him almost as much as waking had. He froze for a second, like he didn’t quite trust it.

Daesung froze too. Then his face broke into the widest, sleepiest grin imagineable. “There,” he said, pointing weakly at Jiyong’s face. “That. I did that.”

Jiyong groaned, mortified, and hid his face against Daesung’s chest again. “Don’t… don’t point it out.”

The younger laughed quietly, letting his head roll back against the pillow, careful not to shake him too much. “I’m serious. You laughed, just like you usually do. That’s literally huge, I’m telling everyone.”

“No you’re not.”

“I absolutely am.”

They laid there like that, tangled and warm. Daesung clearly had no intention of fully waking up, drifting in and out as he held Jiyong like it was the most natural thing in the world, forgetting he was asleep in Seunghyun’s bed. Jiyong traced idle patterns on Daesung’s sleeve, grounding himself in the simple reality of touch and familiarity. For a few minutes, the world felt normal.

Then the bedroom door opened. It didn’t matter how soft or careful it was. Jiyong jolted violently, a sharp gasp tearing out of him as his body reacted before his mind could catch up. He scrambled instinctively, turning and burying himself into Daesung’s chest, arms clutching tight, shaking like he’d been struck.

Daesung was awake instantly that time, wrapping an arm fully around him, shielding him. “Hey- hey, it’s okay,” he said, alert now, eyes snapping to the door.

Seunghyun stood frozen in the doorway. His heart dropped straight through the floor, but he fought with every fibre in his being to keep it internal. “It’s me,” he said quietly. “Hyung, it’s just me.”

His breathing was ragged, Seungri’s voice rang like a death toll.

It took a few long and painful seconds for the words to properly sink in, if he had been called hyung at all, before the pattern of footsteps, the shape in the doorway, resolved into Seunghyun and not Seungri.

He peeked out slowly, eyes wide and glassy. His shoulders sagged with recognition, the fight draining out of him all at once. “I-” he swallowed. “I’m sorry…”

Seunghyun shook his head immediately, stepping in, “Don’t. Don’t apologise.” He carefully ruffled Jiyong’s hair. “You looked like you slept well.”

After a beat, Daesung’s lips twitched. He lifted one hand and pointed at Jiyong again, grin returning with full force as he sat up along with Jiyong against him. “He laughed earlier.”

Jiyong made a small, distressed sound and untangled himself from the younger, returning to the warmth Daesung had left behind on the bed where he had been lying and trying to burrow into it. “Dae…” he whined, muffled.

“I made him laugh,” Daesung continued proudly, like a kid showing off a gold star. “Like, a real one.”

Something sharp but warm bloomed in his chest. He smiled carefully. “That’s… really good.”

Jiyong peeked out again, embarrassed but smiling now despite himself. Daesung beamed at him like an older brother being handed his newborn baby sibling. And Seunghyun watched the two of them- watched how easily Jiyong melted back into his arms, how safe and content he looked there- and a quiet, aching gratitude settled into his weary bones.

Chapter Text

Silence pressed in on Seunghyun’s ears until he found himself listening for every shift of fabric, every breath that came from the other room. He hadn’t slept properly. He didn’t think Jiyong had either, who sat curled on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest, blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders. He looked even smaller like this: folded in on himself, eyes unfocused, hands trembling faintly in his lap.

Seunghyun watched from the kitchen doorway, mug cooling uselessly in his hands.

The doctor’s words echoed again, unwelcome and immovable: Physical dependence. Psychological reinforcement. We taper. We can’t stop it suddenly. He’s going to feel worse before he feels better.

Jiyong shifted. He pressed his palms hard against his thighs, jaw clenching. His breathing went shallow, quick little pulls of air that did nothing to calm him. “Hyung,” he breathed quietly.

Seunghyun was beside him instantly. “Yes. I’m here.”

Jiyong didn’t look at him. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere far away, like he was watching something only he could see. His eyes narrowed in discomfort. “I feel wrong.”

“I know.” Seunghyun crouched in front of him, keeping his voice even. “It’s withdrawal. The doctor warned us.”

Jiyong swallowed. His throat bobbed painfully. “I can’t-” His voice broke. He tried again. “I can’t think. My skin feels too tight. Everything’s loud.” His hands curled into fists, knuckles whitening. His leg started bouncing uncontrollably.

The other reached out slowly, deliberately, giving him time to pull away if he needed to. When he didn’t, Seunghyun wrapped his hands gently around the shaking ones. “You’re safe,” he said. “You’re here with me.”

Jiyong finally looked at him, and the desperation there almost knocked the air out of Seunghyun’s lungs. “Please,” he whispered.

Seunghyun’s heart dropped. “Please what?”

Jiyong licked his lips, eyes glassy now, unfocused in a way Seunghyun was starting to recognise: not the dull fog from before, but the frantic searching that came when his body realized something was missing. “The pills,” he said quietly. “Please. I just need- I just need a little. Just so it stops.”

Seunghyun didn’t answer right away. He felt like if he spoke too fast, he’d break something irreversible. “Ji,” he said carefully. “You know I can’t do that.”

Jiyong’s face crumpled instantly. “Please,” he begged, voice rising. “He always- he said it was okay. He said I needed them. It makes it quiet. I can’t- I can’t do this without them.” His hands slipped from Seunghyun’s grasp as he pulled them back to his chest, clutching at himself like he was trying to hold his body together. “I feel like I’m dying,” he sobbed. “Please, hyung. Just this once. I’ll stop after. I swear.”

Seunghyun felt something hot and furious twist in his chest, but not at Jiyong. Still, he forced himself to stay calm, even as his voice shook. “That’s not you talking,” he said gently. “That’s the addiction.”

The younger shook his head violently. “No- no, it’s me. I know what I’m asking. Please.”

Seunghyun moved closer, until he was kneeling right between Jiyong’s legs, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Listen to me,” he said, low and firm now. “If I give you that, I become him. And I will never do that to you.”

Jiyong’s breathing hitched. “He said you wouldn’t come,” Jiyong whispered suddenly, voice small and cracked. “He said you’d give up on me eventually. That I’d beg and you’d get tired.”

Seunghyun’s chest ached, and he pulled Jiyong into him without hesitation, arms locking tight around his shaking frame. Jiyong resisted weakly for half a second, then collapsed into him completely, sobbing into his shoulder.

“I’m here,” Seunghyun said fiercely, over and over. “I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care how ugly this gets, do you understand?”

Jiyong clutched his shirt like a lifeline. “I hate myself,” he cried. “I hate that I want it.”

“I know,” he murmured, hand steady in his hair. “That doesn’t make you weak.”

They stayed like that for a long time.

The younger’s body shook with aftershocks of need and exhaustion. Sometimes he whimpered softly, sometimes he went eerily quiet, staring into nothing. Seunghyun didn’t let go once.

Eventually, Jiyong’s voice came again, hoarse and barely there. “Will it stop?”

“Yes,” He replied immediately. “It will.”

“When?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll be here for all of it.”

Jiyong nodded weakly, like that was all he needed to hear.

Later, Seunghyun helped him lie down, tucked him under blankets, sat on the floor beside the couch so Jiyong could reach him if he needed to. Jiyong’s fingers found his sleeve even in sleep, gripping tight. He stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, foring himself to take a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be easy. He was a caregiver out of his depth, but refused to fail him.

The doctor arrived just after noon.

Seunghyun had warned Jiyong ahead of time and not sprung it on him, and even so, Jiyong had gone stiff the moment the doorbell rang, fingers digging into the couch cushion like he expected someone else to walk in.

“It’s just Dr. Kim,” Seunghyun reminded him quietly. “The one I told you about. He's the one who helped me recover.”

Jiyong nodded, eyes downcast.

He opened the door and ushered the older man in quickly, deliberately, a guard standing by only to let him in before assuming protective shielding. Dr. Kim took in the apartment with one glance- the drawn curtains, dimmed lights, the stillness- and then Jiyong, curled in on himself on the couch. His expression softened immediately. “Jiyong-ssi,” he said gently. “I’m glad to finally meet you properly and not in an emergency situation.”

Jiyong hesitated before answering. “…Hello.”

No clipboard. No rushed movements. Dr. Kim set his bag down and sat in the armchair instead of standing over him. “I’m not here to interrogate you, I’ll only ask what I absolutely need to know.” he said calmly. “I just want to make sure your body is coping.” That seemed to help, just a little.

The checkup was slow and methodical.

Blood pressure first: low. Heart rate: elevated. Hands still trembled faintly as the cuff tightened around his arm. Seunghyun watched everything like a hawk, memorizing numbers he didn’t fully understand but knew were important.

Bloodwork came next.

Jiyong flinched at the needle, breath catching sharply, but didn’t pull away as his guardian squeezed his other hand comfortingly. He stared at the wall, jaw locked, while Dr. Kim worked with practiced efficiency.

“You’re doing very well,” the doctor said. “I know this feels overwhelming.”

Jiyong didn’t respond, but Seunghyun saw his shoulders ease a fraction once it was over.

When they were finished, Dr. Kim washed his hands at the sink and turned serious. “He’s been maintained on something stronger than he should have been,” he said quietly to Seunghyun, voice low enough that Jiyong wouldn’t feel talked over. “And consistently. That’s the problem.”

Seunghyun felt his stomach twist. “But he can stop.”

“Yes,” Dr. Kim said firmly. “But not abruptly. His nervous system has adapted. If we cut it off completely, the panic, insomnia, and dissociation will worsen. Possibly dangerous.”

Jiyong’s fingers tightened in the blanket. “So… you’re still giving it to me?” he asked, voice small, eyes darting between the men like a man accused.

Dr. Kim met his eyes. “I’m giving you less,” he corrected gently. “And then less again. Slowly. On our terms.”

Jiyong swallowed hard and nodded.

“You won’t feel good,” the doctor continued honestly, packing away his instruments and removing any sign that he was on medical business. He looked like a friend visiting now. “But you will feel real for the time being, and we can help you get off them completely.”

He laid out the plan simply:

A reduced dose, carefully measured. Daily monitoring at first. Bloodwork every few days to track how his body adjusted. Sleep regulation. Hydration. Nutrition. Seunghyun mentally exhaled for a long time at the confirmation that he wouldn’t be alone in helping with the actual logistics of recovery.

“And most importantly,” Dr. Kim added, glancing at the taller man, “he is not to be alone during the worst of it.”

Seunghyun didn’t hesitate. “He won’t be. I’m not going anywhere.”

Good, the doctor’s eyes said.

Before he left, Dr. Kim crouched slightly so he was eye-level with Jiyong, his fringe falling in front of his eyes now that he no longer needed to be clinical. “You are not weak for wanting relief,” he told him plainly. “Your body learned a lie. We’re teaching it the truth again.”

He nodded, meeting his eyes.

After the door closed, Seunghyun set the medication carefully on the counter, out of sight but not hidden. Transparency mattered. Control mattered.

Jiyong watched him do it.

“Thank you. I feel bad that you have to deal with all of this now.” he said quietly, eyes on his lap.

Seunghyun crossed back to him immediately, sitting close. “I told you,” he said. “This isn’t something you’re doing alone.”

Jiyong leaned into him without thinking, head resting against his shoulder. His body was still tense, still aching with want and fear, but he didn’t pull away.

For the first time, the path forward existed quite clearly.

Chapter Text

The weeks simply accumulated.

Some mornings, Jiyong woke up already exhausted, like his body had been working all night without him. Those days were quiet by necessity. He sat on the floor with his back against the couch, wrapped in Seunghyun’s hoodies, watching dust drift through the light. Eating felt optional, talking felt dangerous. His hands shook for no clear reason, and the shaking made him aimlessly angry.

Other days surprised him. On those, he woke with a strange, fragile steadiness- as if his mind had decided, without consulting the rest of him, to stay above water. He drank tea, ate without gagging. He answered in full sentences. Once, he even stood at the window and felt the urge to open it, just to let air move through the room. Those days never lasted, but they mattered. They proved something was working.

The bad days weren’t always dramatic. They were a dull pressure behind his eyes, or a sudden certainty that something terrible was about to happen even while nothing did. Seunghyun learned to recognize the signs before Jiyong spoke: the way his shoulders crept upward, his gaze fixed on nothing, he stopped responding mid-sentence.

And then the nights. Sleep was inconsistent and untrustworthy. Sometimes Jiyong slept for twelve hours and woke up stiff and sluggish. Sometimes he slept for twenty minutes at a time, jerking awake with his heart racing, convinced he was still with him.

Through all of it, one thing remained unchanged:

There was nothing from Seungri.

No calls. No messages. No appearances. Seunghyun had even gone back to Jiyong’s apartment to recover some of his belongings and his phone. The silence sat at the edges of everything, neither acknowledged nor dismissed. It didn’t feel like relief, but a thick absence.

Jiyong was the one who eventually broke that silence between himself and Seunghyun.

On a night that hadn’t been particularly bad or good, they were sitting at opposite ends of the couch, the TV on with the sound low. Jiyong had been picking at a loose thread on his sleeve for a long time before Seunghyun realised it wasn’t going to stop.

“He didn’t just… say things, you know” Jiyong said suddenly, eyes stuck on the thread and not looking up.

Seunghyun didn’t move. He didn’t even look at him right away, just let the space open.

“If I didn’t answer fast enough, or didn’t listen…” Jiyong continued, voice flat, “he’d grab me here.” He reached for his own arm, fingers pressing into the muscle just above the elbow, hard enough into fading, yellowed bruises that his knuckles went pale. “Like this. Or my wrist.”

Seunghyun felt something cold settle behind his ribs.

“And if I pulled away,” Jiyong said, swallowing, “or- or if I kept looking somewhere else… he’d-” He stopped, jaw tightening. “He didn’t like being ignored.” He didn’t say the word slap at first. He didn’t have to. His hand lifted halfway, faltered, then dropped back to his lap. “It wasn’t anger,” Jiyong added quietly, as if clarifying a detail that mattered. “It was like… correction. Like I’d malfunctioned, or… I don’t know.”

Seunghyun’s hands curled slowly where they rested, out of sight. His voice, when he spoke, was steady by force alone. “You don’t have to keep going.”

“I know,” Jiyong said. After a moment, he leaned back against the couch, exhausted by the act of saying even that much. “I just… needed you to know. In case something happens. I need you to know what happened to me.”

“I don’t wanna hear that.” Seunghyun said immediately. “Don’t say things like that.” The way Jiyong flinched when Seunghyun raised his hand to his own face, or to pick something up, it made him sick knowing Jiyong’s mind was telling him those actions were driven by desire to harm. An anger settled so deeply within him that it was impossible to ignore: images of Jiyong, frightened doe eyes widened, recoiling in fear as a hand grabs him and slaps him. He shut his eyes for a moment and breathed until the rage simmered.

“We should contact your lawyer.”

Jiyong took a moment to register what that meant. Only then did he finally look at Seunghyun, quickly, wide-eyed. Lips pursed, he shook his head no.

“No? Baby, I know it’s hard. It’ll be hard… but this could put him away for good.” He himself knew that wasn’t the whole truth, that if Seungri could have gotten away from something like the fucking Burning Sun, then this would probably do more damage to G-Dragon than anything. But he still needed to face consequences.

The moment he noticed tears springing from the younger’s eyes, he stopped, turned to him, hesitated before putting hhis hands anywhere near him. “Ji, baby, I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about this right now, okay?”

The younger drew back away from him, crumpling into himself, hugging his knees and wetting the fabric there with his tears. Only a soft whimper between sobs escaped him.

Seunghyun frowned, feeling useless without being able to hold him or help him in any way. “Baby, what do you need?”

“I- you c- you can’t… you can’t turn to the law…” he sniffled, voice tiny, body tinier. His shoulders trembled in the most heartbreaking way. “Seung- S-… he has… in his phone…” he trailed off, shaking his head.

He gave the younger time to continue, but when he didn’t, he gently urged. “What’s in his phone, Ji?”

Without a further word, Jiyong shot to his feet and scampered off, the blanket he pulled along with him disappearing behind a door slammed shut, leaving Seunghyun stunned. Jiyong had never run off like that.

A soft knock. Careful not to startle. “Baby, do you need some time?”

No reply. When he pushed the door open, he saw the younger curled up in the blanket, covered completely. Unsure of how to proceed, he took a few hesitant steps into the room.

“Jiyongie, can you please talk to me? I promise, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to right now. I just wanna know you’re okay.”

At first, the small figure curled up tighter under the blanket and went still, and the elder almost sighed to himself until Jiyong flipped back the top half of the covers with his hands flat by his sides. He stared at the ceiling with blurry vision and pursed lips, chin trembling. “I’m so sick of this. Just leave me alone, please, I’m not gonna kill myself or something.” His small voice was bitter, blinking eyes locked on a random spot on the ceiling.

Seunghyun sat down on the opposite side of the bed, slowly, keeping his face neutral and his hands harmlessly on his lap. “I’m sorry. I know it’s tough to have people treat you like a risk anytime you’re alone, but it passes, I promise it will. I got worried, that’s all.” Since he seemed present enough, Seunghyun shuffled onto the bed, tucking his legs closer to himself, and rubbed where he judged Jiyong’s knee to be through the blanket. The younger didn’t flinch away, but instead rolled his eyes and turned away to the side before sniffling, the tell-tale shake of his shoulders laying him bare. Pursed lips, Seunghyun took Jiyong’s hand that was curled under his chin and held it. “Baby, please talk to me.”

A shake of the head and hiding in the pillow.

“Don’t you want me to hold you?”

At that, Jiyong turned back onto his back and squeezed his hand in a minuscle action, then pulled away, eyes back on the ceiling. “He has pictures of me.” He said plainly, unable to look at Seunghyun or touch him in that moment. “On his phone.”

Seunghyun didn’t react right away, but that alone was telling. His hands stilled in his lap, like his body had hit some internal pause while his mind processed it. He stared at the wall for too long, jaw setting, breath shallow and measured in a way Jiyong recognised as restraint rather than calm. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. “Pictures…” he repeated quietly. “What kind of pictures, Ji?”

The younger swallowed, throat working visibly, eyes fixed on a crack in the ceiling as if it had mercy to offer if he stared long enough. His fingers curled into the blanket, knuckles pale. “Just-” he began, as if nonchalance would help him. “Naked.”

The word landed like a rock dropped in a pond. Heavy, sinking, and inevitable.

Seunghyun felt it in his chest first- the sick, hollow drop- the instant understanding of what that meant in thier world. It was more than just shame or violation. It was career ending, headlines, mass-distribution. Years and years of work reduced to a single image thrown to the wolves.

And his baby had been carrying that alone.

“…On his phone.” Jiyong added, quieter, like an apology for saying it out loud at all. “He made sure I didn’t forget about them. Kept reminding me. Told me every time I thought about leaving to think of-” his breath hitched, he swallowed hard. “I couldn’t forget it even for a second.”

The elder turned fully then, carefully, as if sudden movement might shatter him. He slid closer, slow enough to give Jiyong a chance to stop him if he wanted to- he didn’t. He stayed rigid, staring upwards, eyes glassy.

“Say something.” He said, turning his head finally to look, the begging in his voice slicing at heartstrings. “Please.”

Gently, his hand brushed over the back of the smaller hand as he took it again- a steady, repetitive motion. “You did nothing wrong.” He said immediately, firmly. “Nothing. Do you hear me?”

Jiyong let out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “It didn’t feel like that.”

“I know.” Seunghyun leaned in, brushing Jiyong’s hair back out of his face and stroking his cheek. “I know it didn’t. But what he did… that’s on him. Every part of it.”

His mind was racing now despite his stillness: images he didn’t want flashing before his eyes, of Jiyong, his baby, terrified, tears in his eyes, trying desperately to cover himself (or worse, too defeated to fight back). How long Seungri had held that leverage. How many nights Jiyong had gone to sleep knowing his entire life could be detonated at someone else’s whim.

Something in Seunghyun’s expression cracked. Grief. Real, aching grief for the weight his baby had been forced to live under, for every moment he had that blade pressed to his spine.

Seunghyun shifted, finally pulling Jiyong gently into his chest, one arm secure around his shoulders, the other cradling the back of his head. The muscle memory had Jiyong resist for half a second, then melt into him, breath stuttering as tears finally spilled freely.

“S- so we-…” he hiccupped. “We cant go to the law. He’ll know its over- he’ll feel cornered… he- he’ll post them…”

The elder held him silently for a while, eyes on the wall behind him, hands firmly around him. “Okay baby. We won’t.” He promised hollowly, rubbing his back.

Even as he held him- steady, warm, and safe- something colder and sharper settled behind Seunghyun’s eyes.

Nothing about this would ever be forgiven.

The weeks continued like that- uneven and uncooperative, but real. Improvement wasn’t a line. It was a loose collection of moments that sometimes contradicted each other. Seunghyun learned which silences needed filling and which needed maintaining. But there was no ignoring the huge blockade that prevented Jiyong from getting better,and that was the fact that Seungri still existed, even without being there. Jiyong would forever be his prisoner.

It showed itself in the smallest ways. In how Jiyong stiffened at random noises. In the way he hesitated before answering questions, like he was bracing for consequences that never came. In the nights where sleep abandoned him entirely, eyes open and unfocused, breathing shallow, his body was locked in a vigilance that had nowhere to go.

Seunghyun watched it happen, helpless and furious in equal measure. He could soothe the surface- tea made, blankets readjusted, hands held through the shaking- but none of it touched the root of the problem. The monster who had done this didn’t need to be present to still be in control. His absence was almost worse. A ghost with teeth. A rot.

Then Seunghyun started thinking about the phone.

Jiyong’s phone had been recovered weeks ago, retrieved from the apartment like a contaminated object. It sat untouched in the drawer of Seunghyun’s bedside table, out of battery and forgotten. Seunghyun hadn’t even told him he had it. Some things didn’t need to be put back in his hands.

Tonight, Jiyong was finally, mercifully asleep. Curled on his side, breath slow and even, but it all still felt fragile. Seunghyun waited a long time before moving. He watched the rise and fall of Jiyong’s chest like it was something sacred, counted breaths until he was certain this wasn’t another shallow doze waiting to fracture.

Only then did he get up. The drawer slid open soundlessly. The phone was colder than he expected when he lifted it out, heavier too, like it carried more than circuits and glass. For a moment, Seunghyun simply held it, jaw tight, thumb hovering uselessly over the power button.

Disgust rolled through him, sudden and sharp.

This object had been a leash. A threat. Seunghyun imagined Seungri’s hands on it, the casual cruelty of knowing exactly what power he held. The way he must have enjoyed the fear, the compliance, the silence it bought him. Without realising, his grip tightened until his knuckles whitened.

He didn’t want to do this, he thought, while plugging in the phone to charge. Every instinct in him recoiled at the thought of reaching out, of putting even a single word into the same space as that man. It felt like contamination, like inviting something poisonous back into their lives.

But Jiyong wasn’t getting better.

Not really. Not with this miasma hanging over him, unspoken but omnipresent. Seungri’s silence wasn’t peace, but a threat deferred, a shadow waiting to move again.

And neither Seunghyun not Jiyong could live with that.

The phone powered on. The screen lit up softly, lockscreen unfamiliar, and Seunghyun had to look away for a second, chest tight. When he looked back, notifications bloomed, old and unanswered. He ignored them all and went straight to the messages.

After considerate scrolling, Seungri’s name flagged attention.

Just seeing it made something dark and cold coil in Seunghyun’s stomach. His thumb hovered over it, hesitation flickering with restraint. He knew exactly how badly he wanted to say everything at once. How badly he wanted to rip the mask off, to let every ounce of loathing spill out unchecked.

He couldn’t.

This had to be controlled. Clinical, surgical. Jiyong could never know about this- not now, not yet. This wasn’t about revenge. It wasn’t even about justice.

It was about finally ending it.

Seunghyun opened the thread.

The empty text box stared back at him, neutral and expectant, and for a long moment he didn’t move. He grounded himself the way he’d learned to: slow breath in, hold, slower breath out. He thought of Jiyong asleep behind him. Of the way he still flinched when doors opened. Of the way he’d whispered apologies for things that didn’t need forgiving. Seunghyun’s thumbs hovered uselessly above the screen, his body locked in a kind of quiet resistance. He hated this already. Hated the way the phone fit too naturally in his hands. Hated that he remembered Jiyong’s texting rhythm well enough to mimic it if he had to. That was the worst part- the knowledge that intimacy could be weaponised like this.

For a moment, he almost put it down. Then he thought of Jiyong’s voice, flat and empty when he’d told him about the pictures. Thought of how long he’d lived under that threat. Thought of how Seungri had used this exact violation- this exact theft of voice- to keep him obedient.

Seunghyun swallowed, jaw tightening.

I’m doing this to end it, he told himself. This doesn’t make me like him.

The cursor blinked.

Once.
Twice.

Seunghyun’s expression hardened, something resolute settling over the revulsion.

His thumbs lowered to the screen, and he deliberately began to type.

i don’t feel safe
you said you’d ruin me if i ever left

His chest felt tight as he sent it. Immediate, visceral regret flared, sharp enough to make him want to throw the phone down. It felt wrong in a way that went deeper than ethics. It felt like trespassing inside Jiyong’s skin. Then he realised that was the difference between him and that monster: the idea made him viscerally uncomfortable, while Seungri delighted in it. It lightened the load somewhat.

The phone was silent for a long moment, but the activity status flicked to green.

Seunghyun’s pulse thudded in his ears. He was acutely aware of the room behind him, of Jiyong sleeping just metres away, trusting, unaware. The weight of that trust pressed down on him, heavy and fragile.

Then the screen lit up.

Seungri: I told you not to do this.
You don’t get to panic now.

Seunghyun’s stomach turned.

The tone was nothing like he remembered it- dismissive, controlled, and irritated rather than concerned. Not Are you okay? Not What’s wrong? Just ownership. No mask. The shroud of his disguise was no longer needed. His hands trembled, anger surging hot and fast. He had to pause, force himself to breathe. This wasn’t about what he wanted to say. This was about what Jiyong would be afraid enough to say.

you said you’d send them if i didnt listen
i cant sleep
i keep thinking you’re going to do it

He stared at the message after it sent, guilt gnawing at him. He was dragging Jiyong back into it, even like this. Reopening wounds that hadn’t even started to close.

The reply came quicker this time.

Seungri: Then you should’ve stayed where I put you.
I’m being generous by not doing anything yet.

Seunghyun had to clench his jaw to keep from making a sound.

Generous.

The word rang in his head, obscene. He remembered Jiyong describing how permission had been rationed. How kindness had been doled out like a reward. How fear had been dressed up as concern. Seunghyun’s conscience twisted painfully as he typed again. Every word felt like theft. Every sentence felt like he was crossing a line he couldn’t uncross.

please dont
i’ll do whatever you want
just dont send them

His vision blurred for a second. That was the part that almost broke him. The phrasing came too easily, because it was real. Because Jiyong had said those words, even if not exactly like this. Because Seungri had trained that response into him so thoroughly it lived in his bones and he could hear his baby saying them.

Seunghyun felt sick. He got up, quietly, leaving the room and going straight to the kitchen for a glass of water.

The reply appeared when he set the emptied glass down, calm and assured.

Seungri: See? That’s better.
You always calm down when you remember how things work.

The disgust hardened into resolve, cold and precise. This was ongoing control. He looked at the phone, then briefly toward the bedroom door, where Jiyong slept unaware of the fact that his abuser was still speaking to him through borrowed hands.

Seunghyun stared at the message until the words began to swim.

You always calm down when you remember how things work.

His grip tightened around the phone, knuckles whitening. For a split second, a vision flashed through him, of snapping the device clean in half, of erasing the voice on the other end forever. It took effort not to move. Not to react. Rage would ruin this.

He inhaled slowly through his nose. Think like him, he told himself. Think like the man Jiyong was forced to be.

He steadied himself, wiped his palms against his trousers, and brought his thumbs back to the screen, embodying fearful, but compliant. Broken, but still reaching.

i remember
i just… i don’t know what you want right now

The lie slid out smoothly, and that alone made his stomach churn. Seunghyun hated how easily he could do this. Hated that he knew exactly how much uncertainty to leave in the sentence, enough to invite instruction, to let Seungri step back into authority.

The response didn’t come immediately this time.

Seconds stretched. Two minutes. Fuck, did he say something wrong? Did Seungri somehow figure him out?

Seunghyun’s thoughts spiralled in the quiet. He remembered Jiyong flinching at notification sounds. Remembered how he’d watched the door like it might open into a nightmare at any moment.

The phone buzzed.

Seungri: What I want hasn’t changed.
You don’t get to fucking run away from me and then ask questions.

Seunghyun’s jaw clenched. He could almost hear the tone: mild irritation and dominant certainty, assuming obedience as a given.

i didnt 
i just needed space
you told me im allowed to want space when it gets too much

Another theft. Another truth twisted just enough to survive.

He felt dirty typing it. Like he was dragging Jiyong back through mud he’d only just been pulled from. His conscience screamed at him to stop, but then he thought of how Seungri had never given Jiyong the luxury of conscience at all.

The reply came fast.

Seungri: Don’t rewrite things.
Space doesn’t mean silence. You know that.
Space doesn’t mean fucking Seunghyun getting involved.

Seunghyun exhaled shakily at the mention, and at the stark lack of honourifics.

But there was the leash. Not visible, but tight. Even now, Seungri was correcting him. Reasserting the rules. Making sure the hierarchy stayed intact.

He forced his hands to stay steady.

im scared
if youre going to do something, i want to know

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Seungri: I won’t do anything if you don’t make me.
But we can’t fix this over text.

Seunghyun’s pulse spiked.

This was it. The crack in the door.

Head whirring with adrenaline, he took the smart step to get to the couch and sit down. He leaned back against the couch, eyes closing for half a second as the adrenaline surged through him. His mind raced ahead- too fast, too sharp- but he forced it back down. He couldn’t rush this. Couldn’t spook him.

what do you mean?

A longer, calculated pause.

Seungri: We talk properly.
Like adults. Face to face.

Seunghyun’s breath caught. Every instinct screamed danger. Every protective fibre in him recoiled at the thought of letting this man anywhere near Jiyong again- even in fiction, as a hypothetical, even through borrowed words.

But this was the only way.

He stared at the screen, heart pounding, aware that with every second of silence, Seungri would be assessing. Wondering. Testing for cracks.

Seunghyun typed carefully. Slowly. As if the person on the other end had the power to punish hesitation.

im scared to do that
i dont think youd let me leave again

The response was immediate.

Seungri: You always leave.

Something icy slid down Seunghyun’s spine.

That sentence said everything.

He felt the weight of what Jiyong had survived press down on him: how leaving had never meant escape, only delay. How inevitability had been built into the abuse itself.

Seunghyun’s thumb hovered over the keyboard again.

This was the moment where the line narrowed. One more step forward, and there was no pretending this was just information-gathering anymore. This was bait. A hook being set.

He let the cursor blink for a long moment.

please dont make me come to your place
i cant be there

The words he himself typed shook him more than he expected. His chest tightened as memories that weren’t his pressed in anyway: Jiyong stiff at doorways, flinching at familiar streets, the way locations themselves had become weapons.

The typing bubble appeared. Vanished. Reappeared.

Seunghyun imagined the monster smiling.

Seungri: You’re being dramatic.

The minimisation. The quiet dismissal of terror as inconvenience.

Seungri: Nothing happened that you didn’t agree to.

Seunghyun’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. His hands shook, anger blooming hot and sharp, but he yet again forced it back down. This wasn’t about his rage.

He needed to let Seungri feel in control. Imagining him still bruised or healing a broken nose helped a little.

please
somewhere else
anywhere else

Amidst the silence, Seunghyun pictured Seungri weighing it- not whether to concede, but how much to give without losing the upper hand.

Seungri: You’re asking for a lot.

Of course he was. As if safety were a favour.

Seungri: How do I know you won’t bring Seunghyun with you?

Seunghyun’s breath hitched at the sudden suspicion. It wasn’t paranoia, but calculation. Seungri always accounted for interference, especially from the one person who had actually handed him proper justice in the form of his bare fist.

Seunghyun forced himself to respond immediately. Hesitation would look like coordination.

i wont.
im hiding my phone he doesnt even know im talking to you

Another theft. Another necessary sin.

The typing bubble lingered longer now.

Seungri: He’s protective.
He likes to play hero.

Seunghyun’s lip curled despite himself.

Seungri: I won’t have him watching you like a guard dog while we talk.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling as his pulse thudded in his ears. Don’t worry, he thought grimly. You’ll be walking straight into it, kid.

He typed again, softer this time. Smaller.

just to talk
me and you
i promise if you promise

This one hurt. The innocence and nievite Jiyong still managed to hold, embodied through his own hands.

Seunghyun felt sweat gather at the back of his neck. Every second without a reply sharpened the edge of possibility: of Seungri backing out, of him sensing the trap before stepping into it.

Seungri: Fine.

Seunghyun’s breath stuttered.

Seungri: Not my house.

He sat up straighter.

Seungri: The bridge near my place.
Down at the base. You know where.

Seunghyun’s stomach dropped.

The image came unbidden: the curve of concrete, the shadow beneath it, the river moving slow and dark beneath steel. Public enough to feel safe. Isolated enough to be controlled.

It was perfect, and Seungri himself had suggested it.

Seungri: Outside.
Quiet.
Then we’ll see how you’re feeling after.

The implication slithered off the screen. Seunghyun could practically hear the unspoken after you calm down, after you remember, after you come inside willingly.

Seungri: If Seunghyun’s there, I leave. And I won’t be as patient next time. You will pay the price for betraying me.

Seunghyun closed his eyes. His hands were steady now. The fear had crystallised into something precise and clinical.

He typed the final message with care:

he wont be there
ill come alone

The send button haptic clicked softly.

Across the apartment, Jiyong slept on, unaware that a meeting had just been set in motion that would end everything. Seunghyun lowered the phone slowly, heart hammering, and whispered to the ghost of the monster that hung over Jiyong, terrorising him without end.

“You won’t see me coming, fucker.”

Chapter Text

The night fell unceremoniously. Unaware of what would happen in only a few hours. No dramatic watercolour sky, no omen-heavy weather. Traffic thinned, lights blinked one by one like it was just any other day. Seunghyun noticed that, distantly, that the world didn’t care at all.

But Jiyong slept, and that mattered more than anything. He stood in the doorway for a long moment before leaving, watching the steadyrise and fall of his chest. No tension in his hands, no tightness in his face. Rarely, sleep took him gently, without a fight. The sight anchored Seunghyun’s decision in his chest, grounded it heavy. He needed to make sure Jiyong could sleep like this more than once in a blue moon.

He glanced once more at the note:

Shops. Back soon

Written and left on the nightstand so that Jiyong wouldn’t panic if he woke up alone. With a silent turn, Seunghyun closed the door and put his shoes and mask on, carefully leaving through the front door.

Jiyong’s phone felt heavier than it should have in his pocket. It represented borrowed skin, borrowed fear, borrowed words that still tasted wrong in his mouth. He didn’t need to check the messages again, though he knew the younger would have been obsessing over it. He already knew what they said. He already knew where this was going. He barely registered the walk to the bridge with those thoughts so loud in his head, coat clutched shut, gloves protecting skin.

At the time that the meet-up was arranged, Seunghyun felt with conviction that the rat needed to be handed in to the police. He was so overcome with rage, even though it wasn’t his place. It was Jiyong’s trauma, Jiyong’s life. And he was scared shitless. That would have explained the guilt in his eyes anytime Jiyong turned away. He had the plan ready, to get Seungri cornered and to surrender to the police he would call before the arrangement.

Otherwise, Seungri would go on to hurt Jiyong and haunt him for the rest of his life. He would traumatise and irreversibly hurt more women and men than Seunghyun wanted to think about. Another Burning Sun, a trafficking ring, money money money… It needed to end.

The river was louder than he expected.

It wasn’t quite violent, but a constant, low and unbroken rushing that filled the space beneath the bridge, echoing off concrete and steel. The base of it was darker than the street above, shadowed by the curve of the structure, tucked away from sight. A place to feel unseen even while the city moved overhead.

Public enough to feel safe. Isolated enough to be controlled.

It was perfect.

Seunghyun stopped a short distance away, leaning casually against the concrete barrier, posture loose and unhurried. Anyone watching would’ve thought he was waiting for a friend, or killing time.

Inside, his mind was finally quiet. Not quite empty, but not numb either. Just, settled. He waited for the phone to buzz.

Seungri: Where are you.

There it was, impatience. Mild frustration. Seunghyun exhaled slowly through his nose before pulling the phone out. He typed with steady thumbs and kept the tone small and afraid.

im here
i cant come down
i dont feel safe going under the bridge