He knew what colors were. Jiyong could see them as they flashed by: the red brick of a warehouse, the flashing pink neon of a window sign, the sharp electric blue of the crisp winter sky in the morning. He could see them as he stared up at the traffic light - bright, glowing red - his hands limp on the steering wheel. He could see them like he could hear the music blaring through his speakers; like he could taste the remnants of breakfast on his tongue, sweet bread and orange juice.

He knew all these things like he knew two plus two was four, the earth revolved around the sun, Daesung’s voice wasn’t as strong as it used to be and YG liked to come in late on Tuesday mornings.

He knew all this because it was true.

And it was all a lie, a lie so funny he’d laugh if everything he felt weren’t blanketed in an oppressive wash of grey.

Grey - that was the true color of the buildings, the sky, the lights that flashed to green, allowing traffic to resume. Grey was the only color in his world, bitter the only flavor on his tongue. And music - B flat, the only sound he ever heard, an ever-present hum that had driven him mad until all that was left was emptiness.

He pulled into his spot in the garage underneath YG. He threw a backwards cap over his dirty blonde hair and stepped out of the car. Professionalism - not vanity - moved him to preen at his reflection in the reflective doors of the elevator as he rode up to the main floor. He had a momentary flash of his dazzling smile just before the doors parted on a ding. He’d been doing this for far too long to not perform perfectly.

“GDragon-sshi,” the receptionist beamed at him as he strutted into the lobby.

“Jieun-noona,” he said, letting his eyes droop bashfully, “haven’t I told you you could call me Jiyong-ah?” She tsked at him, swatting at his hands as he signed into her book. “Is Teddy-hyung already here?”

Jieun’s face crumpled in an attractive pout. “No, I’m sorry, sir,” she said, looking down to her computer. “It looks like he is out all week.”

Jiyongs mind provided a conversation from two weeks ago. “Oh, right,” he said, smiling to cover his lapse. “He’s in America. Guess it’s just me today, then.” He nodded at her and walked to the second elevator lobby to go up. He let the smile drop as soon as the elevator doors dinged closed. Just smiling had left him tired enough to crawl back home into bed.

He made his way to his favorite studio and flicked the lights on. Absently, he powered on the computer and sat on the black leather sofa to wait as it loaded up.

Relief, that was what he should be feeling, he realized. He should be relieved. A whole week in the studio without Teddy. A week of freedom. Freedom from expectations and disappointed frowns and polite deflections of his self-deprecation. A week - alone - with himself, in this room. He stared, glassy eyed at the four walls closing in on him.

By habit his fingers reached for the notebook he’d stuffed between the cushions last night. He fluttered the dogeared pages of the black spiral. Always a black spiral. Years and years of writing, hundreds of thousands of lyrics filled black spiral notebook after black spiral notebook.

He fluttered the pages again and felt his first real emotion. Terror.

He knew what was in the pages he held. He should look over them, see if there was anything worth salvaging but he knew - he knew what he had written and how absolutely terrible it all was; trite, banal, washed up, useless. He needed a bonfire but no inferno could cleanse the knowledge of his hackery from his heart.

His fingers shook over the pages that named him for the fraud he was. Liar, cheat, thief, the prescience of the korean netizens haunted him. How long had it been since he’d written anything decent much less good? Or had he ever? Maybe everything he’d ever done was as terrible as the notebook in his hands. His stomach twisted around itself and still he fluttered the pages.

The computer glowed at him, the folder of last week’s compositions spread open over its desktop. The screen flickered, a menacing taunt. He couldn’t breathe around the fist crushing his lungs. He let the notebook slip to the floor and turned away from the screen, curling into the back of the couch. His hands moved to shield his face from the dull yellow glow of the incandescent light.

 

Rainy rainy - that was a beautiful song, he thought as he dreamed. Of course it was beautiful, he hadn’t written it. Daesung’s voice was so beautiful in it. He was beautiful.

Jiyong the poet, he mocked himself as we came awake. So many words and all he could use was the word beautiful over and over. He groaned and curled deeper into himself.

Rainy Rainy, again the song intruded on his mind and it clicked, Daesung’s ringtone. He rolled over and unfolded, grabbing for the phone in his right front pocket. The brightness of the screen stabbed into his eyes as Daesung’s name and face flashed over it. He swiped, silencing the music, and brought the phone to his ear.

“Yeah, Daesung-ah,” he said.

“Hey man don’t party so hard! Did we wake you?”

“Seungri?” Jiyong asked.

“Yeah, who’d you think it was?”

“You’re calling me from Dae’s phone!”

“Yeah, but I’m Seungri.” Jiyong could hear the maknae’s -eating grin from across the sea.

“Ya, little ,” he said, sitting up. There was a scuffle on the other end of the line and the muffled buzz of Daesung’s voice over Seungri’s whine.

“Hey, hyung,” Daesung’s soft voice resonated through the phone, “sorry about that. I called and when you didn’t answer Ri decided to call you right back.”

“S’ok, Daesung-ah,” Jiyong said.

“You ok hyung? Did we really wake you?”

“Nah.” Jiyong rubbed at his eyes and over his face, wiping sleep and drool and grimacing in disgust. He pulled the phone away to look at the time. 4 hours, he calculated. “Nah,” he repeated, bringing the phone back to his ear, “I’m just in the studio.”

“You party too hard, hyung,” Seungri’s voice shouted from the background and he heard a smack. Unbidden, a smile curved his lips. Like a spectator he noted its presence, and the blip of warmth that registered in his heart as he listened to his dongsaeng’s fight it out. He tried to hold on to it before it flitted away.

“Ignore Seungri, hyung,” Daesung’s voice returned, a little breathless. “Anyways, we are coming back to town and maybe we could get together? Maybe tonight?”

“If you aren’t busy that is,” Seungri shouted.

“I know you’re busy in the studio,” Daesung rushed to speak over Seungri, “but maybe?”

“Yeah, I can break away,” Jiyong said. “What time tonight?”

“Eight? At that sushi bar Seunghyun-hyung likes?”

“Sure.”

Daesung hung up and he sighed as he let the phone drop to his lap. Four hours, he’d slept and contrary to Seungri’s teasing he hadn’t partied last night. He’d gone out - there were appearances to maintain - but drinking in a private booth alone was not partying. He looked askance as the phone buzzed.

A text from Daesung popped up as he looked at his screen. “Make sure to eat lunch!”

Eating was such a chore when everything tasted like nothing.

As he sighed, another text came through. “Really, hyung, take care and eat. We will see you tonight.” He groaned but obediently rose and shuffled out towards the cafeteria, at least he didn’t have to go far.

 

He sat in the back of the dining room, poking at his rice as the room slowly filled around him.

“Sunbae?”

Jiyong blinked and looked up to Seungyoon and Taehyun, standing side by side, trays in hand, twin looks of trepidation in their eyes. “Sunbae,” Seungyoon repeated, “can we sit here?”

Jiyong looked around to no open tables, the only available seats those directly across from him. He fluttered his fingers and they perched on the empty chairs. He managed to drag up a smile and they settled in, answering grins spreading relief over their faces.

He scoffed mentally. How could they be intimidated? Could they not see the word ‘fraud’ stamped on his forehead? He’d heard Yoon’s work - even the unreleased tracks YG had deemed the ‘wrong direction’ for their next album. For reasons of tone and audience, Jiyong told himself, not of quality, and definitely not of talent.

He looked over his untouched dinner at his replacements shoveling food into their mouths just across from him. A braying laugh intruded on his jealousy and he looked over to where Jiwon and Hanbin sat cracking jokes. He was surrounded by young talent, already demonstrating their value and he had… a black notebook. A black notebook and a handful of hits that dragged at his neck like a noose.

“Sunbae?”

He realized the kids had been talking to him. He nodded and rose to return his tray, food uneaten, not quite fleeing the dining hall.

He sat on the couch again, meaning to go for the desk but not making it. If Teddy were here he’d work. He deserved a day off, he rationalized to himself. He watch the second hand of the wall-clock hung over the recording booth glass. Slowly it traced its circuit, once, twice. He counted each of it’s laps, fatigued by the effort.

Forty-five times he counted the second hand’s path past the twelve before his eyes blinked and dropped shut with a slight burn. His mind disconnected.

 

He came to with a start. The clock had shifted as he blinked - for seven hours. He’d have to drink himself to sleep tonight. He tried to chide himself but he didn’t care. His phone buzzed and he remembered dinner with the group. Suddenly it became impossible to breathe as he saw their faces, heard their voices asking him how the album was coming along. Frantic his fingers scrambled for his notebook. He wrapped it around his face. He couldn’t see them, couldn’t face them.

He texted Daesung: “Hey, forgot I already made plans. Maybe tomorrow-”

He pushed himself off the couch and turned off the computer. The drive home was a haze of habit and instinct and he came to standing in his bathroom, eyes reflected in his large mirror. The light overhead shone a dull yellow - casting everything in a surreal wash. The darkness of the shadows crushed down on him, oppressive.

He looked down to find his fingers clutching his razor, the reflection of the light on it’s blades tantalizing him with hope, the promise of feeling - something. Finally. He caught his breath as he pressed the blade to the soft skin of his forearm. All he had to do was drag, watch it slide across his skin and then embrace the blossoming pain. One slip of fingers and he could find release.

Or perhaps he could fill the tub, water scalding hot, lower himself in and drag the blade just so...

He opened his hand to let the razor clatter to the ground. He followed it, curling in on himself over cold tile. He wrapped his arms around his knees and begged for tears, for rage, for anything but the endless well of emptiness that consumed him.

Time was sand through his fingers as he lay there, sickened and disgusted. Pathetic. G Dragon, he told himself. You’re G-mother ing Dragon huddling stupidly on the floor of your bathroom. Get up. Get UP!

Jiyong stood and stripped, turning the water as hot as it would go and standing to burn himself under its stream. Tonight he’d go out. Surely he could find someone in the endless parade of wannabes desperate to wind up in his bed. Everyone wanted him, after all.  He’d her - or him - into the bed and perhaps in he’d feel something.

 

The rows of over-priced clothing in his closet overwhelmed him. Hanger after hanger of overwrought, pretentious frivolity accused him. He hated it all.

He grabbed a pair of underwear from his drawer and stumbled from the closet. going out, he thought. Instead he went to his freezer and took out a bottle of vodka. He threw himself on his couch in his underwear, bottle in hand. There was enough to get solidly drunk, and no need to share or see anyone.

A chill ran down his spine as he froze, mid swig, eyes on his coffee table. He’d brought his notebook home from the studio in his vacant daze. Incensed, he grabbed for it, knocking the table askew. Rage burned in him and the metal of the spiral dug into his fist for a brief moment before he cocked his arm and slung it, full force, throwing the accursed book into a shelf cluttered with useless junk. A crash of shattering glass echoed through the house and he stood, watching the shards fall and fracture on marble tile.

He took a full drink from the bottle and padded away, to his bedroom. He collapsed into the bed and took another drink. He lay, drinking and watching the light shift over his ceiling from the city outside.

 

He awoke to arms wrapping themselves around his waist.

“Seungri?” He rasped. It had been years since the maknae had used his code to slip, unbidden, into Jiyong’s home and bed.

“You never change your house code, hyung,” Seungri said, face pressed to Jiyong’s back. Jiyong didn’t respond. Seungri continued. “So what did you do tonight, hyung?”

“Went out,” Jiyong lied.

“With who?”

“Some new friends.” Jiyong shifted, uncomfortable, but Seungri’s arms held him tight.

“You stayed here and got drunk and passed out.” Seungri stated, flatly, no accusation in his voice.

“What do you want, Seungri?” Jiyong demanded, struggling now against the cage pressed around him.

“We are worried about you, hyung.” Seungri whispered.

“There’s nothing wrong so I don’t know why you would be.”

“You cancelled on us tonight.”

“I didn’t feel like going out.”

“You’re drinking too much.” Again, just a statement.

“”How would you know?” Jiyong challenged, defensive. “You haven’t been here.”

“Jiyong-ah.”

“You reading my stalker-blogs now?”

“I don’t need to, Jiyong. But it’s true. You are drinking too much, partying too hard.”

“It’s expected.” Jiyong’s voice dripped in irony. “I’m G-ing-Dragon, baby. I’m supposed to party hard.”

“Since you and Kiko broke up-”

Jiyong jerked, body responding, betraying him. “Yeah well everyone knows she’s too good for me.” Bitterness consumed him. Seungri pulled his arms even tighter, squeezing Jiyong too hard.

“Yah, you’re hurting me, let go.”

“No, Ji.” There was a pause. “We talked about you at dinner.”

“You s were talking about me?”

“Jiyong, we’re worried.”

“I already ing told you. Don’t. I’m fine.”

“Seungho texted me earlier. Said he saw you the other night - smoking on the roof of YG,” Seungri said and his voice shook. Jiyong’s blood ran cold and his heart stuttered in his chest. He shrugged, though.

“Seungri I have smoked on that roof for years. So what?” He knew what but he didn’t feel inclined to make things easy on his midnight intruder.

“Jiyong you were on the roof, on the wrong side of the railing.”

Jiyong wrenched himself out of Seungri’s arms. He sat and looked down at Seungri, despite the shifting darkness. “So what?” He hissed. He didn’t wait for a reply. “You ing talk about me behind my back? To the group, to Teddy, to ing Seungho?” He made his voice a whip. “Get the out, Seungri.”

The bed shifted and delicate fingers over his cheeks, his brow, the barest hints of caress in their path. Jiyong hissed again but didn’t pull away. The vice permanently clamped around his heart threatened to crush him alive as he turned, unconsciously, into Seungri’s fingers. Maybe it was the vodka, maybe it was the darkness, maybe it was the way Seungri’s fingers moved to scratch soothingly through his hair.

“I’m scared, Ri,” Jiyong whispered, voice hollow. The fingers kept soothing. “I’m so scared,” he continued. “I don’t want to die,” he said, voiceless. He could feel himself shaking. He was shaking and couldn’t stop. “I don’t want to die but if I fall, if the bus hits me, if I swim out too deep and the water pulls me under…. the emptiness will stop. Everything -” he gasped, “everything will stop and maybe it won’t matter anymore.”

The fingers down his face. “Don’t cry, hyung.”

“I’m not crying.”

A knuckled brushed the corner of his eye and he felt the tears. “Don’t cry,” Seungri repeated and pulled him down, arms wrapping back around him, comfort not constraint.

“I don’t want to die,” Jiyong cried and the sobs began to rip through him. Seungri held him, soft, soothing sounds pouring out of him.

“I don’t know what to do.” Jiyong gasped out, nearly unintelligible.

“It’s ok,” Seungri said, “I’m here.”

He held Jiyong all night.

 

Jiyong woke to them smell of breakfast cooking. Focusing, he could hear sizzling and the permeating hum of the stove vent - and Seungri clattering the pots and pans. Damn it Ri, he thought with affection.

He sat and gripped his head as the room swirled around him. He’d drunk too much but not too much to forget the night before. Damn it Ri, he thought again with a bit more rancour. He lurched for the kitchen, arriving just as Seungri was placing bacon on a plate. The dish clattered as Seungri set it on Jiyong’s expansive kitchen island. He stood to wipe his hands on a dish towel and beamed at Jiyong.

“Ya, Ri, about last night.”

Seungri shook his head and smiled. “Eat, hyung.” He removed his apron and hung it on a hook by the stove, then walked towards the foyer.

“Hey-” Jiyong shouted, feeling off-balance, “what-” He’d expected a continuation of last night’s conversation, some nagging and hand-wringing.

Seungri walked back to him and placed hands on his shoulders. “It’s ok, Jiyong. Everything will be ok. I have a schedule.” He jerked his chin to the plate of food on the island. “Eat. Go to the studio. I will call you later.”

“But-”

Seungri pulled him into a tight hug. “It’ll be ok,” he repeated. There was an undercurrent to Seungri’s words - something to them that pulled at him but his mind was too scrambled to grasp it, instead he clung to the little bit of calm they afforded, patting awkwardly at Seungri’s back.

“I have a schedule,” Seungri said again, pulling back. He patted at Jiyong’s sleep rumpled hair. “Talk later.” Seungri scurried out of the apartment, leaving Jiyong standing, sleep rumpled and confused.

“What the ?” Jiyong said to empty space. “What the ?” He repeated as he sat and ate. Seungri’s omelette reminded him of their first shared dorm and he smiled into his juice.

 

The dreaded grey returned after breakfast - halfway through his drive to the studio. He remembered he’d left his notebook in a pile of shattered glass on his living room floor.

“,” he swore. A good breakfast couldn’t fix everything. He felt surly and didn’t so much as nod at Jieun behind the reception desk as he signed in. facades, he told himself as he stalked to his favorite studio. Of course he’d ed up again. Of course it would ruin his day. He knew he was blowing this out of proportion - because of course he would. He was a constant up.

“God,” he whispered, clawing his fingers over his face as the elevator rode up. He felt impotent, helpless. He pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes. He had to get a hold of himself. Whatever the hell was wrong with him - anyway.

He started as he opened the door of his studio to Daesung sprawled over his couch. “Jiyong-ah!” Daesung beamed, sweet smile curving his lips.

“Daesung -?”

“I had a morning off but meetings upstairs at noon,” Daesung explained. “I thought I’d hang out.” Jiyong felt a tweak of suspicion nattering in the back of his mind but nodded anyways.

He sat himself to work, headphones on ears and eyes glued to the computer screen. He pulled up the files he’d started last week and set himself to what he should have done the day before.

Blessedly, he lost himself in his work. At his hand, a coffee cup appeared and he sipped from it absently until it went cold. When it was hot again he resumed sipping.

After a while he came to - noticing that he’d been fidgeting with a pair of chopsticks for some time. His stomach rumbled and he reached for the bowl of ramen perched on the end of his desk.

A hand cupped his shoulder and he leaned back into Youngbae. He blinked and looked up at the clock. Somehow the day had slipped by him as he was lost in rhythm, beat, bass and drums.

“When did you get here?” Jiyong asked.

“I’ve been here for hours, Ji.”

Jiyong rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. “Where’s Dae? He was here earlier.”

“Schedule,” Youngbae provided. “Come on, finish up.”

“Nah, I gotta-”

Youngbae jerked a hip and Jiyong’s chair rolled across the room. “You should keep your feet on the floor, Ji,” he teased as he leaned over the desk to begin powering down the computer.

“Bae,” Jiyong whined as he walked in his chair back to the desk.

“Come ooon, Ji. I’m buying dinner.”

Jiyong snorted. “Don’t you have a girlfriend or something to go home to?”

“Nah.” Youngbae pause. “I mean yeah I do but nah, I’m buying you dinner tonight.” He pulled Jiyong up and out of his chair, walking him out of the studio to the elevator.

“Good day?” Youngbae asked as the car doors closed on them.

Jiyong nodded. “It was flowing today, Bae. The whole day just -,” he sighed, “it disappeared into music.” He closed his eyes to grab tight to the feelings of joy and accomplishment before they evaporated. “It’s been so long since that happened,” he whispered. “Years.”

The elevator door dinged open and he felt himself tugged along. “Come on boy-genius,” Youngbae teased. Jiyong’s eyes sprang open and ice froze his spine.

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, storming past Youngbae. His voice was too hard but he didn’t care. The perfection of his day - his joy - slipped away and irrational rage filled the vacuum left behind.

A soft hand brushed at his back and he felt Youngbae skip to get even with him as he barrelled through the lobby. “I’m sorry.” And, God, but Youngbae did sound sorry, a small part of Jiyong registered.

He sighed, anger barely contained only by his deep love for his best friend. “It’s been a long day, Bae.” He fished his keys from a pocket and made for the garage elevator. “I’ll see you later.”

“Dinner?”

Jiyong shrugged as he waited in the lobby, body angled away from Youngbae. “Not hungry,” he said. “Just going home.” He could feel the wave of Youngbae’s disappointment wash over him. They were just words and his heart was a lump of useless muscle. Nothing mattered anyways and Jiyong was an . He didn’t deserve Youngbae.

The drive home was agony. He glared at the black notebook sitting in its bed of glass when he came to in his living room. It glared back. He grabbed several bottles of soju from his fridge and retreated to his room out of spite.

 

He woke in a haze of pain, cursing the sunlight. He had to go into work again today. . He considered not, considered rolling over and staying in bed.

He considered other things, chest tight and heart pulsing with adrenaline.

He rolled out of the bed and sniffed at his hair. He only grimaced slightly and figured it wasn’t terrible. He hauled on yesterday’s jeans, a t-shirt and a backwards cap. Awkwardly he rummaged for accessories.

“God, Jiyong,” he spoke to himself, “you are such a ing face piece of .”

He felt like , he looked like , he was absolutely worthless but heaven forbid YG’s golden child not be fashionable on a Wednesday at the office. How dare he be anything less than  perfection.

He looked at himself in the living room mirror, dancing light playing across the wall, reflecting off the untouched pile of glass that accused him with its existence.

“You don’t get sick of being like this?” He scoffed at his reflection. Pathetic.

 

Youngbae was perched on the hood of Jiyong’s car, hair under a baseball cap and sneakers half undone, fingers flying over his phone. “Finally,” he said cheerfully as the car beeped unlocked. He bounded from the hood and plucked the keys from Jiyong’s hand.

“Breakfast,” Youngbae said and sat himself in the driver’s seat.

“Bae, get out.”

“Sorry, Ji, I can’t. Adjusting the seat right now.” Sure enough the buzz of the seat motor filled the tense silence between them. There was no arguing with Youngbae when he was like this but Jiyong made sure to slump as low as possible and slam his door with extreme force as he sat in the passenger seat.

He tried so hard, through the drive, and breakfast and then at the studio, to be angry at Youngbae. Any time he felt tempted to smile he remembered that he didn’t want Youngbae there at all. At least his best friend didn’t try to stay as Jiyong settled in to work.

Hours later Seungri and Daesung turned up and dragged him to lunch but left him again to work through the afternoon. He found himself surprised when he pulled himself away late that night to the realization that no one had bothered him for dinner. Still - another successful day and he could not remember the last time he’d had a run of two of those together. He almost let himself imagine Teddy’s pleased face when he drove into his parking spot at home.

 

He should have known or expected that his afternoon and evening were an anomaly: Seunghyun was fiddling with his phone, sitting cross-legged across the hall from Jiyong’s apartment door. He ignored Seunghyun and let himself into his apartment.

“Dammit, hyung,” Jiyong cursed as a long leg slid to keep the door from shutting Seunghyun out. Seunghyun gave him a large smile and toed off his shoes. “You could have gotten the code from someone if you were determined to make yourself at home.”

Seunghyun shrugged, smile still ridiculous on his face, and strutted into the living room, not bothering with sofas, instead lowering himself down onto a rug to flip through Jiyong’s DVD collection. Jiyong went and sat next to him, scowling.

“I’m not a ing child Seunghyun, I don’t need babysitters.”

“I know. We know.”

“So what the are you all doing?”

“Not leaving you alone,” Seunghyun said, pulling out a DVD and holding it up for Jiyong’s approval.

“I’m not gonna go and ing kill myself.”

Seunghyun shrugged and waved the DVD, insistent.

“So- what?” Jiyong was going mad with Seunghyun’s passivity.

“We love you.” Seunghyun said, matter of fact, returning the DVD and fishing for another one. “We love you and you aren’t alone and whatever you need, we will be here.” He looked up, face serene as he met Jiyong’s eyes.

“What if I want to be alone?”

“Do you want me to go?”

Jiyong panicked and grabbed for Seunghyun’s wrist, only realizing too late that Seunghyun hadn’t moved.

“Movie? Pizza? Beer?” Seunghyun asked, lifting another case. Jiyong nodded, at the DVD, at Seunghyun’s proposal, at all of it, warmth spreading through his chest as Seunghyun stood to call for delivery.

 

Hours later they were both pleasantly buzzed and three films into a marathon, Daniel Craig teasing some cute white boy in an Art Gallery as Jiyong snuggled into Seunghyun’s warmth. The fire Seunghyun built when the food arrived and the television provided their only light. He actually felt happy, had for several hours.

“That second one was terrible,” Jiyong slurred. Seunghyun nodded and laughed indulgently. “I don’t know why we are watching this, we can’t even read the subtitles,” Jiyong added.

“Speak for yourself,” Seunghyun rumbled, “I’m functional until my third bottle.” He fluttered fingers the direction of the open wine bottles on the coffee table.

The action moved on as they watched, Jiyong grateful that he had seen the movie so many times he didn’t need to read. As explosions erupted on screen Seunghyun leaned to whisper in Jiyong’s ear. “Do you want to talk about the mess in the corner?”

Jiyong’s buzz evaporated as he regarded the notebook and broken glass. He looked up at Seunghyun and saw the sympathy in his eyes. Seunghyun probably already knew - through his own struggles - what Jiyong had felt when he threw the notebook. Seunghyun knew what it was to fight to create and to hate every word one wrote.

He stood and walked gingerly to fish the notebook from its bed, sinking down by the fire to flip the pages open. Seunghyun moved to join him, sitting cross legged in front of him, only the slight list to his body betraying his inebriation.

“This - is all -,” Jiyong said, running his fingers up and down over his scrawl, page after page of it, “bull.”

Seunghyun placed a hand on his and slowly eased the book from his grasp. He turned the book over and began to flip through, reading as James Bond killed henchmen in the background. He read and Jiyong marveled at his lack of anxiety as he watched Seunghyun mouth the words he’d written.

“You’re right,” Seunghyun whispered. He looked up and there was sympathy in his eyes. Sympathy, not pity, Jiyong noted. “This is .” Jiyong should have been offended but the quirk of Seunghyun’s lip offered him absolution and he took it. “How wonderful that you’ve done this now.”

Jiyong looked at him in question.

“Now that you’ve got all the crap out, it can only get better.”

“God you , how is that supposed to make me feel better?” Jiyong was laughing and Seunghyun’s eyes danced. He plucked the book from Seunghyun’s fingers and tossed it into the fire. They held each other and laughed, watching the notebook burn. Seunghyun would never, could never lie to him. Thankfully, Seunghyun never expected perfection.

“Neither do the others,” Seunghyun said soberly when Jiyong voiced the thought aloud. Warm hands gripped his shoulders and eyes looked into his. “We don’t expect perfection, Jiyong.”

Overwhelmed, Jiyong nodded.

 

The next morning he cleaned up the mess of broken shards, tossing them into the waste bin just as Daesung charged into his kitchen, laden with groceries. Jiyong sighed and accepted that Seunghyun had been telling the truth and the members were going to just make general nuisances of themselves.

“I’m going to shower,” Jiyong said flatly at Daesung’s too-chipper smile.

Over breakfast, freshly washed and scrubbed, Daesung prattled away with gossip of their mutual friends in Japan. As Jiyong felt himself disconnect, moodiness washing over him, long fingers settled over his.

“Jiyong,” Daesung said. Jiyong looked to meet his eyes. “It was me that has been getting everyone to pester you.”

“You-” Jiyong accused.

“When - after my accident - the-” Daesung’s face fell, smile stripped away leaving the memory of old pain. “The depression was hard. People tried to help but - it’s something you have to come out of some way.”

“I’m not depressed,” Jiyong said reflexively.

“You are, hyung, you’re so depressed you’re ripping yourself apart,” Daesung said, voice gentle, a caress that wrapped itself lovingly around Jiyong. “I don’t know how to make it better. I don’t know what to do. But I don’t want you to be alone. I can’t fix it, but I love you. We all love you. No matter what.”

Jiyong felt tears stabbing at the corners of his eyes. “I’m to be around right now,” he confessed.

“Yeah you are,” Daesung agreed. He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. We aren’t by your side because you’re perfect, or a genius, or even very nice. We are with you because we love you, Jiyong-ie.”

The tears began to course down his face in hot, thick trails and Daesung moved around the kitchen to wrap him in warm arms.

“Why?” Jiyong sobbed.

Daesung’s arms flexed as hands his hair. “Because -” he paused for a long minute, just Jiyong’s head. “I’ve seen the little bit you’ve written lately. You’ve been giving me smaller parts in Big Bang songs. ”

Jiyong pulled back, alarmed. “But”

“I was angry when I first noticed it,” Daesung confirmed and Jiyong was lost by this whole conversation. “But I can’t stop singing, can’t, for all that it is destroying my voice.”

“You won’t listen to your doctors and stop to let yourself heal.”

“I can’t Jiyong. I can’t. I have to sing.”

“I know.”

“So you cut my lines. You make Youngbae do the heavy-lifting, you use Ri more. You bring me in at the , but give me less.”

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” Jiyong tried to explain, ashamed that Daesung had discovered what he’d been doing.

“I realized that, hyung,” Daesung said.

Lips pressed into his forehead. “That is why I love you,” Daesung whispered into his hair. “Because you don’t try to change us but you do everything you can to care for us. And that’s why none of us are going to leave you alone. We won’t push you, but we won’t leave you either.”

Jiyong nodded and let Daesung hold him.

 

Weeks slipped by in cresting waves of despair and work, dotted with moments of joy, fractional bits of peace that somehow always centered on one of his bandmates. There was a tense moment when Youngbae came to him, with the temerity to apologize for letting his relationship keep him from seeing how Jiyong had been struggling. There was too much between them for Jiyong to feel angry about that.

Perhaps a month later - a round of concerts on their horizon - Seungri was sitting with Jiyong and Teddy in the studio. Usually when other member sat in they kept to themselves, letting the song-writers do their business, but today Seungri focused on the work. He listened as Jiyong and Teddy went back and forth in ever-escalating frustration.

Later, Jiyong would be hard pressed to remember exactly what Seungri said, exactly what happened. But Seungri said something and the jagged pieces of the song in Jiyong’s mind fluttered together into a symphonic whole. It was at that moment that he realized what he had been missing this whole time. His band-mates had tried to show him but he hadn’t understood.

He could not create alone. And so he called YG up and requested that ’s schedules be cleared as much as possible. He needed them with him, not as support but as voices, each individual and important, to shape what he was creating for them. What he needed was them.

And they came to him, he asked for their talents, their minds, and they gave willingly. The night that Loser and Bae Bae were released he took a moment and pulled them together, arms straining to touch all four.

“I’ve been a this last year,” he said, and they nodded, affectionate smiles on four faces. “But you never abandoned me, you never left me.” They nodded again and he felt the lump in his throat fight to keep him from talking but he plowed on. “It was bad for a while but - it got better, a little, bit by a little bit, because of you.”

“No, Ji,” Youngbae corrected.

“Because of you,” Daesung finished.

Jiyong didn’t have the strength to argue. It didn’t matter in the end. What mattered was the music, playing in the speakers around them. What mattered was the four men standing beside him. What mattered was he’d just had his first week without the empty, grey misery that had plagued him this last year. He might slip back into it like he’d been doing these past few months, but as always he’d come out if it, faster and easier each time because at last he had what mattered.

At last, he had found his muse: Big Bang.