A series of swift encounters predebut leads seungri to believe that he has known kwon jiyong all along

Jiyong is watching again. Youngbae knows because he too can see the pale dark eyed boy standing outside the YG building. The boy has his neck craned like he has every other day, squinting up at the top, as if he is searching out the sky on the cloudless day like he has every other day, but Youngbae knows this is another gormless country boy who has never seen anything like this in his own  tiny town. “You’ll see him again” he says flippantly because he knows the type, the ones who come back to look, look, look, but never touch. He knows the ones who are dazzled by the thoughts of thousands of screaming fans, the ones who dream of the flashy cars and the endless parties, but never consider the work, the sweat, the never ending hours of pain and waiting waiting waiting, who can’t even begin to comprehend what goes on behind the closed doors of these towering dreams.They are the ones that pray their awkward limbs will co-ordinate into a smooth dance, the ones who pray their sweet face and rough voices will get them through. Jiyong looks out thoughtfully. “Yeah, probably.”

Because Jiyong knows the type too. He is the one who stays behind at the dance studio to practice until he can replay every single step in his mind, out on his palm, out with his feet, until the movements becomes as easy as breathing, as blinking. He is the one who will cheerfully carry and fetch and carry and fetch because he knows every step brings him closer to holding onto something. That boy is the type who has been dreaming in secret, the one who will someday pluck up the courage to enter those glossy doors downstairs, the one who isn’t going to give up now, not ever.

Jiyong knows, so he lets go of the windowsill he has been gripping and hesitantly, lifts a hand in acknowledgement. He is sure the boy downstairs can’t see, but downstairs the boy whether in acknowledgement or by accident, bobs his head once, just once, so quick that if Jiyong hadn’t been trained to notice things, he wouldn’t have. And that little bob satisfies him, justifies the ten minutes he had spent every day this week watching the boy downstairs and somehow ridiculously pleased with himself, he heads to practice.