[11] DEATH WITH DIGNITY, sufjan stevens
well I suppose a friend is a friend and we all know how this will end

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He swore he saw dislike in G-Dragon sunbaenim’s eyes as the older man questioned him calmly, composure on point, “Can you tell me what happened to the song I let you take a sample from, hmm, Song Mino?”

It took him a quiet, awkward moment to remember what exactly G-Dragon sunbaenim was talking about: G-Dragon sunbaenim telling him “you can use any of my songs and sample them” and he felling floored “wow, a senior I’ve looked up to is giving me permission to use his creation.”

The dislike in said senior’s eyes promptly forgotten, his inner fanboy soul emerging, he smiled at the recollection of the past event and said, “You know I chose your song ‘Ego.’ I inserted the intro part of it—She killed my ego, I know she killed my ego—into the song that I was working on. Do you want to listen to the final product? I have the file saved in my USB.”

But G-Dragon sunbaenim waved him off, “Nah, just send it to my e-mail.”

It would have been easier for everyone had G-Dragon sunbaenim simply said yes. His USB was already connected to the computer and the song was only a few clicks away. Out of what could only be full respect for the Big Bang leader, he hid his mild annoyance behind a cool “oh, fine. Okay.”

G-Dragon sunbaenim jutted out his chin, rising his eyebrow, “What’s the title of the song you wrote? What’s its theme? The driving force behind it?”

He blushed remembering the meaning of the song—the final track of the mixtape he had crafted for the (current) love of his life Jung Soojung—his most important song by far because it summed up the general nature of his relationship with her. He coolly shrugged. “It’s about a girl that is perfect and a boy that knows his place. Thank you for letting me use it, Sunbaenim. It was really nice of you.”

“Oh, that’s interesting.” G-Dragon sunbaenim nodded his head once or twice. “Where is it?”

“Sorry,” he quickly replied, “where’s what?”

“His place. Where is it?”

Surprised by the unusual question, he tried to process it, furrowing his eyebrows. “What?”

G-Dragon sunbaenim stood up. He laid his hands on the table. “Where’s the boy’s place, Song Mino?”

He stood up as well. “H—huh? I don’t know?”

G-Dragon sunbaenim shook his head in apparent disappointment. “You’re lying to me right now, Song Mino.” He walked away from him and to the door and pressed, “You know his place—you do. So, tell me, Song Mino. Where. Is. It?”

Feeling rushed and not given enough time to think things through, he uttered a reply that he regretted as soon as those words escaped his lips, “No—not by her side?”

Fingers on the doorknob, G-Dragon sunbaenim turned his face around to show off a soft small winning smile. “It’s good that you know your place, Song Mino.” Then G-Dragon sunbaenim slammed the door close.

And behind that damned door, open-mouthed, Song Minho stood frozen like a statue. Seriously? What the hell was that?

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What the hell was that? Who did G-Dragon think he was? A senior who could exert power over his junior of seven years just because? What gave the man the rights to? Besides, of course, the seniority culture borderline bullying that seemed to be the root of so many problems. But that was not it, was it? If seniority was the cause, G-Dragon would have given him hard time since the beginning. He would have not given him the permission to sample his song in the first place. These questions cut into his mind, and he was starting to feel a headache ensuing when a voice—hers—filtered into—seeped into—his consciousness, his personal space, curt like she got up on the wrong side of the bed, “Why do you keep calling me, TOP? Haven’t I made myself clear the last time? We’re not friends. Not now, after all that stunt you’ve pulled since last year.”

He stopped on his track but she went quiet as the person on the other end of the line—TOP? TOP of BIGBANG? AGAIN?—talked.

It could not be more than a minute before she resumed speaking, her voice still curt like—he grimaced—like the Ice Princess Krystal Jung that Nate/Pann commenters usually criticized and hated on. “Yes, TOP, you did what you did. Both your apology and my forgiveness cannot change that. Not now.” There was another pause before she replied him again with a substantial amount of bitterness trailing after her words, “There’s no need to worry because Song Minho is treating me better—better—than anyone, ever.”

The proud he felt upon eavesdropping—no, overhearing—her opinion about him lasted for about thirty seconds until he realized he was listening to nothingness. She had probably disconnected the call and was huffing like a petulant child right now so he stepped closer to her bedroom and from the small opening of the door he could see her and—

He was right about her disconnecting the call and wrong about her huffing like a child.

A frown marred his face. Why was she a ball of mess in her bed, cocooned and shielded by the rumpled Egyptian cotton comforter he had come to be familiar with—seemingly hurt and quite in pain; why was she the mess from their first encounter again? A—his frown deepened—a Barbie doll in distress?

It was not like she cried or anything—because she was not—she was just there, sitting—but, but, those sad youth eyes had once made him fall (hard—so ing hard) and it would be ridiculous of him, wouldn’t it, if he did not notice their reappearance again? Especially because the last time he talked to her, just a few days before, their conversation had consisted of her teasing (“You’re already mine—how could you not see it?”) and his denial (“LOL, I’m not”) and it had been easy and she, her charming, pompous, joking, usual self, and he knew it could not be her, nor him, so what could it be—who? TOP? TOP sunbaenim? Her sister’s (close—quite close?) friend? His YG senior TOP? What did Soojung have to do with Seunghyun hyungnim?

“Minho, ‘that you?”

Her voice—not curt, he noted, not anymore—brought him back to the ground. He smoothed his expression, pushed the door open and, smiling, shoved a carton bag to her, “Look what I got for you.”

She only looked confused for a moment before she read the rich and elegant logo on one side of the bag—the tasteful Caslon Open Face embossed over pastel Celadon green—her smile blooming, she chuckled. “You are so buying this for yourself. What? Feeling nostalgic, Minho? Want another kiss from