He doesn’t just write, Jiyong realizes. He is dreaming of how the story should be.

Words starting to squirm behind his eyelids, rhythm drumming in his sense, and there are flashes of red dots when he shuts them too tight, his head weight a dozen kilotons. He smells like tobacco, his beard is sprouting, messy. His mom would scrunch her nose and drag him to the nearest bathroom if she’s here. He is missing home.

The pattern of Seungri’s steps startles him. Even so, he’s still shocked when the younger man stands in his room.

“What are you doing here?”

Seungri puts a red paperbag on Jiyong’s unfinished lyrics. “Present for you, hyung.”

“I’m busy,” Jiyong shushes him. “When did you come?”

“Just now,” Seungri yawns. “I’m just going to go home and sleep.”

“And then going out again. Where will it be next? Shanghai? London? Las Vegas?”

To Jiyong’s surprised, Seungri goes rigid. His eyes scan the room, eventually lands on some crumpled paper abandoned near the edge of the table.

“What?” Jiyong challenged him and for a moment, they’re back to the days when Jiyong was that much superior than Seungri was.

“It’s not like you need me here,” Seungri clears his throat, shoving his hands in his pocket, his ripped jeans are black and brand new. “If you –”

“I’d let you know,” Jiyong begins to write on his skin with his blue pen. Then ink stays and smudged.

“Yeah,” Seungri’s tone is folded into himself. “Announcing it to the whole world.”

“What?”

“SNS,” Seungri smiles, sharp and accurate. “I need you Seungri. Right?”

“Right,” Jiyong reaches for tissue. “And you’re going to boast about it on stage.”

“Of course,” the maknae laughs. “What else am I going to do to get the fame?”

“You can’t keep a secret.”

“I learned from the best teacher, I suppose.”

The room is getting smaller and freedom tastes of fresh dew, clinks of Church bell, dandelions, everything that’s outside. “Then learn to shut up.”

“Then you’d have nothing else to talk to me about.”

“I’ll call you once in a while.”

“I meant when I’m around,” Seungri’s shoulders slump forward, a sign of defense, a warning of white flag. “Like now.”

“I’ll text,” Jiyong runs his fingers through his hair. It’s sticky, sweaty, tangled in some parts. “What do you want me to do?”

“What you used to do,” Seungri answers without missing a beat.

When Jiyong just stares, he excuses himself out and it’s over.

.

.

.

Hate is more manageable than love. It takes less space in his head and definitely in his heart and it’s easier to shift it into something else, something he could put in a box along with things that don’t matter in the end but love –

Love is disgusting. Love is a sickness and he’s definitely sick of it, of all kind that made him vulnerable, incoherent. He’s lying to himself and he’s honest when everyone is looking. He’s open when he knows that people would take it as a joke, as something that might not be true. He’s loud, very loud, when he’s certain that there are people listening, not just one.

Not just Seungri.

Jiyong hates love, hates loving, hates the way it’s eating him up from the inside.

.

.

.

Things always strange when it comes from Daesung so Jiyong just sit there, speechless while the younger sips his tea in a calmness of the sea he possesses, probably the side effect of his continuous drumming and LEGO building.

“It’s true though,” he laughs when Jiyong refuses to talk. “Sometimes you’re just jealous.”

Just jealous.

Jiyong shakes his head, confused. “I’m not jealous.”

“Oh well,” Daesung nods. “My bad, then.”

“It’s not jealousy,” Jiyong gives up to him. If only it’s this easy to give up to anyone else. “I don’t even know what it is.”

“How does it feel?” Daesung’s voice, as always, gets softer and raw with pain edges when he speaks. It rubs on Jiyong’s scar like bandages.

“White.”

“White?”

Jiyong is always in a wake of rainbow, of all sorts of sparkles, glittering under the spotlight, walking magnet. If there’s something explainable, it’s that despite everything, he wants to be nothing.

“White,” he repeats, the wind swirls around them. “Just white.”

Daesung hums. “Hyung, if you can start over, will you take the same path?”

Time is an illusion human made to count memories, to be certain of the amount of what has passed and when will the others come. Turn back, run forward, stay still…what if we’re just running in circles?

“Yes,” Jiyong wraps his arms around himself, a living origami, trying to shape-shift until he can’t recognize himself. “Yes.”

.

.

.

“Give the key back to me,” Jiyong puts the small bottle down. His nails are still wet purple. “You keep on barging into my house without permission.”

“I got you a cat,” Seungri looks around, not amused by how Jiyong hadn’t cleaned his place.

“Cat?”

“For luck,” Seungri grins. “Keychain.”

“I believe in hard work,” Jiyong laughs. “But thanks.”

Seungri mutters something Jiyong can’t catch.

“What?”

“People think –” Seungri pauses, his gaze slides up from Jiyong to the ceiling. In Jiyong’s mind, he looks like he’s praying, like Seungri is waiting for something to happen. “People think we had a fight.”

“How is that?” Jiyong frowns. “And who are these people?”

“My friend,” Seungri says hesitantly. “People.”

“I don’t know people,” Jiyong claims selfishly, his heart hammering in his chest. “People don’t know us either.”

“Hyung –”

“Me,” Jiyong corrects himself. “People don’t know me.”

“But I do,” Seungri clears his throat, his eyes closing. “I know you.”

“Do you?” Jiyong’s throat tightens with anger. “Nobody does.”

 Seungri leaves and Jiyong doesn’t believe in many things.

.

.

.

There is nothing beautiful about love. Everything hurts and there is never a day one or the last moment, there just nothing about it that’s right.

There’s no point of love or loving or being in love.