He is made of music.

eighteen is two years (too young)

| little thoughts and quiet moments |

Jiyong is an artist, Seungri thinks. He's different from Seungri. 

Seungri writes songs like they're a task. He thinks and repeats words that sound nice without much thought, sits down at his laptop and treats it like it's an assignment, because that's what it is to him. Seungri considers himself more of a dancer than an artist, and it shows. 

Seungri would much rather spend time inside a dance studio, sweat and breathless lungs, stinging muscles and aching bones. Dancing is something he understands, the thrill of moving his body and showing every emotion, project it on display for everyone to see and critique— he understands that.

It's part of the reason why Seungri didn't find it difficult to adapt to becoming an idol, they're both wearing masks, just of different kinds.

Seungri thinks he could understand music too, if he really tried to. Music and dancing go hand-and-hand after all, and while Seungri might only have a rudimentary understanding of producing music, it doesn't mean he doesn't know anything at all. 

Music is the singing in his bones when he moves in front of others, singing and singing and singing, it is the tempo of his heartbeat in his ears, and the shining of the lights overhead as loudspeakers pump in the back. Music is feeling alive almost— a way to show that he's alive. But for Jiyong, it's different. 

Jiyong puts his life and soul into his music, he shifts and spills with passion and poetry and notes that resonate in his blood. Music isn't a way for him to show he's alive, no, for Jiyong, music is living itself. Jiyong lives and breathes music, loves it beyond anything else, and it shows.

Seungri could wake up in the middle of the night and find the older boy crouched over a notebook, dark scribbles splashed across the pages, and song lyrics that Seungri knows will never see the light of day. 

If someone were to ask for an accumulation of Seungri's experience as Jiyong's roommate, what he remembers is this: the ink on his skin, the dark bruises underneath his eyes, the sound of pen on crisp paper, the light in his eyes right before he crashes and a hand— soft, firm, and heavy, fingertips stained with ink curled around his wrist, pressed against his pulse.

Seungri breathes in cold air, and it flutters around his ribcage, bird-like, as his eyes peel open, slowly. 

There are papers on the ground, crumpled around a pair of pants, and it's covered almost every inch of their floor. Big sheets of white paper with dark blue scribbles, wild and eye-catching. Just one of these papers were worth at least twenty of Seungri's.

Seungri blinks sleepily and shifts forward, squinting at the lights that are still on in their room. He can hear the sound of a pen scratching on crinkled paper, the same rhythmic noise Seungri had fallen asleep to— Seungri glances at the bedside clock that read 12:23am— three hours ago. 

Seungri rolls onto his side, lifting the covers slightly, so that he faces Jiyong's desk, the one that they'd somehow managed to scrounge up enough money for. They'd picked it out at IKEA as a birthday gift; a nice white desk with cabinets running down its right side— Jiyong had fallen in love with it at first sight. “Hyung?” he murmurs in a daze. 

His brain is full of static, fuzzy and quiet. Seungri can barely form words in his mouth. Seungri swallows back a yawn, and musters the strength to open his eyes fully. “Why are you—” he yawns again, slow limbs stretching towards the edge of their bed “—still awake?”

Jiyong looks over wi