16

Seungri helps Jiyong pack, dragging his feet and unfolding and refolding Jiyong’s jackets multiple times.

“I don’t get it.”

“No surprise there,” grins Jiyong, but then he frowns at Seungri’s unhappy pout. “What?”

“Why are you always travelling to America?”

Jiyong gives him a look like it’s obvious. “It’s America, duh.”

Seungri crawls under the bed, searching for Jiyong’s favourite pair of shoes (even though he knows they’re in the closet). “But what does America have that Korea doesn’t?”

“Too much to list, Seungri-yah. What does Korea have that America doesn’t?”

There is a honk from outside - the taxi is here to take Jiyong away. Seungri reluctantly fetches the shoes as Jiyong zips up his bags and slings them over his shoulder, staggering slightly under their weight.

“Korea has me,” mutters Seungri.

“Nice try,” smiles Jiyong, but he looks around, stands on his toes and presses lips to Seungri’s cheeks. “I’ll call you when I get there.” And then he’s out the door in a whirl of blonde hair and chunky high tops, sliding down the staircase banister despite the repeated warnings from Trainer Hwang that he’d end up as Jiyong-pancake on the ground floor.

Seungri falls back onto the too-large bed, allowing a smile at the wet patch on his cheek. It was only for three days, after all.

Jiyong has never been one for flimsy, skeletal little fold-up umbrellas, especially when the rain pounds against the concrete pavement and sweeps college students off their feet.

It’s a thundery July afternoon and Jiyong feels perfectly, wonderfully dry under his red-and-yellow circus tent of an umbrella, sheltered by its smooth, sweeping curves and robust wooden stretchers. He’s taking the time to fish his iPod from his coat pocket, smirking inwardly at the poor souls clutching ricketty little excuses for umbrellas turned inside-out in the howling wind, when -

“Hey.”

It’s the new kid from Gwangju, the one with the dark hair and even darker eyes, and he flashes a smile full of crooked teeth and sincerity.

“I hope you don’t mind, but it’s just that I couldn’t help noticing that you were heading the same way as I am. Not that, you know, I really pay attention to where you - or anyone else for that matter - live, I... I just figured that your umbrella is big enough for the both of us.”

The kid ends his rambling monologue with a mumbled but it’s okay if you don’t want to, a nervous fidgeting with his drenched textbooks, and another earnest smile. Jiyong likes him already.

“I’m Kwon Jiyong.”

“L-Lee Seunghyun.”

Like he said, Jiyong has never been one for flimsy, skeletal little fold-up umbrellas, especially the kind only fit for one.

 

18
 

29th December, 2007

Jiyong has told Seungri not to play near fire time and time again, but Seungri didn’t listen. Seungri didn’t listen and look - look where he is now.

It’s hard to stay mad at little Seungri when he’s propped up against a mountain of fluffy pillows (and they look like they could swallow him whole), eyes darker than dark (or maybe it’s because of the backdrop of white white skin), and hair sticking out at odd angles (but it just makes him look cuter).

Jiyong has to remind himself - every few heartbeats - that it’s Seungri’s fault and no one else’s. Only Seungri’s fault that he mucked around too close to the front of the stage, drawn by the pretty lights and golden crowns. Seungri’s fault that he leaned over the firework cannon at exactly that moment. Seungri’s fault that Jiyong’s nails have been gnawed to little stumps and oh, god, Jiyong’s stylist is going to annihilate him.

Jiyong has little bursts of vindictiveness, every now and then. Seungri deserves it! Seungri shouldn’t be so stupid - shouldn’t interrupt their concert like that - shouldn’t disappoint all their fans.

Shouldn’t make Jiyong worry so much.

Seungri’s eyes are open, just barely.

“Go to sleep,” Jiyong says. It’s an order.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” A grating, harsh accusation.

“I... I’m waiting for my next dose of morphine.”

Jiyong’s fingers tighten around Seungri’s own tiny fist, squeezing hard, so hard veins stand out against Jiyong’s skinny arm.

“I’m sorry, hyung.”

The grip loosens.

“Whatever.”


Jiyong forgives him, like he always does.
 

19 [ crack!fic and dedicated to all the Mario Kart players out there ;) ]

It’s one of those rare days when Big Bang has nothing to do; Youngbae and Daesung wander off to church, Seunghyun disappears to God-knows-where, and Jiyong locks himself inside his room with ominous warnings about the dangers that should befall anyone who dared disturb him.

Seungri finds the Nintendo 64 under a pile of discarded clothing and dog toys, tangled around four controllers (one red, one green, one yellow and one blue with a faded Pikachu sticker) and a tub of games. Four unsuccessful attempts at plugging it into the TV later (I mean, how was he supposed to know that the red plug went into the red socket?), the screen flickers lazily to life with a cheerful jingle.

Please insert Controller 2.

“Damn.” Seungri rocks back on his heels. It’s either risking an extremely violent death or spending the next few hours in monotonous boredom.

He already knows what he’ll choose.

-0-

“Hyung?”

“Go away.”

“But-”

“Piss off, Seungri!”

“It’s important, hyung!”

“The sky better be falling down, or something...”

“Um, yeah, something like that...”

-0-

“You made me come all the way out here for this?”

“It’s not that far, hyung, just three metres-”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Just one game, please, it’ll be five minutes, max, I swear-”

“Don’t give me those eyes, Seungri. I - okay. One game. Oh hey, is this Mario Kart?”

-0-

20

“We won.”

Jiyong finally lets the smile split his face into two, grinning up at the ceiling, and Seungri can almost see the sunshine spilling out from his eyes. “We won, Seungri, we did it, we won.” The trophy is set with a satisfactory thump on the bedside table, and Jiyong with his hands free flings the window shutters open, mouth open, with wind-tossed hair, screaming into the busy Belfast street.

“WE WON!”

A passer-by pauses in her tracks and looks up, clutching her grocery bags; Jiyong only laughs, laughter bouncing off the white-washed hotel walls and onto the streets, laughter ringing in Seungri’s ears and he hasn’t heard it for so long.

“We’re winners.” Jiyong smiles so much his eyes disappear into happy crescents. “We really are. We’re going down in history. Victory.” There’s laughter, quieter this time, but still there. Bony arms snake around his waist and a pointed chin digs into his shoulder, and Seungri lets out a long sigh of hyuuuung; in all honesty, though, he doesn’t mind, because Jiyong is happy.

It’s been a while since.