Anyone want to be my beta-reader? I’ll love you forever and send you cookies, I mean, virtual cookies that is. :3
Even though you’ve been practically living at his place for the past year, you feel like a stranger at your boyfriend’s home. Maybe it’s the way he incessantly stares whenever you enter the room, tracing your every move. Maybe it’s the way he tenses upon seeing you after a night out with friends: your undone hair, your crinkled shirt, your rogue-stained cheeks and shining eyes.
Youngbae knows, because he’s too observant and understanding not to, and because he’s unwilling to let you go. Addressing the matter is terrifying to consider; thus, the process cycles and neither of you do anything to change it. Each time you return, he kisses and smiles at you despite that you never kiss him back. Every time, you pray that he’ll call you out on your crime so you’ll have received the punishment you deserve.
“Welcome home,” he greets, gently ruffling your hair, “is there anything I can do for you?”
It’s agonizing—his words pierce you like a blade, tearing mercilessly into wounds you’ve harbored far too long. Instead of allowing your emotions to show, you merely sigh and shake your head ‘no’.
“Are you sure? You know I can get you anything you need. Just say the word—”
Callously, you pull away from his too-tight embrace and turn from him. “I just said I was fine. Stop pestering me, it’s irritating enough.”
He’s gotten better at retaining his smile. Last time, it had faltered so easily. “Just… just let me know if you have a change of heart,” is what he says.
“What the hell—? Really, I just said—”
Youngbae tilts his head so the dark shadows conceal his eyes, but you know well that you’re paining him inside. Why does he have to keep all his hurt bottled up within himself? It’s a wonder he doesn’t explode. Vainly, you wish that he would take some of that hurt out on you, in the form of rage.
Yet he never does, because he’s far too rational and too sweet for that. And, you realize, because he truly and unrequitedly loves you.
“Fine, do what you want,” you scoff at his face, storming off to the bedroom and banish yourself from his presence. Alone at last, you throw yourself onto the bed like a child and crumble into the sheets. When he knocks softly and hesitantly at the door, you throw a pillow toward the sound and weep hard.
“I just can’t fathom that you’ve never had a girlfriend. Not that you seem like the type—I mean the player type, so no offense—but considering you’re a celebrity and all, it’s just weird to me.”
Youngbae smiles politely, without a tinge of irritation. “No you’re right,” he says, fiddling idly with the chunky DC pendant around his neck. “To be honest, I’m a little shy.”
Although you’ve seen him on television with all his stage charisma and the aura of a Western RnB icon, you don’t scoff at his words. There’s a sheer honesty which he demonstrates so well that you’re inclined to trust him. Ironic, you think, how collected he seems in real life, despite his bold image.
That’s how it was when you first met Taeyang. Yeah, you had thought you were meeting Dong Youngbae back then, but the real him wasn’t what you’d imagined. He wasn’t quiet or gentle, not really. The Youngbae you know is playful and funny, yet passionate; but at the same time he’s a really nice guy. As a matter of fact, he’s near a flawless dream guy.
Then what was it that caused you to stray?
As a girlfriend, you’d been pretty horrible. When you’d given him nothing, he’d given you his all. This has been his first relationship, you realize. Will this bad experience serve as a boundary in the future?
And you realize something, you realize that until this ends there won’t be a moving forward. He’s latched onto you through some of the good and most definitely the bad, and he deserved to rest. Youngbae didn’t sign up for this hell of a roller coaster ride. He deserves so much better.
If he refuses to end it, you will. The thought of breakup still frightens you because then it’ll mean you really did it—did something terrible. But then again, it’s the closest thing you’ve got to atonement.
Perhaps it’s the worst possible time to make a move… but you’re afraid if you don’t do it now, you’ll ultimately let go of the matter.
You’re alone in your flat, seated on the edge of the kitchen chair with your knees quivering. Sighing, you reach for the phone and dial his cell phone number which you know so well.
When he answers after only the first ring, you’re rendered immobile in the midst of your own endeavor.
“Yoboseyo? Jagiya?” he speaks hurriedly into the phone, and you think that perhaps he was in the middle of a practice session. As you proceed to speak, no sound comes out and your mouth has grown dry.
“Jagiya, are you there?”
“I can’t—” you murmur hoarsely, but your throat closes up again and you curse the way your body’s reacting. Sheesh, just get it over with already.
“You can’t what?” But he knows, in his unfazed tone, how he seems to have been anticipating this call all along. Why must it be so hard? All you want is for it to be over… and despite all you’ve done to him you still care about making this kinder, and you still care what he thinks of you. Even after this whole damned ordeal.
“Youngbae-ah, break’s almost over!” someone calls from his end of the line. That’s where you hang up without a goodbye. Somehow, you still can’t bring yourself to end this.
When Youngbae returns home in the evening, he’ll find that you’ve packed all your belongings and removed every last trace of you from his place. Perhaps it isn’t the right way to settle things between the two of you, but nonetheless, it’s undeniably the easiest.
I’m sorry, you’ve written on a post-it stuck to the fridge. But it’s better off this way, you know.
“Uh… um… Jagiya? What are you doing?”
Smirking, you turn over with your head perched upon on his shoulder, leaning on the couch. Florescent light from the television dimly flickers over the planes of his face. However, you notice how blatantly he’s reddened.
“What do you mean?” you tease, nudging him in the ribs. “Cute, innocent, inexperienced Youngbae. So you’ve never been in this kind of a position before, eh?”
“Th— that’s…” he trails off. “I just don’t see how you can watch the TV comfortably in this way.”
“Oh, shut up. Admit you’re enjoying yourself, ‘cause I can tell,” you reply, curling up against his warm, strong frame. “Besides, I can see very well thank you very much. Can’t imagine a better viewing method.” Youngbae remains silent, but in the stillness you’re content simply with the sound of his breathing. Finally, he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you tightly to him.
This is home, you think, this is where I belong. Here in his arms.
“Saranghaeyo” he whispers, and a smile curves at your lips.
(Love you, too.)
“Saranghaeyo, Youngbae. I’m really tired so I think I’ll sleep now. That okay?”
(With all my heart.)
“No, you do that.”
Sleep invades your consciousness until you’re gazing mindlessly into the pitch with half-lidded eyes. “Good night,” you say to him at last.
“Sweet dreams, love… good night.”
A/N: That was unhappy right? The next one will be nice and fluffy to make up for it. Or if not, the one afterwards will. ;) Hope this is what you were anticipating, Anon!
Feel free to critique my stuff if there’s something I could be doing better. Truth is, idk really how to run this blog b/c I’m really new to this… but go ahead and leave something random in my ask box. It doesn’t even have to be a request. Speaking of which, I have all-anonymous requests atm (which is ok, I luv anons) but don’t be afraid to ask w/o hiding your identity!
As of now, I’m working on toptempo’s request for an angsty TOP scenario with a happy ending. It’s getting really long now… I hope you don’t mind that, haha. ^^’
"Look Jagi, I’m sorry—"
"Newsflash: apologies just aren’t going to cut it this time, Lee Seunghyun," you hiss, snatching up your purse and jacket from the railing. "Hopefully, this will teach you not to back out of plans to get together at the very last minute. Something to keep in mind of you want your next relationship to last."
Seungri bolts down the flight of stairs, halting just at the bottom. As you reach out to turn the doorknob, you hold your breath and wait.
And thus continues the seemingly perpetual silence.
"Well?" you question, still refusing to face him. "Go ahead. Feed me your excuses, and I’ll willingly hear you out."
He merely sighs, doing nothing to calm your nerves. “Sheesh, _____-ah, there’s no need to make a big production out of this. Frankly, I can’t help it if the boss calls us in all of a sudden. It’s a public appearance, I can’t just not show up, you see?”
"Do I see? Do I?! No, I really don’t, to be totally honest." You’re about to twist the doorknob, but you stand in the same place as if your feet are glued to the floor and you continue to shout. "I don’t see why you care about work more than you do me. I don’t know why your ‘public appearances’ are so much more important. You’re dating me, not your fans—sometimes I wonder if you realize that. It’s just that you promised me you’d go out to eat with me this evening, you promised. You could have explained the situation and made it work, is that untrue?"
Tears mist over in your eyes as he continues to defend himself instead of agreeing to do whatever he can to prevent this from happening next time. “Baby, you don’t understand. If I were to miss out on this, the hyungs would be hurt too, and the people who work to help us, not just me. And then Jiyong-hyung would take up the brunt of the responsibility, and he’d get stressed out again, and it’d just end up one huge mess, a mess that’s my fault—”
"Can’t you do it once?" you cry out, whirling around and pounding your fists on his chest. "Once was all I was asking for. One time wouldn’t hurt. But even that’s asking for too much, huh?"
"I’m sorry," he reiterates, with words like sharp pangs. "What else do you want me to say?"
"Say you’ll talk to your boss and make it so we can spend tomorrow night together, as planned. Then I’ll forgive you."
”_____-ah, don’t be like this,” he snaps suddenly. Caught off-guard, you watch his shift in behavior—the way he goes from negotiating with you to borderline infuriation.
"Don’t be like what?!" you protest. "I have every right to be disappointed in you."
"This is unfair! I’m trying as hard as I can, why can’t you see that?!" Then he clings tightly to your shoulders and shakes you, daring to look him straight in the eyes. For the first time, you realize his desperation—but by then, it’s too late. "Honest to God, I thought you were different than the others. But you’re selfish and you don’t understand anything."
Again, you try to protest but you find yourself at loss for words. Disgustedly, he lets go of you and swings open the door. A rush of chilled December air greets you in an inhospitable manner, yet he gestures to the outside.
"You were right to leave. I see now that this isn’t going to work," he says.
You want to apologize now. To simply throw yourself into his arms and to do away with all the hurt… but as things are now, it’s impossible. Wordlessly, you walk outside and hear the click of the door behind you. You don’t look back.
But the following morning, you receive a text message to find him at the place that you’d agreed to meet before. That evening in Seoul, you approach him at the doorway of a fancy Italian restaurant. Hours before you’d stressed over how the shimmery violet cocktail dress flattered your frame, whether your hair really looked fine swept up, how the jewelry fit and if you could stand to wear heels all night long. In the end it all paid off—he gawks at the sight of you, nearly stumbling over his own two feet.
"What is it?" you inquire with a smirk, biting back giggles. Seungri grins at you with flushed cheeks, and smoothes over the back of his hair.
"What? It’s perfectly acceptable for such a lucky guy like me to be tripping in the presence of his uber-sexy girlfriend… ‘specially because damn, she be looking fiiiiine tonight."
Seungri and all the glory of his corny lines… and oh, the nature of men in general. You sigh and shake your head, suppressing the overwhelming desire to smack him in the face. When you walk inside to be led to a table, he tails after you like a puppy.
The evening spent is spent discussing happy topics—such as the coming holidays, his future activities, your recent plans, etc… neither one of you mention yesterday’s skirmish. After a filling dinner, you both get into your car and head to your house.
"So," he inerjects, breaking the comfortable silence between the both of you, "just me and you at home… alone…"
"Um, yeah." Distractedly, you stare off into the pitch, scanning the aphsalt upon which your headlights dance.
"We should— uh, how should I put this?"
You don’t answer. He knows you’re not ready for sex; you’ve informed him of that before. Besides, he’s Christian and he understands your morals since they apply to him as well. Though admittedly, you’re well aware of his tendencies… and alternatives…
"Don’t let me catch you at it again," you said with a sigh the last time. And he hadn’t.
When you pull up into the driveway, and kill the engine, he leans over the car seat and pecks you lightly on the cheek. Oh, what the heck. Giving in at last, you crawl over to his seat, straddle his waist, and wrap your arms around his neck. Without a moment’s hesitation, his lips crash firmly onto yours with fierce tenacity. So much for self-restraint, you think.
What he doesn’t know about is behind those closed doors, there’s a miscellany of party guests hiding in the dark, waiting to jump out and surprise him for the birthday party you’ve been scheming for months now. The guests consist of his and your family members, and even a number of people from YG Family. That’s why he’s here and not that other occasion—because you talked to Yang Hyun Seok in person and worked this out soon after you’d quarreled yesterday.
"This is surprise number one," you whisper in his ear, kissing him soft and sweet. "Happy birthday, Lee Seunghyun."
I’ll have put up this new Taeyang scenario. Yays! Prepare for an angst feat guys… I’m sorry
Just got back from vacation so I’m currently building up motivation to write again. But now worries I haven’t abandoned this blog. I’ll post my next scenario ASAP, but quality over quantity right? =)
Also, thank you for all the likes and followers!!! Stay tuned for more~!!!
Because his self-induced workload is immense, Jiyong locks himself within the recording studio. Unless he can latch onto a tinge of inspiration or some idea he can work with, he’ll willingly spend all night in there. Sleep is irrelevant; he regularly turns the nights into days and vice versa. It all depends on his schedule.
Teddy watches his co-producer scrutinize over the staff sheets one minute, scan over his work disdainfully, trash it, and end up gazing blankly at the wall ahead. When he offers his assistance, Jiyong merely turns to him, smiling weakly and shaking his head, no. “This is strictly a collaboration between Choice 37 and I,” he informs. His eyes are bloodshot from the smoke and the stress, with dark circles serving to rival the maknae’s.
"I don’t know, man. You should probably consider a vacation—Mr. Yang would allow it," Teddy suggests in English. Normally, he would not think to do this but today Jiyong has insisted, fearing he’s fallen behind in his fluency.
Now Jiyong says nothing, but not because he’s not quick to comprehend him. There is nothing he can think of to respond with be it English or otherwise, so Teddy sighs and rises from his chair.
"Imma get some food. You should come, get outside for once."
"No thanks." Jiyong swivels around in the desk chair and leans forth so he’s face-to-face with the opposite wall.
"Don’t," his senior warns. Inquisitively, he raises an eyebrow, about to inquire as to what in the world he means. But Jiyong knows. Wordlessly, he pulls his gaze away from the blueish contours of the veins within his wrists.
"Empty your pockets," Teddy demands.
Jiyong opens his mouth to protest, but Teddy maintains his previous statement. “Just do it.”
Reluctantly, he complies, turning the pockets of his Adidas sweats inside-out. From the left plummets a lighter and a half-empty box of cigarettes, while the other contains a pocketknife and a full container of Tylenol.
Speechless, Teddy stares back. Explain yourself, screams the expression he’s wearing.
"Headache," Jiyong offers lamely. "Uh, you know. And the pocketknife? It comes in handy."
Looking unconvinced, Teddy catches Jiyong’s gaze. “You know, I may have to send someone over just to make sure you don’t commit suicide while I’m gone.”
"That’s funny," Jiyong retorts. "Remember when you told me that I’m capable of anything so long as a tried?"
"But this is different. This is about something I need you to refrain from doing. Understand now?"
He nods, listlessly bringing together the heels of his starch white Vans. Back and forth and back and forth. Teddy departs and informs no one of their discussion. He doesn’t need to; he knows that Jiyong won’t.
When Teddy’s footsteps cease to echo distantly from behind the closed door, Jiyong snatches up the container of Tylenol and pours its contents into the palm of his hand. It’s a foolish act of sheer rebelliousness, yet he feels it’s something he has to do. All he wants is to be put out of his misery. Is that so wrong?
Wistfully, he gazes at his precious songwriting book, at the unfinished composition he’s been working on for ages now. As much as he hates to leave it, he doubts that it could ever be perfect anyway. Maybe then, it’s better off this way, better let it go…
He can scarcely think coherently, anyway, when he drops the handful into his mouth and chokes it down with a swig from his water bottle. Falling back in his chair, he waits for a painless slumber to envelop him. Perhaps it was a reckless move, he thinks, albeit he’s too exhausted to fear anything now. When at last his eyes flutter shut, he mentally unleashes every worldly bond and idly wonders if Hell’s his next destination.
(Jiyong hadn’t really considered that his means of escape is considered cowardly and sinful in regards to his former faith.)
Later, he awakens and vomits it all up onto the floor since he can’t make it to the toilet in time. Bile is present in his mouth, it trickles down his chin, ruining his shirt, and it’s all horrid and revolting. Jiyong hugs his knees in the corner like a child and cries, sincerely wanting nothing else but to leave it all behind.
He very nearly prays, not for forgiveness, but rather for a means of curing his loneliness, his utter confusion and his suffering. He thinks of the way Youngbae and Daesung and Seungri do it, getting down on their knees—and he nearly imitates their example.
Yet there’s the pocketknife that gleams like gold in the yellow light, lying oh-so-conveniently on the floor by his swivel chair. In desperation, Jiyong grabs it, holds his breath, and shakily grazes the blade upon the delicate flesh underneath his hands. When he produces the first wound, he misses the thick vessel and fails to draw blood. Unable to bring himself to do more, he flings the instrument across the floor. Teddy was right about him after all, he finds out later on. From that previous conversation, he’d already begun to doubt his decision like a coward.
At night when he’s alone in his apartment, Jiyong relieves himself with a dozens of cigarettes and by making use of the same pocketknife on the insides of his forearms. Other celebrities his age go out in secret with their girlfriends, but it feels like ages since he dumped Kiko. In a way, he regrets it—but their paths are different and he figures she’s better off with a guy who can always stand by her. And he knows that he can’t.
"What’s this?" Youngbae asks during a practice session, in which his best friend seems unusually distracted. Jiyong reddens, yet he tries laughing it off and lying about it. Though he explains that it’s the result of a run-in with an angry cat, Youngbae only looks upon his scarred arms with suspicion and concern.
Thus, the process cycles when Jiyong drags himself home and collapses onto his bed. Once a while ago, his friends would call him up to ask if he’d wanted to hang out. Nowadays, they’re so used to being rejected that they don’t even bother—simply assuming that he’s too full of himself to care, and never trying to help.
Along with an unopened can of beer, a box of Melatonin lies on his bedside table (he’s been denied otherwise by his peers). Since he hadn’t successfully slept the night before, Jiyong cracks it open and chugs down three. After that he lights a cigarette and lies still again, brooding and drowning in trains of thought.
Nicotine and tobacco aren’t ideal panaceas for sleep. Furthermore, he never feels the effects of the Melatonin kicking in. Jiyong clings tightly to his pillow, lonesome and fatigued and ironically sick from insomnia. Vainly, he wonders if there’s any way to subdue the pain of his sorrows; though he seriously doubts it.
Having truthfully nothing else to do, Jiyong goes to the bottom drawer of his chest to fish out an outfit he’s prepared that for once isn’t showy or extravagant: loose jeans and a plain gray t-shirt under an old, thrift store hoodie. When he leaves home, he departs with default white iPod earphones instead of Beats or Soul. The only hint to his identity are his trusty DCs and a comfortable blue beanie—items that are wearable, items that just about anybody can get by with.
Somehow, it’s relieving to be able to walk outside stripped bare of the Louis Vuitton, the Chrome Hearts, the Dior. Gone is the pressure for G-Dragon to be a standout, and it’s like being able to breathe again.
Dazedly, he walks among the crowds of Seoul within the lightened streets. So long as he has on his darkened aviators, no one appears to recognize him. If someone double-takes in his direction, that’s when he makes a run for it.
A thread of an idea fleets through his mind when he arrives at the subway station, and it’s something he’s seen in a movie. It’s quite famous: the scene of a drunk girl leaning over the tracks too far as the train is about to come. Jiyong purchases a cheap, one-way ticket east from his location. Maybe he’ll pay his parents a surprise visit. Or maybe he’ll remain here, leaping as soon as the train pulls in, and then no one will be there to stop him, and he won’t have to deal with anything anymore.
But what will they think? he wonders, as he’s staring at the tracks and contemplating. How will they react when they learn the truth about the apparently confident G-Dragon; when they learn that in reality he’s a loner who’s so insecure, he can barely stand to look at himself in the mirror?
It’s almost a dead end, but not quite. Being in such a foul mood, he figures the least he can do is drink away his troubles and dull the pain they bring him. So he yanks his hood well over his ears, carefully adjusts his sunglasses over the bridge of his nose, and stumbles into the nearest bar.
Though it closes at midnight (which is within the next hour), Jiyong doesn’t plan to stay very long. After all, the place isn’t particularly crowded—just a few near college age friends at a table in the back, and most of the seats up front taken by a miscellany of kinds of folks. Squinting to see the menu overhead as he takes a seat, he gives up due to the dark atmosphere. ”Just give me anything,” he tells the bartender quietly, “the harder the better.”
A number of shots down and it occurs to him that he only has his credit card, which is a dead giveaway regarding his identity; yet at this point he’s not in his right mind and can scarcely consider the consequences of his actions. When he’s almost filled to the brim and it’s time to pay the bill, he lets the bartender in on a secret: he’s currently penniless.
The next thing he knows is that his lip’s busted and bloody, and there’s a door that’s been slammed in his face, and he feels even more crappy than he had before. Jiyong sits on the curb with his head hanging low, curious as to why God (if he’s even existing) can’t simply let him get struck by a car or something since he can’t think of a damn thing in the world that’s worth feeling like this.
Then suddenly there’s a hand on his shoulder. Jiyong flinches at the contact, but doesn’t budge or even bother lifting his head.
"Are you all right?" someone says next to him, so Jiyong slowly raises his chin and glowers at the person out of the corner of his eye. Of all people to find here, it’s Daesung.
Jiyong opens his mouth to answer, but it’s sore so he merely nods. It’s so blatantly a lie that Daesung ignores him (after all, there’s blood running down his throat and he’s in need of some swathe to suppress the flow). Instead, he chooses to tell him why he’s here in the first place.
"Youngbae was really worried, so he told the rest of us to look out for you," Daesung explains. Gesturing toward the elder’s scars, he continues: "He says it’s because of those."
Self-consciously, Jiyong crosses his arms in order to keep his attempts at self-mutilation hidden. ”Sheeeeesh, that Youngbae. Why, I already told him I got scratched by a cat!” he drawls intoxicatedly.
"Is that really so?" Those wary eyes regard him, and he knows he just can’t lie to him anymore. Jiyong grits his teeth and stares overhead, willing the tears not to fall.
"No…" Jiyong admits finally, and it dawns on him, just how ashamed he really is. "It was me. I did it to myself."
Daesung doesn’t answer, so Jiyong rants on and on in all his drunken misery. ”Dunno why… it felt good, you know? I mean it hurt but it made me feel better, lessened what I had to endure internally. Somehow. ’Cause you know, lately, I’ve been falling apart, I’m so sorry. I’m a crap leader. These things get to me, you know? After everything last year, my reputation… stressing about us, and my solo album, and writing and overseeing everything, ‘cause that’s what they expect of me, and it all has to be perfect. And I miss my girlfriend, I miss my family, and my passion for my work, it’s eluding me. That’s all I’ve got, that’s everything, my love for what I do. My dreams, my pride, all I’ve ever cared for. Now I’ve lost it somehow, my drive, and I just don’t know what to do. I’m just begging, just praying, ‘cause I need help but I don’t know how, and it’s really killing me.”
Jiyong rambles on for a while like this, while Daesung listens attentively. By the end of it all, he’s dangerously close to tears; he’s speaking of not only his unhappiness but of how it’d be better if he could just end it, so he wouldn’t have to suffer anymore.
After Jiyong has worn himself out, Daesung remains silent. Of course, it’s not that he wants his hyung to continue in this line of thinking. In fact, he clearly recalls thinking the same kinds of things, even considering suicide… and how his faith saved him from committing something horrible. But he also realizes that if he tells his story and offers advice now, Jiyong won’t even remember any of it tomorrow morning.
"It’ll be all right. We’ll get past this," Daesung pipes up, smiling as brightly as he possibly can. "We made it last year to our comeback, after all that happened. You can’t just give up now, you know?"
"Y—yeah," Jiyong responds shakily, a sob clawing in his chest and rising in his throat. He doesn’t really believe it, though. Reassuringly, Daesung pats the older member on the back, watching tears cascade down his face. It’s weird because while Jiyong is sort of sensitive, he’s not one to cry; especially with the added responsibility of being the leader. Then again: he is drunk.
Sighing, he stands up at last and brushes off his jacket. ”Can you walk at all?”
Jiyong wobbles on his feet and staggers. Daesung chuckles kindly and interprets that as a ‘no’.
"Here, I’ll help you. Lean on my right shoulder," Daesung suggests. If worst comes to worst, he figures he can carry him home, especially considering how often he’s been lifting weights lately. Nowadays, Jiyong is emaciated to the point of weighing little more than a teenage girl.
Wordlessly, they trod on home. Daesung avoids inhaling the smoke that emanates from Jiyong’s cigarette, which proves difficult when he’s walking (or rather, stumbling) right next to him. It’s a twenty minute trip to the apartment, where Daesung proceeds to drop Jiyong onto the bed, then head to his kitchen to begin cooking the rice and something else.
Jiyong catches a whiff of the aroma, and miserably tries to block it out.
Daesung pops his head in, grinning cheerfully. ”Since you’ll probably throw this up anyway, I’ll save this for breakfast or lunch tomorrow. Whenever you’re feeling better.”
"Fine," Jiyong gives in, too exhausted to protest. Though it’s been ages since he’s had a real meal, and he’s become so accustomed to skipping them. He wonders if he’d even be able to take it.
But Daesung returns to his bedroom, explaining about how he’s invited himself over for the week, and how he’s going to make sure Jiyong eats three meals a day as well as snacks. Then he goes on to say how he’s hidden and destroyed the stash of Marlboro in the back of the closet, and the stash of beer in the fridge, and Jiyong quite seriously considers murdering him but backtracks because his smile’s too pretty for him to stay annoyed.
And when Daesung brings a glass of water and one small tablet, Jiyong manages to crack a smile for him. Perhaps the people who care about him are right. Perhaps life is worth enduring, and he can savor its most fulfilling instances. Although it’s a theory, just maybe, it’s a theory worth sticking around to toy with.
I’ll be wrapping up a fanfic I wrote, so it may affect how quickly I complete all the requests I’ve received so far. However, they will be done for sure. Just be patient because I am quite slow.
It’s kind of angsty and depressing, but that’s kind of my strong point as you all will probably figure out soon enough. Please continue to leave feedback on my scenarios because I promise it really motivates me to work hard. Thank you for all the support so far! ^^
OMG! Thank you so much, I’m really flattered! I appreciate all these nice comments from fellow VIPs, but I’ll make sure they don’t inflate my ego. UCWIDT?