Chapter Text
Seungri woke to the unfamiliar heaviness of a morning that did not ask anything of him.
There was no alarm, no schedule, no voice calling his name from another room. Just the slow, creeping awareness of consciousness settling into his body, dragging him upward from sleep without urgency or kindness. His eyes opened reluctantly, lids stiff as though they had forgotten the habit. The ceiling above him was pale, smooth, anonymous. It offered nothing to hold onto—no cracks, no stains, no stories.
For several seconds, he didn’t move.
The sheets were cool against his skin, cotton pulled tight and tucked too neatly around the mattress. They felt temporary, like hotel bedding, despite being his own. He lay there in an oversized black T-shirt, the fabric twisted slightly around his torso from restless sleep, the collar stretched thin with age. His pajama pants hung loose on his hips, the waistband folded once where his body no longer filled it properly.
The realization came slowly, then all at once.
This was his home.
Not a room assigned to him. Not a place he was meant to pass through. A space that expected him to exist in it freely.
The thought tightened something deep in his chest.
He turned his head to the side, staring at the blank wall, and waited for the familiar surge of panic to crest and recede. It didn’t explode. It never did anymore. Instead, it settled quietly behind his ribs, persistent and patient, like something that knew it had time.
When he finally sat up, the movement felt heavier than it should have. His head dipped forward instinctively, hair falling into his eyes, longer than he remembered keeping it. He dragged a hand through it, fingers catching on uneven strands, then let his arm drop.
“I’m awake,” he said softly.
The room absorbed the sound without reaction.
The apartment was sparse in a way that felt intentional—but not by him. Pale walls, clean lines, furniture chosen for function rather than comfort. The living room couch sat stiff and unused, its cushions still holding the sharp angles they’d come with. A folded throw blanket lay neatly over one arm, aligned too precisely to be accidental. The coffee table was wiped clean, its surface bare except for a coaster placed squarely at the center.
He frowned faintly.
Something about it felt… touched.
As he stood, his eyes drifted to the far corner of the room, where a small framed photograph rested on the side table beside the couch. He hadn’t put it there. He knew that immediately.
He approached it slowly, as if the movement itself required permission.
The photo showed the five of them sitting close together at a table, shoulders pressed tight, faces caught mid-laughter. JiYong leaned slightly forward, eyes bright. T.O.P’s arm was slung casually along the back of the chair. Daesung was grinning, unguarded. Taeyang’s smile was warm, steady. And him—Seungri—caught mid-sentence, mouth open, expression alive.
The sight hit him harder than he expected.
He stared at it for a long time, fingers hovering just short of the glass, unwilling to touch. His chest tightened painfully, breath shallow.
Someone had been here.
His gaze flicked around the apartment now, noticing details he’d missed before—the faint scent of cleaning detergent, the trash emptied, the sink spotless, laundry folded neatly on the chair in the bedroom. Even the bed he’d woken from had been made with care, corners tucked in the way his mother used to insist on.
His throat closed.
Mom…
Or…
His younger sister came to mind immediately—quiet, observant, always doing things without announcing herself, as if afraid of disturbing him even when he wasn’t there.
He exhaled shakily.
“They didn’t even tell me,” he murmured.
The thought stirred something deeply uncomfortable in his chest—not comfort, not relief, but a hollow ache. Care given quietly, without expectation. Care he didn’t feel he deserved.
He padded barefoot across the floor, the cold grounding him one step at a time. In the bathroom, the light was too bright, forcing a sharp inhale from his chest. He braced his hands on the sink and stared at his reflection with something between caution and resignation.
His face looked thinner, carved by time and restraint. His eyes seemed too large now, the skin beneath them darkened not just by sleeplessness but by something heavier, something accumulated. He searched his expression for familiarity—for the arrogance, the charm, the careless confidence he used to wear like armor.
It didn’t surface.
“You’re fine,” he told himself quietly.
The mirror didn’t contradict him. It simply watched.
He dressed slowly, deliberately, pulling on clothes meant to disappear in. A loose hoodie, black and shapeless, the sleeves long enough to cover his hands. Dark sweatpants, worn soft with age. Nothing that hugged his body. Nothing that demanded to be seen.
The kitchen smelled faintly of nothing. He opened the fridge, stared at its contents without registering them, then closed it again. On the second attempt, he grabbed a bottle of water and leaned against the counter, fingers tightening around the plastic as his hands began to shake.
The silence pressed in.
Almost without thinking, he reached for the remote and turned on the television—more for the noise than the content.
The screen flickered to life.
“…former idol Lee Seung-hyun was officially released earlier this week after completing his sentence—”
His breath caught violently.
He froze where he stood, the bottle slipping from his grasp and clattering loudly against the tile. Water spilled outward, spreading slowly across the floor, but he didn’t move to stop it.
The reporter’s voice continued, clinical, detached.
“…public reaction remains divided… many expressing outrage… others questioning—”
He lunged for the remote and shut it off, the screen snapping back into black silence. His heart pounded, ears ringing, breath stuttering as if he’d been shoved underwater.
He slid down where he stood, back against the cabinet, knees drawn to his chest.
“I know,” he whispered hoarsely to no one. “I know.”
The phone vibrated on the counter.
The sound cut through the quiet violently.
He flinched hard, shoulders jerking, breath sharp. The phone buzzed again—persistent, impatient.
He didn’t look at it.
Instead, he watched the water seep into the grout, disappearing inch by inch, until there was no trace of it left.
The day passed in fragments.
He lost time without noticing. Sat on the couch and stared at the wall. Stood up and forgot why. Hunger came and went, ignored both times. Every time his eyes drifted to the photo on the table, he looked away again just as quickly.
By evening, shadows stretched across the apartment, deepening the corners until the space felt larger than it was. He turned on a single lamp, its light weak and yellow, leaving most of the room untouched by warmth. He sat curled inward on the couch, hoodie zipped all the way up despite the mild temperature, watching his reflection waver faintly in the darkened window.
That was when the knock came.
Not a polite knock. Not a hesitant one.
A heavy, jarring bang that sent shock through his body.
He jumped to his feet, heart slamming violently against his ribs. Another bang, louder, closer.
“Open the door.”
The voice was deep, strained, rough around the edges.
Seungri stumbled backward until his back hit the wall. His palms pressed flat against it as he struggled to steady his breathing.
“No,” he whispered, though the word never made it out loud.
The knocking stopped.
Seconds passed.
Then a softer sound—fabric shifting, weight settling.
On the other side of the door, T.O.P slid down the wall slowly until he was sitting on the floor, knees bent, back resting against the cool paint. His dark coat lay open around him, rumpled from travel, the fabric heavy on his shoulders. His hair was pulled back loosely, strands escaping around his temples. His face looked drawn, older, lines etched deeper by concern and fatigue.
“I’m not leaving,” he said quietly, voice carrying through the door. “Not tonight.”
Seungri slid down on his side too, back pressed against the wood, knees pulled tight to his chest. The door felt thin between them, an inadequate barrier.
“I didn’t ask you to come,” Seungri said, his voice hoarse.
“I know,” T.O.P replied. “You wouldn’t.”
The silence that followed was dense, filled with words neither of them knew how to say anymore.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Seungri tried again, weaker this time.
T.O.P leaned his head back against the wall. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
That stung.
“You don’t get to decide that,” Seungri said, a hint of anger threading through his exhaustion.
“No,” T.O.P agreed. “But I get to sit.”
And he did.
Minutes stretched into hours. The hallway light flickered occasionally, casting uneven shadows across T.O.P’s face. He stayed where he was, unmoving, legs stiffening, back aching, but unwilling to stand.
Inside, Seungri’s resistance frayed slowly.
They spoke in fragments—half-arguments that never reached resolution.
“You think this fixes something?” Seungri asked at one point.
“No,” T.O.P said. “I think it keeps it from getting worse.”
“That’s not your job.”
“Never said it was.”
At some point, Seungri’s breathing changed. Shallow. Uneven.
“I can’t fix it,” he whispered.
T.O.P leaned forward slightly. “I know.”
That was when something finally broke.
Tears came quietly, without spectacle, sliding down Seungri’s face and disappearing into the sleeve of his hoodie as he wiped at them mechanically. He didn’t sob. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply folded inward, breathing hitching as the weight of everything he’d held back settled fully into his chest.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” he said.
T.O.P closed his eyes. “You’re still you.”
The night stretched on.
Outside, the city softened into distant hum. Dawn waited somewhere beyond the windows, indifferent.
T.O.P remained seated on the floor.
Seungri stayed pressed against the door, breathing, existing.
The door did not open.
Not yet.