Chapter Text
Jiyong ~
The tour ends the way all tours do - abruptly. One night the world is loud and relentless, days stitched together by flights and soundchecks and the roar of crowds so constant it seeps into his bones. Then suddenly, it’s over. No countdown or gradual easing. Just silence, yawning open where the noise used to be.
Jiyong hates the quiet the most. When the last show wraps and the final encore fades, there’s a brief high - adrenaline still humming under his skin, the echo of cheers lingering in his ears. But it doesn’t last, it never does. Within days, the stillness creeps back in, heavy and unavoidable. With nothing demanding his attention, nothing pulling him forward at a relentless pace, his thoughts finally have room to stretch out.
And that’s when it gets dangerous. He doesn’t go home - not really.
Instead, he finds himself returning from each tour leg to Youngbae’s place, the pattern settling in without discussion. It’s familiar in a way that feels almost like regression - like pre-debut days, when exhaustion and shared routines glued them together out of necessity. The difference now is space. Youngbae’s place is big enough that if either of them wants solitude, they can have it. Entire rooms they don’t need to cross paths in. Corners where Jiyong can exist without performing normalcy.
Youngbae doesn’t comment on it. He never does, instead he just makes room. He starts stocking Jiyong’s favourite cereal and making sure the guest room is always set up.
Some days they eat together, easy and quiet, slipping back into a rhythm that doesn’t demand explanations. Other days their schedules mean passing each other like satellites in orbit. Throughout it all, Youngbae never pushed - never questioned or forced answers he wasn’t ready to give. Jiyong is grateful for that, for the unspoken understanding that came from years of knowing each other.
Still, even here, the silence presses in.
His phone buzzes more often now with schedules instead of applause. Meetings instead of rehearsals, like reality settling back in with an unceremonious thud. There’s a meeting with management. All of them are expected to attend - all of them except Seunghyun.
The relief is immediate and sharp enough to make him feel guilty for it. He’s secretly grateful that Seunghyun is still busy promoting the film. Grateful for the distance and the excuse. He doesn’t examine the feeling too closely at first. He just exhales, slow and careful, like he’s been holding his breath without realising it. The idea of sitting in a room with him - of pretending nothing has changed, of navigating that fragile space between what they were and what they aren’t - feels impossible.
But beneath the relief, something more complicated stirs. Resentment, thin and unwelcome. Because it wasn’t his choice. He didn’t get a say in the silence, in the distance, in the separation. He wasn’t allowed to stay or to help. Jiyong wasn’t allowed to see Seunghyun low, or broken - or human. Seunghyun decided what distance looked like. Seunghyun decided what “best” meant. And Jiyong is left standing in the aftermath of a decision he never agreed to, pretending it doesn’t matter.
They haven’t seen each other since that night, and haven't spoken at all. Not when filming wrapped for Seunghyun’s movie. Not when Seunghyun presumably came home and found the apartment emptied of Jiyong’s things - closets stripped bare, traces erased with brutal efficiency. Not even when the tour dates were confirmed, looming just months away, their names printed side by side again like nothing had fractured between them. The absence was loud in its own way.
Of course, as much as all of that sits heavy at the forefront of Jiyong’s mind, he suspects - bitterly - that it doesn’t occupy Seunghyun’s in quite the same way. Seunghyun has been seen - a lot. Photos that surfaced - grainy shots caught by press, candid glimpses lifted from social media before they disappear again. In them, he looks fine - better than fine. Relaxed and unbothered, surrounded by people Jiyong doesn’t know or only knows of - faces from a world he was never part of.
It looks like movement within a life that hasn’t stalled. And something ugly twists in Jiyong’s chest at the thought that maybe it never did. Maybe the breakup didn’t dismantle him the way it dismantled Jiyong. Maybe the silence isn’t restraint - it’s indifference. Maybe what they had weighed differently on Jiyong.
And one name keeps appearing, again and again, threading itself into Jiyong’s thoughts whether he wants it to or not - John Lee. Seunghyun had worked with him on a film before. Jiyong hates how quickly his mind latches onto it. How easily suspicion blooms in the empty spaces. In his darker moments - late at night, when the apartment is too quiet and his chest feels tight with things he refuses to name - he lets himself wonder if this was always there. If he was the last to know. If this was the real reason Seunghyun walked away.
The thought sparks something ugly and volatile in his chest. Anger, sharp and blinding, flares up without warning. It would be easier if he could hold onto it - easier if he could turn the hurt into something solid, something he could direct outward instead of letting it hollow him from the inside. But he doesn’t let himself linger there . He can’t afford to; he’s spent too many years learning how quickly that kind of emotion can consume him whole.
So, he pushes the thoughts down again, hard and fast, before they can take root. He tells himself he’s being unfair. That he’s reading into things that mean nothing. That Seunghyun is allowed to have friends, allowed to be seen, allowed to exist outside the wreckage of what they were. The rationalisations line up neatly, one after another, rehearsed until they almost sound convincing - almost.
The truth sits somewhere beneath it all, quiet and relentless: without the noise of tour schedules and stage lights to drown it out, everything he’s been avoiding comes rushing back in. The grief, the resentment and worst of all, the unanswered questions. The looming certainty that sooner or later, avoidance won’t be an option anymore.
Sooner or later, he’s going to have to look at Seunghyun again. And Jiyong has no idea how he’s supposed to survive that.
~
Youngbae drives them both to the meeting. They talk lightly as they pull out into traffic, conversation skimming safely along the surface. There’s comfort in the normalcy of it, in the fact that some things still operate on muscle memory.
“Probably rehearsal schedules,” Youngbae says. “They’ll want to get ahead of it.”
Jiyong hums in response, watching the city pass by through the window. “Yeah. Figures.”
The building is familiar when they arrive. Daesung is already there, sitting back in one of the chairs with his phone in hand, relaxed in a way that makes it obvious he’s been busy - Japan still clinging to him in the form of confidence and momentum. He greets them warmly, pulling them both into brief hugs, talking easily about work and travel and everything in between.
Jiyong listens more than he speaks. He can’t help it - his attention keeps snagging on the empty space. Stuck on the absence that has become its own presence. He wonders, distantly, if Daesung has heard from Seunghyun. If he’s been to the apartment, if they’ve spoken about everything that has happened. The thought starts to spiral, and he forces himself back into the room.
Seungri barrels in not long after, energy loud and unchecked, complaining about traffic and schedules and how meetings are always a waste of time. He drops into a chair like he owns the place, legs stretched out, gaze flicking around the room with idle curiosity.
Then, without any real thought at all: “Is Seunghyun-hyung coming later, or what?”
The words land wrong immediately. Jiyong feels it in the sharp intake of breath beside him, the way Youngbae stiffens almost imperceptibly. He catches the quick look Youngbae shoots Seungri’s way, followed by Daesung’s reflexive elbow to his side - not gentle, not subtle.
Seungri blinks, finally registering the shift in the room.
“Oh,” he says, brows lifting as if the idea has only just occurred to him. “Right.”
There’s no apology at first. Just an awkward beat where he looks between them, clearly recalibrating, irritation flickering across his face at being corrected.
He glances at Jiyong then, expression flattening into something careless. “I mean- yeah. Forgot,” he adds, shrugging like it’s a minor oversight. “Sorry.”
It’s tossed out lightly, without weight and without understanding. Jiyong’s blood goes cold anyway. Hearing Seunghyun’s name out loud - said so casually, so thoughtlessly - hits him harder than he expects. His chest tightens instantly, breath catching before he can stop it. For a split second, everything else fades - the room, the noise, the people - replaced by the echo of a name he’s been carefully avoiding even in his own head.
He keeps his face still. It takes effort - more than it should - but he manages a small nod. Just enough to acknowledge it, to move things along.
The conversation stutters, then shifts, redirected by Youngbae with practiced ease. But the damage lingers, the name hanging unspoken in the air like static. Jiyong leans back in his chair, fingers lacing together tightly in his lap. He focuses on his breathing, slow and deliberate. He tells himself he’s fine, this is manageable. That this is just another meeting.
But if this is how it feels just to hear Seunghyun mentioned - said aloud, without ceremony - Jiyong doesn’t know how he’s supposed to sit across from him again and pretend they’re just bandmates. The door to the meeting room opens, and a manager calls them in. Jiyong stands with the others, smoothing his jacket, slipping the mask fully into place. Whatever he’s feeling stays tucked neatly out of sight. This is the version of himself the world expects - composed, capable, untouched.
He steps forward, heart still racing. Somewhere deep inside, the dread sharpens as he realises this is only the beginning.
The meeting itself is exactly what Jiyong expects it to be; tour logistics, timelines and rehearsal blocks pencilled in months in advance. Cities and dates blurring together as they always do. Japan comes up again and again - scale, expectations, visibility. The words wash over him in a steady, numbing stream. He takes notes automatically, nods in the right places, asks nothing. It’s the kind of meeting they’ve sat through a hundred times before, all structure and no soul.
If this were any other day, any other version of his life, he might even find comfort in it. He keeps his focus narrowed to the table in front of him, to the familiar weight of routine. He doesn’t look at the empty chair Seunghyun would usually occupy. He doesn’t let his thoughts drift. He doesn’t let himself imagine and it almost works.
Near the end, Yang Hyun-suk leans back in his chair, fingers interlocked, expression shifting into something more deliberate.
“One more thing,” he says. “Ahead of the Japan tour, I want to push group visibility again. Not just music - presence.”
Jiyong feels the shift before it fully lands.
“The timing works in our favour,” Hyun-suk continues. “Seunghyun’s film premiere is coming up. High-profile. Media attention already locked in. It’s the perfect opportunity.”
The words click into place slowly, like pieces of a puzzle Jiyong doesn’t want to see completed.
“I want all of you there,” Hyun-suk says. “As BigBang. Supportive and united. We need to remind people what the group looks like together.”
There’s a brief, heavy pause.
Jiyong’s mouth opens before he’s consciously decided to speak. “Is attendance mandatory?”
The question hangs in the air, stark and unsoftened. Three heads snap toward him instantly. Youngbae’s eyes widen just slightly, surprise flashing across his face before he schools it. Daesung freezes mid-motion, hand hovering over his notebook. Seungri just stares, openly taken aback, like the idea itself has never even crossed his mind. Jiyong feels it then - the delayed shock of his own words. He hadn’t planned to ask. He hadn’t even realised the question was forming until it was already out in the open, bare and irreversible.
Hyun-suk looks at him for a long moment. “Yes,” he says flatly. “It’s mandatory.
“You’ll need to amend any personal schedules,” he continues. “Whatever plans you have, make it work. This isn’t optional.”
Jiyong nods automatically, the movement stiff. “Okay,” he says, even though something in his chest feels like it’s cracking open.
The meeting wraps up not long after that. The others file out with murmured goodbyes and side glances thrown his way - curiosity, concern, confusion. Jiyong lingers for a second too long, gathering his things with deliberate care. Mandatory: the word echoes in his head as he stands, slips his notebook into his bag, and follows the others out into the hallway. He keeps his face carefully neutral, posture relaxed, every visible part of him composed. But inside, his thoughts are already spiralling.
He meets Youngbae out at his car. The car doors close with soft, final clicks. Youngbae starts the engine, the quiet hum filling the space between them. Jiyong keeps his gaze fixed on the window, watching the reflection of the city slide past, his thoughts still caught on the word mandatory.
For a moment, it seems like they’ll just drive.
Then Youngbae exhales slowly, “Ji-”
Jiyong’s shoulders tense, just slightly.
Youngbae hesitates, clearly searching for the right place to start. “I know you’re having a hard time,” he says finally, voice low. “And I know… I don’t know everything.”
The words land softly, but they hit all the same. Jiyong feels the familiar twinge of guilt - the awareness that Youngbae has only ever been given fragments. Carefully chosen pieces, enough to explain the distance, never enough to explain the damage.
“But I’m getting worried,” Youngbae continues, gentle but honest.
Jiyong looks down at the ground, jaw tightening.
“Sooner or later,” Youngbae says, “you’re going to have to see him again.” He doesn’t say Seunghyun’s name, and Jiyong is quietly grateful for that. “For work. For group things.”
“I’m worried about that,” he admits. “About how you’ll handle it.”
“You don’t have to have it figured out right now,” Youngbae continues. “And you don’t have to go through it alone.”
He gestures vaguely, encompassing more than just the parking lot. “You can stay with me as long as you need. You already know that. And if you want to talk - about anything - I’m here.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Youngbae’s voice softens further. “Even if it’s messy. Even if it doesn’t make sense.”
Something in Jiyong’s chest loosens, just slightly.
“I know,” he says quietly and he means it. “Thank you.”
Youngbae watches him for a moment longer, then gives a small nod, like that’s enough for now. He doesn’t push for anything more, and for that, Jiyong is grateful.
They drive on in silence, the road stretching ahead of them, steady and unavoidable. Jiyong breathes in, slow and measured. Aware of his reality, sooner or later, the road is going to bring him back to Seunghyun - whether he wants it to or not. And somehow, he has to be prepared for that.