Seeing Red
G-Dragon // Kwon Jiyong x Reader Oneshot wc: 2k i'm not fully sure how to label this, not really angst or fluff, just a vibe-- sfw
Paris, France. October, 2017.
The sound of the wind scattering crisp leaves across the sidewalk and the quiet sizzle of the burning cigarette pressed between his lips were the only things Jiyong could hear. Not even his footsteps or his own thoughts reaching his ears.
He didn't know what time it was, he didn't care to check. The hour falling between the time everyone's days would start and the time the streets were only spotted with the occasional drunkard. The only time of day he could slip out of the chaos of the industry, the deafening silence of his hotel room, without anyone noticing. The only time he could slip out of his securities grasp and the paparazzi's prying eyes. When he could simply be Kwon Jiyong—not G-Dragon.
The crisp autumn air and the slight, steady thud of the pavement under his shoes kept his mind from reeling in as he walked. He didn't have a destination in mind, he was simply wandering. Escaping.
Eventually his feet carried him to one of the many little parks tucked away in the midst of cafes and boutiques. It was barren, the grass a little tall, the hedges slightly overgrown. It was imperfect, not one of the perfectly manicured, photo worthy places that plagued the city. It was *normal*. Something he desperately craved in the quiet moments.
He dropped his finished cigarette to the ground as he made his way into the park, his fingers fumbling with the mostly empty pack in his pocket to pull out another one. His eyes swept around, taking in the lingering people in the dim light the few streetlamps supplied. A tipsy couple swaying on a bench, a few office workers standing around after a long shift, and a bright red scarf wrapped tightly around the neck of a woman.
She was sitting on the ground in front of one of the many weathered statues dotted around, papers scattered around methodically around her, a lit cigarette dangling loosely between her fingers and a camera held taught in her other hand. His eyes stayed trained on her for a moment too long before he started walking again, shoving the cigarette he'd retrieved earlier into his mouth.
But he found himself stopping as he passed by her, his eyes catching on the papers surrounding her. Rough, jagged sketches of various clothing designs, some accompanied by blurry polaroid pictures to match while others held fresh coffee stains. All of them were distinct—soft, flowy designs nestled among sharp, daring ones. The only reoccurring aspect among them was a single color—red.
"Red, huh?" he found himself speaking before he could even think about it, his eyes shifting from the paper to the back of her head.
She took a slow drag of her cigarette as her head turned, her eyes finally leaving the statue after what felt like hours of being zoned out. Her gaze flickered over him, a faint hum leaving her lips as she caught sight of the bright red hair peeking out from under his hat.
"Yeah, red." She said with a small nod, the smoke curling out of her lips as she spoke. "You too?"
Red. A color that was used to symbolize love, strength and passion. A color that also represented danger, aggression and sacrifice. A color of duality—one that catches the eye or fades into the background. It stands out, demands to catch the attention of anyone that will look, even if it's an ember that'll inevitably burn out. Or it's quiet, subtle, almost a whisper in the background that catches the eye of people who look too hard.
He let his gaze shift back to the papers, the comforting scent of smoke swirling in his head as he looked over the sketches again, "Yeah, me too."
He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there. He wasn't even sure when he'd sat down. In his hands were some of her sketches, flipping through them and examining them with that same intensity he had when he was dissecting his own music. He could almost see the intent behind them, all of them being too rough to truly decipher yet too articulate to not hold any true meaning.
They were expressive in their own way, the way that wouldn't turn everyone's head, just the people that wanted to figure it out. A way that he understood all too well.
"You a designer?" he asked eventually, not looking up from the sketch in his hand, the cigarette between his fingers burning dangerously close to the filter.
She shrugged, a small hum escaping her lips. "Getting there." Then, after a pause, "Or maybe I already am and no one told me yet."
Her voice had the same tone as the red on her pages—quiet, but insistent. A kind of confidence that didn't need validation, just space to breathe. He found it.. oddly refreshing. There was no hunger in it, none of the clawing ambition he saw when he looked in the mirror or in the people who clung to him at galas and afterparties. Just a desire to make, and make well.
He flicked the ash from his cigarette, watching it drop onto the concrete as he let her words linger in his mind. "You don’t seem like someone waiting for permission," he said, his gaze finally shifting back up to look at her.
That earned the smallest smile from her—brief, just a tug at the corner of her mouth before it vanished behind another drag of smoke. "Neither do you," she murmured, nodding at the way he held the page. "Most people just glance and hand it back. You’re reading them like lyrics."
He gave a soft hum at that, his hands placing some of the sketches back down before picking up new ones. "They just look like they need to be studied."
Silence passed again, not awkward, but thoughtful. The way two people pause when neither of them feels the need to fill the space with noise. In the stillness, he found himself drawn back to that scarf, the color of it vivid even in the dim light. But it wasn't a loud red. It was the kind that lingered, refused to burn out.
"You know," she said suddenly, breaking the quiet, "I didn't like the color red."
His brow lifted slightly as he looked at her.
"Too loud," she explained. "Too.. out there. I liked muted colors, light colors that didn't stand out in a crowd."
"But now?"
She exhaled, slow and even. "Now I think it's the most honest color. You wear red when you mean it."
He watched her for a moment, the smoke curling between them like a thread being stitched in real time. And for a moment, he wasn’t thinking about fashion or fame or carefully constructed identities. He was just thinking about her words and the quiet Parisian streets that surrounded them. It was just two strangers who had wandered into the same quiet space, both adorning that conflicting color in their own way.
Without fully meaning to, he leaned back onto his elbows, letting the city blur behind him. "That's the problem with red," he said bluntly. "You wear it, and suddenly everyone thinks they know you."
She tilted her head at that, her gaze tracing the arc of a streetlamp's glow on the ground. The smoke from her cigarette drifted sideways, caught in the breeze that lingered around them. "Maybe that's not the color's fault, maybe it's just the people that see it."
That made something in him pause—sit and think. He'd spent so long being looked at, dissected, photographed, worshipped, criticized. To some, he was a brand. To others, a symbol. Few and far between ever tried to see what was underneath the persona he put on every day when he stepped into the public eye.
But she hadn't looked at him like that. Not once had her eyes flickered with recognition or the subtle shift in tone that came when someone realized who he was. She wasn't talking to G-Dragon. She was talking to him—a man sitting on the hard pavement in a random Parisian park with smoke clinging to his clothes and red in his hair.
"You don't know who I am, do you?" he asked suddenly, his voice quiet, curious.
She glanced at him, her eyebrow raising slightly. "Am I supposed to?"
He laughed under his breath, more to himself than anything else. It wasn’t the first time someone hadn't recognized him. But it was the first time he realized just how comforting it was.
"No," he said, shaking his head slightly. "You really shouldn't."
She gave a little shrug, as if that settled something. As if it never mattered to begin with.
He studied her face for a moment as they fell into that same silence again. There was no performance there, no mask. Just someone with red around her neck and ink stained fingers.
"Do you usually sketch this late?" he asked, nodding toward the scattered sketches barely illuminated by the streetlight.
She smiled again, this time a little fuller. "Not really. Too jetlagged to sleep, too restless to just sit in the room. Needed to be somewhere real."
He nodded slowly, as if that made perfect sense. "Yeah. I get that."
Just like clockwork, they fell into a silence once again. His eyes brushing through sketches while hers continued examining the worn down statue in front of them. And like clockwork, the faint sound of one hummed in the background, drawing them out of their thoughts.
The world was starting to stir, the sky a few shades lighter as the sun dared to peak up over the horizon. Which meant it was time for him to go back to the chaos before people realized he'd slipped through the cracks.
He stood up, one of his hands brushing his coat off before sliding into his pocket. His eyes flickered around the park, not busy, but not quiet for much longer.
His gaze drifted down to the small stack of papers in his hand, running over the lines of the one on top again. Red collar, jagged lines, pencil smudges. Unfinished. Raw. Real.
He didn't ask. He didn't need to.
As he sat the papers back down beside her, his fingers held onto the one on top, simply folding it and slipping it into his pocket.
"Thanks." he said with a small hum. Not for the sketch, not even for the conversation. Simply for the quiet company. For the red.
She didn't respond right away, just leaned forward and rested her elbows on her legs as she watched him. She took the last pull of her cigarette, her fingers promptly flicking it away.
"Any time."
He turned and walked just as he did a few hours ago, only this time he could hear the sound of the leaves crunching under his shoes and the steady stream of quiet thoughts in his head. He didn't rush, didn't look back, just let himself feel.
Click.
The soft, subtle sound of a camera shutter echoed from behind him. Not the rapid clicking from paparazzi, not the camera being shoved in his face for someone's greedy satisfaction, just a single, soft click.
He didn't turn, didn't freeze, didn't feel the dread of intrusion he was used to. It didn't feel like being exposed or being caught.
It felt like being remembered. Not for his music, his persona, just for him.
The thought had the faintest smile tugging at his lips as his fingers traced over the folded up paper in his pocket.
And he knew he'd be seeing a little more red in everything he did for a while.
i actually ended up making this way longer than i expected to but i'm really happy with it :o
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