Untitled | Kwon Ji-Yong
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Summary: Jiyong proposes to you onstage during the MOTTE tour, asking you to stay with him even when things are hard
Warnings: None
Word Count: 2.2k
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Everything is bright on the outside. Stadium lights, screaming crowds, glittering LED screens. But backstage it’s a different world, one made of tight schedules and quiet corners and the constant, careful way people watch Jiyong like he might crack if someone taps the glass too hard.
You see it because you’re close enough to see the parts he hides.
You’re not just a guest. You’re not just some girlfriend who visits for the cute photos and the headlines. You’re an idol too, in a group that’s always been called BigBang’s little sister whether you wanted the label or not. You understand performance exhaustion. You understand how the stage can swallow you whole and still demand an encore.
And you understand him.
There are nights during rehearsals where he goes quiet in a way that makes your chest ache. Like he’s somewhere else entirely, staring at a point on the floor with his shoulders tense, mouth pressed thin, hands fidgeting with rings he’s worn so long they might as well be part of him.
He’ll look fine a second later. He always does. He’ll crack a joke, grin at his staff, throw a peace sign at a camera.
But you know the truth.
You’ve held his face in your hands when the makeup is already off and the hotel room is dim and he finally exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days. You’ve heard him say, quietly, “I don’t know who I am right now.”
And you’ve answered every time, steady and soft. “You’re still you. Even like this. Especially like this.”
Sometimes you think that’s the only thing you can do. Just stay. Just keep being the warm place he can come back to when everything else feels sharp.
So when his manager calls you with a “small surprise request” for the Seoul date, you assume it’s the usual.
A cameo. A wave. A short greeting to hype the crowd. Something safe.
You say yes without thinking too hard, because you always say yes when it’s him.
You don’t find out the truth until the night of the show.
Backstage is crowded, busy, buzzing with controlled chaos. Your stylists fuss with your hair and your mic pack. Someone fixes your in-ear. Your own manager is nearby with a clipboard, pretending to be calm.
Then you catch sight of him.
Jiyong is standing a little apart from everyone, in his MOTTE fit, looking like art that learned how to breathe. His eyes meet yours and soften immediately, like the noise fades out just because you’re there.
He walks up and takes your hand, thumb rubbing over your knuckles like he’s checking you’re real.
“You okay?” he asks.
You smile. “You’re asking me?”
He huffs a quiet laugh, but his gaze stays on your face, serious underneath the teasing. “I mean it.”
“I’m okay,” you say. “Are you okay?”
He hesitates just long enough for you to notice.
Then he nods. “Yeah. I’m good.”
It’s not a lie exactly. It’s just not the whole truth. It’s the version of truth he can say out loud.
You squeeze his hand. “What am I doing tonight again?”
His mouth twitches, just barely. “You’ll see.”
That makes you narrow your eyes. “Ji.”
He leans in and kisses your forehead, quick and grounding. “Trust me.”
That’s how he gets away with everything. He’ll look at you like that, voice soft, and your heart will step in front of your doubts every time.
So you nod. “Okay. I trust you.”
Somewhere behind him, you notice Taeyang watching with a fond, worried expression. Daesung is smiling like he knows something. Seunghyun isn’t at every date, but you’ve heard enough whispered stories to know the members have been hovering around Jiyong more than usual during this era. Like brothers who can’t fix it, but refuse to leave.
His staff moves with a similar energy tonight. Too calm. Too coordinated.
You don’t like that.
It feels like a setup.
Then the stage manager calls your name.
“You’re up in five.”
Your stomach flips. “Five?”
Jiyong squeezes your hand again. “You’re gonna do great.”
“You still haven’t told me what I’m doing.”
He smiles, and it’s gentle, but there’s something trembling under it. Like excitement, like nerves, like he’s balancing on a wire.
“You’ll see,” he repeats.
The crowd roars as you’re guided toward the side stage. The bass from the speakers rattles your ribs. The light from the screens paints everything in flickering color.
You peek through the curtain.
He’s out there already, alone in the center of the stage, the whole stadium singing his name like a prayer.
And for a second you get that familiar ache in your chest.
Because he’s loved so loudly out there.
And still, sometimes, he looks so lonely.
You watch him move through the beginning of the set, and you can tell he’s fighting for steadiness. Not badly, not obviously, but you know him too well. There are tiny tells. The way he swallows before certain lines. The way his eyes close a little longer than usual between breaths. The way he presses two fingers to his own wrist when he thinks nobody’s watching, as if he’s counting the beats to stay present.
Then the screen behind him goes dark.
The band changes.
You recognize the first notes immediately.
Untitled, 2014.
Your blood turns warm and electric.
No. No way.
Your throat tightens.
This song isn’t just a favorite. It’s a piece of you. It’s the song you played on loop when you were too tired to speak. The song you clung to when your own promotions crushed you, when you didn’t know how to explain to anyone that sometimes the spotlight feels like drowning.
It’s the song you used to comfort him, too.
You’d sit with him late at night and let it play quietly in the background while you ran your fingers through his hair, saying nothing, because the song said enough. He didn’t need advice. He just needed someone who wasn’t asking him to perform.
Your in-ear crackles.
“Go,” the stage manager whispers.
Your feet move on their own.
The moment you step onto the stage, the crowd erupts in shock. You hear your name, screamed back at you in a wave that makes your skin prickle.
You blink hard against the lights and walk toward him, heart pounding.
Jiyong turns.
For a split second, his expression is careful, like he’s acting surprised for the audience.
Then his eyes find yours and the act slips.
His face softens so much it almost hurts to see.
Like relief.
Like he’s been waiting for you.
You lift your mic with hands that aren’t completely steady. You try to keep your breathing even. You’re an idol. You’ve done stages a thousand times.
But this is different.
Because this is his song. His pain. His voice.
And you’re stepping into it with him.
He reaches for your hand like it’s natural, like it’s always been part of the choreography. You take it without thinking. The touch steadies you instantly.
He starts the verse, voice raw and beautiful, and your chest tightens on the first line.
You come in softly on the next part, harmonizing, your voice threading into his like you’ve been practicing this for weeks.
Which you haven’t.
Not that you know of.
The realization hits you mid-line.
This isn’t spontaneous.
This is planned.
Your gaze flicks to the side stage, and you see it. His staff watching too intently. Daesung with his hands clasped like he’s praying. Taeyang with his lips pressed together, eyes glossy.
Your breath catches.
Oh.
Jiyong’s thumb strokes over your knuckles in a slow, grounding motion, like he’s telling you without words, Stay with me.
The song moves forward, each line heavier than the last. The stadium is quieter now, reverent. You can hear sniffles in the front rows. You can feel the way the crowd is holding its breath with you.
And Jiyong, for all the struggle he’s been carrying, is singing like he’s finally letting himself be seen.
When the song reaches the part that always breaks you, your voice shakes for half a second. You swallow it down. You glance at him.
He’s watching you while he sings.
Not the crowd. Not the cameras.
You.
Like you’re the only person he wants to reach.
His eyes look tired up close. There are shadows he hasn’t been able to hide this era, no matter how pretty the lighting is. But there’s something else there too.
Resolve.
The music softens toward the end.
Your hand is still in his.
He steps closer.
You think he’s going to pull you into a hug, something sweet for the fans. A forehead kiss. A whispered thank you.
Instead, he lets the last note fade, and he doesn’t move away.
He turns to face you fully.
The crowd starts to murmur, sensing the change.
Your heart slams against your ribs.
His voice is quiet, but his mic picks it up.
“I wanted to do this song with you,” he says, eyes shining. “Because you stayed with me when I didn’t know how to stay with myself.”
Your throat closes.
You try to speak and nothing comes out.
He swallows, hard.
There’s a tremor in his breath that makes your eyes burn immediately. You can see how much it costs him to be this open in front of thousands of people.
“I know this tour hasn’t been easy,” he continues, voice thick. “For me. For you too. You’ve been strong for both of us sometimes.”
He lets out a small, breathless laugh that sounds like he can’t believe he’s doing this.
Then, slowly, he drops to one knee.
The stadium erupts into a scream so loud it turns into white noise.
You stop breathing.
Your hand flies to your mouth.
Jiyong looks up at you, eyes wide and wet, and for the first time tonight he looks younger, not in age, but in vulnerability. Like he’s not GD in this moment. He’s just Jiyong. Your Jiyong. The man who gets quiet in hotel rooms and clings to your hand like it’s the only solid thing left.
He reaches into his jacket. Pulls out a ring box with fingers that shake just slightly.
He opens it.
The ring catches the stage light, bright and unreal.
“I don’t have everything figured out right now,” he says, voice barely holding. “But I know this. I know you’re my home. I want you with me, even when I’m not okay. Especially when I’m not okay.”
Your eyes spill over.
He blinks hard, like he’s trying not to cry too, but his lashes are wet.
“Will you marry me?” he asks.
For a second you can’t speak. Your body is full of sound and light and memory. Every late-night phone call. Every time he asked if he was still lovable. Every time you told him yes and meant it so much it hurt.
You nod so hard it almost makes you dizzy.
“Yes,” you choke out. “Yes, Jiyong.”
The relief that hits his face is so intense it makes the crowd scream again. He stands up quickly, like he can’t stay down for another second, and he cups your face with both hands.
He kisses you.
It’s not a showy kiss. It’s not for the cameras.
It’s a kiss that says thank you. A kiss that says please stay. A kiss that says I’m trying.
The crowd is losing their minds.
You’re shaking.
He pulls back just enough to slide the ring onto your finger. His hands are still trembling, but he gets it on. Then he presses your hand to his chest over his heart like he needs to feel it.
“You’re real,” he whispers, almost to himself.
You laugh through tears. “I’m real.”
He presses his forehead to yours.
“I was scared,” he admits, so quietly you almost don’t catch it over the roar. “I thought… what if I don’t deserve you?”
Your chest cracks open.
You shake your head, hands gripping his jacket. “Don’t do that. Don’t say that.”
His eyes squeeze shut for a second.
You lift your ringed hand and cradle his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye.
“I didn’t love you because you were okay,” you whisper. “I loved you when you weren’t.”
His breath catches.
The band, bless them, starts playing again, softer, giving you time to breathe without leaving you in silence. Jiyong turns you toward the crowd, still holding your hand up. The camera catches the ring and the stadium explodes all over again.
You wave shakily, still crying.
Jiyong laughs, breathless and disbelieving, then pulls you into his arms like he’s afraid someone might take you away if he loosens his grip.
And in that moment, under all those lights, you feel something settle.
A promise that says: even here, even now, we choose each other.
And when he whispers against your hair, “Thank you for staying,” you squeeze him tighter and whisper back, “I’m not going anywhere.”
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