the dice of zeus always falls luckily.

it takes him nearly thirty minutes (twenty-eight, his brain quips dryly) to find ryujin backed to a corner, his expression amused. sungki’s eyebrows lift and an incredulous smile curves the corners of his lips a notch. what the fuck is that? the fuck was on his face? “yah,” he calls, loud enough to be heard from two feet away, the distance closing with every stride he takes. he’s full-out grinning by the time he reaches ryujin’s side, a finger reaching out to trail down his cheek, coming away dusted in gold. “what’s with the glitter? what are you–a chic tinkerbell?”

he doesn’t sleep without drinking at least one pint of grey goose. anything to distort. even if the buzz is below radar. ryujin isn’t addictive, no. he has a schedule. a routine he follows by the book and not. it’s complicated; he’s complicated. but when sungki calls at witching hour, he’s decided. strobe lights. bass too loud. too many people crammed like sardines. his type of shit. a bonus with a friend or someone arguably so. he likes sungki. values him. sees the differences, but it works out, oddly. he doesn’t know why, but ryujin doesn’t question it. lets fate pull the strings. lets bygones be bygones or whatever. ryujin doesn’t dwell. doesn’t try to make sense of what doesn’t.

but he does wander aimlessly. the colours get to him. the bewitching reds and blinding blues. for once ryujin feels under-dressed. that the sequined, rainbow shirt and ripped jeans are dull and mundane. that his lime green hair and neon yellow nails are underwhelming. maybe it’s him—of course it’s just him. he’s predisposed to being eccentric. a type of maverick that demands attention and sulks without it. he won’t let anything upstage him. not the mess of humid bodies and the lights that glaze over glistening skin. ryujin stumbles into a corner, approaches some girls applying glitter to their eyes in the manic darkness and asks for one or more. definitely more.

so when sungki finds him. goads at the unicorn that vomited on his cheeks in splendid gold (how fitting), ryujin musters a drunken grin. “i love glitter, i’m not a quitter.” and that doesn’t make sense, but when does he ever. he laughs. shoulders shake and jive, and he offers a drink of red and orange with those candied cherries he hates some girls bought him because they’re fans, and they promise they won’t tell anyone they saw him here tonight. (“tell the world,” he almost says. but he bites his tongue, nods because he remembers scandals aren’t for everyone.) 

there’s not that many words pulling at junhai’s tongue in front of ryujin in a plead to come out. maybe because he hasn’t got any opinion on the member. or maybe it was that he didn’t have that much to say to any of the members. either way, a question comes up only after a few filters are changed, landscape is set and the title is filled with a ‘we hope this is working because the wifi isn’t great k k k’. “so how do you want to do this?” torso shifting towards ryujin, his forearm rests on top of the softness of the couch, eyes set on the other as if he was waiting for orders. “do we just say we decided to hang out after practice or is that not convincing enough?”

it’s been a while.

ryujin can’t remember when he last did a v live. can’t remember when it’s just him and junhai or if it’s ever been just them talking to a camera about stuff for fanservice or whatever. but it makes sense to have one now. a comeback is near. some sort of summery one for the season. he doesn’t like it. he doesn’t like being thrown back into a group more dysfunctional than functional. where they have to play up this bond that doesn’t exist. some days he doesn’t mind. ryujin acts his role well. the free-spirited one. and that’s putting it nicely. today is one of those days. junhai is tolerable. minimal words. knows his place. ryujin likes him or he thinks he does. they don’t butt heads like he and san, but they don’t get together after work like he and roman. an in-between relationship. almost diplomatic. the concrete definition of colleagues. work buddies.

he doesn’t mind. ryujin pulls the handle of the fridge, bends his body to scour for a drink. he ends up with a water bottle to be safe although he wants something equally clear but highly more chaotic. the vodka can wait afterwards. he wanders to the living room, twists open the cap and lets water trickle down his throat. not sore or dry from practice because he took it easier than he should have. laziness, really. if anyone askes, his excuse is that he’s saving it for the comeback. main vocalist and all.

dropping his weight on the floor, ryujin crosses his legs and watches junhai work. doesn’t offer to help because he can’t. his cheek is on an upturned hand, eyes glazed in disinterest. he and junhai don’t talk a lot. well, he does but junhai doesn’t. which he actually appreciates. gives ryujin plenty of them to gab on about himself. and yes, he realizes he babbles. but old habits die hard, and he doesn’t fancy changing anytime soon.

It begins innocently enough. Kisol doesn’t think much of it as he begins the dance to Signal, proudly knowing the choreography as a Honey fanboy. Though the loud laughter and beaming grin on his face are immediately replaced with an expression of grave regret when Lina steps into view. Her gaze briefly flickers upon Ki the exact moment his foot gets caught against the grip of the flooring and he trips over himself.  

     His face burns scarlet.

perhaps they’re caught by now. perhaps some fans are fantasizing strange, peculiar, abstract dreams in subtle lilac and pinks. perhaps ryujin’s too busy trying to analyze what goes on in others’ minds that he moves to slow to lift his head from kisol’s lap. he’s on the ground for one, two, three—seconds before he rolls to his side, rests his hand on his palm like some awaiting king to be hand fed grapes. the touches on his nape ghost as a remainder, and ryujin brushes nails against his scalp to quell the itch and lets green hair stick up in multiple angles.

he’s nothing but shameless, and it’s only amplified with kisol around. with kisol serving as some muse for his eccentricities to run unfiltered. but ryujin keeps the tendrils at bay. keeps them tucked away and swept under the rug because the sun is too bright. and there are far too many people he doesn’t trust.

“orange is a nice colour. so nice, they named a fruit after it.” lame joke equal lame, pathetic laughter, and ryujin isn’t marginally disappointed with his joke. thinks it’s ingenius or something close. witty, maybe. “i don’t know your type. care to divulge.” the smile is knowing. sharp and sinister. fingers tap on the bone of his jaw. “in a name. better be moon ryujin.”

he prepares with his phone. aims it at kisol without hindrance and swallows any snickers. “i think you and i will be stuck together forever. at this rate we might as well take over the world.” scary thing is, he’s half serious and joking but ryujin is mostly focusing on kisol and the silly dance he commences. too busy laughing, enjoying himself to notice the blunder until kisol pauses too abruptly to be natural.

his double layered comment doesn’t go unnoticed, and her brow arches artfully. “i’d be here one way or another.” and she would be, if she had to step over the metaphorical bodies of her groupmates just to get signed for a solo to save her career. that was her end goal anyway, and god knew she could do it. or at least, she knew she could do it.

once his hand falls, ryujin shifts back into an position of authority. personnel that exudes confidence and grandeur. legs crossed, chin rested on an upturned hand, single finger incessantly tapping against the pinnacle of a cheekbone. he examines bystanders over suran’s head. past the wisps of her hair billowing in the faint breeze that only brings with it acrid warmth. the sun burns the air before it singes them. (apply sunscreen every three hours.) who saw the brief touch. who noticed and is brave enough to persecute. no one does (he thinks). they’re too far. too blocked by the monochrome shade of the beach umbrella. sad its only purpose is to be stabbed through patches of drying grass now.

sports day is two things: a waste of time and dating grounds. and if they’re not dating, it’s only a waste of time. ryujin doesn’t involve himself running like a dog to some filmsy ribbon for a record only to run again two more times. he doesn’t leap over a pit of sand and hope wings sprout from his back to take him further. there are too many idols jammed in place one. too many others he has to share the limelight with. today, ryujin doesn’t bother.

at least with his shades on he looks unfazed. “what do the companies really get from this? everyone forgets by the next weekend.” there has to be a purpose, but ryujin sees none. clips of winners, of losers cycle through social media for two days. tops. then vanishes. come next holiday, they do the same thing... again. nothing changes. they’re stuck in a rut.

some glamourized life of a famous person this is turning into.

     A smirk to match, he heeds the instructions of the Olympus member and sits down before him, legs crossed, close to knocking knees. “Oh please,” he rolls his eyes, jokingly fanning himself as if the subtle flirtatious remarks have set his face into a blazing heat and reddish hues to match. “Aren’t you aware? Black is just my color,” Kisol smirks, “brooding and mysterious, it’s fitting to the Romeo image, don’t you think? I don’t wanna look soft, I gotta look like a charismatic bad-boy everyone wants a piece of. Blond? That’s cute,” he teases, fingers brushing through the inky strands that curl to his face in their midnight shades. That’s not me. “You should seriously consider joining me. As hot as you may look rocking the lime and apple head looks, I don’t know how many fruits you got left to rob before you go bald, and I sort of like you better with some hair on your head,” Kisol jokes, a wink accompanying his compliment before his gaze narrows and his lips tug into a grin. He shifts his body forth to mimic Ryujin, and sets his chin in the palm of his hands, gaze holding his expectantly.

he doesn’t have the luck of having many close friends who stay. who have his back. who can tolerate his bigger than life personality and ego. but he has kisol (and sungki), and it’s quality versus quantity. ryujin wasn’t built on the foundation of loyalty (but royalty). in his life time shy of three decades (yikes), he’s betrayed as many casual friends as he’s made. kisol’s not one of them, though. not someone ryujin can turn his back on. this is family, right. at least some semblance of it. being there for one another through thick and thin. their friendship isn’t a romanticized bond or anything close to. nothing pure. nothing bordering at heaven’s door. they’re flawed. they accept one another. all that matters.

ryujin rests his head on kisol’s shoulders. not fanservice. not something to get an article written about them. but out of comfort. out of basking in the—albeit annoying—presence of someone he enjoys. a smile pioneers, makes home on his façade, and it’s almost sweet if not for the words that materialize. “i’m aware orange is the new black. i was thinking of that—“ he traps a strand of fluttering lime hair between manicured fingers. “—orange. going back to orange. makes me look soft. angelic.” all they aren’t, but ryujin still feigns to be.

well, it’s one of his many, endearing sides.

“matches summer, too.”

     “Ouch, Ryu!” Kisol dramatically utters, face pulled into a frown as he clutches his chest, “Can’t believe you’d dare to go for my amazing ass when you can barely reach my shoulder,” he teases, that familiar shit-eating grin curving onto his features as his gaze narrowed into an amused pair of crescents. “I was just drawn over by it, to be completely honest. It’s quite blinding, I just couldn’t ignore? Do you plan to hit up cherry next? Or Apple? Apple head, see, that’s a cute name, who needs Zeus when you can just be adorably called by a fruit?” He was beyond shameless, exaggerating remarks and joyous chuckles escaping his mouth without a second of hesitation. That’s what friendship was. Unrestricted, non-judgemental, and blatantly honest.

how dramatic.

it was almost cute.

ryujin smirks, and maybe his thoughts are obvious for a split second before the corners of his lips straighten. almost droop. kisol can be charming, he'll give them that. but they're idols. being charming comes with the job. an unsaid prerequisite. he slouches forward, chin perfectly nested in the upturned palm of his hand. his mouth is now pressed slanted. practically a sarcastic sneer as he eyes kisol up and down then flares his nostrils once the sun blinds him. “sit down.” he pats the empty space next to him. not an order but a suggestion because he neck was starting to ache.

a small part of him wishes to be on poizn's team. on any other team. jawbreaker and imperial are too boring---nice. roman and junhai are tolerable, but he isn't in the mood to hype the nonexistent bond within olympus. besides suran and cheol, there is barely anyone he wants to converse with. anyone worth a few of his words; they are sacred---he's sacred so he isn't pestered by jabs at his lack of height. makes him cuter (than kisol). suits the impish personality on the fifth side of his dice. same goes with colourful hair. all part of the image. all part of him. a package sort of deal of bright shades, traits. better than being generic.

“i'm an ass guy.” double-meaning glistens, and ryujin fits his knuckles against his cheeks to hide a quaint smile. this is no place for inappropriate comments. anyone can hear, get back to his manager, and he'll hear a mouthful from his company. as much as ryujin bedazzles his collar, olympus are still on leashes. “i've done red,” bored, he drawls. the chipped polish on his nails provide better intrigue. “i've done practically every colour. maybe you should consider something else other than black. go back to blond. anything works with your face.”

     Approaching with a knowing and casual smirk printed to his cerise lips, he jogs over lightly, a hand stuffed in his pocket, slowing his pace as he nears. (He’ll need to run in a moment so he won’t get too close.) “Yah, Ryujin!” Kisol calls out cockily, watching Ryu’s gaze snap immediately onto his approaching figure. A chuckle threatens to bubble from his throat, cutting off what he’s to say next, but he swallows it down harshly, suppressing it for the actual punchline. (Whether or not the Olympus member agrees, Kisol thinks he’s hilarious.) “Still sticking to that lime head look, huh? Are you planning on robbing all the fruits of their jobs?” he inquires with laughter igniting the edge of his question.

the sports festival, such a bonafide waste of time.

ryujin has to stifle twenty-three—his jaw stretches, mouth wide as a yawn trails in the hot, open air—twenty-four yawns and the shitastic day had only begun. there are probably fan-accounts of him being bored, being utterly disrespectful for not paying attention to their beloved oppas and unnies as the aforementioned run around after some ball like mindless idiots pretending it was fun to be there the entire day, sweat the entire day. that is exactly why ryujin doesn’t participate. he’s idle on the sidelines, legs stretched in front of him.

he’s in white, how terribly bland but it helps serve as a canvas for his hair too bright. pinching a strand, ryujin surveys the colour and frowns. it’s fading and fading fast. as perspiration trickles down his nape, ryujin is paranoid the green stains the neckline of the sponsored shirt. he doesn’t care for the material but of his image. moon ryujin aka zeus will not look like a slob in front of hundreds and have it immortalized online because shit like that happens nowadays.

his chin is in his palm as he wipes the back of his neck with his free hand, thinking it will stop the bleeding green. mind floating on how to spend the evening (maybe with drinks, maybe with company), ryujin sets his eyes elsewhere and lets his guard down. shoulders sloped and boredom heavy on eyelids, he doesn’t see kisol coming, doesn’t notice him before that voice rings.

and a nerve snaps, jaw clenched. “yah—“ it’s not the lack of honorifics that sets him off because their age gap was practically nonexistent but it was that voice: mischievous and badgeting. ryujin knows what’s coming. kisol has a habit of teasing him, of testing his limits.

ryujin’s fingers dig in at his cheek, and san blinks an eye shut. something that will still manage to read cute if anyone snaps a picture. he still stiffens, lets out an annoyed huff of air through his nose. nobody’s close enough to hear them. “just fuck off for five minutes, won’t you? wait until they’re filming at least.” it slips out in a hiss, quiet, just in case. san’s always been paranoid. “you’re giving me a headache. just shut up.”

there is no in-between when it comes to ryujin. an extremist, being in the middle isn’t the scene he thrives in. he’s either at one end or the other. generally, people view him in similar light: love him or hate him, not both. never both.

moon ryujin isn’t easy to like.

he learned this in school when classmates didn’t kiss his pretentious ass like everyone else. must be something wrong with the water they drank, ryujin accused with a condescending smile that only pushed people alway. he didn’t get it. why were others harder to please, why did he have to try for them to even so much give him a second glance.

his obsession with attention starts early on. what may be considered a vice, ryujin considers a virtue. pride is never a positive asset. it comes in askew smiles of maverick origin; it comes in the shape and form if moon ryujin.

he works with pride. if before he used it as motivation to complete ambitions goals, nowadays it’s what has him coasting. he’s much too prideful to do anything but judge, but crack derisive jokes no one laughs at (he does, though) and get under skin of those so easily irritable.

san has a temper, and ryujin takes advantage of it. he doesn’t retreat when he’s supposed to, he doesn’t give san his space although he can’t stand being in his presence, and it’ll benefit both if they seperate. cats and dogs. somehow the combination has proved adorable for whatever logic ryujin doesn’t fathom and won’t bring himself to.

involving san, he doesn’t bother knowing beyond surface level. they should be close, brothers-in-arms, but they’re not. ryujin knows nothing of san besides he’s some manic workaholic that steps on his toes and throws dramatic fits every once in a while—possibly. frankly, that’s all ryujin needs to know and even that is too much.

but members.

what can he do about it, but make the most if the circumstance and getting san tick. because annoying him is hell of a lot easier than getting along. much smoother on the stomach, too.

ryujin’s shoulders shake, laughter a choppy breeze. radio static, almost. he pats san’s cheek, sees where it flushes red from pressure (or irritation, he can’t). “isn’t that sweet. you want a repeat for the cameras. if it makes your bossy ass happy, i’ll oblige for once.” because they argued recently about work ethtics or ryujin’s lack-there-of. the folded speech arranged by a manager that trusts him little hidden in a back pocket is a testament to that. (smart man.)

connection ceases, but ryujin lingers, feet stuck on concrete. “that’s no way to talk to your hyung, sannie.” voice hoarse, it scratches at his throat with fake melody. what pleases him bothers him, too.

“has anyone mentioned, yet, that you are in fact not actually zeus?” she begins with a look of utmost sincerity, “i don’t want to be the one to burst your bubble, sunbaenim, but you’ve got to understand that you are not in fact an immortal deity, king amongst gods, and are instead just….a man.” her cheek dimples, lips tilting lopsided. “anyway, it’s nice to chat. are you having the time of your life out here in the sweltering summer sun? ”

compliance, ryujin likes that shit. 

 when someone listens to him, heeds his words (commands), follows his advice (orders), his ego doubles in stature. dangerous, suffocating but his head remains straight (albeit mildly crooked) on cocky, loose shoulders. ryujin carries himself with an air of supremacy, thinks he’s above everyone else, that he’s special. he is, he is. his parents don’t fail to remind him, his fans don’t fail to support it---him in all his eminence. 

eminence, he likes that word. brings a shrewd smirk onto pursed lip. 

and ryujin likes his herd all the same: behemoth in talent, in charm, in giving him something for his psyche. 

head thrown back, ryujin laughs sharply. he hears through the static, through the claim suran provides with what he defines as ersatz altruism. can’t bother him. can’t wipe the smug expression off his face. it’s something he was born to wear. 

“you underestimate me, love.” calling others that, segregating them by nicknames and twisted charms is ryujin’s scheme. “as if i think i’m really zeus. if i did, i’ll strike you down with a bolt of lightning.” cheek in palm, his free hand breaks territory and pats suran knee twice. who the fuck cares if anyone witnessed, if fans in the stadium are gasping with shock. this can be played off easily. ryujin’s a master. 

a friendly sunbaenim giving a proficient hoobae advice for her second debut. 

might get an article written somewhere. 

might go viral online. 

the dream. 

no one can know it’s an imperious bloke making the most of the situation. discreet touches, sly eye contact. 

iso ryujin lets his hand linger, lets his smile grow bold and challenging. “having the time of my life?” he laughs again from the heart, from the gut. it slices through air, nose crinkled in potent delight. “this is absolute fuckery, and i wouldn’t be caught dead here if it weren’t for the fans.” saccharine, achingly sweet and all lies. yet something else ryujin is skilled in.