← Back to overview

Gghg

The Cracks in the Porcelain

The victory Jiyong had felt in the quiet of the dressing room was a fragile thing, brittle as a single coat of lacquer. He had expected the air to clear after their confrontation, thinking that by standing his ground, he had drawn a line that Seungri wouldn't dare cross. He was wrong. Silence didn't mean peace; it meant the poison was simply moving underground, traveling through the roots of the group until the very soil they stood on felt toxic.

In the weeks following the Tokyo show, Seungri’s tactics shifted. He stopped the overt shouting matches. Instead, he turned to a more surgical form of cruelty—the kind that happened when the cameras were rolling, or when the rest of the members were just far enough away to miss the context but close enough to hear the tone.

It started during a variety show filming in Seoul. They were sitting on a brightly lit set, the atmosphere supposed to be light and brotherly. Jiyong was wearing a vintage Chanel women’s cardigan, cinched at the waist with a heavy utilitarian belt. His hair was slicked back, revealing the safety-pin earrings that dangled against his jaw.

"So, Jiyong-ssi," the host laughed, gesturing to his outfit. "Always the fashion icon. Is there anything you won't wear?"

Before Jiyong could offer a practiced, witty response, Seungri leaned into his own microphone, his smile blindingly bright and utterly fake. "He’s run out of men’s clothes to buy, so he’s moved on to his mother’s closet. We’re all just waiting for him to show up in a wedding dress next week. It’s getting hard to tell who the 'hyung' is when he looks like a debutante."

The audience chuckled, thinking it was just the usual "maknae" sass. But Jiyong felt the heat creep up his neck. He saw the way Seungri’s eyes didn't crinkle with genuine humor; they were cold, calculating the damage.

"Art has no gender, Seungri-ya," Jiyong said, keeping his voice light for the cameras, though his grip tightened on his knees.

"Neither does a cry for attention," Seungri whispered under his breath, just low enough that only Jiyong and the sound technician might have caught it.

By the time they reached the parking lot after the shoot, Jiyong’s composure was fraying. The constant "jokes" about his masculinity, the subtle jabs at his mental state, and the way Seungri would conspicuously move his chair away during interviews were starting to grate on his nerves.

"You need to stop," Jiyong said, catching Seungri by the van.

Seungri didn't even turn around. He was busy checking his reflection in the tinted window. "Stop what? Being funny? The producers loved it. You’re the one who chose to look like a grandmother’s Sunday brunch, hyung. I’m just pointing out the obvious."

"You’re undermining me," Jiyong snapped. "In front of the fans, in front of the industry. You’re making my identity a punchline."

Seungri finally looked at him, his expression one of mock pity. "If your 'identity' is so fragile that a few jokes can break it, maybe it’s not an identity at all. Maybe it’s just a symptom. You’re obsessed with being the center of the world, Jiyong. You think that by being 'eccentric,' you’re untouchable. But you just look lonely. And honestly? It’s embarrassing to be the one standing next to you."

He slid into the van, leaving Jiyong standing in the chilly evening air. Taeyang and Daesung were already inside, their faces obscured by the shadows. Jiyong wondered how much they heard. He wondered if they were starting to believe Seungri—that he was a liability, a distraction, a "freak" who was past his prime.

The harassment moved into their digital space next. Seungri began posting photos on his social media of "classic" male icons, captioning them with things like *Real elegance doesn't need glitter* or *Missing the days when men looked like men.* He never tagged Jiyong, but the comments sections were a battlefield. Fans were picking sides. The unity of the fandom was cracking, fueled by the very person who was supposed to protect it.

One evening, during a late-night recording session, Jiyong found his favorite pair of custom-painted boots in the trash can outside the studio. They had been slashed—long, jagged cuts through the leather that ruined the intricate floral patterns he had spent hours detailing.

He stood over the bin, his heart thudding a slow, painful rhythm. He didn't have proof, but he didn't need it. The studio was restricted. Only the members and the core staff had access.

Jiyong walked back into the booth, his face a mask of stone. Seungri was there, sipping an iced Americano, looking remarkably relaxed.

"Something wrong, GD?" Seungri asked, using the stage name like a slur. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or maybe you just realized your eyeliner is smudged."

Jiyong didn't scream. He didn't throw a punch. The exhaustion had reached his bones, turning his anger into something cold and crystalline. "The boots were a gift from a fan, Seungri. They were hand-painted."

Seungri shrugged, his eyes never leaving his phone. "Maybe they were just ugly. Sometimes the universe has a way of cleaning up trash."

"Is that what I am to you now?" Jiyong asked, his voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioner. "Trash that needs to be cleaned up?"

Seungri stood up, finally dropping the facade of the playful younger brother. He stepped into Jiyong’s personal space, the height difference negligible but the weight of his malice immense. "You’re a distraction. We’re trying to build businesses, to become legends, and you’re busy worrying about what color to paint your pinky nail. You’re dragging the brand down into the dirt with your 'art.' You think you’re the king, but every king eventually goes mad and gets replaced. I’m just waiting for the crown to fall."

"I built the floor you’re standing on," Jiyong hissed, his eyes watering with a mixture of rage and betrayal. "I wrote the songs that put that watch on your wrist. You wouldn't have a 'brand' without me."

"And I’m the one making sure it survives your mid-life crisis," Seungri countered. "People are tired of the weirdness, Jiyong. They want a leader who isn't a question mark. They want someone stable. Not... whatever this is." He gestured vaguely at Jiyong’s oversized silken shirt and the layered necklaces that clinked with every breath.

The door to the control room opened, and TOP walked in, his large frame filling the doorway. He looked from Jiyong’s trembling hands to Seungri’s defiant stance. Seunghyun was usually the one who stayed out of the drama, preferring his art and his wine, but the tension had become impossible to ignore.

"Enough," Seunghyun said, his deep voice vibrating through the small room.

"Tell him, hyung," Seungri said, turning to Seunghyun with a confident smirk. "Tell him he’s taking it too far. Tell him the group is suffering because of his image."

Seunghyun looked at Seungri for a long time, his expression unreadable. Then his gaze shifted to Jiyong, who looked smaller than he ever had—a vibrant, colorful bird with its wings clipped.

"The only thing making the group suffer," Seunghyun said slowly, "is the fact that I can't walk into a room without hearing you belittle the person who gave you a career."

Seungri’s smile faltered. "I’m just being honest—"

"You’re being a bully," Seunghyun interrupted. "And you’re being a fool. You think the fans love us because we’re 'normal'? They love us because Jiyong had the balls to be different when everyone else was terrified of it. You’re attacking the very thing that makes us BigBang."

"He's a freak!" Seungri shouted, his voice cracking. "Look at him! He’s losing it! He’s wearing lace and pearls and acting like he’s some kind of revolutionary! It’s pathetic!"

"What’s pathetic is your insecurity," Seunghyun replied, his voice calm but lethal. "You’re so scared of not fitting in that you’ve turned into a shadow. You want to be a businessman? Fine. But don't you dare try to dim his light because you’re too dim to shine on your own."

Seungri looked like he had been slapped. He looked at Jiyong, then back at Seunghyun, searching for an ally and finding only a wall of disappointment. With a guttural sound of frustration, he grabbed his bag and stormed out, the heavy sound of his footsteps echoing down the hallway.

Jiyong slumped against the mixing desk, his head in his hands. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the ghosts of the brotherhood they were losing.

"He’s not going to stop, Seunghyun," Jiyong whispered into his palms. "It’s getting worse. He’s not just talking anymore. He’s destroying things. He’s trying to destroy me."

Seunghyun walked over and sat on the edge of the desk, placing a hand on the back of Jiyong’s neck. "He’s lost, Ji. He’s chasing something that doesn't exist, and he’s angry that you’ve already found yourself. But he can't touch you unless you let him."

"He already touched me," Jiyong said, looking up. His eyes were red-rimmed. "He made me look in the mirror and hate what I saw. Just for a second. But a second is enough."

He stood up and walked over to the mirror on the wall, the one used by idols to check their hair before going on stage. He looked at his reflection. The neon hair was fading at the roots. The obsidian nails were chipped. He looked tired, yes. He looked eccentric, certainly.

But then he looked at his hands—the hands that had written *Lies*, *Haru Haru*, and *Fantastic Baby*. He looked at the rings that represented his journey, the scars on his knuckles from years of hard work, and the clothes that were his chosen skin.

He reached into his bag and pulled out a small, metallic gold marker.

"What are you doing?" Seunghyun asked, watching with curiosity.

Jiyong didn't answer. He leaned into the mirror and, with a steady hand, drew a small, jagged gold crown right over his own forehead in the reflection. Then, he turned to his own hand and painted a single gold stripe down the center of his middle finger, right over the chipped black polish.

"He wants me to be 'normal'?" Jiyong said, a small, sharp smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Then I’m going to be the most abnormal thing he’s ever seen. If he wants a war over who I am, I’ll give him one. But I’m not changing. Not for him. Not for anyone."

The next day, Jiyong showed up to the rehearsal space with his hair dyed a blinding, metallic silver. He wore a floor-length faux fur coat in electric blue, even though it was summer, and his neck was draped in thick, heavy chains. Every single one of his nails was a different, clashing neon color, tipped with small, sharp crystals that caught the light like tiny daggers.

When Seungri walked in, he stopped dead in his tracks. He opened his mouth to say something—some fresh insult, some new jab at Jiyong’s dignity.

Jiyong didn't give him the chance. He walked straight up to the younger man, the crystals on his nails glinting. He didn't look angry; he looked radiant, a supernova of self-expression that made the sterile rehearsal room feel small and dull.

"Don't bother, Seungri," Jiyong said, his voice smooth and cold as silk. "I know what you think. I know you think I’m a freak. I know you think I’m a joke."

He leaned in, his silver hair brushing against Seungri’s cheek. "But here’s the thing. A joke only works if people are laughing *at* me. And right now? The world is watching me. They’re waiting to see what I do next. And you? You’re just the person standing in my shadow, complaining about the light."

Jiyong patted Seungri’s cheek—a condescending, light touch that felt like a brand. "Go get changed. We have a choreography to learn. And try to keep up. I’d hate for the 'freak' to outshine the 'businessman' again."

Jiyong turned his back on him, moving to the center of the floor. He caught Taeyang’s eye. Youngbae gave him a small, supportive nod, a silent acknowledgment of the king reclaiming his throne.

Seungri stood by the door, his face pale, his hands trembling with a rage that had nowhere to go. He had tried to break Jiyong by attacking his identity, but all he had done was force Jiyong to harden it. The cracks in the group were still there, deeper and more dangerous than ever, but for the first time in weeks, Jiyong didn't feel like he was falling into them.

He was the architect of his own world. And if Seungri wanted to burn it down, he would find that Jiyong was made of the very fire he was trying to use.

"Music!" Jiyong called out, his voice echoing with authority.

As the heavy beat of their latest track filled the room, Jiyong moved. He was fluid, sharp, and utterly unapologetic. He was a kaleidoscope of color in a grey world, and as he caught his reflection in the wall-to-wall mirrors, he didn't see a caricature.

He saw a masterpiece that was still being painted. And he wasn't going to let anyone smudge the ink.