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The dressing room smelled of hairspray, expensive cologne, and the faint, metallic scent of safety pins. Jiyong sat in front of the vanity, his eyes fixed on the reflection of his own hands. Today, his nails were painted a glossy, obsidian black with intricate silver foil shaped like lightning bolts dancing across the cuticles. He tapped them rhythmically against the glass tabletop, the clicking sound a small comfort against the mounting tension in the room.

He liked the weight of his rings. He liked the way his neon-pink hair clashed violently with his lime-green oversized blazer. It was armor. It was art. It was everything that made Kwon Jiyong feel like G-Dragon, and everything that made G-Dragon feel human.

Across the room, Seungri was lounging on a leather sofa, scrolling through his phone with a bored expression. The silence between them wasn't the comfortable quiet of long-term bandmates; it was a thin, brittle veil. Jiyong had felt Seungri’s eyes on him for weeks—judgmental, sharp, and increasingly cold. He had tried to ignore it, chalking it up to the stress of the tour, but the air was getting harder to breathe.

"You’re really going out there looking like a highlighter that exploded?"

The voice was casual, almost conversational, but the venom underneath was unmistakable. Jiyong didn't turn around. He picked up a ring—a heavy gold piece shaped like a lion’s head—and slid it onto his middle finger.

"It’s the concept for the Tokyo show, Seungri," Jiyong replied, his voice calm. "You saw the mood boards weeks ago."

Seungri let out a short, mocking laugh. He stood up and walked over to the vanity, leaning against the edge of the table so he could look Jiyong in the eye through the mirror. "The mood boards didn't mention you looking like a freak. People are starting to talk, hyung. They’re wondering if you’ve finally lost your mind or if you’re just trying too hard to be 'edgy.'"

Jiyong felt a prickle of irritation at the nape of his neck. "Since when do you care what the critics say? We’ve always pushed boundaries. That’s why we’re BigBang."

"We push boundaries with music," Seungri countered, his voice rising. "Not by painting our nails like schoolgirls and wearing skirts over trousers. It’s embarrassing. You’re the leader of the biggest group in Asia, and you look like a caricature. You’re making us look like a joke."

Jiyong finally turned his chair to face the younger man. He felt the familiar weight of his responsibility as a leader, the need to keep the peace, but there was a limit. "My style is my business. It’s an extension of my art. If you’re uncomfortable with it, that’s something you need to deal with internally. Don't bring it to the dressing room."

Seungri didn't back down. In fact, he stepped closer, his shadow falling over Jiyong. "It’s not just the clothes, Jiyong. It’s the way you carry yourself. You’re so obsessed with being 'different' that you’ve forgotten how to be a man. It’s pathetic. You think you’re a visionary, but you’re just a peacock in a cheap suit."

The room went deathly still. The stylists, who had been fluttering in the background, suddenly found reasons to be in the hallway. Jiyong felt a coldness settle in his chest. He had known Seungri was ambitious, sometimes even arrogant, but this was a direct assault on his identity.

"A man?" Jiyong asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You think masculinity is defined by how boring your wardrobe is? Or how much you can fit into a mold?"

"I think masculinity is about respect," Seungri spat. "And I’m losing respect for a leader who cares more about his manicure than his dignity. Look at yourself. You look ridiculous."

He reached out, his hand moving fast, and grabbed Jiyong’s wrist. He shoved Jiyong’s hand toward the mirror. "Look at those nails. You think that’s cool? It’s weird. You’re becoming a freak, and I’m tired of being associated with it."

Jiyong wrenched his arm back, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt a flash of white-hot anger, but he forced himself to stay seated. To stand up would be to escalate, and they had a show in forty minutes.

"Get out," Jiyong said, his voice trembling slightly.

"Make me," Seungri challenged, a smirk playing on his lips. "What are you going to do? Scratch me with your pretty silver bolts?"

The door to the dressing room swung open, and Taeyang walked in, followed by Daesung. The atmosphere hit them like a physical wall. Taeyang’s eyes darted between Jiyong’s pale face and Seungri’s defiant posture.

"What’s going on in here?" Taeyang asked, his tone level but firm.

"Nothing," Seungri said, straightening his jacket and flashing a fake, charming smile. "Just giving our leader some fashion advice. He seems to have lost his way."

Seungri brushed past Taeyang, intentionally bumping his shoulder against the older man’s as he exited the room. Daesung watched him go, his brow furrowed in confusion, before turning back to Jiyong.

"Hyung? Are you okay?" Daesung asked softly, stepping closer.

Jiyong didn't answer immediately. He turned back to the mirror, his hands shaking. He looked at his black and silver nails, then at the vibrant pink of his hair. For a split second, through the lens of Seungri’s cruelty, he saw what the younger man saw: a mess. A boy playing dress-up. A freak.

He hated that the words had found a crack in his armor.

"I'm fine," Jiyong said, though his voice sounded hollow. "Just pre-show nerves."

Taeyang walked over and placed a heavy, grounding hand on Jiyong’s shoulder. He didn't ask for details; he didn't need to. He had seen the way Seungri had been looking at Jiyong lately. "Don't listen to him, Ji. You know how he gets when he’s stressed. He lashes out at things he doesn't understand."

"It’s not just stress, Youngbae," Jiyong whispered, finally meeting his friend’s eyes in the mirror. "He hates this. He hates *me*."

"He doesn't hate you," Taeyang said, though there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes. "He’s just... he’s in a different headspace. But that doesn't give him the right to talk to you like that. You’re the heart of this group. Your 'weirdness' is why we’re here."

Jiyong took a deep breath, trying to reclaim the persona of G-Dragon. He picked up a bottle of glitter spray and lightly misted his hair, the shimmering particles settling like stardust. "I’ll handle it. After the show."

The concert was a blur of neon lights, screaming fans, and the thunderous bass that vibrated through the floorboards. On stage, they were a unit. They moved in sync, their voices blending in the familiar harmonies that had conquered the world. But every time Jiyong caught Seungri’s eye, he saw the sneer hidden behind the idol’s mask. When they stood side-by-side for the final bow, Seungri purposefully stood a few inches further away than usual, as if Jiyong’s eccentricity was contagious.

Backstage, the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a simmering resentment. Jiyong didn't go back to the main dressing room. He retreated to a small, private lounge used for quick changes. He needed a moment of silence before the inevitable confrontation.

He sat on a low stool, peeling off his sweat-soaked blazer. The silence lasted only a minute before the door clicked open.

Seungri walked in, closing the door behind him. He didn't look angry anymore; he looked smug. "Great show, hyung. Though I noticed the fans in the front row looked a bit confused when you started doing that weird interpretive dance during your solo. Maybe dial it back next time?"

Jiyong stood up slowly. He was tired of being the bigger person. He was tired of ignoring the rot that had been growing in their relationship. "We need to talk about your attitude, Seungri. Now."

Seungri rolled his eyes, leaning against the doorframe. "My attitude? I’m the only one being honest with you. Everyone else is too afraid of your 'genius' to tell you that you’re becoming a laughingstock. I’m doing you a favor."

"A favor?" Jiyong took a step forward, his eyes flashing. "By harrassing me? By insulting my identity in front of the staff? You think that’s leadership? You think that’s being a brother?"

"I think being a brother is telling you when you’ve gone too far," Seungri snapped, his composure finally breaking. "You think you’re so special because you wear makeup and designer rags? You’re just a guy from Seoul who got lucky. Stop acting like you’re some kind of god who’s above the rules of how a man should look."

"This isn't about clothes, and we both know it," Jiyong said, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "This is about you wanting control. You’re jealous that I can be myself without asking for permission, while you’re so desperate for approval that you’ve turned into a shell of a person."

Seungri’s face flushed a deep, angry red. "Jealous? Of you? You’re a freak, Jiyong. You’re a painted-up, glitter-covered freak. You’re losing your grip on reality, and you’re going to take us down with you."

"Then leave," Jiyong said simply.

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Seungri blinked, his mouth falling open slightly. "What?"

"If I’m such an embarrassment, if my presence is ruining your reputation, then leave the group," Jiyong repeated, his voice gaining strength. "I won't stop being who I am to make you feel more comfortable. I spent years building this, and I did it by being authentic. If you can't handle that, the door is right behind you."

Seungri scoffed, but there was a flicker of fear in his eyes. He knew he couldn't leave. He knew that without BigBang, his brand would crumble. He relied on the very 'freak' he was currently mocking.

"You’re bluffing," Seungri whispered.

"Try me," Jiyong countered. "Go ahead. Tell the manager you can't work with me because my nails are too dark. See how that goes for you."

Seungri straightened his posture, trying to regain his bravado, but the sting of the truth had landed. He looked at Jiyong—really looked at him—and for the first time, he didn't see a caricature. He saw a man who was entirely comfortable in his own skin, no matter how many layers of paint or fabric he chose to wear. It was a strength Seungri didn't possess.

"You’re crazy," Seungri said, though the venom was gone, replaced by a sullen bitterness.

"Maybe I am," Jiyong said, turning back to the mirror. He picked up a cotton pad and began to wipe away the stage makeup, revealing the tired, pale skin underneath. "But I’m crazy on my own terms. Get out, Seungri. I’m done with this conversation."

Seungri lingered for a moment, his hand on the doorknob. He looked like he wanted to say something else, to hurl one last insult, but the silence in the room was too heavy. He turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

Jiyong sat alone in the dim light. He looked at his hands, the black polish chipped from the intensity of the performance. He felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him, but underneath it, there was a sense of relief. The veil had been torn. The conflict was out in the open.

He knew it wasn't over. The tension would remain, the snide comments would likely continue in whispers, and the brotherhood they once shared was permanently scarred. But as he looked at his reflection, neon hair and all, Jiyong didn't feel like a freak.

He felt like himself. And that was a victory Seungri could never take away.

He picked up a bottle of fresh polish—a deep, royal purple this time. With a steady hand, he began to paint over the chips, each stroke a silent defiance. He would continue to be the peacock, the visionary, the freak. He would continue to weave the fabric of his own making, regardless of who tried to tear it down.

As the purple lacquer dried, Jiyong smiled. It was a small, private thing, but it was real. He was G-Dragon, and he was Kwon Jiyong, and he was exactly who he was meant to be.