(Kyungil POV)

 

It's been a long day and you're back at your hotel and it's quiet, too quiet, and you should be sleeping but you can't and you decide it's because of your roommate. He's not doing anything, but he's not asleep either. You can tell just from the patterns of his breathing. (You don't read into that.)

 

You stare at the ceiling because you can't close your eyes, you're not even tired. (Or maybe you're just too emotionally exhausted to sleep.) You glance at the clock on the bedside table that separates you. 3:37am. Four hours until you have to be up and ready for another day. You sigh and throw back the covers, crossing the six feet between the two of you and crawling between the sheets of his bed. He should be surprised, startled by your presence, but he isn't. (You don't read into that either.) 

 

He rolls over to face you, unspoken words hiding behind his sleep deprived eyes. He wants to say them, even if they're the wrong ones. But you don't need words. You've never needed words. Especially not with him. Words are complications and this is complicated enough. Actions speak where you fail, and fail, and fail. So you act. Just once more, you tell yourself, just one final action. (But you know it'll never be over, even if it really proves to be the last.)

 

He's not complaining. He'd never complain. This is what he wants, you are what he wants. (Even if you'll never understand why.) You've figured out what he wants and what he needs from you and you supply it. You tell yourself it's for his sake, that it keeps things from getting out of control, that keeping him safe and happy is your job. It's always been your job, of course, it's your job, who could protect him better than you? It's all for him, it has nothing to do with you. If it ever has anything to do with you, then it's surely just a way of ensuring a good night's sleep. (You're not even sure if you're lying to yourself anymore.) 

 

It gets hazy when the sun rises before the alarms go off and he's still sleeping peacefully, innocently, without a cloud of sadness and confusion and hurt surrounding his features. When his fingers are laced around yours and your lips are in his hair and the clock is ticking, literally counting down the seconds until everything falls apart again. 

 

It gets worse when the alarms start to blare and he is stirred awake, rolling over to face you, his eyes sleepy and his hair mussed and his smile genuine. (It gets worse because you're the reason he is all of those things at once.) It happens before you have a chance to think about it, before the spell is broken by ringing alarms, those three little words of infinite complication leave your lips before you can stop them. The startled look on his face is the only reminder you need that this is why you don't speak, you only act. (Because it hurts you as much as it hurts him.) All the alarms go off, the ones on your phones, the ones in your heads. You know all too well that someone will be in to fetch you if you don't prove you're awake soon, and you can't have that because this is complicated enough. 

 

Or is it? It's actions, not words. It's calculated, not spontaneous. It's circumstances, not emotions. It's a solution, not a problem. (Isn't it?) That's the whole truth and nothing but. No one would understand if they knew, but that doesn't make it the wrong choice. It's a secret because it works, because it keep things from getting uncontrolled. 

 

You turn away, letting go of his hand and reaching for your phone. (You're not at all disappointed when he relents easily.) You can turn off those alarms, but not the ones inside of you. You turn back to look at him. (Your heart doesn't skip even one beat.) You open your mouth, to try to use your words to reverse the complications, to tell him you didn't mean it, that he heard you wrong, but he speaks before you can. "I'll forget it. I know the drill." He gets out of bed and escapes into the bathroom. Maybe you should try to escape too. (There's no escape.) 

 

Everything's back to normal in an hour when you take the front seat of the van and he gets assigned to the back. Things are only quiet because you're all so tired. Nothing has changed, everything is back to normal. (Never mind the fact that normal has never applied where you're concerned.) Work is work, that's all it is, it's a job, a meal ticket, and you both fulfill your obligations with no complaint. 

 

It's actions, not words. It's not words when he smiles at you. It's not words when you brush his hand with your own. It's not words when you readjust his bangs or straighten his accessories. It's actions, it's obligations, it's your job and you've always been very good at your job. 

 

Whenever it starts to look like something else, you tell yourself you're just protecting him. (Whenever it starts to feel like something else, you tell yourself it doesn't count.) All you're doing protecting his job, his happiness, his dreams. You're protecting him from unsavory characters who only wish to use him, who will only hurt him, who don't care about protecting anyone but themselves. People who would turn on him as soon as it suited them. Everything you do, everything you say, everything you don't say is to protect him. All you ever do is protect him. (The problem is, of course, that you have no energy left to protect yourself.) 

 

He knows that, but he doesn't appreciate it. "I'm not a child, I don't need to be protected," he's said more than once, but this only serves to emphasize to you that the exact opposite is true. You know better than anyone that he's wrong because there was no one there to protect you and that's why you do what you do. Work is work, work is your life, work is exhausting you. (But not as much as he is.)

 

Returning to the hotel at the end of the day is always the hardest part. You're worn out, you're far from home, your next day off is far in the future and he's right there. He's six feet away again, working furiously on his laptop. He works harder than you. Everyone knows it. You don't know how he holds himself together, how he doesn't give up or pass out or run away. Because you've thought about running more than once. (You're just not sure if you'd be running alone.) 

 

His hair is hanging over his eyes as he types and his oversized sweater is falling off his shoulder and he's wearing reading glasses and he has the most adorable focused expression you've ever seen and you can't help it, you have to pester him. It's your job. It's how you protect him from working too hard or straining his eyesight or giving up. (It's how you keep him from running without you.) 

 

You flop onto the end of his bed, he jostles with the mattress, but he doesn't look up. You close his laptop, he glares at you and reopens it. You grab onto his sleeve and pull his hand away from the keyboard, he yanks it from you and returns it. You grab his sleeve again, he pulls it away. You take hold of it once more, tighter this time, he tries to escape your grasp but he can't. Finally, he reaches the breaking point. "Stop it!" he snaps. You let go and he shakes his hair out of his eyes, for the tenth time in a minute. 

 

You lay down, looking for another tactic, suddenly noticing the holes in his designer jeans. You reach over and poke his knee through one of the rips in the denim. You look up at him, but he doesn't react. You move on to a different tear and then another, moving steadily up his thigh. You slide your pinky finger into one of the holes, making lazy patterns on his skin. He doesn't look up so you decide to try a different approach, using your thumb and pointer finger to pinch at his skin, hard. 

 

He slams his laptop shut and exclaims, "Do you need something?" You nod, words of complication bubbling up. "Spit it out," he encourages you. You want to say something, but the last time you used your words... you don't want to hurt him like that again, so you don't say anything. "Say something or leave because I still have three hours of work and we have shows tomorrow." You shake your head. "I'm not leaving."

 

"That doesn't count as saying something," he says. "At least go back to your bed." You stop for a moment before getting up. He looks back at his work, looking back up when you slide the nightstand out from between the beds and up against the opposite wall. "What are you doing?" he asks, but you don't answer. It's not words, it's actions. You step between your bed and the wall and use your hands to push it all the way across the floor, right up against his. He looks at you in disbelief as you get into your bed and take your phone out of your pocket, looking at your missed texts but not actually reading them, your heartbeat racing. (Not because you just rearranged the furniture.)

 

He clicks around on his computer and you've heard his words but you want actions, so you put down your phone and reach for his sleeve again, pulling it from the keyboard. He looks up in annoyance, ready to say something, but you link your fingers around his tightly and close your eyes. You hear him sigh and close his laptop, laying back on the pillows and wrapping his own hand around yours. You open one of your eyes and see that his are closed, so you close it again. 

 

Who needs words when you have actions? Who needs complications when this feels so simple? You wait for him to say something but he doesn't, his eyes closed and his hand in yours. (Maybe this is how he protects you.) 

 

Right now, it doesn't matter that someone could come in and find you. Right now, it doesn't matter that you'll have to put the furniture back later. Right now, it doesn't matter that he should be working or that you should be sleeping. 

 

Maybe there are words that need to be said, maybe there are words that he needs to hear, maybe you should consider the words he could hear from your friends or your staff or your company, but words are complications and this is so blissfully simple. So you give yourself a few minutes to stop thinking and act and he lets you. 

 

Words have never done anything for you, but this isn't about you. "I'm sorry," you've told him in your head a thousand times, but you decide to try saying it out loud. You whisper it as first, and he doesn't hear you, so you repeat it louder. You don't see it, but he smiles and reaches over to card his free hand through your hair. "Me too," he replies. You don't know what he has to apologize for, but you nod anyway. He got his words, so you decide it's time for your actions. You wrap a hand around his waist and roll him closer to you. Maybe he should be surprised, but he's not. (Your words surprise him, but your actions never do.) 

 

Maybe actions don't keep him as safe as you thought. Maybe the only way to keep him safe is to use your words. (But those words are nothing more than lies, so you keep them locked away.)

 

You should let him get back to work, you should return the texts on your phone, you should protect him by letting him go, but you're not ready for that yet and you've earned five minutes of simplicity. You'll do your job, fulfill your obligations, but they can wait for five minutes. Actions aren't words, words are complications, actions are the only way to protect him. 

 

(But when you look up at him, his breathing declaring his unconscious state, his face relaxed and genuine, you realize should have been protecting yourself.)