(Kyungil POV)
...
You wake up from a particularly vivid dream one morning more than a little embarrassed to find him already awake, looking up from his phone at you, like he's trying to see into your thoughts. You're too busy being embarrassed as you look away from him, excuse yourself awkwardly, lock yourself in the bathroom, to realize why he didn't seem amused, why he even seemed a little upset. It's not like this has never happened before, you've shared a room hundreds of times over the past few years, sometimes the roles were switched but you were never anything more than amused when it happened to him, certainly not upset. Things are different now, things have changed between you over the past year or so and once your embarrassment fades, you think you know why he seemed so weird about it. (You'd be weird about it too.)

You don't get a chance to talk to him about until that night, running around and doing shows and trying to be normal backstage. He seems like himself, but you can see it behind his eyes, he's still concerned, he's still thinking about it and worrying, he's even snapping at anyone who dares to get in his way, he's not himself and everyone knows to stay clear of him when he gets like this, when he's too introspective to see what's going on around him. Now you're the one who's amused, because you forget sometimes just how insecure he can be when it comes to you, he always seems so confident in everything else he does. You should be thinking of a way to make him trust you more, believe in himself more, but you're too busy trying not to laugh at how ridiculous he can be. 

Once you get back to the hotel, it's late and you know he won't bring it up first, so you decide to have a little fun, torture him a little bit, work out in the gym, shower and get ready for bed before you do anything to dispel his worries. When you finally feel bad enough about his depressed mood to talk to him, you sit down on the end of his bed and close his laptop. "About this morning..." you tease. "You don't have to explain."

"I don't?" you say. "No, you don't. I can't hold you accountable for what happens in your dreams, and even if I could, it wouldn't matter because this isn't a relationship, so we don't have to talk about it." You move his laptop off his lap, hover closer to him. "Don't you at least want to know who it was about?" He shakes his head. "What reason could I possibly have for wanting to know which actress you want to sleep with the most? Would you want to know who I dream about?"

You laugh, because he's flustered and he's insecure and he's so cute when he's jealous, you were planning on dragging this out a little longer, but you can't keep up the facade anymore. "It was about you, you idiot." He looks back up at you, obviously not expecting your response. "Really?" You nod. "It's always you, lately. Believe me, I was surprised too, but..." He cuts you off, leaning forward to kiss you, his hands on your face. "Who's better, dream me or real me?" he asks, pulling back to look at you and smiling. You wonder for a second what would happen if you said dream him, but you decide that you've probably tortured him enough for one day. "Hmm..." you hum, fake deliberating in your mind, "not sure, I guess I need something to compare it to."

His eyes light up, he kisses you again, his hands working your t-shirt up to uncover your skin. You're still entertained by this whole situation, but it doesn't take long for him to regain possession of your complete focus. (It shouldn't be possible, but this is exponentially better than in your dreams.)

When all the lights are off and the two of you are crowded into the same hotel bed, you know you should definitely be sleeping by now, but you're not tired of playing with his hair yet, you're not tired of his fingers trailing down your arm, across your hand, back up to your elbow. "So, who do you dream about?" you ask quietly. "Anime characters." You roll your eyes. "Anybody else?"

"Oh, yeah, what's the name of that actor? You know, he's the one from that movie you love so much..." He's teasing you, you know it, but it's still annoying. "There is one other person, although it doesn't happen very often..." You tug at his hair and he squeaks, relenting. "Okay, okay, yes, I dream about you too. Why do you think there used to be entire days that I couldn't look at you?"

You had forgotten about that, you hadn't made the connection until he pointed it out. You were lucky enough not to dream about him until last fall and what a wake-up call that had proven to be. You remember the morning after it happened, ignoring him in the kitchen, ignoring him at work, flinching when he touched you. He kept asking if you were mad at him, if he had done something, if everything was okay, but you didn't give him any answers because you were a little mad at him, but not for anything he could actually be held responsible for, and he had done something, but only in your head, and everything was not okay, but you couldn't explain why without having to admit that it had happened in the first place.  

It took you days to come to terms with it, to look at him without remembering his lips on your skin, your hands on his face, his hands in your hair, and it shouldn't have mattered because it wasn't real and you didn't want him at all and he wasn't even close to your type, but it did matter to you because it felt almost real and it did make you want him a little and your ideal type seemed to be a bit less restrictive than you might have thought and it really messed you up. He seemed relieved when you finally returned to your normal routine, but he didn't know you were still waging war with your thoughts every time he was around. (It would have been a lot to process even if he hadn't been a bandmate.)

It's only been months since you started to dream of him, but he's surely been doing it a lot longer. You feel bad for teasing him about it back then, for pestering him to give you details, for whining when he wouldn't tell you which supermodel or pop star had his attention, for wondering why he'd start blushing, why he'd always give you the most cliched and obviously untrue answers. It'd be weird to apologize for that now, but you still want to. (Your list of things to feel guilty about just keeps growing.) "Right," you say, "sorry about that." He shrugs. "It's not like it was your fault, no one controls those kinds of dreams." 

"So, who's better? Dream me or real me?" you ask, genuinely curious because you still feel like you don't know what you're doing half the time, you still wonder if he's disappointed, you still think this might not be worth the risk for him much longer. (That was never a problem until him.) "You know that saying about there being no stupid questions?" You nod, your face brushing against his hair. "I found one." You laugh, mostly out of relief and he chuckles. "Why?"

"Why is real you better?" he clarifies. "You're not gonna like the answer." You sigh. "Do you want me to go first?" He nods, even though you know he probably won't say it anyway. "You're better because it's real," you say simply, "although in my dreams you are a lot quieter." He slaps your forearm, lets out a sound of disbelief. "Your reason isn't really a reason," he complains. "Yeah, but it's true."

"My reason is stupid," he whispers. "So? This whole conversation is kind of stupid, but you shouldn't let that stop you." He sighs. "Fine. You don't kiss me in my dreams, like it doesn't even cross your mind. When it's real... it's almost like you want to." 

"I do want to," you say, even though you know you're crossing the line, you roll him over to face you, kiss his forehead, his eyes, his jawline. "It's not stupid to want me to kiss you," you say against his skin. "You sure about that?" Isn't it only gonna make it harder when it stops? is what he means, and you can't say you haven't wondered the same thing. "If it is stupid, then I'm being just as stupid." More stupid, you think. 

"You," he begins, but he stops himself with, "never mind." You kiss him again, more seriously this time, and wonder what else he wants to say. You know he does this, waits for you to be willing to talk about something, anything, and then he tells you everything he's been holding in for days, weeks, months. (Years?) You could force it out of him, order him to finish his sentences, or try to coax his thoughts into the open, but his thoughts don't belong to you and if he's not ready to share them, then you could never force him to be, you don't want to know if it would be against his will. (If any of this was against his will, you'd fall apart.)

"You know that thing I'm not supposed to say?" he whispers, after a long moment of silence. "Yeah," you whisper in response, guilt creeping up again. "I really want to say it right now." Maybe you should let him say it, maybe he shouldn't have to be the one who keeps this from getting out of control, from growing into something else, something undeniably real, but he's your only hope of that now. (There is no hope for you now.) You tell him you know, kiss him before those three words have a chance to slip out, hold him closer, feel like never letting go.

This isn't the first time you've talked about your dreams, the conscious ones, the ones you can control. He brought it up a few nights ago, when you thought it was a little too early to be talking, and a little too late to salvage unwise dreams. He'd asked you about your hopes for your future and you weren't exactly sure what he wanted you to say, so you tried to pick something that he wanted as well. "I want to sell a million albums." He chuckled, rolled his eyes. "Okay, but what about after that? What do you want after this is over?" You, you thought suddenly, I want you. "I'll figure it out when it's over." He sighed exaggeratedly, sat up next to you. "You must want something, you have to have a dream, even if it's unlikely. I won't laugh, just tell me." You relented, ran a hand through your hair to distract him from your words. "I want a house." He laughed, then realized he had broken his promise and apologized. "I'm sorry, but that's it? Your crazy pipe dream? A house? You could at least make it a mansion."

"Hey, it's my dream, you don't have a say," you said, poked his arm harshly. "What's your dream then? It must be so much better than mine. What do you want when this ends?" You were joking, you weren't trying to put him on the spot, but he looked away from you and his smile faded. "I won't laugh," you assured him. "Liar," he muttered. "Should I guess then?" If you could have made it into a game, maybe it wouldn't have felt so real. "Okay, do you want to retire from music to raise flamingos?" He shook his head, his smile returned a bit, tugged at the corners of his lips. "You want to run off and join the circus?" you tried, but he shook his head again and reached out to hold your hand. "You're gonna buy a boat and sail around the world?" 

"I get too seasick for that," he whispered finally. He had started to understand, he knew that this was his only dream. You're not sure what changed, what showed him that this could be all he wants, all he'll ever want, but you wanted to be happy about it, you tried to be glad even though it hurt. "I want a house too," he mumbled as he laid back down next to you, and you sighed because you thought he might really be getting it, but no matter how much he wants this life, needs this job, it seemed like he still wanted you more. "What kind of house?" you asked, because you weren't ready to stop talking and you were genuinely curious about where he saw himself in the future. (You shouldn't have been.)

"A small one, with just enough room to record," he explained. "What about a yard?" you added. "I don't need it." You sighed, because he was doing it again, he was limiting himself, he still didn't think he deserved more. "What about a porch? You have to have a porch." He chuckled. "Why do you care? It's my house, you don't even have to come over if you don't want to." His words stung you, and you didn't expect it to hurt, because why should you care if he invites you over, why do you care if he has a porch or a yard or if he's happy where he lives? "So, is that your dream? Getting rid of me?" Maybe you were teasing and maybe you weren't, but his expression changed immediately, he shook his head roughly, his hair brushed against your skin. "I didn't mean it like that, it's just a house. It's not my dream, I just want one someday." He cleared his throat. "You already know what my dream is," he mumbled softly, "don't you?"

You did, but it wasn't the dream he thought. He still thinks his dream is you, but you know his dream is fame and measurable success in the music industry, your heart aches because he's letting you overshadow his actual dream, even more so because you're letting him let you. "I want a house on the water," you began, because you didn't want to think about it anymore, "the ocean, a lake, it doesn't matter, I just want water and trees and a deck. I want to barbecue in the summers and I want a fireplace for the winters and big picture windows and a sarcastic welcome mat." He looked up at you and smiled. "That sounds like you," he said, "like something you'd want." You nodded slowly. "Your dream house sounds like you too."

"It's not my dream house," he corrected you, "it's just a house." You smiled, looked over at him. "Right, because this is your dream," and he thought you meant you although you actually meant music, but you let him believe it because you know he has to figure that out for himself. (Maybe you were forgetting that people can have more than one dream.) 

You don't remember falling asleep that night, all you remember is him babbling about different bodies of water that would be perfect for your dream house but you must have nodded off at some point because you don't remember deciding to go to sleep. You don't know why he wanted to hear about your dreams, why he wanted to think about the future, why he brought it up out of the blue, but you've been more concerned with the present, with what you're going to do before this all ends for good. 

He's sleeping soundly next to you, rolled on one side, blankets tucked under his chin, and the sun is rising because it's early in the morning, and you can hear birds chirping in between the sounds of city traffic that surround you and the last thing you want is to have to wake him up, but you might not have a choice because you have to work and this is his dream and it's your job to make his dream happen. Maybe I have a dream after all, maybe his happiness is my dream, you think. 

When you wake up the next time, he's already in the shower. You look at the clock and realize just how late it is, wish you regretted not getting much sleep, hop out of bed to hop into the shower with him. You get ready for the day together, he tidies up the hotel room while you rumple the sheets on your bed so it looks like you slept there. (You haven't slept there since you got here.) You think he might feel a little unsettled by all of the words whispered last night, all the confessions and mostly unspoken declarations. (You're going to have to learn to control your emotions, you should have mastered that a long time ago.)

He walks past you to unplug his phone from the charger and you grab him around the waist, pull him onto your bed, bury your face in his neck. "What are you doing?" he asks, but you hear amusement in his voice. "I didn't get any sleep, I'll have you know," you tell him. "And who's fault is that?" You scoff. "Obviously it's yours!"

"Yeah, right! It's clearly your fault that I didn't sleep." You lace your fingers between his. "You're an idol, idols don't sleep." He laughs. "If I'm an idol, what does that make you?" 

"A grumpy old man who needs his sleep," you explain. "If you want to stop, just say so." He doesn't mean it, not in the grander sense, but it still gets to you. "I don't want to stop," you mumble against his skin, "I'm just kidding." 

"I know. I'm sorry I didn't let you get your beauty rest," he teases finally. "It's okay, I don't need it." You can feel him glance up to look at the clock and you know it's late before he even says it. "Better get some coffee, because we have to leave in ten minutes." You groan, not sure why you want him to feel bad for you. You remember why when he rotates in your arms to kiss you. "That means we have eight minutes until we have to be in the lobby." You kiss him. "Which means we have six minutes before we have to get out of bed," he calculates, then kisses you again. "Better make it count," you say. 

(You want to tell him the actual reason why real him is better than dream him, that your dreams don't compare because he's not there in your arms when you wake up, but this has already gone further than it should and you're trying desperately not to make it worse.)