(Kyungil POV)
...
Your head is pounding and your chest hurts and you can't take it anymore, everything is too bright and too loud and he's so close to you and you can't do anything about it. The walls are closing in on you, the room is shrinking before your eyes, you're freaking out and you can't handle this, you rush out of the practice room. You catch his eye as you leave and you know he'll cover for you, he always covers for you. (He protects you too, remember?)

You run up flight after flight of stairs, burst through the door, collapse on the ground against the wall, hang your head, rest your arms on your knees. You're not sure why it seems so bad today, why you feel so desperate, why everything is crashing down around you, but maybe you've just finally reached your limit. You're exhausted, comebacks and international tours are exhausting and worrying about him is exhausting and trying to convince yourself that all this isn't a bad idea is exhausting. 

You've been feeling like you need to run again, like you can't do this anymore, like you're screwing everything up again and isn't this what you wanted? Isn't this the life you fought for year after year, isn't this why you starved and why you lost touch with friends and family and why you didn't even stop to sleep? You didn't think it would end up like this, chasing success and trying not to destroy everything and still not sleeping. You didn't think you would end up like this, crying on the rooftop of your company, alone in the dark, overwhelmed by feelings for someone in your band. (If you knew it would turn out like this, would you have given up?)

How you got here, why you got here, it doesn't really matter anymore. What matters is what you're going to do in the future, and that's the reason you feel like you're suffocating right now, because you've been thinking and you know this thing doesn't have a future beyond imminent disaster and you should just end it and you would except for one tiny, little problem... you don't seem to want it to end. 

You know he'll be up here soon, you know he'll come to find you as soon as he gets a break, and you don't know how to feel about that, how to respond when he asks you what's wrong, how to convince him that you're okay, how to deal with the fact that he's never seen you this upset before, because you've seen him in states like this and you're still not sure you've figured out the best way to help.  

Once upon a time, before you debuted but after the two of you had started to grow closer, you had found him sitting in the dark, huddled into a corner of the practice room, head buried against his knees. Maybe you should have just left, pretended that you didn't see, trusted him to take care of himself, but you couldn't leave him like that. Maybe you should have turned it into a joke, about being a crybaby, annoyed him until he was too frustrated with you to be upset anymore, but it just didn't feel like the right thing to do. 

You invaded his personal space instead, sat down next to him and rubbed circles into his back, even though it seemed like your presence was only serving to make him feel worse, even though he kept crying harder, you let him cry himself into exhaustion. You thought he might get angry, tell you to leave or try to convince you he wasn't upset at all, but he didn't say a word. You felt almost... prideful that you had gained his trust in such a short amount of time, that he was willing to fall apart at your side. (Maybe you should have tried to figure out why.)

When he had no tears left to shed, you followed him back to the dorm and sat down next to him on the couch. "You don't have to do this, I'm fine," he'd whispered, but you shook your head. "I'm not doing anything, I'm not tired and I want to watch something before I go to sleep. If you don't want to do that, you can go to bed." He'd smiled at you, his eyes swollen and his nose red, and you didn't understand why he was smiling, but you weren't ready to ask him either. (You know your curiosity has always gotten the best of you.) Long before the movie ended, he was passed out against your leg and you thought about carrying him to his room, but decided that would be going a little too far, so you threw a blanket over him and turned off the tv.

The next morning, he tried to avoid you, surely embarrassed by his emotional breakdown, but you didn't let him get away with it, you followed him around all day until he was annoyed enough to stop giving you the silent treatment. "It won't be long until you have to sit through one of my breakdowns and then we'll be even," you assured him, but you didn't actually think it would happen. (You're getting really sick and tired of being wrong.)

It's going to be summer soon, but it's cold and windy on this rooftop, and you notice that the gusts aren't stinging your face anymore because someone is standing across from you and blocking the wind. You wonder how he found you so quickly, why he knew exactly where you'd be, but the answers to those questions are part of the reason why you're here in the first place, so you don't answer them. 

He sits down in front of you, reaches for your hands tentatively, almost gasps when he realizes how cold they are, places them against his chest, under his jacket. You know he's trying to help, but he cares about you too much and he's too good to suffer because of you and it's just making everything worse, you rip your hands away, rotate away from him, try to forget that he's there, try to focus on remembering how to breathe. (In and out or out and in?)

You know he won't leave on his own, and you could order him to, but the part of you that doesn't want him to go is in control right now, and it won't let you do anything except fall apart. "I told everyone you got an emergency phone call and that you might not be back for a while, so we ended practice early," he says, standing up so he can sit back down next to you. "Tell me what you need me to do and I will." You should tell him to leave, but he might actually go and you're not sure you want to risk it, so you ask for something else. "Don't make me talk about it," you tell him, your head down, your eyes closed. "I won't," he agrees. "Anything else?"

"Don't change your mind," you whisper. "Change my mind? About what?" You lean your head against the concrete wall at your back. "About me." You hope he understands, you know he still thinks you're strong and you know that he's come to expect you to protect him and you don't want him to doubt any of those things, you don't want him to realize that you're not worth it, you don't want to break the spell that you've somehow put him under without realizing it. You're not sure why you need him to keep believing that you're worth trusting, that you're worth the effort, that you're worth caring about, but it might be because you don't know if anyone else will start if he stops. (You don't even want anyone else to start.)

He must understand your motivation to some degree because he seems surprised by your request, but all he says is, "I hate changing anyway," and you know that he means it. This has to stop, you know it does, but it just not as easy as you thought it would be. You really thought you could just end it whenever it got to be too much, you really thought you weren't invested at all, you really thought you had everything under control, but you underestimated him, you underestimated your feelings for him, how important he is to you, how much you want this to work. You're an idiot for thinking this was meaningless and he's an idiot for letting you believe it as long as he did. 

You're not even that upset, you're just tired and overwhelmed and stupid, and you don't know where to go from here, but you manage to pull yourself back together. "You wanna get out of here?" you ask him, turning your head to see his face, which still looks worried. It's probably a bad idea, but you don't want to be anywhere right now except with him, so you're relieved when he nods, reaches for your hand, opens the door to the stairwell. 

You end up on a bus with your hand on his knee and his arm linked around yours. He suggests places you could go, states the businesses that are nearest to each stop, like his brain is a smartphone app, but you know exactly where you want to go, you're not sure if you'll be seen or if the two of you could end up in a tabloid in the morning, but you're having an exceptionally difficult time caring right now, even though you know you're being selfish and this might make things worse for him. "Three more stops," you say. "Until what?" he asks, clearly trying to predict your decisions. "Until we get off."

Your stop comes a few minutes later and he follows you off the bus, down the streets, through alleys, and past driveways until you reach a rather modest apartment building. "Please tell me you're not headed to that seedy bar you and your friends like." You point to the building in front of you. "We're here," you announce. "Ah, and where exactly is here?" he asks, but you're too busy deciding whether or not this is a bad idea to answer him. You reach out to grab his hand and lead him up three flights of stairs, stop in front of apartment #11, enter your key code and open the door. 

"Who lives here?" he wonders as you step into the dark apartment. "A friend," you reply, reaching for the light switch. "You have his key code? Exactly what kind of friend is he?" If you weren't so tired, you'd probably and say, 'How do you know he's a he?', but you're too exhausted to joke around, so you don't respond. He moves in front of you and he looks so worried and you feel so guilty for getting him into this mess, you think you might break down again, you know you have to stop thinking or you'll lose everything, you kiss him, you lose yourself in him until you can't remember anything, until you can't think about anything other than his skin. 

You remember just how stupid you're being later on, when you start thinking about how to get home tomorrow without being spotted, but he turns on the tv and snuggles into your chest and you try to focus on him instead of impending doom. "Do you feel any better?" he asks. "A little," you lie, because somehow you think you might actually feel worse. "What do you want to do now?"

"Sleep," you say, and you shouldn't want to do that here with him, but sleep is the only thing that might help right now, so you close your eyes and you don't say anything, because there is nothing left to say. He must not be very tired because he starts babbling about work and new projects he's come up with and how he has a new song to play for you as soon as you're ready, and you know he's just trying to distract you, just trying to distract you from everything you're obsessing about, but you groan and open your eyes. "Not work. If you want to talk, pick something else." It's not like the only reason this is wrong is because you work together, because you live together, but it's definitely on the list and it's the part that makes you most convinced that you should stop. "Like what?"

"Just not work," you tell him, hold his hand tightly so he knows you're not frustrated with him, that you're only upset with yourself. "So did you get your friend's code just to come here with me?" You laugh, because he's not very far off from the truth. "He's been out of town lately because his dad is sick a lot, so he asked me to keep an eye on it. It's not like you need me at the dorm." He disagrees instantly, tells you you're important to the band, but he means you're important to him, and he's not trying to make it worse but you keep feeling more and more guilty. 

"I meant that four people is more than enough to look after a dorm, that's all. I'm not going anywhere," you explain, but his eyes drop down to your interlocked fingers. "Not yet," he whispers, and you know he's thinking about it again, about your duty as a citizen, about how things are about to change regardless of the two of you and whatever you've been doing for the past few months, and he's already reminded you how much he hates change once tonight. "I don't want to talk about that either," you whisper back, and you know this conversation will end here for tonight. 

This apartment will be empty for at least three more days and you're seriously considering going AWOL and spending the whole weekend here with him, until you remember that you've already done enough stupid, reckless things for a lifetime and you should probably try harder to avoid situations that make you stupid and reckless. (Maybe you should have avoided him completely.)

You wake up past 9am and he's no longer next to you, and you start to worry until you hear sounds of cooking coming from the kitchen, and you know he must have already gone to pick up some groceries because last you checked the fridge was only stocked with beer and eggs, and your heart is aching again because this isn't real, this can't be real, this has to stop. He peeks in to see if you're awake a minute later and grins at you, pulls you out of bed, drags you to the table for breakfast. "Did anyone call yet?" He nods. "I told them you're still dealing with a family emergency and that I stayed with an old friend who came into town last night." He looks proud of himself, but all you can think is, Great, now he's lying because of me too. 

"Did you sleep okay?" he asks and you're feeling overwhelmed again, so you nod and silently finish your breakfast. "Is the food that bad?" he asks tentatively. "I'm just tired. Your cooking has gotten a lot better, it's almost edible." He grins again and you wish you could ask him what his secret is, why he seems so unaffected by this whole predicament, but he would think you were asking for all the wrong reasons, so you let him keep it a secret. "Are you ever going to tell me what happened?" he asks quietly, staring at his empty plate. "Nothing happened," you reply tersely. "You don't have to tell me, but don't lie about it. 

"I'm not lying," you insist, leaning back in your chair, "I'm tired, nothing happened." He sighs, stands to clean up the kitchen, turns on the faucet to do the dishes, doesn't look back at you. You follow after a minute, carry your empty plate to him, place it in the sink and wrap your arms around his shoulders, press your face into his neck. "You used to talk to me," he reminds you, and it's true, you did, because you needed him to trust you and you thought entrusting him with information would help him to confide in you as well, and it worked just the way you planned. 

Things are different now, and you don't feel worthy of his trust anymore and you don't trust yourself not to hurt him with your thoughtless words, so you keep it all to yourself. It's not like he's any different, it's not like he tells you what he's thinking or what he wants, he's too busy trying to figure out what you're thinking and what you need for that. (He has you down to a science now and that makes it even harder to stop.)

"I'm sorry," you mumble against his skin. For everything, you add in your mind. "Can't you just tell me? Not why you were upset, just... can you just say something?" You close your eyes, flip through your mind for something to say, past all the meaningless sentiments, desperate to find something real, because this feels real despite your best efforts. "I like you," you say finally, because it's true and it's big enough to distract him from what you're actually thinking. "You like me?" he repeats, and his voice is already shakier than it was a moment ago. "I really like you," you whisper, releasing him from your arms as he turns around to face you, his eyes wide in surprise. "Is that why you're upset?" he says, and why, oh why does he have to know you so well? "Why would that upset me?"

"Because I'm not your type," he concludes and it feels like you've been slapped, you immediately remember the look on his face when you implied he wasn't your type and then implied that he was mere seconds later. "Are you trying to say you don't like me?" you try to joke because you shouldn't have said it in the first place. You're expecting him to fall all over himself trying to explain, but he kisses you instead, because you're not nearly as good at predicting him as you should be by now. 

You end up taking separate buses back to practice, but he's still grinning when you see him in the dance room and you're still exhausted and conflicted, and why does he make your heart feel like this, why is he so good at screwing with your head, is he even trying? 

It's been a long day and he's probably passed out in his studio by now and you don't know how you ended up watching video clips of the two of you on your phone at half past two in the morning, except for the fact that you miss him and you can't go to him, you can't talk to him about this because that would mean something and this can't mean something, it can't. You're just bored, that's all. You're just trying to keep in touch with the state of the fans, that's all. You're just tired, that's all. This doesn't mean anything, it's just late and you can't sleep because he's not here, that's all. (Because it's your job to worry about him.)

He's still hiding it, but he's seemed a little different since you came back from overseas this time, like all the disagreements might finally be getting to him, like this is finally affecting him the way it's been affecting you for weeks, like he might be realizing that this isn't right for him. You knew this would happen eventually, you've been preparing for weeks now, you know this only ends in disaster, so why do you feel so caught off guard? (Why do you feel like you can't breathe every time you think of it?)

There's a part of you that used to believe that you could handle this, that this didn't mean anything, that it was a solution and not a problem, but that part of you was wrong. You know it now, you remember every time you wake up with his head on your chest and your arms around his waist, you were so unbelievably wrong to think this was nothing. (It would have been a lot closer to the truth if you had referred to it as everything.)

It's been growing for weeks, this fear that everything will fall apart, and you've tried to speed it along because waiting for the inevitable explosion is killing you, but you haven't been successful. (Maybe you don't actually want to succeed.) This can't go anywhere, you've always known that, you've always known that the two of you can't possibly have a future, and you thought that telling him that would end it for sure, but all it did was make you think there might be a chance that this could work, a tiny, minuscule chance hardly worth mentioning, but a chance nonetheless. 

You could pretend that this is research, that you're taking the scientific approach to whatever the two of you have going on, but all you seem to figure out is that you're a hell of a lot more obvious than you thought. Do you really look at him that much? Why do you laugh like a complete idiot around him? Is it really necessary to whisper on stage that often? You have to be honest with yourself, you are in over your head. There. You've said it. This is out of control and something needs to change, you just don't know what yet. (Or maybe you're still not ready to admit it.)

You wake up the next morning and realize what you've done, destroy the evidence, wait for him to bring it up, but he doesn't. You're not dumb enough to think that he didn't notice, but you're also not willing to be the one to bring it up. He's acting like nothing happened, nothing at all, and it's stressing you out, you think it might be better if you try to avoid him for a while. 

After practice, your bandmates drag you out for drinks with a side of dinner and you feel warm inside because this is worth it, this is what you wanted, they're more like family than a band, and that's probably why you shouldn't have been willing to risk it all for a hookup, a hookup that doesn't seem like a hookup anymore. He's not drinking again, because he's obviously worried that you'll fall apart again and he wants to be there for you, which is probably kind of sweet but it's making you feel kind of sick because you're wondering what else he's actively giving up for your sake, because he cares about you. (You shouldn't have let it go this far.) 

You don't drink much either, but you're thankful to your bandmates for trying to make you feel better. It's clear that he's still worrying about you, so you're not surprised to find him in your room when you come back from the bathroom. You lay down next to him on your bed, roll on your side to look at him. "I'm fine," you tell him softly. "You sure?" You nod. "But I think we need to take a break."

"What kind of break?" You sigh. "Like we keep our distance until the tour starts up again. It's only a few days." He nods. "I'll keep my distance," he agrees, sitting up, but you grab his hand, pull him back down next to you. "Not yet," you whisper, "I'm not ready yet." He smiles, squeezes your hand, closes his eyes. 

(You know that pausing this isn't going to solve anything but he still looks happy when you're together and he trusts you to protect him and you just can't muster up enough energy to press stop.)