(Kyungil POV)
...
The shrill ring of your cellphone rouses you from your slumber. Practice at 10am, the screen reads. You dismiss the alarm and unlock your phone to check the news, but you don't make it that far, distracted by the faces in the background of your home screen. Your heart clenches every time you look at that particular photo. You really should have changed it by now. You remember the day he took it, the day you changed your wallpaper for the first time in months. (The old picture was one that you had taken when he wasn't looking, his silhouette barely discernible against the city sky.)

It was your first day off in what felt like forever and you had found him in the kitchen late one morning, gorging himself on an extensive breakfast of carbs, and you had asked him if everything was okay. He just smiled up at you and kept on eating. "You're gonna make yourself sick," you said, but he didn't seem to care, just kept looking at you with a embarrassed grin on his face. He shoveled another spoonful of food into his mouth and looked up just in time to see you snap a photo of him and smile cheekily. 

"Delete that!" he demanded urgently as he jumped up from his chair. "Go right ahead," you offered, sliding your phone into your back pocket. He sighed and moved closer to you, reached around your waist to retrieve your phone, but he wasn't fast enough because you tilted his chin up, bent down to kiss him before he could say anything. 

You felt him grasp around for your phone and pull it from your pocket before he broke the kiss to delete the apparently embarrassing picture you'd just captured. His finger hovered over the button that confirmed his decision to erase it forever, he looked up at you, and you could see him remembering the last time you had a disagreement about photographing him. "Unless you want to keep this one too..." he added quietly. "You can delete it."

"Are you sure?" You nodded. "But only if you take a better one to replace it." He smiled, deleted the photo, turned the camera on himself, angled it to capture the both of you. You leaned forward, and he laughed at your attempt at being polite. "No matter how big you make your face look, it's not going to matter," he said, still chuckling. "Do you want me to stop?" He shook his head, snapped a few pictures of the two of you, saved the best one to your gallery. "There. Isn't that better than a picture of me chewing?" You shrugged, returned your phone to your pocket. "I guess."

You're still wondering if that day was the start of something new, something destructive, because he only took the picture, you're the one who wanted to stare at it so much that you made it your permanent phone background. (It might be the only part of this that ever had any hope of being permanent.)

It's been weeks since the two have you have talked and you don't know where to start, but you're going overseas again in a few weeks and you have to pretend, for the sake of your job, for the fans, you have to lie and say that everything is okay, and you need a plan, and he's always got a plan, so the two of you have to talk. The problem is that he actually does hate you now and he doesn't want to talk to you, so you need a plan in order to figure out his plan. 

You thought you could use your powers of leadership to force him to tell you anything you wanted, but that sort of approach just makes you feel guilty now. You consider getting him drunk first, but you don't see that ending well for either of you. You think about bribing him, but he's not very big on gifts and you wouldn't even know what he would want. Eventually, you decide on calling a 'team meeting' in the practice room but only telling him about it. He's not surprised at first, he thinks the others must be running late, but he soon realizes that you've led him into some kind of trap. (Because you're a coward.)

"We need a plan," you say. "No one else is coming, are they," he says flatly. "We have to leave whatever happened between us in the past and keep it from interfering on stage," you explain bluntly. "Whatever happened between us," he mumbles, "of course." He sits down across from you on the floor. "We need a brilliant plan and I've already proven that is not my department." He swallows hard, remembers your not-so-brilliant plan, looks down at the floor. "It's work, so we work. Do you remember how to do that?" 

"It involves a lot of this," you say, reaching out an arm and resting it on his shoulder, fingers grazing his neck. He shakes your arm off, slides further back from you. "Right. A lot of unnecessary closeness. We turn it on when we go on stage and we turn it off the second we step off." You nod carefully, formulating your thoughts into sentences that will make your concerns clear to him. "You gonna be okay with that? Turning it on and off?"

"I have to be. What about you?" You lean back on your arms. "I'll be fine," you assure him confidently, but you're faking it because you're still having a hard time being in the same room with him and touching him and whispering a little too closely might be too much, but he's right because it's the only option. "So will I," he says, standing up from the floor. "Is that all you wanted?"

"Are you hungry?" you ask, because you're sure he hasn't eaten dinner yet and you still feel guilty for lying to him, even if you're doing for his sake. "Not really," he replies, "but I don't think you care." You spring up from the floor, dust off your jeans. "Nope," you confirm. "Pick any restaurant you want, I'm buying."

You end up eating chicken, again, because he likes this restaurant and he's comfortable here and he also knows that you're not much of a fan, so it's the perfect choice. Or it was the perfect choice until he starts to remember the last time the two of you came here alone. You can see it on his face, you know he's thinking about the first time the two of you made up, you can tell because you know him, and you're thinking about it too. He orders an insane amount of food because you're paying and he's always been good at finding vaguely passive aggressive ways to punish you and make you feel guilty. (Guilt is a constant state for you now.)

He's drinking a lot more than you thought he would, because even after everything you've put him through, even after all the lies you've told him, he still trusts you, more than you trust yourself. He eats until you're sure he must be feeling sick, but it gives him a reason not to talk to you, so he probably thinks it's worth it. He doesn't seem drunk when you leave the restaurant, but as you walk back to the dorm, the alcohol is his system seems to kick in and he start stumbling into your side every few steps. (Why does your heart feel so jumpy?)

The dorm appears to be empty when you walk through the door and you're not sure if that's a good thing or not, because the last thing you need is another lecture from one of your bandmates but at the same time, being alone with him is second to last. You drag him to his room, drop him on his bed, resist when he tries to pull you down with him, look away from the hurt that flashes across his eyes as he collapses onto his mattress. "You meant it," he whispers, closing his eyes. "Meant what?" you ask, even though you shouldn't want to know the answer. "When you said you weren't happy."

"Oh," you say without thinking. "I thought maybe," he whispers, trailing off, and he looks so sad and so tired and it's your fault, everything is your fault, and you stop thinking, you start acting, you sit next to him and lean down to run your hand through his hair slowly, hopefully soothingly, and your heartbeat is going haywire because you know you're only going to make this worse, and also, you're realizing now that you really, really missed him. He leans into your touch, closes his eyes tighter. "I'm sorry," he apologizes quickly, "I'm so, so, so, so sorry." 

"Stop," you whisper, because he's not the one who deserves to feel sorry and the only reason he feels sorry is because of a lie that you told him, a lie that he believed. "I was wrong to say that, even if it was the truth." Which it definitely wasn't. He shakes his head and opens his eyes to look up at you. "You should have told me sooner, I would have tried harder." He's so earnest and it's killing you, because he couldn't have tried any harder and he didn't need to try at all and you've done it again, you've hurt him again, and you promised yourself you'd stop doing that, you're back to breaking all your promises again, you should just stop making them. "You were never the problem," you tell him softly, you think he deserves a break from your lies. "Then what was the problem?"

"I was, it didn't work because of me," and this time you're not lying. "You're just trying to make me feel better," he mutters, closing his eyes once more. "No, it's the truth." He reaches out to lay his hand on your waist, so tentatively it makes your heart ache. "I miss you," he whispers. "Me too," you whisper in response, almost silently mouthing the words, but he hears you anyway. "I don't want to pretend on stage," he adds, his voice a little stronger. "You don't have to, we just can't be too obvious that we're not... like that anymore." He nods, his hand sliding off your waist and down your middle as he starts to nod off. You attempt to shift your weight into a more comfortable position, but he grabs a fistful of your shirt and opens his eyes desperately. "Don't leave me," he pleads softly and you manage to force a smile. "I'm not."

His grip relaxes and he closes his eyes, struggling to stay awake. "Just until I'm asleep," he whispers, and everything about him betrays just how exhausted he is, and you couldn't leave even if you wanted to. You str.oke his hair and you let yourself look at him for the first time in weeks and you didn't know your heart could keep breaking, you didn't know you had any further to fall, you don't know how to do this anymore. 

You're exceptionally tempted to wait here until you accidentally fall asleep next to him, but you don't, you get up slowly so he doesn't wake up and you try everything you can think of to distract yourself, but you have to face it, you're miserable and you can't do anything about it. 

You have lots of rehearsals planned for your next show, so you try his method of coping, you throw yourself into work, you sing until your throat aches and you dance until you can't feel your legs and you collapse into bed at the end of every day and you don't know if it's helping, but it's not hurting anyone but you. He's trying not to ignore you, but he's still kind of ignoring you, so you ignore him too, you don't check up on him and you focus on your own schedule, your own career. 

When your concert is confirmed and announced to the public, you think he'll start to go back to normal, but he stomps around the practice room and he doesn't talk to you and he works himself into exhaustion. "Something bothering you?" you ask him the next time you accidentally end up alone together. "I'm just not looking forward to being away from home again." He's never felt that way before, he'd always seemed more than happy to travel the world and entertain your growing number of fans. "What about your girlfriend? She can't be happy you're leaving," he adds. "What girlfriend?" you say. "Oh, is it too soon for labels like that?" 

"I don't have a girlfriend." He sighs. "Oh, okay then... what about your boyfriend?" he hesitates. "I don't have a boyfriend either. Who told you I did?"

"You said you met someone." Oh. Right. You did. "You're the one who decided the only reason I could be staying out late was if I was in a relationship. Like I'm not good for anything else." He sighs. "Why did you lie?" You shrug. "I didn't. You assumed." It's not the whole truth, but you just want out of the spotlight. "Why not?"

"What?" you say because he's not making any sense. "Why aren't you dating someone?" You roll your eyes. "Why aren't you?" He scoffs. "You've always been good at coming up with stupid questions." You cross your arms gruffly. "You're getting pretty good at it too," and you know you shouldn't say it, but he still doesn't get it, so you say it anyway. "We should get back to work," he mutters as he turns away from you, and you let him, because you can see yourself heading for disaster. 

Days later, you board the plane, carry-on in hand, stow it away in the overhead compartment, take your seat. It feels so familiar, but so much has happened since you last traveled in an airplane and the experience is making you reflective. You're not sure which member of your band you'll be sitting next to on your flight, but you should have known it would end up being him. The tickets were passed out randomly not long before it was time to board, and your luck has been terrible lately. (It's always been bad but as of a few months ago, you actually starting feeling kind of lucky.)

He climbs over you to take his seat and he doesn't take his headphones off or try to make conversation, he rolls his head away from you and stares out the window, waits for takeoff. It's awkward and that's your fault, and you feel guilty and that's your fault, and you're getting very tired of living like this, and that's your fault. You order him a sofa when the flight attendant asks and you angle yourself away from him and you busy yourself with songs you haven't listened to yet, but you don't talk to him and you don't touch him and you don't slide his headphones away from his ears because everything is different now and you feel like you might reach your breaking point, that you might tip the scales if you even acknowledge his presence in the seat next to you. (If you pretend that your luck hasn't run out.)

You kissed him on a plane once, and you still can't believe you did. You're not sure why, because you wanted to, because you were feeling rebellious, because he was there, because you thought it could be the last time. Whatever the reason, it's all you can think about now. You think he might be asleep, but the sun is in his eyes, so you lean over him, slide his window cover closed. It makes a loud noise as it clicks into place and he opens his eyes, rolls his head to look at you. "Sorry, it was bright," you stammer weakly. He shrugs, noticing the drink you ordered for him. "Thanks," he says as he takes a sip. "How long until we land?" he asks, rubbing his eyes quickly. "45 minutes or so." 

"Wake me up when we're on the ground," he requests before fixing his headphones and turning away from you to fall back asleep. You need some kind of remedy for this awkwardness, because you won't be able to convince everyone that the two of you are fine if you can't. (How can you convince anyone if you can't convince yourself?)

The Captain announces the plane will be landing in a few minutes and you reach over on instinct, take his hand. He looks at you abruptly, his eyes wide but sleepy, pushes his headphones away from his ears to rest around his neck. "I hate landings now, remember?" you tell him, like it's a logical explanation for your actions. "Oh," he breathes, "okay." He looks down at your hand that rests in his lap, closes his fingers in the spaces between yours, relaxes into his seat. 

He holds your hand through the entire landing, doesn't let go until the plane rolls to a stop, and you feel guilty again, you feel like you're using him without regard for his feelings, like you're forgetting how hard this all must have been for him, but not guilty enough to stop. He climbs over you to get to his bag, readjusts his hat. You follow him off the plane, into the airport, past the fans that have come to welcome you. He's quiet, but he looks back at you, to make sure you're still with him, and it makes your heart ache, so you tell yourself that if you can just make it to the hotel, everything will be okay. 

(You realize later that you're probably never going to feel 'okay' again.)