...

You wake up the next morning with your arm squished in the gap between the mattresses and your shoulder is sore, but he's already awake and he's smiling at you, and he buries his face in the pillows when you smile back. It's your last day of shows for a while and you both know what that means, but it seems like he's trying to ignore it so you follow his lead. You wrap him in your arms and he snuggles into your chest, you his hair, kiss the top of his head. "Did you sleep okay?" he mumbles against your skin. "Yeah. You?" He nods. "Of course, I always do when we're overseas," he explains, but he really means, when we're together. You can't say you disagree. (You could try, but some lies are too big even for you.)

 

You reach under the pillows for his phone to check the time, groan when you realize how late it already is, that you're supposed to pack and be on the bus in forty-five minutes. "What's wrong?" You roll onto your back, keeping your arms around him. "It's already 8:45." He sits up, fixing his hair and yawning. "I guess it's time to get up," he tells you and you wish he wasn't so nonchalant about this.

 

You shower together to save time, but you're not sure how realistic of an option this is because the seconds are ticking away and you know you're running late, but you can't bring yourself to stop. He makes the decision for you, turning the faucet and grabbing you a towel. You frown, he laughs, kisses you quickly. 

 

"You look happy," you point out, looking at him through the mirror. "I guess I am happy." Why, you want to ask, don't you remember what today means? You don't say anything because you don't want to remind him if he's really managed to forget, nod instead and get dressed. "Why... why aren't you?" he says, looking away from you, fixing his hair. "I'm happy," you say, "it's just... I'm gonna miss it."

 

"Miss hooking up?" he clarifies. Miss you, miss getting ready together, miss sleeping next to you, you think but you settle for, "Yeah." He looks back at you, making eye contact through the glass. "It's not forever, it's just the pause button," he reminds you. You nod, annoyed because he seems so calm, decide to prove that you still have an effect on him. He doesn't see it coming and he squeaks your name as you pin him between you and the bathroom door, kiss the calm out of him. 

 

He wasn't prepared at all, and you feel a little bad when you finally break away because he's kind of out of breath, but you can't deny feeling a little pride that you're the reason why. (At times like this, you start to think he deserves better than you.) "We have to go," he whines, but you know he packed his bag before bed last night and you're more than willing to dump your things into your suitcase if it means you can stay here for another minute or five. "I'm not ready to hit pause yet," you explain, hands on his hips, moving in to kiss him again. "Then don't do it at all," he says and you stop, centimeters from his lips. "We have to."

 

"Why?" You step backward. "Don't ask me that, you know the rules." He nods, looking down at his feet. "Right," he mumbles before opening the door and leaving to finish getting ready. You lean your weight on the bathroom counter, grabbing onto the edge, your knuckles turning white. This is not how you wanted it to go, you just wanted to stall for a few more minutes before leaving to go back to normal, you shouldn't have ruined it yet, not while you still have a few minutes. (Why are you so bad at thinking ahead?)

 

You finish shaving and gather your things, stuff them into your suitcase, zip it closed, sit down on your bed, realize that he's already pushed them apart, rearranged everything to the way it was last night. It already feels like a dream, and it . "Are you ready?" he asks in your general direction. "Are you?" 

 

"I've been packed since yesterday," he replies, but you shake your head. "Are you ready to go home?" you say, clarifying your question. "We're going home, it doesn't matter if we're ready." He sits down next to you, reaching for your hand, linking his fingers with yours. "But it's not forever, right? Just... until next time." You nod, and you can't believe how much this is affecting you. He leans over to rest on your shoulder, knowing someone will be up to tell you you're late in a couple minutes. "We should go," you manage to say. He stands up in front of you, still holding your hand. "One more minute," he whispers, leaning forward to kiss you one last time. 

 

You know it's not the end, not even close, but the fact still remains that it could be and it's getting to you anyway. Your chest feels tight and your throat is closing up and you're not even sure why, but it still hurts. He looks okay, though, smiling as he pulls away and tries to drag you to your feet. "Why do you look so depressed? This isn't the end, I promise."

 

You can't help it, you kiss him again, just before someone knocks and says, "Meet us in the lobby, time to go." He looks up at you, lets go of your hand, grabs his suitcase. 

 

Your last shows go well, but he keeps looking at you and smiling and you kind of wish he would stop because it's not helping, but you're glad to see that he seems a lot better off than you. (A little envious, but mostly glad.)

 

He sits next to you at the airport, browsing the web on his phone, leaning toward you just enough to be in your space without looking suspicious. He doesn't say anything, but you know he knows you're feeling mixed about all of this and he doesn't think avoiding you is the right thing to do. (That's your move, it's never been his.)

 

He types something on his phone, then leans the screen toward you so you can read it. 'Tell me what to do and I'll do it,' it reads. You take his phone, type back, 'get me a coffee and sit by me on the plane'. It's not the first idea that popped into your head, the one that involves a bathroom stall and your hands all over him, but you know that's a terrible plan and you also know that he needs to do something, anything to help and you don't want to waste an opportunity to make him feel better, even though you feel terrible. He jumps up immediately, in pursuit of coffee, and you slouch in your chair and close your eyes. (Why is his face carved on the inside of your eyelids?)

 

When he returns, the loudspeaker announces that it's time to board, so you gather your bags and line up with your tickets in hand. You're not sure when he convinced your manager to trade seats with him, but he sits down next to the window in your row, motions for you to sit next to him. You sip your coffee and wait for takeoff, he reaches for your free hand and holds it in his lap, starts to play around with the touchscreen in the seat in front of him. 

 

Once you're in the air, you're starting to wish this was a longer flight, because the sun is setting out your window and it's lighting up his face and he's laughing at the movie playing on his screen and you're not sure when you fell this hard, you tried not to, but it happened anyway. (You should have tried harder.)

 

You type on your phone, wave it in front of his face. He reads it, coughs and blushes, and you look at the message on your phone again, satisfied with yourself. 'Mile High Club?' it reads. He pauses his movie, types on his own phone. 'I meant to tell you earlier, but it didn't seem like the right time. If you want to see other people while we're paused, I'm okay.' You read the message, start shaking your head almost instantly, surprising yourself at how much you do not like that idea, but there's something you want to ask before you say no. 'By other people do you mean girls? Or guys?' you type into your phone. He reads the message, hesitating before he types back, 'Either one.'

 

'Are you going to? See other guys?' He shakes his head. 'Me neither,' you reply. 'Okay, but I won't be upset if you do.' 

 

"I won't," you say, out loud. I don't want to, you add silently. He looks relieved, and you're glad. For a second there, you really thought he was ready to move on and see other people. (Why are you so opposed to that idea?) He presses play on his movie again, leaning back in his seat.  You try to focus on the book you've been trying to read for months, but it's not working and he keeps giggling and you can't really care about things that aren't him at the moment, so you put your book back in your bag and take one of his headphones from his ear, put it in your own, lean closer to him so you can see the screen, rest your hand on top of both of his. You look at him when he's focused on the movie, he looks at you when you look away. 

 

The Captain announces that the plane will be landing in 20 minutes and it starts to sink in, it's really ending again, you want to say something, you want to do something, you want to make it stop. The walls are closing in and he turns off his screen, puts your tray back in its upright, locked position, he's so good at following all the rules, but you hate the rules that you have between you, you want to make them stop applying, you just want everything to stop. 

 

The people across the aisle are still asleep, the people in front and behind you don't look like they could possibly have any idea who you are, they're not paying you any attention anyway, so you think screw it and you lean over to kiss him, count to five (or was it ten?), pull away. 

 

He looks shocked and you're glad because you needed him to stop being rational for a minute, it's frustrating how stable he is, how consistent, how reliable. He's supposed to be a mess like you, he's young and he's supposed to really like you and you're supposed to be the one with the power to throw him off, not the other way around. 

 

"What was that for?" he whispers. "We're not home until this plane lands," you whisper back, and it doesn't exactly seem like a good enough reason, but you can't take it back now. He reaches for your hand, holds it tightly. "You know I don't really like landings, right?" he says, looking up at you. You nod, because you do know that about him, and it isn't just an excuse to keep holding on until the last possible second. "I don't really like them either," you whisper, and there was a time when that would have been a lie, but right now it feels like the truth. (For some reason, you like landings on foreign runways better than domestic ones now.)

 

The plane comes to a stop and you stand up to retrieve your bags from the compartment above your head. He stands in front of you, staring while you make sure your things are all there. Now he looks a little upset, a little concerned, a little like you do, and you feel bad for wishing he looked this way the whole time because now that he does, everything in you just wants to make it stop. (You wouldn't even know where to start.)

 

It's dark outside and you're tired, you sleep in the bus on the way home, feel his fingers brush your face before he tries to wake you up. You carry your things to your room, drop them onto the floor, collapse on your bed, close your eyes. When you would go overseas before, you'd miss sleeping in your own bed more than almost anything else, but lately, the beds in your hotel rooms have gotten a lot comfier and your mattress at home feels cold and lumpy and old. It's one of his superpowers; the power to make any bed you sleep in feel like home. (He has lots of superpowers, but you're trying to forget about those right now.)

 

You want to text him, but you don't. You want to see him, but you can't. You pass out, still in your clothes, wake up to the sound of the coffee maker just after sunrise. You know it's him, you know this is how he copes, you press pause, he throws himself into work, sleeps in his studio, doesn't eat unless someone forces him to, lives on one form of caffeine or another. 

 

You get up, even though you're still exhausted and you know it's a bad idea, but the dorm is quiet and you know everyone will sleep for at least a couple more hours, so you step toward the kitchen to find him. It's like he knew you would, because he already has a coffee mug ready for you when you walk in. You stand in one corner of the kitchen, he stands in the other, but your kitchen is small and you're not maintaining the sort of distance you're supposed to. 

 

"Press play," you whisper and he looks up from his coffee, up at you. "What?" he whispers back. "Press play, just once." He sets down his coffee, looks around nervously, as if someone will burst in at just the right moment. "Just once?" he confirms. You nod, he walks toward you, puts his arms around your shoulders, leans up to kiss you and you think, this is a terrible idea, but you let it happen anyway. 

 

When he pulls away he looks like he's ready to bolt, but you keep him from leaving for a moment, hands on his waist. "Just once," you remind him, he nods, steps back from you, picks up his coffee, escapes to bury himself in work. You sit down in the living room, watch the news on mute, drink your coffee. It's only the pause button, you think to yourself, but it just doesn't help this time. 

 

(You sneak a peek into the studio later and he's writing furiously on a piece of paper, no doubt using you as a source of inspiration, and you decide you need to find an outlet too or you'll lose your mind.)