(Kyungil POV)
...
The next morning, you wake up and it only takes a moment for the memory of the night before to hit you like a semi truck. You hadn't expected him to show up at all, you didn't expect him to be so forward, you certainly didn't expect to tell him of your lies, but it happened, it was all real, and there is no going back now. (If it were possible, would you go back and erase it all? Not for your sake, but for his?)

You don't see him until it's time for leave for the concert venue, when he gets into the van and rests his head on the window. You take the front seat so you can't look at him the whole ride, so you can try to forget. (It doesn't work, but at least you're trying.) Waiting around backstage is tense and emotional, for all of you, because of you, and you think you're finally getting used to feeling guilty. By the end of the event, you think you could fill a lake with all the tears shed over you, because of you. He looks miserable, and you want to help, you want to change it, you want to make him feel better, but you can't, you'll never be able to fix this for him, to protect him from days like these. 

When you finally get back to your hotel room, you're exhausted and you notice that your roommate's things are gone and you know you probably should have seen this coming. You rinse off in the shower and you're towel drying your hair when you hear a knock at your door for the second night in a row, but this time you know exactly who it is. You get up to answer it, run your hand through your hair, open the door to find him standing there, bags in hand, just as you knew he would be. You should close the door, lock it behind you, you should have done it so, so long ago, but it might actually be too late this time because he propels himself into your arms, drops his belongings on the floor, buries his face in your shirt, and it's all over. Every wall you tried to build, every barrier you put up, every boundary line you drew evaporates into thin air, gone for now, gone forever. (You should have made them stronger.)

You wind up in your bed under the comforter, his legs tangled with yours and his hands playing with yours and his head against your shoulder, the tv filling the room with background noise, but neither of you pay attention to the news. "I told you this wasn't the end," you say softly. "I believed you," he confirms. "But I'm still leaving." He nods, distracting himself by tracing the lines of your hands. "And I still have to stay." He clears his throat. "But until you go..." he trails off as you look at him, lean over to kiss him slowly, slide your fingers underneath his shirt, rest your hand on his back. "Can we... not talk about that now?" you request as you pull away. "I guess," he says, but you know you'll end up talking anyway. 

"You said you weren't gonna cry tonight," he reminds you abruptly. "Hey, I wasn't the only one," you whine, "and if you had told me about those messages you all made, I wouldn't have said it." It had been quite a surprise, listening to your band talk about how much they were going to miss you, but he had said that he was lonely without you and that he loved you and you don't think there's a soul on this earth that could withstand messages like that without shedding a few tears. "And anyway, weren't you the one who said, 'It's only two years, it's not forever'? What happened to that?" He curls into your chest, presses his face into you. "I ran out of optimism," he mumbles, "and I've decided that this suc.ks." 

"You could probably use a break from me hanging around all the time anyway," you rationalize. "Don't even joke about that. When you're not around... I'm not even ready to think about it." You wrap your arms around him tighter, run your fingers through his hair. "It's not like we won't ever see each other, just not as much. We haven't seen each other much for a few months and you survived." He laughs, but it sounds suspiciously like a sob and your heart contracts painfully. "Sorry. I know you didn't want me to avoid you, I just didn't know what else to do." You feel ridiculous, apologizing now like you're pretending to be worthy of his forgiveness. "What if this is it for us? For the band, I mean."

"Even if it is, it doesn't have to be it for us. We'll still be friends, all of us. We don't have to share a dorm for that." You think you sound confident, but you don't feel confident. No one can predict where your lives are going to go after this and the odds aren't very good, you know lots of people who have gone their separate ways after disbanding. "You'll be so busy, you won't even notice that I'm not around." He shakes his head. "That's not going to happen. I'll notice." He looks up at you slowly, and you can see his next question in his eyes, 'Will you notice that I'm not around?' Stupid question, you think as you kiss him again before he can ask it. 

It's late and you should let him sleep, but you're having an exceptionally difficult time remembering that now, because you'd rather stay like this for a while, kissing and talking and kissing some more. You know he hasn't been sleeping much lately, and you've been doing it even less, and you should take advantage of the opportunity to do it together, but the sun will rise and things will change and you will be one day closer to the day you have to leave him behind, so you stay awake instead, talk about dumb movies and new songs and what you want to eat before you fly out in the morning. 

By 4am, you're starting to doze off and he's mumbling sleepily about wanting to go to the beach before it gets colder and you miss him, you've missed him so much, you're going to miss him so much. He adjusts his position slightly to look at you, his eyelids droopy. "Are you falling asleep because you're tired or because I'm boring?" You reach over and brush his hair from his forehead, and you wish this didn't feel so big and serious and wrong, but it does, and you wish you weren't always saying things you should keep to yourself, but you can't help it. "I love you," you respond instead, and you're not sure how he'll react until he laughs and shakes his bangs back into his eyes. 

"You don't believe me?" you ask, and it hurts, the idea that he doesn't believe you, that you've managed to convince him that it wasn't true, because there is a part of you that desperately wants to believe in this, believe that the two of you are stronger than that, stronger than any lies you could ever tell. (You should probably tell that part of you to shut up.) "I'll prove it," you add, "I'll tell anyone you want." You throw back the comforter, get out of bed, walk over to the window. "I'll yell it to the whole city." He shakes his head. "Stop, you're being ridiculous," he tells you, but you're not ready to stop, because this matters and you have to believe that your feelings are stronger than your lies, because he might be able to forgive you if they are. 

"Not enough proof? How about this?" You walk back over to your bed, pick up your phone from the nightstand, enter your passcode. "Anyone you want, pick a name and I'll tell them. I'll tell them everything." He sits up on his knees, laughs nervously. "Stop," he whines. "You don't want to choose? Fine, then I will." You open your contacts, but he leans over to take your phone away and sets it back on the table. "Stop it. I believe you." He reaches for your hands and pulls you back toward the bed. "I don't need proof. It was just... unexpected. Or, not unexpected just... not an answer to my question." He bites his lip, stares at yours. "You said it earlier in that video and I couldn't say it back then but... I know I lied to you, but I would never lie about that." Tears spring up in his sleepy eyes and you ruffle his hair and kiss his forehead. "We should go to sleep," you say as you climb back under the covers and turn off the lamp. 

The light from the tv washes out his face and he blinks away tears for the fifth time tonight, at least, and he holds your hand and snuggles against your chest, clears his throat. "So what now?" he asks, and you know you should have a plan for this, for the next month, for the next two years, but you don't and your plans never work out anyway, so you're not sure how to respond. "Can't we just... see how it goes?" It's a lame response and a terrible plan, but you don't think any amount of planning could ever make this less of a risk so there's no point. "Don't avoid me."

"I won't," you promise. "Things could still change," he reminds you, "two years is a long time." You nod, exhaustion weighing down your eyelids. "If I was gonna change my mind, I would have done it already." He wasn't expecting it, you can tell by his silence, and it might not be what he meant, but you felt the need to say it anyway. "What about you? Are you going to change?" you ask tentatively. "If it were possible, I would have done it years ago."

As you predicted, the sun rises and alarms ring and enlistment dates loom, but he kisses you awake and he looks exhausted as he collapses against your chest and he traces his fingers down your arm, so it might not be the worst morning after all. "What time is it?" you ask, your voice gravelly. "Not early enough," he answers. "You want to shower together and save time?" You shake your head and he looks confused. "Not yet," you whisper, kiss him before he can say anything else. You can tell the exact moment when he realizes what you mean, because he works your shirt up and over your head, breaking contact for no longer than absolutely necessary before kissing you again. You might have forgotten just how good he is at this because he's half asleep and he still seems to know exactly what he's doing. (You're sure of it now, you love kissing him more than you've ever loved kissing anyone.)

You hesitate for only a moment, because you're not sure if this is going to make him feel worse later, you're not sure if it's your responsibility to stop this before you go too far, you don't know it this is really what he wants or if he's just swept up in all of this emotion and finality, but you don't even get the chance to ask before he removes his own shirt and looks at you with intent in his eyes. "Stop thinking and come here," he demands, and you are more than happy to oblige. (Twice.)

You glance at the clock much later, and it's much later than you hoped, but you just can't drag yourself out of bed, not when he's still looking at you and holding your hand. "I wanted to get up early and work out downstairs, but this was a much better idea." He chuckles, betraying the emotion in his voice, and you feel the air being out of your chest because you've done it again, you've hurt him again, you've proven your unworthiness again. (You're better at that when you're not trying.) "I'm sorry," you whisper, pulling him closer. "I just missed you," he mumbles softly. "I missed you too and I'm still sorry." He shakes his head. "Don't apologize, just... stay here for a minute." You nod, thread your fingers through his hair. "I won't avoid you at home. If you want something, just ask." If you still want me, I'm yours. "That will only make it worse when you have to go. I have to prepare myself now, I have to learn how to be without you."

"You're a fast learner, right? So maybe you don't have to start right away?" Stupid, you think, stupid, stupid, stupid. "Not right away. But soon." You nod, squeeze his hand tightly. "Have I said I'm sorry lately?" He sighs. "That's all you say anymore," he mumbles. "That's because I mean it." He closes his eyes, clears his throat. "We have to go soon," he whispers. "I know."

"You still need to pack." You sigh. "I know." He squeezes your hand. "Shower first?" he proposes. "Shower first." 

You've forgotten how much you like getting ready with him in the morning, how it makes you feel normal, special, important to him. He looks so exhausted and hollow, he's not saying anything, and every now and then he reaches up to brush away a stray tear. "How did we get here?" you mumble to yourself, but he looks at you through the bathroom mirror. "You kissed me even though you knew you shouldn't and now you regret it." For a moment you wonder what he means, but then you remember something that happened months ago, before you ended things mostly for good. 

He'd found you sitting on the floor in your room, a bottle and a shot glass in front of you. "Hey, come join the party," you said sarcastically. He sat down across from you. "Let's play a game." He shook his head, but you weren't willing to take no for an answer. "Come on, it's simple. Tell the truth, take a dare or drink a shot." He nodded slowly. "I know how to play, I just don't think it's necessary." You shrugged. "It's not, but it might be fun." He crossed his legs to sit more comfortably while you poured him a shot. "I don't keep secrets from you," he insisted. "Truth or dare?" you asked. "Truth."

"Did you write that song about me? The one you showed me yesterday?" He looked down at the ground. "Was it that obvious?" You couldn't miss the opportunity, you answered him quickly. "Yes. My turn." He squawked in protest, but you ignored him. "Fine, truth," he relented. "Do you regret getting involved with me?" He shook his head. "Why do you think I would? Do you regret it?" You elected to take a shot instead, looked away from him. "Do you want to... end this?" 

"It's my turn," you complained. "Fine, dare." You pointed to his glass. "Drink that." He sighed and gulped down a shot. "Truth or dare," he asked. "Dare," you said. "I dare you to tell me if you regret it," he stated. "You suc.k at this game." He sighed. "You suc.k at telling me the truth." You took another shot. "Truth or dare," you said. "I'm don't feel like playing anymore." He started to stand, but you reached out and pressed your hand against his leg to ground him to the floor. "Pick dare," you coached. "Dare," he sighed. "I dare you to forgive me."

"What has gotten into you?" he asked. It could have been because you were six shots ahead of him at that point, or it could have been because you had been trying to push him away again and it seemed like it might be working, or it could have been because of all the doubts swirling around your head, or because you hadn't slept well in weeks, but whatever the reason, you were tired and you didn't want him to know just how vulnerable he was making you feel then, how vulnerable he makes you feel all the time. "I'm bored," you tried, but he didn't buy it, not that night. "I'm sorry I wrote that song. I know there's a line here and I crossed it." You shook your head, reached for another shot, but he stopped you. "I forgive you. Truth or dare," he asked. "Dare," you said, wrapped your hand around the shot glass in front of you. "I dare you to kiss me back," he whispered, leaned in to capture your lips with his own. It wasn't much of a dare, maybe, but it was beneficial to the both of you, so you let it go. 

Now you realize that he still thinks you regret it, that you regret him, and that is a thought that you can't stomach. You reach over to squeeze his shoulder, rub your thumb across the back of his neck, and he looks down at the counter, blinks rapidly. "I don't regret that. I don't regret anything... except lying to you... and wasting your time... and—" he twists sideways and leans up to kiss you silent. This is turning out to be a lot more difficult than you had thought, you're not leaving him but it seems like you are, and it's beyond your control, but you don't know how to help him, how to protect him from far away, how to make any of this easier for him, at least, so you use up your remaining time, try to make him know that you're not lying anymore, that you could never regret letting him in. 

Your phone rings and pulls the two of you back to reality, unfortunately. You answer and it's your manager, making sure that you're awake and getting ready to leave. You assure him that you are and he seems to believe you, reminds you to be downstairs in thirty minutes. "It was nice of him to call instead of coming up here," he mutters, fixing his hair and gathering his things to put them back in his bag. "Finish getting ready, I'll pack for you." He kisses your cheek quickly, but you trap him against you, your arm around his waist, kiss him purposefully, tenderly, try to remember exactly how this makes you feel, exactly how he feels pressed up against you, exactly how long you're going to have to exist without him. He smiles at you softly when you break apart after a long moment. "Fix your hair, I think I ruined it," he says with a chuckle before he leaves the bathroom, before he leaves you to drown helplessly in your own mind. 

(He sits next to you on the plane, but he doesn't look at you during the landing and he doesn't turn around to check if you're there in the airport and he locks himself inside his studio and you're not sure if you'll ever see him again and you think it might actually be over this time and you thought you were done crying, but it turns out that you haven't even started yet.)