(takes place between parts 6/7)

(Kyungil POV)
...
You finally have a little time off and it's the holiday season so you decide to go skiing because it's been a while and you could also use something to keep your mind off of recent events involving a certain member of your band. Or at least that was the plan, but when your friends were all booked, it was soon replaced by a different plan—to take your distraction along with you in order to attempt to distract him from everything he's been complaining about and frustrated with, everything except for you. (Does he even have anything else to be frustrated with?)

You had wanted to leave on the early side, but he was still asleep next to you after you hit the snooze button on your phone twice, and you didn't have the heart to interrupt, messing around on your phone and watching him sleep instead. By the time he finally woke up, you knew you wouldn't have as much time on the mountain to ski, but you also knew that this trip hadn't exactly been about skiing ever since the moment you invited him to go along with you. 

You were going to stop at a rest area and grab something to eat for lunch, but he passed out in the passenger seat after less than fifteen minutes on the highway, so you decide to keep driving. You can hear a rather insistent voice in your head reminding you that the first thing you ever learned about driving was to avoid distractions while doing it, but you can't help yourself, you can't stop looking over at him. One of your favorite songs is playing on the radio and his bangs are falling diagonally across his face and you can't control it, he looks peaceful and content and safe and you can't stop staring. (You can't stop even though you know you should.)

He sleeps until you park the car, turn off the engine and reach over to shake him awake. "Are you sure you have the energy for this?" He nods, rubs his eyes slowly. "I was up pretty late and I've gotten too used to sleeping in cars. Now it just happens." You get out of the car and gather your winter gear from the trunk. "Sorry I slept the whole way," he apologizes. "Yeah, because you're such an entertaining conversationalist when you're awake." You definitely deserve the blow that lands against your arm. 

He swears he knows how to ski, he's been telling you ever since you asked him to come on this trip with you, but his actions tell a very different story when the lift drops you at the top of the run and he topples his way down the slope. "I thought you said you'd done this before," you chide him once you come to rest at the bottom. "I have!" he insists. "When?" He shrugs. "Middle school." 

"Middle school?" you ask in disbelief. "Isn't it like riding a bike?" You chuckle softly. "Apparently not." You can't resist teasing him a little, but you don't really mean it, you don't actually mind, because you get to hold his hands and drag him down the mountain slowly, you get to smile at him when he starts to get the hang of it, you get to laugh at him when he falls to the ground and you get to help him to his feet and dust the snow from his winter coat. It feels almost normal, and you didn't realize it before but you think that might be the real reason why you invited him along, for the rare chance at one day of normal. No one knows who you are anyway, and if they do, they can't tell through the ski masks and helmets and goggles. (You hope.)

He spends the next two hours complaining about everything that goes wrong, whining about his boots, blaming the skis for tripping him, blaming the ski lift for dropping him off too abruptly and by the time it's getting dark, you think he might try to assign blame to the mountain itself. "What is your problem?" you ask, frustration building. "My problem? It's cold and my clothes are soaked and all my muscles are sore and I'm exhausted and my nose is running," he whines. "Then why did you come?" you snap. "Because I wanted to be with you," he explains, "but why did you ask me anyway? You would have had a much better time without me." He's pouting and his nose is red and his arms are crossed across his puffy winter jacket and you're not sure how to answer his question, but you know this was definitely worth putting up with his whining all day. "Don't die of shock, but I kind of wanted to be with you too." His expression softens immediately, his arms fall at his sides and he looks down at the snow beneath his boots. "You did?"

"I did, but if you're that miserable, we can leave," you tell him. "I just don't like doing things I'm not good at," he mumbles shyly. "Well, I guess we're lucky you're good at so many other things," you tease and he shoves your shoulder, loses his balance on the snow, falls over and lands on the ground. "You okay?" you ask, kneel down next to him and reach for his hand, help him sit back up. "I've fallen more than enough for one day, I'm getting used to it." You're falling too and you wish you could blame the patches of slick snow, you wish you could blame anything else, anything but him. (The truth is, you fell a long time ago.)

"Come on, let's get you warmed up," you say, haul him up to his feet. "Mmm, coffee." You shrug. "That wasn't what I had in mind, but I guess coffee works too," you say, anticipating his undoubtedly adorable reaction, and he doesn't disappoint. (Ever.) 

You make it back to the ski lodge and he goes to change into dry clothes while you order a couple of hot drinks. It's late but not late enough for the rest of the skiers to rush in before closing, so the lodge is relatively empty. When he's done changing, he sits next to you in front of the fire and happily takes a coffee out of your hand, gulps it down and smiles at you. "I'm sorry I got cold and cranky," he apologizes softly. "I'd be cranky too if I'd spent the whole day falling on my ." He laughs abruptly. "I really was good at this once," he swears. "You make up for it in other ways."

"Really? What other ways are we talking?" He's gotten more comfortable with you lately, he's teasing you back instead of just blushing and rolling his eyes at your inappropriate comments. "I'd show you, but I think the staff would complain." His eyes grow wider as you lean in even closer to whisper, "I think it's time to get out of here."

If someone had told you this time last year that you'd be making out with him in the backseat of a car parked somewhere between a ski resort and your dorm, you would have called them crazy. 

If someone had told you this time last year that you'd be telling him you loved him as a reflex, a risky and regrettable and unsettlingly honest reflex, you would have told them they were nuts. 

If someone had told you this time last year that you'd be happy just to hold his hand and kiss him good morning and cook him breakfast and fall asleep to movies together, you would have laughed at them. (Because you'd have known they were right.)

But you're here, and he's here, and this is happening, and you've never been so willing to apply the word 'everything' to another person until now, you've never been willing to give up on your dreams for another person until now, you've never needed another person quite as much as you need him, and it's terrifying and it's exhilarating and it might not be sustainable, but it's more than worth it for now. 

"We should get back to the dorm," he tells you breathlessly, "I can't believe no one's checked up on us yet." You pull your phone from your jacket pocket. "I told them we were grabbing dinner on the way back," you say as you toss your cell into the front seat. "You thought of everything," he says proudly. "I did, so you'd better make it worth it." He snickers and lunges forward into your arms. "I haven't done something like this since... high school," you muse and he tenses up beneath your hands, and you regret making him uncomfortable immediately. "Who was she?" he says after a moment of hesitation. "Nobody important," you reply, a weak explanation. Nobody compared to you, you think, but you don't dare to speak those sort of words, not when there is so much you don't know, not when you run the risk of hurting him every time you open your mouth. "I haven't done this ever," he confesses quietly. "What, made out in a car? Why not?"

He doesn't answer with words but with a look, a look that says, "Seriously?" He points to himself, looks down at his hands as he pulls them back from you. "You know who I was in high school," he mutters softly, and you shouldn't have asked, you shouldn't have brought this up in the first place. "What do you mean?" you ask, feigning ignorance because you don't know what to say, how to apologize for being insensitive, how to distract him from his past, distract him from yours. "Come on, there must have been guys like me at your school." No, you think, there was nobody even remotely like you. (You hope you would have noticed if there had been.)

"I guess," you decide finally with a shrug. "Those guys probably didn't get a lot of girls, but they definitely didn't get many guys." Oh. Right. You're being insensitive again. You don't even know if he had a boyfriend in school, or a girlfriend, or any kind of relationship at all. You've never asked. "Maybe they did, I just never noticed." He knows you're lying, he knows you would have noticed, but he lets you lie to him anyway. "High school's a time for studying anyway, not hooking up in backseats," he explains. "I wasn't missing out on much. 

"You weren't?" He's teasing you because he doesn't want your pity, he doesn't want you to tell him those high school boys were idiots not to go for him, that you'll make out with him whenever he wants to make up for it, that he was just as worthy of attention when he was in school. He's teasing you so you'll change the subject, so he can distract you with his hands, and you don't have any choice but to let him. "Well, I'm not sure yet. How about you demonstrate the whole experience for me and then I'll decide?" You were right, he has gotten more confident and you're even more powerless against him than you were a few months ago. 

"What a logical suggestion," you say as you lean over to kiss him. "Please hold your comments until the end of the demonstration," you add, his face in your hands. "Okay, but I'm way better at this than skiing, right?" His eyes are sparkling but he bites his lip as he anticipates your answer, like he's worried you won't agree. "9 out of 10," you state, "and if you want, I can tell you how to make up that last point." He coughs out of surprise and you breathe the word 'cute' as you lean back in to show him exactly what he's been missing out on. 

(This is dangerous, this is probably wrong, but it hardly even feels real anymore and although you're taking a risk, you're fairly sure he's worth it.)