(Kyungil POV)

 

...

You thought things were different before, but you land at the airport it's like a switch has been flipped and you know he was right, you know you can't make this work here, and the past month feels like a wonderful, terrible dream, a painful reminder that the world is cruel and uncaring, you work so hard for a little success, you give up so much for a few seconds of glory, for a few minutes of pride. 

 

Would anything be different if you had settled for normal? Given up your dreams, gotten a normal job like you were supposed to, like everyone expected of you? If you hadn't pushed the boundaries, sacrificed pieces of yourself for a slice of fame, poured everything you had into a minuscule chance for something more? Would you be able to live for yourself, live for him? Could you give it up now? It doesn't matter, because he can't, and if he ever did, if he ever had to settle because of you, for you, you'd never forgive yourself. If you had settled for normal, you wouldn't have ever met him and you'd probably both be better off because of it. (He'd be better off, at least. You're not so sure anymore.)

 

You get home and he locks himself up in his studio, or in his room, or leaves to hang out with his friends. You were supposed to be hanging out with your friends too, but you're really not in the mood, you can't talk to them about it, you can't go drinking with them because you'll start talking about it. Instead, you lock yourself in the gym, distract yourself with exercise routines of increasing difficulty, blast music loud enough to drown out your thoughts. (At this rate, you'll go deaf.)

 

It helps at first, but you have to stop sometimes, you have to see him sometimes, you have to sleep sometimes, and those are the times you think about giving up, giving in, ruining everything again. Why did it have to be him? Someone you work with, someone you're in charge of, someone you absolutely, positively cannot have actual feelings for. (Someone you absolutely, positively do have actual feelings for.) If you had to fall for someone, why couldn't it have been someone else, someone safer, someone that mattered less? Maybe it wouldn't have been fair to them, to subject them to this life, to keep them on the back burner, but anyone would be better than him. (Because, as far as you're concerned, no one is better than him.)

 

You all go out to celebrate the surprisingly successful leg of your latest tour and you can't look at him, can't enjoy yourself, can't stop thinking about what you could possibly do to fix this, to make it work, but you never come up with any answers, except to find a way to make him hate you, but that could break up the band and he needs this, this is his dream, isn't it? Not you, this lifestyle, the performances, the fame. Not you. (Which hardly seems fair because the only thing you dream of anymore is him.)

 

You're not drinking because you're scared of the consequences and everyone notices but no one says anything because they know things are weird, even if they haven't figured out the details, even if they don't want to know. He's not as scared as you, you decide, because he's been drinking and playing darts with Jaeho for an hour while you play pool with Dokyun and Sihyoung, but the bar feels stuffy and you can't stop staring at him without realizing it and so you escape out the back, stand on the concrete slab in the alley, wonder when you got this pathetic. 

 

You're sure he won't follow you, but the door opens less than five minutes later and he's standing there and the only words your brain wants to supply are 'beautiful' and 'I miss you'. You ignore your brain and settle for a simple apology. "Sorry for what?" he asks and you scoff. "It's my fault that we're in this mess." He shakes his head. "It's my fault too. I knew what I was getting into, I knew it'd end up like this."

 

"So why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me to stop?" He sighs. "I don't know, it was... it was kind of nice while it lasted, wasn't it?" You shrug. "Does that even matter now?" He stops, swallowing hard, avoiding your eyes. "To me, it does," he whispers. "So this is the new normal?" you says, looking down at your feet. "I guess it is." He pauses for a second. "Come back inside, everyone's looking for you." You follow him back inside, sit at the bar, pretend things are okay, pretend you feel like celebrating. He catches your eye from across the room, smiles weakly, tries not to make it harder. (He's trying to help, but you're beyond that now.)

 

You're the only sober one by the end of the night and you and Dokyun are left to drag the other three back home. You end up taking charge of him because you're always in charge of him and, also, he's drunk and he doesn't want to leave and he's attached himself to you like a leech. It's nothing new but it is somehow, and you feel the gravity of each step up to his room and you're so glad you're still sober but it's not making it as easy as you thought. You want to take care of him, you always take care of him and yet... it feels different, strange and unfamiliar because this is supposed to be over. (Will this ever be over?)

 

You help him sit down on his bed, but he tries to pull you down too and you're not surprised because this always happens when he's drunk, this has been happening for years, but you've never thought it was anything more than a cute habit, or an obnoxious trait depending on your mood. You let him, let him hold you as you collapse on top of him, let him giggle into your shoulder, let him roll you off of him. You start to sit up, but he grabs your hand. "I know it's... weird now, but don't go," he says, stuttering a little. You lay back down. "Only if you promise to sleep." He nods in agreement, closing his eyes and faking a snore before laughing gleefully. "I love you," he mumbles. "Stop."

 

"I'm really trying to forget, but I still remember. I want you to say it again," he babbles, playing with your hand and sticking out his bottom lip in a pout. "Stop," you repeat, pleading with him, trying to show him you're serious. "I don't want to stop. I love you." You sit up abruptly, ripping your hand away from his. "I'm sorry," he says automatically, throwing his arms around your middle, burying his face dangerously close to your lap. "I'm sorry," he says, his words muffled inside your shirt, "don't leave."

 

"Don't... don't apologize for... something like that." You don't want him to feel guilty over his feelings for you, even if it would be easier if he didn't feel them, if he didn't say them and make your heart contract, if you hadn't been the one to say it first, and second, and fourteenth. (Does it still count as an accident after the first ten times?) 

 

He looks up at you, blinking, and you want him, but you can't have him and you wouldn't want it to be like this anyway, this is the whole reason why you were scared to drink because it can't happen like this and it wouldn't solve anything and it's not going to prove that you won't mess this up again. (You will definitely mess this up again.) "Sleep," you tell him, pushing him out of your lap and onto his pillows. "Don't go," he whispers, desperation in his eyes. "I won't," you lay down next to him, "if you go to sleep." 

 

He nods, rolling over to lay against your chest, closing his eyes obediently and sighing. He passes out within a minute, his hand in yours, his nose squished in the fabric of your t-shirt. Does he know that this killing you? Because this is killing you and it's overwhelming and this was supposed to be over by now, this was supposed to stop hurting by now, but he's in your arms again and it's terrifying because you feel like that's where he should be, where he belongs. (It's terrifying because your feelings are only getting stronger.)

 

He looks like a mess when he wakes up the next morning, rubbing his eyes and like he's going to die, and you think you're enjoying this too much. "Come on," you say, grabbing his hand, "Dokyun'll have some soup ready by now." He stumbles out of bed, zipping on a hoodie and placing a beanie on his head only to pull it over his eyes a second later, expecting you to lead him to the kitchen. 

 

You help him sit at the table, present him with a big bowl of hangover soup, pull the beanie off his head, pat his hair down as he starts to eat. You sit down next to him, elbow resting on the table, watching as he grimaces and tries to swallow, smiling in a way that you know will annoy him if he ever looks up at you. "Did I say anything stupid last night? It's fuzzy," he says, not looking at you. You want to say yes, make up some crazy story, see if he'll believe you, but the memory of what he actually said is still too fresh, too innocent, too real, so you don't. "No, nothing stupid."

 

"You're lying," he mumbles. "I promise," you reply, pulling his hood up and over his head. He thinks you're doing it to annoy him, but you're really doing it so you don't keep touching his hair. "I don't believe you," he mutters, sounding crankier and cuter than you'd imagined possible. "I guess that's your problem then." He nods in agreement, pushing his bowl away and resting his head on the table. (You think the real problems start when he does believe you.)

 

You have things to do before the calendar switches over, but you can't bring yourself to do any of them. You should be enjoying  your time off, but you're kind of miserable and you don't know what to do about it. Your days blur together in a haze of watching movies and working out. 

 

The next thing you know it's 11:57pm on New Year's Eve and you were supposed to go out and party and pass out on the floor of your friend's apartment, but that's the last thing you want to do right now, so you cancel, pretend you're feeling sick, and you're not really pretending anyway. You think he might have gone out with his friends again, but you decide to check his studio anyway. 

 

You try the door and it's locked, but you have the key and you don't care if you're overstepping, you unlock the door and walk in. He turns around, looks at you, shouldn't he be surprised? He doesn't say a word, waits for you to speak, explain yourself. You turn on your phone to show him the time, 11:59pm. "New Year's," you stutter, "I want... you, no, I mean... I miss... I... it's New Year's Eve." He glances at your phone. "New Year's Day, actually."

 

"Oh," you mutter, looking at your phone and returning it to your pocket and he starts to spin back around in his chair. "It doesn't have to stop," you blurt out. He blinks, unmoving. "When we're here, it stops. It doesn't have to stop if we're not." You plead with your eyes, hoping he won't disagree this time. "That's what you want?" You nod, too eager. "What about you?" you ask, but you already did know the answer. He wants you, he's just wanted you for a long time, if you want him, even a little, he'll let it happen, even if it's not right for him, even if it destroys him, even if you change your mind. (You'll never say it, but you feel the same way.)

 

He doesn't answer your question so you try another. "What now?" He shrugs. "Well, we are here so... nothing, I guess." You nod, reaching behind you to lock the door. "What about now?" He doesn't answer, lets you cross the room to where he stands, lets you touch his face, lets you kiss him for the first time in days and it's everything and it's important and even though you don't know what it all means, where you should go from here, it doesn't matter because he kisses you back and he puts his arms around your neck and he sighs your name like it's a prayer, and it's enough. It's enough for now. (It might be enough for always.)

 

You count the days until you leave again, until you can go back to pretending this is possible, that it could work, that it won't end in disaster. 17 days until you can kiss him again, 10 days until you can hold him in your arms, 3 days until you can wake up together. 

 

It's less painful now, knowing you're only on pause is so much better than pressing stop, less final, less wrong. He smiles at you over breakfast and you watch movies with him on the couch and it feels normal again, normal enough. You know you should have set more boundaries, given him some rules, some idea of what to expect, but this is working for you and he's looking at you and smiling again and you don't feel like you're dying, so it's good enough. (Even if it's not good for you.)

 

You board your plane and your heart is racing and you don't know if he's ready for this yet so you wait for him to make the first move and you think you might end up waiting forever, but he reaches for your hand during takeoff and he doesn't let go even when you level off and he rests his head on your shoulder even though it's a short flight.

 

If anyone notices, they don't say anything and you're grateful because this is what you need and it's important and it's everything, and you won't give it up as easily next time, you won't let him go as easily next time. You'll take it slow, slower than before, and you'll appreciate it, because you'll have to pause it again in a matter of weeks, and you'll hold his hands, because you almost forgot how they fit into yours, and you'll kiss him more, because you're still not tired of the way he tastes, and you'll do everything you should have been doing all along, because he deserves that, he deserves your full attention, he deserves to know that he's important, that he matters, that you're not giving up this time. You'll prove it, you'll show him, you'll make sure he knows it.

 

(He's still holding your hand when the plane lands and he holds your waist to steady himself as he reaches into the overhead compartment and his smile could power a city and you wonder if he already does.)