...

Things have been escalating for a few months now, but if you needed any more proof, this is it. Maybe he's getting bolder or maybe you're getting less scary, maybe you're just getting tired, but whatever the reason, what happened today was another step up and you don't have a lot of steps left on the road to disaster, so you're gonna have to do something about this now, before it's too late. 

 

He's acting sheepish around you when you get back to the hotel that night and you know he's feeling it too, he knows this is getting out of hand and he's giving you a little more space than he has been the last few weeks. (Months, actually.) You're a little concerned that he might think you're upset with him, but you're not, you know that's just how these things go, the fans get what they want and you have to deal with the aftermath.

 

You thought he was going to kiss you, for real, in front of all those people. You're not sure why, but he startled you and all you could do was try to laugh it off. You've never talked about this, this unspoken bond between you. Don't all bands do this? Tease the fans by getting up close and personal with their bandmates? It's the job, it's not real, everybody knows it and yet you're not so sure. He pushes the boundaries a little more than some, perhaps, but you don't really have any proof that it's more than a way to mess with your head, that it's more than a childish prank, a determination to figure out how far you'll let things go before you back away. (You're letting it go further than you used to.)

 

It sure makes things awkward, whatever the motivation, and you still haven't quite figured out how to change that, how to remember that what happens on stage stays on stage and leave it at that. It certainly does not continue to happen when you're back in your hotel room away from the fans. It never has before, at least, but today just felt... different. 

 

"You want to go to the gym?" you ask him and he looks up from his laptop. "You're not tired?" Tired of thinking about today, you think. "Not yet," you reply. He shuts his laptop and gets out of bed, grabbing a water bottle for you and two for himself out of the fridge. 

 

This will help, you tell yourself. Getting all sweaty and endorphin-high around him is not the worst idea you've ever had. (It's up there, though.) He does push-ups on the floor while you wear out the treadmill, but you're still distracted and while you were thinking about the him that snuggled into your neck at the fanmeet, now you're thinking about the him that doing push-ups six feet away from you and you decide this is only making it worse. He's hasn't been working out regularly nearly as long as you have and he's so freaking noisy when he's exercising and it's throwing you off completely. So completely that you trip on the treadmill, steady yourself on the handles and turn down the speed. Idiot, you think. 

 

He looks up at you, smiling and sitting up on his knees. "I thought you weren't tired," he teases. "I'm not, you're just so bad at this I can't focus on what I'm doing," you retort. He frowns, pouting. "I'm trying. You make it look so easy, but it's not like that for us mere mortals." You laugh. "Cute," you say in your head, or at least you thought it was in your head until he starts to turn red and stands up from his exercise mat. "We can't all be y body builders," he mutters. 

 

All stop. Danger. Blaring alarms. Police sirens. Control yourself. The fact that you're y is just that, a fact, it's not his opinion and even if it is, it doesn't matter to you, nope, not a bit. "I was teasing, you're doing a lot better," you commend him, berating yourself in your head as you do. "Don't lie." He crosses his arms. "I'm not," you insist. Stop it, you think to yourself, this is not helping anything. "It's all thanks to you," he says softly and your heart feels... weird. It's probably just the shock of almost falling on your face wearing off. (Totally.)

 

"Maybe I should retire and become a personal trainer," you suggest. "And leave me to deal with Jaeho all by myself? No way," he whines, crinkling up his nose. Cute, you think, actually in your head this time. "Well, I guess that settles it." He smiles, handing you a towel. You dry your face with it and hang it over the treadmill. 

 

You eye the weights across the room, but if he distracts you while you're lifting them it could be way worse than tripping on the treadmill so you elect floor exercises instead. He sits next to the treadmill and his eyes are glued to you and it's making you self-conscious and it's ridiculous because he's been hanging out watching you in the gym for years, and nothing's changed so why does it feel so... weird? 

 

"You done already?" you ask him between sit-ups. "I'm tired, I'm supposed to be working," he says. "Then go back to the room," you tell him. "I'll fall asleep if you're not there." 

 

"Am I that loud? Are you trying to tell me I snore?" you ask, still trying to shift back into your normal dynamics. "No, I just... I know I'll fall asleep." You nod, take a break from exercising. "Fine, if you're gonna beg, I'll quit early today."

 

"I wasn't asking you to," he stutters, but you wave him off. "No, no, I'm the leader, I'll sacrifice my abs for you," you say, standing up and grabbing your water bottle. "I have to shower anyway and it's later than I thought. Let's go." He tries to stop you again but you ignore him, walk back to your room, offer to let him shower first, but he says he'll work instead. 

 

You're taking a cold shower because you're hot from working out, not for any other reason. Deny, deny, deny, it's something you've been doing for longer than you realize. Maybe he has a crush or maybe you're just fun to tease, but it doesn't matter to you because you don't, you don't have any feelings toward him except completely appropriate feelings of pride as the leader, the same feelings you have for everyone in your band. Okay, not exactly the same, but close enough. (Not close at all.)

 

What is happening to me?, you wonder as you turn off the faucet, dry off with a towel, dress in just your boxers. You can tease just as well as he can, you'll prove it, there's nothing you can't do better than him. He looks up from his laptop at you, coughs once, returns to his work. Not the reaction you were hoping for. (You don't even know what you were hoping for.) 

 

You start to do stretches in front of his bed and he looks up again. "What are you doing?" he asks. "Have I taught you nothing? Stretching after a run is just as important as stretching before it." He stares at you for moment before nodding. "Sure," he agrees before going back to work. You sigh internally, there was a time when this would have gotten to him, maybe he really is just teasing, maybe it's just a gimmick for the fans. (Why is that so disappointing?)

 

You flop on your bed, roll over into your stomach, sigh externally. "I can turn off the lights. That'll help," he suggests. You sit up, point at him. "Ah! So this is getting to you!" you say. He furrows his brow. "It'll help you sleep. I'll try to type quietly and turn down the brightness." Your shoulders deflate. "Oh.  Right. I can do it." You stand up, flip the switches by the door, stumble back to your bed. 

 

"Is everything okay?" he says. "Of course, why wouldn't it be okay?" You get under the covers, roll away from him. "Are you upset about what happened earlier?" he asks tentatively. "It was for the fans, why would that upset me? You know this is just the job." 

 

"For you, maybe," he mumbles, but you catch it. "Not for you?" This is a terrible idea. He doesn't respond, because he's unbelievably smarter than you right now. It doesn't make you any less stupid, though, because you say it again. "It's not just the job for you?" He closes his laptop, closes his eyes. "Don't make me say it," he whispers. You think that might be an answer for your question, it might explain his motivation, but you're not sure. "What are you gonna do about it then?" 

 

"Nothing, you don't have to worry," he says, his voice louder and more confident. "I wasn't, I wasn't worried." He sighs. "Yeah, you were, but it's not a big deal. I'll stop if you want." You wave him off, realize he can't see in the dark. "If it's for the fans, we'll do it. Anything for the fans, right?"

 

"Sure," he agrees half heartedly. "That settles it then." You roll over again, trying to make out his expression through the darkness. He doesn't respond, rolling away from you. Maybe you should have gone for a longer run because you can't sleep, you have to sleep so you can work.

 

 "What if it's not for the fans?" he mumbles in his pillow, probably hoping you can't hear him. "Whatever happens on stage is for the fans," you state. "What about what happens off stage?" Nothing happens off stage. He works and you sleep and that's it. 

 

Sometimes you get him coffee after your morning workout and sometimes he wakes you up sort of accidentally so you can listen to some song he's been working on, but that's it. 

 

Sometimes you watch movies together, but just because he never takes any breaks and it's your job to make sure no one gets too overwhelmed or weighed down by this life. Sometimes he doesn't make it through the whole movie and he falls asleep next to you and you let him stay there, only because he's heavier than he looks and it's a pain to carry him to his bed and you don't wake him up because you're never sure when the last time he actually slept was, but that's it.

 

Sometimes you wake up and realize he's tangled his legs with yours at some point during the night, that your arm is resting around his waist, but that's not something you can control, it's subconscious. Sometimes he looks at you after he wakes up and his eyelids are heavy and his cheeks are swollen and his hair is a mess and there's sleep in his eyes and you don't think he looks totally awful, but that's it. 

 

Sometimes you get drunk with your band after a long week, a long month, a long year, and he sits a little closer than necessary and you look at him a little longer than necessary. Sometimes you stumble home with his arms around your waist and his head against your chest and you drag him to his bed. Sometimes you can't make it to your own room and you pass out next to him, a little closer than necessary, but that's it. 

 

Sometimes you grab his hand off-camera as a reflex and sometimes you catch yourself looking at parts of him that aren't his eyes and sometimes you stare at him in his sleep and sometimes you pull him closer to you before he wakes up, but...

 

 

"What about it?" you say finally, hoping he'll let it go. "That should probably stop, right? Because it can't be for the fans if they're not watching." You nod. "Right, that should stop." You feel like you should say something else, but he's just accepting it, so you let it go. 

 

You're not sure when you finally fall asleep, but you wake up about the same time as he does, making eye contact almost immediately, feeling like it's impossible to break it. You look away first, after far too many seconds, because it's starting to feel weird again and you're awake enough to start remembering that this is a bad idea. 

 

"About last night..." he begins, and you should let him finish, but you're not sure where he's going with this, so you interrupt. "When we're onstage, anything goes. Within reason. When we're not onstage... nothing that could be considered fan service." (Because you want it to be real.)

 

He nods in agreement, lets you have the bathroom first to get ready, leaves you alone with your thoughts. Last night definitely felt different, your heart still doesn't feel normal, your brain keeps trying to explain it away, all you know is that you have to stop this now, before you get any deeper, before it gets any weirder, any more real. 

 

(He flashes you a sleepy smile on the way to the bathroom and his pajama pants are hanging low on his hips and his hair is all tangled and sticking up and you think it might be too late.)