Though Ryeowook never did follow up, and the two of them had yet to go to the river like he promised, he does take the seat next to Henry’s on the flight to Thailand, Sungmin plopping down on his other side. He shoots Henry a quick smile and rubs his knee with absent-minded affection, which is enough to fire up the yearning that won’t stay tamped down.

Across the aisle, Mi is holding Sungmin’s attention, telling him excitedly about his upcoming book. Ryeowook’s hand lingers on Sungmin’s wrist in a way that’s subtle enough to not look possessive if you don’t look too closely, yet Sungmin’s paying him no mind. They’re both smiling, making attentive noises at Mi’s telling of the places he explored and foods he ate, proclaiming their jealousy, and of course, insisting in that non-binding, non-specific way that Mi has to take them sometime to this or that one.

For all their differences, they’re stomach-turningly synchronized in this, the timing staggered just enough to overlap, harmonize. Henry tunes it out.

He sighs and lets his head fall back against his seat.

There’s nothing interesting to look at there, of course. He closes his eyes, lets all the noise around him blend into one undivided mass. There’s no telling how much time has passed when a thumb and a knuckle brush feather-soft over his cheek, except that they haven’t taken off yet. His eyes pop open.

“You really can fall asleep anywhere, hm?” Ryeowook says, leaning into his space, his voice soft and high and sweet. His eyes scrunch up and his teeth peek out from between his lips when he smiles afterward. He’s so beautiful that it’s painful.

“Yep,” Henry manages to say, “it’s my superpower.” He grins, too, basking in the sudden intensity of Ryeowook’s attention.

“You’re lucky,” Ryeowook tells him, leaning his head on Henry’s shoulder for just a second before he shoots back up, laughing his bashful I just did something awkward, didn’t I laugh. “There’re times I’d be happy to steal that.”

“Staying up’s not so bad, is it, though? When it’s quiet and everyone else is asleep, I feel like I can do anything.” Though Henry stretches and his eye contact wavers, he’s listening intently.

“Ah, that’s true. Some of the best radio is on really late at night, too,” Ryeowook adds excitedly, nodding with almost too much enthusiasm. Why must he be so cute? "Or if you're somewhere you can see the stars. You love that too, right?" He even gestures in Henry's direction cutely.

“Right! And no one interrupts you when you’re reading.” For all their disjointed stretches of time, Henry can’t help but marvel how well the man next to him gets him sometimes.

Ryeowook giggles at that statement; Henry couldn’t stop himself from joining in even if he wanted to. “It's so true! And sleeping in, if no one’s being too noisy. That’s the best!”

So many people around, but it feels like there’s no one but the two of them in this little bubble. If only there were a way to get more of this.

The flight would take several hours, though, so a book was the easiest way to make that go by. Every once in a while, Ryeowook would look away from his own to peek over to Henry’s, squinting at a random paragraph and sounding out words under his breath. It was so precious to the point of making it hard to turn the page, because it inevitably broke the spell until the next time.

As luck would have it, under Mi’s care, arm and chipper chatter, Sungmin was in bright enough spirits to surge on ahead by the time they reached the hotel, not hanging back plastered to Ryeowook’s side.

On impulse, Henry jumps at the chance, desperate to be close to Ryeowook. He throws his arm over Ryeowook’s shoulders and says quietly, practically into his ear, so that the others can’t hear, “Hyung, can I stay with you tonight?”

Instantly, Ryeowook turns to face him in wide-eyed surprise, having pulled away just far enough for Henry’s hand to be left resting at the crook of his neck, and still, they were close enough to kiss given the slightest effort. “Um, okay, sure.” He blinks a couple of times, then faces forward, his expression growing more flustered, tinged with a hint of pleased. “I didn’t know you wanted to spend more time with me,” he says, stilted.

Henry gets the feeling he wanted to say something else entirely, though it’s impossible to tell what.

“Of course I do,” he says as sincerely as he can stand to, before teasing, “It’s your fault I didn’t sleep on the plane, so now, you have to make sure I rest well.”

Having just gotten his arm around Henry’s waist, Ryeowook bursts out laughing. The force of it shakes Henry a little. It’s kind of great. Every part of him settles in a contentment that’s like nothing else.

“You’re such a difficult brat,” Ryeowook fires back, clearly not meaning a single word of it. “What am I going to do with you? Huh, you little punk?”

Henry scoffs as if offended. “Punk?! I can’t believe you called me punk! That’s too mean!”

“Aish,” Ryeowook says, squeezing his side before he lets go to take his keycard. His default walking speed is faster than Henry’s, so it’s easy to watch him walk to the bank of elevators with a spring in his step. He turns, grins, and waves Henry over.

The situation is so dire that even Donghae is giving Henry a meaningful look when he immediately follows like an eager puppy. He didn’t know Donghae was capable of that look, what with his head in the clouds all the time.

“I’ll come visit you first, don’t worry,” Henry tells him, pretending not to understand.

Night had long since fallen by the time Henry’s knocking on Ryeowook’s door. With a full day tomorrow, he doesn’t want to cut it any closer, no matter how much he enjoyed hanging out with Donghae. He got all that restless energy out. What he wants most is... this. Them. Together, with no one looking at them or demanding their attention. Rest.

The man in question answers in hardly two heartbeats, as though he was waiting just on the other side. His hair is unusually neat, considering the late hour and that they’re about to go to sleep, but his face is glowing with the aftereffects of his skincare routine, and he’s in a loose, wide-collared t-shirt, his collarbones standing out starkly against the bleached-white fabric. Is the skin there as soft as it looks?

Ryeowook smirks and asks him, “Are you going to come in?” He steps back to make room. “This was your idea.”

Henry can feel his face flush, but he does as requested. “Would you rather I fall asleep in Donghae’s bed after all?” He says as he sheds his jacket onto the floor. Ryeowook wordlessly picks it up, folds it and places it on the uncomfortable chair with hard wooden arms that every room here has. His sweats ride low on his hips for a moment, the skin revealed looking just as soft and smooth, the gentle slope of each jut such a pretty shape.

“Pfft, I know you wouldn’t pick that. I’ve done it. He’s such a bed hog.” Ryeowook then flops onto the bed, turning over to lay flat on his back. Somehow, the ankle socks he’s kept on make his feet look even smaller and more delicate than with them off, and Henry’s never been more thankful that no one around him can read minds, because if anyone knew how much he found strangely, unbearably cute about the man in front of him, he could never live it down.

Never. Ever. Ever.

Having flopped and rolled around, Ryeowook’s hair is kinda mussed now, and it’s killing him.

“Right? You wake up and he’s hugging you in his sleep so strong that it’s choking you.” Henry does an overwrought imitation of being strangled by Donghae’s invisible force, pulling his arms in and sticking his tongue out and rolling his eyes back. Ryeowook’s braying laughter in response has him beaming wide.

Satisfied, he goes to brush his teeth in the tiny bathroom, identical to the one in his own room. He’s grateful that the other man hasn’t asked him why he wants to sleep here, or worse, make fun of him for it. Like he’s sensed that that would cross the line. Or... Or it’s that he likes him that much.

It’d be really nice if it were that one. That this whole thing wasn’t just in his head.

That they could be something, a handholding something, a private something, a smooching something, not as a joke, but the real deal.

I am officially losing my mind, he thinks, and rinses out his mouth one last time.

The shock of chestnut hair against the hotel pillowcase calls to him, the latest target of his insatiable desire to touch, but it’s Ryeowook’s half-lidded adoring smile that makes him feel safe to slide under the blanket and switch off the lamp.

In only the muted light of city glow through the curtains, the sound is mostly what tells him that Ryeowook turned away from him onto his side. His hand pats down a path in the space between them until it reaches Henry’s shirt, giving a gentle tug to a handful of the fabric that’s too loose to quite lay over Henry’s ribs.

There’s no resisting the command. Not a bit of him wants to.

So Henry maneuvers his arm through the gap between Ryeowook’s neck and the pillow, wrapping his arm over Ryeowook’s chest, shortly followed by his other arm making its way around Ryeowook’s middle. Despite his commanding presence, the older man feels frail like this, doing nothing so much as amplifying the longing of a heart that hopes it’s not alone. If he had his way, he would never let go.

What’s amazing, though, is that he’s letting Henry take such liberties, here under the cover of dark. The blanket slip-slides down to his hip, but Henry’s not moving away for anything.

Dropping all barriers to his desire, he slots their legs together, Ryeowook easily bending to the same angle. They’re pressed flush against each other, top to bottom, heads resting together, the tip of Henry’s nose nudging Ryeowook’s ear, and god, he has never known such peace. If he’s allowed to fall asleep like this, he might well say the words he’s kept hidden the next morning, because this is too real and too good to let go.

A sound comes from Ryeowook, like a gasp through his nose, his breath growing louder. It’s worrying. But, like, Henry doesn’t wanna embarrass him if he’s having one of those overwhelmed moments that they all sometimes have. Besides, a hug is awesome when you’re having one of those, so he’ll stay where he is unless and until he’s told otherwise.

(Maybe a bit selfishly. Okay, a lot selfishly. it, ninety percent, something like that.)

Half of one of Ryeowook’s legs moves away from the shape they formed together, which, that’s fine. The bed isn’t the comfiest, it can take some shifting around to settle down. But then, something stranger happens.

Ryeowook is... pushing back against him. Repeatedly. If that’s as much as he can take, okay, that , but Henry can deal. Accepting that that’s the case, he tries to let go and take his arms back; Ryeowook doesn’t let him, grabbing one of Henry’s hands and pressing his arm down in a way that keeps both of Henry’s where they are. His other hand has a tight grip on Henry’s hip, and still, he’s pushing back, over and over.

What is happening?

“Hyung,” Henry starts, his voice quiet, “does your leg hurt?” That’s his best guess. Nothing’s really adding up.

Beside him, Ryeowook stiffens. He stops pushing, though he doesn’t let up anywhere he’s holding. The silence between them stretches on longer and longer, lets through the whoosh of cars outside and indistinct conversation out in the hallway before swallowing it all up.

“I can get a pain patch for you. You usually bring some with you overseas, right?”

Despite lying down, Ryeowook’s entire body slumps like a puppet with its strings cut. Henry’s left looking at the back of his head. It’s only a couple of centimeters away now, but it feels like so much more, though he doesn’t know why.

At last, Ryeowook says in a flat voice, “I’m okay. Go to sleep.”

Left in blinking confusion, all Henry can get out is, “O-okay. Good night.” He tries really hard not to let it bother him, flitting in and out of weird dreams for a little while before he’s down for the count.

-

Morning brings only cold. Cold other half of the bed. Cold room despite the heating chugging away, the early hour sapping it from the air. Cold look on Ryeowook’s face as he bustles about the cramped room, getting ready for the day.

While he's already most of the way through his morning routine, Henry is making his way out of bed, the previous night slowly returning to him, filtering into cold, cold memory.

He chances placing his hand on Ryeowook’s shoulder, generally a safe bet. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Ryeowook insists through gritted teeth. Henry pulls his hand back. Frankly, that response is already more self-control than an angry Ryeowook shows to anyone else; not a good time to push his luck.

After taking his time picking out a scarf, the older man shrugs on a jacket. His jaw visibly moves back and forth and his hands clench into half-formed fists and release. He rubs at his own neck, but doesn’t say a word.

“But, something’s wrong. Did I snore?” Henry jokes, but it falls so flat, you could hear a pin drop onto the deep green carpet. Ryeowook whirls to face him, staring him down despite Henry’s height advantage.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He says each word exactingly, deliberately, clearly straining with the effort to keep his tone measured.

If he were a bit smarter, or more awake, or maybe any less desperately in love with the mercurial man before him, he would’ve kept his stupid mouth shut. Unfortunately for him, he’s none of those things. “I don’t want you to be angry with me.” Henry tries a pout. It’s a dirty trick, he knows, but if he could just drain the wound, he’s sure it could heal. “Can’t you just tell me what’s wrong?”

The attempt at intimacy backfires. Despite his pleading, Ryeowook only glares at him. It’s awful. Henry can’t keep the hurt off his face. The seconds tick by, every ache behind his eyes and beat of his racing heart desperate to resolve the tension he’s lost in, drowned by.

Then the other man’s glare melts away with a resigned sigh. “You really don’t know anything,” Ryeowook says, his voice at a normal volume but the words coming off more like he’s talking to himself. He scrubs his face with his hand, shaking his head. It falls away. “I don’t understand you.” There’s a crack in his voice as though it pains him to admit it. Now, he just looks sad. “We don’t understand each other, so, please, hurry up and leave,” he begs with an unconscious nodding, pointing his chin at the door in a way that doesn’t feel purposeful but is nonetheless agonizingly sincere. Having said that, there’s only a second to see that he squeezes his eyes shut before he’s turned his back to Henry.

He sure looked like he was about to cry, too.

Without another word, Henry marches to the door to throw it open as hard as he can, fighting against the springs that slow it down. He swallows hard and barely makes it to his own room, his hand shaking so much that he nearly drops his keycard. In the safety of his identical barren entryway, he says out loud to himself, “.” Says it again, for good measure, again, again. “. . !” It’s his turn to be angry. “What the was that? What the ing hell happened?!”

He throws every bit of clothing stuffed into his suitcase onto the bed, spiking each one into the untouched, too-hard mattress until the white-hot rage consuming him has burnt itself out. As he huffs out each breath, he feels more and more drained; while he puts aside what he picked out and fixes his hair, his loosened sleep shorts having already slid off his hips and onto the floor, he thinks bitterly, No, we don’t understand each other. You got that much right.

Self-awareness hits him like a sledgehammer. Here he is, standing in some sterile, fake-cheerful hotel room in nothing but a sleep shirt and his boxers, shivering because he’s frozen in place with the realization, the epiphany that seems so simple on the surface. He’ll never understand if I don’t tell him. He can’t understand if I don’t tell him.

Shaking his way into his pants with a sad smile, he feels so stupid. And yet, there’s this new sense of being a man on a mission lurking beneath it. Because this is already worse than anything he feared from laying his cards on the table, so what has he got to lose?

-

Of course, now that he’s built up his courage, he doesn’t get a single chance.

Amazing, really, how two people can spend multiple days in a row never being more than two rooms apart, yet hardly interact at all. He’d gotten his hopes up for a second when the next morning, a knock on his door came shortly after he’d showered and put on pants, because upon opening it, Ryeowook’s face was carefully blank, but at least here was there. He thought for sure that the other man would crack a smile or at least make fun of him for answering the door without a shirt on, but before Henry could step back to coax him inside, Ryeowook shoved his jacket at him with nothing but a half-second up-and-down look and a clipped “Here.” Then he left.

Folded neatly, the jacket held his spare toothbrush on top, wrapped in a tissue, the inanimate objects somehow a glaring indictment of his behavior. Whatever that behavior may be.

Henry resolutely ignores the headache he’s been feeling coming on since then. He’s used to missing cues that no one explains, but wow, he’d rather it’d be something stupid on a show that makes people laugh. Not this. He doesn’t wanna think about it anymore, not until he sees a good opportunity, so he keeps his goofball mask firmly on, which everyone except Ryeowook seems to like just fine.

God, how did it come to this?

It works well enough, though. He takes advantage of being surrounded by people to joke and bother and whine, flowing with his intuitive moment-by-moment sense of what to do, and also sleeping a bunch. Gets up, does it again. Next day, does it again. Only in the few minutes’ gap before he conks out at whatever ridiculous hour the group was up until does the damned itch come for him, suffusing his limbs with a restlessness nothing can touch.

Every repetition of act normal, that’s what he wants most, act normal and it’ll be okay, we’ll be okay again could only push it away for so long. But he knows that’s what works.

As much as Ryeowook seems like he wears his heart on his sleeve, he’d (understandably) lose his if whatever’s going on between them spilled out into their public presentation. Because the thing is, most of the time, maybe a tad too much of it for his well-being, the phrase ‘consummate professional’ might as well have been made for him.

With every bid for attention that goes unanswered, he loses heart for the one breath’s duration he has to take to recover, but he’s not giving up.

Finally, their stay in Thailand is coming to a close. Their group dinner is nothing out of the ordinary - managers at one end of the table, Siwon having left early for some schedule or another, Kyuhyun recounting something he did in some game while Mi hangs off his shoulders like an affectionate octopus, occasionally feeding him or stealing Kyuhyun’s food while he’s not looking. Even Donghae sat next to him wouldn’t be odd except that there’s an unshakable sense that Ryeowook maneuvered him there as a buffer.

Across from him, Sungmin is unusually quiet. Hyukjae takes up the conversational space, testing jokes on everyone in earshot; each time he gets a laugh, no matter who it’s from, his hand flies to squeeze Sungmin’s wrist or shoulder. The subgroup’s eldest holds himself tense as if he’s trying not to show that it bothers him, but the way his eyes stay firmly on his food betrays his true feelings.

Once all the food is gone... Well, that’s when it gets worse.

With all the languor of a predator toying with its prey, Hyukjae gets up from the table, wrapping his fingers around Sungmin’s upper arm and whispering into his ear, a smirk planted on his face as he pulls away. Before he even noticed that he did it, Henry found that he’s already craning his neck past where his elbows are digging into the table, angling to get closer to hear, but no dice. In short order, Sungmin’s shoulders slumped in clear resignation, then he resolutely squared his jaw. He, too, pushes his chair back and stands up, soft body moving in hard lines, his harsh steps trailing in Hyukjae’s wake to the elevators, keeping a gap between them.

That... didn’t look good. Their hard work, not to mention their friend’s heart, in jeopardy, Henry turns to look at Ryeowook, who’s already looking at him as well. The older man gives him a small nod, pointing with his chin in that same direction.

The entire table had fallen silent. Fine, guess it’s up to him to make the next move.

“Welp,” he says, popping the p to emphasize the single English word he’s going to use here, because he’s not above drawing attention to his foreignness to them if he has to, to get away with being kinda rude, “I’m calling it a night. See ya.” He leaps out of his chair, does a spin, and puts his earbuds in. A couple of chuckles come from the remaining members and staff, their chatter starting up again; unfortunately, he can still pick out the sound of Ryeowook’s voice from within that, though not the words he says.

Awkwardness stands guard between them as they wait for the next elevator together. Only after they’re enclosed does Henry pop the earbuds back out, since they were just for show.

Still, they say nothing.

It shouldn’t surprise him that Ryeowook has Sungmin’s second keycard, but the implications make his stomach churn all the same. They both sit at the foot of the bed, the only place to sit that’s in line of sight of the door. For a minute, he rubs his fingertips against each other, then his palms, before it hits him that this is his chance.

No avoiding. They’re hardly a foot apart, alone... Who knows for how much longer?

Henry blows out a deep breath. At the sound, Ryeowook turns to look at him blankly. Now or never. “To be honest, I-“

Bzzt-click. Wow, fate must really hate him.

Ryeowook’s attention is no longer available, every bit of him focused in grim anticipation towards the source of the sound. Seconds later, Sungmin’s head peeks through the door. Every last inch of him is drooping, weary. He’s not crying, no, but his eyes are glimmering under the too-harsh lights and he appears to be drained of the strength to hide how downtrodden he feels. Somehow, he doesn’t look surprised to see them, instead lumbering into the space between the two of them, curling in on himself. Henry and Ryeowook both hug his unmoving form for a long time.

Nothing can erase the awareness of where the edge of his index finger brushes up against the bottom of Ryeowook’s chin, his head resting on Sungmin’s shoulder just above where Henry is holding their friend, or where Ryeowook’s delicate wrist, from his arms being wrapped around Sungmin’s waist, presses warm against Henry’s stomach. Still, he puts these aside so that the bulk of his attention is on what Sungmin might need.

Anything, anything to ease the pain he understands all too well.

“Why did he make me do it again?” Sungmin croaks. A faint trembling spreads throughout his body. “I told him last time that we were finished for good. Why didn’t he believe me?” He’s resting his head against Ryeowook’s now, making no move to escape either of them. “He didn’t have to put me through that again.”

“I’m sorry hyung is hurting,” is all Henry can think to say. Sungmin fumbles for his hand, squeezes it tight for a moment, loosens his grip without letting go. Some things just aren’t meant to be.