It wasn’t as if he had a choice. Jonghyun kept reminding himself of that. He didn’t have a choice. Neither of them had a choice, but the wicked voice inside his head kept telling him that he did have a choice. He could refuse to go along with this bull. He could swear and stomp his feet and kiss Kibum full on the lips in the middle of their next concert.

He was choosing this. This over them. Their careers, their hopes, their dreams, the first fifteen years of their lives over—over what? Over their forever or over their nothing. He’d seen breakups in the business, men with women, women with women, men with men. He’d seen breakups between groups—who had known, or suspected, that Leeteuk and Tiffany had been dating for well over a year? He’d seen breakups within groups—both the messy ones (Yunho and Jaejoong, but the lawsuit hadn’t really helped) and the easy ones—no one even knew about Joon and Mir.

When he felt guiltiest, he’d remember that it wasn’t like Kibum was making any grand gestures either. But sometimes he’d make small ones. Looks that lingered far too long for best friends. Touches that strayed just beyond acceptable “friend” boundaries.

It didn’t matter at home. At home they had choices, they could be themselves and love whomever they wanted. Nobody cared. It was on stage that they didn’t, that their careers meant more than each other. He wished he was braver. He wished he had a choice.