(Kyungil POV)

...

His words are ringing in your ears and it's really getting to you, and you're trying to focus, you're trying to be normal, you're trying to pretend, but you're just getting more and more pissed off. 

As soon as you get off stage, you drag him into the nearest supply closet, lock the door, turn around to face him. "How dare you call yourself mine?" you whisper, angry and feeling strangely exposed. "I am yours," he replies with confidence. "Not out there, not in front of them," you remind him. You know it has to be this way, you think, you know why this works. "They just laughed, it's not like they know anything."

"Really? You sure about that?" He shrugs, moving closer to the wall. "Well, if they do know, it's not my fault now is it?" Shock washes over you, how could he say such a thing, bring that up when you're the one with a right to be angry? "If you missed me," he begins, "you should have found me. You shouldn't let it get to the point where you post something stupid for the whole world to see." You thought you were angry about what he did on stage, but you don't even care about that right now. "We were home, and this doesn't work at home," you say, and he shakes his head. "This doesn't work because you don't talk to me," he counters. "I talk to you all the time!" You think you talk to him too much. "Not about anything real, anything that matters, not anymore. You don't talk about this, or why you're worried, or what you're thinking about, you just... let everything build up and explode all over the Internet in front of everyone and then you pretend it never happened."

You've done that a lot in the past, pulled him into your whirlpool of denial, buried him in words that never should have left your lips, and you're trying not to anymore, but it's easier than facing this, it's easier than having to explain what you feel for him, why you need this to work, why you say just as many stupid things as he does, why you let your words strike him before he sees it coming. (You're not sure why but this still feels smarter than assigning yourselves a label.)

"Like you're any better," you tell him. "Like you've never done anything in public that would suggest that this is more than strictly business." He nods. "Sure, but nothing that obvious. Don't try to deny it, what you did was worse." It's turning into some weird kind of competition, who feels more, who controls himself less, who can be more obvious without getting in trouble and it's exhausting. "If you're so into talking, then why didn't you just get mad at me? You didn't even bring it up!" He sighs. "Well, maybe I don't want this to be a secret anymore, a lot more than you do." You shake your head. "I don't want that at all." 

"Fine. But I do." You roll your eyes. "Not if you understood the consequences if that ever happened." Not if you understood that I can't be the thing that breaks you, you think. "I understand perfectly. You don't need to do that anymore," he replies, moving closer to you. "Do what?" you question, unfortunately still affected by his proximity to you, even after all these months. "Pretend I'm an idiot. Treat me like a child, like someone too naive to look past their actions and see the fallout. You know that's not who I am, it's just easier for you if you believe it." Easy? If only any of this was easy, you want to tell him, but he won't let you get a word in and you know he's been saving this up for a long time. Maybe you should have let him say it before, before it got so intense, so dangerous and risky. (But you were too afraid of what the outcome would be.)

"If you believe that I only want this... you... because I can't see how badly it could turn out, then it'll be easier for you to think it still doesn't mean anything," he explains, and you don't think he understands, you think he's too confident that he knows what you want and why you do the things you do, you think he's making assumptions he has no right to make, but you also think, reluctantly, he has a point. "What about you?" you say, desperate to get the spotlight off yourself. "Why do you use our performances as an opportunity to get a rise out of me? Why do you start saying things you'd never even tell me in private? Why do you deliberately try to set me off in front of hundreds of people?"

"Because I..." he stops, looks at you, his confidence fading, his courage used up. "Because?" you prompt, because you're actually talking about this for once and it's his turn to be honest. "Because if it was ever real out there, in front of people, maybe it wouldn't be so easy for you to take it away whenever you want. Maybe you'd be a little less skilled at pretending." You nod, but you don't really understand. (Because you know you're still pretty terrible at pretending.) "So you're prepared to give all of this up for that? You've finally figured out how to put us on the map, or at least close to it, and you're just gonna give up? For nothing?"

"Not for nothing. For you," he says softly. "Same difference," you mutter, reaching for the door and opening it behind you, retreating into the dressing room, collapsing on the couch with your phone, not looking at him. Not when you get in the van, not when you walk into the hotel lobby, not when you turn right back around and set out to clear your head. 

He doesn't understand, he just thinks he does. He doesn't realize how important it is that he follows his dreams, that he sees this to the end, that he doesn't get distracted by something as ridiculous as having feelings for you. Doesn't he realize that this kind of thing doesn't work? If anyone had proof, if anyone used it against you, if anyone wanted to, they could use it to destroy you, destroy your careers, destroy your relationship. This is not the kind of thing that people overlook or forgive, whether they be fans or the general public, because this kind of thing doesn't happen and they think you owe them something, they think they own you, they think they have a right to control you, dictate what you're allowed to feel. (Who you're allowed to feel it for.)

Why can't he understand that you're doing this for him? You're not sure what you want anymore, what your dream is, but his dream is this, this life, hordes of screaming fans, songs that take over the charts, performances that leave him feeling whole. If he gives up on that dream, if he starts to think his dream has changed, if he believes that his dream is you, you'll only disappoint him. He'd be lying anyway, you see the way his eyes light up when you place on music charts, when crowds chant his name, when senior artists commend him. It gives him a crazy kind of high, and you'll never be able to even come close to making him feel that way. (Even though you keep trying.)

You can't be the reason he gives up, he works so hard, he doesn't sleep and he doesn't have a personal life outside of you right now and you've even started having to remind him to eat again, having to trap him in your arms until he falls asleep, even if it's just for an hour or two at a time, even when you're home. It's just now barely beginning to pay off and he's ready to just give it up, to forfeit, to accept that he's wasted the past three years, just so he can be with you. You can't believe it and you can't allow it and you can't be the thing that comes in between him and his dreams. He's younger than you, there are so many things left for him to see and do and experience, things he deserves to do on his own, without you looming over him every step of the way. (Without having to consider you in his decisions.)

He deserves to date as many people as he wants, to have real relationships and heartbreaks that don't break him and kiss random strangers in random clubs, to be a normal twenty-something for once. (Even if imagining someone else kissing him makes you feel sick.) You think back a few months, back when you were convinced that you could protect him, that you were protecting him, back when you were more willing to lie to yourself. Now you know that the only way to protect him was to keep him at arm's length and it's too late for that now. You can't protect him, so maybe it's time to break his heart. You should have made him hate you a long time ago, maybe it's time for that now, maybe it's the only way you can protect him, protect him from you. But you're not ready, you know even if you convince yourself you are, it'll fade when you see his face. You won't be able to do it, not yet. (Because you're still too selfish to do what's best for him.)

You return to your room after two hours and he's in the bathroom, so you have a minute to sit on your bed and busy yourself with your phone before he comes back out. However, you can't help glancing at him when he does, and he almost looks relieved, like he thought you might be gone forever and it breaks your heart. (You didn't think that could happen anymore.) 

He lays down at your feet, doesn't say anything, just puts his hand on your knee, inching up your thigh slowly. You sigh, picking up his hand and moving it off of you. He gives up easily, settling instead for resting his head on the mattress and holding your hand between his. You lean back on the headboard, read the news on your phone, try to think of what to say to him. 

"I'm sorry," he says, and you know he means it. "I shouldn't have said it, not without telling you first. It was stupid and reckless and I'm really sorry." You turn off your phone, look down at him, remember a time when you said something stupid on stage, something that hurt him. Even though what you said wasn't true, it was still hurtful and you shouldn't have said it in that way, you shouldn't have reacted the way you did. "You know why I got upset, right? You know what could happen if everyone knew, don't you?" He nods. "I can't be... the reason they turn on you," you whisper. "They'd turn on us, though. Not just me."

"I can't let that happen to you, you can't give this up for me," you say, and it doesn't solve anything but it's true. "I don't want you to do that for me either," he agrees, but you don't. You've lived, you've kissed random strangers in clubs, you've worked hard and you have lots of things you could fall back on, but he doesn't. This is it for him, for now at least, and you have no right to take that from him. (To think there was a moment when you started to believe this could work long term.) "I don't think," you begin, your voice choked, "I don't think we can do this anymore."

"Sorry, I can't accept that, try again." You shake your head. "I don't think there's anything left to try," you say. "Not yet," he suggests. "After we go home again, then... then maybe we'll stop for good." You know he's putting it off, delaying the inevitable, but you don't really want this to end on short notice either, so you nod. "After we go home, this has to stop for good. Understand?" He doesn't say anything and you know he's upset, you're upset too, so you whisper 'come here' and he crawls into your arms. "This is for the best," you say. It's what's best for you, you don't say. 

You spend the next week getting more and more reckless, locking yourselves up in your room all hours of the day, going out alone after shows, feeling less secretive on stage. Your band, your manager, all your staff have known something's going on for weeks now, maybe longer, and you decide to take advantage of that. (Never mind the fact they could turn against you as easily as anyone could.)

The day before your last shows, he tells a room full of people that he kisses you in your sleep and that's when you know this has to end for sure. Even if it was just a joke, a bit, it wasn't actually a lie and it's only a matter of time before someone realizes it. He knows it too, tells you the second you're back in the hotel. "It's really over after tomorrow, isn't it," he states, not really wanting a response, so you nod and reach for his hands, try to make the most of your last few hours, try to kiss him enough for a lifetime, try not to need a good night's sleep. 

When you wake up the next morning, he's staring at you with that look in his eyes, the one that you never named, the one that tells you you're not nothing, in his eyes at least. (You realize so, so belatedly that he's actually made you believe it.) Useless words swirl around your head, bubble up from your heart, words like 'You are so important to me' and 'I think you are unbelievably beautiful' and 'If it were up to me I'd never let you go'. 

You decide saying any of those things would make it worse for both of you, so you resort to actions. You kiss him, urgently, too urgently, and everything feels so real and it has to end and you're so conflicted, and your heart is aching. Your hands run over his skin, committing him to memory. His hands are tugging at your hair and he gasps your name and you start to forget why this has to end, why it has to be over. Your head is filling up again, drowning in things you can't say, things that will only make this harder, things like 'I'm sorry I'm not brave enough for you' and 'I'm not ready to lose you' and 'I love every inch of you', but you keep them inside, locked in your head where they can only damage you. 

You're supposed to fly out right after your performances, so you pack all your things and leave them for the staff to gather later. He's moving slower than usual and he's not saying anything and you feel awful but you know this is the only way, this is the way you should have been protecting him all along. 

By the end of the first show, it's decided that the weather is too intense to continue with the second, so it gets canceled. It's not that you disagree with the decision, but you're not ready for this to end yet. Your plane doesn't leave for hours, so you figure you have enough time to sneak off somewhere air conditioned, somewhere you can be alone one last time before you have to close this chapter of your life for good. 

You hold his hand under the table and he looks about as miserable as you feel and you try to be positive, try not to say all the unwise, emotional, sappy things running around in your head. "You can't change your mind later," he says. "If this is really over, you can't take it back." You nod. "It's really over," is all you can say. (You want to say more, but there's no point.) When you get home, you decide, you'll leave him alone. You won't interact except strictly for work purposes and as little as possible even then. You won't call or text, you'll give him space, you'll give yourself some space. It's not going to be easy, but it's the only way, you decide, repeat it like a mantra until you believe it. (You don't believe it yet, but you will.)

You've been holding back your thoughts all day, but you start to panic when you remember what you said months ago, something you feel like you never actually apologized for. "You know I didn't mean what I said in London, right?" you blurt out, tripping over your words and squeezing his hand even tighter. "You know I just reacted, I didn't mean to hurt you. You know you're... you know my answer's the same as yours, don't you?" If you had said this a month ago, he would have made some joke like, 'Oh really? Your ideal type is you?' but things have changed since last month and he just nods sadly. "Not that it matters anymore," is all he can say. "It matters."

"No, it doesn't," he whispers, his words landing like a knife in your chest. You look at the clock, you know it's time to go, time to end this, once and for all. You stand from the table, use his hand to pull him close to you, look deep into his eyes, look for a way to make this stop, kiss him instead. He backs away far too soon, lets go of your hand, walks out in front of you, gets in the taxi he hails, closes the door. Final. It's over. The door is closed, locked, barricaded. 

(He looks at you as the plane lands and he doesn't blink and his eyes are red and you're pretty sure this is what dying feels like.)