3:06am
3:06am(Kyungil POV)
When did it get this bad? you wonder in silence. You're supposed to be the strong one, but you've never felt so weak. You should have put a stop to this months ago, years ago, you should have been strong enough to get away, but you're not. Not when it comes to him at least. Maybe you just need to try harder. Maybe your best just isn't good enough yet. (Maybe it'll never be enough.)
You tried to push him away. It didn't take much. He trusts you, he looks to you to know how to act, he knows you're not sure about this, about him yet. If you look away from his gaze, he'll look away too. If you brush his hand off your thigh, if you shrug his hand from your waist, if you back away when he moves closer, he'll stop. It's not like he'll fight back, like he'll call you out. He's the weak one, right? (Wrong.)
It worked for a while, subtly stopping things before they began. It worked in public, when you were surrounded by eyes that don't miss a second, when you were being watched every step of the way. It even worked in private sometimes, when you were well-rested and not feeling homesick. When you got up before he did to spend hours in the hotel gym, when you didn't talk, when you weren't looking at him. (When you stopped it before it began.)
Eventually, it stopped working. It doesn't work when you're exhausted, when you're lonely and anxious and not quite sober. When he looks at you and smiles, just as tired, just as lonely and anxious. When the lights are down and you feel reckless. It doesn't work because you're not in control. (It doesn't work because you don't want it to anymore.)
You know that if you wait for him to do something about it, it'll never happen. Not when you're still trying to push him away. He won't risk it, he won't put himself in that position, not now, not when you keep ignoring him. You think you might have managed to convince him that you don't want him to. You think he's an idiot, you think he's gullible and naive and hopelessly foolish. (You think he trusts you too much.)
No matter how tired or lonely he is, he will never make the first move, not when you're alone, not when it's offstage, not when it's real. That should be enough, that should make it easy for you to be the strong one, all you have to do is nothing. Doing nothing is simple, but it feels so complicated right now. You're a man of action, doing nothing is hard for you sometimes. (Especially when it involves something that matters to you.)
You try to fall asleep, but your mind is racing and fuzzy around the edges and you can't exactly remember why you thought pushing him away was the right thing to do. It's risky, it's dangerous, you're feeling weak again, so you throw yourself out of bed and grab a jacket. You can't see very well in the dark, so you stumble around looking for your phone and your wallet and your shoes.
"What are you doing?" his voice breaks through the darkness. "Going for a walk," you grumble back. "Sounds nice," he replies, getting out of bed and looking for his own shoes. You sigh. "Alone. I'm going for a walk alone."
"It's dangerous out there," he tells you. Not as dangerous as it is in here, you think. "I'll survive," you mutter. "Yeah, but what about me?" You're not sure when he made it all the way to the door, but now he's standing next to you, and you're sure he's looking up at you through his lashes on purpose and it's working. "Fine," you relent, "but no talking. And walk in front of me so I can make sure you don't get snatched." He agrees eagerly, zipping his lips and throwing away the imaginary key.
The December air feels brisk and refreshing on your face and you start to remember why you shouldn't be out here alone with him, why you should let him roam free through the city streets, because even if it's a terrible risk, it's not even close to the one you're taking by letting him stay.
He walks ahead of you, obediently, not saying a single word. You never doubted that he would and sometimes it terrifies you, the control you seem to have over him. But at least he keeps his promises, you're the one who keeps breaking them. (Maybe it's time to stop making them.)
You haven't walked this slowly in a while, taking one step for every two of his. You haven't covered much distance, but you're starting to get hungry anyway. "Hey!" you call to him, pointing at a restaurant. He turns around, his nose red from the chill in the air, and smiles.
You get a booth in the back and he hesitates before sitting across from you. You ignore it. You order enough food for four and you know you'll regret it later, but your choices are too many calories and giving in to him, so it's an easy choice. (None of this is easy.)
"I was thinking about the setlist for tomorrow and..." he begins, but you interrupt. "I said no talking," you remind him. "We're not walking anymore, so it doesn't count." You glare at him, but you know he has a point and it's only work, right? Talking about work couldn't hurt, you tell yourself. One more drink won't hurt, you lie to yourself.
An hour passes before you haul yourself up from the table and out into the street, your arm around his shoulders. You start down the sidewalk and it takes longer than you'd like to admit to realize what a bad idea all of this was. Your arm drops from his shoulder, you rip yourself away from him, look away from the hurt in his eyes, take a deep breath. "I know I only said no talking, but the no touching was implied," you snap. He blinks and you're not sure he's surprised. He walks ahead of you, only a little faster this time. You feel like yelling at him, at yourself, at whatever entity put you here, with him but not with him. You feel like collapsing and kicking your feet and giving up, but you can't. You're too far gone, and you're not sure why it took you this long to realize it. (Maybe you realized but you just couldn't accept it.)
It only takes fifteen minutes to walk back to your hotel, to take the elevator up, to unlock the door and kick off your shoes and collapse on the nearest bed. Which, unfortunately, doesn't end up being yours. You close your eyes when you feel the mattress sink under his weight. You know he's trying to think of something to say, you hope he'll tell you to get the hell off his bed, but he doesn't say a word. "The no talking rule is over," you mumble into his pillows. "And?" he asks. You don't have an answer, so you stay silent. (He wouldn't want to hear it anyway.)
You think you're safe until you feel his fingers teasing your hair, his palm resting on your neck. You suddenly remember that you weren't the only one drinking in that restaurant, that he's the strong one right now, and you are unbelievably weak. You should tell him to stop, but you don't. You should get up, but you don't. You should do something, anything, but the only things you can think to do are the wrong ones. (But right now, they don't even seem that wrong.)
He runs his hand up and down your back, barely there at first, but soon more purposefully and intensely and you get even weaker. "Why are you pushing me away?" he whispers, liquid courage still pulsing through his veins. "I'm not," you say confidently. "Liar," he counters. "Fine. You know why."
"You're mad at me," he concludes. "Sure. Whatever," you mutter. "Then why are you still here?" You sigh, keeping silent, but his words echo in your mind. Why are you still here? Why haven't you put a stop to this? Why don't you end this, once and for all? You could answer the questions, but that would make it real and this can't be real, right? It can't be. You move quickly, startling him and twisting yourself around to look at him. (Mistake.)
His eyes are damp and his face is flushed and he's right there and you can't take it, you can't be strong, you can't push him away, not this time. You lean in. (Mistake.) You kiss him. (Mistake.) He kisses you. (Mistake.) You give in because you're weak. He gives in because it's you. (Mistake.)
Dawn is unforgiving and the sun rises whether you like it or not and you want to admire the sunbeams on his cheeks and you want to feel his skin with your lips, but you can't because this has already gone too far and so you leave. You spend an hour on the treadmill, trying to forget, trying to pretend you made a drunken mistake, trying to pretend that he's not gonna be hurt when he wakes up alone. You run and run and run, but it never gets any easier to forget. You have answers to questions you've had for months, questions you should have never wanted answers to in the first place, and more questions you'll never be able to answer. (Yet you still want to try.)
When you get back to your room, he's already dressed and his makeup is done and he's waiting for you on your bed this time. "Shower," you state before locking yourself in the bathroom. Safe at last, but not for long because your schedule starts in an hour and you're not even close to ready. You use up as much time as possible in the shower, shaving and getting dressed, but not enough time because he's still waiting when you're done. (He's waited longer than that for you before and you know it.)
"The no talking rule is over, remember?" he says upon sight of you. "Go right ahead," you say, plugging in your phone charger and sitting down at the desk. "Three things," he begins, and you know he's been planning for this since he woke up. "One, as long as you wanted that as much I did, we don't have to discuss it." You feel a little burst of relief, buried underneath the indifference you're trying to feign. You nod and he continues. "Two, I can forget if I have to." You swallow hard, anticipating the third statement. "And three, this is real if you want it to be."
He stands from the bed just before there's a knock at the door, undoubtedly the stylist, right on time. He looks at you for a moment before answering the door and replacing his presence with a slightly flustered stylist who says she'll have to rush a bit. You close your eyes and let her get to work on your tired features. She tries to make small talk, but soon realizes that you're not in the mood and decides to work in silence. You start to wonder if she knows, she can't know, it's not possible. (It is definitely possible.)
You don't see him until you're in the van on the way to soundcheck and you don't really look at him until he falls asleep backstage on the couch and everyone else leaves to get something to eat before the show. You should have gone with them, but you still feel guilty and maybe you can make up for it by being there when he wakes up this time. Maybe not, you think as he starts to stir awake. He sits up and looks around, groggily surveying the room until he turns to you. "I..." you whisper, but you don't know what to say. "It can't be real," you try, but it feels final and wrong, so you add, "but it is."
"It is," he repeats, looking up at you and you realize you should have kept your distance because his hair is smushed and his eyes are sleepy and his makeup is smeared and it's too much, it's all too much. This should be solved, it shouldn't feel like this anymore, give in and the urgency fades. You don't know what it feels like now, but it's not over or final or nothing or better. (Maybe it's worse.)
"Yeah," you say absentmindedly as he lays back down, his head resting on your thigh. You try to fix the flattened patch of hair on his head, running your hands over his scalp in vain. "What do you want?" you ask tentatively, not sure what answer you're looking for. "This," he says with a yawn. You nod. "What about you? What do you want?" You shrug, but he's not willing to take that for an answer. Not anymore. "No shrugging. Spell it out."
"This," you reply, making him roll his eyes and let it go. "Fine, don't tell me." You sigh quietly, hoping that no one thinks your current position is suspicious when they return from dinner, hoping that he knows the meaning behind your words, hoping that the walls don't come crashing down around you, around him, because that would be your fault and you could have stopped it and you're supposed to be the strong one. Hope is stronger than you'll ever be, so you put all of your energy into it for now.
Maybe it's not right, maybe it's a mistake, maybe you'll regret it later, but right now, with your hand in his hair and his head on your leg, it's hard to imagine any of those things. This is real if you want it to be, he told you but that's a lie. You know the truth, that it's real no matter what you want, that it's real and it's not going away easily, that it might not go away at all. And you should care and you should stop it and you should be strong, but you're weak and you're careless and you'll probably ruin this, ruin him, but you'll just have to settle for hoping you don't. (But when has hope ever been enough?)
You get back to the hotel and he's not saying it but his eyes are full of expectation and exhaustion and something dangerously close to love and you only recognize it because you've seen it in your eyes too. He sits down next to you on your bed, close but not close enough. "No talking rule?" he suggests. You look over at him and you're falling, you're falling fast and you know you'll hit the ground at some point but you can't make yourself care about that right now. "No talking," you agree, and apparently that's all he needs because he's in your arms and his hands are in your hair and his lips are an inch from yours and you take a moment to wonder when he got this bold before you give in again and again. (You're getting pretty good at that.)
You should be sleeping, it's 3 in the morning after all, but you don't want to miss a second of this. You already feel cheated after sneaking out this morning, not nearly as cheated as he must feel, but this time you're gonna appreciate it. This time you hold his hands and you kiss him more, too much, and you take your time. This time you don't waste a second, because this is important and it's fragile and it's scary and exciting and real and you're not gonna take it for granted. He doesn't deserve that. (Maybe you do, but he doesn't.)
He deserves your full attention, and even though you might not be able to put a label on this, even though you can't tell him what this means or explain all the intricacies of your plan to make this work because you don't exactly have one yet, you're willing to do whatever you can to show him that this is as important to you as it is to him. You're strong enough to do that. (You're weak enough for that.)
Whatever the reason, whatever the motivation, it's worth it in this moment, at 3:06am, as he rests his head on your chest and his heart in your hands, your heart in his. It's worth it when he sighs and unconsciously snuggles closer to you. It's worth the consequences, anything that comes your way. For moments like these, you'd risk everything. You're strong enough for that, you'll help him be strong enough too. (He probably doesn't need your help anyway.)
You know it won't be easy, and some of it will hurt, and you'll say the wrong things or do the wrong things, but so will he. He'll hurt you, he'll say the wrong thing, he'll do the wrong thing. But you won't give up. You'll give in, but you won't give up on him, not for a second. Because even though it took you years to realize it, you're weak and he's strong and you need him as much as he needs you and you probably want him more than he wants you, but none of that matters because he's here and he's happy and that's enough. Maybe he wants more than that, but you just want him to be safe and maybe it's not true, but you really believe he's safe here with you. Weak as you are, you can be strong if you need to be, if you need to save him. (But who will save him from you?)
At some point, you finally fall asleep and when you wake up, he's still there, breathing easily, untroubled by the world outside these four walls. You glance at the clock, 6:29am, look out the window and an idea forms in your head. You get out of bed, jostling him awake and he looks at you in confusion. "What's wrong?" he croaks, his voice gravelly. "Come here," you coax, reaching for his hands and dragging him out of bed, toward the window. He still looks confused and a little grumpy, and he collapses against your chest, his hands around your waist and this is already so much better than you imagined. "Look, we have the perfect view of the sunrise." He scoffs. "I've seen the sunrise more than I can count. I've seen it with you more than a few times."
"Yeah, but..." you trail off as he interrupts you. "The sun comes up and then it goes back down. What's the big deal?" he says, his words muffled by your shirt. I'm trying, you think, don't you get it? "Not like this," you tell him, defeated by his disinterest. "Not here, not with me like this." He looks up at you, rubbing at his eyes. "You really love your cliches."
"Humor me for a minute. Please?" you request, and he rotates in your arms so he can see out the window. You wrap your arms around his waist, rest your head on his shoulder, watch the sun light up the world together. And he's right, it's not the first time, not even close, but it's different, you know it and you know he feels it too, even if he's still too tired to notice. He sighs, relaxing against you and staring out the window. "What happens when we go home?" he whispers, his voice wavering slightly, you'd miss it if you didn't know him so well. "I don't know," you reply, and you really don't. "We'll come back eventually. We never stay home for long." He nods slowly and you release him from your arms, lead him back to bed by his hand, crawl back under the comforter and turn off the alarm on your phone.
You have the day off and even though you'd normally spend it exploring more of this beautiful city you're occupying a lot lately, today you're perfectly happy to spend the whole morning right here in your hotel room. Maybe you'll spend the afternoon here too. Maybe you'll send your manager to get takeout for dinner. (Maybe no one will notice you're both missing.)
You've earned this much, pretending to be normal for a day, living in the moment and enjoying every second, cataloging every inch of him, uncovering answers to burning questions that have run through your mind for months, or longer. He's earned more than that, waiting for you, trying not to be hurt by your harsh words, by critiques of everything he is and everything he does. You were just trying to help and you want to tell him that, convince him that you've always cared, but that might be too much for you, you're too weak to be that honest. (You're too strong to be that vulnerable.)
Maybe you should consider what happens when you go home, where the walls are thinner and the quarters are closer and consequences are more likely to barge in and take control, but you don't want to. Maybe you should tell him this is a one-time, no, two-time (three-time?) kind of thing, tell him that it's too risky, save him from himself, save him from you, but you're not strong, you're weak, and you've never been a saint, not even close. Maybe it's a terrible risk, maybe the biggest risk you've ever taken, maybe that's why it's so exciting, so consuming, so hard to stop.
If you asked him, you know he'd say he's willing to take the risk too, that he knows the consequences and he's willing to face them, but you're not sure either of you are capable of thinking rationally anymore. You suppose he's strong enough to risk it, for what he wants, for you, and you're still not sure why it took you this long to see it, to see his strength, to see your weakness, to see that you were falling, to see that he was waiting to catch you. (To see that you wouldn't hit the ground.)
You'll worry about the consequences later, you'll worry about what this means and getting caught and screwing it up, but not now, not when he's falling asleep in your arms again, and mumbling about disturbing his precious slumber to see the most reliable thing in the universe, and smiling like an idiot because of you, because of what he feels for you, because of what he's making you feel for him. He worries enough for both of you, you know that for sure, so you'll balance the scales by deciding not to worry yet. (At the very least, you'll try.)
When you go back home, then you can worry, then you can obsess over every moment, every wrong move, every wrong word, but not today. Because you've earned this, one day to give in to your weakness, admit that you're not strong, that you don't even want to be where he's concerned, one day to pretend that everything is simple, that you're not taking the biggest chance of your life by giving in.
(His hair is sticking up all over and his fingers are trailing across your skin and his eyes say more than his words ever could and you think being weak might not be quite as bad as you always thought.)
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