Wonshik is sensitive and understanding. He sits there on nights when Hongbin would rather hole up in his dorm room and dissuades all of his insecurities.

Who do I think I am, trying to become a singer? “You’re someone with dreams,” Wonshik reminded as he brought his hand to Hongbin’s back and started to rub gently. “Someone with an unwavering aspiration to be like the idol you love. Park Hyo Shin would be proud to see you where you are today.”

I’m only a pretty face, “Yes, your face is beautiful and you don’t need to keep reminding the rest of us mortals about your godlike beauty,” Wonshik chuckled when Hongbin’s hand flailed blindly to hit him in the arm. It’s a sign he’s doing something right, that’s for sure. “But you’re more than that.” Slender fingers traipsed down Hongbin’s arm and he pried Hongbin’s hidden eyes from the crook of his elbow to get a good look at him—teary eyes and all.

“You’re the unique bass line that not everyone can achieve. You’re the one that gives balance to a perfect song. Without you there’d only be falsettos and bird squawking and no lyricist wants to write for that. We want to write for you.”

If Hongbin is those things then Wonshik is the craftsmanship behind a compelling melody. The way he etches himself into his lyrics is as powerful as it is vulnerable. It wasn’t until Hongbin realized that he’s jealous of the in-school fans who also get to partake in Wonshik’s work that he recognized how deeply he’d fallen in love with the slightly older male. It hit him like a hurricane; overwhelming his senses and limited his breath until he stumbled into the eye of the storm. The worst part. The moment in which Hongbin is left ravaged and windblown, faced with the reality that it’s only just begun. Whatever it is. His emotions. His longing. His love. All for a man who is equal parts loud, sensitive, overbearing, and understanding. A man that Hongbin has all too suddenly decided he doesn’t want to let go.

He doesn’t think he has to, either. Not when he’s wound all around Wonshik’s body with promises of being “one and only” lingering heavily in his ear. He trusts Wonshik, too. He knows he means what he says and though Hongbin can only whimper an affirmation back it’s enough for them to solidify their relationship in that moment; then in all of time. Hongbin and Wonshik. Together. It has a ring to it Hongbin never wants to stop hearing.

They’re completely inseparable—until they can’t be any longer.

“Two years will fly by in no time,” they try to convince themselves. Two years will come and go before they even realize it. And before that they’ll be together again at Christmas. “Christmas is only seconds away,” Wonshik laughs into the early August air. Increments of seconds, Hongbin focuses on, wants to mention, but it’s more vulnerable than he likes to be. Wonshik’s the emotional one—Hongbin with his cool smile and seeming nonchalance provides the balance. Still he can’t help but think. 12,960,000 seconds until they can see each other again. 12,959,999. 12,959,998, 12,959,997… They decrease but not nearly as quick as he’d like. Because in 604,800 seconds Hongbin will be on a plane and half way around the country. Those seconds go by faster. They drip from his lips alongside the air being deflated from his lungs. This sickly constricting feeling because so long as he’s loved he’s loved on a timer. An endless series of seconds always counting down to when they’ll be separated. He pulls his lips into a thin smile when Wonshik drops him off at the airport. They’d done this before, sort of; on the month that Hongbin left to go sign for his new apartment, accept his new job, and scope the area out. It should be easier now. So Hongbin doesn’t cry, again, because crying would be wasteful over something they’re used to.

The whole two years thing is new though. They’ve only ever been apart for a month or so at most. But this situation, this departure is coldly familiar. Hongbin uses is as a blanket. He wraps himself up tight and doesn’t take it off until he’s passed the threshold of his studio. The clinking of his keys against the table rings out in the silence and it’s then that Hongbin recognizes that he’s truly alone.

And that won’t change for another two years.

They only get one Christmas together during that time. A weeklong vacation where Hongbin doesn’t have to worry about his monotonous routine or the emails awaiting him in his work inbox. There would be a second but Wonshik will be unreachable in that time—off exploring another part of the world on someone else’s dime. It’s his dream, and Hongbin wouldn’t have it any other way. He wants Wonshik to see the world, to find his inspiration, to comeback feeling fulfilled in a way that only ever seems to happen when he’s eaten barbeque or “stealing” glances at Hongbin (Hongbin always knows, but he keeps it to himself). But the seconds that make up that moment are dark and unwavering. Hongbin can’t pierce them. He can joke about going to visit but the likelihood is so low that he hurts him to think on it.

Hongbin’s week is painted with the reality of their separation. There are plans for a vacation in March but the younger is clenching his teeth and grins through but he doesn’t know if he can go. His new job has shaky vacation hours and he’s still trying to make it in that music career plan of his. Could he really leave the city again so soon?

Plus he has to share his time with Wonshik alongside visiting his friends and family. It’s both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, Hongbin can finally distract himself from the pain Wonshik’s genuinely sweet smile inflicts on his heart; on the other, he’s wasting away seconds where he could be with Wonshik off with someone else.

“What’s it like,” He asks over a steaming cup of coffee with Hakyeon, “to be so close to the one you love?”

“You’re speaking as if you and Wonshik aren’t connected at the hip,” Hakyeon quips back.

“I mean geographically. Geographically close to the one you love.”

“It’s awful,” Hakyeon replies with ease enough to startle Hongbin.

“What.”

“You end up really needy! Oh don’t look at me like that Hongbin. When you’re able to see each other you want to keep seeing each other, even if you could be with others. I can’t tell you the number of times Jaehwan has had to bang on my door to drag us away from each other. It’s not intentional, but we’re so close so we want to keep being close. It’s nice but my productivity outside of work has taken a nose dive.”

Hongbin lets out a huff. Even Hakyeon’s so-called “awfulness” with Taekwoon sounds far better than his current situation.

“But it’s nice too,” Hakyeon continues, his eyes low as he traces his finger around the rim of his coffee cup. “It’s nice to know someone will be waiting for me when I walk through the door at the end of the day. Or even being the one waiting isn’t bad either. It’s kind of exciting, actually. It spices up what would otherwise be too comfortable.”

“I’d like to be comfortable,” Hongbin mutters, letting five words vaguely convey the ache that’s been lingering in his chest for months now.

“You will, it’s just time. Taekwoonie and I haven’t been together half as long as you and Wonshik and we’re already like an old married couple comparatively. Everything you two get to do together always feels fresh and exciting. I’ve never seen either of you seem bored,” Hakyeon’s hands shot up quickly in defense. “Not that I’m bored of Taekwoon! But we’re used to each other. That spark you two have has settled into a nice campfire for us. It’s simple and warm, lingers, but it’s there. You’ll get there. I know you will.”

Hakyeon’s words play on a record in his head while Wonshik takes up the rest of Hongbin’s time that week. A spark. There is a spark in every touch of lips to lips, skin to skin. He lets his hand linger on Wonshik’s hips for too long—though nothing is too long. It’s all a series of “not enoughs” that Hongbin tries to drown in sensation. In Wonshik who brings him this pain of being so many miles away. Wonshik who can extinguish the flame with a spark much more intense.

Hongbin feels like he can only love on a timer. A series of what-ifs first dependent on his graduation, then on his employment, and now on Wonshik’s travels abroad. He doesn’t know what it means to be with the one he loves. His track record is marked with countdowns. Deadlines. Dead ends. Where Hongbin is faced with walls on three sides of him and Wonshik far, far away on the other side. He wants to freeze it all. Especially in the moments where he’s with Wonshik, wrapped up his arms like they’re the only absolute he ever needs. His hands scramble for purchase in the grooves of Wonshik’s muscles, praying silently to not be let go. He doesn’t want to return. He wants to shriek and stop time here, make it so there aren’t millions of seconds between now and when Hongbin will see his Wonshik again.

He remembers sitting in the back of his parents' car, passing the drive to his grandparents by counting as high as he could. One million meant so much. One million was a goal; the largest number next to infinity, and all Hongbin wanted was to reach one million before his father threw the car into park and his mother gathered his tiny hand in hers. One million was always so much. Millions now are too much.

Time doesn’t stop for Hongbin. He wakes to the beeping of his alarm, pretending as though he had actually slept, and breaks from the warmth of Wonshik’s arms to find the shower. Soon Wonshik will join, but until he groggily finds his way out of bed and into the bathroom it’s Hongbin’s time to drown his tears in the onslaught of water. He hates this part. He wishes he bid Wonshik farewell a day ago to spare himself the grit teeth and false smiles. He wishes more that Wonshik didn’t notice the falsehood in his demeanor. Wonshik who is songs and poetry and sunshine. Who can always tell when there’s an eclipse darkening Hongbin’s heart.

Without fail he feels Wonshik’s weight slip in behind him and strong arms fasten themselves around his waist. “It’s not forever Bin,” he says softly, his voice still laced with sleep and impossibly deeper. “I’ll see you really soon.”

Hongbin hiccups in response. The shower can’t mask his crying anymore and he winds up in tears all the way through breakfast.

“Stop smiling,” he finally demands through a snot-soaked tissue. “Don’t mock my pain.”

“I don’t know Bin it’s kind of flattering. Means you like me and stuff.”

“And stuff, what kind of lyricist are you.”

Wonshik avoids the tissue box tossed at his head and takes the opportunity to gather Hongbin’s hands up in his own. His features have softened. He’s still smiling but there’s no laughter behind it; only love in its purest form. It reminds Hongbin why he fell for Wonshik in the first place. It hurts him all over again. “It really will be soon. We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?”

Hongbin nods because he has no other answer. They have made it that far, “But—”

“No ‘buts’ Bin. We don’t have much of a choice. So we should keep making it as best we can, it’ll only get better. We can only go up.”

Wonshik walks Hongbin up to security, their hands never separating. “Go kick so by the time I come join you in the city you’ll be able to hire me as your soon-to-be-super-successful lyricist. There better be a job waiting for me by the time I get there.”

Hongbin merely smiles. Wonshik either always says the right things or says the wrong things in such a ridiculous way that Hongbin can’t be upset over it.

“I love you, Bin.”

“I love you, too.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

There are no sparks in the tips of Hongbin’s fingers when he lets go of Wonshik. Any heat has been stripped from him with the blast of an air conditioner as he turns his back. Don’t look back, Hongbin’s conditioned himself. Don’t indulge in that last look. Linger on the smile, the sweetness of “I’ll see you soon,” the lack of finality.

Winter is cold but Hongbin feels colder, emptied as he cracks his shoulders and neck from the three hour plane ride and the forty-five minute car ride and walks back into his empty flat. He’s crying again by the time he’s kicked his shoes off and settled on his small futon. It almost amazes him how his eyes haven’t swollen shut in the course of the day. He thinks morbidly about how long it would take for that to happen when his phone lights up and a gentle tune (an anime theme song, to be specific) fills the quiet room. It can only be Wonshik, Hongbin having secretly set the ringtone to the theme of their mutual favorite series, and Hongbin contemplates answering. His gut says not to. He’s tired and crying and he doesn’t want Wonshik to know this. It makes him shamed that he can’t just man the up and get over that they can’t see each other every day, they can’t talk face-to-face, they can’t touch. He aches for Wonshik’s hand on his shoulder, strong and reassuring. But he can’t have it. And if he can’t have all of it he wants nothing. No reminders of the pain. He can talk to Wonshik tomorrow; maybe the next day. It hurts too much now.

A minute later his phone buzzes again. Wonshik for the second time. On the third call Hongbin finally answers.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t ignore me I wanted to make sure you made it home safe.”

“I’m not ignoring you,” Hongbin mumbles, the bright light igniting a number of bullets in his brain. does his head hurt…

“Go get some water, Bin.”

“I’m fine.”

“Fine Mr. Fine. Then switch to FaceTime for me.”

“No.”

“That’s because you don’t want me to see how swollen your cute little cheeks are because you’re crying.”

“It’s not!”

Wonshik’s chuckling on the other end and Hongbin can’t decide if he wants to laugh too or vomit out of despair. He opts for neither.

“FaceTime me.” The notification comes hardly a moment later and with a sigh Hongbin accepts.

“There’s my beautiful prince,” Wonshik smiles ignites that spark again, somehow stronger than when they’re together. It engulfs Hongbin’s chest in whole and warms him better than his heated floors. Is this what Hakyeon meant?

They talk for far longer than either intends and by the time the clock hits 3AM Hongbin finally concedes to the lateness and asks if they can continue tomorrow.

“Promise you’ll be the one to call me.” It doesn’t seem like enough to elicit that look in Wonshik’s eyes. The one that expresses anything and everything the older man could want; like nothing else in the world matters. It’s just a phone call, because what else can they do 800 miles apart? But then again, Hongbin thinks, it’s more than just a phone call. It’s what they can do. Hakyeon and Taekwoon can go out to dinner or cuddle in front of a movie. But they’ll never feel the intensity of a Skype call after three weeks of only text messaging; that heart-swelling moment when Hongbin and Wonshik can finally see each other again, relearn the etchings in each other’s face when they smile, the outlines of their eyes when they laugh. It’s where they can fill in the gaps in their phone calls where raised eyebrows and knowing smirks would be. Moments seemingly simple but more precious than Hongbin can put to words. To others it may seem lacking, but to Hongbin it’s all he has. He’s not going to take it for granted anymore.

“I promise,” he agrees but not without an eye roll.

“Good,” another chuckle. Wonshik’s so beautiful when he laughs. “I love you, Bin.”

“I love you, too.”

Hongbin loves on a timer. A timer ticking down to the day when he can walk into his apartment, toss his keys to the side and collapse into Wonshik’s arms over and over and over again. He can’t help but smile at the thought.

“I’ll see you soon.”