Not long into the new year, Sungmin tells the two of them that he has something to say. They’re lounging around in front of the TV, exhausted after rehearsals.

Sungmin starts with, “So, lately... Ah...”

Ryeowook’s legs were sprawled across Henry’s lap, arms hooked around his neck. For his part, Henry leaned them back for the couch’s spine to support both their weight so that his didn’t have to, his fingers interlocked to keep his arms looped in place around his boyfriend’s waist. He isn’t exactly not thinking about all the soft and varied textures he could be enjoying touching, but he wasn’t actively thinking about it, either.

A bit of stubble shows on Ryeowook’s face this late in the day. That’d be gone soon, once he starts getting ready to leave. They both need to get going in a bit. Too bad, ‘cause Henry loves Ryeowook’s soft laughter when the younger is enjoying feeling the sandpaper texture of it with the pads of his fingers.

After a curious hum and the flutter of eyelashes against his cheek, Ryeowook’s breath was no longer faintly tickling Henry’s neck. That means at worst, he’s paying attention enough for both of them. Exhaustion is piling up. Henry yawns. “Mm?” is all he manages to reply.

Donghae comes around just then, taking one look at them before making it a full-on cuddle pile. Damn but he’s heavy, though. Too much muscle.

“I was trying to say something,” Sungmin whines, but he apparently accepts two seconds of not being interrupted as good enough. “Do you remember how my seniors kept telling me that one of my musical co-stars and I are a lot alike, and that I should talk to her more?”

“Oh? Really?” Donghae says, because he actually wasn’t paying attention, it seems. Sungmin continues regardless.

“That is- I...” How Sungmin manages to extract one arm to rub the back of his neck with his hand while he looks away is a mystery. A sly smile plays upon his lips, growing wider as his mind apparently wanders off. “I think they were right. I really like her.”

“Congrats, hyung!” Donghae is the first to say, wriggling free partway to insist on a high five with Sungmin. The oldest answers their nosy questions and takes their teasing with surprising equanimity, giggling every once in a while. He looks so happy. All Henry feels looking at him, is happy for him, head to toe.

“Sungmin-hyung, seriously...” He beams. “Good luck. I hope you find happiness. You’re a good person.”

Somehow, though, he’s the one who Donghae smacks when Ryeowook starts singing that song. Whyyyy?! It’s not like he meant for that to happen!

-

His heart content, not to mention the fact that he’s too busy to do anything else, Henry thinks nothing more of it for at least another week. There’s enough time until the next album release to leave a short window of rest, which the two of them are taking full advantage of. Queasy from the vitamins sitting in his stomach on top of his food, he lays his arm along the back of the couch, Ryeowook’s hair occasionally tickling his arm whenever the older lays back to doze, hands folded over his stomach. This episode must be a rerun.

“I’m glad you got to see your friends from home recently,” Ryeowook starts. “Since we’re going to be so busy soon.”

“Yeah, it was really nice, having them visit,” Henry says, the background murmur going in one ear and out the other. “We had such a good time.”

“Good. I like it when you’re happy,” Ryeowook tells him, quiet and sweet. “You were so cute calling into the radio too,” but he quickly pivots to, “Ah, my legs are so tired,” grousing without much power behind it, stretching said legs forward with a cute little mewl, then letting them flop back down. “Seriously, they’re aching.”

“You should take a bath later,” Henry yawns in response. “Or I can get you the heating pad?”

Ryeowook’s eyes flutter, then rest closed again. He yawns as well, not bothering to hide it behind his hand. “Mm. That does sound nice... Oh, I don’t know why I’m thinking of this,” he starts but doesn’t continue.

“Hmm? Did something happen?” Henry rubs his own stomach in slow, gentle circles with his other hand. His boyfriend’s health advice isn’t always the easiest to handle, no matter how sensible it may be. But a full stomach that he’s not going to be forced to shake vigorously isn’t gonna come around for who knows how long, so, now it is.

“No, actually,” Ryeowook chuckles, “that’s the interesting thing. Sungmin’s really getting serious about that musical co-star he mentioned. He uses all his free time to see her, you know,” he says. “He’ll hardly talk about any other subject, either. It’s kind of impressive. That hyung really doesn’t do anything by halves, does he.”

“Good for him,” Henry mumbles, smiling a bit at the thought. “I really hope it works out for him,” he says through another yawn.

“Right, though? Though it’s usually his hobbies he’s so attentive to. He’d even stopped sleeping with me before he started all that,” Ryeowook adds offhandedly. “I suppose that was why? I’ve never seen him pursue someone so earnestly... I think he’s used to being fawned over, but he’s really different here.”

But Henry’s frozen in place. Dread lodges itself in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t connected the dots himself; he feels like an idiot for it now. He wants to ask exactly how long ago this change came about, but he can’t trust that he’d be able to keep his voice level if he did. Because if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that there’s no answer that ends well for him.

For them.

He let himself get comfortable in something impossible - something that’s about to come crashing down. He withdraws into himself. He feels blank, likely looks it, wracking his brain for an excuse to leave. Oh god, he needs to get out of here!

So he lies.

“I forgot I promised my mom I’d call her!” He whips out his phone to do a quick calculation. A quarter past one AM. That’s around noon there. Plausible.

Ryeowook assures him that he understands, but Henry barely hears a thing. He knows the way he shoves all his stuff into his pockets and rushes out the door is suspicious. He knows it, but every second counts when you need total privacy because your world is about to come crumbling down around you.

Up until the click of the lock after he closes the door to his room, he holds it together. All the way back, he wasn’t thinking about it. Every crevice of his mind filled up with whatever neutral, practical matter he could come up with, detached scrolling on his phone, any tangent he could dredge out of the cacophony, robotically replying to the messages that had piled up. He faked the expected emotions in text, stony-faced in actuality, unwilling to confront the massive, yawning chasm threatening to crush him. Not until... it was safe.

Once the nothing switch is flicked off, the everything comes rushing out in a flood.

...

...

What time is it? When did his throat get so dry, his mouth so acidic, and his cheeks so wet? Does he have any snacks, or, like, is there anything in the fridge that will wash the taste of salt from his lips?

He balls up a soaked tissue and throws it off to nowhere.

That’s it, then. The truce is broken... There’s no path back. He can’t stand the thought of- He can’t- No chance- There’s no more- So he doesn’t. He swallows hard, pushing it all out of reach to where it’s nothing.

-

Radio silence was the only way to keep the pain contained in the box he forcibly shoved it into.

Or, close enough to it. He sends back short, shallow answers when he answers at all.

In the practice room, he overhears Kyuhyun telling Ryeowook, “Ah, you're dieting again. No wonder you're so irritable,” in a tone like he's solved a great mystery.

Ryeowook snarks back, “Thanks for reminding me,” but then Kyuhyun’s hugging him, so close and warm; Henry has to face away, pretending that it's because he's grabbing a water bottle, because the prospect that he'll never have that again with Ryeowook is so daunting that it could cause him to unravel. A big chunk of his life, a steady source of comfort and guidance, an always-ready smile, endless encouragement that he’d come to rely on, gone, just like that.

He now truly knows what it means to be touch-starved. No matter how much he tries to get from others, this longing, this aching emptiness resonating from every pulse of his heart, refuses to be filled by anyone else.

The worst part is that he has to make himself okay with that - all while he awaits the sign that brings them to an end. Whatever it ends up being, it’s only a matter of time.

So away it all goes.

When he next looks up, they’re backstage in Beijing. It doesn’t quite register that Heechul is pulling him aside until it’s already happening. The grip around his upper arm doesn’t hurt, but it’s firm and determined. He goes with it regardless, having no thoughts about what’s happening. What does it matter?

“Henry-ya,” Heechul starts, and it’s nothing but it’s also being jabbed with a needle, somehow, “what are you two kids doing? You’ve been fighting for a few days now. I’ve never seen Ryeowookie stay mad at you for this long.” He jostles Henry in a way that’s almost certainly intended to seem playful. “Do I need to knock some sense into you? Huh?”

All it does is leave him nauseous, though. Henry puts on a fake- wry smile and tells him, lying in the face of Heechul’s unique brusque kindness, “It’s fine, hyung. You know how he can get.”

Heechul sighs. “That’s true,” he concedes. “And Ryeowookie’s anger can be scary. You’ll be okay, then?” He rubs Henry’s shoulder in a friendly, familial way. The gesture doesn’t actually ring hollow; Heechul isn’t the one being insincere here.

“Yes, hyung,” Henry lies with a huge smile plastered on his face.

For a terrifying moment, Heechul gives him a searching look. But it’s over as soon as it starts, and he grins. “Alright, you handle it, then,” the elder orders him, and smacks his on the way out.

It’s nothing.

Followed by a lot of acting between him and his- Nothing. Co-worker. Their usual dynamic turned upside down, a sharp reversal after many years for nothing more than the sake of reputation: he’s warm and effusive in public, with copious bids for attention any time his entertainer's sense thought he could get away with it, then distant and devoid of emotion as soon as they’re out of view of anyone other than their members and managers. They'll be over before long anyway. Why draw it out? Why bother?

Sungmin takes over comforting Ryeowook, and Henry leaves him to it. In the back of his mind, he knows exactly how awful that is. How cruel, in its own way. But he can’t bring himself to acknowledge it. That would mean-

Doesn’t matter, he’s got work to do. (Everything can’t come crumbling down right this second; he doesn’t have time for that.)

-

Things go on. They go on and on even though they can’t, the string being pulled tighter and tighter and it’s going to snap any moment. But then it doesn’t. Not that he feels any better for it, only distracted enough to keep ignoring everything that’s wrong.

Soon, it bled past the mask - but not his.

No, it was Ryeowook, honest to a fault sometimes, who wore his angry, broken heart on his sleeve, exactly what he swore up and down he would never stoop so low to do. Deriding it as unprofessional before, yet now...

When Henry saw it at all, though, it was in reviews of their recordings. Fast forwarded over, the way he wishes his broken-record memory could, getting caught on each one like a jagged nail snagging on cotton. It didn’t hurt, it was just kind of there, much like all other theres that could break through the surface.

Sure, there were other pressures that led Ryeowook to being a bit looser-lipped than usual, but there’s no pretending that office politics are the only reason this is happening. Still, he can only recognize it at arm’s length. The sleep-ruffled picture from before dance practice that he took on impulse one morning, formerly a cherished reminder of what was then so simple, seemed like it was from a different era. One where he hadn't yet lost everything.

...No. One where he hadn’t yet known what he’d already lost.

Several grueling weeks of the jester's mask laying heavy over his face, putting one foot in front of the other, it all comes to a head.

Because of that video.

I didn’t wanna see that, he thinks in an oddly detached way. He wants to sever any thread that intertwines their two fates. But there it is.

One little video from the summer of last year that he forgot about, running on the fumes of too few hours of sleep. Nothing extraordinary. But despite the emotion in his voice being muted - as much by fatigue as the awareness of his constraints - the sentiment, although boiled down to an acceptable “always takes care of me and serves me food” topped off with an “I miss you”, was very real. He just about chokes in surprise, seeing the truth bleed through for an ephemeral second right at the end there, in the same softness of the eyes he’s seen reflected back at him so many times. And he viscerally remembers what it is to be so dear to him, to be loved by this man who is so close to him right now and yet so far, and immediately shoves it all down under exaggeration.

This time, two masks stay firmly on. At least the smiles don’t look brittle. Call it a success, if you must; he can’t. Because the instant he lets his guard down, the first dagger plunges inside, his obliteration seeping out of the wound one drop at a time.

Shortly after that joint performance has receded to the gray of a completed schedule, the inevitable message pops up on his phone: We need to talk.