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The crowd was much smaller than Félix had expected, and it thinned quickly. His cousin hadn’t bothered to show up, but Félix couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed. Adrien had always hated funerals. In no time, even the paparazzi had taken all the pictures of the gravestone they could and Félix was left alone with his uncle one last time. He knelt. It seemed like the right thing to do.
“You took the easy way out,” he hissed at the stone. “Now the rest of us have to live with everything you did, you selfish—” He broke off, half-blinded by a rush of hot tears.
Félix hadn’t cried since his father’s funeral. He couldn’t have put words to why he was crying now. Maybe it was that Adrien was suddenly as fatherless as he was. Maybe it was his mother’s slow-spiraling decline as she realized that Aunt Emilie was truly dead, dead forever. Or maybe, strange as it seemed, Félix’s relief had summoned the tears.
He was free at last, free from Gabriel’s control and the omnipresent threat of oblivion at the snap of his uncle’s fingers. It was over. It was over, and now Félix had to live. He had to heal. He had to face what Gabriel’s hatred and cruelty had warped him into.
The plastic grass poked Félix’s legs through his dress slacks. Half-crazed with grief and rage, he tore into it with his fingernails, ripping up the plastic and exposing the fine white construction sand beneath it. Félix dug in deeper, barely noticing how the sand got under his nails and scattered across the dark fabric of his pants like a constellation.
Tears dripped down Félix’s chin. He kept digging. He needed to find the soil. He needed to touch something real.
A sob shook Félix’s shoulders. Gabriel had taken away his father, his aunt, and his cousin’s innocence. He had taken away Félix’s childhood. Félix hardly remembered the happy, carefree little boy he had been before his father’s death, before his mother burdened him with the terrible secret of his birth.
And now you know that I only need to snap my fingers to make you disappear.
Félix wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing sand across his face. He kept digging.
“There,” he muttered to the gravestone. “You made me lose my composure one last time.”
Félix’s dirty, aching fingers met dirt at last. It was pale, dry, and hard, but it was there, deep beneath the artificial perfection of the graveyard. He took a deep, shaky breath, touching the dirt. It was real, even if Félix wasn’t. It was home, even though he could never go home again. He could return to the place, but he could never return to the time before he understood the extent of his family’s corruption.
“Dude! You came!”
Félix stiffened. A teenage boy in an eye-searing blue hoodie and a red baseball cap bounded towards him. The backpack on the boy’s back clanked with every step he took. Then, before Félix could process this intrusion, the boy threw his arms around him and hugged him tightly.
“I didn’t think I’d hear from you today, man! You okay? I mean, no, obviously.” The boy pulled away, sling the backpack off his shoulders, and unzipped it, revealing a collection of spray paint cans. “I was just gonna add a few finishing touches to your old man’s grave. Max owes me a favor, so he and Markov took out the security cameras. Wanna help?”
Félix blinked, but then it clicked. This boy, whoever he was, thought he was talking to Adrien. And if Félix wanted kind words, sympathy, and the chance to spray paint a penis and testicles on his uncle’s grave, he needed to maintain that misconception.
“Sure,” he said in his best imitation of Adrien’s accent.
The boy handed Félix a can of spray paint. “Cool.”
They spent several happy minutes desecrating Félix’s uncle’s grave. The boy talked the whole time. As he listened, Félix learned that the boy was passionate about music, had a little brother named Noel, and, most intriguingly of all, had a massive crush on Adrien.
“I’ve missed you so much, dude,” said the boy, giving Félix a longing look. For a moment, Félix thought he was about to start crying. “I was so worried. We all were.”
Félix tossed an empty can of paint back into the boy’s backpack. “Well, here I am.”
“Here you are,” the boy repeated, his eyes soft. “And who are you?”
Félix stiffened. So much for hiding in Adrien’s life for a little while longer. “You figured it out.”
“Oh yeah. Instantly. I know Adrien.” The boy grinned, holding out his hand. “But I figure any enemy of Gabriel Agreste is a friend I want to make.” He wiped his hand clean on his shirt and held it out for Félix to shake. “I’m Nino Lahiffe. You’re Félix, right?”
“Right,” said Félix, allowing his real accent to bleed back in. It felt strangely vulnerable.
Nino’s hand was warmer than he had expected. “Come on,” he said. “I know a killer food truck near here.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Félix automatically.
Nino shook his head. “Adrien tries to pull the same bullshit. People without low blood sugar don’t try to dig up their uncle’s graves. Besides, you don’t want to be here when someone comes along and sees what we did to the headstone.” He gave Félix’s hand a little tug. “Come on. I’ll pay.”
Félix let Nino pull him along. Hand in grimy, paint-spattered hand, they left the graveyard behind.
Nino’s eyes were bright, and his hand was soft and strong. Félix didn’t want to let go, so he didn’t. Had Nino really known who he was all along? Then why…
Had he imagined the attraction in the other boy’s eyes?
“Hey.” Nino waved his free hand in front of Félix’s face. “You okay? We’re almost there.”
Félix stopped walking. “Wait,” he said. “I need to do something before we eat.” Then, before the confusion in Nino’s eyes could solidify into a question, he wrapped an arm around his neck, pulled him in close, and kissed him.
“Mmm.” Nino’s eyes fluttered closed as he kissed Félix back.
I’m living a charmed life, Félix thought, and he didn’t care. His anger and grief dissolved in the heat of the moment and the softness of Nino’s skin. He wasn’t okay, not yet. But if this strange, beautiful boy kept kissing him back, maybe he could be happy for a little while. Maybe that was a step in the right direction.