Chapter Text
Fadel wishes this were some terrible, ugly joke or a nightmare, but it’s not.
Fluke is alive.
And standing in front of him, wearing a smile Fadel remembers vividly.
"I know you must be shocked," Fluke says carefully, taking a tentative step forward as if afraid Fadel might bolt.
Fadel steps back instantly, eyes wide with horror, his spine prickling with icy disbelief. The man he once loved, the man he buried in his heart, is here now. Alive. Well. Unbearably real.
Fadel has killed people before, but not even the first time he took a life did he feel this sick with shock. The dining area of his restaurant, usually comforting and familiar, now feels too quiet, too vast, like the walls are closing in or maybe he is the one shrinking under the weight of this impossible moment.
"H-how?" Fadel chokes out.
"I’ll explain," Fluke says softly.
"I thought you were dead."
Fluke’s face darkens. "I suppose that’s what your mother wanted you to believe."
"My m-" Fadel’s inhales sharply. "Khun Lily?"
Fluke nods. "That day we were supposed to run away together, she had her men drag me out of the city. Threatened to kill you if I ever came back." His voice wavers. "I only returned when I heard she was locked away. I…" He exhales, shoulders sagging. "There’s so much to say. Maybe we should sit down."
Fadel just stares, his mind spinning.
First, he thought Fluke had abandoned him, and he hurt for that betrayal. Then, he was told Fluke was dead, murdered by Khun Lily, and he grieved for him.
Now this. How many times will the same love tear him apart?
It’s too much.
He’s confused. Shocked. Broken. Like the ground beneath him has split open, and he’s falling.
Fluke smiles gently, eyes shimmering. "I missed you so much, Fadel. You have no idea how long I’ve waited to see you again. To explain… to fix this." He takes another step forward, but Fadel retreats again.
Fluke doesn’t look hurt, just patient. Understanding. "I know it’s a lot. Let’s take it slow, okay?" His voice is warm, hopeful, the same voice Fadel used to cling to like a lifeline.
Fluke looks older now, his features sharper with time, but he’s still Fluke. The same face Fadel memorized in stolen moments, the same voice that once felt like home.
When Fluke vanished, Fadel lost everything. The agony of believing him dead nearly destroyed him.
Now here he is, alive, and Fadel doesn’t know whether to scream, collapse, or pull him close and never let go.
Maybe step by step is the only way.
So Fadel sits. Listens. Lets Fluke unravel the past, how Khun Lily exiled him, how he lived in Italy, trapped, desperate to return.
Fluke’s fingers brush Fadel’s hand, and Fadel’s heart lurches. That touch once meant safety, but now it’s like stepping into sunlight after years in the cold, blinding and terrifying all at the same time.
How can something hurt and heal him at once? Fadel’s vision blurs with unshed tears.
"Fadel, I’m so sorry," Fluke whispers, tears streaking his own cheeks.
Then he’s up, rounding the table, pulling Fadel into his arms, cradling his head against his stomach.
The familiarity wrecks him. The scent of Fluke’s skin, the way his fingers thread through Fadel’s hair, it’s all the same. And finally, it sinks in: Fluke is here. Alive. Everything he suffered, all because of the monster Fadel called mother.
All because of Fadel.
Fadel shatters, weeping into Fluke’s shirt while Fluke murmurs soothing words. For a heartbeat, it’s just them, no time lost, no wounds between them.
Fluke tilts Fadel’s chin up, their eyes meeting. His smile is tender, bittersweet. "Hi, baby."
Then he kisses him.
Fadel kisses back, drowning in the warmth, the rightness of it, like coming up for air after years underwater.
"I thought I lost you forever," Fadel whispers against his lips.
And then, Style.
The name crashes into him like a fist.
Fadel remembers how broken he was when he heard Fluke died. How Style held him together, piece by piece.
Style.
Guilt coils tight in his chest. He pulls away abruptly, standing.
Fluke blinks up at him, confused.
"I can’t do this," Fadel murmurs, shaky. "Too much has changed since you left."
It takes Fluke five seconds to understand. His face falls. "There’s someone else."
The pain in his eyes makes Fadel’s throat close up, but he nods. "Style. That’s his name."
Fluke goes still, absorbing the blow.
Fadel clears his throat. "Tell me where to reach you. We’ll… talk later. I have to go."
But when he leaves, he doesn’t go home to Style. He can’t. His world has been ripped in two. Fluke- his past, crashing into the life he built with Style- his present, his future.
He drives aimlessly, ending up at a bar, drowning in whiskey and the tough choice staring him in the face.
***
Style gets home, tired and just ready for a hot shower, some food, and Fadel to cuddle him to sleep. He’s surprised Fadel isn’t back yet. Fadel’s usually here first. But it’s okay. Style busies himself freshening up, then warms the leftover food Fadel made yesterday and sits at the table, waiting. They always eat dinner together.
The apartment feels too quiet without their voices filling the space. The clock ticks louder than usual. Style’s eyelids grow heavy, and before he knows it, he’s dozes off at the table.
He jerks awake later, blinking dazedly, rubbing his tired eyes. "Fadel?" he calls out, voice hoarse with sleep.
Silence.
The wall clock reads past 11 p.m. Style tries calling Fadel’s phone and it’s switched off. A knot of worry settles in Style’s belly, but he forces himself to stay calm. Maybe he got held up at the restaurant.
By midnight, he’s calling everyone they know; friends, coworkers, even Fadel’s brother, Bison, who answers with a groggy grumble.
"Maybe he’s out drinking," Bison mumbles, clearly half-asleep.
"Without me? Without anyone?" Style’s grip tightens on the phone.
"You know he’s a lone wolf at heart. Style, Fadel’s a whole former hitman. He can take care of himself.”
Bison’s words settle Style’s nerves, but only a little. He spends the night in restless bursts of sleep, waking every few hours to check the door, the phone, the empty space in their bed where Fadel should be.
***
Morning comes too soon. Style drags himself to Heart Burger, hoping to find Fadel there. Instead, he’s met with Fadel’s staff who also turn out to be clueless. No one’s seen him.
The worry gnaws deeper now. He’s called everyone. Checked where he can. Where else is there to look?
Style tries clings to one stubborn truth: Fadel would never vanish without a reason. He’s careful. He’s strong. He’ll come back. He has to.
But work at the garage proves challenging for Style when he can’t seem to shake off the worry. His coworkers keep shooting him concerned looks as he fumbles through the morning, distracted.
It’s only been one night, he reminds himself, gripping a wrench too tightly. He’s okay. He’ll explain everything when he gets home.
But the waiting is agony.
***
Style is in front of Fadel the moment he walks through the door in the evening.
Relief floods through Style immediately, before worry takes over. His hands fly to Fadel’s face, his shoulders, checking for injuries, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush. Where were you? Are you hurt? What happened?
"I’m fine," Fadel murmurs, but his voice is hollow, distant.
Style swallows hard, searching Fadel’s eyes. There’s something off, a certain shadow in his gaze, a tension in his jaw.
Then it hits Fadel that Style isn’t just annoyed. He’s been terrified.
Guilt crashes over him. It’s only been a few hours, he’d thought. Except… he hadn’t thought at all.
Now the weight of that carelessness presses down on him like a boulder.
Before he can apologize, Style cups his face. "Are you sure you’re okay?"
Fadel nods. It’s a lie, and Style knows it. But for now, he doesn’t push. Instead, he pulls Fadel into his arms, holding him a little too tight.
Fadel melts into the embrace, face buried in Style’s neck, breathing him in. The chaos in his mind quiets, just for a moment. Style’s lips press gently against his hair, and Fadel clings to him like a lifeline. Everything will be alright now.
Too soon, Style steps back, though Fadel’s fingers twitch against his waist, reluctant to let go.
"Something happened," Style says softly. "Tell me."
Fadel’s throat burns. This is the hardest thing he’s ever had to say. "Fluke is alive." His voice cracks.
No explanation is needed. They both know exactly who he means.
Style freezes. His spine goes rigid, skin prickling with shock. "What?"
Fadel’s eyes are glassy, lost. "He never died. Keen lied."
Style’s mouth opens, closes. No words come. His quick wit or gift for gab completely fail him now. He looks at the floor, trying to process the impossible.
But when he looks up, the raw pain in Fadel’s eyes guts him. Questions can wait. Right now, all that matters is this.
Style pulls Fadel close again, arms locking around him. If he’s this shaken, he can’t imagine how Fadel feels.
***
Later, tangled together in bed, Style finally asks the question festering between them. "So… how is he alive?"
Fadel’s head rests on Style’s chest as he recounts Fluke’s story. The words threaten to drown him, but Style’s fingers in his hair keep him anchored.
When he finishes, Style is silent. Not because he doesn’t care but because he doesn’t know how to feel. He’s heartbroken for Fluke, relieved he’s alive, but mostly terrified of what this means for them.
Fadel grieved this man after giving his heart to Style. Now said man is back.
The unspoken question hangs heavy;
Where does that leave us?
"Fluke heard Khun Lily was locked away," Fadel whispers. "So he came back to reclaim his life."
Style’s breath catches. Fadel glances up and sees the anxiety in Style’s eyes, the dread of losing him. The sight kills Fadel. He hates this. Hates that he can’t just go back to how things were.
He loves Style with everything he has. But Fluke was his first love, a man whose life was ruined because of Fadel.
"Where were you?" Style asks suddenly, steering away from the tension between them. He already knows the answer, but he needs to hear it.
Fadel sits up, facing him. "I was… shocked. Needed space to think."
Style sighs, recalling the panic he was in last night, the sleepless hours. Anger flares, but his voice stays gentle. "I was worried, Fadel. You can’t just disappear like that. Not anymore." He presses a hand to Fadel’s chest. "You have someone who loves you now."
Fadel’s heart shatters. Fluke’s been back one day, and already I’m slipping into old habits.
"I’m sorry," Fadel whispers.
Style sighs again, exhaustion and hurt bleeding into the sound. "Don’t do it again. Ever."
"I won’t." Fadel promises, curling back into Style’s arms. He nestles close, letting Style’s warmth, his love, stitch him back together.
***
In the days that follow, things only get harder for Fadel. Fluke makes it painfully clear that he wants him back.
At first, they exist in an awkward, undefined space. Not friends. Not lovers. Just two men bound by a love that was stolen from them. Their conversations are careful at first, hesitant, neither sure what lines they can cross after all these years.
But slowly, the walls begin to crack. They talk about the past; shared memories, inside jokes, the life they once built together. Then the words grow heavier, more intimate:
"I know how much Khun Lily meant to you," Fluke murmurs one evening. "I can’t imagine how you felt, learning she had your parents killed. I’m sorry I wasn’t there."
Fadel stares at his hands. "It wasn’t your fault."
A weighted pause. Then Fluke’s voice softens. "First your parents, then me. You shouldn’t have had to bear that alone."
Fadel’s chest tightens. "I wasn’t alone."
The air between them thickens a bit.
Fluke’s breath hitches. "Style," he says quietly.
Fadel nods his head.
Another silence stretches.
When Fluke speaks again, his voice is raw. "Is he good to you?"
"Yeah." Fadel’s throat feels like sandpaper. "He was with me through everything."
He’s come to mean everything to me. The words burn on Fadel’s tongue, but he can’t say them- not when Fluke looks at him with such hope and affection shining through the pain. Every mention of Style wounds him, and Fadel hates that he’s the one inflicting it.
He should say it outright: I’ve moved on. You’re my past. But how can he, when Fluke spent years waiting to come back to him? When Fadel’s very existence cost Fluke everything?
The guilt squeezes his heart, making it impossible to turn Fluke away completely. There’s too much history between them, too much love, too much loss.
***
"Do you still like sunsets?" Fluke asks one evening, leaning against the counter of Fadel’s restaurant.
Fadel hesitates, then nods.
"I found a quiet spot near my place," Fluke continues, voice warm. "We should go sometime."
Fadel offers a strained smile, his throat too tight to speak.
Fluke chuckles softly. "Remember how we used to watch them and talk for hours? Well…I talked for hours. You just listened."
The memory washes over Fadel: Fluke’s voice weaving dreams of their future, his hand clasped tight in Fadel’s.
Suddenly, Fluke’s fingers brush his arm, gentle, familiar. "This isn’t the future we planned," he murmurs, "but it’s not too late." That dimpled smile, the one that once made Fadel’s heart stutter, is aimed right at him.
Now it only makes him more uneasy than anything else.
***
"I didn’t cook much while I was away," Fluke admits another day. "Forgot how to make most dishes. I’ll have to learn from you again."
Fadel stirs his coffee. "Do you still make beef stew?"
Fluke’s face lights up. "That one I could never forget. I made it every time you were sick." His smile turns tender. "You’d refuse to eat anything else."
Fadel’s lips twitch. He’d craved that stew for years after Fluke vanished, aching for it whenever illness left him weak.
Then came Style who learned to make spiced potato soup just for him, who fusses over him with a scowl that can’t hide his worry.
Style.
Fadel’s stomach twists. He wonders what Style’s doing right now, what he’d say if he walked in and found Fluke here.
Lately, Style’s been hurting badly, though he tries to hide it behind jokes and forced cheer. It kills Fadel to know he’s the cause. That by trying to ease Fluke’s pain, he’s deepening Style’s.
He can’t abandon Fluke though after everything. But every moment spent with him feels like a betrayal to the man who stayed.
Fadel is trapped between past and present, and he has no idea how to choose.
***
Fadel lies awake at night, staring at the ceiling, Style sleeping soundly beside him. Guilt builds in his chest like a living thing. Whatever is growing between him and Fluke- nameless, undefined- it exists, and that terrifies him.
He turns onto his side, studying Style’s peaceful face in the dim light. Gently, he brushes his fingertips along Style’s cheek. So beautiful, he thinks, inside and out. In this quiet moment, clarity washes over him; Style is his present. His heart belongs here.
Fluke is the past.
Or so he tells himself.
Fadel tries to return to normal, cooking at the restaurant, being the best boyfriend he can be to Style, laughing with friends. But every time he meets Fluke’s eyes, the lie crumbles. Nothing is normal anymore. Fluke’s return has rewritten everything.
The secret meetings. The way his pulse races when Fluke leans too close. The first time Fluke tries to kiss him, Fadel turns away but not fast enough to stop his heart from pounding.
Fadel realizes the pounding in his chest isn’t excitement but it’s discomfort. The truth becomes clearer each day: the feelings he once had for Fluke are gone.
He still cares about Fluke. Enjoys their conversations. Feels fondness when they talk. But the spark isn’t there anymore. Nothing about their past together stirs those old emotions.
His heart belongs to Style now.
This clarity should make things easier, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes Fadel feel worse. Fluke has every right to hope, to believe they could pick up where they left off. And Style…
Fadel’s chest aches thinking about him, standing by while his boyfriend struggles to let go of the past.
He can’t keep them both in his life. Not when Fluke wants more than friendship. Even as just friends, it would be too strange. Their history runs too deep to pretend it won’t disrupt the life he’s built with Style.
Fluke’s hand cups his cheek, thumb tracing his skin. “You’re thinking about him,” he murmurs. Not a question.
“I can’t do this to him.”
Fluke’s smile is bitter. “Of course you can’t. You’ve always been loyal to a fault.” He drops his hand, sighing. “I know I’m the villain here, crashing into your happy ending. But Fadel…you were mine first. And that was stolen from me.”
“We can’t just pretend nothing changed,” Fadel whispers. “I mourned you. Style was the one who picked up the pieces.”
Fluke’s eyes darken. “I mourned too. Every day, wondering if I’d ever see you again. But I waited.”
The words slice deep. Fluke waited. Fadel didn’t.
“I thought you were dead.”
“Forget the past,” Fluke snaps, like the memories are knives he can’t bear to hold. Then, softer, “We have a chance now. I know you love him. I’ll wait while you figure out what you want. I waited years, so what’s a little longer?”
***
"How are you approaching the Fluke situation?"
The question slices through the comfortable rhythm of their cooking. Fadel’s hands still, shoulders tensing. He knew this was coming, but no amount of preparation could strengthen him for it.
Style watches him closely, refusing to back down. His boyfriend’s first love has crashed back into their lives, and he needs to know where they stand. He won’t lurk in shadows, won’t play private detective. He wants Fadel to tell him, to trust him with the truth.
"I know you two are spending time together, talking," Style presses. "Catching up. Reminiscing. Where’s that supposed to lead?"
Fadel sets the spoon down, turning slowly. "We’re still figuring things out."
"For how long?"
"It’s hard to say, Style." Frustration bleeds into his voice and not at Style, but at himself. At the guilt gnawing at him, at the way Style’s worry hangs between them like a storm cloud.
"Should I get involved?"
Fadel shakes his head. "That’ll make it weirder. Fluke’s already hurting, knowing I’ve moved on."
"So you’re letting him down easy?" Style’s tone sharpens. He can’t help it. The uncertainty is eating him alive.
Fadel exhales. "I don’t expect you to understand."
"He wants you back, doesn’t he?"
A pause. Then Fadel’s gaze drops. A nod.
Style’s chest tightens. "Then why give him hope?"
"I’m not."
"The longer you drag this out, the more it looks like you are."
Silence.
Style’s heart lurches. "Or… is there hope for him?"
Fadel’s head snaps up. "No. How can you even ask me that?"
"Then what’s the hold-up?"
Pain fleetingly flickers across Fadel’s face, but Style catches it. His anger wavers. He touches Fadel’s arm, gentler now. "I know this is hard. But if Fluke’s really your past, it’s time to let go."
***
Days pass. Style waits, hoping to hear Fadel finally say it’s over.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, Fadel’s conflict grows louder in the spaces between them. He tries to seem normal, the same man he was for Style, but it’s not the same. The man who once loved Style without hesitation is now broken, torn between past and present.
Style gets it. He remembers holding Fadel as he sobbed over Fluke’s "death." He knows the guilt is crushing him.
But another part of Style- the part that fought for this love, that built a life with Fadel- feels anger. Every moment Fadel spends with Fluke feels like a threat. He trusts Fadel, but Fluke? Fluke is a stranger. And strangers don’t get to rewrite his future.