Archive of Our Own

Loose Lips sink Ships

At 38, Chan remains a coward.

They meet again not because he finally grows a pair and reaches out to end their decade-long radio silence but because he happens to receive an invitation to the Korean Popular Culture and Arts Awards.

No doubt, his manager is to blame: leaving the inconspicuous envelope on his desk in the studio he still occasionally shares with Changbin and Jisung. Their collaborations aren’t as frequent as they used to be, but at least these two are still talking to him and, for the most part, consider him their friend.

Chan’s first instinct upon seeing the fancy lettering and the logo in the upper left corner is to throw the thing away. He’s a producer, content to keep in the background after so many years in the spotlight, and events like these are made for people more visible than he is.

It’s the sudden appearance of Jisung—bursting into the studio with a frustrated huff, phone in hand and waving it accusingly at Bang Chan—that has him toss it back onto the desk instead of the bin.

Shit, he thinks, prestigious awards show momentarily forgotten. He was too engrossed in his work to hear his phone again.

It’s not until a whole two days and a 12-hour recording session later that he remembers the letter sitting on his desk. And though he still feels no desire to attend a stuffy event held by the Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism, he’s curious enough to send a text to his manager, asking for a list of attendees.

His manager cannot provide him with a full list but she does send over the shorter list of the recently announced recipients of the highly coveted Order of Cultural Merit. Among them a name so innocuous, it wouldn’t stand out to someone not part of their industry. For Chan, seeing it is enough to have his heart skip a beat.

Nestled in between renowned actors and beloved comedians is the name Lee Yongbok Felix. Selected for an Okgwan, for expanding the value of Korea’s pop culture worldwide.

The distinction comes as no surprise to Bang Chan—despite the fact that Felix was born and raised in Sydney and, to this day, speaks of Australia as his home, rather than South Korea. He’s universally beloved, adored world-wide and scandal-free after almost 20 years in the entertainment industry. An impossible feat nobody in their line of work has achieved before him.

Chan has seen him on the runway, has watched every single one of his interviews, kept tabs on him and his sponsorships but not once in a decade has he picked up his phone and called Felix’s number. Fucking hell, he doesn’t even know if the one saved to his contacts is still his.

He misses his voice. His cheeky laugh. Even the rough timbre of his anger when he snapped at Chan that day.

Perhaps this is a sign, a small favour from the universe to give Chan one last opportunity to hear Felix’s voice so that he might close this sad chapter of the tragedy that is his life.

Taking a deep breath, he reaches for his phone and calls his manager.

“Fine,” he says without greeting. “I’ll go.”

Chan isn’t sure when he lost his taste for big, flashy events. Probably somewhere between Stray Kids disbanding and him getting married. Despite the immense prestige associated with the awards, the entire matter is comparatively modest. No one expects him to pose on the red carpet for hours to take terribly overexposed pictures. No one requests to do any interviews. Those are reserved for the award recipients and Chan is glad for it. He has endured enough braindead questions to last him a lifetime.

Instead, he’s content to sit quietly in the audience that’s composed of government officials and people like him: successful enough to be invited but not so much that they'd be considered for an award.

The stars of the show, tonight’s winners, are seated in the front row, all of them wearing expressions of practised neutrality that occasionally shift into polite smiles whenever the cameras are on them and project their flawless faces onto the big screen.

Chan spots him before the cameras do: an angelic vision in white, a stark contrast to the sea of black suits. His hair is no longer blond and the often unnaturally bright contact lenses he was forced to wear as an idol are a thing of the past, but these small changes only serve to enhance his natural beauty.

He’s 35 but unlike Chan, who cannot help but compare himself to a washed up wannabe popstar whenever he chances a peek into the mirror, Felix appears ageless. If anything, he’s even more beautiful now than he was back then. Confident in a way he wasn’t at 17, at 27. His stance is proud, his smile genuine, and Chan has to look away, lest he’d risk embarrassing himself in front of Korea’s finest.

Coming here was a terrible idea. He should’ve stayed at the studio; worked on his latest production. Or rather, he should’ve flown back to Sydney and spent time with his family. The family he loves and misses and spent years dreaming of back when he was an idol and he wasn’t allowed to so much as look at a girl for longer than five seconds.

Nobody even knows he’s here. He told Changbin and Jisung he’d be out for the day and catch up on the sleep he missed the last couple of weeks. They actually encouraged him, pleasantly surprised that he was taking care of himself for once and thus didn’t ask any more questions. And even though the invitation clearly stated that he was allowed to bring a plus one, he never once considered asking his wife.

He feels like a proper piece of shit, thinking about it now. He should buy her a nice gift while he’s here; something that says: Sorry, for not telling you about this award show I attended without you. Something with at least five carats.

He’s startled out of his thoughts by the sudden sound of applause. His seatmate, whose name Chan has already forgotten, joins in with enthusiastic clapping. Chan’s own excitement is more subdued, mostly because he missed who was awarded which honour.

Clapping slowly, his gaze wanders to the first row, searching for a familiar mop of fair hair before he remembers that Felix is no longer blond. And Chan wonders if that too, is his fault. For years, Felix claimed that he thought blond fit him better, that he felt more like himself with lighter hair. Yet the moment things ended, he dyed it black and proudly posted about it on his Instagram.

Time for a change.

That had been the caption. Chan still remembers it after so many years. Felix hasn’t been blond since, and Chan tries not to read too much into it. Tries very hard not to think of it as a personal slight. He’s always been fond of Felix’s blond hair. Liked the contrast between his own black curls and Felix’s golden tresses. Yin and Yang. Sun and moon. And whatever other cheesy metaphor one might use to describe a bond Chan once considered unbreakable.

It was stupid. Of course it was: Being affronted by someone dyeing their hair back to its natural colour. Yet, Chan never quite got over it.

When he finally finds Felix in the crowd, he’s chatting with the man seated next to him, his head turned to the side, giving Chan the perfect opportunity to marvel at his profile. Gone is the baby fat he carried with him well into his twenties, leaving sharp lines and sensual curves. The only softness left is the tender shine of his eyes and the playful curl of his lips. And when his neighbour says something and Felix’s mouth falls open in heartfelt laughter, it’s as if no time has passed at all and Chan is looking at the young man he left behind ten years ago.

He quickly averts his eyes when someone bumps against his arm, ears growing hot with embarrassment. Turns out, the man sitting next to him was merely trying to squeeze past him to get to the bathroom, not silently calling Chan out for ogling Felix, but the shame remains the same.

Mumbling an apology, he shifts in his seat, allowing the man to get past him. He doesn’t look at Felix again, too afraid of actually being caught this time to risk it, and keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the stage instead.

It works until it doesn’t.

Listening to the winners’ speeches keeps him sufficiently distracted until it’s time for the hosts to announce the recipient of the Okgwan, prefacing the reveal with a long speech about the winners' many many merits. Each of which has Chan swallow down another wave of nausea climbing up his throat:

A national treasure.

A voice like thunder.

The idol that broke boundaries.

The face of K-Pop.

Lee Yongbok Felix.

Behind Chan, someone snorts in affronted amusement.

“A national treasure? He wasn’t even born here.”

Chan wants to turn around and bash the face of whoever said that into a bloody pulp but he behaves himself. Mostly because he’s certain Felix wouldn’t appreciate it if he started a fight during his acceptance speech.

Hands firmly tucked under his thighs, he manages to ignore the absolute wanker in the back row long enough to hear the end of the presenter’s hymn of praise and join in on the thunderous applause that follows when Felix gets up and turns to bow to the audience before ascending up the stage to accept his award.

It’s only then that Chan realises that the back of his white suit is, well…missing. Instead of impeccably tailored fabric there’s only the pale expanse of Felix’s muscled back, adorned by shimmering rows of pearls, pulled tight enough that they keep the deconstructed waistcoat from sliding off his shoulders.

Chan makes a noise he isn’t proud of; one that is luckily swallowed by the prolonged applause that only dies down when Felix has made it onto the dais, smiling brightly at the host who gently maneuvers him so that he stands in the proper spot.

The award is presented by some minister, no doubt an important person yet Chan cannot remember his name, and the president of the Korea Singers Association. The two men—because, of course, they’re men—take their time reading out a prepared speech before handing Felix his certificate, which he accepts with a deep bow.

It plays out like a high school awards ceremony. Lots of awkward bowing by too many people, half of whom didn’t really need to be on that stage at all but couldn’t resist when presented with the opportunity to be in the spotlight for once. The sight makes Chan chuckle and his indiscretion earns him a disapproving glare from his next-row neighbour that he ignores.

Along with the certificate, Felix is handed a bouquet of white flowers, which he keeps smelling discreetly while the minister pins a medal to the front of his waistcoat. It’s a delicate affair, what with the garment made of flowing silk, but he manages in the end, visibly relieved as he steps back.

The trophy itself is almost an afterthought, pressed into Felix’s hands with one last bow before the announcer reminds the people on stage that it’s time to take pictures and can the recipient and the presenters please move to the centre.

It's ridiculous: the way the two announcers give detailed instructions on how to stand, how to hold the trophy, how to move this way or that way so that the cameras can get a clearer shot, but that’s show business for you.

Felix smiles through all of it, completely genuine in his excitement as far as Chan can tell, even when the announcer boldly instructs him to make eye contact with the fans in the third row.

It’s already too late when Chan realises that he’s in third row.

And when Felix finds him in the crowd Chan is a deer in headlights, frozen in place, hypnotized by the piercing intensity of his eyes.

Unlike Chan, Felix doesn’t falter. He never wavers, the only indication that he has recognised Chan a barely perceptible twitch of the brow. His smile remains the same, wide and charming, and when his eyes move on, his joyful expression is unchanged.

The remainder of the ceremony is a blur.

Chan is reeling, thrown off his axis by a singular, brief glance. There was neither derision nor loathing contained in that gaze—though he certainly deserved both—yet Chan feels like an icy blade has pierced his heart, reminding him of everything he could’ve had but lost because of his own cowardice.

He’s hellbent on leaving the moment the last trophy has been handed out, adamant to spend the rest of the night wallowing in self-pity, when a familiar voice shakes him out of his gloom.

Looking up, Chan finds himself face to face with Sana.

“Chan,” she greets him, clearly surprised to see him but too polite to question his presence outright.

He cannot blame her. Over the last couple of years, he has acquired a reputation for being somewhat of a hermit—a stark contrast to his idol days, when he was known as a social butterfly. These days, he’s content to lay low in Sydney and only show his face in Seoul when he’s recording. Award shows he usually avoids; prefers to have Changbin and Jisung attend those if necessary, rather than risk crossing paths with Felix.

“It’s so nice to see you,” she continues, blissfully unaware of his mounting anxiety. “You’ve made yourself quite rare these last few years.”

It’s nothing but friendly banter, meant to lessen the awkwardness that always comes with seeing a friend after a long period of no contact but to Chan—nerves already frayed from his split-second interaction with Felix— it sounds like an accusation.

“Ah…you know how it is. Family keeps you busy.”

She nods, endlessly understanding and grabs him by his arm to gently pull him to his feet.

“Channie is such a good husband, always thinking of his spouse. Where is she anyway?"

She looks around, as if expecting Chan’s wife to pop out from behind one of the many flower arrangements adorning the venue.

“Oh…,” Chan mumbles, thoroughly embarrassed. “She couldn’t make it. Work, you know?”

Sana’s face falls, briefly overtaken by disappointment, before it brightens once more and her mouth curls into a sweet smile.

“A shame! I would’ve liked chatting with her for a bit. But I guess that means I get to take care of you tonight. Can’t leave you all by yourself at the afterparty, now can I?”

Afterparty? Chan would rather drink bleach than attend an afterparty but he can hardly tell her that.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles and he doesn’t have to fake the hesitant wobble in his voice, “I think I’m too old for these kinds of things. Might just call it a night and get some sleep instead.”

“Nonsense!” Sana immediately squashes his objections. “You always work so hard. You deserve to let loose once in a while, Channie.”

Right…

The only thing Chan deserves is a kick to the balls for lying to his wife, to Changbin and Jisung. For being so weak-willed that, when Sana pulls him after her, he goes without offering much resistance, easily compelled by the possibility of catching another glimpse of Felix.

The afterparty is held at a different location, one much more luxurious than the Haeo-reum Grand Theater where the awards show was recorded.

It’s hardly a surprise to Chan who has attended too many afterparties during his idol days to be impressed by the shameless opulence on display.

“So that’s where all that donation money went,” he comments dryly when the three of them: him, Sana and her companion, set foot inside the marble-laden lobby.

Sana looks at him questioningly but Chan is quick to shrug her off.

“It’s nothing,” he assures her. “Can I get you a drink?”

He flees before she can give him her answer, diving straight for the bar and ordering a vodka on the rocks for himself.

Chan has never been much of a drinker. Water is his drink of choice, lame as it may be. If he decides to indulge, he does so in a limited capacity. After all, he was an athlete before he was an idol and to this day, he avoids everything and anything that would negatively affect his body out of sheer habit.

Today, he doesn’t care what too much alcohol might do to his body. He’s neither an idol nor an athlete. He's just a man nearing his forties who cannot seem to let the past be the past.

He doesn’t return to Sana’s side. Lovely as she may be, Chan doesn’t have it in him to play along and be sociable. Not while he’s still shaken up from his brief encounter with Felix. Instead, he roams the hallways, avoiding people where he can and keeping the small talk to a minimum where he can’t.

The number of people wanting to talk to him comes as an unpleasant surprise. Yes, he’s producing with 3RACHA but he didn’t think his name still held enough weight in the industry to warrant that many eager suitors all vying for his attention.

He has just managed to excuse himself from a rather tiring conversation with a young idol showering him with praise in an all too transparent attempt to get into his good graces, when he’s approached by yet another pair of party attendees.

“Chan!” One of the two men greets him warmly, as if they’re old friends. Chan has no idea who he is. “So good to see you. I was very impressed with your work on the soundtrack for that historical drama. What was the name again?”

“Ode to Eternal Life,” Chan provides, already tired of this conversation even though it has barely just begun. “And that’s…very kind. Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without my fellow producers Seo Changbin and Han Jisung.”

Chan bows, still clueless about the identity of the man before him. Is he a former idol? A fellow producer? Perhaps a director he has worked with before?

“So humble,” the man coos, turning to his partner. “Didn’t I tell you he’s a delight? So talented too.”

The man shifts his attention back to Chan, thin lips pulling into an indulgent smile as he looks him up and down. He may be acting friendly, but Chan feels a cold shiver run up his spine at his inquisitive expression. The way he regards him, it’s not unlike a collector appraising an exotic animal, trying to discern whether it's worth the investment.

“Are you on your own tonight?” he asks.

A rhetorical question. Chan can tell by the man's half-lidded gaze that he knows there's no plus one. Of course, he could use Sana as an excuse; claim he came as one of two companions, but that’d be a rather unorthodox arrangement. Chan may be desperate to get rid of this guy but not so much that he would knowingly cause a scandal for someone he considers an actual friend.

“I--"

“He’s with me.”

The words die on the tip of Chan’s tongue.

He can only stare, dumbfounded, when Felix joins him by his side.

Up close, he’s even more beautiful, dazzling Chan with his effortless grace and poise, rendering him speechless.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for his persistent admirer. If anything, Felix’s presence seems to bore him and he lets him know with a slow, judgemental blink.

“Is that so?” he wonders aloud, tapping a finger against his chin in contemplation. “I didn’t know you two were still close. I’ve heard things. Baseless gossip, I’m sure. Considering that you’re here now. Together.”

Felix is a kind soul. Kinder than most, so he merely smiles and links arms with Chan.

“Nothing but gossip,” he agrees and turns on his heels, pulling Chan away from that infuriating man.

He doesn’t let go until they’ve disappeared around a corner and made it up a staircase nestled in a hidden corner at the end of a gilded hallway.

Once they reach the tread of the stairs, he lets go of Chan’s arm immediately, as if burned.

“You owe me,” he tells Chan with a look over his shoulder. And then he’s off, sure steps leading him farther and farther away from Chan, slipping through his fingers once more.

No, Chan thinks. Not again.

“Wait,” he calls after him in English.

Chan is quick to catch up with him, so determined not to let him get away again that, once he has reached Felix and grabbed him by his arm, he finds himself without a plan. Like a dog chasing after a car, he’s clueless what to do with his prey now that he has caught it.

To Felix’s credit, he doesn’t shake him off immediately, merely levels a raised brow at him until Chan takes the hint and lets go of his arm.

“I--Where are you going?”

Not the most eloquent of questions and not what he chased Felix down for, but it’s better than nothing.

Felix huffs a laugh, equal parts amused and exasperated, then shrugs while pulling a silver cigarette case out of his trouser pocket.

“You smoke? Since when?”

“Since today,” Felix replies easily, not quite smiling but undeniably charmed by Chan’s incredulity. “Nicked it off my manager after the awards show. Felt like I needed it after spotting your ugly mug in the crowd.”

Chan barks a laugh. The teasing banter, the playful insults. It’s all painfully familiar, reminding him of old times. Better times. And it doesn’t matter if Felix means it. It’s a piece of a life Chan thought he had lost, returned to him with an arched brow and a curl of full lips.

“Can’t blame you,” Chan allows, then lapses into silence.

Should he offer to accompany Felix? Give him a light? Or would that be too much? The last thing he wants is to overstep; not when this might be his last and only chance to make things right between them.

“You’re doing it again.”

Chan perks up, blinking owlishly at Felix.

“Do what?”

“Overthinking,” Felix explains. He sighs and shakes his head before he continues on his way down the hallway. 

When Chan doesn’t move, he clicks his tongue and calls over his shoulder:

“Are you coming or what?”

Chan missed this too. This more assertive side of Felix that he only ever showed when the cameras were off and he didn’t need to play the role their company had assigned him. Sweet, polite Felix. Their little sunshine, possessing a genuine kindness that was rare in their industry. 

And yes, he was all of those things. But he was also mischievous and a little shit, screaming obscenities into his headset when he was on the verge of losing yet another League match. Chan cannot count the number of times Felix called him a cunt with a shit-eating grin and a sparkle in his eyes. He only remembers that it felt more genuine than the high-pitched Channie-hyung he used when they were filming.

Felix leads them to a balcony on the second floor, utterly deserted and illuminated only by the cold city lights. The polished stone floor is glistening wet in the semi-dark. It must have rained sometime between Chan trying, and failing, to get drunk and Felix playing knight in shining armor.

“Careful,” Chan warns, eyeing Felix’s sharp-toed boots wearily. They sport an intimidatingly high heel and while it's not a stiletto, it's close enough for Chan—who has never worn anything higher than a platform boot—to feel nervous.

Felix throws him a look and, ignoring the well-intended warning, strides out onto the balcony with a confidence that sends a tingle down Chan’s spine.

“Message received loud and clear,” Chan mumbles, fingers twitching with the urge to pull at his ear.

He goes after Felix, his stride considerably slower. When he reaches the balustrade, Felix has already lit a cigarette for himself but has yet to take a drag. He’s looking into the distance instead, eyes bright with the reflection of the city lights.

“Thank you, by the way. For getting me out of that conversation,” Chan says when the silence between them becomes unbearable.

Felix hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t reply.

“And congratulations! Winning an Okgwan is huge.”

That, at last, draws Felix’s attention. He turns, the embers of his cigarette casting a warm glow on his skin when he lifts it to his mouth and takes a deep, long drag, eyes firmly fixed on Chan.

His mouth falls open in a breathy exhale, cigarette smoke rising to frame his face like dragon fire, and Chan cannot help but wish Felix had blown it into his face instead. As punishment. Or as a reward. He isn't sure.

“You know,” Felix says, voice deceptively gentle, “I think my management bought it. They’d never have given it to an Australian otherwise.”

Chan wants to object. Wants to tell Felix that no, that’s bullshit. He received the award because he’s amazing, talented, hard-working and beloved by millions. Surely, they couldn’t ignore that. Surely, it didn’t matter that Felix wasn’t a Korean national.

But the thing is…it’s all too feasible. Hell, even the audience didn’t buy it—if the guy complaining about Felix’s nationality during the ceremony was any indication.

“It’s alright,” Felix assures him with a smile softer than any he has bestowed upon Chan so far, “I’m not doing what I do to win awards. If anything, they should've given it to you. You’ve produced some amazing work in the last few years.”

Chan is no better than a dog, perking up at the unexpected revelation that Felix followed his career all these years. Like a stray given a rare treat instead of a beating.

“I didn’t think you’d still listen to my stuff,” he blurts out before he can stop himself.

Felix takes another drag of his cigarette.

“I didn’t,” he admits. “Not right away. It was too painful. Every song a reminder of what you had done.”

He pauses, expression growing sombre.

“But I missed you so much, the pain seemed a small price to pay if it meant I could pretend a part of you still belonged to me for a while longer.”

Chan listens, heart heavy with guilt and regret. He wants to reach out, offer comfort in the only way he knows how to: gentle words whispered into Felix’s ear as he holds him in his arms.

But how could he when he’s the source of all that pain? A pain Felix has carried with him for years?

What right does Chan have when, in all these years, he has never once been brave enough to reach out to him?

And so he stays silent, humbled by Felix’s quiet strength and courage as he speaks of the hurt Chan has caused him, unafraid of showing such vulnerability. Humbled too by how, after everything, he still chooses to be kind.

“It got easier over time,” Felix goes on. “Once I stopped looking for signs that you still cared. Once I no longer tried to convince myself that every new song was written with me in mind. I mean, it was silly, but I was young and in denial.”

How wrong he is.

Each and every song was a sorry attempt at making things right. Each song a bumbling apology meant for the boy whose heart he broke.

Chan opens his mouth, about to protest, when Felix cuts him off with a simple look.

“How are Jisung and Changbin?” he asks casually, as if his heartfelt confession was no more than meaningless small talk.

Chan clears his throat with an embarrassed cough.

“T-They’re fine. We’ve been working on a new 3RACHA project for the last couple of weeks…”

But Felix knows that. He must. After all, Changbin is involved with Hyunjin, who remains one of Felix’s closest friends.

It was Hyunjin who was there for Felix when things fell apart. Who offered a sympathetic shoulder to cry on and who dropped everything to be there for Felix in the immediate aftermath.

It was also Hyunjin who first confronted Chan, screamed at him until his voice cracked. Who slapped him so hard, the red imprint of his hand didn’t fade for days, nearly bringing their MUAs to tears when they had to cover it up.

Hyunjin hasn’t spoken to Chan in ten years.

“How…how is Hyunjin?”

It seems like the polite thing to do: pretend that Felix didn’t just bare his heart and soul to Chan.

Felix's answer is a chuckle and a sweeping gesture encompassing the vast city below them.

“His face is plastered onto every billboard in Seoul. He’s doing fine.”

Of course Chan has noticed the many advertisements using Hyunjin’s likeness and seen the TV spots that are being played on screens across the country, be it on the subway or in theatres. Tall and otherworldly beautiful, Hyunjin has become a modern-day muse for designers, photographers and musicians alike. Last Chan heard, he opened his own exhibition at a renowned art gallery.

And even though they’re no longer on speaking terms, Chan counts the painting of Bondi beach that Hyunjin once gifted him amongst his greatest treasures.

“He hasn’t forgiven you, you know?” Felix chuckles and taps the ash off of his slowly diminishing cigarette. It lands in a small puddle that has collected on the balcony’s balustrade, flakes of burnt tobacco drifting on the water’s surface.

Chan didn’t expect anything less. Hyunjin has always been the most sensitive of the group, a romantic to the core, convinced he and Felix were meant to be and rightfully outraged when Chan threw it all away.

“He’s a good friend,” Chan says lamely, distracted by the wistful furrow of Felix’s brows.

“He is,” Felix agrees and crosses his arms over his chest, shivering faintly. The weather is mild but the unexpected downpour has brought with it a slight chill.

“Here,” Chan offers without thinking. He shimmies out of his suit jacket and holds it out for Felix to take.

Felix stares, motionless as he eyes the suit jacket dangling from Chan’s hand warily.

“It’s just a jacket,” Chan insists. “And pretty as they are, I doubt those pearls are gonna keep you warm.”

Another beat of silence before Felix’s shoulders slump in defeat and he breathes out a weary sigh.

“They don’t,” he says. “But they are pretty. So please be careful.”

Chan is about to ask what he means by that when Felix turns around, presenting his adorned back. The strings of pearls are swaying lightly with the motion, shiny dots of white in the dark.

It dawns on Chan then that Felix is waiting for him to put the jacket on. He almost slips in his haste to do so, but manages to drape the suit jacket over Felix’s shoulders without making a total ass out of himself.

“Thank you,” Felix says and turns to face Chan. “Will you be okay?”

Chan waves him off. “I’m fine. I’ve always run hot.”

Felix hums as he pulls Chan’s jacket tighter around himself, careful not to accidentally burn a hole into the expensive fabric with his half-smoked cigarette.

“You have.” He throws Chan a teasing look, his big eyes flashing with mischief. “To all of our detriment. Poor Innie probably saw you naked more times than I did.”

Chan can feel his ears growing hot and he’s quick to avert his eyes, stubbornly staring out into the distance as he pretends not to be utterly mortified.

“Not more often than you…” he mumbles.

Besides, Jeongin wasn’t any better. The moment he stepped through their front door the clothes came off. Yes, he usually kept his boxers on, but he was more than happy to follow Chan’s textile-free lead.

“Maybe not,” Felix graciously allows, “and I doubt he ever experienced the pleasure of making you scream by shoving his feet in between your legs.”

Chan gasps, his embarrassment making way for genuine indignation.

“I knew it! You did that shit on purpose! Do you have any idea how fucking cold your feet were?! It was like being spooned by a human icicle.”

His outrage pulls an amused giggle from Felix that quickly escalates into heartfelt laughter. He’s cackling, hunched over as he claps his hands in perfect rhythm with his staccato laugh, sending particles of ash flying everywhere.

Chan has never seen anyone so beautiful.

Felix collects himself only slowly and when he straightens up, there are tears of laughter glistening in the corners of his eyes that he wipes away with a casual brush of his fingers.

“Fuck,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m so fucking pathetic.”

“What?” Chan asks, alarmed, and he has half a mind to reach for Felix and grab him by the elbow just as he used to do when they were younger and Felix was upset. The only reason he doesn’t, is the cigarette that Felix is holding up between them, its glowing end like the sharp point of a sword aimed at his heart. “What do you mean?”

Felix groans and throws his head back, dragging his free hand down his face and smudging his delicate eyeliner in the process.

“I should hate you,” Felix says, deep voice quivering with emotion. “I did hate you. For a while. And when I spotted you in the crowd tonight, I thought, how dare he? How dare he show up after all this time, the absolute cunt?”

He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, something between a grunt and a whimper, and puts his cigarette out on the railing with excessive force, grinding the butt into the stone until all that’s left is a crumbled mess of rolling paper and cellulose fibre.

“I was hellbent on making a scene too,” he continues, glaring at the sorry remains of his cigarette as if they’ve personally wronged him. “Chew you out, scream at you, cry. The whole works. Might have thrown in a punch or two as well. But what am I doing instead? I’m here with you, laughing as we reminisce about old times.”

He turns and Chan takes an instinctive step backwards, caught off-guard by the hurt in Felix's eyes.

“Why, Chris? Why now? After ten fucking years.”

“I…”

Why indeed.

Because he’s miserable. Because he’s lost. Because he has everything anybody could ever wish for; everything he ever wished for: a thriving career, a loving spouse, the freedom to work wherever he wants, whenever he wants, yet none of it makes him happy.

Because when he shuts his laptop after a long day, instead of spending time with his wife, he goes down to the beach and sits alone, toes buried in the sand, until the sun disappears behind the horizon and the stars come out to cast a sparkling glow on the water’s pitch black surface.

Because when he saw Felix’s name on the list of award recipients, his heart skipped a beat and an ache like an old battle scar pulled at his chest.

Longing. That’s why he’s here. And regret. The terrible knowledge that he cannot turn back time no matter how much he wishes, and the hubristic audacity to want to try regardless.

“Felix…”

Felix swallows thickly, eyes shining wetly as their eyes meet, waiting for the explanation they both know Chan owes him.

“I…missed you. I miss you.”

He sounds pitiful, almost childish, but it’s the truth all the same.

“No,” Felix snaps, tone sharp enough to make Chan wince. “You don’t get to say that. Not after what you’ve done. You don't get to show up here with your sad eyes and quivering mouth and act like I was the one who ended things.”

“Felix,” Chan begs, head pounding as the memories of that day come flooding back to the forefront of his mind, the dam suppressing his greatest shame brought down by the condemnation in Felix’s voice.

“Please,” he whispers. “I didn’t have a choice…the company, they told me it was either us or the group and I--I couldn’t, Felix. I couldn’t do that to the others.”

Felix is shaking, no longer from the cold but from deep-rooted fury, awakened by Chan’s meek attempts at an explanation.

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” he hisses, standing proud where Chan wants to fall to his knees and curl in on himself.

It is bullshit. Chan knows that now. But back then, he thought differently. He thought it was the right choice to make. Painful but necessary.

He was the leader, responsible not only for himself but for seven other people. People he loved like family. He didn’t have the right to be selfish. Couldn’t let his own feelings get in the way of their success. He owed it to these kids. He owed it to Felix.

Felix who came to Korea barely speaking the language but determined to turn a dream into reality. Felix, who worked so hard to become part of something that was bigger than the both of them.

How could Chan deny him what he had rightfully earned through blood, sweat and tears?

“I did what I thought was best for the group…” he offers lamely.

Felix snorts a derisive laugh. He’s angry still but it’s a colder kind of anger now, carefully contained but lethal.

“And how did that work out for you?”

It’s a low blow but Chan deserves nothing less.

Convinced he did what he had to do to keep the group together, he unknowingly brought about their downfall. By trying to protect them, he tore them apart.

He and Felix could only keep up appearances for so long.

It was Felix who broke first, confiding in Hyunjin, who confronted Chan the very next day, so incensed he ultimately had to be dragged away by Changbin and Minho.

Seungmin didn’t say much but he didn’t need to, the downturned curl of his mouth and accusatory glimmer in his eyes told Chan everything he needed to know. He led a crying Felix out of the room, cradling both his hands in one palm. They didn’t return.

Surprisingly enough, Jisung and Jeongin stayed by Chan’s side. They didn’t bother to hide their disappointment but they didn’t scream obscenities at him either. Instead, they brought him ice to cool the smarting mark on his cheek and tissues to wipe away the snot and tears.

They announced their disbandment six months later.

The bitter irony isn’t lost on Chan.

“Everything I ever wanted,” he says, voice small but determined, “was for you to be happy.”

Felix stills and Chan can tell that he’s at odds with himself, fighting an inner battle he isn’t privy to.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he says after a dragged-out pause.

“It’s true,” Chan insists. “I thought…I thought you’d be fine. That you’d find someone else. Someone better. Someone who’d give you everything you deserved. You were loved by so many. You still are. And you’re so beautiful, so kind, I figured--"

He’s rambling, tripping over his own words in his haste to explain a decision he made a decade ago and that he regrets to this day.

“I don’t care,” Felix interrupts softly, stopping Chan dead in his tracks.

When he looks up, it seems all the fight has gone out of Felix. Where he was cold with fury a moment ago, he now appears frail, overcome by a deep melancholy.

“I never did. The only love I ever craved was yours. And you took it away without a second thought.”

“That’s not true!”

“No?” Felix wonders. “Tell me, Chris, how’s your wife?”

Chan is shaking, swaying on his feet as his knees go weak. Suddenly dizzy, he reaches for the balustrade, holding onto it for support. The cold stone makes his fingertips tingle before they go numb. The sensation hardly registers in Chan’s mind, his entire existence reduced to the challenging curl of Felix’s brow.

Of course Felix knows that he’s married.

It made headlines back when people still cared enough about the members of a disbanded group to eagerly lap up such news.

Fuck, Chan even contemplated inviting Felix to his wedding, in denial about what had happened, until Changbin caught sight of the fancy envelope with Felix’s name written on it on his studio desk. He took Chan aside, expression stern, and said only two words:

“Chan, don’t.”

At the time, Chan was indignant. He was trying to rebuild bridges he had burned and this invitation was part of an elaborate plan to repair their friendship. A peace offering, Chan insisted. You’re an idiot, Changbin argued.

Today, he’s glad for Changbin’s intervention.

“Felix,” he begins, legs threatening to give out underneath him.

“Does she know you’re here?” Felix continues, driving the metaphorical knife deeper. “Or am I your dirty little secret?”

Chan flinches as if slapped and Felix’s round eyes narrow to slits.

A crueler person would’ve revelled in Chan’s discomfort but Felix merely shakes his head before turning away.

“That’s what I thought.”

“I get it,” Chan says, frustrated, not with Felix for calling him out but with his own lack of integrity. “I’m a piece of shit. Don’t you think I don’t know that? But Felix, what else could I have done? What choice did I have?”

With his back turned, Chan cannot discern Felix’s expression but he can see the tension in his shoulders, can hear the frustrated tap of his fingers against the balustrade.

“You always had a choice, Chris. Ending things because you didn’t have the balls to fight for us didn’t mean you had to get married less than a year after our disbandment.”

Chan groans.

“That’s not--Felix, it wasn’t like that!”

“What was it then?” Felix asks, glaring at Chan over his shoulder. “Love at first sight? A romance for the ages? Was it fate that brought you two together?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” Chan challenges, chin held high as he fakes a confidence he doesn’t feel.

Felix doesn’t buy it.

“Want to hear what I believe?” he asks and, when no reply from Chan is forthcoming, continues: “I believe you’re a spineless coward, a people pleaser. So concerned with what others think, you’d rather be miserable than true to yourself.”

“That’s--"

But Felix isn’t done.

“That’s why you didn’t put up a fight when the company told you to end things. Why you cannot help but work until you pass out. Why you got married two weeks before turning 30. Because not a single decision in your life was ever made with yourself in mind. It was always about others’ expectations. The company’s. The label’s. Society’s. Because you couldn’t bear the thought of being judged, or worse, being deemed a failure. You still can’t.”

Silence descends, the only sound the grating noise of Chan dragging his nails across stone until they crack.

There’s a flicker of anger he knows he has no right to indulge in but which grows stronger in his chest with every passing second.

“Do you think I like it?” he presses out between clenched teeth, struggling to keep his rising temper at bay. “Being forced to make these sacrifices over and over again? Never allowed to be anything but perfect? Never allowed to be human? You know how the industry works. You’ve been playing the game for almost as long as I have.”

Felix moves, his heels on the marble floor like the disapproving click of a tongue.

“We’re all wearing masks,” he admits, “presenting an image to the world that’s a distorted amalgamation of what people want us to be and who we truly are.”

Not trusting his legs to carry him, Chan stays put, watching with bated breath as Felix draws nearer.

They’re so close now, he can smell Felix’s perfume, interlaced with cigarette smoke. He can see his freckles, visible through the modestly applied make-up. He can see the redness in his eyes, stemming from tears Felix refuses to shed.

“Where does the difference lie then? Between you and me?” Chan asks.

Briefly, Felix’s gaze falls to Chan's lips before he catches himself.

“Between you and me?” he whispers, his breath tickling Chan’s skin like the ghost of a kiss. “I never forgot that it was just that: a role I had to play.”

He takes a step back, lowering his head to hide the tears that are threatening to spill over but Chan is faster. Grabbing Felix by his elbow, he pulls him back into the circumference of his arms. His own daring surprises him, but his hold on Felix remains unrelenting.

“I won’t let you go,” he promises. Threatens. Both. Neither. “I can't.”

He expects Felix to protest. Kick and flail and make use of his twelve years of taekwondo experience.

He does not expect the tender smile that blossoms on Felix’s face, tinged with sadness.

“That’s not for you to decide.”

Chan groans.

“Fuck, Felix, I know. And even though I deserve to get my ass kicked for asking, I’m still gonna do it. Please, Felix, I’m begging you.”

“Begging me for what?”

“Your forgiveness.”

Felix stiffens, eyes wide as he stares at Chan in disbelief.

“You’re right,” he says after some time. “You should get your ass kicked for that.”

Chan huffs a humourless laugh.

“If that’s what it takes.”

Forgiveness, his mother used to say, is too grand a thing for only one person. It requires two: the betrayer and the betrayed.

Two more roles and Chan already knows which one is his to play.

He had ten years to rehearse and prepare for curtain fall without ever knowing the final line.

Felix will have to be the one to write their ending.

Or pen a new beginning.

“It’s not fair,” Felix mumbles, “to put the weight of that decision on me. What do you expect me to do? You were my first, Chris. In so many ways. Even if I were to forgive you, it could never be the same again.”

Chan hasn’t forgotten the many firsts he was granted: Felix’s first kiss. His first love. His first heartbreak. Only one of them he regrets.

“No,” he agrees. “It’d never be the same because we’re not the same.”

Felix tilts his head and perhaps it’s only Chan’s imagination, but there’s a glimmer of humour lurking in the depths of those eyes.

“Is this the part where you tell me you’ve changed? Where you swear you’re no longer the man you used to be and yadda yadda yadda?”

“Would that work?” Chan asks, earning himself a hearty laugh.

“No.”

“Worth a try.”

Felix shakes his head, exasperated but not irritated, and Chan takes it as permission to trace a path down Felix’s arm and reach for his hand.

For a moment, he fears Felix might pull away but then the tension fades and their fingers remain interlaced.

Felix’s palm is warm, his skin soft apart from two calluses on the side of his thumb and pointer finger. A result of his lasting passion for gaming, Chan suspects.

It feels like touching something holy.

“You weren’t wrong, you know? I’m miserable. And I can’t help but think it’s karma or divine punishment for what I did to you. Well-deserved in any case. But Felix, I’m tired of being miserable. I’m tired of being perfect. Of being a coward. I want to be selfish, just once.”

Felix listens patiently, his expression guarded but not outright hostile and when Chan ends with a tired sigh, Felix gives his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“You never asked if I’m seeing someone.”

Chan takes pause, struck speechless by this monumental oversight.

They’re far beyond the age where they’d have to keep any serious relationships under wraps for the sake of their fans, but Chan can’t recall ever having heard the faintest whispers of dating rumours regarding Felix.

“Is…is there someone?”

“What do you think?”

Chan thinks that Felix is the universe’s most beautiful creation. Any man or woman lucky enough to pique his interest would be a fool to reject him. The idea that someone as gorgeous as him could be single, and remain so for over a decade, is laughable. Yet, a traitorous part of Chan’s mind—one that he’s quick to silence—desperately wishes for it to be true.

“I think it’d be nothing short of a miracle if you didn’t have at least a dozen suitors lined up at any given time, begging for just one chance.”

Felix chuckles and though he tries hard to appear unimpressed, Chan doesn’t miss the way the tips of his ears flush a telltale red.

“Hardly, but that’s not what I asked.”

It’s not but Chan is reluctant to learn the truth. Rather, he’d prefer to be left in the dark, so that he can keep pretending no one has succeeded in capturing Felix’s heart in all those years. A delicate equilibrium where it doesn’t matter whether Felix is taken or not as long as Chan can continue to live in blissful ignorance.

But that’d be the coward’s way out and Chan has played that role for far too long.

“Ask me again?” he pleads, steeling himself.

Felix hesitates, searching for any indication that Chan is taking the piss. When he finds nothing, his expression softens and he repeats, in a gentler voice:

“Do you think I’m in a relationship right now?”

“I don’t want you to be. Don't get me wrong, you deserve to be happy and to be loved. A better person would tell you they’re glad you found that special someone and wish you all the best. But I’m not a good person.”

Chan trails off, neck prickling with shame.

“You’re not a bad person,” Felix says, his words accompanied by a brief caress along the crook of Chan’s thumb. “A bit stupid, maybe, but not bad.”

“Thank you, I guess?”

“Shut it. What I’m trying to say is: I missed you too. Hyunjin would kill me if he knew but not a single day has gone by when I haven't missed you.”

Chan opens his mouth but Felix shushes him before a single word makes it past his teeth.

“Don’t get me wrong, I did go out and meet new people, even tried to date a couple, but those relationships never lasted. Something always felt off: the way their lips would move against mine or the intensity of their hugs. One time, I broke things off with a guy because his leg wouldn't stop twitching whenever he sat down. Drove me fucking bonkers.”

Chan laughs, imagining an irritated Felix telling a former boyfriend off for moving.

“Really? You? What happened to the boy who insisted we sleep in the same bunk bed, despite me snoring like a lumberjack?”

Felix cracks a smile, making Chan’s heart flutter.

“He grew up and needs a minimum of eight hours of sleep now.”

It’s easy to fall back into old habits; their teasing banter like a well-tailored suit that hasn’t been worn for a while but still fits like a glove. It’s even easier to forget that ten years have passed and they no longer have the excuse of being boys ruled by their emotions.

Perhaps Chan can be forgiven for getting swept up in the euphoria of the movement.

He certainly hopes Felix will when he leans in and closes the distance between them.

But instead of the give of lips, he’s met with firm skin, muscle and bone.

“Chris,” Felix warns, his hand raised like a shield, the tips of his fingers pressing into the curve of Chan’s mouth.

Chan is mortified.

“Shit, Felix, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have--”

“You’re right,” Felix agrees, but he doesn’t stop touching Chan’s mouth. “It’s not like you to break a promise.”

“A promise?” Chan mumbles, words muffled.

Felix nods.

“For better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part. Is that not what you promised your wife on the day of your wedding?”

His wife.

Chan didn’t think two words as inconspicuous as these could bring him so close to the brink of despair. But Felix is right. He made a promise that day and despite everything, he intends to keep it. He owes her that much, after a decade of unquestioning support even when the bright flame of their initial passion had diminished to the warm glow of mundane affection.

He cannot say when he fell out of love, only that, one day, he woke up and no longer missed the weight of her in his arms. Instead, he misses Felix, his absence like the phantom ache of a missing limb.

“I didn’t lie when I said I miss you,” Felix says. “But I won’t be the other woman. Man. Whatever.”

Chan doesn’t want him to be. Felix deserves better than that. His wife deserves better than that. She deserves honesty and a chance to move on after being stuck with him for so long.

“Talk to your wife,” Felix suggests, as if he has read Chan’s mind. “And then maybe, for once, think about what you want.”

What he wants…

Chan knows what he wants. Knows it with a clarity he didn't think was possible mere minutes ago. He wants Felix. All of him. From his cackling laughter to his icy feet. Wants him regardless of what it would mean for their careers, their standing in society and their industry.

“Think about it a little longer than that,” Felix tells him, having easily picked up on the storm brewing behind Chan’s eyes. “Get some sleep. Finish your work here. Fly back home to Sydney. Eat some Tim Tams. And once you’ve done all that you can call me.”

“Call you? What about your number? I--"

“Never changed it. It’s still the same.”

“After all this time?”

Felix shrugs, offering a sheepish smile.

“A mix of sentimentality and delusion. After you broke things off, I spent weeks telling myself you’d change your mind and call me. You didn’t, obviously, but by the time that realisation had set in, I felt like changing my number would've been too much of a bother.”

Guilt washes over Chan yet he refrains from offering an apology, despite every fiber of his being screaming at him to fall to the ground and do exactly that. Felix has no need for his apologies or his self-flagellation, he has made that very clear.

“For what it’s worth, I never changed mine either,” he says.

His confession earns him another smile.

"Seems like we’re both sentimental fools.”

Chan doesn’t realise it’s a goodbye until Felix slowly untangles their fingers and takes a step back. He's about to take the jacket off but Chan stops him with a wave of his hand.

“Keep it,” he insists and when Felix throws him a quizzical look, adds: “Don’t want you to catch a cold in this weather.”

Once Felix is gone—Chan’s suit jacket draped over his shoulders as he makes his way back inside—Chan only stays on the balcony long enough for the midnight chill to cool the blood pumping hotly through his veins. 

Then he’s off, rushing down the stairs, almost tripping twice, and past the increasingly inebriated party goers.

He doesn’t say goodbye to Sana.

A shitty move but the prospect of having to explain to her where he went and why he’s in such a hurry to leave, is enough to have him forget about his guilty conscience.

He does send her a text; once he’s sitting in the back seat of the private cab provided by the venue, steered by a driver who is blessedly uninterested in his person.

When he gets home to the apartment he bought two years ago, and which still looks like he has only just moved in, he makes a beeline for the bathroom, shrugging off his suit along the way. Any other day, the sight of his clothes lying in crumbled heaps on the floor would have driven him into an OCD-induced frenzy. Today, he doesn’t spare the chaos a single glance.

He takes a cold shower. Reasoning with himself that it’ll help reduce the risk of developing second thoughts. Hot showers are slow, comfortable affairs. A hot shower would allow him too much time. Time to let his mind wander. To think.

The last thing Chan wants is to think. If he were to think, his asshole brain would find a way to convince him that he’s acting reckless, that he needs to take a step back.

Felix told him to think it over, consult his pillow before making any rash decisions but Chan has had ten years to think. If he thinks any more his head might explode. Nothing will change if all he does is think. He’d talk himself out of it, would let fear and uncertainty keep him from doing what he knows he must do if he wants more than just the brief taste of happiness he so eagerly lapped up on that balcony.

He stumbles out of his shower dripping wet and grabs the first towel he can find. It barely covers his crotch but Chan isn’t too worried about flashing the neighbours. It’s the middle of the night and though he hasn’t bothered with curtains, the windows of the opposite building are all shrouded in darkness.

He heads to the office next and plops down in his office chair, wincing when his wet butt makes contact with smooth leather. 

His laptop is still turned on, left in sleep mode when he headed out earlier, and it quickly hums to life when Chan moves the mouse.

It takes him a total of ten minutes to book a flight back to Sydney, forgoing his manager who’d usually handle such things, and cancel all upcoming appointments and social engagements. Once that’s done, he reaches for his phone, only to realise that it’s not next to his laptop where he usually puts it. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles under his breath and gets up.

The search is over quickly, his phone in the back pocket of his unceremoniously discarded trousers. He shoots Changbin and Jisung a quick message in their group chat, letting them know that his calendar has freed up and that he has more time to work on their new project now. In a second message, he tells them that something came up and he’s going to fly back to Australia in a week.

It takes a total of two seconds before the ellipsis indicating that someone is composing a reply pops up but Chan doesn’t have time for the interrogation he knows would follow if he were to indulge his friends’ questions. Tapping out of Kakaotalk, he switches to his contacts and scrolls down until he finds the number he’s looking for.

He hesitates as he calculates the time difference between Seoul and Sydney in his head before deciding that five in the morning isn’t too early to call his lawyer.

“Sorry for waking you,” he says in lieu of a greeting when the call connects, “I have some questions about my prenup.”

His wife is less than pleased, to put it lightly, oscillating between anger and hurt after Chan tells her he wants a divorce. There are tears, lots of yelling and, following that, icy silence until she emerges from the sanctuary that is their bedroom and demands to talk.

And talk they do. About their shared past, the many years spent side by side, and what a future apart would look like. Not once does she suggest they try to make it work or attempt couple's therapy.

He doesn’t argue when she kicks him out of their shared home, despite his name being on the deed.

When he got married, his lawyer advised him to have a prenup drawn up and keep their assets strictly separated. Industry standard, he was told. It didn’t sit right with Chan back then but his wife, a successful entrepreneur in her own right, had no objections and so he reluctantly agreed.

He has already instructed his lawyer to get started on the paperwork needed to put the Sydney home in her name. It’s the least Chan can do after the bombshell he dropped on her.

Of course, he tried to explain himself to his wife, determined to be as honest as possible without making things worse. He may no longer love her like he used to but that doesn’t mean he wants to add to the pain he has already caused her with his decision. And though he always wanted them, he’s now glad they never had kids. Explaining to a bunch of toddlers why mummy and daddy no longer like each other? Few things strike Chan as more terrifying.

Having to tell his parents is definitely on that list too though. And unlike children, it's something that cannot be avoided.

Until everything is sorted out, he has opted to stay at his parents’ house.

His parents, who are still married and very much in love.

Having to crash at your parents’ and sleep in your childhood bedroom at the ripe old age of 38 is embarrassing enough without two pairs of apprehensive eyes constantly following you around.

They have questions; his mother in particular. But she’s too conflict-avoidant to ask outright. Instead, she makes her concern known with plates of sliced fruit inconspicuously placed on his bedside table. It’s incredibly sweet and infuriatingly condescending at the same time.

He’s getting a divorce, not dying from a rare type of brain cancer. He’ll survive. In fact, despite the mounting stress and chaos, the emotional turmoil and long hours spent on the phone and in his lawyer’s office, Chan has never been so certain that he’s doing the right thing.

His parents can’t tell—they’re too hung up on Christian notions of marriage to see his impending divorce as anything other than a moral failure on his part—but Hannah can.

She’s touring the US but called the moment she caught wind of the whole mess. Since then, they have made it a habit to video call daily, differing time zones be damned. Chan is careful not to mention Felix in any of these calls, and Hannah doesn’t ask, but there's a knowing glint in her eyes when Chan makes a passing mention of wanting to rectify old mistakes.

His younger brother is the only one not surprised when Chan breaks the news, offering nothing but a tired shrug in reaction. He had a feeling, is all he offers as explanation when Chan asks about it later.

He does, however, keep sending increasingly questionable memes that Chan supposes are meant to cheer him up but only make him feel as old as his members always joked he was.

He’s mulling over another one of his brother’s messages when an incoming call has him straighten up in his too small bed.

He doesn’t recognise the number but he’s familiar with the country code: South Korea.

Felix, is his first thought before he remembers that he has his number saved and, according to Felix, it hasn’t changed in the past ten years.

Confused, he swipes to answer the call, breathing a soft Hello into the mic, too tired to think that a caller from Korea would likely only speak Korean.

What the hell do you think you're doing?

Chan blinks, mouth falling open in shock before his expression softens.

“Hyunjin,” he greets after swallowing the lump in his throat, “so nice hearing from you.”

Don’t give me that shit. I’m calling for one reason and one reason only.

It’s not hard to guess what that reason might be. If Hyunjin deemed it more important than keeping his ten-year streak of giving Chan the silent treatment going, then it can only be about Felix. And Chan weaselling his way back into his life.

Though equally important is another question.

“I’m surprised you still have my number,” Chan wonders, hard-pressed to suppress a chuckle when, on the other end of the line, Hyunjin gives a derisive snort.

Don’t flatter yourself. I got it from Changbinnie.

Of course he did. Changbin is a great friend but Chan is under no illusion that, should push come to shove, Changbin would pick him over his partner of six years.

“Fair enough. Now before you start threatening to castrate me, let me tell you that, should I fuck this up, I’ll hand you the knife myself.”

That seems to catch Hyunjin’s attention and, instead of the expected verbal lashing, what follows is thoughtful silence, only interrupted by the occasional crackling of the unsteady connection.

“Hyunjin?”

It’s not every day one gets a second chance, Chan. When Yongbokkie told me about your little balcony date, I got really angry. He deserves better. He deserves someone who isn’t ashamed of being with him. Someone who proudly shouts it from the rooftops. Not someone who’d drop him like a hot potato at the slightest inconvenience.

“Do you think I don't know that?” Chan asks, rubbing soothing circles into his temple with his free hand. He can feel a headache coming.

Hyunjin is just being protective and he’s well within his right to distrust Chan and his sudden change of heart, but it’s still exhausting, to constantly be reminded of his own shortcomings.

“I know I fucked up, Hyunjin. I’m well aware of my flaws and mistakes. Of which there are many. No need to remind me. You’re probably not going to believe me but I’d rather die than do anything that might hurt him.”

Hyujin clicks his tongue and Chan doesn’t need to see him to know he’s rolling his eyes.

Stop being self-deprecating and start being honest. Changbinnie said you’re getting a divorce? Is that true? Or just something you said to get Yongbokkie to talk to you again?

“For the record, we talked before I decided to get a divorce.”

In fact, he hasn’t told Felix anything at all; hasn’t tried to contact him since that fateful night. He wants to. God, does he want to, even if it’s just to hear Felix’s voice, but he remained steadfast so far.

He hasn’t earned it. Not until he has made good on his promise. The next time they will see each other again, Chan won’t be tied down by responsibilities and other people's expectations.

So you’re serious about this? Who would’ve thought.

It’s not approval—far from it—but it’s better than being threatened with the slow and painful removal of his family jewels.

“I had ten years to think about all the ways in which I’ve fucked up. So yes, I’m serious.”

I don’t think it’s a good idea, Hyunjin admits. Even if you‘re truly sorry, Yongbokkie shouldn't give you a second chance. I told him as much but he wouldn’t listen…

Hyunjin trails off and then there’s rustling on the other end of the line, leading Chan to believe that he’s shaking his head in exasperation.

Just so you know, Chan, I’m watching you. And if you ever so much as make Yongbok sad again I’ll cut off your balls. Slowly. With a rusty knife.

A shudder runs down Chan’s spine at the gruesome mental image and he nods, momentarily forgetting that Hyunjin can’t see him.

“Got it. Sad Felix equals no balls. So nice talking to you, Hyunjin. We should meet for coffee some time.”

What? Don’t you dare hang up on me, Chan. I’m not yet done threatening you, you--

Chan ends the call with an exhausted sigh. 

He’s about to chug the phone aside when it vibrates in his hand, signalling an incoming message.

Mentally preparing himself for a slew of insults and more threats from Hyunjin, Chan is pleasantly surprised when the sender turns out to be Changbin. The message is short, consisting of only two sentences.

Sorry about that. He said he’d break up with me if I didn't give him your number.

Chan expected as much and really, there are no hard feelings. Hyunjin did what any good friend would do. If anything, Chan is glad Felix has friends like Hyunjin who’d stop at nothing to protect him.

He leaves Changbin a thumbs-up, too tired to compose a proper reply and not caring if it makes him look old. He is old, thank you very much.

Getting a divorce takes far longer than Chan anticipated.

For one, Australian law requires a 12-month separation period before the divorce proceedings can even begin.

Something Chan wasn’t aware of and which caused him many a sleepless night, until his lawyer managed to convince the courts that—while Chan and his wife were technically still living together until recently—the marriage had broken down long before that.

Following the separation period, Chan had to wait yet another month after filing for divorce before the actual proceedings could begin. A mandatory waiting period, his lawyer assured him, in case he and his wife choose to reconcile.

As if.

Throughout it all, Chan keeps in touch with Jisung, Changbin and, surprisingly, Hyunjin. While the first two are supportive and patiently listen during long and often late calls where Chan laments the inefficiency of the Family Court of Australia, Hyunjin acts like a middle manager with too much free time and a bad micromanaging habit.

It has become part of Chan’s routine to wake up to a text from Hyunjin, demanding to be updated on his divorce proceedings. Really, it’s none of his business but Chan indulges him nonetheless. Mostly because he knows Hyunjin is reporting back to Felix and not at all because the threat of castration is still fresh in his mind.

It took you ten years to realise you’ve fucked up, Jisung points out during one of their group calls. Don’t you think it’s a little hypocritical to complain about the courts taking too long?

It’s hard to argue with that but Chan isn’t here for cold, uncaring logic. He’s here for sympathy. Faked or genuine. He’s not picky.

“Whose side are you on, Jisung?” he whines into his phone, full mouth pulled into a pout.

Jisung doesn’t hesitate: Yongbokkie’s. I still can’t believe he agreed to talk to you. Or that you agreed to get a divorce. I lost so much money that day.

Chan huffs.

“Well, believe it or not but--wait! What do you mean you’ve lost money that day?”

Silence. And then a voice that is decidedly not Jisung's, pipes up.

It means he made a bet and lost.

“Minho…” Chan grumbles, not exactly angry but caught somewhere between astonishment and indignation. “Have you been listening the entire time?”

Ah, I’m so sorry, Channie-hyung! Did I forget to mention you’re on speaker? My bad!

Jisung laughs, sounding not sorry at all.

Chan should've known. Of course Minho would be listening in on their call. He and Jisung are practically attached at the hip. Where Jisung goes, Minho goes. Like a cat with separation anxiety. Chan wouldn’t be surprised if Minho went so far as to keep Jisung company during bathroom breaks too.

I never doubted you, Chan-ah, Minho continues, unperturbed. Yes, it took you ten years to get your head out of your ass but you got there in the end.

“Sure,” Chan says, tone flat, “and it has absolutely nothing to do with this bet you won.”

Bye, Chan-ah!

Jisung’s line goes dead, leaving only him and Changbin on the call.

“Am I a joke to these two?” Chan groans, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation.

Can you blame them? Ten years, Chan, Changbin reminds him, always the voice of reason.

“I know. I happened to be there,” Chan snaps and immediately regrets his outburst. “Sorry, Binnie. That was uncalled for. It’s just…I didn’t end things on a whim. It was the hardest decision of my life.”

And it was the wrong one, Changbin says, politely ignoring Chan’s momentary slip-up. I know you thought it was for the greater good or whatever, but you two could’ve made it work. We all wanted you to be happy. And you were happy when you were together.

“Make it work? How? By constantly pretending? Keeping things hidden from the public? I didn’t want us to be a dirty little secret.”

Changbin doesn’t say anything for a long time. So long, Chan is about to ask if he’s still there when it dawns on him.

“Shit! That’s not what I meant. I’m so sorry, Binnie. I don’t know what’s with me and putting my foot in my mouth today. Obviously, what you and Hyunjin have isn’t a dirty little secret. Fuck, that came out so wrong.”

Chan cuts himself off and shuts his mouth with a resounding click, waiting for Changbin to either end the call or give him a piece of his mind.

I’ll accept your apology, Changbin says, unusually soft-spoken, because you’ve been under a lot of stress lately. But Chan, get a grip. Hyunjin and I knew what we’d have to sacrifice in order to be together. I never regretted it. Not for a second. I’ve made peace with the fact that we can’t get married in Korea. And I know that I’ll never be able to hold his hand in public for as long as we’re working in this industry. But he’s still mine. And I’m his. It’s all I can ask for and it’s all that I need.

There’s more to Changbin’s words. A silent implication that Chan could’ve had all of this too. If only he had been willing to make these sacrifices. Sacrifices which, ten years ago, felt too big and too daunting but, looking back, seem irrelevant now. Laughable even.

What was Chan so afraid of?

“It was different for Felix and me,” Chan argues weakly. “I was the leader. I couldn’t risk a scandal or do anything that would've put our careers on the line.”

Well, the group’s done. The label has no control over us. You no longer have an excuse.

Chan heaves a sigh.

“No, I don’t. And I’m done making excuses. I’m serious about fixing this.”

Are you serious about Yongbok too?

“Dead. That is…if he even wants me.”

On the other end, Changbin groans, annoyed.

Are you kidding me, Chan?

“What?” Chan squawks. “He said he’d talk to me. Nothing more, nothing less.”

You’re hopeless. Utterly hopeless.

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

It means I’m gonna end this call for my own mental well-being. Goodnight, hyung.

The line goes dead and Chan is left to stare disbelievingly at his phone screen until it goes dark.

Changbin is far too optimistic. So are Jisung and Minho. This isn’t a cute little rom-com where, after a slew of misunderstandings, the fated pair declares their undying love for each other at the airport or a concert or another, unnecessarily public place, and lives happily ever after.

He and Felix have grown up and grown apart. They’re no longer the people they used to be and, quite frankly, Chan wouldn’t take offence if Felix decided that, after their long overdue talk, he doesn’t want Chan to be in his life after all.

Anxiety begins to churn in Chan’s stomach, leaving him fidgety and too aware of the way his body no longer fits into his bed.

The sheets are too smooth. The mattress too soft. And his room, filled to the brim with childhood achievements, feels like a prison rather than a safe haven.

Two weeks, Chan reminds himself. Only two more weeks until his divorce is finalised and he can call Felix.

When it happens, it plays out nothing like Chan imagined.

Anticlimactic is the term that comes to mind. It’s just a letter, delivered to his temporary address at his parents’ house, bearing the seal of the Family Court of Australia and nothing else.

His brother is the one to bring in the mail that day, flicking it over to Chan—who has just sat down in the kitchen for a light breakfast—without looking at him.

Chan is about to chew him out for it when he notices the seal. Pushing his bowl of beige sludge topped with banana aside, he makes a grab for the letter and unceremoniously rips it open.

There it is, a notarised copy of his divorce decree, stating that he’s no longer married in prosaic, impersonal words. The end of a love story, worth no more than a couple of lines and some sheets of paper. For Chan, it’s the end of something he once thought would last forever. For the judge who signed the decree, it was just another Tuesday.

“Not what you expected, huh?”

Chan almost jumps out of his chair, clutching his chest dramatically as he stares at his brother, who’s standing so close Chan can make out the fine veins running through his eyes.

“What the fuck, man!?”

Lucas doesn’t even have the decency to pretend he’s sorry for almost sending Chan to an early grave. Pulling himself up on the kitchen counter, he flops down on the polished surface with an impish smile playing around his lips.

“Mum’s gonna kill you if she catches you doing that,” Chan grumbles, glaring daggers at his brother.

Lucas shrugs, unbothered.

“Not gonna happen. She’s out shopping with dad.”

It’s true what they say, Chan thinks bitterly, younger siblings could get away with murder.

“So,” Lucas continues, swaying back and forth as he balances on the edge of the island counter, “you’re divorced. How does it feel?”

A simple question which should beget a simple answer, yet Chan finds himself at a loss. Leaning back, he stares at the white ceiling until his eyes are burning and his vision goes blurry with unshed tears.

“It’s like I’m frozen in place while the world keeps on spinning. Everything has changed. Yet remains the same.”

Lucas nods, humming in understanding, as if he has any idea what it feels like to say goodbye to a part of your life so important, it required the authorisation of a federal court to undo.

“First in our bloodline to get a divorce,” he says wistfully. “I’m so proud of you, big bro.”

Chan laughs despite himself, shooting Lucas an amused look.

“Nothing to be proud of. Now, if you’d excuse me. I’ve got a call to make.”

Lucas doesn’t comment but Chan feels his knowing gaze prickling at the back of his neck, as it follows him on his way to the backyard.

It’s a beautiful day. Blue skies and plenty of sunshine. The epitome of Australian summer. A day for weddings, not divorces. Yet here Chan is, standing with his eyes closed and the sun warming his face, his divorce decree pinched between middle and index finger.

He doesn’t move, acutely aware of the weight of his phone in his sweatpants’ pocket. It should be easy: Take the phone. Find Felix’s number in the list of contacts. Press call.

Instead, Chan lifts the divorce decree over his head and snaps a picture. It’s a crappy picture, all things considered. Slightly blurry and barely legible thanks to the sunlight shining through the paper.

Chan doesn’t take a second picture. Instead, he navigates to his contacts with shaking fingers, scrolling until he finds Felix’s number, and sends the picture without explanation.

Once it's done, he takes a moment to simply breathe, his chest aching with every shuddering intake. He’s about to stuff the phone back into his pocket when it vibrates, signalling an incoming message. Chan almost drops it in his haste to check, cursing under his breath when his fingerprint fails to register twice.

The message that greets him when it finally unlocks is disappointingly brief.

give me a day

Felix must be busy.

Duh, of course he is. He won an Okgwan a little over a month ago. No doubt he has a million brands all vying for his attention, eager to sign him on as their ambassador.

Chan has no claim on his time. And no right to feel as disappointed as he does. What was he thinking? That a single picture would be enough to have Felix drop everything and call him immediately?

Ridiculous.

Annoyed by his own neediness, Chan stuffs the phone into his pocket and heads back inside.

The weather isn’t that nice, after all.

He spends the rest of the day pretending not to look at his phone. It gets to a point where he considers locking it in the family safe, just so he wouldn’t reach for it every other second. The only reason he doesn't is the fear of missing that one call.

Lucas finds his fidgeting amusing. His mother finds it concerning. His father finds a solution.

He takes Chan aside, puts a hand on his shoulder and steers him into the direction of their home gym without a single word.

His father doesn’t ask questions. And the only advice he deems to give pertains to Chan’s form.

By the time his father is done with him, Chan is a sweating, heaving mess but his head is blissfully empty. His mind too exhausted to form a thought more complex than: Shower. Food. Sleep.

He does shower, sleep and take a nap in that order, adding a handful of marks to the tally he keeps in his mind, like a prisoner counting the days until their release.

The sentence Felix has handed out to him was a lenient one: 24 hours.

It might as well have been a life sentence.

Every hour passes slower than the last and by the time the sun goes down, Chan is half mad with impatience.

The desire to call Felix becomes so strong, it morphs into a physical ache, pulling at Chan’s teeth and settling like a weight in his chest. What saves him from making a fool out himself isn’t his iron will or unshakable self-control. It’s dumb luck.

His phone dies.

Turns out, constantly checking for a new message is a surefire way to drain your battery. Had Chan not been so distracted, he would’ve noticed the quickly depleting bar and plugged it in to charge. But with his mind all over the place, he only realises when everything goes dark and the phone doesn’t turn on again, no matter how vigorously he taps the screen.

“Shit,” he mumbles under his breath.

He almost falls flat on his face in his haste to find his charger, feet getting tangled up in his bed sheets. When he finds it, he plugs it in with bated breath, holding it until it briefly flashes to life and the small charging bar appears on the screen.

It’s going to take a while until it will have enough juice to be turned on, leaving Chan with no other choice but to call it a day.

It’s not his usual bedtime—that would be somewhere around 2 or 3am—but his family has already retired for the night and the lights in the house have all been turned off. And while he could’ve stayed up and worked on his laptop until exhaustion finally claimed him, he doesn’t want to risk feeling like absolute shit the next morning when, hopefully, Felix gets back to him.

So he forces himself to lie down—the duvet pulled up to his chest and his hands neatly folded over it—and close his eyes.

Tomorrow, he repeats in his head, over and over like a mantra. Tomorrow, Felix will call.

Felix doesn’t call.

Not the next morning when Chan crawls out of bed, the inside of his mouth tasting like ash, nor during lunch with his family.

Chan tries not to let the disappointment show and only shrugs when his mother asks him over dessert if everything is alright, assuring her with a forced smile that everything is A-okay. He’s fine. Perfectly fine.

So what if Felix didn’t call? He doesn’t owe Chan shit.

It’s fine.

It’s fine.

“It’s fucking fine.”

Silence. And then the sound of chopsticks being set down, followed by a low whistle coming from his brother.

“Holy-- what was that?”

Chan blinks, confused. He’s about to ask what Lucas means when he notices the mortified expressions on his parents’ faces, their eyes wide with concern.

“Christopher…” his mum whispers, her hand reaching for Chan’s from across the table.

Whatever she’s about to say, it’s drowned out by a sudden cacophony of honking and cursing coming from outside.

Chan is on his feet before his mother can collect her bearings and continue to question his strange behaviour. He hurries to the front door, already reaching for his phone in case there has been an accident.

There’s no accident.

Just two cars on the same side of the road, one a run-down Holden Commodore, the other a sleek, black BMW with tinted windows.

The owner of the Holden Commodore is cussing out the driver of the BMW—still behind the wheel and invisible to Chan—berating him through the window for driving on the wrong side of the road.

A tourist, Chan presumes, not used to driving on the left. It happens, especially during springtime when people flee colder climates and come to sunny Australia. At least it seems that, apart from some impressive skid marks on the asphalt, no harm was done.

Relieved, Chan is about to stuff his phone back into his pocket when the passenger door of the BMW opens.

It’s a tired cliché—one Chan would’ve scoffed at had he encountered it in a book or movie—but time stands still.

He doesn’t notice when he misses his pocket and his phone drops into the grass with a dull thud. Doesn’t hear his mother calling his name. Doesn’t realise he’s swaying dangerously on his feet, torn between the desire to run and an overwhelming fear that keeps him rooted to the spot.

Stepping out of that car and back into his life is Felix.

Dressed in loose-fitting slacks and an oversized shirt, he strikes Chan as even more beautiful than on that fateful night in Seoul.

Felix closes the car door behind him, leaving his driver to deal with the still incensed owner of the Holden Commodore, and turns around. When he catches sight of Chan, his mouth curls into a blinding smile.

Chan’s chest hurts.

He sucks in a shuddering breath and takes a step forward, the freshly cut grass tickling his naked feet.

Another step, just as hesitant as the first.

There are dark circles under Felix’s eyes and his face is bare, free of make-up, leaving his freckles on full display.

The airport, Chan realises. He must have come straight from the airport.

And then he’s running. Running until he reaches Felix, his hands finding their way around his narrow hips, lifting him off the ground and into his arms.

“You came,” he weeps as tears run down his face. “You came back to me.”

Felix laughs, voice cracking with emotion, his hands shaking as he cups Chan’s face.

“Of course I did,” he cries, his own tears warm where they fall onto Chan’s skin.

He did. He’s here. Warm and real and safe in Chan’s arms. And because Chan is an idiot and a fool, he cannot help but ask:

“Do you still not have a driver’s licence?”

Felix sobs and shakes his head.

“No,” he admits with a sniffle. “Innie had to drive me here from the airport.”

Chan takes pause and turns to the side—still holding Felix up by the back of his thighs—to steal another glance at the BMW.

The Holden driver has stopped verbally ripping Jeongin a new one and has made his way behind the wheel of his own car, flipping Jeongin the bird when he drives off with screeching tires.

Welcome to Australia, Chan thinks as Jeongin slinks out of the BMW, looking downright traumatised. Chan doesn’t know if he had the time and motivation to improve his English but then again, Australian insults usually eclipsed culture and language barriers.

“Didn’t you tell him to drive on the left?” he asks Felix.

Shifting Felix’s weight to just one arm, Chan greets Jeongin with a small wave, wordlessly inviting him to come closer.

Jeongin hesitates, his fox-like eyes firmly fixed on Chan’s hand where it’s holding Felix up by his thighs.

Right…

Chan clears his throat and with an apologetic look directed at Jeongin, lowers Felix to the ground.

“I told him,” Felix insists, oblivious to the silent exchange between Chan and Jeongin. “But I guess we both got a little distracted.”

He snuffles, using the hem of his oversized shirt to wipe away half-dried tears.

Distracted by what, Chan doesn’t get to ask.

“Innie!” Felix calls out, succeeding where Chan has failed in calling their former maknae over.

Yang Jeongin is effortlessly handsome, blessed with a face that wouldn’t feel out of place in a historical drama. An old-school beauty who has outgrown his teenage features a long time ago.

It’s strange to look at him, this boy Chan once lived with, whom he raised, and to see a grown man staring back at him instead.

“Channie-hyung.”

The familiar address comes haltingly but the emotion behind it is genuine, Chan can tell. Jeongin is glad to see him, despite the many things left unsaid between them.

When things fell apart ten years ago, Yang Jeongin was caught in the middle. He despised Chan for what he did to Felix but, as his roommate, he also saw how much he suffered, despite Chan’s best efforts to shield Jeongin from his destructive tendencies.

Jeongin would probably disagree. While Chan was only trying to protect him, Jeongin interpreted Chan’s unwillingness to share his burdens as a lack of trust.

They didn't have a falling out of the magnitude Hyunjin and Chan did, but it’s glaringly obvious who Jeongin stayed in contact with over the years and who he purposefully avoided.

“Innie…”

They trail off into silence, neither of them sure where to go from here. But before things can get uncomfortable, the familiar cadence of his mother’s voice cuts through any rising awkwardness.

“Yongbok,” she greets, putting a hand on Chan’s shoulder when she joins their small circle. “What a pleasant surprise. It has been what? Ten years? And Jeongin too. My, you boys have grown.”

Felix and Jeongin are quick to bow and return the greeting, startled by and grateful for his mother’s timely intervention in equal measure.

“Come in,” she prompts, motioning for them to follow. “We were just having lunch but I’ll tell appa to fire up the barbie.”

Too polite to protest, Felix and Jeongin are ushered inside the house. Chan follows on their heels, staying as close to Felix as he possibly can without rousing suspicion. They don’t exchange any more words but when Felix notices his closeness, he reaches for Chan’s hand and intertwines their pinkies.

Their shared lunch turns into a companionable dinner and by the time his father brings in the last plate of perfectly grilled meat, his mother has already decided that Felix and Jeongin will stay the night.

Why spend money on a hotel room when they can stay with friends, being her argument.

Chan doesn't bother to explain to her that, out of all of them, Felix is probably the wealthiest and could very well afford to book an entire hotel if he wishes to.

Why would he, when shutting up and nodding along equals more time with Felix?

Jeongin is the first to retire after dinner, claiming to be too jetlagged to stay up even a moment longer. It’s a good enough excuse, all things considered, but Chan has a fleeting suspicion he’s also trying to avoid any awkwardness that could arise between them.

Chan doesn't take offence. They’ll have plenty of opportunity to talk later.

Felix, on the other hand, is perfectly happy to chat the night away, all but glowing when Chan’s mother praises his Korean and congratulates him on his Okgwan win. He even accepts the glass of Scotch his father hands him after dinner has concluded and they’ve all migrated to the back porch for some much needed fresh air.

Chan watches him fondly, catching himself thinking more than once how at home he seems, how at ease. As if it hasn’t been a decade since he last sat down with Chan’s family and enjoyed a home-cooked meal.

He’s laughing at a quite frankly terrible joke his father made when he notices Chan’s eyes on him. He raises a brow in question but when Chan makes no attempt to explain himself, he sticks his tongue out at him before turning back to his conversation with Chan's father.

This is where he belongs. Australia. Sydney. Home. By Chan’s side.

It’s already past midnight when his parents let him know they’ll head to bed, leaving him and Felix to their own devices, though not without a reminder to keep the noise to a minimum and to be mindful of their neighbours.

Chan dutifully nods along to their instructions, then promptly collapses into the deck chair on the back porch once they're gone.

“You’d think I haven’t lived on my own for the last 25 years with the way they keep lecturing me on the simplest things.”

Next to him, Felix gracefully sinks into a second deck chair, the corners of his mouth twitching as he suppresses a chuckle.

“We’ll always be children in our parents’ eyes.”

“Wise words,” Chan mumbles, his gaze turned towards the sky. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

If the sudden change of subject catches Felix off-guard then he doesn’t show it. Instead, he follows Chan’s line of sight, searching until he finds the constellation that has captured Chan's attention.

“Aquarius,” Felix muses. “Didn’t know you’re into stargazing now. Most men your age deal with their midlife crisis by buying a sports car.”

Chan huffs a disparaging laugh.

“Or by divorcing their wife of 10 years. Guess we now know which category I fall into.”

Felix makes a sound between a snort and a cackle.

“Shit, sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. You’re terrible, you know that?”

Chan tears his gaze away from the shining stars to look at Felix.

“Yeah, but not because I made a joke about divorcing my wife. Felix, I…Did you mean it? When you said we could talk?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“On what you want to talk about.”

Felix pauses to pull his knees up to his chest, his chin resting on top as he stares into the dark.

“If you want to talk about how sorry you are and how much you regret the last ten years, then the answer is no.”

“But--"

Felix silences him with a cutting glare.

“The answer is no because we talked about all that. About the mistakes you’ve made. And the pain you’ve caused. You begged for my forgiveness and I told you how much I miss you. It’s done. I’m done. I’m tired of talking about the past. All I care about is the future. Our future.”

Our future.

Chan freezes, the enormity of Felix’s words leaving him petrified.

“Does that mean…”

He trails off, not daring to put into words what Felix is implying. Too afraid of being wrong, of being told that the lofty dreams conjured up by those three syllables are merely delusions.

“Yes, you dork,” Felix says, eyes flashing with impatience. “Now get it together and ask me what you asked me on that balcony.”

Chan doesn’t think. Doesn’t allow doubt or fear or uncertainty to creep into his heart.

“Can you forgive me?” he asks, gripping the frame of the deck chair to keep himself from falling to his knees and begging outright.

And Felix, without an ounce of hesitation, says:

“Yes, but you’re on thin ice. You better spoil me rotten for the rest of our lives.”

It’s a joke, Chan can tell by the mischievous curl of Felix’s mouth, but he doesn’t care. He will spoil Felix rotten. Will worship the ground he walks on. Until Felix grows tired of him or he has drawn his last breath.

After all, he has ten years to make up for.

Three months later

Chan wakes to the sound of birds. Not the melodic trill of a songbird but the eerie call of a curlew, the sound unnervingly close to a scream for help.

He groans and, dragging a hand down his puffy face, turns to his side. For the duration of a heartbeat, Chan is content and on the verge of falling asleep again when he realises that something is wrong.

Frowning with his eyes still closed, he blindly reaches out, patting the empty spot next to him. The sheets are still warm and there’s a slight dip in the mattress but that only lessens the disappointment marginally.

Chan rolls onto his back with an unhappy grumble and, after a short moment of mental preparation, swings his legs over the edge of the bed and gets up.

Dragging his feet, he makes his way to the living room, still half-blind, his eyes crusted with sleep.

It’s a beautiful morning. The sun is shining brightly, bathing the living room in a honey-golden glow and despite the early hour it’s already pleasantly warm, allowing Chan to forgo clothes for a while longer.

Scratching his belly, he wanders from the living room to the adjacent kitchen and it’s there that he finds who he’s looking for.

“Fuck, Chris. Just boxers? You’re gonna give the neighbours a heart attack.”

He won’t. He made sure of that when they moved in and he had a certifiable jungle planted in their backyard to hide them from view.

Chan ignores the impassioned plea and trudges over to the stove, where Felix is busy making breakfast: frying eggs and toasting bread. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a plate of sliced fruit, including a current favourite of his: golden kiwis.

Fondness washes over him and he reaches out to pull Felix into a loose embrace, his hands clasped over his stomach and his chin resting on his shoulder.

“You’re spoiling me,” he mumbles, lips brushing against soft skin. “Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around?”

Felix snorts a laugh but continues his breakfast preparations undeterred.

“Your idea of breakfast is a handful of vitamin supplements washed down with a protein shake.”

Chan makes a wounded noise but doesn’t argue. He can’t. Felix is right and he knows it, judging by the amused chuckle that follows Chan’s whinging.

“Besides,” Felix says while carefully moving the fried eggs from the pan to a plate lined with a sheet of kitchen paper, “we have some pretty big stuff planned for today. I figured we could use the extra energy.”

Chan eyes the eggs with some intrigue, noticing how they’re exactly the way he likes them: crispy edges and a runny yolk.

“We don’t have to,” he argues, holding onto Felix a little tighter when he tries to wriggle away.

Felix giggles and, after turning to face Chan, cups his face with both hands and squishes it gently.

“Actually, we do. They deserve to know.”

Once again, Felix is right.

And it’s not like Chan doesn’t want to let the world know. He made that mistake once, too ashamed to be honest, too cowardly to love unconditionally.

He has learned his lesson and yet, Chan cannot help but wish they could wait just a little longer, stay in this small bubble of domestic bliss that’s just theirs.

Once upon a time, he kept Felix a secret out of shame. Now he wants to keep him a secret so that he may keep Felix for himself for a little while longer.

“I know,” he concedes with a heavy-hearted sigh. “Just not looking forward to Hyunjin threatening to cut off my balls again.”

Felix’s eyes widen and then he bursts into laughter, much to Chan’s chagrin.

“I’m serious,” he insists. “He threatened me before, he’ll do it again.”

“He won’t,” Felix says, sounding so confident Chan almost believes him.

“How can you be so sure?”

Felix gives a one-shouldered shrug, a sly grin overtaking his angelic features.

“He knows it’d make me sad. And Hyunjin hates making me sad.”

Chan stills, struck speechless, and then he shakes his head with an exasperated but fond sigh.

“Little minx.”

Felix doesn’t object, looking very much like the cat that got the cream, and Chan can’t resist but press a quick kiss to the tempting curve of his mouth.

“Let’s do it then,” he says, powerless in the face of Felix’s disarming sweetness. “After breakfast.”

The whole thing is easier said than done and by the time Chan has worked up the nerve to create the group chat Felix suggested and add all their former members to it, the sun is already high in the sky.

He has typed out and deleted the message he wants to send a total of 43 times, tweaking his wording slightly with each iteration, yet being satisfied with none.

“Chris…”

Felix is by his side, his grounding touch the only reason Chan hasn’t bolted and drowned himself in the shower yet.

“I’m not chickening out,” Chan reassures Felix and, to some extent, himself.

“I know,” Felix says, the sofa mattress shifting underneath them as he inches closer to Chan. “But maybe we don’t need to send a text?”

Chan looks up from his phone screen and at Felix, confusion audible in his voice when he asks: 

“What do you mean?”

“Gimme that.”

Felix motions for his phone and Chan hands it over without second thought. And then Felix is kissing him, filthy and deep, making Chan’s head spin. He’s so distracted by Felix’s tongue inside his mouth, he only recognises the shutter sound for what it is when Felix breaks the kiss and hands him his phone back.

“There you go,” he says, licking his slightly puffy lips.

“What did you--"

Chan trails off, eyes glued to his phone where a picture of him and Felix kissing fills the screen. It’s a surprisingly decent picture, considering the circumstances under which it was taken, and Chan can feel his cheeks heat up at the sliver of pink tongue that’s visible in it.

“I don’t get it?” he mumbles, too flustered by the racy picture to think.

Felix groans and snatches the phone out of Chan’s hands again.

“Do I have to do everything in his household?” he jokes and, with one last look at Chan, sends the picture to the group chat.

“Felix! No!”

In a desperate attempt to stop him, Chan lunges at Felix. Felix is quick and his lithe body hides an impressive strength but he’s still no match for Chan and they both know it. He surrenders Chan’s phone without putting up too much of a fight, drops it on the couch, and—using Chan’s momentary distraction as he reaches for it—wriggles out of his hold and flees.

“You little shit!” Chan calls after him, gripped by terror when he realises the picture has already finished uploading to the group chat. Even if he were to delete it, they’ve probably all seen it now.

Throwing the phone aside, he jumps up from the couch and runs after Felix, following his cackling laughter through their shared home.

“Come back here, so I can kick your ass!”

More laughter, coming from the office this time.

“You love me!”

Yes.

Yes, he does.

Chan’s phone lies on the sofa, forgotten for the time being, the screen lighting up in rapid succession with incoming messages before ultimately going dark.

so happy for you, yongbokkie
you better not fuck this up again, chan
- Hyunjin

Chan finally got his shit together? Wonders never cease.
- Changbin

noooooooooo! do u have any idea how much money I just lost?!
- Jisung

Gay
- Minho

Is hyung only wearing boxers? blocked and reported
- Seungmin

A second chance at first love is a rare and wonderful thing. Don’t take it for granted.
- Jeongin