Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The fairy lights are a nice touch. Dangling from the ceiling rafters, wrapped around the towering centrepieces at the heart of every table, and strung along the edges of the entryway, they cast the reception hall in a warm yellow glow. That same glow accentuates the flowers. Arrangements of red roses and bright orange zinnias sprout from each centrepiece, accented by small bushels of verbena and baby’s breath. An interesting colour palette, perhaps, but Chan can see why Hyunjin picked it: the whole room looks like it could have jumped out from one of his canvases.

Across the hall comes the bright plinking of piano keys.

The string quartet joins in, followed closely by the melodic voice of the hired wedding singer, and Chan watches as the two grooms make their way to the middle of the dance floor. Hyunjin is radiant, the jewel embellishments on his tuxedo twinkling under the lights. Changbin twirls him—once, twice, a third spin—and then pulls him close, strong arms wrapping tightly around Hyunjin’s waist. Foreheads pressed together, they sway back and forth to the music. Hyunjin leans down; Changbin must be whispering something to him. With a breathy laugh, one of Hyunjin’s fingers curls under Changbin’s chin.

They kiss.

Applause fills the room.

Next to Chan, Jisung slips two fingers into his mouth and wolf whistles, earning him a prompt smack on the shoulder from his husband, Minho. But then Minho is pulling Jisung to his feet, and together they make their way onto the dance floor. Minho leading, of course, because Jisung has two left feet on his best days.

The wine is sweetly bitter as Chan takes a sip from his glass. Watches, as he swirls the red liquid around, and then takes another sip. He’s not usually one to drink. Especially wine. But Hyunjin has expensive taste and it’s an open bar, so—

Chan swallows down what remains of his drink in one go.

“Easy there.”

“Cheers,” Chan says, the word slurring. He raises the empty glass.

Behind him, Felix pinches the bridge of their nose. Exhales. Laughs, and rests their hands on Chan’s shoulders. It’s a firm grip, burning through the layers of Chan’s suit like a brand. “I mean it,” Felix says, taking the seat Jisung had vacated. “How are you going to dance if you can’t even stand up?”

“I don’t dance.” They both know that. “And I can stand.” A bold statement, considering the way Chan’s knees shake as he does precisely that. Felix laughs. Chan props himself against the table. Not for balance. Not for support, either. He absolutely is not relying on the furniture to keep him upright.

“I can see that.” With a smirk, Felix flicks the tip of Chan’s nose, sending him stumbling back into his chair. “Anyways,” they say, “don’t have too much fun without me.”

“Never.”

As Felix heads towards the dance floor, alone, Chan can’t help but watch. They look beautiful tonight. They always do, but tonight is—well. A lot. Suit tailored to perfection, tapered on the sides to accentuate Felix’s waist, the cool lavender of the fabric contrasting the warm honeyed tan they got over the summer. That same tan brought out their freckles; new constellations for Chan’s wandering gaze to trace. That same gaze that currently tracks Felix’s movement through the crowd, over to where Hyunjin and Changbin are cutting into the five tiered fondant monstrosity that is their wedding cake. Changbin plates the slice, careful not to disturb the meticulously crafted wafer flowers. Hyunjin dips his finger into a swirl of orange icing and smears it across Changbin’s nose. Then he licks it off.

Chan’s chest clenches.

This is the second wedding in less than two years he’s attended where all the grooms have been his friends. Something, something, if he had a nickel for every time that’s happened, or whatever. Minho and Jisung he’d been expecting; the only surprise there was that they’d waited as long as they did. Hyunjin and Changbin make sense, too. Really, it should have happened sooner, but Changbin had been too nervous to ask and Hyunjin too oblivious to notice.

That gives Chan hope.

In the throng of the crowd, Chan finds Felix. They’re dancing, arms waving back and forth above their head, hips swaying in time to the music. A smile, as big and as bright as the sun, stretches across their face. Felix turns, and that’s when Chan sees it: the hand resting at the small of their back. Another hand, sliding along their shoulder and down their arm. Fingers, twining together with Felix’s. At least there’s a reasonable distance—

No, scratch that.

Felix pulls their partner in close, loosening the tie around his neck and playing with the top button of his shirt before popping it open and wrapping their hands around his waist.

The wine in Chan’s stomach sours.

He coughs. Wine and stomach bile—an awful, acidic mix—burns its way up his throat. Not even water, the glass cold in Chan’s hand, can stop the burn. He’s no less shaky when he manages to stand, though he can’t blame the alcohol. Not anymore; reality is a terribly sobering thing. More so than the cool air that greets Chan as he pushes through a side door, ignoring the Emergency Exit sign—only not really. That’s what this is, isn’t it? An emergency? It feels like one. His heart, pounding rapidly in his chest. His breathing, shallow. Sweat, dripping down his spine even as he peels off his suit jacket and leans against the wall.

“Fuck.”

After standing across from one another on either side of the altar this afternoon, how could he not recognize Jeongin? Hyunjin’s best man, with his pointed features and mop of tawny orange hair, long limbs accentuated by the suit he wore. The suit Felix had seemed all too eager to strip off of him on the dance floor just now.

The worst part is Chan understands.

Actually, no. The worst part isn’t understanding; it’s accepting.

One would think, after nearly two decades, it’d get easier. But it hasn’t. If anything, it’s only become harder. Having to stand by and watch Felix with anyone else while Chan’s been forced to beat down that acrid, ugly, jealous yearning in his chest that he’s never been able to do anything about, no matter how badly he wishes he could? It hurts. It’s an ache so deep Chan feels it in his bones. His heart curls in on itself at the thought. Felix is the sun. They glow, lighting up everything they touch and everyone they meet. Being able to bask in it—to capture even a fraction of that warmth—is the best thing to ever happen in Chan’s life. He can absorb the light, gladly, but it’s not something he can create. Chan’s never been like that. He doesn’t deserve it—not that it stops him from wishing, or hoping. Stupid. Selfish, even. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Having Felix in his life, even if just out of reach, is better than not having them at all.

Chan’s not sure love is supposed to hurt, but he’s more than willing to be burnt.

“I’m fairly certain the reception is inside.”

One second, then two, then three. Chan counts to five before he opens his eyes and turns his head towards the now open door—and the person standing there. Tall, with unfairly long legs. A sharp jaw and a sharper nose. Fluffy, dark brown hair hanging in front of eyes almost exactly the same colour. It’s not Felix. Relief washes over Chan, which then hastily turns into despair. It’s not Felix. They’re still inside, presumably still dancing with Jeongin—and Chan is out here. Alone. Well, not anymore, because the stranger is here as well. Closer, too, now that they’ve stepped forward and let the door close behind them, cutting off the sounds of music and laughter.

“I know,” Chan says.

“Ah, so you’re—what? Skipping?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Chan rubs a hand over his face in exasperation. “Just needed some air.” Not entirely the truth, but it’s not a lie, either.

The stranger laughs. Their hands slip into the pockets of their pants as they come to stand next to Chan. Closer, under the glow of the nearby streetlight, Chan recognizes them. It’s the wedding singer. “Shouldn’t you be inside?” he asks.

“Me? Not really. Hyunjin only requested me for the first dance.” A noncommittal shrug. “Anyways, I could ask you the same thing.” That earns him a narrowing of Chan’s eyes, followed by a scoff. “What?” he asks. “You are one of the groomsmen, aren’t you?”

“You’re supposed to look at the grooms,” Chan says. That’s the whole point of a wedding, isn’t it? What could Chan possibly have done to earn this guy’s attention?

“That’s boring, though.”

“Don’t let Hyunjin hear you say that, uh—” Chan cuts himself off, realizing he’s about to get into something alarmingly close to a debate with someone whose name he doesn’t even know.

“Kim Seungmin,” the wedding singer replies. “And Hyunjin won’t care.” Chan doesn’t really believe that. Hyunjin is the most hopeless of hopeless romantics, uselessly in love with the entire concept. He and Changbin had hardly been (officially) dating a year before Hyunjin proposed. That he would be unbothered by someone calling his wedding boring—especially the person he had sing during his and Changbin’s first dance—is, well. It sounds like a bad joke.

“You seem…confident about that.”

“I am,” Seungmin says. “He’s heard it plenty.” Chan must give something away in his expression, because Seungmin adds, “I just mean, like, everyone always looks at the person walking down the aisle. Groom, bride, whoever. I started looking at the person waiting instead, at first.”

“Why?”

“Because no one really does,” Seungmin says with a shrug. “Anyways, it doesn't matter. They’re always happy. It gets boring. It’s more fun to look at everyone else. See who’s paying attention, who’s crying, who sneaks away halfway through the vows for the bathroom, who falls asleep.”

A lump lodges itself in Chan’s throat. Caught red-handed. He spent the majority of the ceremony looking behind Hyunjin, past Jeongin, at Felix. Felix, looking where they should have been, at Hyunjin and Changbin. Felix, patting at their wet eyes with a tissue from their pocket as vows were exchanged. Felix, smiling as rings were slid onto fingers. Cheering, when Changbin pulled Hyunjin in for the kiss and then carried him back down the aisle. It occurs to Chan, only now, that he’d barely paid attention to the actual ceremony at all.

“I guess,” he supplies meekly, because what else can he say? He can’t disagree when he’s guilty. Not without lying, and Chan’s always been shit at that. Instead, he takes the safest route: changing the subject. “Sorry, but…do you even like weddings?”

“Not really,” Seungmin says matter-of-factly. “Sinking thousands into a whole lot of useless fanfare and spectacle when half the relationships won’t make it past, like, three years seems like a monumental waste of time. But just because I think it’s bullshit doesn’t mean I won’t support my friends through their poor choices. And anyways,” he adds, gesturing at his own suit, “when I’m not volunteering out of the goodness of my own heart, it pays the bills.” 

“That’s what friends are for,” Chan offers.

Seungmin laughs. “Indeed.” He pushes himself away from the wall and extends a hand towards Chan. “Nice meeting you—”

“Chris Bahng. But, uh, I usually go by Chan.” Except when it’s Felix. Felix always calls him Chris. Not that Seungmin needs to know that.

“Chan,” Seungmin says, shaking Chan’s hand before turning back towards the door. “Don’t stay out here too long.”

And then Chan is alone.

The streetlight flickers. It’s getting late, and the evening humidity is beginning to seep into the fabric of Chan’s suit. He’s sweating again, but not for the same reason as when he rushed out here. One breath, and then a second; long, deep inhales and even longer exhales. It’s fine, he tells himself. This is fine. Everything is fine. Perhaps, with enough repetition, he’ll convince himself it’s true. He repeats the mantra over and over as he heads back inside, and then continues to do so even louder once the reception music, with its bass so overwhelming that Chan feels it in his bones, threatens to drown it out. The dance floor is even more packed now, bodies and limbs blending together. Chan’s eyes scan the crowd, his stomach sinking with an awful realization. He turns, surveying the bar, the head table—

Felix is nowhere to be seen.

Chan pulls out his phone.

Chan:

where r u?

His stomach sinks even further, as the text finally shows as delivered—and remains delivered. Chronically online as they are, it’s never taken Felix this long to at least read a message. But they haven’t.

Chan:

lix did you go back to your room?

did you at least tell hyunjin?

???

Their phone goes straight to voicemail; it doesn’t even ring.

Logically, Chan knows they’re okay. Felix isn’t one to overindulge—they don’t need to, extroverted as they are—but that doesn’t mean they don’t enjoy themself. Understanding. Accepting. Yet again, two very different things. Chan’s stomach churns. Felix isn’t in the reception hall because they left. A hard pill to swallow, but deep down Chan knows they didn’t leave alone. Felix isn’t answering their phone because they’re otherwise preoccupied. Chan knows—well, he’d rather not know, actually.

He makes his way back to the head table, sinking into his chair and pouring himself a glass of water. He’s had more than enough wine tonight.

“Chan!”

Hyunjin runs up to him from the middle of the dance floor. He’s glowing, his eyes like crescent moons from how widely he’s smiling, cheeks flushed. Changbin is close on his heels.

“Congratulations,” Chan says, raising his glass. It’s a half-hearted effort.

“Chan,” Hyunjin says, dragging out the vowel, as he leans across the table and rests his hands on either side of Chan’s face. His palms are sweaty. “Chan, why aren’t you dancing?”

Behind him, Changbin laughs and rolls his eyes. “Babe, you know—”

“It’s my wedding, and you aren’t dancing,” Hyunjin repeats. His grip tightens and his body slumps further forward.

“Sorry.” Instinctual, how quickly the apology slips out. Perfect reflex. Chan reaches up and takes Hyunjin’s hands. “I don’t really—”

“Changbin, he hates us.”

“I do no—”

Hyunjin steals away a hand and presses a finger to Chan’s lips. “Shh, you don’t need to lie. It’s okay. You’re our friend and I forgive you for being boring. I hear that happens when you get old.”

“Babe,” Changbin says, easing Hyunjin back onto his feet, curling an arm around his waist for support, “play nice.”

That earns a pout from Hyunjin. “I am,” he says. “It’s not my fault—”

“Okay, okay,” Chan acquiesces, raising his hands in surrender. He pushes back his chair and stands. “One dance. One,” he repeats, as Hyunjin bounces back and forth on the balls of his feet.

The dance floor is even more crowded than before. Chan is jostled between bodies as he lets his limbs sway to the rhythm of the song, Hyunjin holding onto his wrists and waving his arms around. By the time the music starts to fade, Chan is tired. He extricates himself from Hyunjin’s grip and passes the blissfully drunk groom over to Minho and Jisung, who welcome him with open arms. Changbin takes it upon himself to escort Chan away from the crowd, out of the reception hall, and all the way to the elevator, where he follows Chan inside.

“What floor?”

“Three.”

They stand shoulder-to-shoulder as the elevator rumbles and begins to move. Chan rests his head on Changbin’s shoulder. “Did you see Felix leave tonight?” he asks in a whisper. It’s as much a question as it is, in some small way, a confession.

Changbin stiffens. “No,” he answers, “I didn’t.”

There’s nothing more Chan can say or ask without further incriminating himself, so he stays silent. They both do, until the elevator comes to a halt and the door parts with a soft ding! Changbin escorts Chan to his door. Slings an arm around his shoulders in a sort of hug. Ruffles his hair. “Get some sleep, okay hyung?”

“Yeah.”

“Goodnight.”

It won’t be, but Chan nods and gives Changbin a small wave of his hand before pulling out his key card and swiping it over the handle. The room is freezing; Chan tends to run hot, so he lowered the thermostat as far as it would allow before he left for the ceremony earlier. Chan kicks off his shoes and loosens his tie. Fuck, weddings are exhausting. He’d forgotten that, in the two years that have passed since Minho and Jisung tied the knot. So much smiling; and exchanging small, vapid pleasantries with people he doesn’t know; and offering congratulations while trying to ignore how much it hurts to see other people get their happily ever afters while he scurries back to his room at the end of the night, alone.

Kim Seungmin would say he was being stupid.

Chan shuffles through the dark room, feeling his way past the desk and around the side of the bed. He should change. He should shower. He should, at the very least, brush his teeth.

He flops down onto the mattress.

Everything else can wait. As he rolls over onto his side and curls up into the fetal position, begging for the sweet release of sleep, Chan tries not to think about how very large and very empty the other side of the bed is. 

⋆✩˚*♬⋆˚𝄞⋆*˚✩⋆

Chan smells the bacon before he sees it. Someone burnt their toast, too. His stomach turns at that, which does nothing to help the dull, constant throb in his temple. So much for thinking he wouldn’t regret the single glass of wine. As he shuffles down the buffet line, scooping a spoonful of scrambled eggs and an array of fruit slices onto his plate, he glances around the lobby. There are only a handful of occupied tables. It’s still relatively early, and Chan imagines most of the wedding guests enjoyed themselves far more thoroughly than he did. He doesn’t see Hyunjin or Changbin; they probably ordered room service, though. Chan can’t imagine Hyunjin will let Changbin leave their room at all today, and he’s glad to not be staying on the same floor.

“Hyung!”

The yell startles Chan. He jolts, cursing under his breath as he almost spills his freshly poured glass of pineapple juice.

Behind him, at a nearby table, Jisung laughs. “Sorry, Chan-hyung,” he says sheepishly as Chan takes a seat. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

The eggs are bland, and not nearly fluffy enough, but Chan forces it down. “S’okay,” he replies once he’s swallowed.

“Where’d you go last night?” Minho asks.

“Bed.” The second mouthful of eggs is no better than the first. It might even be worse. Chan takes a long sip of his juice, then plunges his fork into a cube of watermelon. “I was tired.”

“You missed the bouquet toss,” Jisung says around a mouthful of waffle. “Jinnie smacked one of the servers in the face with it.”

That, at least, makes Chan laugh.

It’s a quickly sobering thing. His laughter dies on his tongue. Chan hides it by shoving the watermelon into his mouth. Felix treats the bouquet toss like an Olympic sport. At Minho and Jisung’s wedding, they nearly toppled half the gathered group in their (successful) attempt to grab it. They only would have missed it if they weren’t there. Which means… Did Felix even go back to the reception at all?

Chan pulls out his phone. No new messages, no missed calls.

Radio silence.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when a hand rests on his shoulder.

“Shit, sorry Chris! Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Chan doesn’t need to turn around. He knows that voice—steady and deep and soothing—anywhere. It’s Felix. They’re still wearing their suit from yesterday, though the jacket is missing and the shirt is wrinkled with the buttons done up incorrectly so it hangs crookedly off their shoulders. Their hair is equally messy, some strands sticking out at odd angles. Half worn-off make-up, flushed cheeks, smeared lips forming a Cheshire Cat grin. Despite the state of dishevelment, Felix is glowing.

“Oh,” Jisung says, brandishing his fork in Felix’s direction.

Felix slips effortlessly into the chair next to Chan, and Jeongin into the chair next to them. Immediately, Felix shuffles their chair away from Chan, closer to Jeongin, slinging their arm around Jeongin’s shoulders in a way that Chan can only describe as possessive. The scrambled eggs from earlier threaten to crawl up his throat.

“Oh?” Felix asks, fluttering their eyelashes in Jisung’s direction.

“So that’s where you were.”

Jeongin’s face turns red. Felix rolls their eyes. “I don’t know what you mean,” they say. They grab a strawberry off Chan’s plate. He watches them wrap their lips around it, biting off just shy of the leaves before swallowing.

“Shut up, hyung,” Jeongin says. He’s curled in on himself, arms crossed over his chest. The movement pulls on the fabric of Jeongin’s shirt, exposing his neck—and a faint trail of bruises. Red, yellow, a deep purple blooming near his collarbone.

Chan might be sick.

Jisung raises his hands defensively. “I didn’t say anything!” he exclaims.

“You implied it,” Jeongin says.

“I did not.” Jisung turns to Minho. “I didn’t!”

Minho smirks. His gaze is still fixed on Felix. “Leave them alone, jagi,” he says, popping a tater into his mouth. “You should eat,” he says to Felix and Jeongin.

Felix gets to their feet, stopping Jeongin when he tries to follow. “What do you want?” Felix asks.

“Oh, uh…pancakes, please. And some coffee.”

As Felix makes their way to the buffet line, Jeongin reaches across the table and smacks Jisung on the shoulder. “Hyung,” he hisses.

Minho rolls his eyes. “We’re not dumb, Jeongin.”

“Fine, but you don’t need to be so loud about it.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Maybe not you, but Jis—”

“It’s fine,” Minho says. He glances at Jisung, and then adds, “If you don’t want to talk about it, then we won’t.”

Appetite gone, Chan moves his scrambled eggs aimlessly around on his plate. By the time Felix returns and everyone else finishes eating their breakfast, his eggs no longer look like eggs. Mushed into oblivion, a sad yellow puddle. Jeongin is the first to stand, stretching his arms above his head. “I should get things packed up,” he says to Felix. “Check out’s in less than an hour.”

“I’ll see you up there.”

Felix reaches out for Jeongin’s hand, twining their fingers together, and pulls him in for a kiss. And—well. There’s no room for denial now. Not when Felix’s tongue visibly dips past Jeongin’s lips and their hand slides possessively down Jeongin’s side before slipping into the back pocket of his dress pants. Chan watches, a wave of nausea building, as Felix squeezes. Jeongin is first to break the kiss, pulling away despite Felix’s best efforts to keep him there. Red-faced, he offers the table an awkward and embarrassed wave as he departs.

With a contented sigh, Felix steals a grape from Chan’s abandoned plate.

“Alright, fucker,” Jisung says, planting both of his palms on the table and leaning in. “Spill.”

Felix laughs. “Already did that. Or, well, Yen-ah did. More than once.” The use of a nickname isn’t lost on Chan. Quite the opposite. But then, too late, Chan remembers that Felix shares none of Jeongin’s delicate sensibilities. They lean forward; like moths to a flame, Minho and Jisung do as well. “So, like, before the ceremony everyone was in Hyunjin’s room getting ready, right? And I couldn’t figure out my tie—”

Chan’s insides hollow out.

“He didn’t even ask. Just reached out and did it for me!”

“Jeongin…fixed your tie?”

“Shut up. Anyways,” Felix continues, “it was like, obvious he knows what to do with his hands. Have you seen his fingers?”

Chan looks down at his hands, resting uselessly in his lap. Nails trimmed almost painfully short, because he hates how it feels when they’ve grown longer. Bony knuckles. A scar near his wrist from when his childhood dog, Berry, accidentally bit him while they’d been playing. These hands picked dandelions for his mom and tied his siblings’ shoelaces. These hands carried Felix’s school books and held open doors and, just once, punched a kid who thought it would be funny to make a joke about Felix’s pronouns. These hands guided Felix home after university parties, held back their hair when they’d drank too much and ended up hugging the toilet bowl in their dormitory. These hands fixed Felix’s tie first, more than once. School formals, graduation, convocation—even Minho and Jisung’s wedding.

It didn’t mean anything then.

Why does it now?

His hands have never wrapped around Felix’s waist, never slipped under their clothes, never cradled the back of their neck or cupped the sharp, soft line of their jaw. His hands have never held Felix. Not like that.

Chan’s thought about it, of course, and more than once.

He thinks about it now. How it might feel, to reach across that small but insurmountable distance and rest his hand on Felix’s thigh. Would Felix flinch? Would they sink into it? Would they bat Chan’s hand away like the gesture meant nothing? Chan’s not sure which of the dozen possibilities running through his mind is the worst.

“—the whole speech, right? He keeps glancing my way, but like, trying not to make it obvious. Goes bright red when I catch him. Knocks over his glass and spills it all over.”

“Oh my god,” Jisung says.

“It was cute,” Felix exclaims. Their expression is fond, eyes focused somewhere far away and their bottom lip jutting out in the smallest of pouts. “He even waited until Chris was done before running off. Like, he spilled the water on himself and just sat in it until the speech was over. How sweet is that?”

“Lix,” Jisung says, “you’re cooked.”

“So what? Anyways, he finally gets up and it’s like…this is it. Now or never, y’know?”

“You did not.”

Felix grins sheepishly.

“Felix,” Minho admonishes, “you did not.”

“Oops,” Felix says, in a tone that isn’t remorseful in the slightest. “No need to be hypocritical, hyung.”

“We can at least make it back to our room.”

“We did.” And then, with a wink, Felix adds, “After, I mean.”

“I’m—hungry. Yeah. Seconds. Be right back.” Chan gets to his feet, grabbing his plate as he flees back to the buffet line. Whatever is about to come from Felix’s mouth next, he doesn’t need to hear it. He doesn’t want to hear it. His imagination is more than capable, for better or worse, and it can do without the explicit details and confirmation. Mindlessly, he spoons more scrambled eggs onto his plate alongside two strips of bacon. “Sorry,” he mumbles, accidentally grabbing the fruit tongs as another hand reaches for them.

“Work up an appetite last night?”

Chan drops the tongs. They bounce onto the table, sending grapes scattering off the fruit platter.

Next to him, Kim Seungmin laughs quietly. He looks softer than he did in the harsh streetlight the night before, though that may be helped by the fact that he’s wearing an oversized hoodie and jeans.

“Huh?”

“That’s a lot of food.”

“Oh, uh.” Chan looks at his plate and tries to ignore the anxious lump crawling up his throat. “I guess.”

“You seem tense.”

Great. So much for convincingly hiding his feelings. Seungmin doesn’t even know Chan, but if he can tell, then what must that mean for everyone else at breakfast? Did they notice the same? Do they—

Did he give himself away?

Does Felix know?

“Enjoy your breakfast,” Chan manages to say as his vision blurs and his insides tie themselves in knots. He steps out of the line, dumping the plate of food into the trash bin. For a moment, he almost leaves. But—no. That will only garner more suspicion. He swallows the bile pooling at the back of his throat, rubs his sweaty palms on his pants, and forces one foot in front of the other until he returns to the table. Felix and Jisung immediately stop laughing at whatever one of them said in Chan’s absence that was so funny.

“Chris?” Felix fixes him with a concerned look. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, just—” Chan offers a weak smile. “M’not as hungry as I thought, actually. Hungover, I think. Stupid. M’gonna just go lie down. Yeah. Sleep it off.”

“Damn, that wine fucked you up,” Jisung says. It earns him a prompt and solid slap to the thigh from Minho.

Felix is still staring. “Chris—”

“Don’t worry. I’ll see you all later.”

Chan doesn’t wait for another round of responses. Like a wounded dog, tail between his legs, he retreats back to his room. Alone, but safe. There’s no one he has to keep up an act for here. He falls apart, back against the door as he slides to the floor. Tears, unbidden, pool in the corners of his eyes. Fuck, he thought he’d been so good at hiding it. Chan doesn’t fight the tears. They fall, dark drops seeping into the fabric of his shirt and pants. It burns, and it aches, but he deserves the pain. Perhaps, with enough of it, he’ll learn.

Deep in Chan’s pocket, his phone vibrates. At first he ignores it. But unlike last night, and this morning, the vibrations continue. Eventually, he manages to pull it out.

lix 🐈‍⬛💛✨:

chrisssssss :c

i’m so sorry

that you aren’t feeling good

but

are you ok

❔❔❔

Chan:

i wouldn’t trust the eggs tbh

but yeah, don’t worry!!

i’m fine :)

twelve years ago

Plink. Plink. Plink.

The sound is soft, but consistent. Too steady to be raindrops. Too solid to be an insect drawn in by the neon lights above Chan’s headboard or the glow of his laptop screen. Too quiet to—

Plink.

Chan should go back to sleep.

Yet, there’s something about the noise and its unnaturalness, given the circumstances, that has him rubbing his eyes and rolling out of bed with a sigh. He follows the sound, socked feet shuffling along his floor, coming to stop in front of his window. It’s the middle of the night. It is raining, even if just a gentle drizzle, and there’s a breeze. It looks chilly. Chan slides his window open, peering out into the dark.

Felix looks up at Chan, strands of wet hair hanging in front of their eyes. Their clothes appear soaked through, and in their open palm is a collection of small rocks.

“What are you doing?” Chan hisses.

Felix drops the rocks and wraps their arms around themself. “I d-didn’t want to wake—” They’re shivering, from more than just the cold. Without another word, Chan turns and makes his way as quickly and quietly as he can downstairs to unlock the front door. He ushers Felix inside, wrapping an arm around their slender frame and guiding them back to his room.

“Seriously,” Chan says, looking Felix up and down, “what’s going on?” Such a simple question, but it has Felix curling inwards. A puppet with cut strings, slumping uselessly without anything to hold them up. “Shit, Lix.” Chan rushes forwards, gathering Felix in his arms and half leading, half carrying them to his bed. It’s hard to tell if the drops of water on Felix’s face are from the rain, or tears. “Lix, please,” Chan begs, enveloping them in a hug, “tell me what’s wrong.” Clearly, something is. In all the time that Chan’s known them, Felix has never been so lost for words.

“I—” they start, and then it devolves into an ugly heaving noise as they try not to cry.

“Shh.” Chan runs his hands up and down Felix’s back. “Take your time.”

Felix does. Minutes, hours—he’s not sure how long they both sit there, Chan holding Felix together as they fall apart. When their body stills at last, Chan leans back and cups Felix’s face. He wipes away the last of Felix’s tears with his thumb.

“Fucking stupid,” Felix whispers. Their voice is hoarse.

“What?”

“I really thought she’d be okay with it.”

Chan stiffens. “Lix—”

It’s all the explanation he needs. They’ve talked about this, at length: on morning walks to school; during lunch hours, sequestered off in their own little world in the music classroom, because Chan got special permission from his teacher to be there; and at night, sprawled out on Chan’s bedroom floor while they’ve done their homework. Chan was the first person Felix ever told, fumbling over the words as they tried to share their realization. A body, sometimes okay but sometimes entirely wrong. Not one or the other, but rather existing in some mysterious and inexplicable between—and how right that felt instead.

“What did she say?” Bile, acidic and awful, burns the back of Chan’s throat.

“Nothing.” Felix is shivering again. “That—that’s the worst part. She just pointed at the door.”

“Lix—”

“Should’ve known,” they say, quiet and defeated. “Stupid, so fucki—”

“You’re not,” Chan says sternly. He needs Felix to know that. “She is.”

Felix has debated telling their mother for months. So much judgement packed inside such a small woman; Chan knew the chances of it going well were slim. He’d said as much, and more than once, but…well. Felix has always assumed the best of people. It’s one of the things Chan loves about them, and always has. The size of Felix’s heart is as wide and deep as the sea. But with that size comes vulnerability. Fragility. A heart that big and open means it’s liable to be hurt.

Like it’s hurting now.

Chan pulls Felix in for another hug, burying his face in the crook of Felix’s neck and breathing them in. The freshness of the rain. The citrus undertones of the perfume they love to wear. Beneath that, faint but still present, sweat. Anxiety. Fear. Chan hugs them tighter.

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” Felix whispers.

“Don’t be,” Chan says. Reluctantly, he lets go of Felix. They’re shivering still. Fuck, who knows how long they were out in the rain. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

“It’s okay,” Felix says, even though it isn’t.

“You could’ve called. Or rang the doorbell.”

Felix blushes. They shrug. Their fingers twist nervously in Chan’s blanket. “I didn’t want to wake your parents up.”

A hole opens up inside Chan’s chest, like he’s been shot. “Lix, they—it’s okay.” The very first time that Felix brought up telling their mom, Chan had done the same with his own. Not with any real sort of specificity—it wasn’t his truth to tell, and Felix deserved to do so in their own time—but she’d known all the same. He remembers it still, sitting across from one another at the kitchen table, wringing his hands and fumbling over his words. At first she’d asked if he was gay—which was close but not quite correct—and that had sent them down a whole other spiral of a side quest before returning to the actual point. Afterwards she’d reached across the table, taking one of his hands in her own, and smiled. Warm, and safe. She said she’d always be here. And, like, Chan knows she meant it, but a part of him still worries because Felix doesn’t know. Felix has no idea that conversation ever happened. “It’s okay,” Chan says again, as much for Felix as it is for himself.

“Chris, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” Felix stands, their arms wrapped protectively around themself once more. “I can—go. Yeah, I should—”

“No,” Chan says, his voice firm. “You can stay. You’re gonna stay.”

Felix winces, but their body exhales. “Okay,” they say quietly.

Chan gets up from the bed and digs through the laundry basket of clean clothes on his floor that he hasn’t bothered to put away yet, pulling out a pair of sweatpants and a sweater. He tiptoes across the hall, Felix behind him, to the bathroom. “You can shower, if you want,” he says. “Or at least dry off. Here,” he adds, setting the pile of clothes on the closed lid of the toilet. “For after.”

“Thanks, Chris.” Felix’s eyes are glistening. Even like this, wet and hurting and broken somewhere deep inside, they’re beautiful. Chan hates himself for the thought as soon as it crosses his mind. That’s not what Felix needs right now. It’s not what he should be thinking about.

He clears his throat. “Always.”

Felix smiles.

As the bathroom door closes behind him, Chan sighs. Then he walks down the hallway and knocks on his parents’ bedroom door.

Two weeks go by. Then four, and then seven—and life almost feels normal.

Almost, but not quite.

Chan and Felix have shared an apartment since graduating from university. It’s always been just the two of them, but Chan can’t help but notice the fingerprints Jeongin has been leaving behind lately. It started small: a third toothbrush in the bathroom—bright green slotted between Felix’s yellow and Chan’s red—or random crew socks and boxers mixed in with Felix’s laundry. Then extra dishes appeared in the cupboard, because Felix and Jeongin had gone on a double date to some pottery place with Hyunjin and Changbin. Now there’s a spot for Jeongin’s shoes on the rack by the front door, and a designated hanger in the closet for his jacket, and a dip in the couch that hadn’t been there before.

And Felix…well.

The toothbrush in the bathroom; the basket of clean clothes at the base of the washing machine; the flats of bulk purchased drinks and chips stacked in one corner of the tiny kitchen because Felix goes through phases of hyperfixation with their food; the handmade quilt that drapes across the back of the couch that Chan’s mom crocheted for them; the miniature knock-off LEGO cats lined up in front of the television. The pieces of their life with Chan are strewn all over the apartment, proof that they exist and share this space. But Felix—once such a homebody, someone who would spend their evenings curled up at their desk playing League, or stretched out like a cat on Chan’s bed while he ran uselessly around the latest Genshin update—hasn’t really been here. It’s like living with a ghost. Traces of Felix’s presence are littered everywhere even as the distinctly Felix-shaped hole in Chan’s heart grows and grows and grows.

Chan misses them.

But he can’t say that, not when Felix looks so happy.

Which is saying something, because they’re always happy; the brightest light in any room. Under any other circumstance, Chan would be elated. Felix deserves to be happy. It’s just—

Chan trips on the curb. His hands, thrown out to break his fall, scrape against the concrete. He gasps, wincing as he slowly gets to his feet. His palms are scraped, and he’s torn a small but visible hole in the right knee of his sweatpants. Stupid. He should have been watching where he was going, not thinking about Felix.

Felix, who is home tonight, when Chan isn’t—because they asked him not to be.

Chan agreed, because of course he did. He’s never been able to tell Felix no. He’d bend over backwards for Felix. Move earth and heaven and all that shit. Except that he’d been on his way home. It’s not Chan’s fault, though. He was almost at Jisung and Minho’s place when he checked his backpack and saw that he’d somehow left his charger behind. He needs it; his laptop is almost dead. He texted Felix the minute he turned around, to give them enough warning. Felix never replied, but that’s part of their new normal. They’d seen it. Surely that’s enough.

Chan:

i’m not going to make it tonight

sorry bro

sung:

boo

we haven’t seen you since the wedding :(

BOOOOO

🍅 🍅 🍅 🍅 🍅 🍅

Chan:

another night

i promise!!!

sung:

fine

minho will break your knees if ur lying~

Chan has a slight limp for the remainder of the walk.

He takes the elevator up to the apartment instead of the stairs, leaning against the door as he unlocks it, barely realizing that it’s Jeongin’s shoes he stumbles over as he steps inside.

“Sorry Lix,” he calls out. “I forgot my—”

Felix and Jeongin are sitting on the couch. Jeongin turns, smiling at Chan. There’s a plastic ball in his hands, wrapped in obnoxiously bright packaging. He and Felix love their subtle acts of gambling with those blind box toys. “Hey, Chan,” he says, and then returns to tearing open the ball. Beside him, Felix stiffens. They don’t say hello. They don’t say anything at all. Instead, they stare, and Chan’s heart sinks, because Felix has never looked at him with such—annoyance. Not once, in all the time that they’ve known each other. And like, sure, Chan had agreed to give them the apartment, but it’s not like he’s going to be staying. In, grab the charger, out. Almost like he was never here at all.

“Sorry,” he says again, pointing down the hallway towards his room. “I just need to grab—”

The rest of Chan’s sentence dies, shriveling up and leaving behind a sour taste, as Jeongin makes an exasperated noise. Cupped in his hands are the remnants of the ball's outer packaging, and the single plastic bag from inside. Odd. Usually there’s at least three—

“Felix,” Jeongin hisses. His eyes grow wide.

Chan watches as Jeongin holds something up, small and twinkling in the lingering sunlight that filters through the window. It’s not a pair of miniature replica shoes, or sunglasses, or a purse, or whatever the fuck else is usually in those balls. It’s not even a toy.

It’s a ring.

A slender silver band, inlaid with white opal. A real, genuine ring. 

Felix’s gaze immediately shifts, whatever annoyance for Chan erased with what can only be described as pure, blinding bliss. They’re smiling as they slide off the couch, sinking to one knee in front of Jeongin. Right in the middle of the living room. Carefully, they take the ring from Jeongin, holding it up as they clasp his other hand. “Yang Jeongin,” Felix says, and Chan’s stomach sinks. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be hearing this. But he is, so he does. “Yen-ah,” Felix continues. Their voice is trembling, just a little. “This past month and a half… It’s been—” They pause, laughing in disbelief. “It sounds insane, doesn’t it?”

“Kind of,” Jeongin says. “But I don’t care.”

“Me—me either. It’s been incredible. Falling in love with you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” Chan takes a small step backwards as Felix presents the ring once more, properly. “I’ve never, not ever, loved anyone as much as I love you. And I—god, I know it’s insane and too fast, but I—” They clear their throat, eyes glistening with restrained tears. “I’m sure. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

“Lix—”

“Will you marry me?”

Jeongin’s first reaction is to slap Felix’s shoulder. His second reaction is to pull Felix up into his lap, press their foreheads together, and say, “Yes.” A choked sob, followed by a laugh. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes.” Felix slips the ring onto Jeongin’s finger. They kiss each knuckle, and then Jeongin pulls them the rest of the way in, mouths slotting together in a frantic, passionate kiss.

Chan stands, frozen, his entire body numb.

Felix whispers Jeongin’s name. Two syllables, two stabbing sensations in Chan’s chest. He closes his eyes, but it does little to drown out the sounds of Felix and Jeongin’s voices or the rustling of fabric. They’ve forgotten all about him—and why shouldn’t they? Chan is inconsequential.

He shouldn’t be here.

His body slumps uselessly against the wall behind him. One breath, then a second. Chan takes just enough time to compose himself before he turns and slips out of the apartment.

⋆✩˚*♬⋆˚𝄞⋆*˚✩⋆

This time, when Chan trips over the curb, he doesn’t fall. He stumbles, sure, and he waves his arms around comically as he fights to regain his balance, but he remains upright. It seems at some point that perhaps inebriation makes you more sober. Maybe. Unlikely, but that’s Chan’s story and he’s sticking to it. Alcohol has never been his first choice, but tonight? It’s needed. Not much, because it never takes much, but enough to take the edge off. Enough to quiet that awful, spiraling, antagonistic voice in the back of his mind and all the bullshit it’s been spewing since he fled the apartment.

Their apartment.

Where Felix is, with Jeongin. Jeongin, their fiancé. Because Felix is engaged now.

A bitter laugh slips from between Chan’s lips.

In front of him, the lights at the other end of the crosswalk begin to flash so he hurries his way across the road. Even this late into the evening on a weekday, the streets are packed with people. Like a leaf caught in a river’s current, Chan follows the crowd. He stopped paying attention to where he actually was after he left the first bar. Now he’s just—not lost, but certainly astray. A quick glance at the buildings to his right confirms that he has no idea where he’s ended up.

Good. The longer it takes to get home, the better.

A dangerous thought creeps in. Is it really home anymore? Felix is getting married. It might not happen right away, but eventually…they’re going to leave. There isn’t enough room for three people in Chan and Felix’s apartment, so it only makes sense that Felix and Jeongin will move in together. Which leaves Chan on his own. Sure, he can still afford the rent, but it’s far too big a place for just one person. Eventually, he’ll need to find somewhere else. Chan grimaces at the thought. Not once—not one singular time since Felix and Jeongin started dating—did Felix talk about this with him. Chan’s been blindsided, in more ways than one. His whole life, upended in minutes.

He should be angry. He’s allowed to be angry.

But he’s not.

All Chan feels is stupid. Stupid, because he never saw this coming. Stupid, because he really believed one day Felix would realize. A lightbulb appearing over their head like in a cartoon; eyes transforming into beating hearts; a sparkling floral background sprouting behind Chan as time slowed to a stop and a romantic melody reached a crescendo—the works. Stupid, because he set himself up for heartbreak.

Chan turns into the nearest bar. It’s suffocating and far too loud, the thrum of music reverberating in his skull, but that’s precisely what Chan needs. Sidling up to the counter, he leans across and shouts his order at the bartender. She winks and pours the soju into three shot glasses. Smiling, she watches Chan throw them back in quick succession, one after the other.

He takes a vacant seat. He waits.

Soon enough, he feels the alcohol working its magic. The music fades gradually into the background. His cheeks warm. He slips into the comfort that comes with being pleasantly tipsy, and orders another drink. And then a shot. Another drink after that, though he remembers to get water this time, too. Stupid, to not pace himself. Tipsy turns to drunk, and comfort bleeds into despair. Why wouldn’t Felix tell him? Who keeps their engagement a secret from their best friend? Unless—

Chan’s done something wrong. Somewhere, somehow, he’s fucked up.

Chan:

did u know?

binnie:

hello to you too

know what?

Chan:

did lix tell you??

hyunjin:

tell me what?

what’s going on?

chan???

Chan:

bro

did felix tell you anything about this

sung:

what do you mean

why would they tell me something and not you???????????

minho 🐈:

you’re scaring sungie chan

what are you talking about? do i need to talk to felix?

Chan:

no

sorry it’s nothing. forget i said anything

minho 🐈:

hyung that’s not how it works

something’s wrong. please talk to us

Chan:

it’s fine

Minho is still typing when Chan’s phone begins to vibrate, Changbin’s name lighting up the screen. Chan ignores the call. He swirls what remains of his drink around, then downs it. His phone rings again. Changbin is feeling insistent.

“Chan-hyung, where are you?”

“Somewhere,” Chan says. He gets to his feet, gripping the edge of the bar for balance. The world around him has begun to blur at the edges. That, at least, means he’s had more than enough to drink. “I don’t know,” he adds.

“How do you not—” Chan can hear Changbin’s frustrated sigh, and practically see him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Give—minute—gonna check—”

“What?” The bar’s music is beating against the inside of Chan’s skull once more, drowning out whatever Changbin is trying to tell him. “I can’t hear you.” He laughs, because of course he can’t.

“Outside—”

Chan has just enough brain cells left to understand what Changbin’s getting at. He shuffles through the sea of bodies towards the exit, stumbling over his feet. The world spins. Chan spins with it, his face breaking his fall as he collides with a very firm but very human shape. “Sorry,” he says, the word mumbled. His hands catch on the stranger’s plaid scarf as he pats the shoulder he made contact with. “Sorry, sorry.” And then he’s outside, the night air cool against his heated skin.

“Hyung?” Changbin’s voice is frantic.

“M’okay,” Chan says. He takes a few more steps away from the entrance to the bar, distancing himself from the crowd.

“Bullshit. You don’t even know where you are.”

“So?”

“What happened? I thought you were hanging out with Minho and Jisung tonight.”

“Change of plans.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Changbin gives an exasperated sigh. “Let me call you a ride.”

“I can’t go back to the apartment.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Felix needed it.”

“I’ll talk to Fe—”

“No,” Chan says. “I’m not going back there.”

His tone must give something away, because Changbin sighs again. It’s softer this time. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, hyung. You can spend the night here.” He means well, Changbin always does, but he’ll want to talk and Chan does not. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready to talk about this, honestly. Peeling back and exposing all those layers, giving up that much of his heart—he can’t. But if he doesn’t give Changbin something, and soon, he’ll come get Chan.

“Sure,” Chan says. “Just…not yet.”

“Keep me updated? Please?”

“Yeah.”

Chan ends the call. There’s a slight breeze now, and he can see the moon peeking through the clouds above. It’s a nice night, if he ignores the part where his best friend uprooted his entire life with a single question. Which, fuck. That happened. The alcohol had done such a good job, but it’s all coming back now. The annoyance on Felix’s face, and then the joy, and how quickly Chan had been forgotten altogether. “Damn it.” Chan wipes away the tears from the corner of his eyes before they can become anything more, a waterfall he wouldn’t be able to stop even if he tried.

He inhales. Counts to ten, then twenty, then sixty. He exhales.

Eventually, he begins to recognize streets and buildings. Ahead of him, the city lights dance across the water of the Han River. It’s beautiful. Peaceful. Chan takes a seat on an empty bench. He ignores the near constant vibration of his phone in his pocket. What could he even say? Sorry for scaring the shit out of you all, Felix got engaged without telling me and I’m spiraling because I was stupid enough to think they might ever actually want me, one day? Absolutely the fuck not. If there’s one thing tonight has proven, it’s that Chan must take that secret to his grave. No one can ever know—especially Felix. He needs to bury it deeper than ever before, so far down that even he forgets it was ever a thing. It’s the only option.

“Needed more air?”

Chan startles. He clings to the arm of the bench to stop from tumbling to the ground.

Standing behind Chan is Kim Seungmin. Hands tucked into the pockets of his oversized coat, Lotte Giants baseball cap perched on his head, plaid scarf wrapped tightly around his—oh. Of course it wasn’t just anyone Chan had run into on his way out of the bar. Of course it was Seungmin. Of course he’s here. Some twisted turn of fate, the universe gloating and laughing at Chan’s misfortune.

“You were right,” Chan says, miserable.

“I usually am. About what?” Seungmin smirks, the moonlight reflecting in his eyes.

“Love. Forevers. All that—bullshit.”

The admission makes Seungmin pause. “Really?” He cocks his head, eyes widening and then narrowing, looking at Chan as if he’s a puzzle with a missing piece. He takes a seat on the bench next to Chan. It’s warm where their knees knock against one another. “What made you change your mind?” The worst part is that Seungmin actually sounds concerned, and invested in Chan’s answer. Not that Chan can elaborate; doing so would require outing himself, and Seungmin was at the wedding. He might have seen Felix. There’s a chance he could put the pieces together.

Chan shrugs.

The deflection, unfortunately, seems to only pique Seungmin’s curiosity further. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. Staring out across the water, he says, “You know, not everything has to be forever.”

“Huh?”

“Just because something’s temporary doesn’t mean it’s any less important.” He glances at Chan from the corner of his eye. Looks him up and down, from head to toe, every sad and sorry inch. “To be perfectly honest, it’s almost better that way. There’s something special, I guess, about those small but certain bits of happiness.”

This is not a conversation Chan is drunk or sober enough to be having. It’s too honest, too raw, because if he thinks about it—which, of course, now he is—the happiest he’s ever felt has always been when he’s with Felix. Together, off in the world they’d always carved around one another, ever since they were kids: handwritten notes passed back and forth during classes, weekend afternoons walking Berry at the beach, skipping school dances to lay on the grass in Chan’s backyard and look up at the stars, sitting side-by-side on Chan’s tiny university dorm bed to cram for exams. Just the two of them.

And now, Felix is engaged.

And Chan—well.

Chan was stupid. Is stupid, for thinking things would stay the same. Even more stupid, for daring to let himself hope. The biggest fool of all, for ever entertaining the possibility that he and Felix could be more, could be happy—together. Felix is going to find a new sort of happiness with Jeongin. Brighter, and better. They’re going to move on.

Perhaps Chan needs to try and do the same.

He gives Seungmin a sidelong glance. Broad shoulders, accentuated by how the jacket hangs off his frame. Soft yet defined cheekbones. Undeniably handsome, and so very different from Felix. Tonight, that last point is kind of the only one that matters.

“You’re probably right,” Chan says.

“Probably?” Seungmin retorts in disbelief. “What part doesn’t have you convinced?”

Chan laughs despite himself. “The ‘certain happiness’ part, for starters.”

“You’re overcomplicating it.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

Seungmin rolls his eyes, then fixes his gaze on Chan and gestures at him with a wave of his hand. “Like this,” he says. “Why bother with semantics, and be so committed to feeling miserable? Is that more enjoyable than letting yourself embrace even a little bit of joy?” He narrows his eyes. “Do you even want to be happy?”

What a rude question, tonight of all nights.

“Yes,” Chan says.

“Could’ve fooled me.” Seungmin’s tone is dry. He gets to his feet, standing and looking down at Chan, who feels smaller than an insect. “Do you want to be happy?” he asks again.

“Yes,” Chan says. He might even believe it, with enough repetition.

Wordlessly, Seungmin extends a hand. Soft-looking palm, skin slightly flushed. Short, cleanly trimmed fingernails. Chan remembers all those weeks ago, sitting in the hotel lobby, mashing his eggs and wanting to curl up and die as Felix waxed poetic about Jeongin’s fingers, but—well. Maybe Felix had a point. And maybe this is what Seungmin means. It might not make Chan happy, but perhaps it can at least distract him from the unhappiness. Maybe that’s all Chan needs. Maybe, at least for tonight, that can be enough.