AHHHHHHHHHHHHH - Tumblr Posts

i’ll be brave

Important announcement!

✨ Malleus' fangs ✨

Vampire Shouto and pup Katsuki are always in my heart, even when it’s not spooky time anymore

intercourse with a vampire or whatever

hey hi uhm your art is really cool!! idk if you’re still looking for malevolent recs but how about bella? she has my heart istg

BELLA SALTZMAN MY BELOVED <3

OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOOSH, THEY LOOK SO FANTASTIC!! YOU EVEN DREW IN ELINRAN!!!! Q u Q

GUHHHHHHH, I AM SO HAPPY. THANK YOU SO MUCH!! <333

THEY LOOK AMAZING IN YOUR STYLE. OwO

My half of an art trade with madrosekai uwu

I hope you like it!

****LOUD MF GASP****

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHJJJJ KZKADJFNSNAMQKKHKEIRFKLAANBQQJKKJRNWAKJXHRPQJRYOCINQOIRNCLAMOR IM DYING BRO ARGGGGGGGGJSOSMQKDJDMMXLQKQNMRNK THANK YOU SM SHES SO PRETTY OMGGGGGGGGGGGGGDAMNNNNNNNNNNN 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

Ariya Tsukiyo

@kokushibosbestie

sorry it might look a bit...ummm...ugly cus I did it in the middle of the night😅

But it's ok👍

Jimin and Y/N, what's one thing each you can't/couldn't stand in other people but somehow still find endearing in each other? 🥺

Jimin bursts into laughter, even as you shoot him a look. “I’m sorry,” he grins, leaning an elbow to the table. “This is funny. Hm... I used to find it super annoying when my ex left her things at my place.”

“Hey!” you blurt out.

Jimin smiles. “I don’t hate it when Y/N leaves her stuff here, though. Nohing makes me happier than finding her cleanser in my drawer, or something. Also,” he adds, a bit thoughtful. “It gives me an excuse to visit later that night.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you huff, but you smile. “I used to hate people who hummed while they worked. It was really annoying, but... Jimin has such a nice voice,” you say quietly. 

Jimin’s gaze softens as he finds yours. 

[ Send my characters from RTB a question ]

DEEP SOOTHING BREATHS AKAJSJDH I’m so whipped for the more emotional side of this development there are baby tears in my eyes. The unsaids, unreadable gazes, and unbidden attention to detail - love to hate JK has ruined other men for me. There’s a world of hurt for both of them and I’m so happy that it seems like they’re slowly making their way through it. They’re toeing the line right here and I can’t wait for that leap of faith.

Love to Hate (Ch. 4)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Creative Contributor: @baebae-goodnight​ for this perfect moodboard

Genre: Fuck Buddies / Enemies to Lovers

Pairing: Jungkook / Reader

Synopsis: Born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you’ve done your best to rid yourself of the taste since you were old enough to walk. Occasionally though, your mother manages to rope you into an obligatory function – or a blind date with playboy billionaire, Jeon Jungkook. Jungkook stands for everything you loathe about the world you left behind, but you can’t deny the spark of attraction between you. Intrigued by the promise of mutual satisfaction, you agree to one night in bed… and quickly realize you’re in far, far deeper than you ever intended.

Rating: 18+

Warnings: sex in a public place (not visible to others), dirty talk (slight degradation), thigh grinding, oral (female), fingering, spanking, some breast play, multiple orgasms

TW: parental gaslighting

Word Count: 13,231

Author’s Note: links to be updated at a later date!

Keep reading

Todd: We shall overcome...right?

Thunder saga and the new versions of the Troy and Cyclops sagas released!!!!!

Got me foaming at the mouth

So that new sonic prime episode?

maybe, in other life, it goes like this: (haku x mc)

—

“There’s a shrine nearby.”

You look up from where your CATSMO map is open on your phone. “How near?”

Haku scratches his ear. “About two minutes? If the Galaxy Express isn’t coming in the next twenty minutes I think we can spare a trip there.”

You look down at the map again. You’re sure it won’t take more than twenty minutes for the Express to arrive, given whatever physically impossible warp speed it travels at, but there must be a reason Haku brought up the shrine. “Missing home?”

Haku laughs. There is an undercurrent of exhaustion, which frankly isn’t surprising given the mission you just wrapped up. “In a way.”

A detour less than half an hour after the end of your mission should be easy enough to fudge on the inspection report, you figure, especially since it’s so near dinner time. And since it’s Haku requesting… You stuff your phone back in your pocket. “Let’s go.”

It’s always hard to say no when it comes to Haku.

The shrine isn’t difficult to find, parked in a small patch of land between two office buildings. There are a few people lingering about in the last rays of evening, heads bowed in quiet conversation as they wander around the honden.

Haku leads you around, however, to a smaller sub-shrine tucked under a large tree. The further you walk into the compound, the more relaxed he seems, shoulders slumping slightly and his breathing a little deeper. The gold chains of his uniform glitter as you pass under a patch of dying sun, then dull completely as you come to a standstill in the shadow of a hollow wooden shrine.

Haku takes a deep breath. His eyes flutter closed, long green brushing against the pallor of his cheeks, almost as if he is basking in the aura exuding from the structure. He has done a good job of hiding his weariness – where you are usually distracted by a charming smile you see now grey-purple bags bruising the hollow of his eyes.

Your hands itch to brush his hair away, to let him lean into your palm, to let him close his eyes and rest as you… you hold back a sigh.

Almost as if he hears you, Haku’s eyes crack open. He glances at you, impish grin hanging itself on the corner of his lips. “Staring at me again?”

You flush, but before you can form a retort something white flashes at the corner of your eye.

Perhaps it is by grace of the fact that you’ve been working on this solo mission with Haku for the past week, or perhaps it is due to the trickle of life-and-death situations you have been in since last October, but you react almost immediately, spinning on your heel and reaching out for Haku.

Haku’s hand finds yours, blindly thrown out in your direction as he steps forward slightly to shield you, but his fingers lace with yours instantly like a magnet finding home. His other hand rests on his hip, uniform jacket pushed aside in favour of easy access to his flute.

It looks almost casual to anyone else, this rehearsed defence looking like a startled step forward on Haku’s part, but you know different. You suck in a breath at the hum of power that surges from your ring to where your fingers interlock with Haku’s.

But it is only an old lady, stepping out from behind the wooden structure. She is dressed in simple priest robes, paper fan slung around her wrist, and her eyes round at your alarmed reaction.

She is not a threat, you decide, and you feel Haku’s body relax next to you as he comes to the same conclusion. There is no need to use either of your stigmas, and yet…

He doesn’t let go either, fingers firm in your own.

The priest apologises for startling you, thick Kansai accent warm with welcome. She peers at you kindly. “A lot of couples get married at the main shrine. Have you come to ask around?”

“That would be nice,” Haku smiles. There is a wistfulness in there that sounds age-old. “In another life.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised, but he has struck up a conversation with the priest about tonight’s weather and how a little rainfall might do the wisteria by the entrance some good in the April heat.

In another life. The words lick flames up from where your hands are joined, a thrum of want and hope that settles in your chest and paints the wreath of your ribs the colour of sunrise.

You know Haku’s interested — he makes no effort to hide it. He cracks jokes about taking you out on dates at least twice a week, as if hearing it enough will negate the fact that what is left of you will be dead come the crest of October, and both of you will be left with a pain time can never erase.

You make no effort to hide your blushes either — he knows how much it flusters you when he tucks your hair behind your ear, how fast your heart beats when he leans in a little too close. He knows how much you want to acquiesce, and yet…

The priest takes her leave, and the two of you are left in the grey wash of an already set sun.

“In another life.” The words sound strange coming from you, standing out against the hum of the cicadas.

“In this life, too, if you’d have me,” Haku says. His tone is light, but you don’t have to look at him to taste how bitter his smile is. You both know it will not be possible.

The chasm between you is larger than what six months can bridge.

All too soon he is pulling his hand away to hand you a coin, warm from where it has been sitting in his pocket.

“Thank you,” you murmur, and then the only sounds left are the dull clink of the coins falling into the wooden offering box, and the clatter of the bells as Haku steps forward to tug on the straw rope hanging from the rafters.

You both bow twice, and clap.

You don’t remember what you wish for – you pretend you do not wish for him – before your mind wanders off to the phantom press of Haku’s palm against yours.

Maybe… Maybe, in another life, it looks like this:

Your hand in his, standing not on the edge of an inky galaxy but on the infinite edge of forever.

No responsibilities, no curses, no anomalies, just two dust motes floating in a shared beam of sunlight, spinning together again and again like atoms dancing their way home.

Haku does not let you go in this one, no — his fingers will be wound between yours not with the intention of fighting or saving or protecting, but just holding.

The jokes he cracks about taking you on dates will not dissipate into longing, the brush of his breath against your ear will not burn. His eyes on yours, his touch on your hair, his hand on the small of your back — they will not linger late into the night long after you return home.

Instead of giving you his umbrella, he will share it.

His hands will be a warmth, a weight. An anchor under the brightness of rainy moonlight, holding you steady in the sea of ordinary life, like you both are nothing but two river stones finding yourselves in the middle of a shared stream.

You will drink in the whiskey gold of his eyes without fear of setting your lungs ablaze, and taste the laze of his smile without fear of forgetting.

You will meet him in the middle this time, languorous and lingering, and you will love him, like the moon orbiting the earth orbiting the sun, leisurely and without any intention to stop.

Maybe, in another life, between the firm interlace of your fingers will rest not a curse, but a happy ever after.

Or maybe, in another life, it goes like this:

Maybe, in another life, you are sitting next to him on beige-grey tatami, laughter in the air and afternoon sun tangling its fingers in his hair in the best kind of halo. He is looking at you, all bright eyes and soft adoration. It will send your heart bubbling like soda in the back of your throat.

Over and under and under again, he will repeat, then laugh when the red string of your ume-musubi slips through your fingers for the sixth time. Perhaps we can just buy ready-made ones in time for the wedding.

No, you will say, fiercely, not because this is Haku and the deftness of his fingers have already weaved three ume-musubis in the time it has taken you to struggle through one, but because the idea of being wedded wearing plum blossom knots weaved by the other, breathed to life in the curve of your thigh some time between sunset and sleep last night, sings a sweet promise of forever. I can do it.

It will take you two more tries, but you will do it, red tassels slotting into place like Haku has slotted himself into the space between your heartbeats, undeniable and sure.

Well done.

His congratulatory kiss will send the sun down your spine; the reach of his hands for yours will send gold through your veins.

Maybe, in another life, the moor of his fingers as they curl into yours, warm against your ring and the ume-musubi you will pin to his lapel, will mean the same thing two toothbrushes lined up on a bathroom counter does. It will feel like shoebox Nakameguro apartment does, like dancing in your socks by the light of the moon, like my-Hotarubi-hoodie-on-your-side-of-the-closet, like train station warabi-mochi bought because-I-know-you-like-it.

Maybe, in another life, you will be as much each others’ as you are the universe’s.

But in this life, you open your eyes, and you bow, and you turn away from the shrine, and you do not say anything when Haku’s hand brushes the back of yours as the both of you walk away.

*GASP*   ahh! u saw it??!! tysm!! <3  :D

These babies belong to @skaroy-island-of-bunnies !

this is a gift for Skaroy, there oc blog is @an-island-of-bunnies​ in case you want to see real art (unlike mine)

I’m just testing and messing around with filters and lighting hehe

and I made them because i love them very much  :D  

loser! wonwoo

genre; nsfw, some fluff, mdni <3 | tw; oral, (f. receiving), outdoor sex (but not public), unprotected sex (don't do this), he's such a loser, masturbating (m.) | a/n; no wonwoo fic is complete without some nasty pussy-eating. 😌

loser! wonwoo who, as you guessed, doesn't get laid as much as other guys his age. which is completely fine, and he likes to focus on academics anyway.

loser! wonwoo whose sleep schedule, if not ruined by his disruptive habits, is ruined by all the boners he conjures in a single night. which, again, is completely fine because he doesn't jerk off as much which induces more nightly erections.

loser! wonwoo who's a good acquaintance of yours and used to act normal around you. or, at least that's what you think.

loser! wonwoo who always had a small crush on you but kept it hidden. and yes, the first time you smiled at him, it got him all sweaty and hard.

loser! wonwoo whose bubble breaks after a wet dream about you. he fucks his hand in the middle of the night, quietly groaning your name. he curses you and your fucking tight tops that always shows off your tits.

loser! wonwoo who doesn't take the hint that he's being hit on. or, he does but denies it. why would a girl like you hit on a guy like him? it doesn't make sense to him.

loser! wonwoo who's tired of finding explanations on the internet to validate his being. whether it's not getting laid as much or having constant boners, or turning down your attempts to flirt with him, it all points to one thing. he's the biggest fucking loser to grace the earth.

loser! wonwoo who cannot stand the sight of you flirting with soonyoung at all. and he knows you're doing this to mess with him. he smirks after catching you check whether he's looking or not for the hundredth time.

loser! wonwoo whose last straw is you kissing soonyoung's cheek. but what the fuck is he supposed to do? should he barge in and whisk you away? but that's out of touch with reality and he can only watch in a trance.

loser! wonwoo who gets snapped out of his trance when you appear in front of him like witchcraft. you don't say much but offer him a glare and pass him a movie ticket. “at 7pm today, pick me up.”

loser! wonwoo who does as you said. he nervously waits for you, fiddling with the leather jacket that he borrowed and fixing his hair a thousand times.

loser! wonwoo looking into a mirror and fixing a stray hair when you finally meet him outside your apartment. you try stifle your giggles when he awkwardly greets you but a part of you feels like you maybe forced this date on him.

loser! wonwoo who's freaking out because you look fucking gorgeous and his dick decides it wants to greet you as well.

loser! wonwoo who has a hard time, hiding his boner and being a gentleman at the same time.

loser! wonwoo who visibly tenses, noticing that the theatre is ... empty? his heart beat quickens and he notes your expression too. but you seem unfazed, like you expected this.

loser! wonwoo who nearly dies from palpitations as the screening starts. still no one in sight. he tries out every method known to humanity to calm down.

loser! wonwoo who freezes when you shift closer to him, thighs pressing against his. he removes his jacket when he notices that you feel cold and drapes it over you. you thank him and kiss his cheek.

loser! wonwoo who absolutely did not have a internal breakdown at that. the cold air bites his skin and his growing boner does not help at all.

loser! wonwoo who loses it when you press your chest into his biceps and look at him with your needy eyes.

loser! wonwoo who gropes and squeezes your tits. he pinches your nipples, rolling the bud between his fingers. you moan, letting him do as he pleases.

loser! wonwoo who makes out sloppily with you. he kisses you so deeply, tongue gliding over yours. his hands wander all over your body, eager to learn the crooks and nooks of it.

loser! wonwoo who bruises your skin, sucking and biting it. he gropes you, in every way he's imagined.

loser! wonwoo who fucks you with so much need. he pants, removing his pants and boxers in a hurry. the need to be inside you was greater than being caught.

loser! wonwoo who moans so prettily as he thrust his hips up, meeting yours in a hurry. “god, you're so wet. fuckk-” his eyebrows knit and his lips bruise from the sheer pressure of his teeth.

loser! wonwoo who comes in no time as you clench and milk him. you groan in unison when he pulls out, releasing his seed all over your thighs.

loser! wonwoo who apologizes and immediately gets on his knees to eat you out. he sloppily kisses your cunt and sucks on the little bundle of nerves.

loser! wonwoo who uses all the tips and tricks he read on the internet to make you cum. he presses his tongue flat against your heat, licking up a broad stripe. he noses your clit, while his tongue prods at the insides of your cunt.

loser! wonwoo who fucks you with his tongue. you moan, hips bucking into his face as he pushes his tongue in and out of you. his calloused fingers rub your clit, throwing you over the edge.

loser! wonwoo who makes you cum all over his face. his glasses fog up and your juices coat his chin and lips that shines under the light from the big screen.

loser! wonwoo who brings you home to fuck you again. he just can't seem to get enough of you. and god, was it good to live out all his fantasies with you.

loser! wonwoo who pounds you into his bed every chance he gets. and he just gets better and better at it.

loser! wonwoo who also fantasized about sharing his interests with you and taking you out on cute dates.

loser! wonwoo who's over the moon when you share his interest in books and video games.

boyfriend! wonwoo who loves when you cuddle up next to him as he plays games on his phone.

boyfriend! wonwoo who's still such a loser for you.

tags; @seungkwanschicken @aaa-sia @dokyeomkyeom @bangantokchy

@asyre @armycarat2612 @bewoyewo @gyuguys @embrace-themagic

@aaniag @nurihihi (send an ask to be on the taglist!)

Seokjin for Dicon by Dispatch

“Everything is going to be okay, Rapunzel, I promise.” 

Han jisung is by far my most favorite character I absolutely love this series, kinda sad it's over tho. Thank you so much for posting this, by far the best conclusion this could've gotten

final part: bodyguard!felix x reader

masterlist.

PART I ; PART II ; PART III ; PART IV ; PART V ; PART VI ; PART VII ; PART VIII ; PART IX ; FINAL PART.

( READ ON AO3. )

Your father hires an inconspicuous bodyguard to accompany you at school and supervise you at home. What seems like an innocuous change in routine eventually spirals into a forbidden romance that grows more passionate over the years.

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: smut. violence. parental abuse. situations of intense peril overall. forced proximity. enemies2lovers. angst with eventual happy ending. (chapter word count; 19k words)

warning for this chapter: the usual story dynamics plus explicit violence, intense peril, threat and injury to reader, graphic depictions of death, explicit sexual content.

-

Your father will be here soon.  He kept his distance during the rescue operation but will reconvene with his team before the journey home. 

You and Felix wake long before his anticipated arrival, when dawn is only just peeking into the hotel room. 

You lay in bed, your head on his bare chest and his arms around you.  You discuss the potential confrontation ahead.  Last time you were taken, your father was less than sympathetic to your plight.  Even though this was more his fault than yours, you are certain you will take the blame.   He cannot take responsibility for a misstep.  If he is fallible, he is weak, and that puts his whole existence in jeopardy.  It must always be someone else’s fault.    

Therefore it is likely he will punish you.  Therefore it is likely he will ask Felix to do it. 

“Felix,” you say when he does not look at you.   He is staring out the window with a look of pure frustration. 

“I know,” he says.  “You want me to do it.  Last time I…” 

“Yes.” 

There is no need to discuss last time.  You both know he fumbled that exchange.  Felix is meant to be the personification of resolute strength and obedience, the perfect soldier.  His moment of weakness snared your father’s attention, as weakness always does.  Your quick response remedied the situation well enough, but you will not be so lucky next time.   The only thing worse than a moment of weakness is the persistence of it.  He cannot hesitate again. 

“If,” you say slowly, “we want to find a way out… then now, more than ever, we cannot give him any reasons to be suspicious of us.” 

“I know,” he says, but his jaw is still clenched and his gaze is faraway.  

“Felix.”  You touch his jaw, minding the darkening bruise, and turn his face to yours.  His expression softens when he meets your gaze.  “Thank you,” you say.  “I love you.  I trust you.  It will be okay.” 

He cups your cheek and lifts your face.  His looks at you like he is studying every small detail.  Even though he must know your face perfectly – seeing it when he wakes, before he goes to sleep, every day for so much of his life –  he looks at you like he is seeing you for the first time all over again. 

You laugh when he flicks your bottom lip, the little pout he has long since called his weakness. 

“You could convince the sky it wasn’t blue,” he says, and kisses you tenderly.  “I love you too, sweetheart.” 

Maybe it is the novelty of hearing that out loud, or maybe you will just be crazy about him forever, but you feel flustered.  You laugh and squirm, your skin hot.  It makes him laugh, the menace kissing down your throat just to make you wriggle more. 

“Don’t let my daddy catch you then,” you tease, breathlessly.  “He wouldn’t like that very much.”    

The returned chuckle makes you shiver.  You run your fingers through his hair but he grabs your wrist and pins it down.  Your breath catches when he sucks a bruising kiss on your throat.  He is usually so careful about leaving marks, but today he dips his head to the soft skin of your breast and bites a mean little mark into the tender skin, making you gasp and buck beneath his hold. 

“No, he wouldn’t, would he?” Felix says, his deep voice dropping even lower.  “What would everyone say, hmm?  Your daddy, your guards… all those rich boys at those fancy parties who think they have a chance with you…” 

“Everyone thinks I’m a frigid bitch,” you reply, joining his game, smiling knowingly.  “And I am, aren’t I?  Nothing but trouble.”

“Nothing but trouble,” he says with a grin.  He flicks the covers off, then his hands are on your hips and he flips you as smoothly.  You yelp when he drags you halfway down the bed, arranging you as he kneels behind you.  “You can’t fool me, sweetheart,” he says.  One hand curls around your throat and the other snakes down your backside.  “Frigid?  Mm. I don’t think so.  I actually think you are very, very soft… and warm…” 

His fingers slip inside you easily, wet from your previous lovemaking and wetter still from his voice.  Every little breath and tortured groan has you twitching and gasping. 

“Felix,” you say.   

It is the right thing to say.  You are clawing at the bedsheets moments later, hiccupping on each watery breath as he holds your hips and fucks you right down into the mattress.  You press against it like you could disappear there, fucked into freedom, never to return to this dire world again. 

You sink into the bed and float in your mind, sighing when he wraps his arms around you and covers you with his body.  He is hot and whole and so alive, and everything seems possible while you are joined together.  You have each other, completely and irrevocably.  That is all you need to survive. 

You finish not a moment too soon.  You are nestled in his arms, kissing and kissing and kissing, flushed and satisfied and content, when reality comes knocking.  Felix throws on some pants while you scurry into the bathroom and close the door. 

Felix steps into the hall.  Between the bathroom door and the hotel room door, you only hear muffled voices.  Then a few clicks, then another knock, then you jump.   You are wearing a blanket and it slips with your surprise.  You adjust it frantically, but Felix says, “It’s just me.”  

You crack open the door to Felix in a t-shirt and his combat pants.  You recognize the tired lines on his face, cracks in the mask he is struggling to don.  His reassuring smile is not convincing. 

“Here,” he says, handing you some clothes.  “Your father is here.  He wants to see you at breakfast.” 

“Of course he does,” you say, just for something to say, letting your frustration seep into your tone. 

The bathroom tiles are cold under your feet.  A sharp snap of sensation and a reminder of reality.  Felix makes the world feel small in comparison to him, but the world is still there, ever turning with its usual machinations and politics and powers.  You are still suspended helplessly in the centre of it all.  Though you pushed the darkest truths to the corner for a few hours, making love and comforting each other, all those hurts and agonies are still there.  You see it in his eyes, his glance flickering from here to there as he roams with his thoughts.   

Neither of you have ever had a normal life and you do not know what to do with one.  He has been making difficult choices since he was a child.  Neither of you truly knows if you are making the right one now. 

You do the best you can with a strong hug.  It is a lingering, affectionate embrace, fitting your bodies together until you feel grounded. 

Felix looks over your shoulder, catching his own reflection.   You look back as well, his cheek against yours, your eyes meeting in the mirror. 

“I couldn’t stand the sight of my own face,” he says, his voice low even though you are alone, like the words are fighting his tongue.  It is hard to admit.  He swallows hard but continues, “I hated the stupid kid looking back at me… I wanted to be someone better, someone who could actually do something right…” 

You look at him rather than his reflection.  When you touch a strand of blonde hair, he closes his eyes, as if he can feel the pad of your finger on a lock of hair, smarting more than his bruises. 

“Is that why… the hair?” you ask clumsily.  You do not know how to wade through ten years of emotion.  Felix has coloured his hair regularly since the day you met him.  The blonde suits him but it is clearly unnatural.  It has not been soft in a very long time, coarse from repeated dye jobs. 

The colour is just one more layer of his meticulous mask, crumbling in front of you as he nods and sighs.  An admittance.  He could not stand to look in the mirror and see that other version of himself, the boy he was, the boy who made all those mistakes.   You see him, the years of questioning his choices, the impossible tether around his throat.  There has never been a day he has not questioned his choices.  Working for one bad man or another.  Rescuing his friend or his lover.   Letting violence happen or letting the violence use him.

You kiss his cheek, then below his jaw, threading your fingers through his hair.  You scratch at his scalp, just a feathery light touch, one that makes him melt in your arms.   

“I love you,” you say.  You find it is an addicting word yet it never loses its potency.  Your heart still races when he touches his forehead to yours, when he strokes your sides and hums a gentle sound of pleasure.  “Things have changed a lot over the years.  But we’re still here.”  Still living your lives, even in broken bits, those stolen pieces you mentioned so long ago.  “We’ve changed.  We’ll change again.  Things will happen and we’ll figure it out.  But please don’t hate that boy anymore.  I care about him a lot.  I want him to be happy too.” 

His face scrunches with the threat of tears, but he controls himself.  He pushes the emotion into a laugh, though it is humourless.  Then he closes the space between you and kisses you, cups the back of your head and holds you there until you are both satisfied. 

“All right,” he says in a rough voice.  “Get dressed.  It’s going to be a long day.” 

“You’ll be there, though,” you say. 

“Always,” he says, a hint of amusement touching the corner of his lips.  “I’m your bodyguard, hmm?”

You laugh and kiss him again. 

“Right,” you say.  “Always.” 

-

Your father sits at a dining table in the penthouse suite.  Behind him, a window wall flaunts the city skyline.  Daylight casts a glow around him like some deified king lording over his petty kingdom.  Guards loiter in the room and the corridor, keeping their eyes sharp as hotel staff prepare the table. 

You sit across from him with the sunlight in your eyes, the usual position of discomfort and inferiority.  He does not look at you, nor does he greet you, his eyes on his phone until the table is set.  A staff member goes to serve him but he dismisses them. 

“All of you, go,” he says, not just to the staff but his team as well.  They filter out of the room one by one.  

The penthouse is a ostentatious space, all white linen and gilded frames, tall ceilings and bay windows, but as the room empties, it becomes frighteningly big.  Or maybe you just feel frighteningly small, his tactics working as they often do.  Your father knows how to push your buttons because they are the same as his.   He is scared.  It makes him angry.  He makes you scared.  It makes you angry. 

“Felix,” he says.  “Stay.”

Felix is all that tempers you.   He stands against the wall but you do not look at him, staring at your father until he finally looks your way.  Despite the light, you hold his stare, feeling a modicum of triumph when he looks away first. 

“Did they damage you?” he asks.  His phrasing almost makes you laugh.  Damaged.  As if outside forces were needed for that. 

“I’m fine,” you say.  “My bodyguard rescued me.  Your team was damaged, though.”  You throw the word right back at him.  You cross your leg and sit back, like you are as unbothered as him.    

You know that underneath his cold exterior, he is anything but casual.  He is letting his rage simmer as he builds to some awful retaliation.  He was conducting a mission, sending his best asset on a job, and it was interrupted by your kidnapping.  A kidnapping that nearly lost him more than his heir, but that same irreplaceable asset.  An asset that previously made a mistake in front of his eyes.  This is no longer a game, a squabble between a parent and child, but a real world crisis with dangerous consequences.    

You should not provoke him, and that is why you do.  Because provoking him is something you have always done and you need him to see you as that hapless child if you are going to beat him.  You do not want to arouse further suspicion in him, that you are sitting here thinking about your own schemes, that you know more about his assets and operations than he could ever suspect.

So you toss your rejoinder and he catches it, as he always does, with a cruel smirk. 

“There are more where they came from,” he says.    

Returning like cockroaches and squashed just the same.  If only a multi-generational empire could be toppled as easily.  But your father is more than a man across a table; he is ten men in the corridor and more on the ground, he is paid staff and investors and a whole society.  

Though you feign nonchalance, inside adrenaline pounds.  Sweat gathers, your heart races.  He is good at making you feel small, but at least it is predictable.  The scene unfolds  in your mind before it happens, the script playing before a single action is commanded.   You will be scolded.  You will be reprimanded.  You will be punished. 

“Felix, come here,” your father says.

You predicted he would involve Felix after what happened last time.  The only question is what manner of punishment he will force from his hand.  All you can do is trust Felix to play his role so you can play yours.  You made it clear the physical pain was meaningless, that you could take whatever he inflicted.  Just another inside joke between you.  You will laugh about it one day. 

You do not look away from your father.  Your eyes are locked in a challenging stare, daring the other to break.  You are scared, but you feel so much more than fear and rage.  With your love for Felix, with the hope in your heart, you are an ocean of feeling and you are not ashamed of it anymore.  You stare your father down and mutely convey that you are not broken, that he did not win, that he never will win. 

His answer is the flick of a kitchen knife.  It slides across the table and nearly tumbles right over the lip.  It teeters within arm’s reach of you.  It is tempting to look and consider its purpose with the trepidation you feel, but you do not.  You tell yourself he will only hurt you so much, that putting you in true peril would surely be counterproductive to his overall efforts.  Whatever plan he has for that knife will be a momentary pain you can recover from.

Then he says, “Felix.” 

Felix steps into your periphery, the black of his fatigues a shadow at your side. 

“Pick up that knife,” your father says.  “Put it through your hand.  Right through to the table.”

It is not the demand you were expecting, not by a long shot.  As your father stares you down, steady where you start to waver, you realize this test is not for Felix.  It is for you.   

“I trust,” your father hisses the word, “you know the spot that will inflict the least permanent damage.”

The last time your father made this demand, you and Felix were kids at the start of your messy life together.  Instinct propelled you to stop him.  Over the years, you have mastered schooling your reactions.  The girl who tackled Felix, the girl who sobbed while he was beaten, that girl learned to save her tears for later.  Your father’s version of you is a cold, headstrong, hateful fool.  She might stop Felix to combat her father, or she might let him suffer out of pure hatred. 

Both options feel wrong.  Regardless of what you choose, you feel like you are giving something away.  You feel like your father will see right past it.  He stares at you like he will find your secrets written on your face.    

You have seconds to decide and that is not enough time.  The moment passes you by.  Felix plants his hand and takes the knife.  Your father does not count him down.  He watches you, willing you to make a mistake, to show your weakness.  To prove him right. 

You flinch when the knife thuds into the table, the soft reverberation of the wood accompanied with a gross little squelch that sounds too loud in this too big room.  Your reaction is strongly stamped on your face, disgusted and upset.  You look away to stop the tears that stab behind your eyes. 

Everything that has happened, everything you have done, and you are right back here.  After everything, he still ended up with that knife in his hand. 

Your father rips it out.  Felix catches his breath but does not cry out.  You catch a glimpse of the bloody knife before your father tosses it on the floor, as if he is discarding something insignificant. 

You slowly meet his gaze.  He is still assessing you.  You cannot tell if you passed or failed his test.  By the scrutiny of his regard, it seems he does not know either.  All you can do is look at each other while Felix bleeds beside you.

“You may go,” your father says, cold as the ice that locks your limbs.  It takes you a moment to stir life back into them. 

“Felix,” your father says.  “You stay.  We have business to discuss.” 

You do not look at Felix.  You cannot bear to look at him.   On the escorted march back to your room, you are quiet, biting the inside of your cheek to stop any more unwanted reactions.  Only when you are alone in the room do you let it out, an aggravated cry as you rip a pillow off the bed and whip it blindly across the room. 

This was never going to be easy, but now it feels like the ongoing struggle between you and your father has led to an insurmountable deadlock.  He has you enclosed in his fist and he is threatening to crush you in it. 

You do not think he knows about the true nature of your relationship with Felix.  He might suspect anything, an affair the last of it.  Even a menial friendship would be a detrimental betrayal to him.  All he sees is a smudge of a weakness in what should be the strongest cog in his machine. 

He is testing you and tormenting you.  He is perched on his pedestal, waiting for you to throw yourself at his feet in eventual penitence.   

You will not.  Not this time.  Your father is expecting retaliation in the form of equal dramatics and you will not satisfy him.  You will sit quietly.  You will do what you have been doing, stealing pieces of your life in the silence and shadows.  He controls a realm of power, affluence, and violence.  You control yourself.  Love has saved you all this time.  It will be your means of escape for good. 

You sit in quiet repose until Felix returns.  Although you promised to remain calm, you cannot help but fuss over his injured hand.  It has already been stitched and bandaged but you peek beneath the binding, almost gagging at the sight.

“All right, enough,” Felix says.  He lifts your head and guides it onto his shoulder instead.  You are sitting on the small loveseat under the window.  You throw your arms around him and hold tight. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, a tear sliding from your cheek to his shoulder.  You sniffle. 

“Don’t be,” he says.  “I can take the pain.  It means nothing.  Sweetheart, he means nothing.”

“I know,” you say, but you sniffle one more time anyway.  Gathering yourself, you lift your head to look at him.  “What did my father want after I left?” 

“I don’t fully know,” Felix says, the tenderness in his expression giving way to uncertainty.  “He said he wants to continue the job,” Felix says.  “He and Miroh, they’re both chasing these long-term investments in some government building contracts… Miroh has been getting in the way of your father’s deals, so he’s been mostly standing guard.  Then he got intel that a significant asset of Miroh’s would be involved in securing an upcoming bid…  And he thought… he thought with the right team he could… acquire whatever this asset was…” 

“Chris,” you say, a breathless note.  “That’s why he brought you on, isn’t it?  He told you the acquisition was Chris.”

“If Chris was alive, if he was working for Miroh even after everything…”  Felix swallows.  He looks pained, like all these words are hard to say.  His voice is rough and the words scratch like sandpaper as he forces them out.  “Between me, your father’s back-up team, and the element of surprise… We had a chance of stopping Miroh’s subterfuge and getting… rescuing… Chris.  Finally.” 

But Chris might be dead.  Your father might have killed him.  Miroh has a vast artillery and the asset in question could be anyone or anything.  It makes more sense your father was using Felix to eliminate this obstruction.  That is what he always does.  He uses someone like a thing, strengths and weaknesses calculated, and works them into his scheme. 

You look at the bloody bandage, wrapped tight around that wounded hand, and you cannot bring yourself to vocalize these awful, pessimistic thoughts.  You say instead, “But why would he want to continue the job now?  You no longer have the element of surprise.”   

“No,” Felix says.  “We don’t.  That’s because the job is over and your father is lying.” 

“What?”

“Chris is dead.”  Felix says it for you, with a hard set to his jaw that you recognize as a shield against emotion.  He does not look at you because it exposes that vulnerable, human part of him, and right now he is fighting to maintain his composure.  Cool, collected, he plainly states, “There is no chance of this job succeeding anymore.  Miroh caught onto us.  He interrupted us.  Whatever we were after is not there anymore.  Your father is just pulling my leash to see if I fight back.”  He takes a deep breath before saying more.  “He wants an excuse to question my loyalty.” 

“He is provoking us,” you agree.  There is a second of silence, both of you in contemplation, then you say, “We can’t let him.” 

“If I refuse this job, he will just get worse,” Felix says.  “If we try to run right now, we won’t get far.  We need to do this right, we need to—”

“Take the job,” you say.  “You said yourself, the job is over.  My father is a bastard and an idiot but he would never risk sending his best team somewhere dangerous when he has nothing to gain from it.  Call his bluff.  Take the job.” 

“I can’t leave you again,” Felix says, eyes closing as he clenches his good fist.  “I won’t leave you alone with him again.  Not right now, not like this.  Sweetheart, if something happened—”

“I’ll be fine,” you say, wrapping your hand over his fist and gently uncurling his fingers.  You nudge your nose against his chin, coaxing him to turn his head.  He finally does, sighing as he looks down at you.  You smile.  “I’ll be safe in the house.”

“It’s more dangerous in there than out here,” he says. 

“You know he won’t do anything worse than he’s ever done before,” you say.  You look down when you touch the bandage on his hand.  “We can take the cuts and bruises a little longer.  Do the job, then come back to me.  And who knows…”  You kiss his cheek, a touch of comfort.  “Maybe you’ll find the truth about Chris.” 

“I know the truth,” he says, unmoved.  “He’s dead.” 

You do concede it is incredibly likely.  If anything stopped your father from killing Chris, it was not morality, rather the practicality of breaching Miroh’s defences.  But it sounds like Chris was trouble to Miroh, so it is possible there was no pushback.    

It still breaks your heart to see Felix like this.  The burden of this bargain has caused him strife for so long, but you can see how it motivated him too.  As the hope leaves him, a light dims, and even your affection cannot ignite it. 

“How do you know that?” you ask helplessly. 

“I just feel it,” Felix says.  “In my heart.  I guess.  I think, umm.  I think.  I think I’ve known for a long time.  Maybe from the last time I ever saw him.  But I needed to believe in it.  I think I needed to believe Chris could be saved because then maybe—”  He looks down at his injured hand.  His fingers twitch when he fails to close his fist.  “Then I would have done something good,” he says miserably.  “Maybe then I could be worth saving too.”    

“Felix. Baby.”  You touch his face, still minding the bruise that grows more vicious by the second.  It only adds to the ache in your chest as you look at him, beaten and battered for someone else’s sake.  He has been taking hits every day since he was fourteen years old.  Whether it was for you or his friend, he was willing to surrender his life if it meant even a possibility of saving someone else.  “Felix, you have more heart and humanity than anyone I have ever known,” you say.  “Everything you have ever done has been because of love, despite what they tried to make you otherwise.  How can you not see what I see?” 

He looks at you, really looks at you, the way he did this morning.  He traces the curve of your cheek and brushes the subtle pout of your lips. 

“You’ve always seen more than most people do,” he says.  “You give me something else to believe in, you know?”

“Stop flirting,” you tease gently.  “This is serious.”

He laughs, his smile soft but sincere.  You kiss him slowly, until you are breathing the same uneven breaths, your hearts no doubt beating in tandem.  

Then you pick yourselves up and prepare for what comes next.   

-

Your father claims they will be gone for a week but you know it is not true.  There is no real mission so they will return in a few days at the latest.  For your part, you can only wait.  

Even though you have a tenuous plan, it is still hard being separated from Felix.  You remind yourself that you could not protect him in the field anyway, but logic is meaningless to your heart.  You imagine a version of yourself that is possessed of so many skills, she could wipe out every obstacle without breaking a sweat. 

But you are you.  Your skills are more emotional than physical and right now that physicality is even worse than usual.  You are lethargic from a brutal couple days, weak from the drugging, sore all over, and you cannot sleep well in an empty bed. 

You wake repeatedly in the night, startled by a nightmare where you are being taken, where Felix is being beaten, where your father kills him and a dozen boys like him and all you can do is watch.  The nightmares drag you into consciousness where you are barely eased, the reality of the world not so different from your nighttime horrors. 

In the daylight, you maintain the healthiest disposition possible.  You keep your distance from the security team, sitting in your room or quietly on the couch.  You do not engage when they antagonize you.   They grow bored of your presence soon enough, especially when they cannot get a rise out of you, leaving them with nothing to report to your father.

You expect the hours to drone endlessly.

Then you have a visitor. 

You ignore the doorbell.  The security team does not seem surprised by the interruption so you disregard it.  Maybe it is just another member of the team. 

You ignore the bell and the bustle of guards.  You head to the kitchen to scrounge for some lunch instead.  You hum as you chop vegetables, not paying any mind to the footsteps behind you.  You expect it is a member of the security team, stalking you in the name of supervision.  You turn to address him, a saccharine sweet smile at your face and a drole quip on your tongue, but your heart stops at the figure standing across from you. 

“Hyunjin?”

You breathe more than whisper his name, like surprise has winded you. 

You stand there, knife in hand, jaw hanging open as you stare into the face of your old friend.  He is somehow even more handsome than you remember, long dark hair framing his face, eyes fierce and cheekbones sharp.  An expensive blazer hugs his trim form.  His boots resound with a softer thump than combat boots, so you should have realized it was someone else sooner.

You never would have guessed him.  You have not seen Hyunjin in years. 

“Hello, my girlfriend,” Hyunjin says with a smile, dazzling and beautiful and oh-so very fake. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask tentatively, so perplexed by his appearance in your house that you do not know where to begin.  You nearly pinch yourself to make sure you are not dreaming. 

“Your dad called my dad,” Hyunjin says, his voice very light and casual, like he is picking up a conversation you paused an hour ago and not years ago.  “He thought you needed company so you wouldn’t try running away off or something.  So here I am.  Ta-daaa.  Company.” 

Security shuffles past the kitchen.  Hyunjin pauses, listening to the scuttle of their booted feet.  When the din quiets, he smiles at you again.  It does not reach his eyes. 

“Hyunjin,” you whisper, laying the knife down.  “What on earth is happening?  Why are you here right now?”

Voices, laughter, the team in the other room.  You and Hyunjin look at the door.  His smile droops and he leans closer when he says, “Somewhere quieter please.” 

You are still in something of a daze when you lead Hyunjin downstairs to the gym.  A guard departs after giving the room a sweep, as if anyone or anything could have gotten down here with all the security.

Then it is just you and Hyunjin. 

Hyunjin crosses the room, taking in the space and equipment.  He whistles long and low while shaking his head.  It makes you laugh despite everything. 

“No, no, it’s nice,” Hyunjin teases.  “I never saw this room before.  But I always remembered your house was very small and understated.”

It’s a joke but you cannot force a laugh because his reminiscence sends you hurtling through your own memories.  He turns and you see a younger version of him, just for a moment, beaming and bright.  Hyunjin used to be the hopeful one, the person with a plan and ambition.  He believed there was more to life and he believed he could achieve it.  He was so certain that it sparked a flicker of hope in you.  Now your flame is an inferno but there is no light or fire behind his eyes.  He is so cold that it is hard to believe there was ever a flame. 

“Hyunjin,” you say, imploringly.  “What happened?” 

“A lot,” he says.  He puts his hands in his pockets like he feels at ease, but his eyes keep darting around the room, betraying his discomfort.   

Though your friendship was short, it was substantial.  You know him.  Right now he is labouring beneath the weight of his performance, his charming expressions crooked, like poorly fitted clothes.   He looks like an uncanny duplicate of the boy you once knew. 

You step closer to him.  He does not move, frozen in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets.   When he eventually looks at you, it is with a slow lift of the head.  You swear you can see a curtain drawing across his face as it happens.  This close, you realize just how pale and wan he looks.  He is grey at the edges, like he is fading away before your very eyes. 

“Hyunjin,” you say, instinctively reaching out.  He flinches away from your touch, then tries to smile like it didn’t happen.  You do not hide your distress. 

He finally drops the pleasant façade.  His hands fall out of his pockets and swing at his sides.  His countenance is even colder, his striking features sharper than ever as he levels you with a venomous stare. 

“Don’t pity me,” he says.  “I can’t stand it.  I made my choices and I’m living with the consequences.” 

“Consequences?” you ask.  “Did they catch you trying to—”

 “I never left,” he says.  “I never even tried.  I was close.  I had a whole plan.  A way to start over.  But then...”  He turns without any warning and walks to the mirror wall where he looks at himself.  His hand hovers in the air, fingers curling.  “I met someone,” he says.  “And he wasn’t who I thought he was.” 

When he does not elaborate, you step closer.  You reach out to touch his shoulder, a consolation on the tip of your tongue.  Before your touch even lands, he spins around and looks right at you. 

“It turns out he was working for my father,” Hyunjin says.  He speaks in a plain tone, conveying facts without any unnecessary sentiment, but you can see the red in his eyes as he strains to hold back emotion.  “It was my fault for being so stupid.  With the way things were going, I should have seen it coming.  There is no such thing as selfless love.  Everyone serves themselves in the end and I was stupid to compromise my well-being for someone else.  I deserved the betrayal.” 

“That’s not true,” you say without hesitation.  He is talking about someone else but his words feel like a slap against your friendship too.   You grab his hand like you can squeeze sense back into him.  “I’m so sorry you were hurt,” you say.  “But you can’t honestly think—”

“Hurt.”  He chokes on the word and rips his hand back.  “It nearly killed me.  I wish it killed me.  I wish I was anywhere but here.  But I am stuck here because of my stupid feelings.  Everyone has a weakness waiting to be exploited and you can’t trust anyone not to take advantage of yours.”

It sounds so much like your father that you stumble back.  It resonates with a heavy slam against your ribs and the heart beating inside them.   That heart feels so wrung out these days, swollen with so much love one second then shrivelled with pain the next.  It throbs now.  You are hurt just witnessing his pain.  He has been betrayed and broken and he is unreachable in his grief.  You can only imagine what he has endured to end up back here, in this house, with you. 

You cannot blame him for guarding himself, but your combative side rears its stubborn head.

“There are good people,” you say.  “There are people that can be trusted.  You can trust me, after all.” 

“I don’t know that,” he says.  “We don’t know each other anymore.” 

“That is definitely not true,” you say.  You and Hyunjin clicked so well because your circumstances were so similar, your fears and pain the same.  “We know each other perfectly, Hyunjin,” you say. 

He looks away, blinking rapidly.  His shoulders hunch.  It looks so wrong for a man like him to curl in on himself in shame. 

“Fine,” he says.  “One person.  It doesn’t make a difference.”

“One person makes all the difference,” you say.  “Remember Minho?” 

That one really makes him flinch.  You are pretty sure a slap would hurt less. 

“And Felix,” he says, his voice softer now.  He scrunches his eyes shut like he can stop his pain with enough concentration.  He pushes through and says, “He works for your father, doesn’t he?  I remember him at that party.  He was with the security team.” 

“Yes,” you admit.  “He works for him.  In a way.” 

“And you still trust him?”  Hyunjin laughs.  He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.  “That’s just stupidity.”

“It is not.”

“He works for your father and takes his money and you still trust him not to betray you?  That’s stupid.” 

“It’s not.”  Frustration bubbles inside you.  You want to grab him and shake him around, like you can sift through and find the real Hyunjin underneath all this.  “I know I can trust him completely.”

“You can’t possibly know that for sure,” he says.  “He’ll betray you for the right price.  Everyone has a price.  You don’t think there’s something he’d trade you for?” 

That does sting, if only infinitesimally, as you recall Felix and his conflicting desires.  But you do not begrudge Felix for his life choices.  He was an impressionable boy, raised to follow orders with no thoughts of his own.  It made him wise in some ways and naïve in others.  He fell into a bad bargain with a scheming man and found himself trapped.  He was forced to make difficult decisions.  It was not about choosing you or Chris.  You would never make it about that.   

“Felix loves me,” you say.  “And I love him.   You’re right.  There are things he wants desperately.  But he doesn’t have to trade me for it.  He knows I would surrender myself willingly to see him happy.  Just like I know, no matter what else happens, he will always come back for me.  No matter where they hide me.  No matter where I hide myself.  No matter what men like my father do to him.  We choose each other.” 

“Everyone breaks,” Hyunjin says weakly.  “No one’s that strong.” 

“Not on their own, maybe,” you say.  “We’re not alone.” 

There was so much ice in his feigned arrogance that you are startled when Hyunjin starts crying.  He covers his face with his hands.  His shoulders shake and his breath hitches. 

“Hyunjin,” you say, your own voice breaking.  You rush up to him in a flustered hurry.  You touch his head and his shoulders, trying to peer at him through his fingers.  “Hyunjin, talk to me, please,” you beg.  “Something else is wrong, isn’t it?  Hyunjin, why are you here?  Where are your parents?  Why did my father call yours?”

“My parents are dead,” he barely manages to speak, gasping between his hiccupping cries.  “It’s just me.  They came for me and my father was difficult, he asked for too much, and they— and I—”

“They?” you say. 

It is then you see it.  You are clutching his shoulder and it tugs at his blazer.  A shirt button pops open and your eyes drop to the exposed bruises across his collarbone.  You blink in disbelief at the horrible mosaic beaten into his skin, angry welts of red and purple and yellow.  It seems to go all the way down his chest.  When you part the material of his shirt, something else catches your eye. 

You freeze.

“Oh,” you say.  “Hyunjin.” 

He is wired.  Someone is listening.  Your father is listening. 

You stop breathing for a moment.  The world gets quiet.  You look at Hyunjin.  An old friend showing up at your house out of nowhere, presented like an offering.  Jisung was not important enough for your father to remember, but Hyunjin is a different matter.  He is rich if not wealthy.  His parents were upwardly mobile, his father the kind of pathetic rich man who thought he was equal to a man like your father.  Willing to do awful things to his own son to keep him in his clutches, then selling him to the highest bidder if it meant advancement.  His only mistake was asking for too much when he was ultimately expendable.  There are always more where he came from. 

You want to be wrong.  Your father is a busy man.  He would not waste time finding Hyunjin and putting him through so much just for this, just to corner you into a confession.  But you know he did.  This is exactly what he would do.  He moves like a coward, killing civilians and poisoning innocent boys, then he makes a show of throwing it in your face. 

He always told you friendship was beneath you.  What a way to prove it. 

“I think you’ve fallen in with a bad crowd,” you say, forcing a laugh through the gathering tears. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says, a tearful whisper.  He touches your arms like he wants to hug you, but holds himself back. 

“Me too,” you say.  You warned him a long time ago that befriending you was dangerous.  You wish you had been wrong. 

You pull him into a hug and he immediately envelopes you, his arms around your shoulders and yours around his waist.   He chokes out a sob and squeezes you so tight that your breath catches.  Then he just holds you there. 

You do not know if it is his cologne or his shampoo, but it smells so familiar.  It takes you back to that treehouse, looking over a glittering neighbourhood as the sun set and he dreamed about the dawn. 

“I still remember that rhyme, you know,” you say.  The address of that cabin, written in a rhyming lilt that you never forgot.  “If you ever have a chance again… promise me you’ll try…” 

He chokes out another sob. 

“How can you still care about what happens to me?” he asks.  “What about you?” 

“I’ll be fine,” you say.  It is spoken calmly, for all that it is a lie.  “Promise me?”

He just nods, then pulls you closer again. 

You cling to him for as long as you can.  It gives you the strength to stay upright despite your shaking legs, even when you hear footsteps coming down the stairs.  You brace yourself for the worst, halfway expecting the whole house to erupt in a violent explosion. 

It is just a guard.  He says, “Time to go, Hwang. Visit’s over.” 

You want to keep hugging.  You feel like you will fall through the floor if he lets you go.  He is just as reluctant, but withdraws when the guard steps into the room.   He does not look at you as he leaves, head down as he trails towards the stairs. 

“Goodbye, Hyunjin,” you say. 

It stops him for a moment.  He nods then continues.  There is nowhere else to go but back up those stairs. 

You are left standing by yourself in the middle of the room.  The mirror wall makes the space feel never-ending.  You look at your reflection.  You look so rough already, scarred from your kidnapping, tear-streaked from crying.  Your hands tremble uncontrollably.  You remember a younger version of yourself sitting in front of this mirror with Felix, for a moment feeling like a normal girl with her boy.  His touch brought you to life.  He made you feels things you thought you would never feel. 

It will be your own voice your father plays back to you, your own confession betraying you. 

You will not be sorry for it.  

You look at yourself and wipe your face.  You take a breath.  You walk to the stairs, one step after another.  There are guards upstairs but they pay you no mind.  They have clearly received no orders, not yet.  You could try to make a run for it, but you would not get far on your own. 

Instead, you go upstairs to your room.  You look around like it is the last time you will ever see it.  You know that is not true, logically.  Your father will not kill you, but there are fates just as devastating. 

You walk through the room.  It is plainly decorated with a mix of things owned by you and Felix.  For all that this house is not a home, you carved a shared space in this room.   You sit on the bed and study everything from discarded clothes to books to computer parts. 

Something compels you to open the drawer on his side of the bed, that same single drawer you allotted when he first moved in.  A ragged old beanie sits at the bottom of it, the first thing he ever owned.  You fold it over in your hand and squeeze it like a talisman, like it will infuse you with some magic to endure whatever storm is blowing your way. 

You cross the room and touch a few more things.  You find some university textbooks and your heart aches with the desire to return to those times.  You lived a fleeting few years like you were completely free, in love and happy and home. 

You will probably never see Seungmin or Jeongin again, but it brings you some peace to know they will live good lives.  You will never forget their willingness to intervene on your behalf despite the odds being so stacked against them.  Maybe they were not very good at it, smacking chairs and throwing drinks, but you will remember them fondly.  You wish you could say goodbye. 

With that thought, you pause.  Your gaze drifts to your computer. 

You cannot say goodbye to Seungmin or Jeongin, but you can say goodbye to someone else. 

You never wanted to risk contacting Jisung from home, just in case your father was found out.  But everything is ending today, one way or another.  There is nothing more you can lose.   You will take some comfort in a final word to an old friend before you are sealed in this gilded mausoleum.

You sit at your computer.  You log into the blank profile you made some time ago.  It is hard to tell if you are nervous because your stomach is so twisted in knots already, but you think there might be some happy anticipation.  You try to manage your expectations because there is a chance Jisung did not read the messages, seeing as they came from a blank account. 

You should have known better than to doubt him.  You log in to several new messages, laughing from the first line.

OH MY GOD!!!!!!!! IT’S YOU????? MY GIRL!!!!!!!

Okay sorry about that I am totally so cool I promise.  I’m just in shock.

I know you told me not to, but just so you know, I spent a year trying to reach you... 

Well, actually, I spent like four months crying my eyes out and being miserable and pathetic first..  On god, I eyed a jar of peanut butter with some serious thought for a minute there!!!  But then no, no way.  I had to keep going. 

I tried to find you.  Your bitch ass dad is famous because he’s an ugly rich loser so his properties are listed all over a million websites.  I found the one in town where you must live and I rode my bike there a bunch of times but uhhhhh yeah much to my eternal disappointment I am not James Bond and that security system was insane.  Don’t even get me started on when all the dudes in the army gear kept showing up.

On an unrelated note it’s way harder to buy explosives than you’d think. 

Just want you to know I did try to get in there.  You were never alone even if you felt like it. 

But it sounds like you’re not alone anyway HELLLL YEAHHHHH she is getting SOOOME.  All jokes aside I am crazy happy for you.  You deserve it for real.  He better be treating you right though or I WILL find a way through that gate and I WILL kick his ass.  Just say the word and I will be there in a heartbeat. 

He goes on for a while, the whole length of his message making you smile.  When you did not respond, he sent a few more, spaced further and further apart from each other.   The last message he sent was just a few days ago.

Hey I don’t know if you’re getting these.  I like to think so.  You don’t have to answer if you are.  I know you are in a dangerous spot.  Or maybe you’re not anymore and you got out.  In that case, I hope you never read these.  I hope you’re out there living your best life.  Maybe we’ll cross paths again but if not, I count myself lucky for knowing you at all.  I think we’re both slightly insane and everyone else I meet is way too normal haha. 

What I’m trying to say is I miss you like crazy.  I hope we can laugh together again someday.  Even if we never do, let’s say we will.   Keep smiling till I’m there.  Catch ya later crazy girl.

You smile.   Then emotion takes over, tears returning as you lay your hands on the keyboard to type a response. 

You have just hit send when there is a knock at your door, then it is opened without your permission.  You turn and look at the stoic guard who beckons you forward. 

“Your father is home,” he says.  “He wants a word.” 

You nod.  You spare one last look at you screen before logging out and shutting down.  You are certain it is the last message you will get to send.   A warmth fills your chest regardless.  You know it will reach Jisung.  His laughter and energy fills you with the strength you need to walk steadily out that door and down the hall.

-

Hi Jisungie. 

Thank you for your messages. I just read them all now. It wasn’t easy for me to check them before, but I did it today because it might be the last time I have an opportunity to do so.  My father found out about my love affair and seeing as it was with the one person he could not afford to lose, I have no doubt that a reckoning is on its way.  I thought he was bad before, but he has only gotten worse over the years.  I am sure this betrayal will put him over the edge.

I do not know what is going to happen.  I was scared until I read your messages.  They truly made me smile.  You have always made me a little braver.  I think I got less rebellious over the years because I got scared, but now… The worst has happened and I’m still here. 

I will figure it out.  But in case I never get the chance to talk to you again, I just wanted to say thank you one more time.  I miss you too, Jisungie.  I think about you so much.  I wish I could laugh with you again, the kind of laughter where nothing is all that funny but we can’t stop anyway.  Thank you for the times we did. 

I am happy to have lived my life because I knew you. I appreciate all the good times so much more because of the hard times.  You were a one-of-a-kind friend.  I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

Keep smiling for me.    

Goodbye. 

-

Your father is behind his desk. 

There is no one else in the room.  They close the door behind you.  You walk calmly up to the desk and take a seat in your usual spot.  You sit as straight as you can, perched on the edge of the seat.  You are still lower than him, but you feel bigger and stronger than you have ever felt in your life. 

Your father draws out the silence, perhaps waiting for you to break down.  You stare at each other.  When he opens his mouth to speak, you interrupt him.  You are uninterested in games and dramatic embellishments, which you know he will indulge.  You simply ask, “What did you do to Hyunjin?” 

“I would not worry about the Hwang boy if I was you,” your father says spitefully.  “You have bigger concerns—”

“And yet I am asking about him,” you snap.  “What are you doing with him?”

“What I do with everything when it is no longer useful to me,” he says.

It is the answer you were expecting but it still draws your rage like a magnet.  It punches out of you, your eyes wet with tears when you say, “You’re pathetic.”

“How many times must you suffer humiliation at my enemy’s hands before you understand that none of this is a game?”  His voice rises as he speaks.  “Do you want to be out on the streets?  Do you want to be brutalized?  Do you want—”

“I would rather die rotting in the sewers with Felix than spend even one more minute under your roof,” you say.

You wonder what surprises your father more: the vicious tone or your blatant confession.  It stuns him into silence.  You know you have disrupted his script.  There is little sense in taunting you with your words if you utter them plainly before he can try. 

“I see,” your father settles on saying.  He presses a button on his desk and the buzzer in the corridor resounds.  “Let’s put that to the test, shall we?”

The door opens and several guards usher inside.  You spare them a fleeting glance before your attention narrows to the figure between them. 

“Felix!”  You stand but cannot reach him.  He is surrounded by guards and they will not let you touch a hair on his head. 

He moves like he is completely boneless, evidently drugged with something to make him bleary and slow.  He thumps heavily onto his knees when they put him there.  His eyes are hazy as he looks around the office.   They pause on you, flicking up and down, then he smiles through the pain. 

The pain.  It is not just a drug.  He looks like he went a few rounds with a cement wall, his lip split and his jaw bruised.  His bandaged hand is soaked through with blood, the rest him as battered.  His injuries disappear beneath his shirt and pants but you know it is not a pretty sight.  You swallow down the bile in your throat before looking at your father. 

“He’s your best asset,” you say.  “You can’t lose him.” 

“Oh?  Can’t I?” your father asks.  “Can’t I?  Can’t I?  You think you know something?  You think you can tell me what to do?  You, when all you do is destroy what I make?  I give you everything and this—this is how you—”  His yelling sharpens to a shriek before he starts breaking things.  It pulls Felix further out of his haze, his eyes tracking the frantic movements as your father smashes a vase near your feet. 

You think about that tiny shard of glass from last time, the miniscule thing that started it all.   It makes you laugh even though nothing is funny.  Laughter is an emotional output just like crying, so it pours out of you with no regard for the actual gravity of the situation. 

It only worsens your father’s rage. 

“Does something here amuse you?” he asks, but you are laughing too hard to answer.  There is a vein throbbing in his forehead and you imagine it bursting.  You imagine all your problems solving themselves as he drops dead from his own rage.   The image is even funnier because you truly cannot imagine this man dying.  He is a monster.  If you stab him, you fear he will just mutate and come back worse. 

“You want to laugh?” he snaps.  He crosses the room to Felix.  “Laugh.” 

He holds out his hand and someone places a gun in his open palm.  This snaps you out of your delirious giggles, a winded whoosh spilling out of you.  

Your father does not execute action himself.  He always puts the gun in someone else’s hand.  The fact he is pointing it at Felix should tell you that his threat is not serious. 

But he has never been this furious, his anger a white hot cascade of fire.  Felix is just inches from the barrel of the gun.  Even an inexpert marksmen like your father could drive a bullet between his eyes. 

So the moment he grips the weapon, you shout, “Stop!” 

Your father looks at you with a cock of his head, satisfied with your reaction. 

Then he jumps back because Felix rushes to his feet, most of the fog dissipated.  Your father’s stupid men did not think for a moment that Felix would repeat a strategy.  Just days before he allowed himself to be captured so he could rescue you.  It seems he has done that again, feigning the depth of his condition.  He swings to his feet and kicks out. 

His injuries restrict his movement.  He is good at ignoring pain but his body overrides his consciousness.  He fights nonetheless, struggling with the guards while you watch. 

You look around for something that can help.  You snatch a paper weight off the desk  and prepare to throw. 

Your father is a step ahead of you.  Suddenly you are staring down the barrel of a gun, your father on the other end, fuming. 

“No—!”  Felix says before he is beaten down.  With his attention diverted, a guard kicks the back of his legs.  His knees buckle and he goes down with a groan. 

You look at him then flick your eyes back to your father.  You raise both hands and lift a challenging eyebrow. 

“You want to do this?” you ask.  “Really?  After everything?”

“After everything,” your father says.  “Exactly my words.  A house, an education, unending protection.  You want for nothing.  All I ask in return is obedience and you cannot even grant me that.  You have the audacity to betray me for this animal.”  He waves the gun around like the clumsy, ungainly thing he is.  It makes a few heads duck, including yourself.  You fear this man will kill someone without even trying.  It makes it hard to listen, which might be for the best, as he goes on a long tirade about privilege and position and loyalty. 

He starts merely angry but it turns downright diabolical. 

“And you.”  He turns to Felix.  “I dug you out of Miroh’s gutter!  I made you a bargain!  I gave your meaningless life purpose!  You are nothing without me.  How dare you think to take what is mine.  How dare you think you are anything more than a dog.  How long have you kept this secret?  How am I supposed to trust it is the last?  You are a liar.  For all I know you are lying about everything.  Is that it?  Are you a spy, feeding reports back to Miroh?  Is that why I can never succeed in my missions?  Have you been—” 

Felix bursts into laughter.  His face scrunches with delight, his cheeks dimpled. The low rumble of his laughing voice sounds real, honest amusement at the proclamation.  It fades to a sigh, then he looks up.

You have never seen such a dark glare shadow his features, made all the more horrifying thanks to his bloody injuries.  It makes your stomach drop even though it is not directed at you. 

“You fail at all your missions because you’re an incompetent idiot,” Felix says.  “You couldn’t even control two children. What makes you think you can control Miroh?”

“Have you forgotten our bargain?” your father yells, waving the gun towards Felix again.  “You lie and trick your way into my household and still expect—”

“Our bargain,” Felix spits the word and some blood sprays out.  He spits the rest on the floor and shakes his head.  “I know he’s dead.  You killed him a long time ago.”   

The room is quiet for a moment.  Your father is still holding the gun, though it dangles at his side.  He and Felix stare each other down.  Although Felix is kneeling, his sinister stare is far more terrifying than your father’s blank gaze.  But then that empty gaze turns cold and your father smiles, one of those sharp smiles that opens like a slash across his face. 

“Now how would you know that,” your father says, “if you are not a spy for Miroh?”

“One of Miroh’s men told us at the warehouse,” you interrupt.  It earns you nothing but a wrathful glare from your father.  He gestures to you and a guard puts a threatening hand on your shoulder. 

“You will speak when spoken to,” your father snaps.  He looks at Felix again.  “Oh.  Yes.  You.  Whoops.  I very nearly forgot, it was so long ago when I killed your friend.  Does that make you sad?  Poor little boy.  You should have remembered your place.  Your kind are born to die for men like me.”

“Men like you,” Felix says.  Mourning will have to wait so he laughs because he cannot cry.  “You’re pathetic.  Not a surprise, though, yeah?  Since your father took care of everything before I killed him—oh.  Whoops.”  He tilts his head and smiles, speaking with the same saccharine tone your father just used to mock him.  “It was so long ago.  I almost forgot I shot your daddy in the fucking head.  Does that make you sad?  Poor little boy.  You should have remembered your place and stayed behind your walls.  You’ll never be a man like him.” 

Your father has never looked so stricken.  You did not even know his face could contort such a way.   It makes him look very human for the few heartbeats that it lingers.  You can almost picture a younger version of your father, breaking under the fist of his father before him.  

Then he schools himself.  Once more, the untouchable monster stands before you.  The gun wobbles only a little when he raises it, taking aim at Felix. 

“Stop!” you shout.  You were just picturing the passing of generations, so maybe that explains why your panicked brain compels you to blurt, “You can’t kill him! I’m pregnant!” 

This time every head in the room swivels towards you.  Even the other guards do not hide their surprise.  Your father stares, jaw agape, and Felix looks just as bewildered.  You feel bad because you can see thought flickering behind his eyes, wondering if maybe you are telling the truth.  It makes his face change, pain flashing.  Panic seeps into his veins. 

“Excuse me?” your father says. 

You almost trip on the chair.  Your knees knock and your voice shakes when you say, “You heard me.” 

“I know what I heard.”  At least it succeeds in garnering your father’s attention.  He forgets about Felix entirely as he stalks towards you, gun clutched in his undoubtedly sweaty hand.  “My problem lies in understanding how this can be.”

“Well,” you say slowly.  “I can’t imagine you really want me to explain that—”

You father backhands you across the face.  You careen into his desk, barely catching yourself. 

“It could work in my favour yet,” your father says.  “Start fresh.  Fix where I went wrong with you.  Because you are an irredeemable and entirely lost cause.” 

This baby is not even real yet you panic at the thought.  It unspools an infinite and horrifying future, this house an eternal monstrosity birthing a new generation of tyrant and monster.  Hurting and contorting everyone in the family name for the sake of maintaining that vast estate.  

This has to stop. 

“Of course I am,” you say.  You take a long, steadying breath, then you push yourself upright.  You turn to your father and meet his gaze, aware of the gun but feigning complete nonchalance.  “I can’t believe it has taken you this long to realize it,” you say.  “You lost me a long, long time ago.  You want to control everything because you’re scared of losing anything.  But you’ve already lost what you were trying so hard to protect and you can never, ever get it back.  I will not continue what your father started.  I will not be what you have become.  I am not like you and I am proud of that.  I am proud that I love my friends, and Felix, despite how much you tried to stop me. But I am me and I am not scared.” 

You dive at him, a vicious tackle spurred by that hurricane of emotion inside you.  You tackle him so quickly that it takes the guards a second to react.  The gun clatters to the floor as it flies out of his hand.  He throws up his fists to protect his face when you swing down with all your might.  What you lack in physical strength you compensate with drive, slamming your fists down without care for where they land, again and again and again. 

Then someone grabs you by the collar and yanks.  It is one of the guards, pulling you to your feet.  Your father shrieks and hollers like a wounded dog, snarling and frothing like one too.  He gets to his feet and swings at you. 

Felix rises, struggling to reach you.   You stretch out your hand, your fingertips touching before you are yanked apart from each other.  You cry out, struggling in the guard’s death grip to no avail.  Felix is fighting the other guards but his injuries put him at a disadvantage. 

You are dragged away from the chaos.  Your father picks up the discarded gun on his way. 

“Take her outside!” he shouts at the guard, then turns to the mess in his office.  “Don’t waste your energy.  Shoot the boy.”

“No!” you scream, so guttural you hardly recognize the sound.  You cry as gunshots ring in the office, but you lose sight of the skirmish as you are dragged, kicking and screaming, down the stairs and out the front door. 

You curse at your father and the guard, bits of your shirt ripping when you fight to escape.  You are smacked and twisted, your shoulder popping so painfully that it makes you wail. 

“Stop it, stop it!”  You are fully sobbing, either from pain or panic.  It does no good as you are dragged into the night.  The grand driveway is lit like a stage awaiting players, lamps and towers beaming over the pavement.  The gate opens to the street beyond.  It is pitch black.  There are no other houses on this hillside, the estate sprawling across its expanse, so there are no streetlights.  A black car is parked on the curb.  It feels like a chariot to the underworld, black and swallowed by shadow.  You are as good as dead.  Felix might be truly dead. 

You struggle some more but you are in so much pain.  Your father is shouting directions at the guard and it splits his attention.  His grip loosens and you successfully break free. 

You do not hesitate.  You run into the street, straight through the pitch black.  If you run far enough, you will eventually reach a proper street leading into the city.  You do not even care which direction you go.  You just run, ignoring the screaming pain in your muscles as your feet hit the pavement.

A gunshot pierces the quiet night.  You stumble to a stop, throwing your hand up over your heart.  You touch your chest, expecting to find a bloody wound.  But there is nothing, not a single drop.   You were not shot. 

You spin around and watch the guard fall to the ground, a bullet in his head.  Your father turns too, holding his own gun at the approaching figure. 

Your knees almost buckle as relief washes over you, Felix storming down the driveway with a gun of his own raised at your father.  Felix is badly wounded, but even at his worst he is a far better shot than your father.  They both know it too, staring each other down as Felix gets closer and closer. 

“Stop where you are!” your father screams, his voice breaking. 

Felix ignores him, gun still raised.  Your father fires a shot that goes wide.  Felix does not even blink as it ricochets off a wall.  He walks calmly to the sidewalk where your father stands.  He does not smirk or gloat.  He just looks at the frightened man who terrorized the world to make himself feel better, and he lines up a shot. 

Felix pulls the trigger. 

Nothing happens. 

His brow furrows before his face twists with fury.  The gun has jammed or it’s out of bullets, but either way it is useless.  He lowers his arm, the gun dangling from his hand as he stares at your father.

Your father just laughs, a ridiculous and semi-hysterical laugh as he stumbles back but never lowers the gun.  Felix is much closer now.   Even your father could not miss this shot.   

Felix drops his gun and smiles weakly. 

“She’s funny, you know,” Felix says.  “And smarter than anyone I know.  She picks up on things everyone else misses.  It’s too bad you can’t see it.  But then, you’re not like her.” 

“Shut up,” your father snaps.  “You have exceeded your uses, boy.” 

You realize you are running.  Even before the conscious thought reaches your mind, your body spurs you into action.  Instinct commandeers control and you hand yourself over to it.   Felix looks up just as you emerge from the dark.  He sees your face for a split second, enough time for him to realize what you are doing and shout, “Stop!”

Your father’s finger is already on the trigger.  A shot rings out and this time it does hit you, sharp and searing as you dive in front of Felix. 

The gun hits the ground.  Your father looks at you with petrified eyes.  Felix catches you, supporting your weight as he sinks to his knees with you in his arms. 

“Sweetheart,” he says, touching your face, your neck, your chest.  “Sweetheart, look at me.  Stay with me.” 

The pain is excruciating, like nothing you have ever felt before.  You cannot even tell where it is coming from.  It feels like your neck and shoulder and heart all at once.  It radiates and burns.  The pain is so overwhelming that you do not notice the wet, tacky feeling of blood.  You see it before you feel it, all over Felix’s fingers as he finds the bullet wound in your shoulder. 

“It’s okay,” he says, barely more than a gasp.  His chest is rising and falling rapidly.  You scream in agony when he grabs your shoulder and squeezes it hard in his fist.  “I know, I know,” he says.  “It exited clean.  There’s nothing vital there.  You’ll be okay, sweetheart, I got you.  I just have to staunch the blood.  We just have to—”  His voice breaks on a sob and he looks up at your father, his hand covered in your blood and his rage as red on his face.  “We have to get her help.  Now.”  

Your father’s response is to pick up the gun.  He nearly drops it, his shaking hands clammy, but he gets an unsteady grip eventually.  He points it at Felix again.  

“Are you fucking serious?”  Felix shouts in aggravation.  “Your daughter is going to bleed to death if you don’t do something.  Put the fucking gun down!”

“Get away from her,” your father says.  “Get away from her and put your hands up.  I’ll get her help.” 

“No,” you say, shaking your head then crying when pain lances down your neck.  “No, Felix. Don’t.” 

Your father will not take another shot at Felix, not with you in his arms.  Your father might want to control you, but he does not want you dead.  You are the only thing that is protecting Felix now.  If he moves, he dies. 

“Don’t go,” you beg.  “Felix, please.”

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” Felix says.  He looks up at your father, venom in his voice as he asks, “Are you really going to stand there and let your daughter die?” 

“Are you going sit there and let her die?” your father retorts.  “Get away from her and I will save her.” 

You feel Felix twitch. He presses his fingers a little harder, stopping a rush of blood.  It makes you weep and you plead, “Felix no.  Please.  I can’t watch that.  I’d rather it end like this.”

“Don’t say that.”  Felix looks down at you.  His bloody hand is shaking, tears spilling down his cheeks as he looks at you.  “Nothing’s ending.  You’re gonna be fine.” 

“It never ends,” your father babbles.  He almost drops the gun when he trips over the lip of the sidewalk, stumbling backwards into the street as he stares at you.  You stare back, wondering if it is your blurry vision or if he is really crying.  All you can see is him wiping his face, the gun trembling in his hand.  “It just keeps going,” he says.  “Only I can end it.” 

He is taking aim again.  You cannot tell if he is aiming for you or Felix, maybe some half-baked delirious plan in his twisted mind to put you out of your misery and take Felix with you. 

Felix does not have time to attack.  He can only curl his body around yours to protect you from the shot. 

Then a beam of light shatters the dark.  It flies up the street, illuminating your father.  He looks in that direction.  Everyone is drowning in their sobs and it is all so loud that it takes a second to hear it: the heavy, growling drone of a speeding car, hurtling ever closer.  The white of a high-beam headlight blinds your father with lightning hot intensity. 

It is the last thing he ever sees. 

Felix is as startled as you.  You both cry out in horrified shock.  He blocks your body to shield you from the sudden and unexpected gore.  Noiseless convulsions tremble through your whole body as you stare up at Felix, not understanding what just happened. 

You both look over as the car rapidly reverses, disappearing just as quickly as it came.  In its wake is your father, or what remains of him.   

Just like that, the whole world tilts on its axis.

You cannot comprehend what you are seeing.  This man was a towering, nightmarish monstrosity, bigger than life and death, holding the world in his fist.  Even he desperately believed in his own mythology.  It seems impossible that he could be that nightmare but also be this, a broken and very human body, muscle and gristle and protruding bone, half flattened to the tarmac.  A sudden and entirely undignified death, comically animal, and as lowly as everything he ever disparaged.   

You and Felix stare at him, at the mess of his ruined dead body on the dark street.  It is so, so quiet.  The house is so still.  The street is empty.  You can hear the soft buzz of the floodlights. 

You make a hurt noise.  Felix looks down with a perplexed shake of his head.  But he only has a moment to mind you, his mouth open with some unspoken thought, when you hear the car again. 

You both look over, your heart racing and your blood spilling over his hand.  He is wearing his most determined face, braced to face an adversary. 

You do not know who to anticipate.  It makes no sense for Miroh to be here.  He would not have known anything unusual was transpiring at this house tonight.  How could he know to send someone?  Yet it is the only thing that makes sense.  The only person who could have taken down someone like your father would be someone just like him. 

You are braced for the worst when the car comes to a stop.  The dead body looks more grotesque as the headlights flash over it. 

The driver does not turn off the engine.  You hear the patter of frantic footsteps before the silhouette is illuminated by the car lights.  Wide eyes meet yours and your heart stutters.  Your tears are halted by the face staring back at you. 

“Oh my god,” Jisung says.  “That was the bad guy, right?” 

Felix reacts first, a bark of laughter made in disbelief as he stares at your startled best friend. 

Han Jisung is both the same and different, with a flop of dark hair and big brown eyes, but years have passed, leaving him bulkier and more mature.  He pushes a pair of glasses up his nose, the wide frames only exaggerating his eyes, making it very easy to hold his gaze when he looks at you. 

“Jisung,” you say, and start crying all over again.  “Jisung.”  You cannot seem to find another word.  You just gasp his name between sobs.

Jisung practically flies towards you, landing on his knees. 

“Hey, stranger,” he says, carefully touching your cheek.  “You’ve looked better, I’m not gonna lie.” 

You laugh even though it hurts, reaching for him with a shaking hand.  He takes it despite it being sticky with blood, cupping it safely in his own. 

“You’re here,” you say.  “How? Why?” 

“Of course I’m here,” he replies in a soft voice.  “I got in my car as soon as I saw that goodbye message.”  He gently squeezes your hand.  “You didn’t think I’d let you get away twice, did you?”        

Your laugh is more of a sob, in too much pain to truly smile.  Felix asks Jisung to help, showing him where to apply pressure.  Jisung complies, holding you while Felix tugs off his shirt.  It leaves him in a tank top, all his scars and bruises on display.  You want to fuss over him too but he gives you no opportunity to linger, using his shirt as a makeshift tourniquet for your wound. 

“So your boyfriend is Felix,” Jisung says while he works.  “That’s great. I was rooting for you two crazy kids.  Felix had a pretty obvious crush on you in high school.  I didn’t say anything because you kinda seemed to hate his guts but I guess that’s not true anymore.  You had some bigger bastards to hate.  Speaking of, that was your dad I got right?  I mean, I didn’t even think, I just saw him waving that gun around and I hit the pedal.  Next thing I knew—ohhh shit, Felix, you’re really strong, what the fuck, man.  Have you been working out—” 

Felix scoops you into his arms and stands.  His usual unwavering strength falters just a little, his injuries protesting his action.  You tell him to put you down because it will do no good for you both to collapse.  Jisung stands and helps steady you.  They both lay a hand on your back, taking some of your weight as your feet touch the ground and you wobble. 

“That’s my girl,” Jisung says.  “Oh man, that’s a lot of blood, ha ha ha – AHH.  No, it’s fine, we’re okay.  Careful—”

“Jisung,” Felix says, looking past you to meet his eye.  “Are you okay?”

A more than fair question considering how fast everything just happened.  Jisung stops rambling and takes a few deep breaths before he answers. 

“Okay, yeah,” he says.  “Totally fine.  For now.” 

“Okay,” Felix says.  “Because I need you to take her while I—”

Your ignore their conversation.  Your eyes are on your father.  You cannot even call it his body; it is a carcass.  His lower half is gored but his face is mostly whole.  You half-expect his mouth to open with a wailing shout.   You are so distracted with the thought, you misstep and your weak ankles give out.  You are spared a kiss with the pavement when Jisung catches you.  It is a haphazard embrace, throwing his arms around you to keep you upright. 

“Can you take care of her until I get back?”  Felix asks. 

“Uh-huh. Yes,” Jisung says.  He puts his growing bulk to use and lifts you into his arms, bridal style.  You cannot move your shoulder to lift your arms around him, but you rest your head in the curve of his neck as he carries you to his car. 

His car.  Hysterical giggles bubble inside you, quashed only by the physical ache of your body.  Han Jisung really raced back into your life and annihilated the worst of your demons by driving right at him.  

Years of nightmares and beatings and pain.  Years of your father lording his power over you and the world.  Years of believing he was terrifying and untouchable.  

Jisung always said it was that easy.  He was just a teenager, lookingat the impossible powers that surrounded his friend but believing whole-heartedly he could save her anyway.  You argued and pushed him away, but he knew better all along.  Jisung was not cowed by money and influence, not impressed or frightened by men like your father who ravaged the world and gloated about it.  Jisung had no power or influence of his own but that didn’t matter.  He saw his friend was in a bad situation and he wanted to save you.   So he did. 

He carefully rests you in the passenger seat.  In the time it takes him to circle to the driver’s side, you break down crying.  The pain exacerbates it, your body seeking release, but it is sentiment that pours out of your heart. 

Jisung gets in, looking very startled.  He adjusts his glasses. 

“Did it get worse?” he asks, reaching for you with a bloody hand.  You look at it, you look at him, very literally stained with blood on your behalf.  He is staying composed but you can see the jitters under his skin.  He just killed someone for you.  It might have been a panicked, spur of the moment decision, but the end result was the same.  Even though your father was not a good man, taking a life is a serious burden. 

And here he is, placing that weight aside so he can check on you. 

“Jisung,” you say.  You wish your hands were not so dirty because you want to touch his face or hold his hand.  You satisfy yourself with leaning towards him, touching your forehead to his cheek as you cry. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Jisung says.  He shifts so your foreheads are touching, his clean hand cupping your cheek.  “I got you, okay?  It’s over now.  Felix is gonna take care of it and I’m gonna take care of you.  It’ll be okay.  Don’t be scared, all right?”

“I’m not,” you say.  “What did I do to deserve you?”

“You’re my friend,” Jisung says.  “You don’t have to do anything to deserve it, okay?  Look.  I know what will make you feel better.”  He reaches past you into the glove compartment.  You have no idea what he could possibly have in there that will make you feel better while bleeding out of a bullet wound in the passenger seat of his car, the same car he used to murder your abusive father. 

He fishes around then pulls out a bag of spicy peanuts, the same flavour you used to eat all the time in high school.  Even though he was allergic, he bought them whenever he found them, just because he knew you liked them. 

You take them slowly, staring at the familiar packaging.  You sniffle.    

“It was always going to be you, wasn’t it?” you say softly.  You could cry all over again.   “You really came back.”

Of course Jisung saved you.  You realize now your father could never be bested by Miroh or someone like him.  They would be locked in a perpetual stalemate, predicting each other’s every step, giving and taking and killing in a circle of violence with no end.  But Jisung is not like them. 

Whether the gesture was big or small, whether it was peanuts or a rescue, it was selfless, and someone like your father would never understand that.  He never saw it coming. 

“Well, yeah,” Jisung says.  “My promise was forever, remember?”

You can only nod, bumping your heads together.  Jisung wraps you in a hug then kisses your forehead before buckling in and taking the steering wheel. 

“All right,” he says.  “We can catch up after.  Let’s get away from this place.  It’s giving me the creeps.” 

-

It is strange looking at your house on a news report.  It makes you feel like you are watching someone else’s life. 

You are stitched and showered, sitting on the floor of a twin bed motel room.  You are still damp from the shower but each little trickle feels like blood, your jittery fingers constantly swiping at your skin. 

Jisung sits behind you on the bed, his legs bracketing you, double checking your stitches.  Felix said it was paramount to avoid a hospital or any other institution that would identify you.  He told Jisung to book a room at a motel on the highway and wait for him, that he would stitch you up himself when he arrived.  Jisung took the initiative, boasting some first aid training for his job at the grocery store. 

“Usually I’m putting bandages on a cut finger,” Jisung said, hands covered in blood as he fixed your wound, “but this is, uh, similar I guess.  Sort of.” 

Felix arrived while you were in the shower.  Now he is in there, cleaning himself and minding his own injuries while you and Jisung watch the evening news report.   The blinds are closed, rain pelting the canopy over the balcony, but you are tucked away from the storm, hidden from the world as it mourns you. 

“A devastating house fire is believed to have left no survivors on the premises,” the reporter says, backdropped with a video of an inferno ravaging your father’s house.  “Police are still investigating, but among the suspected dead is a prominent local businessman and his daughter.”  They show a portrait of your father and an old yearbook photo of you.   That girl looks nothing like the battered woman you are now.  You really do feel like you are watching someone’s else story end.

“Wow,” Jisung says, watching too.  “How does it feel to be dead?”

You rest your head against his knee, sighing as you stare at the television. 

“I’m not dead,” you say, staring at the photo of you.  That girl might be dead, but you are very alive. 

Felix accidentally swings the bathroom door too hard, the thud like a gunshot in your mind.  You jump a mile out of your skin, digging your nails into Jisung’s leg unthinkingly. 

“Ah ah ah ah—”  Jisung grabs your wrist to pry you off. 

“Sorry,” Felix says, truly apologetic.  He closes the door with a gentle click then approaches.  He sits beside Jisung on the bed, laying his hand on your head and looking you over.  “How are you?” Felix asks.   He pays no mind to the news report but that is likely because he is responsible for the story they are broadcasting.  You know Felix would tell you every detail if you asked, but you decide you do not want to know how he moved the bodies around.  It is enough to see the walls of that place burning. 

He packed a few things first.  A stuffed duffel bag sits on the other bed.  Perhaps it should feel daunting, that all you have left is a single bag of necessities, but it feels freeing.  You are not burdened by the weight of more.  Your hands might be shaking and you might be hurt in more ways than one, but you can exhale. 

You take Felix’s hands and kiss his scraped knuckles.

“I’m fine,” you say.  “What about you?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he says.  He looks more tired than you have ever seen him, but he manages a laugh when you pout at him.  “Don’t do that,” he says, flicking your bottom lip.  “Just some bad bruises, yeah?  I’ll be fine.” 

You know he is not fine but you respect his desire for peace.  You can check his injuries later when he has settled. 

“Well then, what about you, Jisungie?” you ask.  You turn around to face him.  “How are you?”

“Uh, honestly…”  Jisung rakes his fingers through his hair then exhales on a shaky laugh.  “I’ll let you know when I know.  It’s all a bit—uh—”  

“Yeah,” you say, taking his hand.  “I know.” 

You suspect there will be no proper words for a while.  You cannot even think of recovery while your wounds throb.  There are still gunshots firing in your mind.  When you close your eyes, you see a body on the pavement.  You expect a knock at the door and a gun in your face, even though there is no reason for that.  Miroh is probably sitting back and laughing at the detonation of your father’s house.  Your father’s people and investors will scramble over the company tomorrow.  That world will turn without you.  You will not miss it.    

You struggle to sleep that night.  You lay on your back to mind your shoulder but that is not your only grievance.  Felix lays beside you where he belongs and Jisung is in the other bed, so you are not alone anymore, but your adrenaline will not dwindle.  Now that you have a moment of peace, it feels more chaotic than ever. 

When you start breathing harder, Felix wraps an arm around you. 

“Sweetheart,” he whispers.  He does not ask what is wrong.  It is more than self-explanatory.  You do not need to speak. 

You want to roll over and bury your face in his neck, but you cannot move because of your shoulder.  You suffice to hold his arm tight, closing your eyes as his protective embrace surrounds you.  His heart beats against your body and you let it lull you into a gentle repose. 

You do not sleep for long.  There is morning light when you wake but it is a bleary, early grey light.  Everything smells a little damp from the rain.  This is a small motel, meant to serve as a momentary respite for passing travellers.  You cannot stay here. 

Felix wakes when you do.  After a few morning kisses, he rises to use the washroom.  Jisung is still fast asleep in his bed, his cheek squished and his hair a shaggy mess on the pillow.   You smile, looking at him.  There is a gap between the beds but he is close enough to touch if you stretch.  You content yourself with looking, thinking about how lucky you are to have him again.  It is a light and happy thought, but it darkens very swiftly when you recall what he did to save you.  It is going to weigh on him, whether all at once or in pieces. 

The weight of trauma will be a heavy burden, but you are alive to carry it.  There are others who are less lucky.  You think about Hyunjin and your heart strains, recalling his final miserable departure.  Your father implied he had Hyunjin killed.  If he was not bluffing to antagonize you, then Hyunjin did not stand a chance.    

You are sniffling with tears when Jisung blinks awake.  He mutters in groggy gibberish before reaching for his glasses.    His tired voice is tinged with concern when he asks, “What is it?  Do you need something?” 

“No,” you say, wiping your tears.  “I was just thinking I know where I want to go next.” 

It is hard to talk about Hyunjin so you opt for vagueness over specificity.  The boys do not question the subject of the cabin when you mention his name.  You do not tell them he might be dead.  You feel like if you speak it out loud, it will make it true. 

It will take a week to reach the cabin by car.  Jisung helps you loads the necessities into the back a truck that Felix procured, only questioning its seeming manifestation after the fact. 

“I stole it,” Felix answers. 

“You stole a car?” Jisung asks.  It is a good thing the motel parking lot is empty because he practically shouts it, like stealing a car is the most horrifying thing he has ever heard.  You remember how you had the same reaction the first time Felix stole a vehicle. 

It makes you laugh when Felix draws his lips into a thin line, shaking his head at Jisung.  He turns to you and says, “You two really are identical, you know?”  

“What does that mean?”  Jisung asks. 

“I said the same thing the last time he stole a car,” you say.

“Dude!”  Jisung whips around.  “You stole two cars?”

“You know I’ve killed people, right?” Felix says dryly. 

“Well yeah, I mean, who hasn’t,” Jisung says with a nervous giggle. 

You whack him on the arm and shake your head.   “That’s not funny,” you say. 

“It’s a little funny,” he whispers while you roll your eyes. 

Though you want to keep him at your side, it feels selfish to ask Jisung to come with you.  He has a life here and he has already done so much to help you.  But he surprises you by emphatically volunteering himself, saying he at least wants to help get you there. 

“I don’t think I could just walk back into my normal life tomorrow like nothing happened,” Jisung says, tucking you under one arm.  “I don’t know what’s gonna happen next.  Can’t control it.  But I know where I want to be right now.  I’ll figure out the rest after.” 

So you take to the road, your destination a small cabin far away from your old life.  You stop along the way, at first for food and other necessities, mostly stolen by Felix, but then for pleasure when you drive through towns with interesting landmarks.   On the clearer nights, you sleep in the bed of the truck. 

You still do not stop for a real discussion.  You indulge the mental break while you can, all three of you taking the time to literally stop and smell the flowers on the journey. 

Bandages still need changing.  Stitches need minding.  The night before your anticipated arrival, you are in another motel room.  You and Felix sit in the small kitchenette, playing cards at the tiny table, while Jisung showers and goes about his nightly routine. 

You throw down a couple cards.  You look at Felix while he studies his hand.  The swelling on his face has gone down which is good for numerous reasons.  He has been wearing a baseball cap everywhere, the brim pulled low, to stop people from staring. 

There is a hard set to his shoulders.  It has been like that for a few days.  Even in your father’s house, there were moments Felix would soften, namely when he was curled up in your shared bed and the world seemed far away.  Maybe he cannot relax because the world is so immediate now.  It is strange that potential happiness can cause as much anxiety as its opposite.  Perhaps it is because it is so unfamiliar.  Your body only knows how to brace itself. 

Felix was raised for that express purpose.  Road trips and gardens and motel rooms was not in his training.  High school corridors and uniforms once baffled him, the mundanity of everyday life more exhilarating and frightening than a battlefield. 

You want to smooth his brow and soften his shoulders.  He sits like he is holding a breath and you want to draw it out of him.  A part of your stirs with arousal at the consideration, thinking how you could do that.  You have always found your humanity in that intimate space.  But you are both much too injured to try anything heavier than a kiss right now. 

This time, you reach across the table and touch his cheek, with no intention but a soft caress.  He blinks up at you, the cards forgotten.  You do not know what to say.  You just touch him.

He cups his hand over yours, holding it to his cheek.  He looks at your shoulder and other bruises.  It will take you a long time to heal, but nothing is infected.  You do not know how his injuries are faring because he will not let anyone look at them.  He claims he is fine.  You know he is not. 

“I love you,” you say.  “I swear it gets stronger every day.  Is that crazy?  Not a day goes by where I am not grateful for you, just as you are.”

He closes his eyes and swallows.  He nods. 

“I love you too,” he says in a soft, low voice. 

When Jisung leaves to get some dinner, Felix proves you wrong about lovemaking.  You are too injured for anything vigorous, but he can still lay you down, can still stretch alongside you.  He slips his hand beneath your waistband and touches you with long, careful strokes.   You unravel in his arms, your sore spots aching but the pain worth the pleasure.  You wrap a hand around the back of his neck and tug him down for a kiss.  You kiss him until he sighs and rests his forehead to yours. 

“Can I please see?” you ask. 

He finally acquiesces.  His scars are not too bad, more plentiful than painful.  He hisses but exhales when you kiss your way across a couple worse marks. 

“We’ll find a way to feel better,” you say, grazing your fingertips along his skin.  You recall what Jisung said, about how you did not have to deserve love, you just had to accept it.  “You don’t need to prove yourself anymore, Felix,” you say.  You dance your fingers down his bare chest to his waistband, kissing his shoulder as he sucks in a breath.  “Just be with me.  Let me love you.” 

“Always,” he says, dropping his head back as you touch him.  He cups the nape of your neck, squeezing lightly as you flick your wrist and stroke. 

You reach the cabin the next day.  It is late afternoon when you find the right place, passing a few other cabins before you find a quaint but charming one in the midst of a meadow.   The cabin itself does not flaunt much excess, but the meadow is flooded with flowers, a carpet of colour in the late afternoon light that makes it look like a something out of a fairy tale. 

The only problem is the smoke in the chimney.  The cabin is clearly occupied. 

“Is this the right place?”  Felix asks.  He and Jisung were admiring the meadow while you stared at the cabin, heart palpitating when you realized it was not empty. 

“It is,” you say. 

“Maybe it’s Hyunjin,” Jisung says. 

“It’s not.”  You close your eyes.  Hyunjin did not say anything about selling the property when you brought it up.  But, then again, there was a lot happening in that final exchange.  You made him promise he would try to get away if he could, but it might have been an empty platitude.  He knew he was going to die.  He knew you would never find out anyway. 

The distractions of the past week flutter into nothingness as you reckon with the grim reality of the world your father left behind.  You hang your head, swallowing hard. 

Jisung and Felix stare at you, their faces falling when they realize what you mean. 

“How?” Jisung asks. 

“My father chased him down,” you say.  “He used him.  He discarded him.  It’s what he does.” 

“What he did,” Jisung reminds you.  “And maybe Hyunjin got away.  We did!  That stupid hot weasel was a bitch but he was resourceful as fuck.” 

“Jisuuung,” you say, smacking his arm.

“What? I’m not speaking ill of the dead because he’s not dead,” Jisung argues.  “And if he was, he wouldn’t want me to suddenly be all fake and nice to him.   I annoy him.  That’s how I show my love.”  He kisses two fingers and waves it at the sky, then flips his middle finger too.  You laugh in spite of yourself, shaking your head.

Felix steps behind you and takes your hand.  He kisses your cheek. A breeze blows through his hair, his hat in his other hand. The three of you stand in the meadow for a time, looking at the flowers as you contemplate what to do next. 

The front door of the cabin opens.  You all turn.   An apology sits on your tongue, sorry for trespassing on someone else’s property.  The sight of you is no doubt disconcerting. Despite showers and meticulous first aid, you all look very rough, three obviously tired and run down people, a little dusty from the road and streaked with dirt from your hike to the cabin. 

You look at the person as they stand on the front stoop.  Your brow furrows and the apology disintegrates on your tongue, a bemused question poised to take it’s place.

“Minho?” is all you manage. 

You have not seen your first teenage crush in many, many years.  He looks older but not too different overall.  He is still very striking, even in his homey flannel and jeans, standing on the cabin stoop and looking at you with equal confusion. 

“Do I know you?” he asks, which makes sense.  You might have had a crush on him, but so did half the school.  He was a popular guy.  He knew Hyunjin but he only met you briefly. 

You want to tell him that.  You want to say you are friends with Hyunjin but you find it hard to say his name, especially with Minho gazing at you so innocently.  Why is he at the cabin?  Was he still friends with Hyunjin?  He likely does not know he is dead. 

You are spared your turmoil when Felix tugs on your arm, a sharp bid for attention.  You look at him, bemused, and he nods his head forward.  You look past Minho to the open cabin door as another figure steps into view. 

All that twisted pain unspools in your chest.  You nearly start sobbing in relief.

“Hyunjin!”  You ignore the surprised look on Minho’s face and run right past him.

Hyunjin is standing in the doorway, looking wary until he recognizes you.  Then his face breaks into a smile and those long limbs jump the porch steps.  You trample a few flowers that have grown over the path, meeting in an embrace amidst sprigs of lavender and vibrant hyacinths.   It is a very messy embrace, you and Hyunjin both forgetting you are injured.  You crash together only to yelp, your shoulder smarting and his bruised chest just as tender.  You laugh at each other then hug gently.  When your cheek touches his chest, your eyes water. 

“Am I dead after all?” you ask thoughtlessly, the beauty of the terrain and the embrace of your friend momentarily making you think so.    

Hyunjin laughs and shakes his head.  “I thought you were,” he says.  “It was all over the news.  I thought for sure—”

“I thought for sure you—”  You overlap with him, both of you laughing again.  “How did you get away?” 

“Nothing special,” Hyunjin says.  “I was being watched but they were waiting for final orders from your father.  Then word got out that he was dead so they just left.  I don’t know if they went to investigate or just abandoned post.  I didn’t stick around to find out. I packed my things and disappeared the first chance I got.” 

“We made a few stops on the journey over,” you say.  “I’m not surprised you beat us.” 

“I really thought you were—”  Hyunjin shakes his head.  “And that it was my—”

“It wouldn’t have been your fault anyway,” you say. 

“That’s what I told him,” Minho interrupts, his tone quippy but his lips quirked up in a smile.  He wiggles his fingers in a wave when you look at him.  “So you’re the friend,” he says.  “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m the friend’s friend,” Jisung says, skipping into the scene and waving at Hyunjin.  “Hey, man.  Missed me?” 

He is being playful but Hyunjin pulls him into a hug, very obviously surprising Jisung who almost falls right over.  Poor Jisung’s face goes red as a rose.  You remember his video about having a crush on his high school rival and can’t help but giggle into your palms. 

Felix puts a hand on your shoulder, smiling cordially at Minho.  “Hi,” he says. 

“This is Felix, my—”  You look at each other.  You lips move as you look for the right word.  Bodyguard is not strictly true anymore.  Boyfriend and partner sound so very mundane, but you realize that is what you are now.  “Boyfriend,” you say, feeling hot with embarrassment for no good reason.  You suspect the little things will have you flustered for some time. 

“Boyfriend,” Felix repeats, looking quite delighted for a second.  You are certain only you see the flicker of sadness that follows.  He blinks, his gaze faraway, but he covers it with another smile quickly enough.  “Nice to meet you,” he says. 

“I guess I’ll have to make a bigger dinner,” Minho says, playfully dry like the idea is a hardship, but smiling a knowing smile at Hyunjin, clearly very happy for him.  “Come on then.  Get inside already.  You’re crushing the tulips.” 

The cabin is one floor with a loft.  The main bedroom, kitchen and facilities are downstairs, some extra makeshift bedding thrown together in the small sitting area by the fireplace.  The upstairs loft is a small second bedroom, sparsely furnished with a mattress and blankets and little else.  The ceilings are low but the space is blessedly private.  You think it is some of the finest accommodations you have ever stayed in.   

You throw yourself on the mattress, curling up with a pillow and blanket.  Felix smiles and leans down to kiss the top of your head.  When he pulls away, you take his hand, regarding him imploringly. 

“Just gonna take a shower,” he says.  “Wanna clean up, yeah.”

You nod.  Even though you can see he is struggling with something, you let him go.  If he is not in the mood to talk, you will wait.  A shower will help him feel better.

He takes his bag and climbs back down the ladder.  You mean to wait for his return, but you feel such calm at finally reaching your destination.  The laughing voices of your friends float up to the loft, putting you even more at ease.  You release a breath and lay your head on a pillow.  The next thing you know, you are blinking awake.  The sky is a purpling pink, the day drawing to a close.  You can smell something cooking downstairs.  Your friends are still yammering away.  Hyunjin’s relentless giggles at Jisung’s goofy jokes makes you smile. 

You climb down the ladder and wander into the main room.  Felix was not upstairs but he is not with the others either.  He must have finished his shower a long time ago now. 

“Where’s Felix?” you ask, an edge of panic in your voice. 

“He’s just outside,” Minho says from behind the kitchen counter.  “He said he just wanted some air.”

“Oh,” you say, feeling a little foolish for panicking without reason.  “Right. Thank you.”

“Don’t worry,” Minho says, winking to comfort you.  You smile but nonetheless wrap your cardigan tighter around you, feeling a little embarrassed. 

Felix has been glued to your side for ten years.  Your instinct now panics in his absence, but you realize his absence is a good thing.  He does not need to be beside you at all times.  He is free to wander if that is what he wants.  You are glad he stepped outside for some air, rather than sitting over you. 

You step onto the small porch and look across the meadow.  You can see a shape sitting among the flowers at the edge of the field, looking down the slope to the park valley below.  You cross the flowers, minding where you step.  The breeze parts your cardigan and you tug it closed.  It is a somewhat clumsy walk overall.  Your last few steps are a proper stumble over a rock.  You miss it completely, distracted with what you find. 

Felix sits with his back to you.  You thought he was wearing a hat, but now you can see it is his hair.  He dyed it a shock of pitch black and trimmed the edges.  It is a messy, jagged cut that you will certainly have to fix later.  You suspect he did not spend much time looking in the mirror. 

“What’s this?” you ask.  “Is this why you wanted to stop at that drug store?”

Felix looks up at you.  The dark hair somehow makes his freckles stand out more.  He looks different but still very handsome.  You think you might be falling in love all over again, a little flushed inside as you sit beside him on the grass. 

“Yeah,” he says.  He runs his fingers through his hair, glancing up at the dark locks from beneath his lashes.  He sighs.  “And I don’t know why.  I just…” 

You put your arm around him, drawing him close to rest his head on your good shoulder.  He falls against you, breathing out again.  His shoulders droop, losing some of the tension that has plagued him. 

“I don’t know what to do now,” he says.  “I know this is all good, but I feel like I’ve done something wrong.  Like I’m not supposed to be here.  And I keep thinking about Chris.  How I—”  He rubs his face, then chokes tears.  “What am I supposed to do with all this life, especially when I couldn’t give him back his?” 

He cries properly now and you let him.  There is no right thing to say, not that you can think of, so you just hold him until he has expended the worst of his pain through his tears.  He takes a few shaking breaths before he sits upright, wiping his face.  You rub a circle on his back. 

“And you,” he whispers.  “It’s like, I feel everything all at once.  You call me your boyfriend and I’m happy, then I see you hugging Hyunjin and I think—he knows how to be a person.  I don’t know how to be anything.”

“Felix, you know Hyunjin is gay, right?” you ask.  You guarded that secret before but seeing as Minho is here at the cabin, you suspect Hyunjin is not keeping it secret anymore. 

Felix stutters on a shaking breath, looking momentarily confused. 

“Huh?  He is?” he asks, then gets a little weepy again, saying, “That’s nice for him.”

“Oh, baby,” you say.  You kiss his cheek and snuggle close to him, resting your head on his shoulder.  “I don’t know what to say.  I’m a mess too.  I don’t know how to do any of this right.  But I’m pretty sure grieving your friend makes you more of a person, not less.”  You look at each other.  You touch his cheek and stroke a thumb over his freckles.  You think you have them mapped by memory, every last dot.  “You’re not alone,” you say.  “I want to be with you when things are bad, not just when they’re good.  And you and me, we’ve known a lot of bad.” 

He laughs, his breath dancing over your lips with your proximity.  You smile fondly. 

“I think it’s time we feel some good,” you say.  “We’ll figure out what that means eventually.  Together.” 

He draws you close and kisses you, a sweet kiss that deepens.  You cuddle when the breeze blows a little harder, the evening chill creeping into the sunset.  Still, you do not move, sharing heat between you and sitting among the flowers until the pink has left the sky and a blue evening blurs into the purple wash. 

Minho sticks his head out the door to call you in for dinner.  You stand first and offer your hand.  Felix takes it, then kisses you one more time.  You walk back to the cabin, hand in hand.

Warmth wraps around you like a fuzzy blanket when you step inside from the cold.  Hyunjin and Jisung are playfully arguing at the table, Minho standing over them and yammering some nonsense back.  You and Felix smile at each other before joining them all at the table.  After he has served the portions, Minho sits as well. 

There is a moment of silence, everyone looking around the table at everyone else.  They all looked flushed with warmth and life, Hyunjin smiling and Jisung beaming at you.  Felix puts his hand on your knee under the table, squeezing softly.  You look at him with another smile, then a laugh, a sound of disbelief that resonates with everyone.  You are here, impossibly but truly.  You have no idea what happens now.   

“I’ll break the ice,” Jisung says.  “Because I have a confession, while we’re all here, and Hyunjin has his hot boyfriend cooking us a meal.  Hyunjin, my man, I’m sorry for being the dick of all dicks when we were in high school.”  Jisung lays a hand on his heart and dramatically makes his confession.  Hyunjin’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline as your goofy friend continues, “Turns out having an arch nemesis is super gay.  And I was a stupid repressed bisexual who thought furiously staring at you for seven hours a day was a totally normal thing to do.  Sorry, man.  Congrats on the hot boyfriend, though.” 

“I’m not his boyfriend,” Minho says.  His elbow is on the table, chin in his hand.  He is grinning at Jisung. 

“Come again?” Jisung says. 

“Not his boyfriend,” Minho says, laughing.  “I’m his friend.  He was in trouble and asked for my help.  I’m a good friend so here I am, helping him get settled.  I’m actually married.”  He holds up his hand, proudly displaying a wedding band.  He giggles some more.  “He’s single, though.”  He gestures to Hyunjin. 

Jisung looks at Hyunjin who has gone very pink in the face.  He glances at Jisung and laughs, covering his mouth to try and contain it. 

“Oh.  Oh.  Oh.  Yeah.  Cool.”  Jisung scratches the back of his neck, then his brow, then his chin.  He taps the table and nods his head rapidly.  “Awesome,” he says.  “Well, I’m really glad we clarified that before I made a really ridiculous confession in front of everyone.  That would have been super embarrassing for me.”

You all laugh, genuinely as Jisung soaks it in with a silly little grin.  The sound of your collective delight fills the cabin before chatter begins again and you start eating. 

You glance around the table while taking a bite.  Your shoulder aches, and Felix’s bruises are still healing, and you will not be surprised if a nightmare jolts one of you out of sleep tonight.  But you will wake beside Felix, you will comfort each other, and you will fall back asleep.  You will wake up tomorrow and try it all again. 

You know the times ahead will not always be easy.   You are ready to make mistakes and try.

It is not a perfect ending, but it is a perfect beginning.   

#film is getting bolder by the day 🤭

Rockstarion