apple of my eye, depth of my sea - HappyPrince (2024)

His son must fail to notice him.

Chris has been dozing on the sofa for an hour, huddled into the cushions. His fingers are cold. His eyes strained. He didn’t bother turning on the lights after he showered and came back down to the living room, the dimmed glow of his phone doing nothing to appease his thrumming headache. It’s lying on his chest, showing his sent and unread messages. Everything else is in hues of blue.

Consequently, as Felix flicks the ceiling lamp on and Berry shoots up from her bed in the corner, they both startle.

“f*ck, Appa, what’re you doing,” Felix says, slurring.

Chris sits upright for a moment, relaxing the clutch on his phone inside his track pants, before standing and crosses his arms. “Why didn’t you text me?”

Despite the November heat, Felix is dressed in a leather jacket and ripped jeans, loosely hanging off his thin frame, cuffs speckled with dust. The soles of his trainers are barely white anymore, covered in scratches and dirt, dragging pebbles inside. He must’ve been tripping over himself all night, let others get close enough to step on his toes, shuffled through grime and mud, and got caught between door and frame. Sweat glistens on his temple.

“I just forgot, sorry. Hello Berry, hey chéri.” He bends down and ruffles through Berry's fur, then shucks the trainers into the corner.

Chris sucks on his teeth. “Put those away properly.”

“Hello, dad, how was your evening, dad, thank you, dad,” Felix grumbles but does as told. Then he stumbles towards Chris, lips and eyes wet. “Appa, did you have a nice evening?”

Chris breathes past the lump in his throat and catches Felix’s flailing arms, stabilises him, stops him from sinking. He doesn't answer and doesn't want to return the question. ”Why didn’t you reply? Did you lose your phone?”

“In here.” Felix pats his jeans pocket, then giggles nonsensically. His lower lash line is pink.

He stinks like cheap and sugary drinks, cigarette smoke that better not be his, sour sweat, and oily fries. At least his friends and he were smart enough to get some solids into their stomachs on the way home. Though it evidently wasn’t enough to sober him up, there’s hope he might be fine tomorrow. But maybe a hangover is the lesson he needs to stop worrying his old man.

“Do I need to check if you've got it on silent mode? This is common sense, Lix, you need to be–,” he stops himself, realises how tight his grip is. He slides his palm down to Felix’s soft elbow.

It's fine. Felix is home now, and he's not skittish or scared. As a matter of fact, he leans his head against Chris's shoulder and tries to blink at him, eyes crossing, pupils blown. He’s still his tactile boy, apologising like he was taught. “I'm sorry,” he says, drawing out the vowels, says it to Berry as well, who just wiggles happily.

Chris sighs. “C’mon, let’s get you washed up and to bed. It’s way past your – you need to sleep.”

As they ascend the stairs, Felix strokes over the wall and Chris's knuckles, mumbles to himself. “Sleep sleep sleep. Always forget how many sheep there are.”

In the bathroom, Chris leaves the leather jacket over an empty towel hook as a reminder to wash it, and peels Felix out of his tight top. Made of a shimmery fabric, it’s slippery and sticky under his fingers. “Alright, Lix. You can do the rest, yeah? Shower and brush your teeth. I’ll get you some clothes. Come here, Berry, let's go.”

She turns around on the door sill and taps down the corridor, but before Chris can follow her, Felix‘s voice suddenly turns serious. “Dad.”

He’s tired. He’s tense. “What?”

“Did you have a nice evening?”

It’s difficult to meet Felix’s glazed stare in the mirror. Splatters of dried toothpaste obscure his face.“Yeah, sure.”

“What’d you do? Did you watch the new episode? Or, or–”

“We were gonna watch it together, weren’t we?” Chris says coldly. “You promised you’d be home by midnight and that we’d watch it. Why didn’t you text?”

Felix’s mouth is a deep red, almost purple. Maybe stained from co*cktails, maybe from lipstick. Definitely bruised. “Forgot. I just forgot, ‘m sorry, dad.”

It’s easy to forgive him but impossible to forgive himself.

With a nod and a swift thumb to the base of Felix’s neck, Chris accepts the apology. The skin here is hot and dewy, a shiver spreading over it. He stays to watch Felix brush his teeth and comb his tousled hair, stays when Felix suddenly freezes, convulses, then clutches the side of the sink with a gasp before emptying his guts into it. The brush clutters onto the tiles but he catches Felix’s hair before the tips of it stray too close to his lips, gathers it into a thin ponytail and keeps it out of his face.

“I got you, you're good, it's alright–”

Felix's fist presses into his shirt, first shoves then clutches. "No, no, dad, you can't look, don't look at me–" Another gag interrupts him.

“You’re alright, baby.” He means it. Says it more apologetically than he should. Rubs his thumb into Felix's nape again. “There you go. It’s okay, appa’s got you, yeah? It’s okay.”

Spasms wreck Felix’s naked torso. It must hurt his throat and ribcage to throw up this violently, he’s choking and sobbing, nearly slipping out of Chris’s hold as he shakes. Two more times he heaves, then it's mostly stomach acid and spit dribbling from his mouth. The sour stench doesn't quite wash down the drain like the bits do.

Felix sniffles. “Go away, don't look.” The dark roots of his hair strain in Chris's fist as he slumps down, forehead thumping against the mirror. It fogs from his breath.

“Dad,” he then whispers in the same serious tone from earlier. “If I - no matter what, do you still love me?”

Guilt and fear trickle down his spine. “Course, of – of course, what, what makes you doubt that?”

“Nothing.” Felix shudders again. “I’m just… ‘m just sad. I missed you. So much.”

“I’m right here,” Chris says, hollow.

He has always been right here, all of Felix’s life, and he always will be. He was here when he took his first steps. He was here when he went to France in ninth grade. He was here when Felix visited his grandparents in early spring, distracting himself with work, house silent if it hadn't been for Berry, lonely. He was here when Felix called him crying and incoherent, begging him to pick him up at the airport.

After a trembling silence, he draws down the shell of Felix's ear and readjusts the grip in his hair, softens it. “I missed you, too, little one. And I love you, you know that. You need a shower and your bed, you'll be fine, baby.”

“I'm so gross.” A squeak, as Felix's palm slides over the mirror. “Don't look. Didn’t even reach the toilet.”

“Ah, shut it, it’s fine. C'mere.”

Chris gently pulls him back up and massages his temples. He traces his thumb over freckles that have been darkening since he’s been back and getting sun again. Below Felix’s lip is a piece of semi-digested tomato. Chris turns on the cold water, cups it into his palm and scoops it over Felix’s mouth, wiping away the red mush. There’s a flinch and an apology but parenthood includes worse things than this; this is nothing. The vomit is nasty but Felix’s lips are warm, swollen, resisting the heel of Chris’s palm.

“Hate this, so gross, f*cking gross, I'm sorry–”

“Hey. Hey, look at me.” He smiles, genuinely entertained by the dramatics. “I wiped your sh*tstained ass when you were a toddler, you think I care about this, huh?”

Felix's laugh is soggy and begrudging, he doesn't meet Chris's eyes, but he doesn't tremble anymore. He leans back over the sink and contorts his spine, gulping water straight from the tap before Chris can stop him, getting it all over his naked chest.

“Oh, wow. Alright, how about I whip you up some toast, yeah? Don't brush your teeth yet, it’s not good for them. Can I trust you not to drown or knock yourself out in the shower?”

Felix more or less shoves him out of the bathroom and then takes so long in there that Chris ends up eating the toast himself before the butter moistens it. Berry keeps him company, drowsing on his lap, warm snout burrowing into his armpit. Once Felix comes down, he prepares another toast and makes sure Felix eats slowly, urging him to empty a cup of tea.

They brush their teeth together. The glass panel between shower and bath mat has collected steam and Chris’s caffeine shampoo is uncapped. His routine is longer than Felix’s and as he applies his anti-wrinkles cream, Felix sits on the toilet and fiddles with a pimple patch. He gives him a hug before they part in the corridor, his cheek tacky from moisturiser, the stench of the club mellowed. His nightlight almost reaches Chris’s bedroom door.

Berry curls into herself at the bottom of his bed, her breathing bringing a calming presence into the night like it has been the past months.

His boy is home and safe now.

-*-

The next morning, Felix doesn’t come out of his room.

It can't just be exhaustion. He's playing awfully sad music and ignores Chris's knocks, ignores the tray of lunch he leaves in front of his locked door, ignores Chris's texts. This absence is all too familiar and leaves him just as scared as it did a decade ago.

Helpless, he keeps himself busy: washes Felix’s leather jacket, rubbing foam into the stains and wringing out dirty water from the heavy fabric, pretending he doesn’t know what is bubbling down the drain. He scrubs the sink, then the toilet and the rest of the bathroom until the air smells like lemon and the tiles are sparkling and no one would know he kept his son's fringe away from vomit. He vacuums the dirt in the hallway; aligns the shoes on the rack; dusts the shelves in the living room, wipes the TV and the console until they’re shiny; and levels the drooping family pictures on the staircase. Most of them are nearly twenty years old.

He takes Berry on a run around the neighbourhood. Not too long and they’re both breathing hard. It’s not wise to exercise in the early afternoons: the sun is too white for his eyes, the pavement too hot through his trainers, the buzz of insects like tiny saws in his ears. He stumbles over the leash, overexerts his knees. He sweats too much for his comfort. He’s nauseated.

Even a cold shower doesn't make him feel less like an oozing sludge, and he barely gets work done, spacing out as he's staring at his desktop.

It's not that he's eavesdropping, but just as he's about to go to the bathroom, he overhears Felix’s call. Not any exact words - the music and the closed door muffle them, but his tone is distinctly anxious. "Hyung," Chris can hear and is pleased to realise Felix is talking in Korean just as much as he wonders who is on the other end.

He doesn't know what to expect. Maybe one of Felix's friends to show up, maybe his parents to announce their move back here, maybe the police to appear. His imagination is ruthless. His son is hiding from him and Chris has the violent urge to barge in there and check up on him, scrutinise every inch of skin, cradle Felix’s face and search for pain, even though he's the last to have that right.

After supper, Berry finally manages to get Felix's attention. She gets up from between his feet and taps to the other end of the corridor, claws gently scratching the hardwood. She yaps, pawing at Felix’s door. She’s not allowed to bark or whine much but Chris can’t bring himself to stop her, can't turn around and watch, not even when he hears the lock click, the hinges creak, and then Felix speaking in a sweet tone. “Hi, Berry, hey.”

In the reflection of his screen, he watches Felix kneel and scritch Berry's head.

“Did you miss me? Did you miss me, Berry chéri? I missed you, too, so much. But you know I love you, right? Right?”

When Berry was a puppy Felix demanded she’d sleep in his bed, wouldn’t let her out of his sight or hands, cried when he had to go to school. Once, he dug up his old baby carrier and attempted to take her to class. Three months ago at the airport, after Chris had hauled his suitcase to the check-in area and examined Felix's boarding pass three times, his goodbye to her was the longest.

“Course she missed you, mate,” Chris says softly, has to repeat himself to be heard. “Thought of you every day, right, Berry?”

Felix doesn’t look at him, nuzzles his face further into Berry’s fur. “Not gonna ever leave you again, babygirl. Never, ever.”

Chris dares to turn. Felix’s hair is greasy, his shirt too big. His skin is desaturated, the bags under his eyes purple. His body seems spent, like his back injury is acting up and he shouldn't be contorting his spine the way he is, arms slung around Berry, swaying them left to right. He looks small — there under the door frame, haloed by the floral ceiling lamp he got when he was five, hunched over himself and the dog. Like Chris could still pick him up and hold him to his chest.

“How you feeling, Lix?”

After a long silence: “Good.”

He didn't inherit Chris’s skill for lying.

“Come eat, yeah? You need to get something in your stomach.” He stands and stretches, acts casually. “Come, Berry, let's make our boy some food.”

Thankfully, Felix joins him in the kitchen and wolves down the leftovers and a glass of orange juice with added multivitamins. Chris should leave him alone, notices him averting his eyes and fiddling with his phone, but he is scared and restless and already keeping his hands to himself.

He fills his own glass. “You sleep okay?”

“Why?” Felix says, head whipping up, brows high. “Did I wake you up?”

Surprised, Chris nearly spills the juice. “Did you call for me? If you’re having nightmares again, we can get a stronger nightlight–”

“No! No, I don’t need one, I’m not– the curtains, I just leave them open. Sometimes.” He’s pink in the face, quick to look back down at his empty plate, scooping up the last grains of rice and sucking them from the tip of his spoon.

“Hey, no yeah, if that works…But you can always wake me up. You know that.” He backtracks, once he realises how overbearing he sounds. “Or, you know, just go down here and watch TV or something.”

Felix nods. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He unlocks his phone, clearly ending the conversation.

“Good! I’ll be working then. Let me know if… yeah.”

He awkwardly pats Felix’s tense back. Then he waits for Berry to jump up and trot after him, but she’s happily licking at Felix’s shin and nudging into his palm, and, though anxious and needy, Chris can’t bring himself to seperate them.

-*-

The umbilical cord had choked Felix.

It had been a long labour. Days. She had been delirious, barely able to speak anymore after she had screamed and cried herself hoarse from the pain. Despite the nurses's efforts, Chris had been afraid he'd lose her, lose both of them. He only had been able to sleep holding her hand, body and mind ready to startle into action. That one time he was chased out the room, he had searched for a chair nearby and fell into fits and nightmares.

He had woken up right when one of the nurses came running to him, here’s a medical coat, mask, gloves, the baby is coming, finally it's coming, hurry.

So much fear for such a small creature. Tiny, too thin, round eyes wet. They got lucky. He lived. They both did. Their lucky boy.

-*-

Felix has always been a bit messy, especially in his early teens, so it's a pleasant surprise that he's doing chores since he's been back from Chris's parents. He no longer needs reminders to put his dirty bowls and glasses into the dishwasher, he finally takes the coil of his hairs out of the shower drain, he doesn't stack empty packages or shoe boxes anymore. In the middle of the week, as Chris is working from his home studio and spacing out, staring through the window panes, he sees Felix filter leaves out of the pool before jumping in.

That same evening, the stuttering of the washer reverberates from the cellar, there are fresh towels in the bathroom, and the door to Chris’s bedroom is open.

“Oh, thanks, mate. Didn't have to do all that.”

Felix scrunches his face and shrugs, stretches his arms with a whiny groan, thin muscles shifting over his bare ribcage. He's sitting on the floor, a pillow on his lap, the case halfway on. The bed has new sheets, the old ones next to him on a pile, a mess in contrast to the folded shirts and underwear ready to be put away. They're not ironed, but Chris doesn't mention that, picks them up and starts sorting them into his closet.

“How’re you, how was your day?”

“Dad. You asked that three times today.” Felix sounds like he's wrestling with the pillow. “I wasn't even that drunk, didn’t get in trouble or anything!”

There's a teasing joke on his tongue, but he bites it back. “Right, yeah. And you said your hangover’s gone.”

“Exactly!”

Shirts done, he opens the drawer for his underwear and neatly tucks them away, rows separated by colour. “And your memory…”

“I didn't black out, dad, f*ck off.”

Empty handed, Chris turns around. The sun doesn't reach his room, he's preferred to sleep in darkness long since, so the light is muted, laying over the tan of Felix's shoulders like a grainy film. “Your day then, how was it? Didn't see you til three, four pm, right?”

“At the sale, I mean, at the barbie, they also had a sale and I was helping father Kelly and mum Badyarri.”

His heart starts racing, his sternum aching at the speed. "Ah?"

"We collected a lot and the kids helped, too, but they weren't supposed to… cause they're so young. But. It was really cute. And I liked helping, makes me feel good. Helpful. Like I – yeah.“

“Right.”

Felix tells him more about the charity event gadigal elders hosted with the church. The topic isn't uncomfortable. The church was there for Felix when Chris failed to be, and after Felix became too old for the kids' program, he started volunteering himself. It's a virtue. He's a good kid. He got that from his mother.

“Don't do too much at once, yeah?” Chris says, after he has taken the pillow and propped it up against the headboard. He reaches out a hand to help Felix get up from the floor but catches himself and changes the movement to pick up the dirty sheets. “Especially not too much physical stuff. I hope you weren't carrying those tables, you know you can't put strain on your back.”

Chris doesn't touch it, though he wants to, wants to trace the pristine bumps of Felix's spine like he used to. There were never any scars on his back - most of his injuries internal, but it would hurt often. Many times, Felix had sweetly asked for a massage before lying on his front and melting with the first caress, sometimes silently crying but convincing Chris to keep going, assuring that the pain was worth it.

He hasn't asked in a while.

Chris doesn't know if he could still do it anyway.

-*-

When Chris first started building his home studio, Felix had immediately taken a liking to the worn sofa they got from a family friend. As soon as Chris and Younghyun had hoisted it over the doorstep, Felix had jumped and climbed up on it, causing them to stumble, but continue to carry him upstairs. He fell asleep on the leather that very night, exhausted by a tummy ache after having individually charmed all three adults for dessert and eaten too much ice cream at once. There's been an intractable stain ever since.

Sometimes they would find him there, curled into a little ball, napping or playing on his Nintendo. Just as often, Chris worked late hours without realising that Felix had snuck in and kept him quiet company. Those instances increased after the accident, when Chris was at his worst. Before he got a grip on himself, decreased his hours, learned to shut down his PC and lift his sleeping son down the hall, sometimes only getting as far as his own room.

It must be some time after midnight: the sun has set a while ago, his stomach vaguely pleading, but he refuses to finish up for the day. He's been struggling to achieve anything, workflow just out of his reach, his vision refusing to transfer into Cubase. He's aware of Berry under the desk, her breath on his ankles, and Felix on the sofa, furiously tapping on his Switch, but he's mostly succumbed to obsessing over the speed of a loop.

Exactly because he is so frustrated and focused, he speaks without a filter: “Little one, come here for a sec, tell me which one you like better.”

He repeats himself after Felix makes a noise.

“No, I heard, I just –. Okay. Now?”

Chris laughs and takes off his headphones, then his glasses, massages his sinuses. “Yes, now. But if you're too busy losing your game–”

“f*ck off, I’m not busy, I'm not losing, can't even lose at Animal Crossing.”

“Maybe if you cross them too many times.” He looks over his shoulder with a grin.

The dim light in the room is a surprise - the window shades are still up but the moon is thin and he doesn’t remember turning on the lamp in the corner. His eyes need a moment to adjust and a headache slams into his temples just then, nastily throbbing under his skull. He's been a wreck.

Felix is slouched, legs stretched, ass nearly slipping off the sofa, and raising his Switch as if he is going to throw it at his head. “Literally, you're the most embarrassing c*nt in the–”

“Okay, okay, come here, I need you to pay attention!”

Berry crawls out from her spot, knows exactly what look to give Felix for him to pick her up and press a kiss on her forehead. He rocks her like a baby as he listens in great earnest, asks her for her opinion after making Chris repeat what he has of the song a dozen times. He's not actually much help with making a decision, except that the two of them are so adorable that Chris experiences a rush of fondness and motivation.

“Isn’t it so good, Berry chéri? So sexy?” Felix coos, pink in the face and bumping against the desk with his bouncing legs. "Everything appa creates is so wonderful, am I right? Yes?”

Before he can topple the setup, Chris squeezes Felix's hip and stills him, absentmindedly registering his hum, already keen to get back to work. "Most of all you, yeah? Berry, didn't we raise a good little sunshine?"

He puts his glasses and headphones back on, adjusts his bulky curls around them, and straightens his back in his desk chair. Maybe he can reach a nice flow after all.

Felix leaves, mumbling to Berry: “I'm gonna get us midnight snacks, yes, Berry? Snacks for us, chéri, yummy.”

-*-

Chris drains the water from the pot into a jar, keeping the grains from spilling over with the tips of his fingers. Pale clouds swirl, starch sinking to the bottom. The first morning after Felix came back from Korea, he had lurched towards Chris, causing rice to spill all over the sink. Apparently, his halmeoni told him to use the rice water on his skin and hair. Chris’s own memories nearly made him cry. He remembers her tipping his head back and pouring the milky water over his scalp, remembers complaining about smelling like food afterwards. Though he’s not the one to comb the starch into Felix’s hair, he’s glad his son is determined to treasure that little ritual.

Twice more, he streams cold water through the jasmin rice and saves it in the jar before turning on the cooker. That, too, Felix brought back with him. Ever since Chris’s parents immigrated to Sydney they were convinced the rice cookers here couldn’t compare, and when they moved back to Korea for their retirement that theory solidified. To be fair, the texture has been better.

While the rice boils and the pan heats up, he chops the aromatics and vegetables, setting aside some extra green onions for garnish. The meat has been marinating since last night, swimming in orange sauce and hisses once it hits the pan. Swayed by her begging, he feeds Berry a cooked slice. He is just about to yell to Felix to set the table when he hears him call from the living room, adding a sentence that doesn't quite carry.

"Appa!"

"What?" He shouts back, but he's already turning down the dial and drying his hands, stuffing the kitchen towel into his back pocket.

Felix is on his knees next to the TV, bent and twisted into the gap between the stand and the wall. He is reaching for something behind the entertainment centre, scrunching his face in annoyance, shoulder looking like it’ll dislocate any minute. Again, he is shirtless. He’s got a red line across his chest where the edge of the screen must have been digging in. "Did you disconnect the cable? Hdmi? I can’t find it."

“Ah, yeah, had to take it out the other day, wait.” Chris crosses the room in big steps, squats with a groan and pulls out the box for electronics, rummaging through it quickly, aware of the food on the stove, eager to get back.

Felix slides over to him and attempts to help him search, small fingers sliding next to his, only that he keeps messing up Chris’s sorting system.

“Stop that, let me–” He nudges Felix’s hand away right before finding the hdmi cable, rolled into a figure eight. “There you go.”

Felix’s expression sparks. He squeezes Chris's middle, nearly toppling him, and rubs his warm cheek into his neck before planting a peck right there. “Wow, thank you! Wow, I’m so happy, I found a CD… DVD? Of my baby pictures, videos, I mean. We can watch them on the Playsie, I googled!”

The chicken won’t be too dry if he waits just a minute longer. “Where'd you find that?”

Felix scoots to the entertainment centre, and grabs a DVD case. The plastic creaks and pops as he opens it. “In your locker, the one in your studio.”

“And what were you doing there, mate, snooping like that?”

“No! I wasn't!”

Chris places a palm on the wall for balance and stands up. “Lix.”

“It's a trend on tiktok! To show your baby videos… and I was thinking where you would put them and there wasn't anything down here so I was thinking it must be in there. I didn't, like, snoop!”

He is too excited to notice Chris's irritation, impatiently tapping the PlayStation as the TV turns on, staring at it with bright eyes. But he knows not to go through Chris's belongings - there's nothing to hide, Chris just wants to know beforehand. “How about next time you ask me and I'll get it for you. That's faster, yeah?”

“Alright, okay, thank you,” Felix says, still oblivious, and slides the disc into the slot, bouncing on his knees by now.

Chris sucks on his teeth, wants to get his point across - but then his fingers are ruffling through Felix's hair, his thumb catches behind his ear, and love blooms in his chest at Felix's pleased grin. He stepped closer without noticing and with his son's warm, sweaty neck under his palm, he kind of forgets why it's so important to him not to have his stuff messed with. He can check and organise the locker later. He hasn't gone through that particular drawer in years anyway.

The thin chain of Felix's dangly earring slips over his nail. His earlobe is shockingly soft.

Felix sighs. “Feels nice, dad.”

Chris remembers the meat. He turns back to the kitchen. “How about you watch those after we eat, yeah? And put on a shirt. You’ll catch a cold with the AC blasting like this.”

“Says you,” Felix grumbles, but once the plates are filled, he's covered up and has set the table. He clasps his hands and recites in his deep voice. “Rub a dub-dub, thanks for the grub.”

The vegetables are wilted and the chicken chewy, and Chris gets a stomach ache before finishing up. He takes Berry upstairs with him and whinges to her while booting up his PC, the hum of it mostly blocking out the sounds of the videos downstairs.

-*-

"Aaw, look at you fellas, this is like back in the days.”

They are good boys – Chris is watching them grow into lanky young men, but Jeongin’s features are still too big for his bony frame and Seungmin's braces still a trap for stringy food.

Their families had met at church and often celebrated the western and the lunar new years together. As kids they would rope Felix into playing pranks on the adults; as middle schoolers the three of them would somehow secretly mess around on the PlayStation all night but also study so well their grades went up in one term; as teens they had their first beers on this very sofa, pretending to be drunk from a single can while Chris had his studio door open, ready to jump in if he had heard any cries of injury.

They are still cheeky little sh*ts.

"Hey, good afternoon, Bang Chan-ssi.”

Chris's jaw drops and he lowers it further. "Excuse me, mate, since when do you call me that?"

"Since I realised you're almost as old as all of us combined," Seungmin says, stone faced.

Jeongin hits him but grins.

It’s funny. Chris makes himself laugh. Felix laughs, too.

For a few minutes, he sits and asks how they are doing, if their parents are well, if they’ll visit relatives during the holiday season, how their first semester at uni is treating them. He watches Felix's reactions, hoping what they say will inspire him to choose his own university, but if anything he looks intimidated by their complaints about papers and presentations and demanding professors. As a tween, Felix was keen to study in Korea like Chris did, but according to Chris's parents and friends, he didn't even attend open classes when he was there.

He stops asking when Felix kneels next to Berry on the floor.

The three boys eventually leave, the older two bullying Jeongin for the beat-up state of his parent's car as always, Felix promising they'll get groceries on their way back. Chris gives him money to pay for those and bubble tea; then Berry joins him as he goes back to work. She leaves him again as soon as the key rattles in the door four hours later, no doubt checking to see if they brought her treats.

For the next hour he catches his own reflection smiling as the boys mess around in the kitchen and the noises of their chaos echo through the house. At some point, their happy banter turns into alarming back and forth right before the sharp smell of burnt caramel rises to Chris’s studio, and it takes all his restraint not to rush downstairs and check up on them. They're old enough to handle a smoking pan. And he can always buy a new one anyway.

No fire alarm goes off and he eventually gets a knock on the open door. Berry steps on his feet, panting happily. He swivels around in his computer chair, ready to sugarcoat his concern with a teasing remark, but the words melt on his tongue.

Crumbs dust Felix's lips. They're dry. He hasn't been hydrating enough.

He is wearing a devastatingly familiar apron and proudly holding up a plate.

“We baked… Seungmin and I baked and Innie played music. But! He taste-tested. And it's good?”

“Where’d you get that?” Chris flinches at his own crudeness. Again and again, he acts and speaks without thinking.

“This?” Felix rotates his hips and the frills of the apron ripple. “In the garage. Yesterday, I looked for more pictures and I remembered the boxes… on the shelves… I put them back carefully! I promise.”

Chris stares at him. Last night, he heard crying but he'd assumed something entirely different. "Are you- how-..."

Berry circles Felix with her wagging tail and sniffs him. Most likely, she's curious about the smell from the baked goods, but perhaps she recognizes the apron, too.

He rakes his nails over his skin. "Suits you. Ah. What did you kids make? Didn't set anything on fire, yeah?”

His body feels numb, his tongue thick. He can't make sense right now. His mind empties more when Felix dances around Berry and steps closer, places the plate next to the mouse. The apron has yellowed with age, fabric stiff and spotted, the blue ribbon pale. Its neckline is low on Felix, the waist cinched tight. It reaches his naked, ruddy knees.

“Minho made these for me, there. Remember? He has cats… and he sent me the recipe.”

“Ah. Yeah. Yeah.” Mostly he’s trying not to break into tears.

Felix, ever so sweet and attentive, asks him what’s wrong, placing a hand on his shoulder and massaging it.

“Nothing,” Chris says, smiling, lifts his glasses with his knuckle. "Just tired. Meeting, deadlines. But she'll be 'right."

He's going to be sick. He tries to block his nose without seeming rude, leans his chin on his palm and lays his finger over his cupid’s bow.

Felix smells like the burnt caramel and melted butter and dish soap and summer heat. His forehead is tan, took on more sun than the rest of his face. New freckles bloom on his neck.

"You need to take a break, appa. Go in the pool! Or take a walk!" Berry yips at that. "Right? We will make dinner and when you're back you can sit down with us and we watch the first Iron Man."

It has been years since he sat on Chris's lap. He'd still fit, though he’d have to make himself small.

Chris's hand is on Felix's hip, fingers stroking over the apron. Quickly, he lets go. "Ah, thanks, thank you, Lix. Yeah, Berry and I'll go for a walk. You guys can just order in though, no need to cook. And make sure to clean up, yes?"

Felix doesn't argue. He squeezes Chris’s shoulder, then his neck, then bounces out the studio, calling for his friends. From behind, the apron cannot cover his shorts.

-*-

The owner of the closest asian supermarket is a friend by now. He greets them with a big smile, tells them he just put fresh daikon and garlic in the baskets, and asks Chris about his health while he scans their items, simultaneously keeping an eye on the kids by the shelf with the ready-make ramen.

“How're you doing, Seong Ho-ssi?” Chris lets the old man shake out a plastic bag and fill it with their groceries, although he brought his backpack and he'd be quicker on his own.

“Ah, you know. This and that. Wi-fi has been lagging. I'm happy to see your boy again! How was it in Seoul, Yongbok-gun? Will you study there?”

Felix, rifling through the coolers a metre away, hums. “Hmm? What?”

“Lix.”

“Oh, uhm, sorry. Sorry, Mister Seong, what did you say?” He approaches the register with two b.b.big ice creams and slides them onto the belt with a charming smile.

Chris sighs and is about to apologise to Seong Ho for having to add them to the receipt, but the man grabs the ice cream and puts them into the bag with a wink. “Will you study in Seoul, Yongbok-gun? Did your visit to your grandparents help in your decision? Like your father, I remember when he left to become a singer. We were all very curious. And when he came back he brought a wife! Ah. Ah, well. Of course, he is much happier when you are here, you know.”

An argument about the ice cream dies on Chris's tongue. He wasn’t aware he was so obvious about it. Had he been rude while Felix was gone? Mopey? He clutches his wallet.

“Oh, yeah, yeah. I'm home. I'm happier, too.”

The pads of his fingers thrum with his own heartbeat. He flicks his nail over his credit card.

“And what are you thinking of, for uni, eh?”

“Oh. Just, just management. Social. Social management or work, social work like Innie — Yang Jeongin. Maybe.”

Seong Ho nods seriously. “Very sensible. There are a lot of ridiculous majors out there, did you know? I'm glad you chose a smart one.”

“Yeah, he could've become a musician like his dad,” Chris says faintly, unwilling to let Felix squirm any longer. “Anything's better than that, really.”

“Nooo!”

“Ah, you do help out the community a lot, Bang Chan-ssi,” Seong Ho placates. “We appreciate what you did with the TV.”

Chris waves off the compliment, squirming as well now. They just accidentally changed the pixel resolution, nothing that warranted actual expertise. “Any time, call me if you want a good one, as well, yeah? A new model.”

The one in the upper corner is at least a decade old. In fact, he remembers a young Felix sitting on a huge bag of rice and staring up at it, while Chris and his wife had gathered what they needed. Looking at the bags lining the wall now, it might not have been that huge and Felix just very tiny.

Seong Ho refuses to let him buy a new TV, as always. They don't chat much longer - the kids shove each other as they wait at the register, polite enough not to complain but not to wait patiently. As Seong Ho deals with them, Chris sneaks a ten dollar note under the newspaper on the counter.

Outside in the heat, Berry smiles at them and jumps to her feet, tail wagging.

“Hi, Berry! Hi, Berry!” Before he loosens her lead from a cycle stand, he rips open the packaging of one of the icy poles and hands it to Felix. “Here. And give me that bag.”

He carefully stuffs the plastic bag of groceries into his backpack, hoping the other b.b.big and frozen rice cakes won't melt too quickly. The air is so humid his shirt immediately sticks to his spine once he's put the backpack on, dried sweat slicking again. He's itchy in every crease of his body, his elbows, the back of his knees, the skin under his waistband. They should've gone earlier in the day but Chris had a meeting and after it ended, Felix was sleeping until noon and looked too peaceful to be woken.

Concerned, he checks Berry’s mouth, but the colour of her gums is fine and her saliva not too thick. “You okay, girl? Let's get home quickly, yeah?”

She pauses her panting to yip and lick his hand.

"Let's get home, yeah? Yeah, good girl, let's get home and lie down and get some ice and daddy gets a beer, hm? Hmm, yes! Yes, Berry!"

They make their way down the street to where he parked the car. Even though it's a weekday and they're in a residential area, there are way too many people out and about. Kids falling out of buses, shoving each other. Someone on an electric scooter hurtling past them. A group of men laughing, in line for kebabs, the smell of the spinning meat thick and greasy.

They should've just spent the day in the garden, under the sunshade. Few things bring him as much joy as being able to work from the deck and watching Berry wander through the weeds and his son wade in the pool.

“Hey. Hey.” Felix’s face is glowing in the sun. The arches of his furrowed brows glisten. He's staring at his icy pole with crossed eyes.

“What?” Chris asks, laughing. “Found something interesting in there?”

“It’s so sweet. I feel like it's sweeter here. And than before, when I was little.”

He pinches Felix's ear, coos. “It’s always been this sweet, you just grew up, little one.”

They cross a street, car coming to a stop beside them, and suddenly he realises he’s caught Felix’s hand. Whatever answer he receives drowns in the rush inside Chris's head, blood rising. Felix's fingers are thinner than Chris's own. His palm delicate. Sticky, too.

“Ah. What was that?”

Though she's rushing past them and Sydney is not exactly an affectionate city, a woman gives them a lenient smile. He wonders how she perceives them, who she thinks they are to each other.

“The recipe, maybe they changed it for here.”

He can't loosen his hand, grip tight, Berry's lead slung through the other. Felix’s right hand is getting covered in green ice cream as it melts and leaks. "Huh?"

"They added much more sugar for Australia, I feel."

“Nah, it's you, you're a sweet boy.”

Felix grins at him, no irony or exasperation in his expression. He's genuinely happy. He has always been openly eager for compliments. He likes to please and perform, awaiting feedback, taking it to heart, both good and bad, without blaming the other or becoming defensive. He certainly didn't get that from Chris.

“Thank you, dad.” Felix swings their hands back and forth. “And also for earlier.”

Berry stops to sniff at bright fallen blossoms and the trunk of a wisteria tree, then pisses against it. Chris laughs. “Yeah? What for?”

“Cause… I feel like, when I said social management and you said musician, I feel like you didn't have to. And for not… for being patient with me.”

Chris inhales measuredly. The humid air carries all the scents, the piss, the meat, the flowers, the matcha ice. Sweat. “Seong Ho is right, social management is sensible, yeah?”

“Sensible? Oh. Yeah.”

“Sometimes, when we aren't sure about something, we need to push through. That's how we get confident.“

“You were always sure about music?”

They resume walking, Berry now in front of them. Her fur needs some brushing. “Yeah nah, of course not. I thought about quitting many times, at least doing it professionally. But with uncle Bin and Sungie, we knew we were good. Anyway, I bring nothing else to the table, do I?”

“No,” Felix says, shockingly aggressive, and squeezes his hand roughly. “You're perfect.”

Chris laughs again and jostles Felix's shoulder with his own. “Baby, you're biased.”

“I'm not. I know you best.”

He rubs his thumb over Felix's knuckles and into the valleys between them. So soft compared to his own. “You do.”

His neck prickles under the backpack's strap.

“Lix,” he begins, never intending to say more. He turns his head to look at Felix who right at that moment wraps his lips around the icy pole and suckles on the tip. His warm lips are melting the cream, light green on shiny pink.

Chris’s arms jerks and though fingers tighten around his wrist, he frees Felix. “Let's get moving.”

He hides his hand in his jean pocket and extends the loop of Berry's leash.

“Hey, hey, wait, can we go in there for a second?”

Chris doesn't check what Felix is pointing at. “We need to get this to the freezer. And Berry needs shade.”

The car is right around the corner. He'll drive safely and slowly, and soon enough they'll be home and he will focus on work.

“Just for a second, I'll be quick–” Felix stops Chris with a gentle palm on his tricep. He finishes his ice cream in huge bites, cheeks round and full, throws the wooden stick into a public bin, and doesn't wipe the smudges from his lips. “Give me the other one. And later, for dinner, I'll use the rice cakes!”

The sun is blisteringly hot. Chris wishes he was wearing a cap to protect his face.

“I'll wait in the car.” He steps to the side and swings the backpack to his front so he can give the second icy pole to Felix, not unwrapping it this time – and then he picks up Berry and hurries away.

With distance and locked doors between them, Chris stares at himself in the rear view: eyelids sweaty, temples sweaty, neck sweaty. Shirt soaked. The air in here is dusty dry. The wet wipes in the glove compartment don't do much to make him feel less gross and the bottle he put in there earlier is lukewarm, water stale in his throat. He turns on the AC. He cleans his driving glasses. He reads through a couple of emails, responding curtly. In the back, in her padded carrier, Berry settles her snout on her front paws, panting less frantically. She seems to be dozing off, doesn't chew on her toys or react when Felix opens the door enthusiastically.

“Sorry, ah, I just wanted to get this. Look!”

A flash goes off.

The pads of his glasses dig into the sides of his nose as he shields his eyes. “Bloody f*ck, warn me next time, will you?”

Felix grins, wiggles into the passenger seat and twists around to take a picture of Berry. His white shirt slips over his lean back. “Pretty girl, my chéri!”

He's wielding a disposable camera

“Mate, that's what you made us cook in the car for?”

“Dad,” Felix whines. “Don't be an asshole, it was just a second. Anyway. Smile!”

Again, he aims at Chris, giving him a moment to muster up a smile and a thumb's up.

“Don't tell me what to do. Little sh*t.”

He presses Felix into the backrest and reaches around him to get to the seatbelt, yanks it tight and secure, then slips his finger between the strip and Felix's chest to make sure it's evenly lying across. "Good? Behave, yeah, turn off the flash. It's broad daylight."

Felix nods, fiddling with the camera.

Chris checks the surroundings and starts the car. He's a good driver. Despite its size, he knows this city by heart. Still, around the wheel, his fingers tremble with his heartbeat.

-*-

He hasn’t been able to sleep.

Throughout his life his insomnia has fluctuated, embarrassingly linked to his stress levels and how well he takes care of himself, worst in his early twenties and after her death. The only relief is prescription pills but they leave him groggy the next day, unable to work efficiently which just reinforces the cycle.

Recently, the sleeplessness has been accompanied by heartburn and acid reflux which makes him feel like his final days are numbered and his body is preparing to dissolve.

And it’s boring. He’s learned not to give in to the temptation and work or mess around on his phone, and he certainly does not masturbat* - especially not these past weeks - but that just leaves him staring at the opposite wall. The door there remains open for Berry to decide where she wants to spend the night. The floorboards seem orange from the nightlight.

In the kitchen, the tiles are cold under his feet, the shadows blue before he opens the fridge. The sharp smell of an opened but forgotten yoghurt greets him. He throws it out and puts some of the other contents back where they belong: Felix is in the habit of placing the butter with the cheese into the upper corner instead of the door shelf. Without yoghurt, he closes the fridge and decides to make tea, reaching for the ginger in the fruit bowl. Just as he’s slicing it, he hears trimmed claws on the stairs, paws tip-tapping, until Berry appears, a furry little silhouette in the dark house.

“Hi, sweet girl,” he whispers and puts his knife down. “Are you gonna keep me company, hm? Do you want a snack?”

He lets her chew on a treat as he prepares tea, dumping the ginger into a pot of boiling water and adding some brown sugar. He watches her slobber into the pad under he bowl, wondering if she’s still warm from Felix’s bedsheets, if she smells like him.

Once the water has taken on some golden colour, he pours it into a mug and sits by the window, hovering his stinging eyes over the steam. Carefully, he sips, grimacing through the burn, the spice of the ginger. At least it should calm his stomach.

Berry shakes out her fur and settles on top of his feet. Through her belly, the beat of her heart settles in his bloodstream, a palpable hum. Across from them, the fridge hums as well. In every room, the AC. Upstairs, strong and rhythmically, a sex toy.

His son is home.

-*-

His mother calls.

She asks how Felix has been, if they're both eating well, if Chris is getting enough fresh air and if the plant she gifted him last Christmas is growing well. He glances outside the studio window, into the yard, the few patches of flowers, the yellowing bushes, the dry grass.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s doing fine. Well. I don’t know if it’s used to this heat…”

“Don’t let it die! Give it to your sister if it’s dying!”

He laughs, recalling his sister’s miserable expressions as she is forced to do yard work. “Umma, you still don’t want to accept that she doesn’t have a green thumb, like, at all. She killed every plant you ever got her, you’re lucky her wife is keeping your garden in shape.”

“I can accept lesbianism, but I can’t accept a daughter that doesn’t appreciate plants, Chan-ah, tell her to read the books I sent, yes? Aren’t lesbians supposed to be good with plants?”

“I think she’s more of a sports lesbian than a plant lesbian.”

“And music.”

“Yeah.”

She sighs happily. “Remember when you two fought over who got to play the piano?”

“More like fought over who got to practise more so we wouldn't be scolded by our teacher.”

“And it paid off. We are so proud of both of you.” That's not what she said three decades ago.

The underside of his skull aches. “Thanks, umma.”

“Is Yongbok still scribbling around in his diary? He’s writing songs, you know? He told me not to tell you but I think you should record him again. I still listen to the sweet song you two made when he was seven…”

Chris didn’t know Felix was writing lyrics. As a kid he used to lie on the floor and write cute little songs about his friends and the sun and the ocean, proudly running to his mother and Chris and giving them a bright-eyed performance, clinging to Chris’s shirt as he watched him mix his vocals. After the accident, there weren’t any more songs. Chris hasn't been very approachable.

“He knows he can just use the studio whenever he wants. I’m not gonna force him.”

His mother sighs again. “You wouldn’t be forcing him, Chan-ah. He needs some encouragement, you know that. You… encourage him about his future plenty of times. He told me you almost got him that internship."

Air sings sharply as he sucks it through his teeth. "I want him to have all the opportunities in life. That internship would have been good for him."

"No, no, I agree, sweetheart. You want the best for him. We wanted that, too, you know! Anyway. Your father is getting grumpy. I’ll make him call you soon. Hand me to Yongbok for a minute before I go, will you?”

He's been hearing the sounds of Felix on the PlayStation: Final Fantasy’s dramatic music, harsh clicking of buttons, the occasional endearing huff of frustration or a whiny curse.

He covers the mic and yells: "Lix-ah! Come here, talk to your halmeoni!"

It takes a couple of minutes during which his mother rants about his father never having time for romance anymore, then Felix trudges in, pout on his face and a controller in his hand.

“Why, I was in the middle of a challenge, why now?” But his voice sparkles once he takes the phone, leans against Chris's desk, skimpy shorts riding up his thigh, and he replies to the same questions Chris has answered already. He’s always loved his grandparents. It hadn't been a surprise when he wanted to spend his spring with them, in fact, it was surprising he came home so suddenly.

“He goes to the pool still? Good. The people were really nice… oh, really? Yeah, appa’s still here. Next to me.” He pauses, the voice on the other line just a tinny mumble. “No, I haven’t, I won’t, I promised! Anyway, I miss going to the pool. But I feel it’s good that halabeoji is going…”

Felix fiddles with the buttons on the controller, flicking them under his nail, irregular clicks that grate on Chris's nerves. Then he begins tapping it on Chris's bicep, his shoulder, laughs and hums his way through his Korean that has gotten so much better. Something makes him giggle and squirm, kick the leg of the chair, his naked knee nudging against Chris’s arm, nearly causing the software to shut down.

Chris squeezes Felix’s thigh in warning and pushes it away from the chair’s armrest.

Felix moans in pain.

Chris hits the space bar of his keyboard.

"N-nothing, halmeoni, sorry, sorry," Felix rushes. "Hit my arm on the table."

The lie crawls its way down Chris’s throat. It expands after Felix eventually mumbles a goodbye. A second of silence passes between them. Chris gives the controller in Felix’s other hand a glance, shakes his head. Felix swallows. Nods. Mouths sorry, appa around his spit shimmery tongue and gives him the phone.

Chris raises it to his cheek: "So abeoji’s going to the public pool while you’re at home wanting romance?"

He feels Felix twitch and scoot from the desk, rattling it in the process, before hurrying out the room.

His mother tuts, ignoring his remark. “You truly take after him. Always busy… you need to appreciate the people in your life.”

He gasps, hurt. “I do! What?? I do! Do you want me to call more often? I’ll call you every day. And we’re coming for lunar new year!”

“And you still haven’t sent me your flight information.”

“I’ll do it now!”

Swiftly, Chris forwards their tickets to his parent’s email address, checking them again to make sure he marked the departure time into his calendar correctly.

“You’re not scolding him too much, are you, Chan-ah?”

He frowns. “Felix? What makes you ask that?”

“It’s just that your father was so temperamental when he was your age… and I remember, after… after she passed, you were so tense all the time. I was glad I could help you out back then. Do you need help now? Be honest with me.”

She had taken Felix to live with her and Chris’s father while Chris had to argue with the insurance companies and plan a funeral and sort out documents and keep his limbs connected to his torso so he wouldn’t break apart.

“I can take care of him, umma. Of course, I take care of him.”

“I don’t doubt that you do. You raised him very well. You both did.”

Chris needs to concentrate on his workload for the day. “Yeah, he is the sweetest kid. I’m happy to have him back home and I will always, always take care of him. You take care of abeoji, too, yeah? Of each other. Tell him to skip the pool and take you on a date.”

His mother lets him breathe, laughing. “Oh, he will. He just sneaked into the room – oh, you, put on a shirt!”

“Okay, okay,” Chris says loudly. “Goodbye. Hello appa, goodbye appa, don’t drown in public pool water, bye!!”

-*-

He hopes he didn’t give himself away.

-*-

At the beach, Felix is the centre of attention, naturally.

He is gorgeous. His skin shimmers. Every pore carries a miniscule droplet reflecting rainbows. The thin hairs on his shoulders gleam blonde in the sunshine, darker in his pits and on his forearms, sweat slicked triangles like those on his temples. When he puts his streaky hair in a ponytail, showing off his neck and the shift of his muscles, a group of girls giggle and two elderly women exchange delighted glances. He knows it, too. Stretches, all the way from his painted toes, tenses his defined calves and thighs, arches his back, sighing happily. He has been nibbling on his lips, thinks he's hiding his satisfied grin.

"You're a little sh*t," Chris says and silently thanks whoever invented sunglasses.

"Why?" Felix pouts. "I’m not doing anything!"

Chris laughs, gripping a plastic bottle too tight and feeling the water spill over his knuckles. "No, no, it's good that you're proud of your body. Good on you, yeah? No longer a heap of twigs, you’re a proper fella now."

He shakes his head at Felix's indignation, dodges the swipe of Felix’s limp fist, tempted to trip his ankles and watch him faceplant in the sand. Instead, he licks the water from his fingers and takes a proper sip from the bottle, relaxing into the beach chair as the cold soothes his heated chest. Despite the fps50, he'll most definitely get a burn, already itchy where he's beginning to blush. This is what spending days on end locked in his studio gets him; turned to ash by his hometown sun.

“Gimme, please?” Felix holds his hand out, opening and closing it like a toddler. He pouts some more after Chris pretends to give him the bottle and lifts it out of his reach, gets on his knees to snatch it and scowls. "Stop it, stop, gimme, appa! Chris!! Oh my god, you’re such a c*nt."

"Don’t speak to your father like that," Chris scolds lightheartedly, but gives Felix the bottle. “Who raised you, huh? What a nasty mouth.”

“I like your mouth,” Felix says before emptying the water in one gulp.

Chris laughs again and raises himself out of the beach chair. "I'll take another swim, have an eye on our bags, yeah?"

After braving the scorching sand, the waves lap at him greedily. The salt stings in his eyes when he dives and he already feels it drying between his lashes and beneath his fingertips as he comes up again and slicks his curls out of his face. The sky is so blue, only paling at the horizon and around the sun. It's probably the heatstroke, but he feels surreal floating in the water, limbs weightless, body disconnected from his surroundings.

A body tackles him under.

In quick succession, he treads upwards, wraps his arms around Felix’s chest and throws him beneath the surface in return.

They both cough and giggle, stick their fingers into their ears and shake their hair out of their eyes, feet kicking at each other’s legs.

Once his lungs stop stinging, Chris ceases his thrashing and glances over Felix's shoulder. Before he can ask, Felix flicks water at him. "I asked a nice lady to look after it–"

Chan hisses, embarrassed. “Mate, you know that's a f*ckhead thing to–”

“Anyway, I can see our stuff from here!”

He certainly can’t with his back turned to the beach, but Chris spots the red and blue of their towels, haphazardly covering his backpack. They left Berry at home. Though she loves the beach just as much as them, temperatures have been spiking and with her old age, they can't risk it. That means they don't have much time, but can swim far out into the ocean without distraction.

They race.

He has not yet lost his form: half the matches he wins, parting the water as always, the stream of it carrying him quickly. Wet, their hair appears the same colour.

Back on the beach, his apology is brushed off by the nice lady. Maybe that's because Felix is adorable. They offer to share fruit and sandwiches, but she declines and goes back to her book, doesn't even ask to watch her stuff in return.

Felix scatters crumbs all over their towels and spreads the juice of watermelon on the chair and on Chris's foot. He digs his fingers into his calves, massaging them before Chris can kick him off, bites in retaliation. He gets his disposable camera dirty and aims for the perfect shot of the water for several minutes, sat on his knees, patiently hovering his thumb over the shutter. Then he turns and takes a picture of Chris, refuses to let go and reverse their roles.

Pollen ride the breeze.

-*-

“Argh, I’m so nervous! So nervous, appa.”

“You know you don’t have to go, yeah?”

“I do, I signed the contract!”

“No, I mean…” Chris sighs and crosses his arms. “You didn’t have to in the first place. You can just relax, have some time off. You'll be plenty busy at uni.”

Felix kneels, ties the laces of his trainers slowly. It took him a while to learn when he was a kid. “You used to say it’s good to work and get experience and, like. You said responsibility.”

“And you worked at that ice cream place, was it the year before the last? Yeah. And now you don’t have to anymore.”

Felix grins up at him. He's got his hair tied out of his face, forehead exposed. “Just cause you’re a rich producer?”

Chris likes that he is able to provide for his family. That he can pay for private insurance. That he can send money to his parents to ensure they have a comfortable retirement, that he can help his siblings pay off their mortgage, that he can get Felix whatever he wants and watch his eyes light up in excitement.

He rolls his eyes. “I’m serious, kid. Do stuff you enjoy, join a club, the swim team. Or check for gaming competitions, you got your fancy PC just to huff and puff to yourself?”

“f*ck you, dad,” Felix says happily, stands up and bounces on his heels. “I enjoy everything. Everything I’m doing. And I feel like I will enjoy working at petit bouchée, I had fun. And Innie is there, too.”

After Felix got back from his trial day, exhausted and sore, Chris hadn't expected him to actually sign the work contract. “All these hours running around won't be good for your back, though?”

“Appa,” Felix sighs and squeezes Chris’s arm. “They don’t have many customers, I can sit down whenever. Plus, I can eat all the leftover eclairs.”

He hums. “When can I pick you up?””

Again, Felix sighs, albeit with pursing his lips into a pointy smile. “I told you, Innie is gonna drive me home. He’ll be here any second, and you have to work anyway, can’t be my chauffeur!”

Chris spotted Jeongin’s parent’s Volvo outside a few minutes ago, parked way too close to the neighbour’s front garden. Felix’s friends got their driver’s licence as soon as they could, sixteen years old and keen to go on long road trips. Road trips Chris didn’t have to forbid Felix from joining because Felix never wanted to go.

“Fine. His number is still the same, yeah?”

Felix’s other hand comes to rest on Chris’s shoulder where his skin is peeling off the sunburn, too sore for shirts. He smells like vanilla, perfect and sweet for waiting on francophones. He'll earn a lot of tips.

Then they’re hugging.

His upper vertebrae bend under Chris's palm, his longest hairs tickle his fingers. His throat was tight.

“It’s okay, appa.”

Warm breath tickles him beneath his ear. “Is it?”

“Yeah.” Felix pulls back. He’s biting the inside of his mouth, cheek dented. “Will text you when I'm there and when my shift ends.”

Chris cups Felix’s cheek and thumbs over his temple. Right where he had had a nasty purple bump. “Good. Eat a proper lunch, not just french pastries. And tell Ayen-ah to drive carefully.”

Berry waddles up to them once she hears the key turn in the lock, licks Felix’s nose after he picks her up for a goodbye-cuddle. She whines once she's in Chris's arms, probably worried Felix is going to be gone for too long again.

“I know, girl, me too.”

They watch Felix skip to the car and hug Jeongin over the console. He waves, and Chris lifts Berry's paw to wave back together. Only once the Volvo's licence plate vanishes around the corner, does he close the door.

-*-

They hadn't allowed Felix a phone yet, though he kept begging them. Maybe if he’d had one, things would have gone differently.

-*-

Until his phone vibrates with Felix message, assuring him they’re at the café, Chris can’t stop combing through Berry’s fur and holding her to his chest. The anxiety remains, even after she’s under the desk, snoozing and drooling on his feet. It's not the first time Felix is driven by someone else again. And Jeongin is a good kid. He's lived in this city all his life, he knows it. He must know the way to the café, too. Chris shouldn’t be overreacting like this.

He wants to go out. He wants to drive to the café and get his son, strap him into his passenger seat and bring him home. He wants to do something crazy, like install baby cameras in all of Felix’s friend’s cars so he can judge their driving; better yet, lock Felix into his room. He wants to leave the house and release the trembling of his hands by gripping a young, lithe man and making him choke on his co*ck. He wants to go out.

In the evening, after Felix spends an hour in the bathtub, they make pasta. Korean classics tinkle in from the speakers in the living room and Felix uses the wooden spoon as a microphone in between stirring the farfalle. Chris uses the flat of a knife to smash the garlic, coaxes them out of their husks, slices the onions, lets bacon crackle in the pan, cooks everything into a sauce. Felix picks basil leaves from the windowsill.

They eat on the sofa, TV volume low, and Felix tells him about his day. He got to practise his French, burned his wrist on the espresso machine, had fun using a cutout to sift cocoa powder onto foam, went to eat bland sandwiches with Jeongin for lunch. His boss loves him already, though he doesn’t say that outright.

For dessert, they eat eclairs and little round tarts that coat Chris’s tongue in butter. Afterwards, Felix puts on Jujutsu Kaisen and sinks into the cushions, moaning about a belly ache. Chris gives Berry her food and prepares a hot water bottle.

“Make your dad some space, will you,” he says and wedges himself between Felix and the armrest.

“There’s space over there!”

“That’s Berry’s place, this is mine. Always has been, mate.”

Felix bites his bicep and shoves his forehead onto Chris’s thigh, water sloshing around in the bottle as he curls his knees around it. “Whyy, we can all share.”

“We share enough – ah, ouch.” Chris shifts Felix’s head away from a sore spot on his leg, further down his basketball shorts, and rubs his ear. “My bum fits right into the dip here, let me be.”

“Your bum can fit– what the f*ck–”

They gape at the TV as Fushiguro Toji demolishes a swarm of white rabbits.

The scene ends and Chris’s palm floods with the warmth of Felix’s ribcage. He loosens his grip, hoping Felix is too focused on the screen to notice how tight Chris was holding him and how flushed his ears have become. He can’t move, doesn’t want to risk it, but his hand feels too heavy, his back too straight. Felix’s shirt is soaked with the heat of the water bottle. Its fuzzy coat tickles the tip of his index finger.

Felix wiggles, curling even further into himself. His head is a pleasant weight on Chris’s leg. He looks fragile.

Chris breathes out. “You good?”

“No,” Felix whines quietly and prevents Chris from withdrawing his hand, urging it between the water bottle and the clothed pouch of his belly. “Tummy hurts.”

The top of Chris’s neck aches. “Want more tea?”

Again, Felix prevents him from moving, turns his head and nips through the shorts, mouth hot. “No, can you just rub my tummy, it helps.”

Another attempt to free his son is thwarted.

“Are your french pastries stale, did you get sick from your first day, hm?”

“Shut up,” Felix says. “‘m not sick. And they weren’t stale… we're not even allowed to sell them when they are a day old.”

Fushiguro Megumi runs, dodging attacks, then jumps from a rooftop, and is caught by his shikigami Nue.

Chris is utterly cognizant the moment his hand is pushed under the fabric of Felix’s shirt and makes contact with naked skin. The episode has captured his attention but not enough to numb the sensation of the fine hairs of Felix’s treasure trail. The cup of his palm spasms. Their hands are warm from the hot water bottle, damp with a little sweat, Felix’s palm is so much thinner than his. His belly button opens up under the tip of his thumb.

He can’t stop his noise. Every part of his body freezes, a ridiculous chill that floods down his spine and turns him rigid – every part, except for his tongue that gets wet and thick and selfish. He silences his hiss with his teeth.

Felix’s smile imprints through Chris’s shorts.

The rest of the episode is a colourful blur. It’s a soundtrack to Felix’s ribcage under his arm, the dip of his waist giving away to his elbow, the coarse hair of his pubes brushing Chris’s pinky. The outro jolts him.

He releases his son and disengages, gathers their dishes, avoiding eye contact. Alone in the kitchen, he rinses the plates, places them into the dishwasher, and dries the water dripping down his wrists. He hates watching his hands as he sorts their used cutlery into the rack, knuckles big and pink, cuticles torn, dirty in the corners, tendons protruding. He needs to cut his nails.

-*-

He doesn’t trust himself with his son down the corridor.

He craves the salty air of the ocean. He tells Felix he's meeting up with a friend.

He drives downtown. Not to the place he always goes to, not again, he can’t. There’s another one, a pub, comfortable, not too crowded, his own demographic. A man with a pierced ear and a nice smile shares some beers with him and when Chris asks him, direct and embarrassed, if he’s got a wife, he laughs and takes him home, just a ten minute walk. Neither of them want to bottom, so they suck each other off over flavoured condoms and sit on the man’s balcony, car exhaust a bitter taste in the back of Chris’s throat. He sips water and waits until he’s sober, then he drives back home.

No light is on. The sink is clean. Felix left hearts on the glass separating the shower from the rest of the bathroom, trails of his fingertip becoming visible as the water heats and steam rises and condensates. Chris adds smileys and wobbly hearts of his own. Berry waits at the end of his bed.

-*-

He will not blame his son for his own rotten core.

-*-

The following week, both of them are busy with work.

Chris wakes up around dawn to go on jogs with Berry, showers and makes breakfast, leaving the leftovers on the stove or in the fridge. When Felix has the early shift, he wakes up just when Chris and Berry get home from their run, trudging down the stairs as they climb it. He has always been spacey in the mornings, staring into nothing with low lids, swaying left to right. It got worse after the accident, strongest when his back hurts during the night.

He is cuddly and soft, keeping his balance on the bannister, and comes to a wobbly halt to hug Chris and precariously crouch down to kiss Berry’s forehead. He almost slips down a step, catching himself on Chris's sweaty calf.

Chris can’t admonish him to be careful because that startled grip zaps energy up his leg and he is too shocked to speak. His tongue was so eager. In the shower, he scrubs himself thoroughly.

On the days Felix has the midday shift, the sound of speakers turns up one or two hours after Chris has sat down for work, another one and Jeongin pulls up on the street around 11am, his parent’s car spluttering. Either Felix yells a goodbye or texts it to him, then Berry perks up as he skips out. Sometimes he sends pictures of his lunch. Chris keeps his replies short.

He works well into the evenings, well past Felix returning. He doesn’t isolate himself – he has video calls with his co-producers, he calls his mother. He makes sure to eat well: always cooking enough to last days, so he has most meals in his studio and doesn’t have to waste more time cooking. Felix doesn’t complain but sometimes he eats ramen instead, the dust of the seasoning on the counter when Chris makes himself a cup of tea.

Here in the kitchen, as Chris waits for the microwave to reheat supper, Felix suggests watching a movie.

“Sorry, mate, have to finish this project today.”

Felix makes a sad little sound. Chris can’t see the pout of his lips because he is checking on the spinning plate and the blinking numbers counting down the last thirty seconds.

“But tomorrow? It’s the weekend, dad.”

There used to be a time when he was overworking, not just getting lost in the rush of producing but fixated on accelerating his career to ensure his family had a comfortable life. They have that life now, so he doesn’t indulge anymore.

“I’ll rest after it’s done, don’t worry.”

“But you also need to rest today!”

The microwave rings, but the lamb isn’t steaming yet. He sets it for another minute.

“Dad,” Felix says and then his hand is on Chris’s back, kneading his trapezius through his tank top. “Let me give you a massage, I feel you have been sitting for a long while.”

Lukewarm lamb is fine. Chris stops the timer and takes out the plate, grabs cutlery on the way out. “Thanks, but that’ll just make me tired. Can’t concentrate when I’m tired, eh? Make sure to eat, too.”

Barely ten minutes pass until Felix follows Chris into the studio and plops onto the sofa, placing his own portion of supper on his lap.

“Don’t make a mess,” Chris says instead of telling him to leave.

“You are eating on your laptop, your keyboard— why is your plate full? Why’d you not eat?”

“I was distracted!”

“Appa,” Felix whines, probably kicking his feet or pointing his fork at him. “Stop this!!”

“I’m— fine. No, yeah yeah you’re right. Ah,” he concedes, knowing he'll just get caught in an argument. “Christ, you're a brat.”

He shouldn't have said that. Not after what he has done. But before he can apologise, Felix huffs. “If I'm a brat… then that's your fault. Cause. You raised me.”

The fork scrapes over his teeth. There's nothing he could say that wouldn't implicate him further. So he just remains quiet and eats up fast, hoping Felix will simply leave if he isn't given attention. He should know better: if his son doesn't receive it, he will demand it.

Less than five minutes later, the shuffling and panting begins, then the music. While he's working on his own songs, there's a sh*tty pop ballad blasting past his headphones. He lasts three repeats of it, then he turns around, jaw set.

The dirty plate is precariously balancing on a cushion, the fork threatening to dirty the leather. A pair of socks is thrown on the ground, no doubt about to be forgotten and left behind for him to wash. He needs to air out the room.

Berry startles as he flinches.

Felix swooshes his arms and trails his hands down his torso suggestively, staring at his phone that is propped up on the backrest of the sofa. A pretty guy is demonstrating dance moves on the small screen.

Chris watches him rotate his hips like he’s riding co*ck.

“Will you stop that.”

Felix leans down to pause the video and props himself up on the sofa with one hand, shirt turning translucent against his sweaty back. “Hm?”

“Don't exercise right after eating, mate.”

“I thought that's just for swimming.”

Chris takes off his glasses and folds them. “Bang Yongbok, you better be sh*tting me.”

Felix grins, though he doesn't sound convincing: “I'm kidding, I know, I'm stopping. But! Then show me what you're making, you haven't shown me all week.”

“Cause it’s not done.”

“You always show me when it's not done!”

“How about you take Berry for a walk so I can finish it, yeah?”

He's stalling. Betting on Felix to forget. He couldn't possibly let Felix listen to the songs he's been making, let alone let him know the lyrics.

Felix leaps and hugs him over the backrest of the desk chair, squeezing him under his clavicles, whining. “Appa, appa, you want me to leave? You want me to leave you?”

“That's not what I said.”

The scent of his perfume is layered with his sweat. His cheekbone is damp, slipping down Chris's temple. “No? What did you say?”

He can't move his mouse or use his keyboard, arms trapped, headphones out of reach, vision blurred. “When you're back, we'll watch a movie.”

Felix's cheeks bunch up in a grin. “Thank you, dearest, bestest appa.”

Berry is sleepy but lets herself get coaxed out from under the desk and raised into Felix's arms. She yawns, long tongue rolling out. Chris tickles the underside of her chin before putting on his glasses and headphones again.

Just as he brings the screen back to life: "Appa."

"What now?"

"Do you still write about me?"

When Felix was two, Chris wrote an EP about him. It got mixed reviews. Some complained about too many bible metaphors. Others praised it as another isn't she lovely.

“Wouldn't you love that, huh? Why're you asking?”

"I like knowing that your clients, partners, like... The ones you produce for, that they sing your stuff and people think it's about them or a lover but it's about me."

Chris fights the urge to kick him out forcefully. It's not Felix's fault that Chris has vile thoughts. “I wouldn't be making music if it wasn't for you, Lix. So, in a way, you're in all my songs, yeah?”

Fundamentally, he'd rather tell than confess.

-*-

The first weekend of December, Chris decides to buy a real pine tree instead of opting for the plastic one they store in the cellar. During Felix's working hours, he drives out to West Pennant Hills. On the way there, he listens to his old music: the rap album he, Changbin and Jisung made in Korea, young and naive and obsessed with proving themselves; the electro pop; his first RnB record he finished just after he met her.

The sale is organised by a society that invests in education so there are kids running around, adults debating over living room space, and a couple of vendors selling food. Thankfully, a cheerful volunteer helps him decide - otherwise he might have spent an hour staring at different trees – and once a tall and bushy one is safely wrapped in a net, they carry it to the car together. He'll find green needles in every nook and crevice for weeks, but it’s worth it watching Felix run for his disposable camera as soon as he sees it.

It takes them the whole afternoon to decorate.

Although Berry has learned over the years when and where to zoom, she still gets dangerously excited when Chris carries it into the living room. They have to exile her into the kitchen while he lifts it so Felix can guide the stump into the base without getting jostled and jumped. Her whining is cutting through Michael Bublé's deep voice.

“I feel so sad,” Felix says, looking back over his shoulder. “I don't like when she's sad.”

Chris's arms are stinging from the weight of the tree and it feels like he's been pricked a dozen times already. “Yes, yeah, please focus on this, baby, my arms are about to fall off.”

“Uh! Oh, sorry!”

Felix is kneeling on the plastic sheet that covers the tiles, way too comfortable and distracted for the task at hand. He's taking his sweet time angling it into the hole and he doesn't warn Chris before shoving it down, making him falter on the chair he's standing on.

“Careful, f*ck, slow down, mate!” A pine needle goes right into the fleshy heel of his palm. “Oh f*cking hell, is it in? Did you secure it?”

Felix giggles, then the click of the fixture accompanies his affirmation. “Wait, wait, though! Let me check.”

He scrambles up and back, pursing his lips.

“Straight?”

“Straight… It's wonky, bit to the left, no the other - yes, yes! Wait!”

Chris huffs out a laugh, secures his grip and nudges Felix with his toe after he is back on his knees and adjusting the stump. “You're doing this on purpose aren't you - oh, finally.” He lets go and scrutinises his palms. “Why'd I buy a real one again?”

“Cause! It smells nice and it has to be!” Felix jumps up again, immediately going for the scissors to cut through the net. At least he's starting from the bottom, giving Chris enough time to hop down from the chair and avoid being hit with branches.

The pine's scent is indeed lovely. “Gonna go get the vacuum and clean the car seats. You're good here, yeah? Got all you need?”

“Noo, appa, you need to stay.” Felix turns his big eyes on him. “It must be done together.”

He is really cute. Even wearing a christmas vest, blue snowflakes on white and beige wool, the v of the neckline low. Maybe he lowered the temperature of the AC and that's why Chris gets goosebumps.

“Fine. But then you vacuum the car, cause I'll have to make supper.”

Felix throws a mess of fairy lights into his arms. “Very good, you do this, I put the star!”

Chris sinks into the sofa and spends too long detangling the cables and watching Felix trim the top of the tree a bit too much, thinning it excessively. The golden star settles hesitantly.

Wrapping the lights around the branches is another struggle, either they're clustered or hidden in the shadows, too messy on the floor and an open invitation for Berry's curiosity or tucked under the plastic sheet and unable to reach the socket. The ornaments are fun, though. Most of them they've had for years and a few have little stories to them that Chris doesn't get tired of retelling.

“You made this in kindie, remember?”

“Yep.”

“You were so proud of yourself, aaaw, look at the little elf.”

Felix bursts into a honking laugh. “So f*cking ugly.”

Chris gasps and hangs the bauble where it's visible from most angles. “One of the best presents ever, mate. I love all the stuff you've given us.”

One of the shelves here in the living room displays Felix's childhood crafts, another one the trophies and medals he has won in taekwondo and swimming competitions, and the third houses family pictures. There are many more kindergarten sculptures, bible camp souvenirs, and self-made cosplay outfits stored in the cellar and garage.

“I like this one best.” Felix is cradling a transparents barble encapsulating a photograph. It's of the three of them: taken at the beach, their hair tousled and stiff from salt, all of them smiling brightly. Felix and his mother had printed it the Christmas before the accident. Almost ten years now.

He can't look at it too closely. “I love it, too.”

"She was so pretty."

"Yeah."

Felix hangs it below the golden star, centred among the sparse branches. Neither of them point out how he’s the spitting image of her. “I'm very grateful we have pictures.”

“Let's find some more, yeah?”

Felix nods, silent. His expression wobbles.

“Come here, baby,” he says, torn, and tugs Felix in by a palm on his slim neck.

Immediately, Felix sniffles into his shoulder, his own quivering, his loose fists pawing at Chris's shirt. He's holding on like he's about to collapse, swaying into Chris with his whole body.

Chris gives them a while before tilting Felix's chin up. “I'm here. We're both here, yeah?”

Felix nods, his cheek squishing under Chris's thumb.

“My little boy, you took after her so well. She’s very proud of you, I know that.”

Felix whimpers, then squirms away, wiping at his flushed face with hectic and embarrassed fists. “Argh, I’m so.. I’m okay, I’m not even too sad.”

“What’s wrong with being sad, huh?” He ruffles Felix’s hair. It’s gotten so long. “Get some rest, sit. You’re probably hungry, that makes everything much more intense.”

“Yeah, my back… I mean, I’m alright. I’m gonna sit.”

“Good. Good boy.” Chris heads to the kitchen to make supper, like he’s meant to, and finally lets Berry out. “I know you'll behave, yeah? Aaw, yes. Yes, such a good girl!”

She pants happily and wiggles under his scratches, then traipses into the living room.

“Oh, hi, Berry-chéri, no, no, don't walk on that–”

Instead of checking on them, he gets some ingredients from the fridge and cabinets and places them on the counter, begins peeling onions and reminds himself that Felix knows how to take care of Berry and Berry knows how to be careful. He doesn't always need to supervise.

“You two good?” He yells.

“Yep!” Felix shouts back. A second later: “Can I take some of these chocolates to Hyunjin?”

He puts down his knife. “Who’s that? And you're not giving those to Berry are you?”

“No, of course not!” Felix hums pettily. “Hyunjin dances and he does art, he's really good! He showed me some of his stuff on his phone, pictures and videos, he posts on TikTok, too! Ah, he works at petit bouchée and we've had a few shifts together. Ah, but I don't know if he likes me…”

Chris chops the onions in half and begins dicing them, careful to inhale through his mouth so he won’t cry all over the kitchen. “He sounds great! You seeing him soon?”

“Yeah, tomorrow! Maybe you could meet him some day!”

“Yeah? You got a little crush, hm?”

That would be good. If Felix had a partner. If someone held his hand through thick and thin.

There's no answer though, and the silence lasts a while, only the Christmas music filling it. Chris chops the rest of the vegetables and wonders what this Hyunjin boy looks like. If he is kind. If he is funny. If he is as polite and cheeky as Seungmin and Jeongin.

The pot he wants to use isn't in the oven where he usually stores it. After checking every shelf, he finds it in the dishwasher, burnt bits of pasta stuck to the bottom. Leaning against it are dirty plates, red and sticky with sauce.

“Mate,” Chris calls exasperatedly. “I told you to rinse the plates before putting them into the washer, didn’t I?”

“They get clean anyway!!”

“Not properly!” He leans around the door to glare at his son.

Felix and Berry are on the sofa, cuddled up. It's not quite sunset but since the living room is facing west they're mostly illuminated by the yellow lights of the christmas tree. The flickering specks dance over Felix's cheeks, reflect in Berry's sleepy eyes and the crinkled, colourful wrappers strewn across the coffee table, an opened box Chris bought yesterday tipped over and spilling. Felix's lips are smudged with chocolate.

The Michael Bublé album is on another run-through.

Chris crosses his arms and waits.

“Whah?” Felix asks after he must've felt his presence, and cranes his neck, twirling another lolli. Berry huffs.

“If the dishwasher breaks, who’s gonna pay for a new one, huh?”

“I have got money now!”

“You had a single pay, you smug little c*nt.”

“My savings!”

“Ahh, really?” Chris raises one eyebrow and grins. “After you built that spiffy PC when you got your HSC last year?”

Felix pulls a face. “Forgot about that.”

“You forgot about the thousands of dollars you have sitting in your room? Mate, if this doesn't show–”

“I didn't forget forget and, anyway, it's good, I'm good with it!! You taught me to be responsible with money, and I'm good with the PC, too!”

Chris really doesn't know about either of that. Felix splurges. Just like his mother did. “Well then, you turn into an e-sports champion and it's all solved, yeah?”

“Stop it, shut up–”

Suddenly, Berry lifts her head from Felix's chest and yowls.

“Oh, wow,” Chris says after they've calmed their giggles. “Both my children telling me to shut my mug and go back to the kitchen.”

“Thank you for cooking, appa,” Felix sings sweetly. He only sounds mildly sarcastic.

Chris wags a finger at him. “You'll see what this will get you, mate.”

Felix blows him a kiss and then hums excitedly after licking his lips. “Chocolate!”

-*-

On Felix's thirteenth birthday, he had asked Chris about sex. They were on a road trip along the coast, camping and stargazing every night; and right there, under the setting sun and venus above the horizon, Felix fumbled for words. He called it “first time” and “love making” and nodded seriously when Chris gave him a lecture on STDs and protection before actually answering the question. Then he had blushed and squirmed, but clung to every word.

“And is it different with umma?” He had asked after Chris was done retelling a sanitised version of the awkward blow-jobs he and his first boyfriend in Korea had exchanged.

“Course,” Chris has said then, looking at Felix's freckles in the light of the campfire. “We love each other. That makes everything better. Even when it's weird and funny, it's perfect, yeah?”

Now, he wonders if Felix is satisfied when he’s getting f*cked.

-*-

The following night, he tells Felix he's meeting up with friends and drives to a bar, searches for a man to follow into the restroom and f*ck bent over the toilet banister. He doesn’t even get through his first drink, sits on a stool like a show pony and is led to the back just like one. The man is lanky, soft, hole loose from poppers, makes rolling a condom down Chris’s co*ck seem elegant. He searches for purchase on Chris's hips, painted nails scratching his itchy skin. He calls him daddy, all coy, seeking a thrill, a punishment, maybe. Chris politely refuses to exchange numbers.

-*-

The apple doesn’t fall far.

Felix closes the front door quietly, turns around and shrieks. "sh*t!!"

"What, what, what?" He keeps his laptop screen dim and on dark mode at this hour, and has to shield his eyes after Felix suddenly hits the light switch, his vision sparking.

"I thought you were a ghost in the darkness!!"

“It's not even that dark in here!"

"I was just in the car, there's brightness in there! Ugh. I almost forgot my phone, too. Where is it?" Felix pats down his body and then seems to remember the purse slung around his shoulder, keening happily. "Hyunjin also has a camera, a real one, we took pictures and photos! I wonder if mine even picked up anything."

Felix, phone apparently forgotten, retrieves his disposable camera but nothing happens. “Ugh, forgot,” he grumbles, and reels it, wheel clicking rhythmically, before pressing another button. Chris doesn't manage to avert his eyes in time, the flash stings, and Felix cackles, way too proud of himself for startling his old man.

“First you don't text me how long you'll be out, now this. Again. You're really asking for a grounding,” Chris sighs and leans his neck over the backrest of the sofa.

“Like this?” Felix sinks to the floor, plopping onto his ass right between hallway and living room, legs spread. His grin spreads, too. “Now what can you do?”

Involuntarily, Chris thinks of a dozen options.

He grabs his laptop and headphones and opens Cubase again. “Guess I could just take that camera away.”

“You can't!! I haven't finished the roll, the film, yet!”

“What?? Aren’t there only about thirty on it?? I’ll use it on Berry,” he adds quickly to avoid prolonging their conversation, deliberately nonchalant and without glancing up. “By the way, she's in your room. Probably sleeping on your pillow even though she knows she shouldn't.”

She did that a lot while Felix was away in spring.

Felix coos. “That's okay, I need someone to cuddle anyway.”

Chris can't say anything. He can't. Otherwise he might ask something he'd regret.

Felix rids himself of his shoes, putting them on the rack without prompting, and gets up with a groan. His knees are red, wobbling beneath the hem of his shorts, and the plain black shirt he's wearing is stained and loose, swallowing a silver chain. Somehow he always manages to get dirty. He probably didn’t notice that Chris washed his leather jacket.

Out of nowhere, Felix grumbles.“It's Christmas time. Should be jolly, jolly.” He switches on the fairy lights and pokes some of the baubles, tugs at drooping branches. Pine needles fall and land on the plastic sheet.

“It's tiiiiiiiiime~” Felix suddenly belts, missing the pitch by a long shot. He sways into the kitchen, singing to himself and wiggling his little ass. The purse bounces on his hip. Chris hears water hit the sink and then the bottom of a glass before a deep sigh of relief. “Noice.”

Felix shuffles back holding a bowl of snack carrots, stops in front of the Christmas tree and just stands there, staring at it. He has his hair in pigtails.

“You good, Lix?” Chris asks.

“Mmhmm.”

The neckline of his shirt is clinging to the arch of his spine, darkened from sweat.

“You drunk?"

"No."

"Good. I mean, you can be drunk of course."

"I'm not.” Felix crunches on a carrot, then leans his head back in an angle and looks at Chris, speaks nearly upside down and through a full mouth. “You?”

“No.”

“You showered. Smells good.”

Chris shrugs. Tries to go back to Cubase.

“Did you have fun?” Felix is chewing very loudly.

Again, Chris shrugs. “Sure.”

Felix's heavy lids shadow his eyes. The outline of his lips is blurred. Swollen. His hair is a mess.

“Remember,” he says, bites another chunk of carrot and smacks his lips while he chews. “Remember once I went down the stairs when you and umma wrapped the presents?”

They hadn't actually caught Felix peeking. Only put two and two together in the morning when he was attempting and failing to feign surprise, so desperate to make his parents believe he thought Santa visited, so desperate not to accuse them of deceit.

“Ah, yeah.” Chris laughs briefly. “You cried when we figured out you sneaked around.”

Felix whines, tapping the end of a carrot on his incisors. “Cause! Cause I felt bad about lying.”

“We lied about it first, didn't we?”

“Santa makes people happy!!”

“Oh wow, what-,” Chris laughs properly and shakes his head, cupping his face in disbelief. After he squeezes his cheeks and sweeps through his curls, seeing again, Felix has moved closer and lifts one knee onto the sofa. He smells like whiskey and cherries.

“Is lying okay when–”

“You got carrot in your teeth,” Chris says and points at Felix's gums.

“Uh!” Felix places the bowl on the coffee table and picks his teeth with the nail of his pinky, plopping right next to Chris in the process. “Here? Here?”

His tongue is so red. So needy.

Chris just nods and really focuses on his laptop screen, adjusts his headphones so he's actually listening from one side.

Felix butts his forehead against his shoulder. "What're you making?"

He discards the headphones, plays the raw track.

“Mmhhmm.” Felix nuzzles into Chris's naked deltoid, rubbing either spit or snot into his skin. “Sounds nice.”

“Needs a lot more work.”

“Still sounds nice.”

“Thanks, mate.”

“Let me in,” Felix demands and slides his head under Chris's elbow, lying on his thigh. The scrunchies of his pigtails are wound tight. He falls asleep like that, not even ten minutes later, snoring lightly. Chris closes his laptop and watches him.

-*-

Chris ends the online meeting and desperately searches for a blister of painkillers he could swear he usually keeps in his desk drawer. His entire head hurts, mostly around his nose and under his brows, sinuses inflamed. The lack of sleep the past weeks has caught up with him and combined with the pollen, he's had to fight the urge to nap with a cooling pad on his face. He finds the painkillers behind his monitor and swallows a pill with a sip of luke-warm juice from earlier.

Two weeks til Christmas and then he'll take a holiday, but for now he needs to push through. A five minute break is all he needs. He gets up and stretches, bends down to retrieve Berry from under the desk and carries her downstairs to accompany him while he makes himself a smoothie. Automatically, he checks her water bowl, but it's nearly full and she doesn't lap at it.

“You okay, my girl? Hm? You wanna have supper with the two of us, don't you? Yes, ah, yes, you do.”

On their way up, he turns off the lights of the Christmas tree. Felix wants to keep them on all day as if he's paying the electricity bill. He's not even in the living room, has been whinging at his PC since he came back from work.

Chris knocks on his door.

“Yeah?”

“Can I come in?”

“Uh, yeah, one second!”

Frantic shuffling. The dull thud of a toe or knee hitting a hard surface, cursing, mumbled pep talk.

Chris bops Berry up and down in his arms. “What'd’ya think he's hiding in there, huh? Treats?”

She huffs right before the door opens and Felix leans against the frame, headset still on.

Automatically, Chris scans his room. The blinds are closed and the pink LEDs on - those and the nightlights they've collected over the years. The floor is tidy but the desk and shelves aren't, the duvet suspiciously lumpy. Plushies hide the cushion.

“Did you just throw all your dirty clothes under the doona, mate?”

“Noo,” Felix lies and tries to block the view of his bed with his skinny shoulders. “I just didn't make it this morning. The bed. And I had to tell Innie and Seungmin I have to pause the game.”

Chris exchanges a doubtful glance with Berry. “Right. We're very sorry for disturbing your big match. Just wanted to tell you uncle Binnie specifically wants you to rap a verse for his song, but, you know, just go back to your man cave.”

He turns and laughs, hearing Felix squeak and scramble.

The afternoon is lovely. Since he can write this off as work, he doesn't even feel pressured to rush and get back to serious projects. For a change, Berry doesn't snuggle between the cables under the desk but stretches onto the sofa, into a square of sun, watching them lazily. After guiding Felix through some vocal warm-ups, he shows him the demo Changbin sent, giving additional pointers, and lets him try it out a couple of times. His studio doesn't include a proper sound booth, but he does have diffusion panels for his mics and he sets them up on the table top for Felix to sing standing.

One of Chris's deepest regrets is neglecting Felix's voice. He remembers what it felt like to want to push Felix's skills, what it felt like to hold him in his arms and up to the mic. If he hadn't been so useless and kept training him as a teenager, Felix could have become a cherished singer. Back then, Chris thought it was best not to overwhelm him with expectations, but more so he was afraid Felix wouldn’t want to give his all and they’d loose a connection. He fulfilled his own worry.

And now he gets to start anew.

At one point, Chris simply has to take out his phone and film Felix. He's so cute, gesturing offbeat and putting his all into it, so close to the mic he's kissing the spit guard. For a good thirty seconds he stays undetected, then Felix opens his eyes, glances his way and frowns adorably.

"Hey, hey, hey!"

The video shakes as Chris laughs and scoots backwards out of Felix reach, dodging the swipe for his phone. "Smile for uncle Binnie!"

Felix, sweet boy, immediately drops his pout and smiles, waving with both hands. "Hello uncle Changbinnie! Was it good? Did you like it?"

"Did really well, Lix, he'll be proud." He flips to the front camera and raises a brow. "Right?"

Truthfully, he has no right to threaten Changbin since Changbin suggested including Felix in the first place and convinced him that there's no harm in having some fun and sharing what they love.

They finish up recording enough quality takes for Changbin to have options, and Chris pinky promises to update Felix diligently.

“Ahh, this was fun, thank you, appa,” Felix says brightly, still holding onto Chris's pinky, swinging their hands back and forth.

“Yeah,” Chris agrees softly, looking up at him. His neck is flushed. “It was, wasn't it? How about we try that more often?”

He laughs at the happiness that takes over Felix's face, his arm nearly yanked out of its socket at the tug to his finger, and at himself for letting out a startled squeak. “Guessing that's a yes.”

“Yes,” Felix chirps and suddenly hugs Chris around the shoulders, rolling him back in the desk hair and smothering him into his flat chest. “I want that!!”

It's difficult to breathe, his neck is at an odd angle and his nose hurts from the squish, but he laughs again, smells vanilla, and squeezes Felix back. They sway left to right until he really needs space for his lungs and directs Felix back, gets stuck on the sight of his own hands gathering Felix's shirt around his waist, folds spilling around his fingers. His soft tummy dents under his thumbs. He feels so loose and light.

The flush seeped down to Felix's chest too, faintly visible beneath the white fabric, gathered around his dark nipples. A slow shudder rolls through his sweet body, not strong enough to shake off Chris's hold, but his palms spasm on Chris's shoulders and slide around his neck. Cold and damp.

His mouth was hot.

“Dad.”

“Mhmm?”

Felix swallows. “Can I show you a song I wrote?”

Inadvertently, Chris tightens his grip. Then he inhales through his teeth and shakes himself, letting go. “Yeah, of course, mate! Show us.”

Felix runs out the studio and Chris swivels around in his chair to watch him skip down the corridor and into his room, naked feet skidding on the floor. His toned legs haven gotten so tan over the summer.

He stares at Berry until Felix is back, at her fur shining in the sun, and he must forget himself, his posture must seem like an instruction because Felix makes a straight line for him and settles onto his thigh, placing his journal onto the desk. His ass cheeks part and, through his shorts, the pulse in his balls is palpable.

Chris nearly shoves him to the ground. But he can't touch him again or otherwise he might hold on too tight and he can't jostle his leg because Felix could knock against the table top, so he just sits there, rigid.

“Dad. You need to read.”

“Sing it to me,” he says weakly.

The ends of Felix's hair have reached the top of his spine, fall into his neckline and hide the freckles and mole there. His neck would ache if it was pulled.

“No,” Felix whines, and wiggles, and Chris can't stop him. “It doesn't really have a melody.. not a real one. It's just lyrics. You need to read.”

With a racing heart, Chris leans forward, trapping Felix between himself and the desk, and tries to see the open page. It's not at a great angle though, and he either needs to contort his back or hook his chin over Felix's shoulder, at the very least touch Felix's skin.

“Hold that up for me, don't have my glasses–”

Felix reaches for the case, sliding closer to Chris's crotch as he bends forward, and then he twists in Chris’s lap, clumsily pushes the glasses’s tips past his ears. His curls get caught in the hinges and they sit too low on his nose; and as he adjusts them, Felix’s fingers get in the way.

“No need to strain your back,” Chris says flatly and turns Felix's head around by the jaw. “Get up for a second, yeah?”

“No, why?”

“I can't read like this.”

Felix slumps into Chris' chest. “No.”

“Lix.” He decides to shove him after all. But Felix plants his feet down, puts all his weight into him and digs his nails into his hip, nearly elbowing him in the face. “Jesus f*cking christ, will you stop being a brat?”

Felix, who has been giggling under his breath, falls silent. His skull is pressing on Chris's collarbone and it hurts, grating, when he raises his chin, looking at him upside down. His ass is precariously balancing on Chris's knee, this position cannot be comfortable. From this angle, the pattern of his freckles appears entirely new. The inside of his bottom lip shimmers. “You're being mean.”

“I've told you to get off and you haven't. Now move.”

For a second it seems like Felix will argue, brows furrowing and jaw twitching, but then he huffs and straightens, flailing his arms. Chris steadies him until he's standing and scoots close to the desk, grabbing the journal to get this over with.

It's very cute. Very adolescent. Not exactly clever or lyrically ambitious but it's got a running metaphor and it’s genuine. Definitely genuine.

“Oh, wow.” Chris clears his throat.

He's never had a song written about him before. At least not this overtly. At least nothing that isn't about conquering the music industry as a team. Definitely nothing this saturated by worship.

“Oh, wow,” he says again. Adjusts his glasses.

Felix's stare is digging into the side of his head. “Is it okay? Ah, it's bad, give it, ‘m sorry–”

“Hey, hey, calm down, it's not bad, baby! Not at all. I like it.”

“Really?”

He makes himself nod at Felix. Smiles. “Yeah. Let's make it into a proper song, yeah? You said you have a melody?”

He takes the journal and thumbs at the page, taps onto the scribbled words steady unlike the disappearing shore. “This part, where the story connects, that's the bridge, yeah?”

“Cause the shore isn't steady, it always changes,” Felix explains unnecessarily. He's hovering, not leaning against the desk, not touching, though his twitching hands betray that he wants to.

“I gotta work some more now, sorry, little one. Here, but send me the lyrics.” He hands Felix the journal. “Seriously, Lix, they're good.”

Felix looks at him, gnawing at his finger. A beat passes – maybe he is thinking about arguing again or pleading to work on the song now – but then he takes the journal and nods. “Thank you, appa. ‘m gonna go for a swim and then make supper, okay?”

“Thank you, good boy,” Chris says and taps his mouse. “Don't let Berry into the pool.”

“Course not. Come here, come here, chéri. You wanna jump into the pool and piss appa off?”

He rolls his eyes and keeps an eye on them through the window.

-*-

The days they can't go to the beach, Felix usually floats in the pool. When he comes back from his early shifts, he practises his form until Chris has prepared lunch; when he's scheduled for the afternoon, he stays in there until Jeongin appears. He carries the water into the house, dripping onto the tiles and rugs, smelling like chlorine, and sitting at the table with wet hair or a towel around his head. At least one pair of his swimming trunks is drying on the deck or in the bathroom at any given time, the skin where they cover him much paler than the rest of him.

-*-

Chris goes out again and is found by someone who drops to his knees in the last stall, not bothering with the glory hole, sucking him deep. He's eager. He's sweet, wide-eyed. Barely a man, still a boy, really. Willing to let an older guy use his throat, thumb the smeared mascara under his eyes tenderly without saying much of anything.

“Come on my face,” he says, rolling off the condom, before mouthing at Chris's co*ck again.

Just like that. They don't know more than each other’s names and drink preference, but he shows Chris eager trust, swallows his pre.

He sounds like his boy. He sounds like Felix.

And he is good. Doesn't even gag, doesn't flinch at the spurts of come landing on his brows and nose and mouth, licks his lips with a grin.

Chris wonders who taught him how to suck co*ck like that.

-*-

The apricots and peaches are sweating in their nets. Chris took them out of the fridge before washing the pan from lunch and now the condensation has gathered in their seams and around their stems, rolling down their fuzzy skin in thin patterns. He makes sure his hands aren't smelling of dish soap anymore before slicing the fruit into wedges, adds crushed mint to ginger ale, and dries his hands on his shorts.

After he has placed the drinks on the coffee table, coming back again from the kitchen with the fruit, Felix aims the disposable camera at him.

“Don't you have enough pictures of me by now?” He asks.

Felix snorts, glances over the viewfinder. His hair is not dry yet, leaking water onto his uncovered shoulders. “No? I want to take many of you.”

“How about we take one together, hm? Give me that.”

He puts the plate down and reaches out his hand. Felix smiles angelically, offers up the camera, but jerks it away when Chris grasps for it.

“Lix…”

Felix sticks out his tongue and holds up the camera again. Chris doesn't even try properly, expects the second dodge and the third. Twice more he endures, then he's had enough, catches Felix’s wrist and takes the camera forcefully. In the process, though, one of them must hit the shutter, and when he goes to wind the film, there's no haptic feedback. The little number on the top says zero.

“f*ck,” he says. “It's empty, baby, I'm sorry.”

“What?? Show me!”

Chris does. “Ah, I'm really sorry. I'll get you a new one – just a bunch of new films.”

“It's okay.” Felix fiddles with the camera, clearly sad. “I thought I had more, sorry.”

“Why are you apologising, mate, that's on me.” He nudges the plate of fruit. “Eat up.”

Felix hums in excitement once he chews on a piece of apricot. The juice seeps down his chin and wrist, about to drip onto his tummy or the sofa. "It's so sweet!!"

"Don't touch any–"

But Felix has already grabbed the controller, leaving sticky fingerprints all over, pulling a guilty expression at Chris's sigh. He licks the corner of his lips, misses a piece of orange skin. "Sorry, sorry! I'll wash it!"

"Now," Chris tells him, unwilling to hear him complain about broken buttons or a lagging connection in a couple of days.

Felix pauses the game– Cloud stops mid swing – and runs to the kitchen. His back is pink but it doesn't appear to be a sunburn, probably just the friction of fabric. The backside of his thighs are pink, too. The fuzz of his body hair is flattened in wiggly lines. While he's gone, Chris turns off the lights of the Christmas tree and whistles for Berry. She hops into the living room, jumps into his arms and attacks him with wet kisses.

“Yah, ew, oh Gosh, Berry. You need some water, my girl. Your breath is so stinky! So stinky.” He pouts. “Yes, yes, I'm sorry. I'm sorry! But it's true!”

Felix returns with wet tissues and an empty bowl. "For the pits!"

"Smart boy."

He preens.

Chris squeezes Berry and carries her to the kitchen. “Right, Berry needs a walk. I'll be back soon. And while we're gone, check on the laundry, yeah? Should be done in a bit. And stop turning on the fairy lights in the middle of the day."

"Yes, appa," Felix says, pops another slice of apricot into his mouth and demonstratively cleans his fingers with his tongue before resuming his game, blinking innocently.

-*-

Chris takes the disposable camera on his next grocery run and gets confronted with the disheartening news that the store he used to get them developed at doesn't offer the service anymore. After some online research, he drives to King Street where he's not just pleasantly surprised to be told it'll only take two hours, but sold another present for Felix. In the remaining ninety minutes he gets some more Christmas shopping done, though he'll have to send a second package to his parents since he sent one in November already.

When he gets back, the previously so cheerful employee avoids eye contact and races through the payment.

Chris finds out why in the parking lot.

He’s got the windows up and the AC on, the radio playing, Berry chewing on one of her squeaky toys; and opens the envelope he was given, ignoring the negatives. That's on him. It's on him for flipping through his son's photographs. The first is a bright picture of the blue sky and the buildings Seong Ho's store is on. The next are his own confused face and a sleeping Berry, in the very same position as she is in now. More pictures of him, some he wasn't even aware of. A couple of portraits of Felix's friends, Jeongin and Seungmin he recognizes immediately even though they're heavily overexposed. The beach, flowers –

Felix’s thighs, hairs golden in a beam of afternoon sun.

His hard co*ck, cradled by a crumpled pair of briefs too big for his skinny hips, white come pearling on it.

-*-

He leaves the camera, new roll, and the envelope on the coffee table.

-*-

-*-

Chris tries to hide, then deflect, then lie. In hopes of getting them to eat at different times, he doesn't cook supper, texts Felix he has to crunch for work. That backfires because half an hour later Felix carries a tray with steaming bowls of ramen inside. The eggs are overdone and there's no added vegetables, but Chris refrains from commenting, just nods and turns back to the monitor.

“Thank you for printing,” Felix says, staring at Chris from the leather sofa.

“You'll spill, careful.”

In the reflection of the screen, he can tell Felix hasn't even used his chopsticks yet, bowl balanced on his lap. “They turned out really good, I feel like only a few aren't.”

“Ah, yeah? I wouldn't know, I didn't have time to look.” He laughs.

“Oh, really? Fingerprints are on them.”

“Wow, pretty unprofessional employees, huh? Thanks for cooking, mate, let me get back to this or I'll get scolded.”

But Felix is stubborn. “Maybe I will get one of them as a big print, or more.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I like the one in the garden but maybe it's boring? So no print for that. And I can't give Innie his picture.”

“Ah? Why’s that?” Immediately, he regrets asking. He shouldn't indulge the topic.

“Cause he doesn't like our work uniform.”

“You took pictures at work?” Jeongin was leaning against a table and holding a macaron to his mouth.

“And of Hyunjin, too.”

Any normal day, Chris would ask when he'll get to meet Hyunjin. “Then you'll just have to take new pictures, yeah? Alright, quiet now, let me focus.”

-*-

It's fine. People masturbat*. Chris has been hearing the buzz of a sex toy almost every night. It's a wonder he's never caught his son in the act. There's nothing weird about that.

-*-

He is so tired. His lashes obstruct his vision, his brain is foggy, but the picture on the screen makes reading the caller ID redundant anyway. "Yes, sweetheart?"

"Like it when you call me sweetheart." Felix sounds drunk. "I'm your sweetheart. Daddy, I love you."

He is drunk.

"Where are your friends, Lix?"

There is some muffled conversation, some cursing.

"f*ck off, I'm talking to my dad." Very drunk. "Daddy, can you pick me up?"

Chris gets up from the sofa and rubs his face. He was napping, waiting for Felix to be safe and sound and home. "Of course, send me the address, yeah? You alone?"

"There was this guy."

Chris's blood runs cold. "What guy? You okay?"

"The blonde one, but ugly blonde, natural. Ugly. Appa, remember when I was blonde?"

"I do, Lixie. It suits you well. Send me the address."

Once he gets to the car, phone still pressed to his ear, Felix drops his location in their chat, rambling about bleach and silver shampoo. He's not far away, could've taken the bus but if some nasty bloke bothered him, he can't be feeling comfortable.

“Thank you for calling me, baby,” Chris says just loud enough for his phone to pick up. He's got it on the dashboard on speaker, torn between needing to focus on traffic and making sure Felix is fine. “Can you tell me again who's with you?”

“Uhhhhh, Hyunjinnie and, and Seungmin was just here telling me about, uhhhhh, I forgot… Pigeons.. Birds? Is it a bird or a pigeon? No! No, a seagull.”

“Right. Find Seungmin right now.”

“Innie sings a song about seagulls… oh, oh, it's the one we listened to when we were younger!”

“Lix, get either Seungmin or Jeongin right now.” He's sounding harsh to his own ears. “Please.”

Felix makes noises. “Can't see them.”

Chris breathes out for four seconds. “Ask the bartender for water, can you do that for me, baby?”

He listens to Felix search for the counter and charm the people behind it for a few minutes, then finally gulp down water and sigh contently. Thankfully, one of Felix's friends finds and stays with him, though Chris doesn't hang up until he takes a turn and spots the club at the end of the road. He knows the place. The windows are taped with newspapers and red lights seep around the inked letters. It spills onto the pavement when the door opens, accompanied by a wave of smoke and crackling techno. People are mingling outside and smoking, most of them men, some wearing glitter or accessories in christmas colours.

A boy has an arm around Felix's waist, black hair in a ponytail, and Chris recognizes him from the printed pictures.

He leans over the gearbox and opens the passenger door. “Hey, Hyunjin, right?”

“Hey, dad!! Hi, daddy!!” Felix collapses into a heap of giggles.

"I'm so sorry, sir," Hyunin says, visibly embarrassed, and pushes Felix inside the car. "We don't drink that much, usually. And we're more careful but then someone ordered shots– he's okay, he's just had a bit too much, I think. I don't think he puked, so. Uh."

Chris shakes his extended hand before palming at Felix's forehead and pulling the seatbelt across Felix's lax torso. "Thank you, kid. How will you get home, want me to drop you off?"

"Appa’s so nice," Felix slurs. A small hand squeezes his arm.

Hyunjin laughs. He's pretty, probably gets just as much attention as Felix does. "Ahh, no, thank you. Our friend has a car. Anyway, I'm not as much of a lightweight as Lixie! But also, I didn't drink that co*cktail. But thank you. And sorry.”

Some guys are giving them dirty looks for blocking the path and Chris is not in the mood to have a friendly brawl. He yells an apology and accepts a raised middle finger. “You're all good, Hyunjin, thank you for taking care of him. It was nice to meet you, have a fun night, yeah?”

“You too, sir!" Hyunjin pinches Felix's cheek. “Good night, angel, text me tomorrow.”

The car's rumbling blankets them. He leaves the radio off. A headache makes itself known, knocking behind his temples. The traffic lights, throwing stripes of gold, green and red over them, strain his eyes. “Give me my glasses, will you?”

Felix scours through the glove compartment and gets distracted by a pack of gum, chewing happily before Chris is able to see clearly. It's so close to Christmas that every other building is decked in decorations, some fairy lights spanning across streets and between street lamps, plastic Santas climbing up facades.

“Didn't you have a pair of antlers when you left, Lix?”

“Dunno,” Felix replies, suddenly terse. He crosses his arms, too.

“You want to call your friend, ask him to find them?”

“No.”

Chris’s headache persists. “Why are you pouting, hm? That nice boy thanked me for picking you up, but you won't?"

"Hyunjin isn't always nice. He can be a c*nt. Anyway, he's such a lightweight."

"Hey now," he says, frowning. "Don't speak about your friend like that. Didn't I raise you better?"

Felix huffs. He reeks of alcohol. "Thank you for picking me up, sir."

Chris grits his teeth and doesn't cross the speed limit.

The traffic lights and crowds turn sparse the further towards the suburbs they get, the Christmas decorations get grander. They used to doll up the house as well. She once crafted a nativity scene out of wood and won a neighbourhood competition. Wherever the pieces are, they're not in the cellar. He should find them. Put some more effort into the holidays in general. A tree and presents don't make a profound memory.

After he's parked inside the garage, the gate shut behind them and the engine off, he clears his throat. “Gonna check in here for something. You good to go up with those wobbly boots on, little one?”

“What, what're you not taking my friends home? You don't even know Hyunjin's address.”

Chris takes the key out of the ignition and grips it until the ragged edge digs into his palm. “What's so bad about making sure your friends are okay, huh? I used to drive Seungmin and Innie home all the time.”

“Yeah, when we were babies. Did you know I'm not a baby anymore?”

He still doesn't want to have a fight tonight. His shoulders are heavy. He's tired. “f*cking course I do.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Then what do you want me to do, hm?” He snaps. “Want me to leave you face off rotten at some club where you couldn't even get water on your own? You want to take on more chores just so I have to do them again cause you forgot to put in detergent or, what, washed wool at ninety?”

Felix starts crying. “f*ck you. It was softener and the clothes got clean.”

“That's not the point-”

“But it is, though, cause you make out these things are, like, would kill me. But it's just a stupid mistake, but you pretend I don't know anything!”

“Tell me the bus home.”

“Huh?”

“The bus. Home. Tell me the route.”

Felix wipes at his eyes and glares at Chris. “That's what a phone is for, f*cking old ass c*nt.”

“Do not speak to me like that, I am your–”

Felix throws the pack of gum at his face. “Umma, would never say that!!”

The key cuts into Chris's palm. He hisses and closes his eyes. Exhales. Gets out the car.

The garage is way too stuffy. It's a mess. None of the containers on the shelves are labelled, some are overspilling with clothes, others collapsing in on themselves. Cobwebs in every corner, of course. A bunch of things collecting dust: Bikes, an old vacuum cleaner, surfboards, artworks she loved.

Chris rounds the front of the car, opens the door and takes off his glasses, chucking them into the glove compartment. “Get out.”

Felix twists away from Chris's touch to his shoulder. “I get out when I want to.”

He leans into the car, damp, sweet breath on his face, and releases the seatbelt with a click. He's careful not to let the metall hit Felix's body. “Don't be difficult, let's just get up and get some food in us, yeah? We need to sleep.”

Felix looks up at him, eyes rimmed pink, nose blotchy. He definitely made out with someone tonight. There is pink lipstick beneath his ear, barely hidden by his long hair. “You can't just pretend like you're not how it is. It's not how it is, no I mean it is–”

Chris sweeps through his own curls. “When? Tell me one time I pretend things aren't how they are.”

“I know how you look at me,” Felix says.

Heat drips down Chris's neck. His heart leaps into his throat.

Abruptly, Felix stands and Chris isn't quick enough in backing away, Felix steps on his shoe, their knees knock; a fist in his collar prevents him from withdrawing.

“And I know you looked at my pictures.”

“Not all of them.”

Felix’s other hand also twists into the fabric of Chris's shirt. “Dad. Chris.”

Calling him by his first name doesn't change the facts. He cups the back of Felix's hands, wiggles his thumbs under his knuckles to loosen them. “Baby, stop.”

“Stop? But–” Felix tugs, silly, zealous boy, and sways back into the frame of the car, bumping into the roof of it, moaning in pain.

Chris cradles the back of his neck, sets him upright. “Calm down–”

“Baby,” Felix interrupts. “You say all that stuff but you call me baby.”

He sucks on his teeth and firmly holds Felix's nape, not letting him stumble again. His pulse reverberates all over his body; in his thighs, in his teeth, under his fingernails.

He can see Felix's pulse throbbing too, in the artery next to his adam's apple, and rests his thumb above it. “You are my baby,” Chris says, matter of fact.

“You made me,” Felix whispers. Says it like a prayer. Like a plea.

He laughs, unamused. “You're giving me too much credit.”

Felix takes after her much more than he takes after Chris, and Chris is glad for it. Felix is soft and steadfast and starry eyed – despite everything. Despite the accident, despite Chris.

"Am I disgusting?" Her round eyes, glossy with tears. Her upturned nose, dotted with freckles. Her tiny ears, sensitive beneath his touch.

"No," Chris says to his son. "No, Lix, you’re not. Not at all."

Felix sobs, shoulders and lips trembling.

Chris pulls him into his chest and holds him tight, angling his face to kiss his brow bone. “You're not, don't think that, yeah? You're good. You're so good. You'll always be my boy. No matter what. You hear me?”

He can't quite discern if Felix is nodding or shaking, if he's saying something into Chris's skin, but the press of his wet mouth to his neck is unambiguous. It’s just as warm as before. His bottom lip catches on Chris's skin, a smooth glide until it snags, then his tongue comes out, hesitant. Tasting.

“Don't,” Chris whispers but his fingers tighten in the roots of Felix's hair. And if they weren't so close, he wouldn't have gotten to hear it, but Felix gasps, quietly, just a hitch in his breathing, but the thin sound breaks him.

Tugging him by his head, he leads Felix's mouth across his own neck, to his jaw, pulling him back just in time, just before making the biggest mistake of his life – just before Felix surges and, defying him, kisses Chris with an open, hungry mouth.

He's sloppy and rough, gum caught in his cheek, and he's drunk, tasting like limes and tequila and chips, not thinking right, acting without a care and understanding of the consequences, and yet. And yet. Chris lets him. Chris lets him fall onto his lips, covering both of them before slipping to the lower one, squeezing it, nipping, erratic and desperate until he sobs and leans back into Chris's palm, eyes fluttering open, tip of his tongue trembling; and he offers himself up: "Please. Please, daddy."

Chris feels into the flesh of his own lips. Pulsating. Coated with saliva. Kissed by his son now.

"Don't call me that," he whispers.

Felix blinks slowly and licks his lips, staring with too much sadness for his young eyes. "Dad. Appa.”

Painstakingly, Chris brings his other palm up as well and cradles Felix's face between his hands. He brushes his thumb beneath his wet lash line, through the tears along his nose and over the swollen edge of his mouth. His skin is slightly dry here, often is. But the creases in his lips have smoothed out and here he is slick, plump.

“Still, baby,” Chris says. “Be still.”

He doesn't take his eyes off of Felix as he kisses him back. Of course that means the corners of his vision blur. It means he sees Felix's pupils widen and his brows slacken. It means he sees Felix's lids droop. Sees no fear, only relief.

Chris kisses carefully. First the peak of Felix's upper lip. Then to the side. The split seam. His lower lip. Twice.

Almost two decades, and he has never seen Felix from this angle.

The garage is deadly quiet around them. The light turned on when he opened the gate and it's too bright for this hour, it might as well be day outside. There is no clock in here. Only the shelves. Only the car. Only them. It smells like dust and sand and overheated plastic that cooled down in wrong shapes, and it smells like his own sharp sweat and alcohol and the vanilla of Felix's perfume. Not that different to any other day.

Felix's hands shake on Chris's body, knead into his chest and his hips and then over his crotch. “You want me,” Felix says, in awe. “You want me.”

Chris sighs through a smile. He kisses Felix again, briefly. Kisses his forehead. He brings him inside and makes him food. While Felix showers, he sits on the sofa in his studio and listens to the water prattle. Scratches at a raised gnat bite. Berry must be in Felix’s bed, she wasn’t downstairs. He rests his elbows on his knees and stares at his desk setup.

Felix comes into the room glowing.

“I'm sober,” he says, very serious and gentle. He's just wrapped in a towel, dripping into it, glistening from lotion, rucking it up his thigh as he sits next to Chris on the sofa. “Not drunk.”

Chris just nods.

Felix takes his hand. “We don't have to do anything.”

Again, Chris smiles and sighs. He wipes a streak of moisturiser into the curve of Felix's jaw. “You need to sleep.”

“Okay,” Felix says easily, kissing Chris's knuckles. “Can I have your shirt?”

Stunned, he lets Felix undress his top half. Felix doesn't touch him more than necessary, tries very hard and fails not to stare at Chris, his face flushing again. He stands, drops the towel onto the sofa and tugs the shirt over his head, past his hips. He's grinning into the collar. He looks happy.

He looks so happy.

-*-

On Christmas Eve, they go to church.

Undoubtedly, others have gossiped about his absence as if most of them hadn't called him for aid within the last year. But they are right to do so. He hasn’t prayed in months.

Felix, on the other hand, is more than welcomed here. Even if he wouldn't volunteer regularly, he would be. Mum Badyarri hugs him and her girlfriend hands him something in a gift bag, both of them pinching his cheeks. Seungmin and Jeongin, who are part of the choir, approach in a hurry, closely followed by the conductor who uses chasing after them as an excuse to beg Felix to join again. Before she leaves, nearly dragging Seungmin and Jeongin by the ears, she throws in a comment about a Christmas album, smiling pointedly at Chris.

“You should,” he says, as they file into the pews. “I know you're already doing a lot, but you used to have fun, yeah?”

“Singing? Here?” Felix looks around like he's never been inside the church before, like he's never stood by the altar when he was little and waved at his parents in excitement. The candle light, though bleached by lamps, suits his warm skin so well. He's very prim and proper in his suit. Everyone still calls him an angel.

The whispering quiets down, nothing but the rustle of clothes rising to the arched ceiling, and Chris concentrates on Father Kelly, arms extended in an imitation of Christ's, not on his son whose palms are neatly aligned in prayer, whose lips he kissed mere days ago.

-*-

After his parents retired and went back to Korea, fulfilling a wish he dismissed until it was possible, the house he grew up in was transferred to his name. Naturally, he gave it to his sister, who moved in with her wife - and three dogs. Berry wags her tail off once she realises where they are, storming out of the car as soon as Chris lets her, running up to the open front door.

Though they have redecorated many times, much of the house has remained the same. The same big white tiles that cool the soles of his feet, the same chandelier above the staircase in the hallway, the same glass panels in the living room that open up to the garden, a table that allows space for all of them.

Their younger brother flew in from Melbourne where he moved for uni and never returned since it was Oh so better than Sydney. Chris ruffles his hair and hugs him, immediately hit with a physical memory of holding him as a baby.

They have an abundant brunch and afterwards, with their parents calling in, smiling faces on the TV, they exchange gifts.

It’s all terrifyingly mundane. Their mother gets too close to the camera, her chin taking up the whole screen, their father wants them to film each individual unwrapping and has plenty of comments on practicality and price. The sun is shining and the neighbourhood smells like barbeque smoke, the wasps have never been this daring, crawling along the rim of their drinks. His sister's wife and he squabble over who gets to flip the meat on the grill, the dogs chase each other and topple over a lamp, orange juice spills onto his brother's shirt.

A picture perfect family Christmas.

“Thank you for the camera, appa,” Felix says. He waited behind the bathroom door, not even giving Chris space to step past the threshold, approaching and cornering him right back against the sink.

“Of course, yeah, and thank you for the watch.” He didn't dry his hands completely, wipes them on his jeans. “Let's get back down, I'm sure your aunts are-”

“You like it?”

Felix grabs his wrist and angles it with cold fingers, taps on the clock face. It's simple and elegant, silver against black leather, the second hand a bright blue.

“Yeah, very pretty. Thank you, Lix.”

“It's loose,” Felix says, frowning, and fiddles with the clasp. “I feel like I've never seen you wear one, maybe as a kid, maybe? But it suits you. I like the veins.”

Chris's chest constricts. Truthfully, he hasn’t needed a watch since the 2000s. Back then he’d enjoyed wearing jewellery, an interest sparked by a bracelet she had gifted him. It’s been a while. “You picked a great one. And you'll take care of your camera, yeah?”

Felix hums. He's very careful not to get Chris's arm hair caught in the clasp. Once he's fastened it, he doesn't let go. He's widening his eyes, somehow making it seem like he has to look up. “Dad.”

He knows what's coming. He throws a glance over Felix's shoulder, through the open door. “Let's get back to the others.”

“Dad,” Felix repeats. Crowds against him, body compact and tense, almost shaking. “Chris.”

“Stop,” Chris says quietly.

Felix thumbs slide up Chris's forearm, rub into the bend of his elbow, pulse racing beneath skin. “But why.”

“Come on now.”

“But why.”

Chris straightens up and jerks, freeing himself. “Why don't we ask God, hm? Or our family downstairs. Or anyone, really.”

First, Felix’s expression falls, lips trembling, but then he blinks, blinks again and swallows, the bump of his adam's apple bouncing. “So it's not because you don't want me? I know it isn't. I saw– I felt-”

He clasps both of Felix’s upper arms, thumbs sliding into his warm, damp armpits, and moves him, lifting him to the side, let's go as soon as possible. “We are not talking about this. We're not doing this.”

-*-

At night, Felix pads into his room.

“Did you think I forgot?” He's hurt, voice scratchy. “I wasn't drunk.”

“You were.”

“Not that drunk. I remember. You didn't take advantage.”

Chris laughs and doesn't let Felix lift the edge of the duvet. “You should sleep in your own bed.”

Berry’s claws click over the floorboards, her fuzzy shape slips through the gap in the door and she sniffs at Felix's bare ankles. She's ignored for a moment before Felix bends down and picks her up. He doesn't try to get back onto the mattress. “You said you always will take care of me. You’re a f*cking liar."

-*-

The days up to the new year are short and blurry. He promises himself not to work and for a single afternoon he stays away from his laptop, only to be restless with anxiety, aimless, at the edge of panic until sunset. He gets back from his walk with Berry and as she hops onto Felix's lap on the sofa, he decides to follow his intuition and lock himself into the studio.

Thankfully, the café is open and short staffed. On morning shifts, Chris makes sure to be out on his run until Felix has left the house, cleans up his cereal bowl and the mess of hair in the shower after. On Felix’s afternoon shifts, Chris sleeps long or at least pretends to do so, then does chores or works in the living room while the house is empty except for his own tinkering and Berry's huffing.

A Christmas card from her parents arrives. He completely forgot to send them one as well, but Felix assures him he did, sent regards and love. Guilt riddles Chris's heart. After it happened, he had promised he'd stay in contact with them and for a while he had taken Felix for visits whenever they were in Korea or they'd have phone calls on birthdays. Then he just stopped. He took on more work and they stopped responding to some of his emails but those aren't excuses and he should have been, should be better. What a rotten son-in-law he is.

What a rotten father.

There was always something wrong in him - he thought it was a void that was filled when he married and when Felix was born. He clings. He has always been touchy, hugs his friends, takes strangers by the elbow, pulled Felix in for cuddles even when Felix was a young teen and pretended to be annoyed by the affection. Though, perhaps Felix never pretended. Perhaps, Chris has raised him to await his father's touch, taught him to endure and eventually accept until aversion felt like attachment.

After all, revulsion settles in the body, contorts it. The heart races and breath catches and sweat gathers - and how would Felix, who hasn't had another parent for a decade, who has never been in a relationship, who aims to please, devout and trusting - how would Felix be able to differentiate?

Through the window in his studio, he watches Felix in the garden. Running around with Berry, stretching on the grass, floating in the pool, naked. The water parts around his limber body, sloshing over his golden skin. He does the laundry and feels the stains in Felix's underwear, in his sheets; he notices the scent of his aftershave on Felix's pillowcase, wonders if he should buy different washing detergents for each of them.

At night, insomnia crawling over his eyes, he listens to the buzz of a sex toy and Felix's gasps. His words. His pleas.

-*-

He goes out. He goes to the club. The restroom. Lingers and washes his hands until a man, young, plain, faceless, shuffles into the stall at the back. They don't make eye contact. He dries his hands with scratchy paper towels and slips into the second to last stall. Knocks.

A mouth appears behind the glory hole, wet, waiting.

He loosens his pants, pulls out this co*ck, strokes himself hard within seconds and takes one of the condoms atop of the toilet bannister. The man is tentative, maybe entirely new to sinking to his knees and sucking someone off in a sticky public space, but it’s still good.

Chris thinks about his son. He thinks about his son, waiting just like he was, desperate to whor* himself out to strangers, eager to swallow any co*ck, eager to get his throat f*cked, eager to let his dad spill onto his tongue.

-*-

The following morning, as he is scrubbing himself raw with the loofa, Chris stares at the huntsman spider by the bathroom window, not at the condensation gathering around finger prints and broken hearts on the glass panel.

-*-

Three minutes before midnight, he gets a call.

He excuses himself, steps inside to accept it. “Hi, little one.”

“Appa!!” Felix yells over a myriad of drunken cheering. “Happy new year!!”

Chris giggles. “Whoever started the countdown lied to everyone, baby, it’s still a bit to go.”

“What?? Seungmin! Seungmin-ah!” Felix’s voice gets muted as he shouts for his friend, probably covering the mic. “Appa, the champagne, we popped it – the cork almost hit the cat, poor Kkami is hiding under the sofa.”

“Yeah, Berry’s upstairs too, probably under your bed.”

“Can you give her– the champagne! Appa, it’s all over the rug, Hyunjin’s umma is gonna be so mad. Oh no.”

He grins, leans back against the door frame between kitchen and living room, glad the angle of the TV works in his favour, blue light directed away from him and rendering him invisible. “How big is it? We can take it when I pick you up, get it to the cleaners tomorrow.”

Felix squawks. “Yes! Yes, you can probably lift it! It’s all soggy, it’s really nice. The pattern, I mean. Remember that rug I had as a kid, the one with the cars and the, the f*cking thingo, uhm, the streets and the parks? Like a city.”

“Hyunjin’s parents got a kiddie-rug in their living room??”

“Nooooo,” Felix laughs, shrieking. “No, Chris, I’m just saying! I remember it. You used to drag me across it, like on my ankles, and say you’re driving me around town.”

“How do you even remember that, you were barely five.”

“I remember everything with you, appa,” Felix says, suddenly serious. His mouth sounds closer to the speaker.

“Oh. Wow. Yeah.”

“You’re my favourite person in the world.”

“Ah.”

Felix hums. “Am I yours?”

Outside, chairs from all over the house are in use. The rickety plastic ones, the ones for the supper table, even his desk chair. Earlier, he opened the glass door and set up the TV so they can watch the harbour light up with fireworks while they eat. The grill is smoking and the table littered with bowls and plates. His sister is filling flute glasses, sparkling wine for the adults and orange juice for the kids, and passes them around the table, her wife gestures broadly, entertaining their friends. Some of them he’s known all his life.

He wonders if Felix kissed someone when everyone shouted zero.

“Yeah, baby, you are. Always have been, ever since I was born.”

On the other end, Felix’s sigh is so close to the phone that it creates a bit of static. “Good.”

His guests start shouting, counting down from ten.

Though he can't see the screen, the sound of the TV erupts, commentators cheering, the colours of fireworks lighting the living room walls in rays of red and blue and yellow. An end. A new beginning.

“Happy new year, baby,” Chris says, strangely light-headed.

Afterwards, he calls his parents. Then he gets Berry - she’s under his bed not Felix’s – and holds her through the worst of the noise, though she isn't as scared as she used to be. He goes back outside and hugs his sister, calls their younger brother. His friends’s kids alight sparklers to draw letters and dicks and hearts into the air. He sneaks them lollies and envelopes of money and feels old and young at once.

When everyone leaves, he forces them to take bags of leftovers. His sister's dogs reluctantly part from Berry, staring through the windows of the car with big sad eyes. He helps a friend put her ambulatory wheelchair into the back of her van, drives those without a licence home, and then types Hyunjin's address into the system.

The further he gets into the centre of the city, the more he regrets not having told Felix to sleep over at his friend's place. It's not too dangerous to drive but he needs to stop and swerve more than once to avoid groups of teenagers or drunken men, nearly overlooks a pile of glass bottles, receives the shock of his life when someone throws something at the boot.

Parked, he waits five minutes without a reply to his texts before calling Felix.

"Hiiiii, happy new year!!"

Chris laughs, despite his irritation. "Hi, Lix, happy new year again. Come out, yeah? I'm right in front."

"Okay, whoops, whoopsee– JINNIE!! Jinnie, my dad's here, come give me a goodbye kiss!!”

He winces and keeps his phone away from his ear as he listens to Felix search for his friends, tell them a good night and give each one a long pash from the sounds of it. Twice, he has to interrupt a conversation and remind Felix that he's still here, which Felix reacts to with strings of kitten sounds and whinging apologies. From then on, he narrates finding his way downstairs, washing his hands and putting on his shoes, and remembering the rug.

It's huge. Three people carry it out the front and towards Chris's car, stumbling through the flower beds and into the fence.

"You thought I could carry that on my own??" Chris asks incredulously after stepping out to help shove the rug into the back.

Felix, who tried to help but mainly got in the way, gropes his arms. "You can, you can! Look everyone, I told you!"

"Yes, sir, you look like you can!" Hyunjin grins and the others agree with him, wolf whistling like they booked Chris for a strip-dance. At least Seungmin and Jeongin aren't here to witness his mortification.

He fiddles with his glasses, wishes he had left them in the glove compartment. The triangle of his widow's peak, his grey temples, his wrinkles all must be highlighted under the streetlamps. His ears burn. "Alright, ah, let's go. You kids need some f*cking water and eat some carbs. You got bread? Need money to order in?"

"Sir, sir, Mr. Bang, cake is a carb, would you share your cake with us?"

"And your buns!"

"He's got buns, Felix, why have you been gatekeeping your dad??"

Felix hand slides to Chris's ass.

He really wishes he'd stayed home. "Ahhh. Uh. Okay. Okay! Time for – for sleeping! Let's go, let's go!"

He flees into the car, turns the key, and activates the AC.

The rug juts between the headrests and makes it difficult to check Felix’s seatbelt, obstructs the view to the back and through the rear window. The spilled champagne - and it might actually be the real thing since Felix likes to impress his friends - stinks. It will probably drip into the same crevices that pine needles have gotten into.

"Alright," Chris says. "Say goodbye to your friends, they're waving."

In fact, Hyunjin has his hands cupped on the window, peering inside with a wide smile. His eyes meet Chris's for a second. They're dark, pretty, a mole beneath one. Something curious and knowing lies in them.

Chris hits the pedal before Felix can return the kiss Hyunjin blows.

The residential street quickly makes way for traffic and splatters of cheerful drunks oozing from bars and parks. Some definitely acquired illegal firecrackers, yellow smoke thick in the air, blurring the lights. Many are carrying boomboxes or dancing to music blasting from open windows, but before he can tune them out by turning on the radio, Felix connects his phone with the car.

Three songs slither by until Chris has to accept that it's a sex playlist.

He can feel Felix's heavy, desperate gaze on him.

“D'you still think Hyunjin is cute?"

He nearly swerves onto the pavement. "What? Lix, I never said that."

"He thinks you're hot. All of them think you're hot but no one, none of them you kissed."

Chris grips onto the steering wheel and stares at the upcoming traffic light, at the blinking indicator of the BMW in front of them and the group of old ladies ignorant of their surroundings. They stop just in time, holding onto each other's clothes, the BMW screeches to a stop, they throw insults at each other.

He has to ignite the engine again, forces it to a spluttering start.

"No one. Only me. Only kissed me."

He had been alone in the pool when his wife had taken Felix home from school. His phone had been inside.

"Appa."

"Does he know?" Chris asks, terrified.

"Who?"

He can't speak.

Felix has his knuckles in his own mouth, is chewing on it. “And if he does?"

"Lix," Chris croaks, tensing so he won't tremble. "Lix, we could lose everything. My job. You."

"He wouldn't tell."

"Oh God."

"He wouldn't. But anyway, I didn't tell. I love you, he knows, he knows that I'm in love with you, but he doesn't know we kissed."

He still had water in his ears at the hospital.

"What."

"He's always talking about how hot you are and I said yes, like, of course you're hot. But you're also hotter inside, like, you're so perfect. For me, I know no one is– but you take care of me and you drive me around even on new years eve and you're building me a new desk and you buy me ice cream and you f*cking made me–"

"Stop, Lix, oh God."

Felix doesn't stop. "You made me."

“Exactly–”

"Hyunjin’s not the one who got carried, who you carried on your shoulders. And you make me food and you wash my hair and you fed me as a baby, and as a kid, I was always on your lap, appa, I think you should put me on your lap all the time."

Chris clamps his palm over his mouth, keeps the frame of his glasses stable between thumb and pointer finger. “Do you even know how – what it's like – Lix. Lix.” He grabs the steering wheel again. He keeps the watch loose around his wrist. “Love is very complex–”

“No, it's not.”

“- it's easy to mistake different kinds of love, it's not just romance, there's friendship, family, there must be lines–”

“There's no line with you!!”

“There f*cking should be!” He shouts. Palms his mouth again. “f*ck. f*ck.”

Felix is crying.

“I'm sorry,” Chris says and finds Felix's hand, squeezes it. “Baby, I'm sorry. I love you.”

“And you're in love with me.”

He doesn't say anything. Just keeps his hand on Felix's.

They're close to home. He doesn't need the GPS anymore. The house fronts are familiar, he's driven past them for nearly two decades now, not many of them have changed over the years. Some have a new layer of paint, some an upgraded driveway or higher fences, a bunch are still decked in holiday decoration. The streets are quiet here, no drunks. A respectful neighbourhood.

Felix trembles. His sobs are quiet. “I know you are, Chris. I know.”

-*-

Barely anything is open on the first day of the new year, but he knows the owners of a cleaning service thirty minutes away and they even give him a mate’s rate. He drives the rug back that very afternoon, Felix’s friend opening the door in an embroidered bathrobe, stammering in embarrassment and pleading not to tell on him. Once he’s rolled it out in their living room, Hyunjin offers him water and payment, which Chris declines hastily.

Back home, Felix is wrapped in the blanket on the sofa, crossed arms tightening it around his chest, his face grey. “Did you f*ck him?”

Chris ignores him and washes his hands in the kitchen. Refills Berry’s water. Milk has dried in a bowl waiting in the sink, bits of cereal sticking to it. He rinses and dries it, sorts it into the cubboard. Opens the window to let in a breeze. Then he strides back, sidesteps the coffee table, and grips Felix’s chin, making him meet his eyes. “You were drunk yesterday. Tell me.”

“I was,” Felix says, shock written all over him. His lips don’t close after he quiets.

“I will not have these conversations with you again. No more drinking.”

“Okay,” Felix says, blinking rapidly.

“You can still go out. And I will pick you up, whenever. Always. But you’re not going to– not going to spout this bullsh*t, you hear me? I do not want to f*ck your friend.”

“Okay.”

He lifts Felix’s chin further, watches his tongue tremble. “You’re listening to me, yeah?”

“Yes, appa. I will, I won’t. I’ll be good.”

Chris exhales and gently shuts Felix’s mouth with an uptick of his thumb, strokes his cheek and his pink ear, taps the holes of his piercings. “I know you will. Now take a shower and we’ll have lunch.”

-*-

He chops the christmas trees into manageable chunks, throwing the brittle branches into the green bin and piling the pieces of the trunk in the garage with the other wood they use either for fires or for crafting. The axe is heavier than it used to be and too much sweat floods down his back and chest, dissipating into his shorts. The pool shimmers and trickles, beckoning him with cool water, but instead he takes a long, hot shower and lets the steam ease the burning in his eyes.

-*-

He's cleaned the car twice since then but he still finds dry pine needles stuck under the backseats and in the frizzy gap between them. They’ve evaded his fingers and the nozzle of the vacuum so he's resorted to using tweezers. At least it doesn't stink like champagne anymore. Just to be sure, he scrubs every surface and sprays disinfectant; then he stocks the glove compartment with new tissues, gum and protein bars.

Some time after he returned from bringing the rug back to Hyunjin's two days ago, Felix lowered the backrest of the passenger seat all the way. It's odd to sit in his place and adjust it, even more so to look to his right and look at the wheel, the dashboard, the seat he himself is usually in. He isn't particularly fond of his own side profile and he wonders what Felix sees when he watches him drive.

Inside, he throws the dirty cloth into the washer with the rags he used to clean the house earlier that day and lets it run on high heat. Felix has folded some towels and left them on top of the dryer, but Chris can't scold him, not when he's singing in the kitchen and wearing nothing but boxers and his mother's apron as he cooks.

“Did you sleep in the car, mate?”

Felix sticks a wooden spoon dripping with sauce into his face. “Taste.”

Chris does, burning his lips and the tip of his tongue and trying not to wince. “Oh, that's good, yeah.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Maybe some more coriander?”

He hands the mason jar of light brown powder over, sees the accumulation of grainy sludge behind it and transfers all the other spices onto the counter to clean the shelf. “You shouldn't sleep in the car.”

Felix doesn't look back at him, just stirs and bops with the music. He has a smudge of sauce on his upper lip. “Didn't.”

“Didn't sleep in there or didn't go in there?”

“Dad.”

“Felix,” Chris mocks, lowering his voice as deep as it goes. “You don’t have to spend the night in the car, kid.”

“Ah, yeah? You don’t let me in your bed, either.”

Chris squeezes the tip of his finger through the worn rag and into the edge between wall and shelf, really getting at the dirt, soap foaming and turning a muddy red. “I’ll get you another nightlight.”

“Yeah, cause that’s the f*cking same.”

He sucks on his incisors and doesn’t take the bait. He cannot lash out again. He needs to be a role model for once. “You know why. Tell me an alternative and I’ll get it for you. A body pillow?”

Felix sighs roughly, stirring aggressively enough that sauce splatters on the stove. “What a great idea, dad, how smart.”

He f*cked her in this apron many times. The ruffled hem lies as low on Felix as it did on her, exposing the outline of his solar plexus, barely reaching the middle of his thighs and loosely falling around his tight little boxers. His naked back is framed by the two ribbons, one around his neck, the other around his waist.

Again, Chris keeps his composure.

He cleans the rag and wipes the shelf one last time, arranges the spices, rinses the rag again. His hands ache to touch his son’s skin. The arch of his trapezius where the bow of the apron lies, the pouch of his cheek softening his jawline, the dome of his head; holding him, anchoring him.

“Sorry,” Felix whispers after a minute.

He nods curtly.

A second pot bubbles over, lid coated white from salt and starch, pasta bloated. They stick to each other, clearly no oil in the water. Chris told him to add it and a wooden spoon on top to prevent overflowing countless times. Just as he’s about to say something, Felix steps around him, takes a sieve from the cupboard and places it in the sink. He barely touches the pot’s handles before he keens and sticks his fingers in his mouth, bouncing on his feet. The frills of the apron flutter.

Chris sighs, irritated yet fond, and shakes out a kitchen towel. “Move, little one, let me. Do you need ice?”

“Uhm, no, ‘s okay. Thank you.”

He strains the water and pours the pasta into bowls, waits for Felix to scoop the sauce, and takes out parmesan from the fridge to grate it.

Felix hovers. Then he winds himself around Chris and whines into his ear. “Appa, appa, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t be upset, please.”

He sighs again. “I’m trying to suggest solutions and you’re acting –. You’re not exactly helping.”

“No, I wanna help, let me help.” Felix gnaws at his neck, canines pointy. “I still have uncle Binnie’s body pillow, I’m using it. But…”

The cheese mountains are getting really high. “But…?”

“I need warmth, appa, and I like your smell, I need you~”

He snorts. “We’re going in circles, baby.”

“Noo, no, what I mean is I feel like I need something from you. Like a clothing item.”

He remembers the picture of Felix’s hard co*ck lying on Chris's underwear, dribbling onto it. He puts the parmesan back into its packaging. “Uh-huh. Have you not been taking my clothes all summer?”

Felix squeaks and squeezes him, shakes him weakly. “How do you know? How do you know?”

“Get some cutlery, get off of me, clingy little thing.” He giggles at Felix’s expression, cuffs his ear. “It’s very obvious when I do the laundry.”

“What, why! How?”

Because of the stains. Because of the smell. Because Felix throws Chris’s shirts into the hamper right with his tight and soiled underwear and his bed sheets. “You know why, now get moving, I’m starving.”

Felix doesn’t budge, slides from Chris’s back around to his side, wedging himself between Chris and the counter, looping his arms around his neck. He still got a speck of sauce on his mouth. “Do you also?”

“Hm? No, huh?”

Chris brushes a finger up Felix’s spine, wonders if it's sensitive because of the injury, wonders if it tickles or tingles or teeters on the edge of pain. Felix rises on his tip toes in a lovely arch. Chris’s hand inevitably slides to his neck, thumb slipping under the apron’s ribbon, the tension in his palm ceasing as it curves around Felix’s nape.

“I know you like my scent.” His perfume has faded during the day, but the vanilla base note is as musky and sweet as always. It compliments his sweat so well.

Automatically, Chris leans in and sniffs beneath Felix’s jaw. Laughs, as he’s hit with the aromas of their supper. “Ah, cheesy. And that coriander. Very sexy.”

Felix slaps his shoulder and whines, but grins, wiggling against him. “You have permission to use my clothing however you want, appa.”

“I have permission, yeah?”

“Yep.” Felix pops the p.

"That what you've been wanting? My permission?" He dabs at the tomato sauce on Felix's lip, holds his thumb up and hums when Felix licks it. On his watch, the second hand flicks slowly. "No. You like being sneaky, don't you?"

Felix's tongue swipes over his fingernail. “Mhmm.”

“Mhmm what?”

“Huh?” He’s easily pressed into the countertop.

“Can’t even listen properly,” he says quietly, words scraping up his chest. Felix’s bottom teeth are sharp under the pad of his thumb. “You need to focus, little one, hmm?”

A low sound floats from Felix’s open throat to Chris’s hand. Just a bit of friction and he would drool.

Chris mumbles on. “Be a bit more respectful to your father, yeah? Taking my clothes, talking sh*t. My bratty boy.”

He is so pliable everywhere. Despite the accident, he never lost his flexibility or the need to bend and curl and fall docile, ever keen to be led. If Chris would grapple him, he’d just fold and dent under his violence.

Berry waddles into the kitchen and slurps from her bowl of water.

-*-

"We could move," Felix says, after lowering the volume of the speaker.

Chris doesn't often do woodwork but he knows his way around some tools and beginner's techniques, and he's got a small setup in the back of the garage, just a single workbench and a pegboard. Since he decluttered and tidied the shelves, the space is much more accessible, even welcoming: he put up pictures and switched out the single light bulb for a proper lampshade. The gate is open, letting in the breeze so the saw dust won't rise into his lungs, and now that the music is quieter, the sounds of the summer wander in.

"We could move," Felix repeats. "Even just to the other side of the city, I feel like that could be enough. Or f*cking… Melbourne, I guess. And no one would know. They wouldn't know, appa. Chris."

He puts down the hacksaw, jagged blade towards the wall.

“You look thirty, anyway, so no one would care.”

He really doesn't. They really would.

Felix keeps going. "So even if we get seen, people would just think we're a couple. And they wouldn't care, and, and it's not illegal anyway. I looked it up."

"Lix–"

"It's not, really!"

Chris thumbs across the fringy cut he's been working on, wood rough under his calluses. "That doesn't change that it's wrong and that I've… that I'm horribly–"

"You're not–"

"You think that but I taught you everything, baby, I held you when you were born, I taught you how to swim, I taught you how to be- I tried to have you safe, always, I–"

"Appa," Felix pleads. His fingers curl into Chris’s shirt. "There's no one more safest than you."

Chris turns from his son and breathes into his palm, battling the bile rising into his throat.

He wants Felix to be right so badly.

-*-

He goes out. Barely half an hour in, he recognizes the shape of his son's head, hair purple under the club's red lights. Next to him, that boy, his friend, Hyunjin. Hyunjin is looking at Chris.

Felix told him they'd have a movie night, that he'd take the bus back, that it wouldn't be much longer than midnight.

Chris drives home and waits in the living room, too wired to nap on the sofa, staring blankly at his phone, Berry by his side.

-*-

"Appa." Felix whispers. "I need to tell you something."

He's sitting on the lid of the toilet, hands folded in his lap, eyes closed as Chris wipes his face with a wet towel.

"I went out."

Christ rubs the towel down Felix's neck, to the back of it, behind his ears, beneath his sweaty collar.

"I know," he says softly, sickly.

Felix’s lips wobble. "Did you see me? Were you there? Jinnie said you were there, but he didn't know if you saw, if you saw me–"

"I saw you, it's okay–"

"When, when did you? Did you see me before or a-after?"

"Hm?" He wrings out the towel over the sink, lets the water seep and dribble. "After what?"

"I've been going out. At night. And they have a booth there, in the restroom. With a glory hole– it's like a, it’s a hole but it's protected, with tape, and and –"

"I know," Chris says. He might vomit as well.

A wet exhale. "Right. So you saw, you saw me? I've been going–"

"I know," Chris says again. "Baby, it's okay."

"Oh.” Felix looks up. His lash line swells with tears. “Really?"

Chris dries his palms on his trackpants and cups Felix's face. "Yes, Lix, I promise. It's okay."

"Oh.” His skin is damp, needs moisturising. “Are you mad?"

Chris closes his eyes. "You're an– you're allowed, baby. You make your own decisions. As long as you are safe" - he hadn't been - "you can do whatever you want, yeah?"

“It's just. It's just, it feels good. I want to feel good, appa, I just want to feel good.” Felix's arms come up around Chris's middle and suddenly he's burying his face in his tummy, hiccuping into his skin. “I don't know why I'm so wrong, I pray, I promise I pray. And I know you're disappointed–”

“Stop, no, listen.” He tilts Felix's face, clutches it again. “Listen. I am not. I'm not, yeah? Never. I know I was hard on you, I know I should've been a better, should be a better–”

Felix bites Chris's hip.

Chris yelps and flinches, then laughs, laughs and feels his eyes sting, and cradles the back of Felix's head in the join of his elbow, hugging him tight, holding him tight. “Little sh*t,” he says. “You little menace. Wait til I get back at you, yeah? You won't see it coming.”

-*-

Do you listen to me at night?"

"What?"

"At night, do you-"

"What makes you say that, why would I-"

"Cause. I can hear you snore, usually. When you sleep."

"I don't always snore."

"Yes, no! Not when you're awake."

The only option is to shut up and watch the movie. He already got conned into lending his thigh as a pillow for Felix's neck, his round head heavy and close, too close. He doesn't need to make things worse than he has been, getting weaker and weaker. Yesterday, when he was done mowing the lawn and rested on the lounger, skull buzzing from the heat and a beer, Felix had caught him looking:

The pool water was glittering and sloshing, dyeing the grass around it a darker green, rocking the floats, tinting Felix's skin. Beneath the surface, his legs seemed weightless, but above, spread around the neck of the inflated pink flamingo, they were squishing and solid, begging to be gripped and parted further. His swimming trunks bunched above his tan line.

And once he pulled himself out of the pool, he took them off and laid on a towel in the middle of the garden, the pale skin of his crotch dotted with droplets, his pubes drying in curls. There, he stared up at the sky through his camera, lips scrunched in concentration, and then roamed the viewfinder over plants and neighbouring houses until he was pointing it right at Chris. Chris wasn't able to avert his gaze in time.

He is tired. His eyes are. His hands. It's a comfort to rest them on his son.

Felix won't lie still. He rubs his face into Chris's track pants, pokes his feet into a cushion, shifts his hips and twists from his side to his back, groaning softly. "Dad."

"What, Felix?"

"You listen, right?"

Chris glances down at him, at the swell of his cheek lit by the TV, blue rectangle reflected in his dark irises and the spit on his lips. His neck is arched, the back of it hot on Chris’s thigh, the hollow between clavicles damp. He is wearing one of Chris's shirts, loose around the arms and bunching around his waist, wrinkling over his abs. The fabric of the white basketball shorts shimmers over the shape of his hard little co*ck. His fingers are clenched into the pockets, not quite touching himself, only kneading and pulling at the thin material. “Daddy.”

“Stop it,” Chris says, but doesn't look away.

Felix sucks the dry flesh of his bottom lip between his teeth and stretches slightly, the back of his head sliding further onto Chris’s lap. The ends of his long hair tickle. The ridges of his throat protrude under his skin. "I want you to. Want you to– what would you do, daddy? If you, if you–"

"Quiet."

The polyester clings to his co*ck, exposes the exact curve of his tip, even the thick vein leading down from it. He's so small. Not even a handful. Chris could cover him completely.

Felix’s fists play a tug-of-war. "I like kissing you, I liked it. Like when you hug me and hold me… I think about it. So much. Appa, do you? Please. Please, I think about you all the time."

Chris slides a finger beneath Felix’s falling fringe, strokes it behind his ear, settles there. The leather of his watch must be cool. “You need to stop asking these questions, baby.”

Felix's eyes flutter shut. “Questions?”

There are many constellations and clusters of freckles on his face, but Chris gets stuck on the ones that are stranded. On his eyelids, his brow bone, on the lines of his lips.

“Yeah.” Chris hums. The scene in the movie changes, the light turning hues of pink and red. “Your pictures, if I hear you, my feelings…”

“If you're in love with me?”

The edge of his finger slips into the shell of Felix's ear and follows its spiral, circles around a lonely freckle, then slowly rubs the scar of a closed piercing, flesh slipping over firm tissue. He doesn't say anything.

“Sometimes. Sometimes you look at me like – like. At her. But different. I don’t know. Like you –... makes me want to sleep in your arms, but, but so you can touch me. And I can smell you and I feel safe like when I fell asleep in the car and you carried me inside and it’s night and I can see the lights behind my eyes, behind my eyelids. And I can smell you. And you carry me to bed but this time you stay.”

He is rolling his midriff back into the sofa and up into the air, but is rigid everywhere else, shoulder stiff and poking into Chris's thigh, toes spread and pointy, fists clenched and pulling the shorts so tight his skin is visible through the white. His co*ck is dark and leaking.

“You shouldn’t stay up too late,” Chris says emptily. “Not with all your morning shifts.”

“Take them cause I like seeing you in the morning. When you go on your runs. Do you – you look good. You’re so handsome, appa.”

Chris needs to push him off. He really needs to muffle him.

“I feel like you don’t pretend in the mornings. Not as much. Is it cause you’re sleepy? I like you in the nights, too. Sometimes you’re upset and then you look so hot. And you tell me to do stuff and I want to do them good for you, dad, daddy, I want to be good, yours–”

His mouth would be hot under his palm. His tongue desperate.

“Do you also?” Felix starts, swallowing around nothing but his glittering spit. “Do you also, when you saw the pictures of my, my – did you–”

“What did I just say? No more question.”

“Sorry, daddy,” Felix gasps and arches, his chest rising from the sofa, nipples hard, toes curling. His fist is gripping his shorts so forcefully that his knuckles and tendons protrude, the fabric throwing wrinkles and tightening over the tip of his co*ck, nearly translucent.

“Baby, you need to get up. Get up, yeah? You can – get back once you’re done.”

His son’s throat is wet. His co*ck is, too, evidence right there, soaking into the basketball shorts. Chris could fill him up with come and he’d be grateful.

“No.” Felix shakes his head, then nudges it back into Chris’s palm. “Want you to keep touching.”

Chris lifts his hand and Felix turns onto his side, not towards the TV but to the back of the sofa, shoving his nose into Chris’s belly. His fists remain on his shorts, but his teeth bite into the bow of Chris’s track pants and he whines when Chris stops him. “Please, please, just touching like this. Just. Just like this, please. It’s not real, not really sex, it’s okay.”

He’s sniffing Chris’s crotch like he’s sobbing into it and is too weak to get air. His voice breaks around a moan as Chris forces him back around and he squeezes his eyes shut, lashes clumping and trembling. Crying from denial or the drag over his little co*ck or the fantasies he stokes and bundles like tinder.

They left their glasses of water on the coffee table, condensation running down to the coasters. Chris leans forward, Felix’s breath back on his stomach again, and reaches for his, empties it in one gulp. Then he slips his fingers under Felix’s neck and guides him into an upright position, keeps him steady as he leads the other glass to his lips. “No more. Either you go up to your room or you’ll be quiet.”

Felix is swaying. His hands flail, one of them gripping the sofa, the other cupping Chris’s. Water spills as he swallows sloppily. He goes down easily once he’s done, melts back onto Chris’s thighs, eyes glossy. “Gonna be quiet.”

“Good. Just be still, yeah? Let's watch the movie.”

They don't, though. Neither of them look at the TV. Whatever is playing is blurry to him, not nearly as vibrant as Felix’s gaze. Somehow, Chris’s finger returns to his ear, his thumb laying in a tear track next to his nose, and the heel of his palm against the inside of Felix’s bottom lip, tongue swiping up and down that small patch of skin, careful but needy.

He needs Chris, undoubtedly. Undoubting. Needs to be taken care of and protected, reminded to tie his laces, to give his stomach a rest before swimming, to choose a path to his future. He needs his father.

Slowly, Chris drags his palm down Felix's cheek, finger falling from his ear, thumb descending Felix’s cupid's bow, covering a freckle, flaky skin, the tip of Felix's tongue. He slides it inside and shivers.

“You sound sweet,” he says, watches Felix spasm, watches his co*ck twitch in his shorts, his fingers darting towards it - and stops him, holding his hand tightly. “You look sweet, too.”

-*-

Felix is home, right here with him, and it is evident everywhere: in the gentle ripples of the pool, inflatables bobbing up and down; the controllers on the coffee table; the crumbs of ramen seasoning on the kitchen counter; the toenail clippings next to the bathroom bin; Berry's absence from Chris's bed; the breathing from the sofa behind him as he works in his studio.

Felix is home and it’s evident in a palm, damp and warm, on Chris’s neck, gliding to his shoulder and pulling down the duvet. In the mattress dipping beneath a second body that clings to his back, holding onto him through the night.

-*-

Korea is grey and windy and icy cold. Frost in the mornings, fog until the sun has sent its rays through the thick layer of clouds. As soon as they exit the plane, he misses the heavy heat of Sydney, and as they drive through and out the city, he misses its bustling streets, too. Within one day, his knuckles scab and his cheeks flake with dry, torn skin and he reluctantly switches to a richer moisturiser, grimacing when he applies the thick cream. His sinuses flare up and seem to drag his brain out through his nostrils, every few minutes he has to blow his nose or flush it with saline solution. Everything smells like salt.

He bought his parents an apartment by the beach, of course. Never without the beach.

They go on walks along the shoreline, sand more gravel than grains, and Felix takes pictures of the stormy horizon, their footprints, driftwood and flotsam, seagulls stealing sandwiches, algae slicking between rocks, and every family member throwing peace signs.

“Chan-ah! Come here! What are you doing, staring into the sky?”

Chan drags his gaze away from the stormy horizon and shuffles into the raised arm of his mother who hugs him tight and tells him and his siblings to smile “for a nice and proper photograph.”

His father takes them to the pool he's been frequenting. The showers aren't separated, naked men rinsing themselves of dirt and chlorine, joking, slapping each other with their soaked swimming trunks. In the water they race, Felix winning by far. He fishes for compliments from his halabeoji and uncle, but keeps nagging Chan about losing his edge, telling him to catch up. Afterwards, in the sauna, he's too exhausted to keep acting up, shiny with sweat, breathing heavy, eyes glassy.

“You're too sensitive to humidity, Yongbok-ah,” Chan’s father comments. “Son, have you taken him to a cardiologist? You need to keep an eye on his health. I always made sure you were at the top of your game, didn't I?” Then he prods at Chan’s stomach, laughs at his wince. “I had abs when I was your age, remember? Ah, this body.”

Before Chan has to swallow his pride and chew up an answer, his brother slaps their father’s arm: “Relax, appa, we’ve been eating umma’s food – and Lixie just needs a good lunch, right? I have some nuts in my backpack until then, let’s go, let’s go, yeah?”

Their sister’s wife, their mother and Felix bake, him and his father cook, his sister does the dishes. His brother, spoiled youngest sibling through and through, stands by and taste-tests or gives them unsolicited tedtalks. They pray before every meal, and on the three official holidays they perform watered down versions of ancestor rituals. He mustn’t imagine what they think of him.

“Thank you, halabeoji, halmeoni, I love you,” Felix chirps, hugging his grandparents and clutching the gifts he technically shouldn’t receive anymore. He also got money from his aunts and uncle, tried not to show how happy he was.

He squeaks and hums as Chan’s parents squish and kiss his cheeks. “We love you, too, kid. Sometimes I think of my mother and how much she’d love you, too.”

“So much. Look at me. You need to eat well, hm? I saw you didn’t finish your soup. We missed you so much, why don’t you come live with us for university, hm? I put the stuff you left here in the closet, you don’t even need to bring a big suitcase. Halabeoji will buy whatever you need, won’t you, darling?”

“Of course. We can repaint the room, yeah? We’ll pick out paint together.”

There are two guestrooms. Chan volunteers for the sofa but everyone gangs up on him, playing up his neck problems, pointing out his brother’s agility. His sister and her wife take the one with the queen size bed, teasing Felix for the huge kitten plush he bought and left here. “Our little cuddle bug. You used to grip my pinky so tight when you were a baby. Oh, let’s look at photo albums! Umma! Umma, where are they?”

His sister’s wife laughs and attempts to cover her face: “Mate, it’s midnight, you need to shut your pretty mouth. You forgot what it’s like to live with neighbours, huh?”

“Oh sh*t, does that mean we have to be quiet tonight, too?”

Therefore, Chan and Felix take the room with the singles separated by bedside tables and frames: articles on him and his siblings, photographs of him or his sister at award shows, reviews on his brother’s research, a collage of Felix in dobok with different belts as he grew older and more experienced. Wedding pictures.

“I haven’t seen this one.” Felix is on his haunches on the mattress, nibbling on his finger and hugging the stuffed kitten.

Chan is towelling his curls and can’t see clearly, still covered in goosebumps from the cold air. “I think they took some themselves, we mostly kept the professional ones.”

“You looked hot.”

He doesn’t have anything to reply to that, just makes a vague sound, and drapes the towel over the heater before turning it up. Every February he forgets how cold it actually gets here, that the wind seeps in despite the insulation, that he has to put on a shirt at night.

“Do you have her dress?”

He hits his elbow on the inside of the closet and swears. “Ouch, f*cking f*ck. What? No, no I don't have it. Her mother wanted it.”

Felix hums sadly.

Dressed, Chan sits next to him on the bed, facing the other, and wraps a hand around Felix’s ankle. “You still want to come with me? You haven’t talked to them in a while. You don’t have to, yeah?”

“I want to.” Felix flops onto his back, crushes the plush into his face, muffling himself. “I’m nervous. I was so small and cute and what if they don’t like me now?”

Chan folds the hem of Felix’s satin pants, strokes the bronze hairs on his calf. “On the call, your oehalmeoni told me she wants you to be there. They want to see you. But if you’re too nervous–”

“I’m not too nervous! Just a bit. But maybe you could…” He pushes his foot into Chan’s ass, parting his legs to do so, and lets the kitten roll from his chest, onto the floor. The blouse of his pyjamas is unbuttoned to his belly, upper ribs slightly porturing under his flat chest. Here too are a few hairs, mostly gathered around his puffy nipples.

Chan takes his hand from Felix's leg. “Hmm? Tell me.”

“Cuddle. And tell me about her?

His chest aches deeply. A hole that gnaws down into his stomach. “What do you want me to talk about?”

“I dunno. Everything. Your wedding day. Were you nervous? How did you propose?”

“We told you about that already.”

“I want to hear it again.”

He lies down next to Felix, shoulders aligned, barely enough space for both of them. The duvet is thick and airy, billowing as Felix pulls it up to his chest. It smells like the mothballs his mother used to use in his childhood. Quickly, their bodies warm the space below and everywhere they touch, heat blooms under his clothes. Felix’s socked foot rubs against his. Then their fingers tangle.

Chan listens to the creaky heater and the kettle bubbling in the kitchen on the other side of the apartment and his sister laughing next door, and quietly tells Felix about his late wife.

In the mornings, after he's detangled Felix's limbs from his body and drinks tea on the balcony, he wonders if anyone can tell that one of the beds goes unused, only the stuffed toy resting on it. If anyone can hear their whispers through the walls. If they notice what is wrong with them.

When Felix joins them much later, groggy and clinging to his grandparents, Chan looks for stains on Felix's skin, imprints of his own lips and fingertips, a bruise. There never are any - he doesn't allow wandering hands or incriminating positions, only lets Felix rest his cheek on his chest or arm and steals nuzzles to the crown of his head, inhaling his scent. He never lingers.

-*-

On Seoul's icy streets, he drives slowly.

His father’s car is lower than his own, sitting on the left side irritates him more than it used to, and he has to use the GPS most of the way. He spent nearly a decade here, it should be like riding a bike, muscle memory. On the way into the city to drop Felix off at a friend, he takes a second too long to process a street sign and has to make a u-turn, and when he picks him up again to meet up with Changbin and Jisung at a restaurant, he gets right into rush hour.

His skull hurts behind his brows. “They should’ve just come to us, could’ve gone to eat at the beach. Have some crab and clams. Some daegu tang.”

“But didn’t you go to uncle Changbinnies studio?” Felix hasn’t looked up from his phone since Chan secured his seatbelt.

“Some k-pop kid was there with him and took longer than he thought, I just went somewhere else.”

Thankfully, Felix doesn’t ask where to. It would’ve been uncomfortable to confess he was walking around his old campus and staring at the grey facade of the student housings and the coffee chain that replaced the café they used to spend their Sundays at.

“Oh, that’s so cool! Who was it? Can we meet them?”

“You should ask uncle Binnie, I don’t remember – someone from a new generation, though.”

Felix sighs dreamily. “I always forget that he knows so many people. He’s so cool.”

“I know many people!”

“Yeah, over the phone. Or they’re boring. Or you know them but you never hang out outside work.”

Chan inhales through his teeth. “I was the most social of the three of us, yeah? I used to hang out with Tiger JK.”

“And now you hang out with the old people from our neighbourhood or teach kids how to swim. Your best friend is like, four or ninetynine.”

He squawks and slaps Felix’s arm across the gear box. “Not true, not true! Did I not take you to that fashion thing last winter? You were fainting over all those designers.”

“I don’t even know why they invited you, you dress like…”

“What?”

“Like a dad.”

Chan dares to take his eyes off the red traffic light and glance at his son. “Oh, wow.”

“Like a hot dad! But not like a cool producer dad.”

He tugs at the jacket he’s wearing. “What, do you think this is ugly? You want me to change? Should I go buy a suit?”

“No, I think you look nice.” Felix suddenly fiddles with Chan’s sleeve. “Are you wearing the watch?”

Chan raises his left wrist from the wheel and shakes it until his cuff slips, then switches on the headlight, the ice before him lighting up yellow.

“Nice.”

“Why do you want to meet all those people anyway? You want to record some more songs? We’ll record songs.”

Felix hums, more than just in acknowledgement, pensive.

“No? What is it?”

"Minho-hyung says I should move here and dance with him."

Chan stares at the muddy snow exploding under the tyres of the bus in front of them, the pebbles flying and hitting the street, a woman in slacks evading them with a startled hop. Behind her, two dogs bark and pull on their leashes, forcing their owner to stumble, more snow spraying upwards. It makes him realise there’s a light drizzle blurring his vision and he turns on the windscreen wipers, splotches of dirt and bugs smearing over the glass.

He clears his throat. “Where’d you guys meet again?”

“He’s really nice, appa.” He notices Felix hesitating and squirming. “When I went out once, we met. He has two cats and he’s a teacher. For dancing.”

“This guy you met at some club wants to teach you dance?”

“He’s not – he’s my friend! We met up all the time when I was here. You know where he lives, he’s not.. he’s nice.”

They’re finally getting closer to the restaurant, he can’t wait to fill his queasy stomach and be in a wider, well lit space. Not even 7pm and the sun has already set, the clouds heavy and grey, lighter than the barely visible sky behind them. The buildings around them blink down at them. “You felt good here? Comfortable?”

“I mean.. I feel comfortable, yeah. Yeah. Minho-hyung took care of me and taught me more Korean, and so did uncle Changbin and uncle Jisung, they also take care of me. And I love my jobumo, naturally.”

Now he only needs to find a parking spot. “Yeah. Course.”

It’s a crowded street.

“Dad…”

He drives past the restaurant, unsure if he recognized his friends by the window seats. There’s a line, but Changbin must have booked a table.

“Appa, would you… do you want me to not… cause I don’t know.”

“You want it, Lix.”

Felix is silent for a while. Then he points through the windshield. “Over there it’s free.”

Chan parks and they rush back up the street, umbrellas forgotten at his parent’s house.

They indeed booked a table, not by the window but in a room in the back, privacy completed with an aquarium and their own stereo. Barely after they’ve hugged hello and ordered, Changbin plays the song Felix rapped for, resulting in the two of them praising each other, Felix shily but brightly grinning and asking Chan to take celebratory pictures of them. He does, tells Jisung to hug Felix’s other side, and secretly gets emotional at the sight of his two best friends smothering his son.

Changbin loves the camera - he says the camera loves him, of course. He's a big shot here, not just performing on stage but working with various different artists and frequently starring on variety shows. Jisung is as brilliant as ever, releasing albums in dizzying speed, features on soundtracks for dramas but refusing to give interviews alone. He says he wants it to be the three of them or nothing, but Chan knows anxiety is the true reason.

“Stop taking pictures of me, Lix-ah”, Jisung whines, hiding behind his chopsticks. “Chan-ssi, tell your son to target someone else!”

“He doesn't listen to me,” Chan says flatly, distributing a new batch of browned meat onto everyone’s plates.

“But you listen to me, right, Yongbok-ah?”

Felix, smiling brightly, angles his camera back to Changbin. “Yes, uncle Binnie, always.”

“That's right. I’ll introduce you to whoever you want, too, don’t worry. Hyung, you should come with us, don’t you know there are people who’ve been wanting to meet up with you for years?”

“It’s the holidays.”

“Is he actually vacationing?”

“Nope,” Felix replies. Brat. Chan shoots him a glance over the grill. “But, sometimes, even though he says I’m too young, he lets me take care of him.”

His knife rips through the beef and screeches on the plate. He and Jisung flinch.

“Yah! Hyung, what do you mean? Lix is a grown up. He’s not a kid?”

“He’s not really grown up–”

“Families should take care of each other,” Changbin preaches and flexes his tricep under Felix’s palm. “No matter what. You share your struggles, you don’t abandon each other.”

It had been difficult to choose a best man at the wedding. In the end he chose Changbin because Jisung would have had a meltdown from the responsibilities and because Changbin lives to give speeches.

This one falls short, but Felix beams and smiles at him nonetheless, takes another picture of him. “I think you’re so right, uncle Binnie…”

“Did Lix tell you guys he’s thinking about moving here?” Chan asks and takes a sip of his co*ke. It fizzles on his tongue, burns in his throat. Probably not good for his acid reflux.

Felix’s expression shifts from hurt to pink bashfulness once Changbin and Jisung break out in excitement, both offering up a room for him to stay, bickering over whose apartment is in the better neighbourhood.

Chan leans back in his chair and meets Felix’s gaze. He’s ducking his head under Jisung’s ruffles to his hair, pursing his grease-covered lips in a pouty smile, but his brows are furrowed, his eyes strained and heated. Upset about Chan telling the truth, upset that he’s reminding him that he got his whole life ahead of him and it shouldn’t be tied to Chan’s, that deep down he knows nothing can come of this.

The smell of the fermented garlic right by his plate and the hissing fat from the meat nauseate him all of a sudden. Emptying the co*ke and then a glass of water doesn’t help, so he mumbles an excuse while Changbin is cooing at Felix, and flees their room in search for solitude. A sparsely lit corridor, a glimpse into the kitchen, then he sees a sign pointing downstairs.

Of all the people to follow him into the restroom, he isn't expecting Jisung; stepping a bit too close for comfort at that, leaning against the wall right next to the urinal.

Chan’s stream of piss ceases and he shakes. “Are we continuing our tradition? It’s fine if your anxiety is doing it’s thing, but I’d prefer a bit of space now that we aren’t kids anymore, yeah?”

“We only went to pee together like three times,” Jisungs retorts pettily, but doesn’t follow Chan to the sink. He’s speaking loud enough that his voice bounces around the black tiles. “And we weren’t kids!”

“We weren’t even allowed to drink, mate.”

“In the beginning! And we still drank!”

Chan examines the faucet, gesturing around it, but it stays dry. “And you puked every time.”

“I did not!”

There is no need to bring up those years anyway.

"Channie-hyung," Jisung says, sounding like he did when he told Chan about his first solo contract, and continues in English. "There's this man, okay?"

"Okay?" Chan echoes, somehow activating the sensor with one of his movements. The water surges.

"And he's really cool. Kind of weird, but so cool."

"Uh-huh," he says, waits for a dollop of soap, receives rose-scented foam, and lathers his palms.

"And. We really hit it off, like we just have the same vibe, it's like the timing was just perfect for us."

He sings happy birthday in his mind and makes sure to rub the bubbles into his nails, between knuckles and over the heel of his palm. "Great, Sungie. What's his name?"

Suddenly, Jisung whispers: “And he is like crazy good at sex, like he–"

"Okay-"

"And he's running his own dance studio, was a background dancer for a while. He's in the biz, so we have similar experiences, kinda."

"Great, wonderf–"

"He's twentyfive."

Chan looks up into the mirror and watches Jisung hide his face behind his hands. "What?"

"He's young, but young people can take care of others! He has so much experience already, he’s, like, done a thousand things, and he's so hot, but it's creepy of me, is it? To be fair, he was the one that followed me to my home. He's so persistent – not followed followed, chill–"

"The f*ck? Jisung. Who is this guy?"

"It's not like I need your permission, bro, I'm just wondering. Because it's creepy right? But he's creepy, too. Not in a bad way!! He just said, once, he said that he'd find me no matter where I am. But, hyung, that's just romance. Also? I've written so many songs since we met and they’re really good?"

Chan rinses the foam, wags his fingers, and dries them with one of the cotton towels provided on a tray. He hasn’t been in a restroom this fancy for years. “This has got to spike their water bill. Paper towels work well enough, don’t they? Did that boy stalk you, Sungie?”

“He is not a boy! And actually, I stalked him – like online. His dance school has an instagram account and he is so funny.”

Sometimes it’s difficult to remember that Jisung has gotten older just as he and Changbin have, that he isn't the twenty year old genius kid the two of them took under their wings anymore. There was always wonder and tender curiosity in his writings, even within the pieces that weren’t inspired by his own life – especially in those. Truthfully, Jisung’s hesitance comforts Chan. In their thirties, he was expecting him to churn out more songs that were honest and revealing, and was awfully relieved when he didn’t. When he kept hiding and isolating himself, safe in the comfort of his home, not going through highs and lows that could become exceptional lyrics, but scars, too.

Maybe there is something inherently predatory within Chan.

He turns his back to the mirror and leans his ass against the edge of the countertop, running his finger along the rough underside of it. Next to the urinal is a single cubicle, a western toilet and a bidet in black porcelain, so clean they’re reflecting the dim light. He wonders how many young men have gotten on their knees here. “Why would you want to date a guy that scares you?”

Jisung gasps. “He doesn’t scare me, he’s just weird. He wouldn’t actually do anything I don’t like.”

“How can you know that?”

“I just know. I feel it.” He glowers at whatever Chan’s face does. “Didn’t you know? With her, back then?”

He had thought marriage would fill the black hole in his chest. It hadn’t. Especially not with its brutal end.

He laughs. “Hey, I was never scared of my wife.”

“Hyung, you know what I mean.” Jisung rolls his eyes. “You knew she was the one, didn’t you?”

Even before Felix was born under such terrifying circ*mstances, Chris had felt comfort at the thought of him. Even before he felt the first kicks through her belly and under his palm. Even before they knew she was pregnant. Before his own birth.

“Right. I guess you made up your mind.”

Back at the table, Felix is rubbing the circles under his eyes and Changbin looks at Chan differently. Like he is preparing himself for a challenge. And indeed, after they have finished up all the meat, only scattered rice grains left in their bowls, merely the juices left of the picked radishes and kimchi, bellies aching, Changbin wipes his mouth with a napkin and points towards the door with his chin. “Hyung, let’s step outside for a minute.”

He pats the back of Felix’s hand on his forearm and mumbles something to him, gets up with a groan, stretches.

Cold sweat breaks out on Chan’s neck and along his spine, the wool of his jumper rougher on his prickling skin. But he has been running away from his responsibility and the consequences for long enough. Evidently, he is too weak on his own. It’s pathetic, but apparently he needs a friend to knock sense into him. And Changbin has always been direct and truthful.

Felix looks at him with worry. He reaches out, but Chan can’t let his friends know how rotten he gets, so he only sends a tight smile.

Jisung sidles up to Felix, tickles him beneath his chin, and shows him the screen of his phone. “Dessert! Lix, Lix, they have great cakes here, let’s share a few slices. I had this one last time, but you need to try this. And this.”

Chan follows Changbin through the corridor, again past the kitchen and the stairs to the restrooms, then through the bustling restaurant, and into the cold night. The trees are barren. Traffic full. Neither of them smoke but they stand in the smoking area, under the glass roof, wet snowflakes puddling atop of them. The stench of old cigarette butts turns his full stomach upside down. He breathes shallowly.

“Right, then,” Changbin says, crossing his arms over his black coat. It crinkles in his pits, his muscles too big, and Chan wonders if he’ll get beaten up.

He doesn’t say anything. There are no excuses.

“I talked to Yongbok only because there was a chance to do so, I wanted to talk to you first. But I guess he could tell something was up or maybe she even talked to him, I don’t know, I guess she always adored him, you know how he is?”

“Yeah,” Chan whispers. Confused. Maybe he is too scared to understand Changbin’s approach.

“And he was sad and upset, and you will be too, but I just need you to be cool about this. I can’t handle anymore tears.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t make myself.. I know what I did.”

“Huh?” Changbin says, hollow. He’s not looking at Chan, watching the clouds of his own breaths. “You were always supportive, hyung. Except if there’s something the two of you aren’t telling me.” Changbin laughs drily, but Chan can’t get enough air. “Kidding. Aish, f*ck, whatever, here it goes: we’re divorcing.”

“What?”

“Actually, she’s divorcing me. I tried to fix it, but she moved out two weeks ago and I got the documents in the mail.”

Chan repeats himself. Overwhelmed by the oxygen flooding his brain. “What? Who?”

“You’ve told me back then, all the way back, both of you, that we had to change things in our marriage but I guess I thought I knew better. And then she wanted to change things but I still… I’m stubborn, I know. But I just expected things to work out, smoothe out. We had great years, too, you know? And then I gave my all but it wasn’t enough. And that’s her choice. So. Yeah. We’re split up, officially.”

Chan sinks against the concrete wall behind him. Probably staining his trousers and jacket. Should’ve brought a coat as well. But he expected to be indoors and in the car only. Expected a nice, mundane dinner. Forgot how harrowing the cold actually gets.

“You did your best,” he hears himself say as if he was listening through headphones. “Sometimes our best doesn’t match up. I know you feel like sh*t but you’re a good man.”

Changbin laughs again. "How I feel about it doesn't change what I've already done and not done. We go from here, she told me what she needs, we’re deciding on the assets, all that. Can’t go back, there’s no convincing her, believe me.”

Dirty water, carrying islands of snow and mud, gushes down the drain next to the street.

“I believe you, I know what it’s like.” He clears his throat, inhales deeply, presses the nail of his thumb into his pinky until his mind settles in the pain and within itself. “I adore her, but she’s stubborn too, yeah? She knows what she wants. And if she thinks it’s better for the both of you…”

“Mainly, she’s doing it for herself. That’s the sh*t that hurts, right? Through joyful times and hard times, all that.”

He follows the reflection of a myriad of lights to the actual lit windows, up to blinking antennas, a helicopter far above, and then searches for the stars. Only finds thick clouds, blurred by the snow. “Losing someone always hurts.”

“Sorry,” Changbin says. Short but serious. “I know this must bring up her death.”

Short and serious and to the point. That’s why Changbin always gets to him.

Tears burn his eyes and he serrates his nail further into his skin. “It’s fine. That’s in the past.”

“Don’t give me that, I know you’re always thinking about the past. Hyung. Thinking about what we could’ve done differently…”

There had been an instant connection - a respect for their shared vision, an understanding of the lengths each of them were ready to go for what they believed in and dreamed of.

Though Chan met them when they were already friends, to an extent, he and Changbin had adopted Jisung. At least, they had taken him under their wings. Since Jisung hadn’t been much younger but certainly much more inexperienced and awkward, they had felt grown up and experienced in contrast. They had calmed him together. They had sharpened his artistic vision.

They always understood each other most.

Chan had been Changbin’s best man, too.

And Chan left him. Both of them. He left a whole life here to go back to Australia and raise his son. He exchanged one family for another. And then he lost part of that family.

“I’m sorry,” he says flatly, unable to give his voice the emotion Changbin deserves. “I don’t-.... you think we should’ve done things differently?”

“I never did anything I regret.”

Chan pinches the bridge of his nose, massages his brow bones. “Right, and what do you actually think?”

“f*ck you, hyung.”

“How can I help?”

Changbin shrugs. “My lawyer is taking care of everything. Nothing to do. Tell me what the f*ck a single man our age even does all day? I’m bored. Last show I watched, she and I watched together and we share an account. If I watch more, she won’t know what episode we stopped. Ah, f*ck. I’m so bored all the time.”

“You’re working, aren’t you?”

“Course I’m working.” Changbin glares at him behind his thick glasses. “I’m busy, but it’s not the same thing. Let’s have a comeback.”

“We’re too old for a comeback.”

“We’re the perfect age. You afraid you’ll collapse on stage, huh?”

Maybe if Chan had stayed in Korea, they could have been something great.

“No one even knows who we are anymore.”

Changbin gasps and hits him with a limp fist. “Did you give up on us?”

“No,” he lies. “No, never. I’m just saying.”

Another hit. “We’re family, hyung.”

He remembers and echoes Changbin’s earlier words in a deep and overly serious tone: “And family should take care of each other no matter what.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“Anyway, thanks for not bawling all over me, hyung. Sungie cried for an hour and then curled up on my couch and pretended to sleep. I think he wants to move in with me.”

“Well, then Lix doesn’t have to choose,” Chan says drily, glancing at the door to the restaurant, fogged up from the inside.

“I hope they ordered dessert for us.” Suddenly, Changbin stretches energetically and steps out of the smoking area, into the falling snow, then wags a finger at him. “And you better take care of Yongbokkie, do whatever he wants, spoil him. He told me you’ve been distant. What’s up with that? You used to carry him all the time. Life is too short to waste what we have.”

-*-

Here and now, the ocean is restless, waves high, seaweed washing up on the shores, salt crystallised. Lumpy snow melts into puddles inside shoe prints, the wooden planks of the piers graunch and groan under their weight, rust has overtaken the metal railings. Boats disappear by the horizon, fishermen out all day, fighting the wind.

-*-

Her parents serve them green tea.

He fills round little cups, offering them with a bow, and his wedding band knocks against the porcelain. Her father sits in silence for most of the afternoon, watching them through his frameless glasses, asking pointed questions occasionally. Her mother is more willing to chat, though hesitant to share details about their lives. She wears her hair tighter and she has more wrinkles now, but she is still beautiful. She passed that beauty on. Felix has her eyes, too.

They don’t talk about her. A box of her belongings, mostly jewellery and knickknacks he found in the garage, is on the table, unopened. Felix gives them presents and talks about the café and vague plans about attending university, maybe here in Korea, maybe in France. That steers the conversation close to politics, so Chan asks about the paintings on the wall, the figurines in the glass cabinet, what books they have been reading.

“What a pretty watch,” she says, and Chan feels guilty. Felix smiles though, and explains that he gifted it to Chan on Christmas.

They only stay for two hours. Just as long as the drive here took. After they’ve received enough polite hints to leave, and while Felix is using the restroom, her mother wraps a scarf around Chan's neck, doesn't look up at him when she speaks: “He needs to practise his Korean.”

Instead of pointing out that he speaks both languages with Felix, that Felix was here just a few months ago and his pronunciation and vocabulary got much better, that Felix would love to have calls with her, he nods. “Ah, yes, thank you, I'll work harder.”

“We knew what she was doing when you took her abroad,” she says out of the blue, stepping back and folding her hands in front of her. “She got pregnant so early on in your relationship. Naturally, she could have decided to stay here, marry the one that was…before you. Who knows how things would be, then. If Korea would’ve become her better. So we want Yongbok to honour that, you understand?”

After that, neither him nor the world seem quite real. Though he manages to go through the rest of the motions with a smile, his movements feel slow and sluggish, as if he was treading beneath water. His vision is blurry, too, but he only notices when he's driving them back to his parent's house. On a winding country road, still adjusting to the differences of the car, he reaches for the glove compartment to retrieve his glasses only to realise he's already wearing them.

Panic makes him pull over. The sludge of melted snow sprays from beneath the wheels. Brown, frosted and unkempt fields to the right, a sparsely forested hill to the other side. It's disorienting to have Felix to the left of him, framed by a winter landscape instead of the warmly light buildings of Sydney. “Appa? You okay? What's going on?”

His nose and ears are pink. He's cold.

Felix fiddles with his phone. “Is something wrong, should I call someone? Gas?”

Chan can't move to turn on the heater, hands frozen on the steering wheel.

“The next servo is, uhm, an hour by foot it says. I can go, I'm gonna go?”

He manages a shake of his head.

“Dad.” There's something in Felix's voice. “Dad? Please. You're- are you okay?”

A hand on his, helping him unclench it. Felix leans into him and chokes the car by snagging the key out the ignition. Chan wasn't aware he had left it on, the silence sudden and merely a short relief before the echo of his own heartbeat fills his ears.

Felix climbs into his lap. One second he's audibly struggling to shuffle over the gearbox, the next his thighs are spreading over Chan's, so light, palms cold on Chan’s neck, tilting his chin. His pretty mouth parts and closes. “Look at me, appa. Look at me.”

“Sorry,” Chris says. “All good. Just need a second.”

Felix frowns and presses his freezing fingertips into the stiff muscles of Chan's neck. “Don't lie.”

He shakes his head again.

“Stop lying to me.” Felix's breath smells like bitter green tea. He shouldn't be this close.

Chan buries his face into the wool of Felix's fluffy jumper and inhales as deep as he can. It's all wrong, fabric soaked with unfamiliar scents, seperated from Felix's skin by too many layers. The fuzz irritates his skin. But the shape of him is perfect, light and lean, fitting into his arms like he always has. He grew up and older and into his features, as tall as him now, but he has always fit perfectly against Chan’s body.

The stale air inside the rental gets even colder. Their breaths dissipate in white clouds. Once he's finally got a grip on himself, his chest is warm, but his fingers stiff. And Felix is trembling.

He lays his hand at the back of Felix’s head, thumb under his ear, and kisses the crown of his hair. “I’m sorry, baby. Thank- thank you. It wasn’t anything you did, yeah?”

“Okay.” Felix nods into his clavicle. His back must be hurting. “I’m also sad. I feel like I haven’t seen them in so long and they look so different. I dunno if halabeoji likes me. And they had so many pictures of umma when she was young. But I liked seeing her friends in them. She is so beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Chan says. He didn’t recognize any of the people in the pictures.

A kiss on the corner of his jaw. On his cheek. “I hope when you look at me, you remember her, daddy.”

Chan makes him straighten his spine as far as possible before he bumps against the ceiling of the car. He adjusts the collar of his jumper, picks lint from the fluff, squeezes his hips.

“You aren’t her,” he whispers, shushes Felix’s sad noise. “You aren’t, and that’s good.”

Felix doesn’t respond. His reaction is purely physical, a tightening of his thighs, his fingers sliding into Chan’s hair, his mouth ghosting over Chan’s face.

He sighs painfully. “I do think of her. Every day. And you remind me of her, yeah, but you are your own person, Lix. You are perfect as you. Getting to have you, there’s nothing as perfect as that.”

The lips on his cheek drift towards his mouth. A weak hum, like a question.

Chan angles his neck and allows a soft, damp kiss. Just two seconds. Shorter than his shaky inhale of bitter air.

“I love you, appa,” Felix mumbles. A bit shy. A bit smug.

Chan huffs. “I love you too, Lix.”

There should be more guilt. His mind is still spinning slowly, his senses still dull, but his chest isn’t heavy. He can stretch. He can meet Felix’s eyes and rub his earlobe. Smile. suck on his own bottom lip without dragging it through the sharp edges of his teeth.

A comfort he hasn’t felt in years.

Felix goes back to the passenger seat. Chan secures his seatbelt, tightens his own, and drives them back to his parents’s apartment.

During supper, his father gets upset about his silence for their last meal together. His sister and Felix protest, condoning Chan’s ridiculous behaviour, but thankfully, Chan's mother calms them down, and the rest of the night is fairly peaceful. They watch a movie, Felix on cuddle rotation, his siblings arguing over motifs and camera angles, and share two bottles of red.

A nightly shower doesn’t quite wash away the alcohol. If anything, the steam draws him even further into that weird headspace where the world is washed out and weightless, the bridge to his body nebulous. He doesn't say anything when Felix joins him in bed only wearing boxer briefs and takes the plush out of his arms, replacing it with himself. His leg wraps around Chan's and he nudges his forehead against his cheek, hair dripping into the pillow.

“I love you, appa,” he mumbles again, mouthing on Chan's jaw. Minty. Sweet.

“I love you, too, little one,” Chan says and strokes Felix's ear, attempting to shift his gaze from the dark ceiling to his son. “Always will, yeah?”

Felix nods, the inside of his lip catching on Chan's skin. “I'm yours.”

Heat trickles from his wet little tongue down Chan's neck and to his heart. He is right.

“You are,” Chan whispers and settles his palm on Felix’s neck. “My little one.”

Their little boy. For almost a decade. And then just his, no one else’s. Whatever was implied, Felix is his son. He made him, brought him into being, was there when he came into the world, tiny and vulnerable. He fed and bathed him, has touched every part of his freckled skin. He held his waist and kept him afloat as he taught him how to swim in the ocean. No one has held Felix through pain and pleasure as much as Chan has, no one else got to watch him become himself as closely as he got to.

-*-

At the airport, his mother hides her tears and holds both of them for a long time. His father, too, hugs them fiercely, grips Chan by the shoulders and tells him he has been listening to his music everyday. Chan knows it's his expression of love and pride. His brother, staying another week, buys Felix an expansive pack of nuts, telling him to eat healthily.

Their flight back is calm, the baby in the front only crying sparsely, mostly sleeping through it like everyone else. The night sky is clear and speckled with stars, the moon illuminating Felix's profile and the stuffed kitten in his arms. His mask hides his mouth but his face is slack, lips must be parted, drying out. Chris prepares water and lip balm but never falls asleep himself, watching a movie and typing in his notes app, texting with his sister who is a dozen rows behind them, updating their dog sitter, receiving pictures of Berry in the garden.

They’re going home.

-*-

They turn Felix's lyrics into a song. Chris doesn't suggest any changes, doesn't record a demo, just lets Felix go at it, letting him go at the vocals however he pleases and however many times he wants. It's intoxicating to watch Felix have so much fun, to gently direct him, to coax his potential out into the open. Though he's shy in the beginning, he ends up giving his all, singing the verses over and over again until they are both satisfied.

They play new and old video games together, mostly the Final Fantasy VII franchise, Mario Party, a buggy Fifa, a gacha game that challenges his financial skills. They go to the beach, gushing about the warmth of the sand and the water, laughing at and pitying Chris’s parents whose ocean is icy and wild and hostile.

He drives Felix to work and picks him up after, drives him to his friends, too. He learns the route to Hyunjin’s place by heart, he gets chatting with Seungmin and Jeongin’s parents again, car parked in front of theirs. They take trips into the city, get ice cream, have picnics in the parks, take pictures with the harbour bridge in the background. He gets an invitation to a concert at the opera house and adds Felix as his plus one, buys a suit online, cringes at the ill fit, lets Felix laugh at him and drag him to an actual tailor. Backstage, they meet up with the director and Chris tries on his networking shoes again. Not quite as ill fitting as the first suit.

He hugs Felix. He gives him wet smooches on the cheek, delighted by his pleased squirming. He traps him in hallways and on thresholds and before he jumps into the pool, pins his arms to his side to crush and lift him, makes him squeal and cackle. He lingers. He lets himself look.

-*-

First, he registers the tapping of Berry's paws. She strays down the corridor but not into his room, must hop down into the kitchen. Instead, the red glow of the nightlight falls around Felix’s silhouette in the open door. His skin appears a warm bronze in the dark. He’s trying to sneak, but stumbles and collides with Chris’s bed. “f*ck, ouch, that hurts, that’s hurts.”

Chris leans up, grin undetected. “You good?”

“Hit my toe, ouch. I hate your stupid curtains.”

“Poor boy, aaaw. You have an ouchie?”

“f*ck you, yes I have.”

An elbow lands on his shin and chokes his laughter, both of them groaning in pain. Felix shuffles across the duvet, hands searching purchase on Chris’s thighs, knees slipping, and plops down atop of him, slamming the breath out of his lungs. Chris wheezes and lifts him, just enough so he can expand his chest more. “God, you little menace, you came here to murder me?”

“Yes,” Felix chirps, smile a rich pink in the dark.

Neither of them are wearing a shirt. Felix’s tummy is fuzzy. As are the undersides of his arms, sliding over Chris’s shoulders, armpit hairs tickling, soft and sweaty. Their chin’s bump.

“What’re you doing here, baby?” Chris asks again, and brushes through Felix’s hair. Spreads his legs, duvet restricting him, and helps Felix settle between them.

He can see spit bubbles on Felix’s tongue. "You said I can come here when I can't sleep."

“Yeah.”

Felix’s teeth glint right before he bends and gnaws on Chan’s cheekbone. “I can’t sleep.”

“Mhhmm.” He nuzzles into the soft dip behind Felix’s ear. He stills smells a little like the conditioner and detergents they used in Korea. “What’s the time?”

Felix shivers, his hip squirming above the duvet, makes a little sound, and tilts his head.“Dunno.”

“Woke up from a nightmare? Or did you stay up gaming, hmm?” He rubs his lips over the dewy curve beneath Felix’s jaw. He tastes so good.

He laughs at Felix’s embarrassed groan and coaxes his face into the crook of his own neck to feel his pinched smile. Under the plump warmth, his skin becomes sensitive.

“Gonna get square pupils,” he teases, a threat they’ve told Felix since he was first allowed to watch TV.

“You have square pupils,” Felix says pettily but interrupts himself with a yawn loud enough to make Chris cringe.

He squeezes Felix’s nape. “Then we should both sleep, yeah? You need a hot chocolate?”

“Nuh-uh, just you.” Felix sniffs him too: below his chin, his collar bones, the valley between his pectorals, and grazes his teeth left to right. “You need to hug me.”

“Get under the doona then, little one, you’re crushing my bones.”

He knows Felix touches himself when they cuddle like this. Sometimes it’s just a grind into the sheets, sometimes a nudge into Chris’s midsection. Often, he gives himself away because his knuckles are pressed into Chris’s leg as he’s squeezing himself. A handful of times, Chris has drifted out and into sleep, feeling, hearing, even smelling, Felix’s palm rubbing through precome as he mouths on Chris’s biceps.

This night isn’t different.

As soon as Felix has sidled up to him, belly down, palm on Chris’s chest, face turned towards him, he begins wiggling. Slow, but surely. The bed shifts.

“Sleep, baby,” Chris says, hypocritical. He knows he won’t be able to for hours. But holding his son, feeling his weight and his breathing and his heartbeat, is just as soothing as a restful sleep.

“Mmhmm, ‘kay. Can you pet me?”

Felix sighs happily as soon as Chris starts combing through his hair, sniffs and nuzzles into the pillow, and hikes up his leg, thigh sliding up Chris’s. He’s chubbed up and throbbing, lazily grinding into Chris’s hip as if he isn’t aware of his movements. He drifts off quickly, hums turning into small snores. He doesn’t stop moving.

Chris feels the pull of his phone, the urge to record. Just one video among the many he has of Felix.

But he can’t reach the bedside table and his arm begins to ache from keeping up the petting, so he just rests it on Felix’s waist, above the band of his boxer briefs. One heartbeat away from sliding his palm over Felix’s ass, a finger to his hole, feeling him pulsate as he grinds. He wouldn’t even notice, sleeping tight. And he’d want it either way.

-*-

In the morning, he gets to turn onto his side and stroke Felix’s temples, watch his eyelids and lips twitch, watch him sniffle and smile before waking up and staring in disbelief. He gets to kiss him between his brows and lift him out of bed, make him breakfast, convince him to go on a walk with Berry, and then sit by the poolside, working as Felix swims.

-*-

Luckily, he has his headphones off the moment the doorbell rings. He hears Felix groan and whine but pause the music in the kitchen and calm Berry’s barking.

“Let’s see who it is, chéri, come here!”

Shuffling feet and hurried paws on the tiles. The key rattles.

“Oh! Wow! Hi, yes. Oh.” The rest of Felix’s words are too quiet to rise upstairs. It’s only a short exchange though, then the door thumps and the key rattles again. Silence for a minute.

Then the same feet thunder up the staircase and Felix bursts into his studio.

Chris is already smiling and spinning around in his chair. The backrest hits the desk as Felix jumps into his lap. Vanilla overlayed by the fresh smell of flowers. He’s wearing his mother’s apron again, the front dusted with flour and the skirt of it flipping up. He brushes a finger up Felix’s spine. He laughs. “Did you put them in a vase?”

“They’re huge, I couldn’t even see the guy’s face!”

“You like them?” Teeth sink into his shoulder and he squeaks, yanks at long hair. “f*cking hell, ouch, no, no!”

“I love you, appa,” Felix exclaims, wetly kissing his cheek.

Chris turns his head just a bit, lets their lips brush for a moment, and scratches Felix’s scalp. “I love you too, little one. Put them in a vase now, yeah? Don’t want them to die the first day.”

Felix climbs from his lap, bright faced, fiddling with his earring. “I’m gonna make lunch. I’m gonna bake. I’m gonna bake chocolate chip cookies!!”

“Oh, wow. Lunch and cookies? Will you clean up after, too?” He raises one brow playfully but his chest flutters.

Felix smiles sharply. He knocks Chris’s thighs apart with his knees. “I dunno, I might need your help, daddy.”

“Ah, okay, okay.” He fumbles for his headphones. “Don’t set the oven on fire.”

-*-

The first Mardi Gras weekend, Felix asks him for permission to go out. Chris allows it. Without being told, Felix sends him updates and eventually asks to pick him up. He isn’t drunk, but he says he had a sparkly, overpriced drink and a round of shots with his friends, says it like he needs Chris to forgive him. He does. At home, they heat up food and Chris waits in bed as Felix showers. He lifts the duvet for him, lets him curl into his chest, and listens to him ramble about the music and outfits and cute people while massaging his ear until he falls asleep.

He acquires a bunch of free tickets for several other pride events since he’s worked with many of the DJs or producers, and gives them to Felix. Nearly every day before or after his shifts at the café, Felix joins drag brunches or screenings or beach parties. There has never been as much glitter or body paint in the shower.

Felix nags him to join every time. But those spaces are not for him.
He does attend the parade, mainly to watch his sister cling to her wife who is one of the Dykes on Bikes, and to wave to friends who put on music for the trucks. Felix is too busy dancing and hugging strangers, getting smooches on the cheeks, to pay attention to him. There’s just a single moment on the way back: meandering through the bright crowd and the streets back to where he parked the car, Felix interlinks their fingers. No one even bats an eye.

-*-

In the span of three days, Chris gets told that both Berry and his father are sick.

"How long?" He asks.

"No worries," the vet says. “Meds for a couple weeks and she'll be fine.”

"Since last year," his mother tells him on the phone. "He didn't want you to know."

"Why? We were there, he could've told me to my face!"

"You know him, Chan-ah, he doesn't want you to worry.”

He is too upset to talk to his father directly. Can only send a short text.

There isn't much happening work wise after that. He switches from the study to the living room to the garden. Berry follows him but eventually gets fed up with him, wiggling out of his hugs, zooming around the garden as if she wasn’t ill. The sun heats his scalp through his snapback.

In the evening, Felix gets home. Chris forgot whether it was directly from work or if he went somewhere, time too slippery to calculate the hours, his watch still.

While he cooks, Felix and Berry play around. Better not to worry him about her. He won't notice the pills Chris hides in food. But he should know about his grandfather. Even if that means he'll want to move to Korea sooner.

"Lix," Chris begins. He carefully crafts the perfect mouthful of udon. Noodle, mushroom, thin slices of spring onion. "I had a call with your halmeoni earlier. She’s good, ah. Everything is going to be…"

As he contemplates whether to finish the lie and how to go from there, Felix starts swaying left to right in his chair. He's gnawing at the inside of his knuckle, staring into his steaming bowl.

"Oh? What, uhm. What'd she tell you?" His voice is too high. His tone too even.

Chris lets the udon slip back into the broth. He swallows his acrid saliva instead. “You know?”

Felix breaks into tears. “I'm sorry, appa, he – he made me promise and he said he’d tell you and I feel like I didn’t know what to do–” He chokes on a hiccup and directs his watery gaze at Chris, pleading silently.

He should have told him. He should have told his father. He keeps too many things from Chris. Are there more? Are there any lies? Does Chris have to shake them out of him? Grab and squeeze his trim body until he spills?

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks flatly, reigning in his disappointment.

Felix nods, rubbing his eyes and snivelling into the sleeve of his shirt. “I wanted to tell you every day, but he made me promise and I didn’t know what to do… I think he’s really scared and upset.”

“He shouldn’t have put that on you,” Chris grits. Reaches for Felix’s hand over the table, and clutches it. “You’re just a kid. And you can’t even do anything.”

Felix sobs harder, gasping unintelligible words, snot running over his twisting mouth.

Berry walks back and forth between them, whining.

Chris stands, drags the chair back, and lifts Felix to place him sideways on his lap. Wedged between wall and table there isn’t much space for him to manoeuvre, but he secures his arm around Felix’s waist and rips out a tissue from the box on the table, dabbing it over Felix’s face. “It’s alright, you’ll be alright, yeah? I’m here.”

Felix’s wrists weakly lie against his chest, fingers trembling on his neck. His under eyes and nose turn pink already, glossy with tears. “Appa, I don’t wanna lose you.”

“What?” Chris laughs incredulously. “Baby, I’m not the one who’s sick–”

“But what if you’re next or, or suddenly something happens, and everyone’s gone, I can’t, I don’t know what to do, appa.” He’s gasping after every word, breath hot and wet under Chris’s palm, becoming hoarse.

Sour shame slams into Chris’s stomach. He has only been thinking about himself. Only ever pitied his own loss. “Lix,” he says, forlorn. “Lix, I am so sorry. I didn’t realise - I should have.”

He puts strength into his hand and makes Felix look at him: “I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you, you get me? You and me forever. I won’t let anything happen to either of us.”

Felix pushes his face into Chris’s shoulder, spine bending under his other palm, and leans all his weight into him, wraps him into a frail little hug. He smells sharp like salt and sweat, like a whole day out and about, like anxiety. His tears trickle down Chris’s shirt.

His lungs clench, but it’s fine, the ache is a welcomed reminder. The chair squeaks. Berry keeps pacing and quietly yowling. The sun shines through the kitchen window, orange light caressing the air.

-*-

His acid reflux comes back. He sleeps inclined on two pillows, but it still wakes him in the night, sour and violent until he makes himself tea or eats a banana yoghurt. He works at the kitchen table until his stomach settles and returns to his bed, pulls Felix’s into his embrace, either takes a sleeping pill or spirals.

-*-

The day Felix figures it out is in the middle of the week. One of his rare morning shifts since he charmed his boss and colleagues into scheduling him for the afternoons for most of the month. It took surprisingly long.

It's dawn and Chris is giddy from his morning run, riding the high of pushing himself past exhaustion, blood thrumming in his veins, co*ck swollen and aching. Showering doesn’t release the tension nor the energy. His lungs tingle from the steam. His own fingernails on his scalp make him shiver. The shampoo bubbling down his chest draws his nipples tight. He hasn’t touched himself in weeks, not properly. He knows what he will think of if he does.

He has dreamed of it, since then, all this time. The inside of Felix’s mouth. His spit. His tongue diligent until he’s overwhelmed and needy and he melts, just receiving what he is given. How he moans and relaxes his throat.

All other possibilities. Everything else that Felix has already seeked and allowed, everything he craves. His father inside him. What a whor* of a son he has. How he would remind him every day that he is Chris’s. How he would f*ck him to spasms and limp, never able to leave, f*ck him silent and to tears, never able to beg for help, how he would f*ck him unconscious, safe and without desire.

His son living on what he provides.

Chris doesn't notice the open tube on the sink next to his watch or Felix's toothbrush missing from the plastic cup, why would he. There's no knock, why would there be, they are family, and the bathroom door swings open; he startles, makes eye contact, white foam on Felix’s lips and toothbrush held between his teeth, his gaze slipping down Chris’s body where his co*ck is throbbing under the water, remaining there, confused, heated, stunned.

Felix stares and blinks slowly. Even when Chris covers himself Felix's eyes are glued to his crotch, his thoughts visible on his pretty face.

"Appa," Felix says around the toothbrush. He takes it out, but the foam still muffles him. “Dad.”

Chris sinks backwards against the slick tiles, too shaky and nauseated to trust his legs. The water hits his chest, the shower floor, the drain, bouncing off in miniscule droplets.

"You." His son says through a dripping mouth. "I-I like how you tasted. And how you - it fit. Like it was too much, but good."

The blue bath rug blooms with navy splots when the glass panel no longer obstructs the spray. Felix’s toes curl into its fuzz. The toothbrush hits the edge of it and rolls under the sink.

Felix's closed fist brushes down Chan's torso, cold knuckle catching on the roll of his stomach, pinky reaching his pubic bone. He didn’t take off his clothes. His boxers and white shirt drench immediately, turning transparent. His hair plasters to his head, fringe to his temples, and he blinks faster, lashes sticking together. He is beautiful. He is moving like he’s in a trance.

Gently, Chris takes Felix's wrists. He’s trembling. “Lix.”

“Did you know?” He must've swallowed the foam, speech slurred but unobstructed. He should floss. He should apply lip balm.

Chri stops his spiralling gestures, envelopes his frail fists in his palms.

“Please,” Felix whispers. “Did you know it was me?”

“Of course,” Chris says, weak.

His blood fizzles. It’s static in his mind and ears, they burn. Steam rises and he can't see, except that he can; the white room reflecting the golden pink of the horizon behind the window, Felix's face glowing under the sunrise, warmth colouring his cheeks, trails of water shimmering. His freckles got so beautifully dark.

“Was it okay?” Felix asks, of all things, naturally. “Was it good?”

The restroom had been designed for anonymity and nonchalance. Lit by low LEDs, stains and splashes hidden, stickers and scribbles plastering mirrors and cubicle doors. They left his hands tacky. The stench of piss had been overlaid by cloying musk and pungent soap, the music muffled except for the rare burst, nothing enough to snap Chris out of it.

He chokes on a dry laugh. “Of course, baby. As soon as I realised–”

“And before? When, when you didn't, and when it was just someone, just me–”

“You think I didn't recognize your mouth?”

Felix makes a sound, high and desperate. He surges, swaying against Chris, trying to tug himself free, sinking.

“Please,” he says. “Please, can I? Appa. Let me.”

Chris wrangles Felix’s wrists again, keeping him from reaching down, but Felix steps between his feet, confines him against the cold wall and traps him. His shirt clings to Chris's skin, so does his underwear, cotton heavy and sticking to his thighs, rough against Chris's co*ck despite the water. His wet lips miss, hit Chris’s cheek and then fumble to find his mouth, follow when he turns his head.

“Did you see me go inside? Did you follow me?”

He shakes his head, neck hurting, vision hazy.

“You were there? And when I, when it was me, you recognized my mouth?” Because he’s pressing into his cheek, Chris feels it when Felix licks his own lips. “You f*cked my mouth cause it was me?”

Chris strangles a whimper, clenches his teeth, closes his eyes against the stream of water. He’s too warm, he’s too aware of the blood thundering in his veins. Rushing to his heart.

“Let me again,” Felix says, mouth once more trying to cover Chris’s. “Said I was good. I'll be good again. For you. Daddy, I'll be good."

Perhaps, if there had been daylight. Perhaps, if there had been silence or composure. If it had been elsewhere, where the shape of Felix’s mouth hadn’t been framed by greed; his full lips parted behind an opening, his body obstructed, out of Chris’s grasp and yet right there. Perhaps, if Felix had always ever been within safe proximity.

Their wrists keep escaping each other's hands, twisting and colliding, Felix tugs out of Chris’s grip and attempts to restrain him with his thin fingers, slipping down. In any case, there is no need for him to touch Chris’s co*ck, it’s caught right between their hips, pulsating.

“It’s so pretty, dad,” Felix breathes, biting into the edge of Chris’s mouth. “I think, I kept thinking about it. Was remembering it, and thinking of you every day, but it’s both of you, you’re the same, this whole time. All this time, I already knew. I know what you look like and taste like, but I didn’t know. I didn’t know if you want me. I feel it, I feel that you love me, you love me, right, appa? Do you think about me?”

Chris is losing against a rising current under his skin. It's rippling and boiling below Felix's touch, stretching towards and into him, overflowing. His thrumming fingers fall from Felix’s wrist and slide down his soaked shirt, fabric heavy, they struggle to slip beneath the hem and lift it. He claws into the giving flesh of Felix’s tummy. Finds his belly button and circles it, dips inside, treasure trail flattened and silken.

“You’re my son,” he stutters, swallows water and Felix’s sweet spit. “I think about you every day.”

Felix doesn’t try to touch his co*ck again, his obedient boy, so receptive, writhing and overwhelmed by a simple touch. “You liked it? Do you think about me, how I- how I did it?”

Chris’s hands won’t stop roaming over Felix’s body, too forceful, groping his back, nails scraping, drawing lines into him. His small ass is so plump, muscles hard from sports, his shoulder blades protrude, his neck thin, so powerless to the way Chris tilts it.

He prods into the hinges of Felix’s jaw to open it, watches water hit and trickle over his red lips, split on his teeth. “Your mouth is perfect – you’re perfect.”

“You came inside me.” His tongue flicks pathetically. “I swallowed for you.”

Chris twitches, tip brushing Felix’s hipbone, desperate to f*ck into him; he tugs him closer. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “You did. My good boy.”

Felix whimpers when Chris bites his lip. Whimpers again when he bites his tongue, then licks over the rough surface of it, along its slick sides, where it meets Felix’s gums, extra hot. Every lick elicits another sweet sound from him, there’s a spot behind his teeth that makes him keen and stumble, feet tripping over Chris’s, tiles squeaking.

“I wanna do it again,” Felix says, after Chris pulls back to breathe and looks at him once more. His eyes are burning in the sunrise. The pink in his skin tinted peach. Freckles magnified. His thumb is swiping into Chris’s slit, sticking to it. Under his transparent shirt and briefs, between their bodies, his co*ck strains, too.

Chris slides his hands around Felix’s neck again, the tips of his thumbs joining over Felix’s twitching Adam's apple. He applies pressure and burns at the deriving gasp. “You want… you want me to f*ck your mouth again.”

The shimmer of Felix’s tan under the water is mesmerising. He always carries a glow, but his flickering desire kindles it into radiance. “Yes.”

“I’m your father.”

Felix whines, nods. Chris drinks in the sound and rough movement, feels them beneath his palms. Just a few months ago, this throat was opening up around his co*ck.

“Even though I’ve been lying,” he says quietly, drooping his head so water won’t flow into his stinging eyes.

“I trust you,” Felix replies instantly, chokes himself against Chris’s palm just to kiss him again, nipping him, inhaling raspily. “Trusted you even when I didn’t know it was you. Cause, I think, I think I knew. Maybe. Cause it was perfect, you’re perfect.”

He closes his eyes. Shakes his head. Then he cradles the base of Felix’s skull, yanks him in, and spins them around. The wet shirt collides with the tiles and Felix groans in pain, such a pretty sound, such a horrible sound, but Chris can’t apologise, throbs, hisses.

Felix staggers, grasps his shoulders but cannot find balance, he’s unable to stand on his own, crushed beneath Chris’s body, away from the spray and yet gasping. They’re slick and shaking, wasting water, threatening to crash, but Felix is so lithe and firm, so malleable, and his taste like nothing else, like nothing else Chris has ever allowed himself to taste.

“I’m your father,” he repeats, squeezes Felix’s racing pulse points, feels the violent current under his skin roll and burst, and sinks his teeth into Felix’s lip. “My boy.”

Felix moans and whimpers under his bite, squirms and tries to straighten himself, but he’s weak to Chris’s strength, uselessly pawing at his chest, thighs spreading. His little co*ck jumps, he’s rubbing it into Chris’s abdomen, humping him through the briefs like the boy he is, like he’s been humping him for weeks.

Chris’s body is on fire, but his mind is swimming in memories: all the instances Felix has been tempting him the last months; his incessant nakedness and massaging, baking in his mother’s apron and feeding him biscuits from sweet fingers, begging for him in the night. He remembers all the instances Felix wasn’t aware of Chris’s violent desire, moments of innocence over the past years, just a little boy clinging to his father.

He remembers waiting in a cubicle, hearing someone walk in, immediately recognizing the pace and shuffle of those footsteps, recognizing the trainers visible in the gap below, the mouth appearing behind the glory hole, glistening and greedy. He thinks of the split second before he unzipped, the moment right before he slid into his son, fully knowing. He thinks of biting his tongue so he wouldn’t expose himself.

He clenches his eyes shut and constricts Felix’s breathing with tense hands, kisses him harder as his mouth parts in need, cuts off his air. The less Felix can think, the less likely he’ll realise he should run. His mind is foggy in the mornings, his reaction time halted. Maybe his memory will trick him, maybe he’ll pass out and wake up thinking all of this is a dream.

“Appa,” Felix gasps, Chris feels it more than he hears it. “Daddy. Wanna be your, your–”

“Yeah, baby, you’re mine. The only one, my only. My own. Mine.”

He allows Felix just enough leeway to writhe and wriggle and melt, and Felix surges through his gasp, tongues at Chris’s incisors and begs. “I’m yours. Want more, I want to see. I want to kiss it.”

“Be still,” Chris says, one palm aching in regret as he loosens it from Felix’s neck, until he has tousled the heavy-soaked underwear down his soft thighs and can guide his co*ck into the heat between them.

They both moan, pause, temples and cheeks aligning. Past the dissipating scent of shampoo, he can smell their sweat and the fever of Felix’s throat.

“Want you more inside,” Felix whispers, squirming, patting Chris’s bicep. “Really inside.”

Chris tightens his remaining hand around Felix’s neck, grinds his co*ck deeper until their stomachs touch.“Be patient, little one.”

There would be too many steps to get there, he can’t imagine letting go, can’t stop pressing closer. Felix has been out of his grasp for long enough. And beyond this possession is the sick satisfaction he gains from Felix’s desperation. A son must obey his father.

This position forces Felix to stand on his tiptoes and hold onto him, and he’s adorable as he fights to keep balance, ass spasming under Chris’s grip, mouth bruising. The silk of his body hair clings to Chris as he recedes until just his tip is trapped, his flushed balls rests on his pulsating length, they’re small and tight, just like his throat was, just like his hole will be.

“No one’s ever gonna touch you again. You hear me?” His constraint cuts Felix’s nods short, his teeth cut off his shameless whines. “I made you. Should’ve never let anyone else touch you.”

Felix has spread his legs for others before him but now he keeps them closed and tight for Chris’s co*ck. He arches his neck into Chris’s palm and lolls his tongue for him to suck on, scrape his teeth over, spit onto. The water can’t perfect the glide and Chris hopes his thighs become raw and sensitive, just like his co*ck feels, already too hot and straining. He should wear his father’s marks like he wears his mother’s freckles.

Water gets into his throat. It burns but he doesn’t want to cough, it trickles into his eyes but he doesn’t want to close them again and miss Felix’s string of expressions: the needy flicker of his lids while Chris swipes his tongue into the depth of his mouth, the desperate raise of his brows when he stops for a second, the physical echo of his moan when Chris kisses him again.

“You’re such a pretty boy,” he whispers, bites Felix’s cheek, then his jaw, then his chin. “How did you turn out so pretty? So good.”

“Cause of you–”

“Cause of her. Pretty and good like her. My baby. My baby. My own.”

His co*ck, too, hot and throbbing and needy. “Daddy, please, I want you, want you inside, want you to f*ck me like her, I’ll be good, even better, you can f*ck me however you want, I’ll be your–”

There is salt where he licks him. Tears mixing with water. His little boy, crying for him.

“You’re already perfect, you’re perfect, Lixie–” his own moan cuts him off, shower prattling, torrent surging and crashing, his muscles suspended in frenzy. “f*cking perfect, God, my slu*t, my baby slu*t, desperate for daddy’s co*ck.”

The ridges of his throat flinch under Chris’s palm, he’s whining, eyes rolling back, and when Chris allows him to breathe again, he sobs. “Thank you, daddy.”

His head falls back into Chris’s palm, water falling into his open mouth, he coughs and splutters, but doesn’t flinch, instead flexes his thighs around Chris’s co*ck, trembling. His breath hitches with every thrust. The thin peaks of his chest fill Chris’s palm, give away to the resistance of his ribs with just a squeeze, throb with the beat of his heart. His pale brown nipples resemble hers, just smaller, harder, equally as soft.

“Knew you’d be sensitive,” Chris mumbles deliriously, rubbing a thumb around Felix’s areola, laughing at a weak push to his shoulder. “Truly my own.”

A questioning sound tumbles from Felix’s pink lips; his beautiful head all confused and slow, just how Chris likes him.

“It’s alright. Don’t worry, Lix, stay still, be still.” He kisses between Felix’s brows, follows the slope of his nose, does his best to talk calmly despite the waking insistence in his bones, the grim intent threading his tendons.

He’ll do everything it takes to feel this again. To have his son begging to fill him, to have him stare at him in dumb trust, to have him act as if every f*ck between his thighs is a f*ck into his needy hole.

He’s close already. His age. The wait. The sinful act of laying his hands on his own son. His shame has always been hot and pulsing.

His chest is too full. His eyes burn. “Forgive me, baby,” he croaks, maybe quiet enough so it can’t be heard under the wet slap of their hips. He squeezes Felix’s neck until Felix’s face is flushed and his eyes roll back and his breathing roughens, and he can’t possibly know what’s happening. Can’t possibly read on Chris’s face how ugly his desire is, how desperately he wishes he could dumb him down until all he thinks of is his father’s co*ck.

Bliss in nothingness. Nothing but his body tensing, greed ceasing for a few gentle seconds as it is fulfilled.

Felix’s hand is restless between them, palm against Chris’s pelvis, then his fingertips feeling for his pulsating balls, then his thumb following a vein. “‘s so warm, can feel you, appa, want it inside, want your come inside.”

His voice is shot. Neck red. Lips purple.

Chris kisses his pulse point, licks over an imprint of his own making, pets his sides, squeezes his love handles, rolls his body up and against him so his belly will drag over his straining little co*ck. “Anything, baby, whatever you want. Appa’s gonna give you whatever you want, yeah?”

They nearly slip after Felix loses all strength and slumps into his embrace, sobbing softly, following him over the edge, swelling and dripping.

“God, look at you,” Chris can’t help but whisper, sucks at Felix’s ear lobe, smiles at another shudder and spurt, glances at Felix’s open mouth from this odd ankle. “So beautiful. Most beautiful boy in the world, made appa so lucky, make daddy so proud. Lixie. Lix.”

“Kiss. Dad, give me a kiss–”

Kissing Felix as he is slack and out of it, unable to stand and escape the hunger of Chris’s mouth, is the easiest thing Chris has ever done. He keeps him safe in his embrace, keeps him upright, keeps water from him. Aligned, their breathing mismatched, their hands trembling, they sway.

Sweet sounds of satisfaction and exhaustion trickle onto Chris’s tongue, sighs and hums and a shaky exhale.

“Sweetheart,” he says, nips Felix’s raw lip, tastes thin skin giving to metallic blood. “Come here, there you go, stand up, yeah?”

Felix whines, but is too weak to stop Chris from withdrawing his softening co*ck from his thighs. He reaches for the tip, following a thinning string to his own balls, dips behind them, whines. His torso undulates like another jolt of pleasure went through him, probably prodding at his taint or hole, maybe nudging inside. He raises his hand, rubs thumb and fingers together, and Chris realises that he's searching for the traces of his come; complaining at the loss. "I wanted it, want to know if you taste the same. Said you’d give me."

“Sorry,” he says automatically, stares, grips Felix’s wrist so he won’t reach his curious tongue.

Frowning, Felix leans forward, bottom lip seeking to touch his own fingers, other hand tightening around Chris’s waist. “Give me.”

“Calm down.”

“You can’t leave me.”

Chris shushes him. “I’m not going anywhere, don’t worry.”

“Should stay inside,” Felix mumbles, his eyes closed, leaning back onto Chris’s shoulder. “Should keep me, keep you inside.”

“Don’t think that’s very practical, little one.”

Teeth on his neck, following a sleepy grumble.

“Ouch, stop –” He pulls Felix by the lower roots of his hair, wincing at the sting of the bite, giggling giddily. “Let me look at you, baby,” he says and tugs his head back further. “There you are. Little menace. God, you’re so good."

Felix grins lazily, peak of his tongue in the seam of his lips, his dark eyes crossing. His nose and cheeks are still pink, but he’s shivering, goosebumps raising the blonde hairs on his arms. He has never looked more like a soaked kitten. He’s trying to sound sarcastic, voice extra deep, but his dreamy tone exposes him: “Thank you, daddy.”

Chris hums through a smile and tugs on his earlobe, ghosts over the blooming bruises on his neck. Carefully, he turns up the heat and waddles them to the side until warm water cascades down Felix’s shoulders and back, messy hair flattening under the spray. A sigh and a shudder relax Felix’s chest, his pinky slides down Chris’s abs. “Best dad in the world. Mug. Gonna get you one.”

Suddenly, tears sting Chris’s eyes again. His throat feels raw. The pain crawls through his body, bones of his feet chafing on the slippery tiles, his knees grating, knuckles stiff. Felix tilts his head into his palm and the water changes direction on his cheek.

“You’ve been so patient for me.” He inhales laboriously. “How. How do I…How could I ever…”

No verbal reply, just a shudder. He prevents water from seeping into Felix's ear and follows the spiral of its shell, thumb gliding into the hollow edge. Another shudder and Felix’s mouth parts like he’s begging for a kiss. Chris gives him one.

“My beautiful boy.”

The shampoo smells like vanilla and foams quickly. As he lathers the bulk of Felix’s hair, a children’s rhyme pops into his mind. “I have ten little fingers, and they all belong to me” – he massages the base of Felix’s skull with the tips of his fingers – “I can make them do things, do you want to see?”

He watches Felix’s expression, the slight pout, the heavy lids, his contented smile. All trusting.

“I can close them uptight, I can open them wide, I can put them together, I can make them hide.”

Once he’s made sure he’s reached all over Felix’s scalp and thoroughly cleaned it, he carefully tilts him back under the stream of water.

“I can make them fly high, I can make them go low. I can fold them like this and hold them just so.”

The foam seeps down Felix’s neck and chest, his knock-knees, into the drain. Bubbles of it cling to the baby hairs around his forehead and Chris wipes them with the heel of his palm, then squeezes the moisture out of his hair with his fingers. He forgoes the loofa and uses nothing but his hands to massage coconut soap into Felix softened skin, tenderly on his face, streamlined on his torso, scratching into his pits and belly button. Taking his time for his co*ck and ass, kissing him with every grope. Kneeling to clean his legs, holding each foot to get in-between his chubby toes, feeling his all-consuming gaze, unable to look back.

Chris turns off the shower and opens the window. A breeze cools his skin. Outside, the neighbourhood hums.

-*-

Though he drives Felix to work, there’s no hope in making it in time for the early shift. He’d wanted to call in sick but came to his senses without Chris having to reprimand him much. His pout only lasted until Chris began dressing him and now he keeps bursting into laughter, slapping his forehead or neck, and hiding his face behind his hands.

“Appa. Appa. Oh God.” He squeals. “Is it real? Is it real?”

Chris’s senses are on overdrive. He can still hear his pulse in his ears, see every speck of dust and dirt on the windshield, feel each cell of the leather of the wheel, smell Felix’s shampoo, taste Felix’s spit.

“Yeah,” he says, instead of gripping Felix’s neck and asking him whether the touch feels real enough.

The visor doesn’t shield the sun from glaring into his eyes. Its rays bounce around windshields and glass facades. The city is crowded at this hour, everyone on their way to work, scooters cutting him off, bikes skidding close to the wing mirrors. Parents sweating as they paddle their children to school or kindergarten or attempt to calm their shenanigans on backseats. In the van next to them, a kid with pigtails stares at him through the windows.

“I’ve been going, I’ve been looking for you at the club, every time. I went back because I wanted you again and I felt so bad.” The word breaks on a gasp. “I felt like I was betraying you so much because I wanted you and not someone strange, but I couldn't forget your flavour and your come and it smelled like home.” Another gasp, wetter. “Cause you are.”

A third gasp turns into a chain of sobs.

“And when you told me you knew I was going and when Hyunjinnie said you were there, I didn’t know what to feel cause you just said it’s okay and that was it.” Felix is visibly shaking again. Rubbing the collar of his work uniform onto his cheekbones and his cupid’s bow. “You said it didn’t matter.”

They haven’t had breakfast and Chris’s empty stomach burns. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You said I’m yours then why doesn’t it matter?”

He risks a glance at Felix’s swollen eyes, thin veins popping red in their whites, and immediately regrets it. “Because I love you no matter what.”

“I’m yours no matter what?”

He swallows, throat raw, empty. “Yes.”

Traffic demands his attention. He cannot do what he wants to do. He bumps his glasses, squinting, and needles into the space between two cars, successfully switching lanes.

“You said.. earlier you said I’m your, I’m your...” Felix is wiggling, and gnawing on his finger, always an open book. Truly his own. “Do you think I’m a slu*t?”

There might be a bottle of water in the glove compartment. He reaches for it and Felix grips his arm, digging right into the sensitive nerve above his elbow, groaning: “Dad, please.”

“What did I just say, hm?” He grits his teeth hard. Pain bolts up his jaw.

The tugging at his hand forces him to counterbalance to keep the wheel steady and it takes him more effort to pay attention to the road, the speed limit, the Mercedes in front slowing, the gps.

“I don’t understand –” a squeeze to his forearm, a squeeze of his thumb. “What, what changed, what is changing–”

Chris’s palm fills with the flesh of Felix’s thigh, linen in the way.

“Lix.”

Felix’s quiet sound nearly makes him pull over.

He has to get himself together.

Straining, he puts both hands on the wheel again. “Check if there’s water in there, will you?”

Felix unscrews the bottle for him, silent now. He fiddles with the cap while Chris takes a gulp, his fingers linger unnecessarily long over Chris’s when he takes the bottle back, and he drinks from it too, mouthing at the rim.

Chris rolls up to the kerb two streets away from the café, doesn’t turn the key, can’t turn in his seat. The nail of his thumb catches on a seam in the leather of the wheel. He puts it up to his lips where his pulse is burning. His skin aches. In the periphery of his vision, the sun reflects in the side view mirror and blurs Felix’s silhouette.

“Make sure to eat brekkie, yeah?”

A group of kindergarteners cross the street, skipping and tripping, holding hands in pairs, flanked by two adults.

The belt releases with a click and whirrs until the clasp catches on the headrest. “Right. Have a nice day, appa.” Felix shuts the door gently.

-*-

At home, he scoops Berry into his arms and holds her against his chest. Her scent has changed. Probably the medication. She’s still for only a minute until she wiggles and stretches her paws towards the floor, nails clicking on the tiles as they land.

Though the cleaning lady was here two days ago, the house needs tidying. He’s thorough about it, though he avoids the bathroom mirror. He doesn’t do his actual work and he forgets to eat, speakers blasting music he used to love as a teen, drowning out his thoughts. By the end, his spine hurts from bending down, his knuckles ache from scrubbing, and his eyes burn from the chemicals.

Stomach acidic from hunger, he downs a protein shake to be done with it, immediately wipes the splashes and scrubs the blender after.

Berry wanders in from the living room, laps at her bowl of water, and then at his calf. He picks her up again, scritches her head, winding a curl of her ears around his pinky, and climbs the stairs.

In Felix's room the afternoon sun greets him, curtains wide open, dust floating in the bright beam between them. Everything smells like warmth, wooden furniture and the plastic of the PC hot to the touch, the sheets the same as Chris’s body temperature, as if someone had slept in it. A hint of vanilla.

He doesn’t clean in here, not since Felix turned fourteen. All he does is occasionally remind Felix to do so himself. An empty glass, juice dried to a yellow crust at the bottom. The bed is unmade, short, wiry curls and lint at the end of the mattress, single hairs stuck to the pillow. Somehow, Felix must find idly hours to sprawl in it when he isn’t swearing at his screen, splashing about in the pool, or lounging on the sofa downstairs and the one in Chris’s studio.

Berry huffs into his chest. He tickles her chin. They did this last year, too. Sitting here together in silence. Looking, missing.

When Felix was in Korea, a friend had asked him if he'd repurpose the space. If he'd make it a guest room, a sound booth, a home gym. Chris had laughed at the suggestions, had laughed when he was asked whether he already felt the empty nest syndrome or if he was glad for the silence. He was quick to remind them that Felix was coming back soon.

Since then, the stuffed kitten has joined pikachu and a row of a dozen plushies. Other collections have expanded: New figurines and merch organised on the windowsill, added mangas and comic books on the shelves, shiny fidget toys behind the custom keyboard. A new bible on the bedside table, red string between the thin pages. Prints and photographs on a string on the wall: the boys laughing and posing, flowers between Felix’s freckled fingers, Berry in the garden, Chris’s own profile framed by the blues of the ocean and sky.

He takes another shower, a real one. Puts on his watch and, for the second time this day, drives to the café.

"Oh,” Felix says, once he’s stumbled towards him, away from Jeongin and Hyunjin who are peeking out the door.

Chris presses the button to lower the passenger’s window. “I’m sorry. Will you please get in, baby?”

Felix slides inside and waves to his friends. Chris leans over him to wave too and then secure his seatbelt. While he's still on the street, rolling back into traffic and keeping an eye on the rear view, he grabs Felix’s hand and kisses his scabbed knuckle. “I missed you.”

Felix garbles a sound. “Missed you too, appa.”

“I can’t let you go again,” Chris says flatly, right against Felix’s fingertip, watching the traffic light in the distance. “I’m not letting you go again.”

“Good–”

“That means no dancing in Seoul.”

“Okay.”

“That means no sucking co*ck at parties.”

Felix flinches. “I-I know, ‘m sorry, I–”

“No one can know. Baby. No one. Not your friends, no online hinting, we have to be careful with the neighbours.” He needs to change gears, interlaces their pinkies so he can use his palm to shift the stick, then brings them up to his mouth again. “I don’t want to keep you a secret. I’m not ashamed of you, yeah? I wish – but this is how it is.”

Felix’s fingers are slack against his lips and he speaks quietly: “I know, appa. I won’t tell. Ever.”

“If I could, everyone would know. You have to know that. You know that, right?”

“Really?”

“Yes. But everyone already knows you’re mine, little one, it doesn’t matter that– everyone knows you mean everything to me. Maybe they can’t understand how much, what it really is, but you do. Yeah?”

“Yeah. Yes. Yes, appa. I know.”

In the garage, the gate screeches and rattles shut behind them.

Chris reaches over the gearshift and undoes Felix’s trousers, a button and a zip, wiggles his fingers between stretchy fabric and damp skin.

Felix gasps and stammers. "Dad, daddy, what's–"

His balls are small but heavy and so tender in Chris’s palm. His co*ck is impossibly hard and flushed, darker than his own. They didn’t get him circumcised, and as Chris tugs his foreskin down, milky precome flows from his purple slit, he breathes heavily, sways. “Daddy.”

His tip is as wide as the pad of Chris’s thumb and pulses beneath it.

“Just as sensitive as me, yeah?”

Felix sobs, grips his arm. “Dad, it’s, it’s so much, too fast–”

"God, you're small." Chris hisses, turns in his seat and uses his free hand to guide Felix’s face to him, heart igniting at the sheen over his dark eyes. “Such a little boy.”

"'m not–"

"Yeah, you are. Not even half as big as mine." He pinches the tip of Felix's rapidly stiffening co*ck, rubs harsh circles beneath it, right where a vein throbs. “How quick will you come, hm?”

Felix gasps again and, judging from an abrupt thump, bumps his knee or foot, writhing in the seat . "Sorry, daddy, I-I–"

Chris kisses him silent. He wants to lift him onto his lap but that’d mean unbuckling, prolonging, plummeting back into the ache of uncertainty and need. Beneath his skin, he is brimming with urgency, the organ too tight to contain his want. Nothing has ever filled him with as much conviction as gripping his son and making him moan.

Felix’s tongue is coated in a buttery film. He tastes of croissant and creamy chocolate, smells like it too, aroma of coffee caught in his silky hair. He whimpers from a light tug and comes from a scrape of teeth over his bottom lip, so frail and easy, giving himself up like he was born for it. And he was.

-*-

Inside the house, he kisses Felix too: Against the wall, after taking his shoes off for him; against the sink, after they’ve washed their hands; against the refrigerator, after pouring him a glass of juice. He lies him flat into the sofa and grinds into his spread thighs, licks into his open mouth, sweet and sour, coos at his whines and garbled words, tugs at his hair.

Felix begs and attempts to suck him off, licks at his fingers, paws at his bulge, but Chris can’t unhand him long enough for that. His palms do not go empty.

While they have supper, he keeps them on Felix’s face, his neck, feels him chew and swallow, raises chopsticks to his oily lips. While they watch a movie, he pulls him into his chest, rubs over his nipples and tummy, and kisses the crown of his head. Inhaling the sweetness of vanilla and youth. After the sun has set, the sky not quite dark, white houses inked blue, they swap Berry’s lead back and forth, fingers idle on the handle.

As Felix falls asleeps, Chris touches him. He cups him, his soft little co*ck, his soft cheeks, his ass, wishes he could cup him whole, a shivering chick in his embrace. For the first time in years, he drifts off quickly.

He wakes up blanketing him and mouthing at his neck, both damp. They spend hours in bed, only getting up to feed Berry and themselves, remain connected as they throw a quick breakfast together, Felix on his lap as they eat. Nothing as magnetic as his son’s morning breath.

It’s almost painful to break apart. A strain to his skin, his throat throbbing like its dry, joints twitching, his fingers gripping his own flesh. Nothing as fulfilling as knowing Felix feels the same: He follows Chris into the bathroom and clings to him as he pisses; he joins him in the studio, migrating from the sofa to sit besides Berry in the floor, leaning against Chris’s knee; he switches his shifts at work and stays home all week.

There are aspects of Felix Chris has known as a father: The white of his eyes and teeth, the pink of his tongue. His cheek squished to his chest, hair greasy and tangled. The freckles tip of his nose nuzzling into his bicep. His hands on his feet, on his calves, his laugh first hoarse then squeaky, his wrists slackening under Chris’s grip. Felix’s ears, hot to the touch.

Then there are those he learns as a lover: His textured cheeks, pimples and acne scars under his mouth. The denim of his shorts rasping over the back of his hand. The skin of his inner thighs silky thin. His teeth on his neck, the puffs of his giggles tickling down his chest. The swollen flesh of his lips pressing into the tense joint of his jaws. The palpable staccato spilling out of his chest as he comes.

-*-

He steps from the deck and then into the garden. The grass tickles between his toes. The end of summer brought a heat wave as if it's refusing to cease its merciless reign.

The shape of Felix’s body is contorted by the ripples in the pool. The water changes the hue of his skin, pales it on his shoulders, darkens it on his bent legs. His long hair floats like tendrils. His head breaks the surface and the strands stick to his temples, his neck, the upper knob of his spine. Freckles, everywhere.

The sun lights up in Felix’s eyes. “Thank you,” he sings, wiping his lips, shaking out his ears. “My favourite.”

He paddles closer, and they meet at the edge of the pool where the waves lap and the earth is wet and giving in under Chris’s feet. He squats, knees clicking, and Felix makes grabby hands at the ice cream in his hands. “Give me, please.”

Chris opens the plastic, seams tearing apart, and draws out the melting lolli, licks the wooden stick.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Felix yelps, resting his elbows on the pool’s rim, pouting up at him. “That’s mine!”

Chris hums, takes a proper lick from the ice cream, matcha slicking over his tongue. “What, this?”

Whatever belongs to Felix, belongs to him.

“I asked for it! Appa, you only left me cause you said you’ll get it for me, please.”

Felix’s indignant gaze slips from Chris’s face down his naked torso, hesitates on his crotch, flicks upwards. He might as well be begging for a f*ck.

“Come here,” Chris says softly, and smiles as Felix stretches and tilts his head, leans forward himself. “Open.”

The ice cream drips onto the grass and onto Felix’s chin. The tip of it is already twisted, thinner than the shaft, losing substance as Felix’s lips wrap around it. Felix’s cheeks hollow and there’s rhythmic tugging as his tongue works.

“Good boy,” Chris whispers, smiling wider. Crumpled wrapper in his other hand, he only has the side of his palm to stroke down Felix’s cheekbones.

“Tastes good, yeah?”

The dark triangles of Felix’s lashes flutter and droplets fall from them, run over his freckles. He’s floats left to right, breathing heavily, can’t swallow everything, light green spilling.

“Too cold?”

Felix blinks urgently and attempts to withdraw, sinking back into the water, but Chris pinches the fat lobe of his ear. “Don’t stop.”

He pushes the icycle deeper and laughs at Felix’s flailing. His little feet splash and pedal in the pool, his chest twitches with hiccups.

“Come on, I know you can take all of it.”

Felix whimpers, nods, somehow relaxes his jaw.

“Took me,” Chris mumbles, and twists the wooden stick. “Took daddy’s co*ck, so you can do this easily, hm?”

The heat gets to him. Burns on his back. Simmers in his abdomen.

Ice cream spills between his fingers and into the muddy earth and into the pool. Chlorine stings his eyes. His knees hurt.

The fence is high enough to shield them from meddling looks.

Within seconds, he’s chucked the molten rest of the icycle into the wrapper, deposits it safely away from the pool, and sits down properly at the edge. Hissing, he jostles his shorts down and concentrates on his hotly pulsing co*ck. He forgot they don’t heat the water. His calves tense, ankles hooking behind Felix’s back.

Felix is gasping and seeking balance, clutching at Chris’s thighs, grass between his knuckles, but one of his hands is submerged and blurred by the waves. “Dad,” he croaks, no accusation in it, only a plea. His drool is milky green.

“Yeah,” Chris says stiffly, cradles the back of his skull, bends down, kisses him.

The swollen corners of Felix’s lips are still covered in ice cream. The flat of his tongue spasms beneath Chris’s forceful licks, cold and wet. So is the hand that encircles Chris’s co*ck, making him hiss again, holding him tight around the head, a little fist dragging to the base, squeezing.

“I love you, appa,” Felix says brittly. “I love you, I love–”

Felix’s arms tremble and his chin is a mess and his nose is pink, leaking, eyes hazy, and Chris wants to push him further. He wants to give him too much of everything he asks for until he stops asking and relies on him to understand what he needs. He will.

-*-

He walks Felix to Hyunjin's car, lifts his bag into the boot and opens one of the doors for him, waving at everyone else inside as Felix buckles himself in. Jeongin, on the passenger seat, leans through back through the gap, jiggles a back of sour worms and offers them to Felix as a hello.

“Hi, Bang Chan-ssi!” Seungmin grins widely, braces sticky with jelly. “Should men your age stay in this heat without a hat? My halabeoji fainted the other week.”

“Lix, give him a whack for me, will you?” Seungmin shouts as Felix complies and the other three boys snicker.

“Thanks, kiddo.”

Felix squirms and leans his head back. He appears slim next to Seungmin’s shoulders, squished against the car door. He’s fiddling with the trigger of his camera and biting at his smile, being entirely obvious.

Despite the urgency under Chris’s skin, the need to yank him back home, to kiss his smile, he tears his gaze off of him and asks in concern: “But in all seriousness, Seungmin-ah, is your grandfather alright?”

“Don’t you meet up at old people bingo once a week?”

“Lix, another whack–”

This time, Seungmin is prepared and dodges the hit, sticking out his tongue. “Can’t do your own dirty work!! Bones too brittle!!”

“Hey, hey, hey! Don’t make me come over there!”

“You’re too slow, anyway.”

Chris is getting humiliated by a teenager. Even his own son is laughing at him and not hiding it, eyes squinted by his appled cheeks, big front teeth on display, his button nose scrunching. Freckles twitching. Sweat glistening above his lip and in the dip of his neck. There is a yellow bruise right below his collar, invisible under the cotton, only peeking out when he tugs at his hem.

The glass panel of the window moves up and blocks Chris from defending himself. The boys laugh harder when he knocks on it and pretends to pout, to turn around and leave, just to sidle up to the driver’s door. The AC cools his heated skin.

Hyunjin, staring up at him, startles and grips the wheel with both hands. “It wasn’t me, it was Ayen-ah!”

“It wasn’t me, it wasn’t!” Jeongin is wearing the same pinched grin he used to wear as a kid when he swore Seungmin was the only culprit and he stayed behind with Felix.

“That’s sugar on the button, kid,” Chris points out.

Another heap of laughter. They’re adorable.

Although he’d prefer if they’d just camp in the backyard or have a normal sleepover instead of driving out to Ku-ring-gai Chase. There he was thinking they’d be too hooked onto their comforts and privileges, unwilling to use public showers.

He casually taps the windshield. “How long have you been driving, mate?”

“Two years, sir, uhm, Bang Chan-ssi.”

Chris doesn’t remind Hyunjin that he prefers a first name basis. “You often take the m1?”

“Not really?”

The edge of the window digs into his palm. The sun hurls white light into his vision. He throws a glance at the dashboard. The tank is full. No warning signs flash. “Hm.”

“No, I mean I’ve taken it before! I won’t drive us into a ditch, really!” It’s kind of cute how flustered he gets. Very similar to Felix. “We took the same route in November, and we do road trips a lot. I’ve prepared a lot, we have snacks and I have maps open here, and I’m a good driver! Sir.”

He sighs so he won’t laugh. “Well if you’ve got maps…”

“Dad,” Felix whines from the back. He’s squirming, covering his face, cowering under Seungmin and Jeongin’s snickering. “Stop being mean to Jinnie.”

His laugh escapes, then. Hopefully, he’s the only one who notices the hysteria behind it. “Alright, alright, I’m not mad. I’ve got my phone on me if you kids need anything, yeah?”

“We’ll call you if Hyunjin drives into a tree, Chan-ssi,” Seungmin says drily, but then he nods seriously and pats Felix’s knee. “We’ll take care of Lix.”

Jeongin shakes the bag of sour worms. “We’ll feed him and hold his hand when he gets scared at night.”

“I won’t get scared!”

“I took flashlights,” Hyunjin says, adjusting the sunglasses in his hair, shaking it out. “And we won’t tell any ghost stories at all.”

“I’m not scared!!”

Chris raps on the roof of the car. “No, no, you can tell him ghost stories.”

“Dad!!”

They all laugh at Felix’s expense, only that Felix is still wriggling and smiling in satisfaction, always eager to be the centre of attention even when he’s getting teased. He’s nuzzling into Seungmin’s arm, reaching out a hand to grab a fistful of lollies offered by Jeongin - who holds it out of reach only once. He has picked some lovely friends. And they know how to treat him right.

Chris wonders if they can tell he has tasted his father's come.

-*-

The first half of the day, Chris worries about Hyunjin's driving.
The second half, he worries about Felix getting drunk and spilling everything.

Sleeping alone again is miserable, so he hugs and welcomes Berry onto the bed. Still, he has nightmares and wakes up several times with acid in his throats and his sinuses throbbing.

He makes scallion pancakes for breakfast, tidies up the kitchen and living room, works out, downs a litre of protein shake, and goes on a walk with Berry. On it, they get stopped by a neighbour and her poodle, the dogs tripping over their leashes as they chat. Her tone is almost too cheery, her questions on the verge of inquisitive, urging him to join a neighbourhood meeting about a public basketball court that’s supposed to get replaced by some artistic memorial. He pretends to write down the date in his calendar and lies about a roast in the oven.

Felix has been texting every other hour and sends a video of the crawling traffic, viewfinder panning from the road to Jeongin behind the wheel, zooming in on his flat smile. He requests a selfie and gets one of Felix and Hyunjin pretending to nap, angle showing their double chins.

An online meeting with Jisung, Changbin and Changbin’s manager in the late afternoon lasts for hours and afterwards he’s nauseated from hunger, takes a painkiller to prevent a migraine and eats leftovers. It’s dark and Felix isn’t home yet. Still stuck in traffic.

So, Chris works to silence his brain. His aching back lures him onto the sofa, his stinging eyes eventually fall shut, and despite the anxiety, he falls asleep.

He doesn’t hear Berry running down the stairs to greet Felix, and he doesn’t hear him shower, only hears him shut the studio door. His glasses dig into his temple and he turns onto his back to relieve the pain, groans under sudden weight and shields himself from water sprinkling at him. Felix is naked and wet, wringing his hair out onto his chest.

“Wake up, mate, daddy, come on. Did you miss me?”

He throws his arm over his eyes. “Why’d take you guys so long, huh?”

“Seungmin and Jinnie fought over when to leave and then everyone in the world was driving back to the city. And then Innie almost drove home with Hyunjin’s car because he dropped Seungmin off and then to Hyunjin and we said goodbye and then he already typed in my address.” Felix snorts and laughs. “Remember when uncle Changbin made Jisung run after his car?”

“They say hi, by the way. Had a call with them earlier. Binnie says you need to reply to his messages.”

“Oh! I forgot!”

Felix makes to get up, but Chris seizes him by the hip, yanks him back onto his lap. “Later. Tell me how it went.”

A keening mewl. Warm palms kneading his pectorals over his soaking shirt. “Good. We had marshmallows.”

“And some proper food, I hope?”

“Yeah, lots. But also, Innie took ages to make pasta yesterday and Seungmin burnt the sausages earlier.”

“You drink?”

Fingers rubbing over his tight nipples. “A bit. We did truth or dare and I had to drink the whole cup, but it wasn’t so bad.”

Chris catches Felix’s wrists and stills his movement. The joints here slump under his grip. His pulse is strong. “Lix, is there something I need to know?”

“I didn’t tell,” Felix whispers. His ass is so firm, barely yielding over Chris’s fattening co*ck. “Hyunjin only knows I love you but I didn’t tell more.”

Relief escapes Chris’s lungs. He opens his eyes, squinting against the overhead lamp, takes in Felix’s moisturised face and the truth on it. “Good. Good, baby.”

“He also has a crush on you.”

“You told me. Do you also remember what else you said, hmm?” He tugs Felix closer, forces him to balance his knobbly elbows on Chris's torso and cross his pretty eyes. “That he’s not the one I’ve kissed? You’re the only one for me.”

Water trickles from Felix’s brow along the bridge of his nose and to his parted lips. They tremble before he speaks. “I missed you. I miss you all the time…also when I' home."

"I'm always right here for you."

"I dunno." Felix blushes. He shifts, and his hole slips over Chris’s clothed co*ckhead, hot and pulsing enough to feel it through the cotton. "Sometimes even when we’re both here, you feel far away.”

His skin is so supple, soothingly damp from the shower and lotion, an ailment for Chris’s burning hands. He writhes from a brush of thumbs at his side, gasps at a squeeze around his waist. On the small of his back, Chris’s fingertips touch. “Lately as well?”

“Not as much.”

Chris hums through a smile. “Need me close as possible too, yeah, little one?”

Felix’s forehead comes to rest on his own. There is still a waft of campfire smoke in his hair. “You want me close to you?”

“Silly boy.” He grips Felix’s waist tighter, nuzzles the slope of his nose, and kisses him close to his pointy ear. “I’m already hoarding too much of your time, of you.”

“Not enough.”

His smile slides over the soft edge of Felix’s lobe, his tongue darts into the hollow of his helix. “How could I even have more of you? Hm?”

Felix shakes his head slightly, then leans back into his touch, shivers as Chris licks into the conch of his ear. The leather of the sofa creaks.

“Want me to put you on a leash, huh?” He laughs quietly but notices Felix legs tightening around his middle, his warm ass stuttering over his crotch. “Yeah? You want to be daddy’s pet?”

“Whatever– whatever you want. You can –, daddy, you can do whatever you want–”

“I know,” Chris interrupts and drags his teeth over Felix’s cheek until he can bite his lip.

“Then why, please, just– just–”

There must be something specific he is trying to get at. A cute little fantasy he is stuck on. “What is it, Lix. Tell me.”

Felix grinds back onto Chris’s aching co*ck, pants into his mouth, shakes his head again.

Whatever it is, however tame or messed up it is, Chris will give it to him. He will spend the rest of his life making up for who he is.

The drooping slope of Felix’s belly lays on his thumb, gives in, gives way to the tautness over his hip bones and the slicked curls of his treasure trail. His trimmed pubes still carry water, leaking onto Chris’s stomach just like his hot little tip. As soon as he brushes its slit, Felix spasms and drools into his mouth. He’s already so docile.

He hauls Felix closer by the hips, pad of his thumb crushing a pulsing vein on the underside of Felix’s cute co*ck. His other nails break skin after the violence overtakes. He swallows Felix’s sob, coos at him, kisses the inside of his mouth, bites it, bites his tongue until he tastes copper.

This is when he remembers that they share a blood type. That he’s tasting what he made.

He splits open Felix’s bottom lip, stops him from flinching away, grips his dewy nape, and greedily laps up the blood. He’s a starved dog, a stray mutt mawing at its own twitching pup. Rabid, volatile.

In a flash, he sits up, intent on flipping them around, reducing Felix to a sobbing little boy.

“Dad." Felix whispers, hoarse and stuttering, crumbled over his shoulder, grasping at his shirts. “Appa.”

Chris tongues into his wound. "Mmhmm."

"Daddy." The sound of a thin inhale trickles down his neck. "I want. I want you to– will you make love to me?"

Collared, yanked backwards into the present, Chris freezes. His gums thrumm with his own pulse.

"You can, from behind, you don't have to look at my face, I'll be good and quiet, you can take me–"

Chris opens his eyes. Fear and desire glitter in his son's own.

"I know the back of your head just as much as I know your face."

Blood clots on Felix’s lip. The outline of it is already bruised. Naturally, he’s tearing up, flushing. Cupid’s bow shiny, cheeks peachy, lids heavy. Freckles, pimples, fuzz beneath Chris’s finger.

He carries him to bed like he has done so many times. Arm around his back, other supporting his thighs. Felix has grown over the decades but he feels just as malleable as ever.

Though he isn’t sleeping or pretending to, Felix has gone all still, breathing deep like he is dreaming. Sinking into the duvet without adjusting his limbs, legs spread and armpits exposed. Chris descends, reigning his hunger in, muscles straining for composure. His lungs expand as he presses his nose to the underside of Felix’s arm, into the hollow of his pits, licking fresh, sweet sweat.

On his ribcage and stomach, lotion has not quite settled into his skin, even his belly button tastes of it. His entire co*ck fits into Chris’s mouth, salty-sour. His hole twitches around the nudge of Chris’s tongue, becomes slick within moments, loosens.

He takes two fingers at once with just a hitch in his breath and an arch of his chest.

“My little slu*t,” Chris notes, keeping his jaw tight so he won’t spit it out with venom. “Your mouth took daddy easily and so will your puss*.”

All too sudden, Felix comes. He keens, spasms, and then he’s dripping, painting his abs white. He gets tight, thrashes, hands flying up to the headboard, but he lets Chris keep fingerf*cking him, doesn't beg him to stop, only mumbles incoherently. “Always wanted to, want to be, will you, daddy, will you–”

“Shh, baby, calm down–”

Felix laughs, breathless and hazy, licks over the dry blood on his lip. “Liar, daddy, you’re not calm either.”

Chris forces a third finger inside, knuckles chafing, before he leans up and over him, fists the duvet right next to his face as a warning. “Behave.”

“Can’t scare me, appa–”

He slaps the grin right off him.

Guilt transforms right into anger into greed. He notices Felix’s shocked expression, the widening of his dark eyes, the reopening of the cut with a sick twist in his guts that he’s only willing to register as heat. “Should’ve always given you spankings, huh? Would you have gone to your knees sooner, then?”

“Yeah,” Felix gasps, fondling his bleeding lip, raising his hips. “Would’ve been my first, daddy.”

Again, he slaps him, backhanded and to the other side. His knuckles sting. So does the pool of spit under his own tongue.

“You’ll make up for that for the rest of your life, baby.”

Another surge of heat as Felix starts crying, static in his mind, his son with blood on his chin and tears sliding down the bags of his glossy eyes. Shaking, he cups Felix’s cheek, thumbs through the cut, startles at a kiss to his palm, the slack tongue cleaning him up.

Felix laps his own blood from Chris’s fingers, nodding, blinking through tears: “I will, appa, you’ll be my last, forever.”

Chris stretches his hole and gives him pleasure. He kisses him. He whispers the words back.

“Gonna f*ck you dry,” he says, even as he swipes over Felix’s belly to smear his come over his own co*ck. “You can take me like that, yeah?”

Felix owes him everything, his life, his safety, his growth. He’d let him take it all away, too. For all that he wants Chris to acknowledge him as an adult, he always acts as the boy he is, younger even. Despite what happened to him, he wanders around oblivious to harm. Seeks it out. Seeks it from his own father. Seeks him like the waves seek the shore, only to crash and fizzle.

“Love you, th-thank you,” Felix whines with the first nudge, hole barely resisting. “Hurts, appa.” He says it with both that dopey smile and the tears surging, with limp arms falling around Chris’s shoulders. “Daddy’s co*ck too big.”

Chris sucks on his bleeding lip, grinds inside, swears. He breaks out into sweat, sensitive to the stale air, his back tingling.

Felix giggles, smug and sluggish. “Too big for me, dad.”

“No, baby, I don’t think so.” Chris bites the dry corner of his mouth, swallows his warm blood. “Have whor*d yourself out too much.”

His tears are warm too. “Didn’t.”

“Why’re you so loose then, huh, little one?”

“Stop…” Felix clenches around him, furrowing his brows in concentration and spite, squeezing his eyes shut, lashes wet under Chris’s lips. Still, Chris bottoms out in a smooth glide, finally soothing the ache in the base of his co*ck, the ache that’s been in him forever.

“Don’t worry, Lixie, gonna train your puss* to become tight again, yeah?”

The answer he receives is nothing but a sob, a stuttering of Felix’s chest, solid legs around his midriff. He’s hot beneath him, no longer wet from the shower but from their perspiration, their stomachs slippery, their hands gripping streaky hair. He folds his son in two, stretches so his face is nestled into his chest, his heart desperate to leap out of his ribcage. He is reminded of holding him as a baby, a blanket cocooning them to keep his tiny, fragile form warm.

“My boy,” he whispers softly, feeling the control over his body dwindling.

Felix shakes his head, pleads.

“No? Not mine?” He drags his palm over Felix’s jaw and around his neck, squeezes slightly.

“No - no, ‘s not what I meant.” Felix hugs him desperately, arches his spine. “Yours.”

Chris trembles. Teeth around a bone. Breaking waves. “My girl, then?”

Felix’s lips crease, he stutters.

“My little wife?”

“Yes,” Felix weeps. “Like umma.”

He f*cks him hard and fast. Because he's heard Felix use his toys, because he's felt him finger himself next to him at night, because that's how she liked it. It’s in the family. A birthright.

Chris could tell himself he’s only chasing his own bliss, abusing his son, strangeling him, slamming his groin against his firm ass, but Felix holds onto him and moans and arches into his restraint, swallowing harshly beneath it. When Chris changes his angle, Felix rubs his belly, pressing back against the bulge, when his legs slip, he holds them up with his weak hands, when his eyes roll back from lack of oxygen, he doesn’t writhe.

“So deep, so big, you’re, dad, you’re inside–” it’s almost as if he’s stroking Chris’s co*ck from the outside, his little hands pressing forcefully “-‘s like you’re all the way in me, can feel you everywhere.”

“Good,” he says, grunting, as if it’s not the same for him. “You’ll feel me like this forever, puss* made for me, yeah?”

“Appa,” Felix affirms. “For you. Made me for you.”

He has to rip his hand off Felix’s neck, clasp the sheet by the headboard instead, exhales into Felix’s throat, uses his mouth not to maw but to search for a pulse beneath Felix’s ear. He sucks on the fluttering skin, relief flooding him as he finally reaches the true flavour of Felix’s skin and hears him gasp.

“How long can you take it?” He asks, breathless, slows down for a moment. “Or will you come before appa again?”

“I don’t, dunno,” Felix stammers.

He grinds upwards, his tip blocked, snagging before he shifts and it slides deeper. “Think, little one.”

A broken moan, pulse tripping, another layer of sweat. “It’s– so good, it’s so much-” Chris licks up the tendon of Felix’s neck, praises him. “So much, hurts, just a bit, daddy, hurts.”

He f*cks in roughly. “This hurts, hm?”

“Y-yeah, why–”

“Cause you’re mine,” he says and laughs at Felix’s enthusiastic nod. “Yeah, you’re mine, so let appa hurt you a bit, just a bit, yeah? Cause you like it, too.”

Felix pouts and whines and pats at his fists beseechingly, trying to detach them from the sheet above his strewn hair. The underside of his arms is slightly paler than the upper ones, few freckles hide here, a mole. Chris teeths over his exposed armpit again, dizzy at the taste of him, bites the flat of his chest, his nipple, up his neck again, drapes himself over his bony body.

The stretch brings a rewarding release to his trapezius, a spark that zaps down his spine, and he moves from his lower back, rutting inside like an animal.

In a tone way too pleading, encircling his wrists, Felix asks: “Daddy, if I, if I come again, will you keep going?”

He kisses Felix’s sounds of pain and pacifies him. “A good wife takes it, right, Lixie?”

“Yes, yeah, okay, can I, please–”

“Not if you touch yourself, little one.” He laughs, feels Felix’s hand squirm and stop between their bodies, flattens him further into the mattress, his navel getting wet from Felix’s co*ck.

“You’re a–”

He nips at the swollen part of Felix’s lip, sinks his incisors into a different one, drinks his blood. “Think before you speak.”

“Sorry, I mean, please, daddy, let me come, I’ve been good, right?”

Chris sits up to watch Felix’s expression, sees the portrayal of defiance, the buzzing expectation for more. He hums, struggles not to scratch down Felix’s chest, only flicks at his nipples. “Should make up for every time you touched yourself next to me, little one. Should not let you come at all, until we’re even. What’d you think, hm?”

The genuine fear on Felix’s face breaks his composure, makes him laugh, f*ck inside restlessly. “Aren’t you cute, baby, all mouth and no bite.”

He anticipates the snap for his forearm, saves himself from those big teeth, walks his fingers up Felix’s cheeks, raises a brow, before slapping him once more. His finger slips into the bleeding wound on his lip, slips into his mouth, all the way to his molars. “Try again, Lix.”

It hurts, Felix clamping down on his knuckles, nose scrunched in rebellion, rim spasming, sucking him in. His spit is tinted pink. It looks good smeared between his collar bones.

He’s not broken yet. “Can I come now?”

“This how a son acts?” He clasps Felix’s chin between thumb and pointer finger, jostles him. “How a wife acts?”

The nod defies his grip, so he tightens it. Forces Felix’s head up until the skin of his neck thins over his adam’s apple, f*cks into him like that, punching garbled pleas out of him. As much as he hates to watch him suffer, he loves to watch him struggle.

“Will have to keep training you. Raise you. Forever,” he says quietly, flushing at the thought and at his exertion.

All this time, all this doubt for nothing. He could have had this long before, and if Felix wants to test his conviction, so bet it.

He manoeuvres both of Felix’s knees over one of his shoulders, bends him over again, lets gravity pull him into his shameless body. It’s easy to pound into him now, his hole puffy and sloppy, adjusted to his father’s co*ck. He takes all of Chris’s weight with a sob and a dazed glaze over his wide eyes, must spread his cheeks, his fingers scrambling around their connection.

Chris grits his teeth, unsure whether to grin or to spit into Felix’s mouth. “You need more, hm? Daddy’s dick not enough?”

Felix shakes his head wildly, brushes up Chris’s spine, his shoulder, squeezes his deltoid. “‘s perfect, you’re perfect. Still feels so big, still hurts.”

“God, my boy,” he gasps, grin winning, his lungs bursting with love. “You sweet for me, again?”

An imploring moan, grin reflected, Felix’s thumb on his brow bone. “Always sweet for you, daddy. Sweet wife.”

He huffs, aims for a kiss, has to lean onto one side, supporting himself with an elbow, Felix’s thighs over his own, almost spooning, both of them twisting. His palm reverts to Felix’s neck, his mouth too, nuzzling up the path of his freckles to his injured lip. Salt and metal, tears and blood on the plush smile of his son. He shivers. “Yeah. Sweetest boy. So sweet and yet you’re mine.”

“Don’t,” Felix says, too sharply, glaring at him, lashes dark and shiny. “‘m yours, ‘m sweet cause I’m yours. Made me sweet.”

Chris just kisses his cheek, sneaks his arm below his neck, shifts so they’re properly on their sides, envelopes him into his chest. His hair has soaked the sheet, scent of his shampoo rich and nostalgic. Only the roots are dry, the rest still damp and slippery, tickling Chris’s jaw. He noses into Felix’s nape and searches for the throb of his pulse with this thumb. “You feel good, baby?”

“Course,” Felix sighs, arching into him, kneading his forearm.

“Tell appa.”

"No one, no one's-" Felix’s hiccups on a soft gasp. "No one makes me feel so good, cause you take care of me. Love you. Love you, daddy.”

“You feel so good, baby,” he whispers, calves straining with his thrusts, balls heavy and sore. “My little wife feels so good, puss* so good, should give you kids, give you siblings.”

Felix comes again, turning his neck under Chris’s palm to kiss him, his mouth trembling; not even touching himself, just rubbing his torn lip along Chris’s incisors and crying out for his mother. His hole milks Chris’s co*ck like he’s begging to get knocked up, limbs grappling, holding his breath, tense until he shudders and exhales and collapses; fainting.

Chris drinks in his exhausted, peaceful expression, feels the vein below his jaw flutter, life life life in the palm of his hand, and seizes the opportunity to cry as well. Sharpness down his throat. Bile at the bottom of it. Relief as the sob escapes him and he f*cks deep.

He hides in Felix’s hair, gets lost in his scent and warmth again, and listens to his wet hole, his unconscious whimpering. Kisses his temple, his delicate eyelids, his freckles. Whispers to him until he blinks slowly. Nuzzles his nose. “My baby,” he says, aligns their lips, careful on the wound. “My baby. My only.”

“Appa,” Felix wonders, gaze unfocused, a finger tracing from Chris’s hairline to the swollen bags under his eyes. “Appa.”

Chris kisses him again, rutting into him without finesse, drooling.

Heat coils. “My little one.” Unspools. “Mine.” Spills.

-*-

Sand bakes beneath the hot sun. Shells ooze into the warm mud. Salt glitters in the water.

He steps onto the imprints in the shallows, small dunes shaped by the restless waves that massage the soles of his feet. His toes curl and swirls of brown and grey rise between them. Fish dart around his ankles. This is where they sit, water barely to their hips, sloshing over their shins and between their thighs. The sand gives away beneath their heels and asses, forming dips around them.

Felix’s chest is still heaving from their swim. Strands of hair slick to his head and let his cheeks, eyes and lips appear even rounder. He’s dripping beads of sweat and water, tiny rivers flattening the fuzz all over his lithe body. His nipples are hard and a darker shade of brown than at the beginning of summer, and so are his freckles, some new ones sprinkling his torso. His tummy rolls over the waistband of his loose swimming trunks, and when he crosses his legs, the fabric of them gets pulled over his little bulge.

“You look good,” Chris says quietly. He’s been digging through the mud, enjoying the sensation of running it through his fingers, watching it disperse in the clear water. But he can only look away from his son for so long until his heart begins to ache.

Felix giggles brightly. He’s holding his camera into the air, away from Berry and her soggy fur. “Oh, really? I look good? What is it, how?”

“You know you just do.” Chris flips water, laughing and then apologising to Berry. “Aaw, girl, I’m so sorry, did I startle you? I’m sorry!”

A flick back at him, a warm splash on his chest. “But why?”

Because Chris watched him swim past the crashing waves, becoming a buoyant pinhead in the distance, out of reach from where Chris waited. Because he watched him swim back and then run up the beach, Berry jumping into his arms, the breeze playing with them. Because they can just leave their backpack and key locked away and rest here in the falling tide.

Because they’re at a remote, isolated beach. Just some old people napping in chairs, becoming concerningly red, and young parents with their toddler. Far away enough that no friend or neighbour would stumble across them. Because he got to squirt sunscreen into his palms and spread it onto the wings of Felix’s back. Put force behind the heels of them as he rubbed into his neck and lower back, slid his fingers into the swathe of his spine and under his rib cage and below the waistband of his swimming trunks.

Because Chris should tell him every day.

“You’re just sunshine in person, yeah? Should we give you a third name, hm?” He tickles Felix’s neck. “Halabeoji gave you the middle one, umma your first, only fair that I get to choose, too, yes?”

Felix’s attempts to dodge his fingers, raises his golden shoulder, pulls a face. “Happy dragon… sunshine dragon. That’s–”

“Lucky. Not happy. Well, both I guess. But we chose it cause we got lucky.” He curls one of Felix’s strands of hair around his finger, salt drying in the ends. “Got lucky with you.”

Felix’s mocking pout becomes wobbly. His pimpled nostrils twitch, freckles hidden for a second as he flicks at his nose. “I dunno.”

“What’s that mean?”

A shrug. He fiddles with the buttons of his camera. “Dunno if you got lucky.”

The lock of hair is stiff enough that it’s hesitant to slip loose from Chris’s knuckles. Chris brushes it to the side to clasp Felix’s nape, though he’s unable to make him turn his head. “Don’t you say that. Don’t you f*cking think that. Look at me.”

Under his palm, another shrug.

“What makes you think that. Lix.”

The receding ocean falls from their shins, dragging mud with it. In its absence, shells and shards surface. The following wave takes its time, coming up in a gentle roll, lapping over their feet, then their hips. Foam settles into their tummy rolls. Chris stretches his legs and shifts closer to Felix, kisses his coarse hair line. “Baby. I’m so f*cking lucky to have you. For you to be my kid. To get to.. to get to call you mine.”

Felix sniffles. He’s playing with the camera settings, zooms in on the shimmering water between his knees. On the screen, the saturation is heightened.

Berry realises she’s not getting attention and hops away from them, leaving paw prints in the sand, wagging her tail wildly. It’ll be a chore to bathe her later. At home both she and Felix will be exhausted and hungry, will need to eat before they nap, might cuddle up on the couch together. While they sleep, Chris will clean the car, throw their towels and swimming trunks into the wash, search for DVDs in his studio.

“Dad,” Felix begins without looking at Chris. He’s now staring at the horizon, sucking at the bruise on his lip. “Do you think… do you believe in…”

Chris hums to urge him on, thumbs into the groove of his nape.

“I don’t know. It’s just something that Father Kelly said.”

“Ah.” He drops his hand.

“About angels and like.. guardians...”

He lets his palm float atop the clear water, the shadow flimmering over the sand, foam bubbling under his nails. The thought of being watched is not a comforting one. But what is true for him doesn’t have to be true for his son. “Taking care of you is the best, so I'm sure… I’m sure whatever, whoever… yeah. They’re looking over you, little one.”

Felix puckers his lips, not quite a pout anymore. He takes a picture of the sky, adam’s apple bobbing over the stretch of his throat, toes wiggling, about to topple over. Chris throws his foot over his ankle, weighs it down, steadies his back, skin warm and sticky. He secretly takes a whiff, sunscreen and salt and heat.

“Give me that.” He takes the camera, tugging Felix’s hand out of its wrist strap. “Don’t want this thing to break, yeah?”

“But–”

“That’s why I’m not wearing the watch, right?”

“Oh, yeah? You didn’t forget?”

He raises a brow and looks through the viewfinder, has to lean back and balance in the slipping mud. “What if I want to forget the time when I’m with you. Ever think of that?”

Felix’s huff breaks into a squeaky giggle. Chris pushes the trigger and hopes his bright smile is captured, framed by rays of sun.

They’ll have to find a discreet way to print this roll. He’s caught Felix taking pictures of his naked form too many times. Got revenge by holding him down, bending him over, twisting him into awkward positions. Has captured the glow of a nightlight on the curve of his ass.

Felix closes into him, tilting his neck and blinking coily. “Tell me again.”

“What?”

“How I look.”

“You look good.”

“Hmm. Again.”

Chris inhales through his grin and lowers the camera, twists Felix’s earlobe. “You look good, brat.”

Felix’s eyes close. Salt has gathered in their creases. His tongue licks over his pretty smile. He's blushing hard, pink rose buds on the apples of his cheeks and on his nose. “Tell me but like you’re in love with me.”

“I did though.” He smiles, sighs fondly.

Felix stares.

“You knew, baby, you said it all the time.” He laughs.

“‘s different when you say it.”

Chris slides the tip of his finger beneath the curve of Felix’s ear, down into the dip of its shell. His pulse is palpable here. His own throbs.

The beach is fringed by wooden sheds. Balconies, changing rooms, showers. Some of the planks have bloated with moistures, others are peeling with paint. Inside, it’s humid. The metal of the lockers is rusty, creaks, needs a harsh pull to open, keys stubborn. It smells like algae and melted ice cream. The shower head sputters, the drain is clogged. Berry’s fur only adds to it. She enjoys getting towelled dry, already panting hard, her snout resting in the crook of his elbow. During her second bath at home, she nearly falls asleep.

Her wet smell indeed permeates the air in the car. Chris opens all the windows after he’s done vacuuming the sand out of the creases and wiping the seats, keeps the gate to the garage hovering above the driveway to let in the wind.

In the kitchen, Felix is cleaning the cutting board and pots from supper. Only in his mother apron. Two bows tied over his spine, blue hem suited for his light brown skin. He must hear Chris’s steps but doesn’t turn, unsuccessfully tries to suppress a shudder at a kiss to his warm neck. He is brimming with need, so obvious, so shaky, his ears pink.

Chris envelops him from behind and peels the rubber gloves of his hands, uses a kitchen towel to dab over the soapy drops that have made it up his hairy forearms. Felix fondles the clasp of the watch, doesn’t open it, follows a vein to Chris’s pointer finger. He leads it to his clavicle, places Chris’s palm below his neck.

“What a good wife you are,” Chris whispers, heart flailing. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Felix swallows. His ass parts around Chris’s bulge.

The lemon scented dish soap seeps and bubbles pop on the yellow sponge. The countertops shine. On the windowsill, fresh basil, coriander and chives stretch towards the glass, towards the sun. Their soil is moist, their greens vibrant. Outside, their high fence is shielding them from the street’s view. The white facade of the neighbouring house gleams in the orange of the sunset.

“On your knees,” he says.

He doesn’t immediately let Felix kiss his co*ck.

"Like this, appa?"

First, he just looks. Back then, he could only see Felix’s mouth, his sharp cupid’s bow, the freckles on the peak of his nose. Now, there is the darkness of his eyes and the trust in them. There is his hair, separated into thin strands, still drying, falling around his pointy ears. There is his neck, adam’s apple big and restless.

There is the angle.

His son looking up at him.

His lower lip protrudes under his glistening tongue, and a thin string of spit droops from it, lands on the floor.

“Yes, Lixie,” he says reverently. He leads Felix’s face closer, rests the crown of his co*ck on that loose tongue. Shivers at the déjà vu. “Stay still.”

He rolls his hips slightly, only sliding past Felix’s teeth, back and forth, remembering how fast he went the first time, caught by insanity. Not again. Now he will cherish this. He will cherish his son.

“Do you remember, baby? Does your mouth recognize daddy’s dick?”

Felix whimpers and his palm flies to his crotch.

“Don’t.” Chris kicks it, lays his toes on top of the arching apron. “You know to ask for permission, little one, don’t you?”

Once, Felix humps into the sole of his foot. Then he turns calm again, fingertips unclenching from the apron. He nods.

“You’ll take my dick every day from now on, yeah? Whenever you need it, whatever you need, appa’s gonna give to you.”

Felix moans and his brows draw tight, his tongue flexes.

Chris pumps his co*ck, once, twice, tilts it, inhaling through his teeth when Felix stretches towards it. Precome seeps from his tingling tip onto Felix's eager tongue.

“Do I taste the same? Hm? This what you’ve been thinking of?”

Felix's tear ducts glisten. The freckles on his lids become more visible, lashes lowering slowly. They flutter after he curls in his tongue, sucks on it, cheeks hollowing. Another nods. “Yes, daddy. Taste the same. Taste like you.”

“Like what made you, yeah?” Chris says and has to flex his toes to keep Felix from squirming too much, steps further onto the stiff heat of his co*ck, apron damp.

“You made me,” Felix repeats, tongue peeking out again. “More.”

He slaps his co*ck onto his mouth, sucks on his teeth. “Manners.”

“Please, appa, more, you know I make it good–”

Chris yanks at his hair, uses the drop of his jaw to slip between his lips, dragging over the scabbed wounds. “Cause you're a slu*t? Huh?”

“Yours, only your slu*t.” Last word sticky. “Everything before was just.. was just…”

“What?” He grinds into the flaky corner of Felix’s mouth.

“Training. Like… Like I was practising. For you.”

He’s entirely serious about it, too. Chris can’t even laugh away his shock. And he believes it.

He feels taller like this. Decisive. “Gonna swallow your dad’s come again?”

Again. Because Chris f*cked his mouth already, in a dirty, grungy restroom, without his knowledge.

Felix sucks at his tip. Winces, f*cks up into the sole of Chris’s foot, after Chris feeds it to him. He whimpers, parts his jaw, visibly struggling to breathe and swallow, tears pooling. Chris caresses his cheek, strokes his fringe and helps to keep his head in position before he pushes further inside. His palate is so smooth. His tip fits right into the dome of it. This is where he belongs. Inside his son's mouth.

He needs more.

“Careful,” he warns just before he loses control for a moment and shoves forward, snapping right into the entrance of Felix’s throat, spasming. “sh*t, baby, God, you take it well.”

He can feel his hand shaking up to his wrist and he instinctively tenses his fingers, grips Felix’s hair tighter. It’s muscle memory, he’s so certain in what he needs to do, doesn’t even have to think about it. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t have to, couldn’t pull out, victim to his desires, both of them. He’ll dig his nails into Felix and never let go, keep him down until he chokes, will demand everything there is and watch him obey.

"Baby," he murmurs, grits his teeth. "Baby, my sunshine boy, daddy’s wife, forever mine."

He’s ashamed to be close already, nothing but a greedy old man, ears and cheeks burning. At one point, he has to support himself on the countertop, edge biting into the thin part between thumb and forefinger, water splashes from the sink reaching his nails. He’s been able to f*ck Felix’s ass for hours, has made him come on his co*ck this morning, but Felix’s stretched lips and throat, his open eyes, are too much for him.

A pitiful gag and the spasm of Felix’s chest is enough for him to spill. He curses and apologises, fondles Felix’s earlobe, words and hips stuttering.

He feels feeble and gross and dazzled and alive. The heat of the sunshine is fortified through the kitchen window, beating down on him; sweat pools along his hairline, on his nose; his co*ck is twitching, wet from crown to base; his joints are weak. His blood sings. The air sings. The house sings. Alive.

"Taste just like before," Felix says dreamily, resting his temple against Chris's palm. A thread of come unspools from Felix's lips. "I remember. Remembered it right."

Felix opens his eyes and they are glazed. He looks like he has been exercising for hours and all he can feel is the strain in his limbs, like he's high on endorphins; like it's in the early hours of the morning and his brain is functioning on too little sleep, not quite entirely here; like he was just given the most excellent gift and he's dazed from amazement. His dark irises reflect the warm light, his pupils dilated and unfocused and there is a sheen of wetness in the corners.

Here is how Chris made him.

His son looks up at him and he looks right back.