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Opened only three months ago, Éblouissant supposedly offers a unique experience with its new take on fine dining. Instead of the usual seven or twelve-course menu fitted with luxurious wines and experimental cocktails, adorned by a “Petit Fours” at the end, Éblouissant offers a menu that incorporates desserts into the main menu, ending it on a rather savory tone.
In a city that brims with Michelin stars, one would think that Èblouissant would appear as dazzling as the name, but even with its gold-accentuated furniture and warm lighting, the entire restaurant falls behind in almost every area.
The menu, written in a pompous attempt at mixing French and Korean, is an eyesore with too many words and too many explanations. People who frequent places like this know what they are after; reading about the way a chicken lays its egg is not high on that list — no matter how much care went into its diet and its apparently neon orange colored yolk.
My first impression of Éblouissant comes with the first dish, “Les Quatre Saisons du Japchae,” a rather underwhelming take on the traditional Korean noodle dish. Served with four different sauces, each bite was supposed to resemble-
The sound of glass shattering over the floor makes Chan drop his pen in surprise. He looks up from his notebook, the one he no longer tries to hide whenever he’s out at work, and watches as at least three servers rush to the area to pick up all the pieces.
They remain surprisingly calm, but the loud sound has definitely made the atmosphere rather tense. Chan looks over at a few of the tables, watching how they point and converse under their breaths as they slowly indulge in one of the savory dessert items.
Scratching his last sentence, Chan scribbles down a few more notes.
Ébloussisant is certainly dazzling when it comes to its server’s slippery fingers and rushed feet. As glass falls to the ground, shattering into a million pieces, I bite into a particularly crunchy piece of leek - ill-fitting for the supposedly wintery version of Japchae.
It is, however, when the desserts start to arrive that my interest peaks. My first introduction to Lee Felix – a recently graduated pastry chef with experience from “La Tomae” and “Scrick” – was a few months back. Unfortunately, his skills back then were not up to par with the rest of the dishes and his souffle stood out as an eyesore. However, under Chef Jacques Gregory, the first dessert, “Tartine au Gochujang,” is a-
Chan sighs, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand. He always ends up writing too much when he’s supposed to try and enjoy the food. However, there’s little to enjoy when the tense atmosphere ramps up with a rather loud yell from the kitchen.
He has been to his fair share of fine-dining restaurants now, some with endless amounts of Michelin stars and some that are just out of reach for their very first ones. Usually, a complete image forms within the first thirty minutes, and even if some of the later dishes prove to be delectable, it won’t matter in the long run.
Chan looks down at his notebook and circles a few words, tapping the ballpoint pen around the familiar name.
When two servers come up to his table, Chan turns his notes and sits back, nodding only when they ask if he’d like a refill of his wine. They didn’t even ask if he wanted another pairing. As one server removes his barely finished dishes, the other places three more plates in front of him.
A dreadful explanation of the following plates ensues, and Chan bites back a yawn. Lifelessly, he stares down at the brown goop on the first diarrhea-colored plate, then the other type of brown goop on the other diarrhea-colored plate, before finally looking at the third goop-
You get the gist.
“When’s the next dessert course?” he asks, staring up at the server.
“After this. Would you like me to present it to you already?”
Chan waves dismissively and returns to his glass of wine. It’s a lovely vintage, but he already suspects that its heaviness will clash with the light dishes in front of him. “Should have served this with the upcoming mousse,” he sighs, swirling the red liquid around in his glass.
With mostly misses, Chan wraps up his visit to Èblouissant with a rather displeased expression. He knows several of the servers have their eyes on him, and so when he doesn’t even offer a single smile at the end, one of them mouths ‘shit’ to another.
He wants to tell them that it’s those small things that end up in his reviews, but like with everyone else, being blasted in one of his columns is part of their journey to self-improvement.
And so, when he goes to the nearby bar to finish the evening off with a standard Pilsner and some peanuts, Chan isn’t surprised to see a head of blonde rush in through the doors.
“Should I be surprised to see you here?” Chan huffs, closing his notebook and resting his palm on the supple leather.
“Should I be surprised to see you at my new job?”
“And what are you trying to imply?”
“That you’re always going wher-”
“You still like white wine, right?” Chan interrupts, turning to the bartender to quickly order what is probably a bad house wine. He props his elbow up on the bar counter, swiping a thumb over some condensation on his glass before turning to look at the blonde.
“Felix,” Chan starts. “Why are you there?”
Felix shakes his head and tugs on one of the barstools. One of the legs is tattered at the end, so when he sits down, he nearly falls. Chan doesn’t react, not visibly, at least. “You know how the industry works, why are you asking such a stupid question?”
“Skrick was rather good for you.”
“Potentially, but the kitchen was egregious and,” Felix throws his head to the side and thanks the bartender as he receives his glass of white wine. They don’t share a toast. “You don’t care about those things.”
“I care.”
“Not really.”
“You don’t know me like that.”
Felix’s eyes narrow, and even if Chan knows what lingers on his tongue, the words never come to fruition. Instead, Felix reaches out and taps his slender finger against Chan’s notebook. “Open it,” he says, and Chan shakes his head. “What did you write about me?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I will know.”
Chan hums. “Yeah, in the next issue.”
Felix takes a rather large sip of his wine, wincing when the poor grape quality rushes down his throat, making his skin flush with pink. “Was it the mousse?” he asks, his heel nervously banging against the barstool. “Or the Suisse De-”
“The mousse was decent.”
A hand slams down on the bar. One of the customers behind Felix looks like he’s about to say something, but when he meets Chan’s eyes, he turns away.
“Decent? What’s fucking decent about high-grade chocolate from Belgium and Switzerland. I spent days sourcing those you know. Those markets are oversaturated with chocolatiers who are out to sell a poor product for an expensive price. What I found is fucking exquisite, Chan, and you fucking know it.”
“You’ve taken up swearing since you left your last job.”
“Fuck off, you’re such a-”
“Where’s that little Christian boy now?”
Chan leans back, the notebook sliding with him. When he lets his grip on the leather go, reaching for his beer instead, Felix scowls.
“And where did that respected critic go?” Felix bites back, his teeth jagged and out for blood. “All you do now is make everyone’s life miserable. You know Soohyun cried after you left she-”
“Who the fuck is-”
“Soohyun, the waiter, a waiter– that doesn’t matter,” Felix runs out of air and dumps the rest of his wine into his mouth, eyes immediately on the bartender. He tries to finish his sentence, but the words fly out the window as quickly as the alcohol rushes through his system. “Your reviews are poor, the quality has gone down. You see that, don’t you?”
“So you read them?”
It happens quickly. Felix’s hand is on his cheek, and while the slap isn’t hard, the sound reverberates through the entire pub. “Not here,” the bartender warns, withholding Felix’s glass of wine until he gets a whispered apology. Chan pities him. He was this boisterous once, too. Back when he first started and none of his reviews ever picked up any readers.
Perhaps he still is.
Seeing Felix this angry and worked up does something to him. Maybe Seungmin is correct when he calls him a masochist.
“I skim them, I have better things to do.”
“So you read my reviews.”
He knows Felix hates his smug face. He knows that it makes his pulse skyrocket and the hairs on his neck stand straight. But most of all, he knows that Felix loves pushing back.
“I use your magazine to wipe my ass.”
“You’re such a little shit. And it’s not a fucking magazine, it’s a-”
Felix grabs his beer glass and presses it against Chan’s lips; even though Chan rolls his eyes he accepts the glass and downs several gulps with ease, his tongue dry from talking so much - and from the overly salty dishes he ate earlier.
The rapid onslaught of contentedness that ensues fills him with spite. Chan nurses his beer, and Felix nurses his wine. Neither care that the tips of their shoes rub against the other. The same goes for when they both snicker at the conversation being held by the couple behind Felix.
“It wasn’t all bad,” Felix pries.
“What wasn’t all bad?”
“The desserts.”
Chan shakes his head, avoiding the question. He tucks his notebook into the inner pocket of his suit, keeping it safe there with the pen he got all those years ago. “Put it on my bill,” he says to the bartender, taking one final swig of his beer. “His drinks, too.”
The bartender nods, and Felix scowls. Chan can already hear the snide remark that’s about to leave his mouth. So, instead of allowing the blonde to say anything, he stands up and heads for the door.
Chan can nearly hear the familiar sound of Felix rushing to swallow before he makes sure to keep the door open for him.
“I live close by,” Chan says as he watches Felix struggle to close his coat, the buttons slipping through his weary fingers. He must have been working hard all day, meticulous and crafty, making sure that every crackle and every garnish was perfectly placed.
“That’s how you know I work here.”
“Maybe.”
Felix kicks at a beer can recklessly thrown on the street. “You’re fucked up,” he says, voice nearly covered by the sound of metal scraping against asphalt.
“Are you coming?” Chan asks, not even bothering to point down the street. “It’s just a five mi-”
“No,” Felix interrupts. He steps in close, his eyes narrow and his nose red from the cold air. Has he grown taller? “I’m not coming with you. I’m not fucking doing this shit again. You always rope me into your schemes with those- No, for once, Bang Chan, you are coming with me, and I don’t want to hear a single word coming out of that fucking mouth of yours until I tell you to speak.”
Blonde hair whips his face as Felix turns around, his hands shoved so far down his pockets, Chan is almost certain the fabric is about to swallow him whole. He looks as young as he did back then. But that fragility and those crystalline tears are nowhere to be seen.
Innocence robbed by an industry who slowly peels their skin off, discarded into the trash before a student cook julienne’s them.
“Get a fucking move on, you cunt!”
Cold mist bellows from Chan’s mouth as he scoffs. He mimics Felix and places his hands in his pockets, picking up his speed so he can at least walk a few meters behind him - for no other reason than he doesn’t really feel like talking.
Watching Felix’s hips sway, even if they are covered by fabric, will always have Chan pinching his nose. He tries not to think about their younger selves, but seeing the blonde reach for keys in his pocket, that task is surely difficult.
“Why did you bring me here?” Chan groans, squinting as he looks at Éblouissant’s logo - even their font choice sends a shiver down his spine, and the urge to ask Felix why he chose this place fills his chest once again. However, he keeps it in as a strict order to step inside takes over everything.
Felix is quick with locking the door behind him, mumbling something about how he usually comes here at this time to practice. Chan’s not entirely sure what he’s talking about, but he does spot the way Felix’s fingers tremble. He looks away. Unable to face the realization of it all.
“Why am I here?” Chan asks, tugged into the kitchen.
“The desserts,” Felix starts, crouched down near his station, head inside an impossibly small fridge. “What did you think? Tell me.”
“Read the magazine before using it to wipe yourself.”
“So it's a magazine.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Chan leans on the stainless steel counter. He runs his fingers over it, impressed by the cleanliness only for a second until his forefinger turns red with some sort of acidic tomato sauce.
Felix’s station is spotless.
Of course, it is.
“Your souffle has improved.”
It’s curt and without almost any substance. Still, Felix ducks lower, his neck visibly turning red with each second that passes. “And the use of gochujang was neat, albeit a bit uninspiring.”
“Not my fault,” Felix claps back immediately, shutting the door to the small fridge. He stands up straight and places several small containers on his station, reaching for a knife, cutting board, and a peeler.
Although Chan keeps an eye on him, he decides not to comment on it, preferring to instead listen to the arguments of why certain choices were made.
“Chef Gregory likes simplicity.”
“Simplicity doesn’t need to be uninspiring.”
“Don’t you think I know?” Felix barks back, his teeth on display as he opens one of the containers, fishing out something pickled. “He believes that we should only use the base ingredients of Korean cooking in fusion dishes.”
“And what do you believe?”
“That it’s not a set limit. A dish may lean more Korean or more French. It’s the details that make the painting, not the theory behind it.”
Chan kicks the ground, angry at a speck of tomato still lodged between the tiles. They should clean it better. A chef’s kitchen should be spotless, without any remnants of last night’s service. The uniform should be washed and taken care of. Discard those beliefs and the food that is served will end up in Chan’s magazine.
“You’ve grown,” Chan mutters, the piece of tomato now lodged under his shoe instead.
Felix doesn’t respond. He sinks his knife into the pickled item. Something citrusy wafts through the air, and Chan decides to forego cleanliness by hoisting himself up on the counter. This time, it’s Felix who looks over at him, eyes narrow,
“I wouldn’t do this to your station.”
“You would, and you fucking know it.”
“I wouldn’t.”
Brown, round eyes and a lip twitch. “Shut up.”
Felix looks down and cuts into the fruit. When he’s done, he meticulously puts it to the side, kept far away from the two bowls he sets down in its place. Something gelatinous jiggles as he digs his spoon into another container. Chan wants to ask. Wants to dig his fingers into the food slowly being assembled.
But he doesn’t.
He doesn’t even reach for his notebook.
Felix breaks the silence. “Why did you write that article about me?”
“The September issue?”
“I guess.”
Chan’s hands twitch toward the notebook, but he pulls back – remorseful. He knots his eyebrows and shakes his head. “Because your desserts were shit,” he says, watching Felix process it all by carefully laying two different jelly-like substances on top of each other, one white and the other with a hint of green. “And you were cocky.”
“Was not.”
“You still are.”
“Says the guy who spends his evenings at a sub-par bar drinking their cheapest Pilsner. Do you really think you’re that much fucking better than us?”
Felix places the spoon down, knuckles white. Chan looks away.
“I think your industry is pretentious.”
“And I think you’re bitter you never got to be behind one of these stations.”
“Oh, fuck you, Felix,” Chan says, slamming his feet into the tiles underneath. He curls his fingers behind the stainless steel, feeling the sharp edge dig into his palms. “You know why I didn’t pursue this miserable path.”
Felix steps away from his station, the spoon still in his hand - as sharp as a knife. “Yeah, because you don’t have it in you.”
The low buzzing from the fridge near Felix’s feet penetrates Chan’s mind. He feels it from the very base of his neck, slowly creeping into every lobe, settling near his ears. “So you’re telling me that cooking for chefs like these makes you happy?”
“Are you telling me that basically being a gossip columnist is what you wanted out of your life? Are you fucking implying that the skills you had when we went to school wouldn’t have gotten you far? That you couldn’t have done more if you weren’t so fucking afraid of your own mind?”
“You let them step all over you, Felix! You let them exploit your ideas for food that’s not even worthy of a single star. How can you let them?”
“I’m growing, Chan. You’re not.”
“You’re fucking stuck, and you know it! Get out while you can.”
Felix is quick. His lithe feet are nearly inaudible as he suddenly stands in front of Chan, his chest heaving for air - a hint of soybeans from the spoon he still has in hand filling the air. “Get out, you say,” Felix spits, his lips curled. “Is that what you’re trying to do? Release an article about how bad my desserts are-”
“Your desserts aren’t bad.”
Felix’s eyes flare open. “So you admit it. You fucking coward.” He swings the spoon until it flies out of his hand, clattering on the floor in the distance. Then, his two soft hands dig into Chan’s coat, shaking him until there are tears brimming in both of their eyes.
“Admit that this place isn’t for you.”
“I’m learning from the best here!”
“You’re stuck!”
Boiling heat surges from his stomach and Chan knees upward, the heavy bone making a thudding sound as he jams it into Felix’s body. The man clambers. Holding on. Holding on far too tight.
“Let go.”
“Of you or the restaurant?”
Chan tears his eyes away. He seeks anything else but the hot breath coming from Felix’s lips, and the angry red on his cheeks. He’s seen that look too many times, and he hates it. He hates that he always sees it, but he hates it even more when those exact words slip into his ears.
“I hate you.”
Heat and bile, everything that makes Chan nauseated, lingers in the back of his throat. He scrambles to get Felix off him, their bodies shaking as he pushes the lighter man back, his own body stumbling as they crash into the opposite station.
Pots, pans, and everything in between clank loudly but not louder than their pulse. “Say that again,” Chan spits out. “And I will come to every fucking restaurant you work at.”
“And what will you do?”
“Ruin you.”
“For how long?”
There's a fist in his hair and Felix tugs, forcing his neck back, and Chan makes a broken sound. He tries to pull out of the grasp, but he can’t fight against those daft hands, full of experience and knowledge he no longer has access to.
“For how fucking long?” Felix repeats his other hand on Chan’s neck, squeezing it.
“Until,” Chan croaks out, biting down the rest of the words. “Forever.”
The grip releases, and Chan surges for air. When he finds a source of oxygen, he licks inside and swallows the angry moan that slips down his throat. “Bastard,” one of them forces out, but who it is is lost, for their lips move together like they have always done.
A rhythm they know too well.
Chan is quick with it, tugging on Felix’s pants, the belt buckle loud as it slams against the station. He forces his hands down his underwear, ignoring the slew of curses thrown his way. “Tell me you hate me now,” Chan spits out, his fingers curled around Felix’s length, tugging at it so hard the other is forced to swallow every single coherent syllable.
Only when he lets go, trying to go for the rest of Felix’s pants, does he get overpowered again. Felix pushes himself off the station, slamming his fist into Chan’s chest repeatedly. “Coward, you fucking coward!” he shouts, the buttons on his shirt flying open with every spiteful word thrown at him. “You can’t carry around this hero complex, Chan! Why the fuck are you trying to save me?”
Chan’s back hits the wall, and Felix forces a knee between his legs, grinding it up until Chan leans forward, his mouth agape as he breathes through the sensation.
“Tell me it isn’t so,” Felix says, far too low for comfort. “Tell me you aren’t doing all this for me.”
Chan closes his eyes and seeks Felix’s neck. “Why would I?” he says, sinking his teeth into soft flesh. “Why would I endure your horrible desserts for you?”
“You said it,” Felix strains, his body jerking from Chan’s attack on his neck. “You said my desserts weren’t bad.”
“Not bad is nothing to strive for.”
Something strained and guttural spills past Felix’s mouth, he digs his nails into Chan’s chest. Chan wants to ask him to do it harder, to sink them in so deep he can reach in and grab his heart.
Maybe then would he understand what Chan feels.
The two of them stumble back to where they were at the start. Felix lets Chan bend him over, and he lets him tug their pants down. “This is the last time,” Felix says, trembling when Chan inserts two fingers at once.
“Only this one time.”
Chan wants to think that there’s nothing pretty about this. That the man he has bent over is just that — a man. But he isn't. No random man has such a responsive body, and no man has a constellation of freckles running down his back, ending only where Chan sees his fingers move in and out.
“Get on with it,” Felix growls. “I can take it. You know I can.”
The digits spread one last time before Chan steps forward. He flattens his palm on the curve of Felix’s back, feeling how their bodies emanate the same heat. “Fuck,” he lets out, something between a cry and a moan. Frantic and terrified, Chan tugs on Felix’s body, turning him around with such force it scares them both.
Immediately, Felix looks away, his cheeks redder than they have been all night. Still, when Chan goes to spread his legs, he doesn’t stiffen up. Their far too quick preparation reveals itself when Chan struggles to push inside. He watches how Felix’s face twists, bottom lip caught between his teeth.
“You have to relax,” Chan whispers, hooking a finger under Felix’s chin. He brings their faces close together, and even when Felix decides to close his eyes, he still doesn’t jerk away when Chan kisses him.
“Shit, that’s-”
“You haven’t done this in a while.”
“Shut up.”
Their teeth slam together as brief smiles present themselves. Halfway inside, Chan reaches down to Felix’s cock, jerking him until he’s hard again, writhing under Chan’s heavy body. Slowly, he sinks in deeper, and when he finally connects them fully, he bites back that awful feeling of familiarity.
He shuns it.
He shuns the images of their bodies tangled together in the locker rooms at school.
And he shuns the image of Felix’s blissful face as Chan sinks down to his knees.
“Fuck you,” Felix says, his voice broken.
“Do you think of it too?” Chan asks, moving his hips.
“Think of what? I want this over with, I need you to-”
“Do you think of us?”
Felix kisses him, deep and slow. The need for an answer suddenly seems irrelevant, and Chan thrusts into Felix, feeling how his body clenches around him. That same sense from before presents itself again. However, even as this feels as natural as walking to him, Chan can’t deny that it also feels different.
They feel different. But who is it that is changing?
He grabs Felix’s hips, watching his thumbs create red marks. Seeing how their bodies move together makes him unsteady, vision growing blurry. But as he falters, a pair of hands wrap around his waist. “Steady now,” Felix murmurs, lips on Chan’s jaw, softer than before despite the teeth he threatens to use.
Felix comes first, not because that’s how it should be. No, because Chan spends far too much time coercing it out of him, hating how much he loves seeing his face contort in pleasure under his touch.
When he seeks his own orgasm, Felix sinks down on the station, baring his chest for the fluorescent lights above them. The stainless steel molds around his form, and for the very first time in his life, Chan wonders if he’ll ever see something so beautiful again.
It’s with regret that he comes.
Regret that he now needs to step away and remove their connection.
“I’m not done yet,” Felix mumbles, eyes back on his creation. His shirt is still only half-buttoned, and his hair is disheveled. He looks like he did back then, when they would make food in the late hours of the night, a bottle of wine already empty next to the clothes they shed when they couldn’t get their hands off each other.
“I need to go.”
“You don’t need to go. You want to go because you’re afraid.”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what, Chan?”
Reading my mind. “Being such a dick.” Chan looks away, palm flat on the station that he’s convinced still retains some of Felix’s body heat.
The work is meticulous, beautiful, and full of expertise. Felix places a single piece of rosemary on top of the pickled fruit, tilting his head when he inspects it. Chan wants to say that it looks good and that it’s more than good enough, but he doesn’t, for Felix reaches for another container and adds exactly three drops of red liquid.
“What is it?” Chan asks, afraid. He accepts the small bowl but avoids looking Felix in the eye.
“Taste it first,” Felix urges, a finger on Chan’s bowl. “You’re supposed to let it fall into your mouth.”
Soft, tender, and lavish– are the immediate words that blare in Chan’s mind as the dish slides into his mouth. At first, he doesn’t bite down. He lets the flavors develop with his body heat before sucking in a deep breath and chewing the rest.
“And?” Felix says, swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet.
A perfect balance of sweet and tart coats his tongue. The textures blend beautifully, and even when he bites down on the pickled fruit, the experience only continues to soar. He doesn’t want more. No, he’s satisfied. Even the thought of having another bite infuriates him, for this singular dish has him reaching out for Felix’s hand.
Felix doesn’t reach out for his.
“It’s good,” Chan swallows.
“Good?”
“Yeah.”
Felix looks away, the bowl in his hand trembling as he brings it up to his lips. Chan watches him eat it - seeing how his face goes from content to questioning to ultimately landing on disappointment.
“It’s good,” Felix repeats, his brows knotted. “What do you mean? What’s missing?”
Once again, Chan looks away.
“It’s fucking good Chan, why can’t you just say it? Why can’t you admit that this is good?”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
Felix is close to him again, his fists once more in his shirt. But this time, there’s no anger, only despair. He’s ruined it. Of course, he’s ruined it. Chan tries to reach out for Felix’s face, but the man jerks away, repeating his question.
“Why?”
“Because if I say it’s better than just good, you will remain here.”
“And so what? I’ve learned a lot here. Don’t you see how much better this is? Don’t you taste it?”
He does taste it. He sees it, too. Everything is a lot better. This. This, right here, is Felix’s path, not the mildewy dishes that snobby chef forces him to produce. “Have you tried showing your chef this dish?”
“He doesn’t think it blends the cultures well enough.”
Chan laughs, infuriated. “He doesn’t believe that your usage of traditional Korean fermentation methods, soybean jelly paired with a French herb-infused jelly and a raspberry compote, is good enough?”
“How did you…”
“Taste all that?”
Chan reaches out, and Felix accepts the touch. “I eat at every restaurant you work at. I’ve eaten your food at school, in your kitchen, and in the bed we used to share. I know you. I know how good you are. That fucking potential, Felix. Fuck! He’s going to swallow you up and suck you dry, don’t you see that? Don’t you see the difference between his inspiration and yours? Don’t you-”
Soft lips land on the corner of his mouth. Felix pushes himself between Chan’s legs. “And what would you have me do?” Felix whispers. “Leave?”
“The restaurant, yes.”
“And you?”
Chan grows stiff. “You know what I’ll do.”
“Follow me to the next restaurant? Write another bad review where you call my skills subpar and unmotivated? Do that for years and years until I one day start something of my own, slave away in the kitchen of a business that will barely garner any form of profit for the next five years? Chan, shit, I can’t do that. How the fuck will I do that? I don’t have the skills or the money for such a thing.”
“I will get you a star, Felix. Two even!” Chan exclaims, reaching for his past lover. “I’ll be there and watch you flourish, and when you cry, I can wipe those tears away or let them soak into my shirt. I want you to succeed. I don’t want you to end up a B-grade pastry chef who makes soulless dishes for a chef who’s high on his own ego.”
“But then, why must you write such things about me?”
Chan tries to look away, but Felix’s grip on his chin is too strong. “Because I’m too much of a coward to guide you in any other way.”
Felix looks up at the roof, a singular tear streaming down his face - far more composed than Chan’s own waterfall.
“Don’t you see, Chan? Don’t you see that I’m begging you to stay at my side and not against me?”
And there it is. That dreaded sentence. Chan reels away, his heart thumping too quick and too fast. He might die if he stays too long. However, his mouth moves before his brain can catch up.
“But I broke it off.”
“Years ago,” Felix whispers. “When we were both too eager to follow our dreams.”
Felix moves in even closer, his lips dangerously close to Chan’s once again. This time, however, it doesn’t feel like it will just be a kiss of annoyance and some old lust still lingering between them. It feels like a seal. A promise - of a future Chan is terrified of.
“I broke it off,” Chan repeats, trembling. Desperately, he clings to Felix, his nose stuffy and his eyes entirely unfocused with all the tears. “I fucking broke us up. I tore us apart. Shit, I’m so fucking sorry. Cowardice doesn’t even begin to explain any of it. How can you even stand here? How can-”
“I miss you.”
“No. No, you don’t! No, you can’t–”
“I miss you.”
“Stop,”
“I miss you, Chan,” Felix whispers, sealing their lips. “Take me back.”