#Dnf au rambles | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

under-and-over-the-moon · 2 years

Text

Lexicon | Felix

Minors DNI/DNF/Do not read!!

pairing: Felix x Reader

word count: 13.5k

genre: childhood best friends to lovers, gilded age!au, forbidden love, angst, fluff, smut

warnings: unprotected sex, oral (f recv), handjob (m recv), riding, dirty talk, implication that the pullout method works (it does not!), hurt/comfort, both are virgins, so sex is a lil clunky, afab reader, mention of periods, historical inaccuracies/general historical bootleggery, i basically watched one ep of ‘the gilded age’ and ran with the vibes, historical misogyny, alcohol mentioned, Felix gets slightly buzzed at one point, cheating (in an arranged marriage scenario), lots of poor choices, lots of angst

A/N: the real title of this is Lixicon but I stopped myself 😅 This is my entry into the global childhood bf2l felix headcanon, and WOOF was this a struggle to write

All characters are adults at all times in this fic.

Feedback is always appreciated!! 😊

~~~

[ I ]

“Tell me a story.”

“Which one?”

“One about you,” you reply.

The phone crackles, sputtering against your ears, brass in your palm. A new toy, for a new age. Of course you had to try it first with Felix, just as you do with everything else.

“You already know all my stories,” he replies.

“Not today’s,” you counter.

He chuckles low, the vibrations mixing with the static.

“No, not today’s,” he admits.

And so he offers you a story that he will forget and would never expect you to remember: He waited in line for cloth for his mother, talked to Mrs. Cho. She mentioned she has a daughter, now twenty. Probably a subtle hint at a marriage prospect. He spoke to the builders about where he could buy new roof tile after a few slipped off in the last storm. It’s a banal tale, by any standard.

But as always, you listen, and then, as always, he asks you to return the favor.

You had spent the morning organizing your father’s library, and so you describe: the leather book covers, tacky from the humidity, their scent somewhere between sickeningly musty and comfortingly familiar. The heavy velvet curtains, always slumping to the side no matter how many times you tried to adjust them. Another issue with your home’s foundation, probably.

How you had spent the morning arranging and rearranging the books, by size, then by color, then by size again. You thought it would look like a rainbow by color, but there were too many browns. It just looked as musty as it smelled.

You then jump to other parts of your home, pointing out what still needs attention. The fireplace covered in soot. The paint, peeling. The steps, crumbling. Did you already mentions the paint? Oh yes, you did.

The words tumble freely from you, unlinked, in sentences that sometimes are clipped, left unfinished as you veer to a different path. You have no goal, no finish line – you simply explore the space in your mind, holding his hand as you wander, down every trail, through the rivers of thought, the ocean of your mind. He lets the current carry him, closing his eyes and sinking into the gentle wash of your voice as you ramble. He feels little again, as young as when you first met, but it doesn’t feel infantilizing – it just feels good, safe, to be swaddled warm in your words.

“Oh, did you hear about that thing?” you ask, startling him from his daze.

“What thing?” he asks. You have already told him about every thing – he needs clarification.

“The industrialists that are arriving tomorrow, to construct the railroad outside town. They’re moving into the estate out the end of the road, the one that overlooks the sea.”

“Oh the ugly one?” Felix asks. “You would think with all that money…”

This time your chuckle is the one that mixes with the static.

“Right?”

And then things devolve – or evolve, he never knows which – and you are talking about the homes in the city, if there is a correlation between construction time and ultimate ugliness, which houses need repairs the most (both of yours, you agree), the new mayor’s plan for road repairs, the mayor’s new mustache, the mayor’s hat, the optimal height for a hat.

“Oh!” you exclaim, “I gotta go help with dinner! It’s so late, didn’t realize.”

He didn’t either – the sky is dark, his room now painted in shadows and moonlight and the flickers of a lantern from the hall. He holds his hand out to see its silhouette against the wooden floor.

“Night, Lix,” you say, “See you tomorrow?”

“Yes, as always.”

And then there’s a click as the connection is cut, and he is cooled by the silence.

~~~

Waiting at the end of the road the next day, you identify Felix by the feeling of a hand, brushing gently from your waist to your hip.

When you were children he used to run up behind you, his chest bouncing against your back, his arms stopping your momentum, holding you to him. He would squeeze you tight, burrow into your shoulder, say your name. Excited. You could see the exclamation point in your head.

But now you were older, and propriety stood between you, pushing his chest back, prying his elbows away. So you settled for this – it still leads to a raised eyebrow here and there, but the movement is so fast that it could just be an accident. And you needed something, or perhaps, it was the you knew that he did. When he was little and had the gift of assumed innocence, he had always wanted to touch, to hold, to nestle into what was comforting and familiar.

“Am I late?” he whispers, dropping his hand to step out from behind you, stopping at your side. He quickly throws glances along the squat gray buildings that line the street before following the trail of the cable car tracks up the hill to the horizon.

“No,” you said, gesturing to the empty road, baked dry by the sun but with the dust still settled, “No sign of anyone yet.”

But eventually it appears – a tiny prick of black that transforms into a carriage as it approaches, the dust a fluttering veil behind it. The horses come to a halt, the doors are pushed open, and four figures exit.

At first all you see are plumed hats, voluminous skirts, glossy fabrics – new fashions peeled straight from freshly-printed magazines, dyed in their still-drying ink. Styles that had never before bothered to make the trip to your sleepy town dusted gray with half-dead history. These people are the future, will be your future.

After a few moment your eyes adjust to the sartorial dazzle, and you begin to inspect: first, the older couple, distinguished, hair streaked gray, each pleat of their clothes perfectly pressed despite the long journey. And then there is a younger man – short, with a playful grin. He’s dapper, his clothes all sharp lines, but you can see the way his biceps strain at the shoulders. Boyish and manly all at once.

And then a woman, beautiful. Her hair is arranged artfully on top of her heard, hands delicately sheathed in white silk. She adjust her skirts and then turns to survey the crowd, her eyes sweeping across the crescent in front of her. And then she stops, a smile pulling at her lips.

You follow her gaze. She is looking at Felix. And he is smiling back.

~~~

The newcomers give hasty greetings before excusing themselves politely, saying they wish they could stay longer, but there is simply too much to unpack. They gesture to the carriages that pile up behind them, laden with trunks and suitcases.

As soon as they leave, riding uphill to their new home, the townspeople quickly descend on Mrs. Cho’s parlor, buzzing like a swarm of bees. The rest of the afternoon passes in a swirl of whispers and gossip that settles on your skin, making it itch, your initial wonder tightening into fact as you listen and try to figure out how these people will fit into your tiny town, your little world.

You come to know that the Parks – Jinyoung and Junghwa, and their children, Changbin and Dahyun – have been looking for the perfect place to expand their rail line and had settled on your town. It is underdeveloped, but well-located between the two major cities. The family will stay here during the construction, which should take a few years, but once the summer concludes Changbin will return to the city to handle business there.

But of course, the technological advancements that will reshape your town are ultimately of little interest when both children, it is whispered, are unmarried. Mothers brush dirt from theirs daughters’ skirts, correct the posture of their sons. You wonder if the newcomers can already smell the scent of plotting — too sweet, cloying, like berries left in the sun, at the edge of rotting.

And below the murmur of information is Felix’s voice, sputtering fast, the low rumble of his tone shaking your core.

“She’s so beautiful isn’t she?”

“She was smiling at me, right?”

“Did I imagine that?”

“Do you think she would marry someone from here?”

“Would she marry someone without money?”

“She must have enough of her own, right?”

His questions make your head pound, but you don’t blame him for asking you so many. These are just thoughts, equal to any of his others. So why wouldn’t he share these too?

“Do you think I would make a good husband for her?”

He looks to you expectantly, but you find yourself with no ready response to give, your mind just filled a nameless fog that pushes at your temples. So you pull the words from conversations you’ve heard, books you’ve read, pasting together a response that isn’t your own. The likeness of an enthusiasm that you can’t quite kindle in your own core.

“Yes, she would be lucky to have you as a husband, Lix.”

But, distracted, he doesn’t notice that anything is off. His head is turned towards the house on the hill, behind which the sun is just beginning to set over the sea.

~~~

Once the sun dips below the horizon, the townspeople begin to take their leave, thanking Mrs. Cho as they down their last cup of teas, adjusting their shawls around their shoulders as they step through the doors.

Felix accompanies you home as usual – he evolved from companion to chaperone naturally when you came of age, the role a change only in name. Your parents had never been concerned that Felix himself is a virile, unmarried man, exactly like those he is to protect you from – they see you still as the children you once were, not the scandal you could be. A temporary exception, a convenient blindness caused by nostalgia and familiarity, to be wiped away as soon as you are given to another man.

But, for now, your mother is glad to hand him this responsibility – without the servants that should inhabit the role, it would fall to her. Felix’s presence allows her to play at inhabiting a glorious past she didn’t quite inherit, lunching with other noble ladies and visiting the shops instead of guarding her daughter.

Felix is still rambling about Dahyun as you walk beneath the newly-installed string of streetlights, a gift from Dahyun’s family, as you had just learned at the parlor. Your eyes hurt under the glare, and you are relieved when you pass the city limits, the twinkly of electricity fading only to moonlight.

The path to both of your estates is unkempt, the dried grasses poking through stones, the whitewashed walls peeling where they aren’t yet crumbling. The tiles that once formed neat fish scales along the path lay on the ground, shattered.

You sigh when you imagine how things would have been if you had been born a century ago, when the gods were of blood, not steel. The palanquins, flocked by servants, that would have carried you down the pristinely manicured streets. The walls, freshly painted. The stones between your feet uncracked, fitting perfectly with one another.

You glance over to Felix, still lost in his own world. He would have been your husband, you know. Noble name for noble name, your fortunes joined under one roof.

But with no fortune left, there is nothing to share but your afternoons, your youthful daydreams, whatever words are fluttering through your minds.

But even these, you know, are finite. Your own body is the hourglass, each moment a grain of sand that had fallen down, filling out your hips, your bust. Now a woman, you are overdue, past time, only a few grains left to fall before everything is set. Before you move on, away, to a new cloistered life, that of course, could never include him – wives don’t speak freely with men who aren’t their husbands.

At first you had resented how your body had rushed you forward, the first sign of red marking the end of your carefree days. How time didn’t seem to claw at Felix in the same way – while you were learning about your wifely duties, the horrors of childbirth, the tight confines of a future where all of your choices are given away, he was still allowed to be young and untethered, not thinking past tomorrow. You resented him but then – he would smile at you in that way he always did, all genuine sunshine, bubbling with whatever his current obsession was, and you couldn’t be angry.

So you had decided these would be the only thoughts you would hold back, the only worries you wouldn’t share. You knew at some level he must know you stood at the edge of change, but you also knew he didn’t feel the full weight of it yet. That he thought, in his foolish youth, that he would be an exception to the inevitability of time. He would come to know the freedom between you was limited, too, at his own pace.

Perhaps your choice would protect him from this ache you now felt – maybe he would be far enough down his own path, immersed in a new life, before he ever thought to look back, before he registered a loss. By then, you hoped and feared, you would be nothing more than a fond memory. Nothing that tugged at his present, at anything still tender.

In this moment, you are simply glad that Felix is wrapped up safe in his dreams of Dahyun. A childish fantasy based on almost nothing and yet – she already is a more likely participant in his future than you would ever be. Maybe a soft place to land, a distraction, during the months that you knew were coming.

Felix then turns to you, his eyes alight as he asks you for your opinion on Dahyun’s parents, and your heart swells to aching. You are grateful in this moment that he is still asking for it, and you are still there to give it. To talk him through his new feelings, walk him through what he is only now discovering, before he disappears from view.

There is still time, you tell yourself. Not much, maybe, but still – you have time.

~~~

The next day you are out in the kitchen when you hear the phone ring.

You rush to the library, holding it to your ear. Felix’s voice.

“Can I come over?” he asks, breathless, “For the garden?”

The two of you had always loved spending time in your family’s garden – it was lush and sprawling with blooms of every color, shaded by willows, a personal fantasy land for your imagination to roam. When you were small, you would spend hours rolling around in the beds and climbing the trees until your mother had yelled at you, gesturing to your sullied clothes. But soon enough you reached the age where you ache for responsibility, still too young to know the terrifying permanency of it once it arrives, its never-ending hunger, and so you had taken it on yourself to weed and plant and water together.

You had quickly found that you loved it. To plant seeds together, nurse them until they were flowers, protect them from harm. You and Felix would look at your garden in pride, a perfect little corner of the earth you had tended together.

Your mother had thought it was cute – until you had become a woman. Then it was unbecoming, shameful. But by that point there were no funds to pay for a gardener, so shame was an inevitability – your mother only got to choose the type.

So the two of you had tacitly come to an agreement – you could continue, but only when she wasn’t there, only when she could pretend she didn’t know, since she hadn’t technically seen.

So you look quickly, left and right, before calling out for your mother. There is only silence.

“Yes, my mother’s out,” you respond.

“Perfect,” he replies, “And I- “

He pauses. It’s unlike him to stop, to leave something unsaid.

“Yes?” you prod.

“I – “ he said, “Nevermind, it can wait.”

You know this isn’t true – he means it has to wait. Whatever it is, it’s weighty enough that he doesn’t think it’s fair to tell you over the phone. He has to tell you in person.

You swallow hard. A panic bubbles up in you, forming around a new emptiness.

“Okay,” you say, “See you soon, Lix.”

There’s a click, and you gather your skirts to head towards the garden, your stomach swirling.

~~~

Felix arrives a few minutes later with hair mussed, the sleeves of his linen shirt rolled up to reveal where his veins pop against his new muscles, freckles lit up by the sun. Your favorite form of him.

He is smiling as always, but there’s a little extra spark of something behind his eyes. He is bursting with it, rushing forward so that you’re close enough to hear, close enough for him to finally release.

And when he does, his words come in a sputter, jumbled and marked with nervous laughter bubbling up from the place between embarrassment and elation.

Dahyun’s father had called, he reveals, to his family estate. She has taken an interest in him, wants to start a courtship. He can’t believe it, that she would want to be with someone like him who had nothing more than history to offer, now more footnote at the bottom of a weathered page than a true legacy.

“Do you think she just wants a noble name?” he asked biting his, lip, brows knit, “That must be it. Her parents probably told her it’s a good idea, to confer legitimacy to the new money. They probably know about our situation, that we need the funds, thought it would be a mutually beneficial exchange kind of thing, like business—”

You hold up a single finger, placing it to his lips. His eyes widen, taken aback for a moment. You don’t usually touch him.

You don’t know Dahyun, but you know that isn’t it. Part of it maybe – no love is ever fully unsullied by the realities of society – but not all of it, not the core of it. Looking at him now, illuminated in the sun – it couldn’t be just that.

“She doesn’t just like you for that,” you insist, letting your finger fall, his eyes following it before he looks back up at your eyes, “I saw the way she looked at you that day. That wasn’t business.”

You turn away for a moment, crouching among the zinnias, pulling at the weeds.

“And so what if it happens to be mutually beneficial?” you continue, “Sounds ideal to me. A perfect match.”

You turn back, pulling your expression into a smile before meeting his eyes. He’s beaming.

“So are you going to help me here?” you tease, yanking out another fistful of crabgrass, “Or just stand there lovestruck?”

“Helping!” he says, rushing to crouch beside you, “How much time do you think we have?”

“I think she went to call on Mrs. Banks,” you say, “So maybe two hours? We can weed this section, at least.”

He bumps his knee against yours, and you get to work.

~~~

You move swiftly for the rest of the afternoon, tossing dandelions and bindweed into the wheelbarrow behind you.

The whole time, Felix talks, and you listen. He walks you through his future as he builds it in his mind, tearing down the scaffolding and rebuilding in real time. He’ll live here, but he would probably visit the city often. Or perhaps they would spend summers here, winters in the city, where the furnaces were no doubt stronger, where there wasn’t a chill from the sea. He wonders how many children she wants, how she would want to raise them.

You give him the space to ramble, as he always has with you. And honestly, you are relieved for it – the pressure in your head has returned. It is easier to just listen.

When the sun begins to set you know it’s time to hide the evidence, if you want to uphold the charade. You know you mother is on her way home.

“I think that’s probably good for today,” you say, “Don’t want to cut it too close.”

He nods, dropping his rake, wiping sweat from his brow. You take a deep breath.

“…So when are you seeing her, then?”

“Tomorrow,” he confirms, “Tea at Mrs. Cho’s, I think. Many eyes, you know, to keep it proper. To make sure I’m not doing anything untoward.”

You nod. You know too well the limits that begin to descend as soon as courting begins.

Felix helps you empty the wheelbarrow over the lowest wall, the one that has crumbled the most, and brushes the dirt from his clothes before moving towards the gate. You follow him, to see him out as you always do.

“I’ll call you after,” he says, “To tell you how it went.”

He pauses for a moment, and then reaches out to place his hand on your waist. The touch is more of a grip than usual, sliding rather than brushing its way to your hip. You place your hand briefly on his, but pull it away before the moment is fully solid, while the touch is more possibility than true contact.

“Good luck,” you breathe, “She’ll love you, I’m sure.”

He doesn’t need the wishes, you know – she will love him.

~~~

Felix doesn’t call you after, but, still, you know you were right.

You see them hand in hand, walking down the street. Sitting on street corners, taking afternoon tea. Always smiling, always laughing. The way her gloved hand inches towards his, and his bare one towards hers. You can see the ache in the space between them.

His parents call on yours early on, and you lurk in the shadows, watching the garish display. They glow with self-satisfaction, seeing now how your families’ futures will now split. They speak in terms of joy for their son, but you know at the core is a boastful, haughty thing. With the dowry, your ancient sprawling estate is the only one that will continue to yield solely leaky funds and sagging roofs. You notice how your parents wince at their happiness.

The next day they ask you – won’t you consider a suitor? It is past time, can’t wait too long, or the best options will be gone.

You make a flimsy excuses before escaping out of the room, down the hall, to your garden. You watch the dandelion seeds float in the wind, snow in summer.

You will wait, a little more. Just a little bit. The rules are different for Felix than they would be for you – he can call on you, visit, without a second thought, if he wants. It’s a choice he fully has, as long as you have no husband to stop him. He’s just busy, wrapped up in his new love right now, you tell yourself, but there will be more time. Because you will make more time.

The days roll into a week, then two. You try not to feel too disappointed, too hurt that he doesn’t feel the need to share his new life with you. You store up all the things you want to tell him, all the questions you have, all the little observations that would immediately have flowed to him before. You carry them carefully as you walk through your life, like a too-full teacup, your hand always positioned to catch a spill. But still, even with your best efforts, you start to overflow, leaving drops on the floor as the days pass. You forgot the little things before they ever can reach his ears, accumulating until they’ve pooled into important things, the kind that’s impossible to recount in their entirety at once. That can only be told honestly in pieces, broken into their smallest components, each easy enough to say to construct the harder whole.

It scares you, to have thoughts lost before he can hold them too. The idea that your life now is only yours, that it doesn’t flow, naturally, to him too.

You keep yourself busy, cleaning up the soot, repainting, trying to keep up with the gardening by yourself. Each day you wake up at dawn with an unearned hope that today he will call, today he will want to talk as much as you do, that he feels this same pressure as you do, the need to pour his thoughts into you, the thirst to receive yours in return. But the hope of your mornings is always extinguished in the silence of afternoon, the emptiness of evening.

This is for the best, you tell yourself. This is what you wanted – to have him move swiftly into the fullness of a new life, one big enough to fill up the emptiness of your separation. But still, in the deepest corner of you, you, again, resent it. That he doesn’t need you, that you are pushing your own future forward to make space for whatever few sentences he still want to give you. It’s embarrassing, pathetic. And you resent yourself for that, and then him, again, for making yourself, the only friend you now have, impossible company.

But above all the bitterness, you just miss him. It is simple and raw, with no harsh edges, even when your mind bites at the memory of him out of spite and hurt. It never bites too hard – what you have left of him is precious.

As the weeks roll into a month, you find your resolve fading, the selfishness taking advantage of your exhaustion. You know you should let him be to move on happily alone, but still – you find your hands hovering over the phone. You take detours to his house, hoping to run into him, or at least hear a snippet of his voice. But you never do.

You call, finally, on the day that the dahlias that you planted together bloom. The had thrived unexpectedly, even squished among the weeds that had grown up their sides. You hadn’t been able to keep up with the garden alone.

“Oh, he’s out with Dahyun and her family,” his mother says, “So smitten, that one. Try calling again later dear?”

So you do. A second time.

Your mother asks you about a boy who lives up the hill, whose family owns a tannery. A good trade, and a kind boy, she hears. You say he isn’t for you.

A third time.

Or perhaps the heir to the local shipping company? Sturdy man, well-built, she says. You’d like that, right? No, you reply.

A fourth time. Felix is always busy.

But still you tell yourself, in an endless loop: there is still time, there is still time, there is still time…

~~~

A letter arrives in the mail, the ink still fresh, the envelope gilded in gold.

“I think you’ll want to see this,” your mother says.

Your heart starts pounding, but you take it from her, rip it open.

Please join us in celebrating the engagement of Felix Lee and Dahyun Park…

You drop it to the floor, retracting your hand fast. You still feel the aftershock of the burn in your hand, throbbing, as you spit out the expected celebratory remarks before retreating to your room, throwing yourself on your bed.

You take a few slow deep breaths. You don’t know how you feel – it’s almost anger but not quite. It’s heavier, with less fire, but still, it sears.

You can’t identify it with any word you know so you decide – it must be joy. Your plan worked, after all – you got what you wanted. Felix is in safe hands, soon to be in the arms of someone he adores, who loves him too. A smooth, painless transition into adulthood.

Over the next few days, you focus on the practicalities of the preparations, finding comfort in the solidness of the objects. You select pearls and diamonds from your collection, heirlooms from a century ago. You think first that you will wear the yellow dress you bought recently – it’s bright and new and sunny, reminding you of him – but you always go back to the green gown at the back of your closet. It’s of the old style, but it’s pretty, the emerald of the cloth scattering light. It feels right, but you can’t explain why.

The night of the party you sit in front of your mirror, your heart thumping against your chest as you tack the pearls to your ears, hang the diamonds from your neck. You are still jumbled, but you can identify at least one emotion among the mess inside you – excitement.

You are excited that you will see him, celebrate with him, talk to him. It’s appropriate, natural, that you would, to wish your childhood best friend all the best in his next chapter. Even if it’s just a few sentences, it will be enough for you. A final paragraph, at least, a conclusion to mark the end of your youth. Some kind of closure. It still counts as time.

And you still hold out hope, that once Felix settles into his new life, into his new emotions, there might even be more time. A few months, maybe, before you enter your own engagement and are forced to close the book for good, when you could still speak with him somewhat freely. An epilogue, perhaps.

As you adjust your dress, you try to gather the most important drops of memory from the last month from the sea that now swells inside you, waves breaking against the inside of your skin. It seems impossible to select just a few questions, a few moments to scoop up. But you do.

You flatten the green cloth one final time against your lap before taking a deep breath and rising to stand.

~~~

You gasp as soon as you enter the Park Estate.

The plainness of the exterior that Felix had poked fun at weeks ago gives way to a great hall rises in columns of white marble, intricate moldings etched around each support and each window, which reveal a stunning view of the bay at sunset. A crystal chandelier hangs above you, powered, of course, by electricity, scattering light against the brass banisters that rise along the spiral stairs. They sweep up from the floor, to a terrace above where guests mingle. Trees, brought in from the tropics, hang over your head. You wonder how long they will survive in this climate.

It is better than anything you could have hoped for him. Leaps and bounds better than your low, sagging ceilings, his cracked windows.

And then you hear a low voice, as if from a dream, and you turn your head to see Felix. The rest of your breath leaves you in a quick burst, and when you try to draw a new inhale, you find the room suddenly emptied of air.

He still wears the smile you remember, and perhaps a few extra freckles over the bridge of his nose. The mussed hair from the last time you saw him has been slicked back, parted. He is a man now, fully. But still, he is himself.

And then there is Dahyun to his left, dripping a dress of cobalt, the latest fashion from Paris. You see the way his gaze darts to her as she speaks, bouncing between her eyes to her lips. And then you see – his hand in hers, rubbing gently at the cloth at her palm.

You turn away quickly, grabbing a glass of wine.

You are patient the rest of the night, watching from afar as Felix smiles and laughs at the gaggle of well-wishers perpetually swarming him. You watch a surprise serenade by Dahyun’s father, in celebration of the union. You chat with the townspeople, your parents, Dahyun’s parents. And then finally Changbin, who tells you of his life in the city. You only half-listen, but it helps pass the time.

As the light of the moon begins to mix with that of the chandelier, the room begins to clear as the party-goers bid the happy couple good night. Dahyun follows a few guests out – family that had traveled far, you assume.

And then Felix is alone, finally. You step forward, calling his name.

His head snaps to you, and a smile spreads across his face, warm and genuine. You feel like you’ll overflow, but for the first time in weeks, it doesn’t feel uncomfortable – it just feels like your past merging finally with your present, your heart stretching to make space for both.

You begin to talk before you can think, the moments and questions pouring out in a jumble despite all your planning, all the preparation for this exchange.

And then you see Felix’s eyes dart behind you, and you stop talking, turning to follow his gaze. Dahyun has re-entered the room. She stands patiently at the doorway, hands clasped in front of her, smiling sweetly at her betrothed.

“Sorry, I have to go but – ” mutters Felix without a glance back towards you, already taking a step forward, “I’ll call you later though, okay? I promise.”

And so he strides past you, and you turn to watch as he reaches out his hand. Dahyun grasps it, beaming.

Something knots itself inside you and you know – no matter hard you pick at it, try to pull, it will never come undone. But, still, it doesn’t fully choke your hope. You go home and wait for his call. You hear its ghost it in the whistling of the kettle, the sizzle of the pan.

But only a different call comes. You finally answer.

~~~

[ II ]

The following day, Dahyun and Felix board a carriage, travel for hours across empty land, before stepping out onto a busy street. It is swarmed with carriages and horses and parasols, the screech of horns and whistles.

They are visiting the city for few weeks so that she can introduce him to the world she comes from, and so, in the following days she grasps his hand and leads him: up the stairs into her massive manor in the heart of the city, to the most expensive box at the opera, through parties of the elite, full of dignitaries and captains of industry, through department stores and art galleries, always flanked by her aunts and cousins and family business partners. She holds his hand the whole time, down all the paths that have suddenly unfurled before him from the place there their bodies join. The world has never seemed so big, so infinitely accessible. An endless array of new places for him to explore.

Tonight, he follows her down the grand staircase in her home, attending a party hosted by her grandparents. It is ostensibly just a mechanical function of this circle’s strict social calendar, a requirement of high society, but when he sees her grandparents beam when they catch Dahyun’s gaze on him, he knows it is more – it’s a welcome, a celebration of them.

As Dahyun reaches the bottom of the flight she looks back to smile at Felix, and his heart tumbles. He can’t believe, still, that Dahyun chose him. She is kind, smart, beautiful, poised – every good adjective, every single thing one would ever hope to find in a wife.

He is so lucky, he knows.

The evening passes in a buzz of conversation and fine spirits, music and city lights dancing on the apartment’s gilded interior. He speaks to various family members, a few local factory owners, but he mostly speaks with Dahyun – of the social events that still remain later in the calendar year, the horse she intends to buy at the next derby, Felix’s hometown, potential places they could visit the days after. They decide to visit the city’s new public park, planned by the city’s greatest landscape architects. Once their conversation concludes, they rejoin a group of aunts chatting near the fireplace. Felix grabs a flute of champagne as they walk over.

By the end of the night he is close to dizzy, his brain just a frizzled cloud, but his limbs feel tight even as hands edge into numbness. He isn’t sure if it’s from the alcohol, or the constant stream wealth and glamour that barrages him, exciting even as it frays his nerves. Regardless, he excuses himself politely, smiling to Dahyun before retiring to his chambers.

He lies in bed, the silks cooling against his heated skin. It itches, almost, and he takes a few deep breaths, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the buzz to subside, for his blood to settle in his limbs.

And when it does, he feels –

An ache in his core. Something unsettled in his gut – corners pushing into his tender flesh, a chill where there’s a gap, the wind blowing through.

It’s just adjustment, he thinks. So many changes – Dahyun, the new wealth, new places, new people – a thousand puzzle pieces he has suddenly been given that he must use to construct a new life. He just needs to figure out the pattern, put things together.

He lets out an exhale, pulling the sheets over his head, blocking out the city lights that stream through the window. For a moment, he’s back in his childhood bed. And then, he’s asleep.

~~~

As planned, they head out early the following morning the visit the city’s central park. With initial family visits concluded and the rules relaxed now that the engagement is set, he finally is able spend time alone with Dahyun. As long as they’re in public, they can go without a chaperone looking over his shoulder, or an aunt chattering in his ear about children. He is excited to have the chance to speak freely.

And so they talk of the city’s recent growth, the trends in architecture, a revolt of the fishing union a few weeks back.

The park entrance is flanked by blooming dahlias, in peach and coral and burgundy, and Dahyun exclaims at their beauty. Felix agrees quickly, then looks ahead to the path that splits before them, wondering where it will lead, what swaying willows and magical secluded havens it will lead them through in the city’s greatest, most acclaimed offering of nature.

At the fork, they turn right. They pass meticulously maintained flowerbeds sectioned by color, perfectly round ponds cut from the earth, pristine meadows marked with signs of “No entry! Grass is growing!” They come across another split in the road that leads towards where the trees huddle together, dense and mysterious, and Felix asks if they can change direction. So they veer off the main path, in search of something more wild, but after a few minutes the path ends, and they return to the main road.

They continue walking, past wrought iron benches spaced carefully at half-mile intervals, a pond with imported fish, fountains cast in marble. They spend a few minutes in a boat at the main reservoir, rowing in a lap before bumping against the edge. It is all pretty but – he finds himself always anticipating, waiting to come across something that he can’t quite define – maybe a gnarled tree, or a frog strayed into his path, some wildflowers spread across the meadow. A surprise.

And then they are back at the start. The path, it seems, was a loop.

~~~

After returning home, they sit for lunch.

Servants swarm them, laying down silver platters full of finger sandwiches, roast meats, teapots of fragrant teas. He picks one up, pouring into the fine china in front of him. The stream sputters, tiny flecks of leaves scattering across the surface as the pot empties, leaving his cup only half-full. He reaches for another.

They talk about a fight on the rail station, the news having quickly made its way uptown. He picks up a sandwich, placing it on his plate, and offers his own story of a fight he witnessed when he was young at his own hometown’s docks, a brawl over mackerel. Dahyun giggles at the absurdity of it.

They rest for the remainder of the day in the parlor, tired from their adventure earlier, the sun having left them listless and light-weary.

They speak again about the horse she hopes to buy the following weekend at the derby, a dappled stallion. She considers if she should bring it with her to the countryside when they return. A good idea, Felix agrees, there’s certainly space for it there.

Dinner begins promptly at six in the evening, as normal. Her aunt and uncle, who were to join them, have called to say they can’t make it – her aunt has a cough, probably nothing serious, but it’s best for her to rest. Dahyun’s grandparents are absent as well, attending an evening service.

So Felix and Dahyun dine alone, accompanied only by servants and butlers. She asks him if his hometown has always been as sleepy as it is now, and he says yes, but even more so before. He asks her if this social season is as busy as they always are and she confirms, saying that while there are a few events each week this year, in previous years there are often a dozen.

She goes on to describe the kinds of parties that are thrown, the people to attend. Felix asks questions at appropriate times, reacts at the peak of each of her small stories. But then, after a few minutes, she falters.

Did she already mention the horse she wishes to buy? she asks. Oh yes, she did.

There are a few more silent seconds as she stirs her soup, and Felix jumps in to ask – what shall we do during the rest of these visit?

She exhales quickly, almost inaudibly, before tacking to the list she had begun the night before – they could visit the river walk, see the new bridge that was constructed in the last year connecting the central island to its outer boroughs. Or perhaps the botanical garden.

Felix perks up. The botanical garden sounds nice, he replies.

And then for a moment he loses himself – he tells her about the garden he once helped care for. Of the year beetles invaded, like a biblical plague, eating through all the bulbs in his neighbor’s yard, so the spring rains had only yielded soggy dirt. How there had been an invasion of leaf miners the year following, leaving white trails along the leaves of all their ferns. But they had been young, inexperienced – they didn’t realize what it was, thought they had discovered a new species of plant. Had been so proud of themselves until they had rushed to his neighbor’s mother and she had said – no that was just a pest, a bug, painting on the leaves. Little artists, she had said.

When he finishes, Dahyun is smiling sweetly. “How nice,” she says.

She looks down at her plate again, poking at the sauce, drawing a pattern. When she starts speaking again she mentions how she when she was young, she always played with her horses, participating in dressage competitions. The horse she plans on buying this week is bred for that, she says.

Ah, he thinks, again. The horse.

And then suddenly he realizes – they are on another circle. The whole day she has been getting lost in his words, and him in hers, and they return always to their starting point for safety. Each time the try to stray, the periods in their sentences are trail markers, forcing them back to well-worn topics, back to their loop.

He reminds himself that they have only known each other for a short time, have only just started spending time alone. It takes time to speak freely, to get comfortable. They are just missing the right common ground on which they together can draw new paths to explore.

So for the rest of the dinner, he asks her every question he can think of. He asks her about her favorite things, shares his. Do you like to read? Do you like the city or the countryside? Are you and your brother close? Do you frequent the museums? Do you enjoy sports?

She responds, politely and warmly, but none of her responses lead naturally into one of his own. Placing his dessert fork down he promises himself – it’s okay, no problem, we’ll try again tomorrow.

His sleep is restless, unable to stop his brain from playing out scenarios, conversations, ways to act. He can study for this, prepare for this. Ensure everything goes smoothly.

~~~

The next morning, he starts again with gusto. He is more than ready, his brain now carrying a numbered list, penned in last night’s moonlight, and so he rifles though:

(1) Do you have a favorite artist?

(2) What is your favorite season?

(3) What are your favorite parts of the city?

For the rest of the day, he continues down the list, but with no luck. When he gets in bed that night, he feels that same ache as before, but it feels more solid now – perhaps there was something off with dinner, something his body can’t figure out how to digest. He tosses the whole night, unable to relieve the pressure, but still, he starts again the following day with equal fervor.

And then the day after that. The following weekend. The following week.

When he reaches the end of his first list of questions, he scrapes to find more – tacking them on:

(1023) Oh the weather is nice today, isn’t it?

(1024) That’s a pretty tree, right?

(1025) What a nice show, don’t you think?

He is patient, tries everything, but again and again – he finds no place from which to spring, and he can tell she can’t either. There is way for him to bounce easily off into his own thoughts. He is always having to prepare himself before she finishes her sentences – contracting all his muscles with a ready thought, ready to leap into some response. He must rely on all of his own momentum, none passing between them. At the end of each day, he is exhausted.

And, even then, with all his effort, they find themselves at the same starting point, again and again. He starts to hate that godforsaken horse.

Lying in bed at night, two weeks from their trip to the park, the jumble at his core has grown more painful, like a gallstone, poking at his stomach, making him nauseous. He rolls over, burying his head in the pillow, furious at himself, frustrated. He can’t figure out what’s wrong with him, what he needs to do differently. He’s missing some optimization, some trick, needs to be more interesting, better. He always knew he wasn’t enough for Dahyun. Should he read more, learn more about art, or architecture, or…horses?

He doesn’t understand what he’s doing wrong. Why it’s this hard to find a rhythm, a flow. How it could require this much work, when it had always been so natural with you, he –

And then, suddenly, it’s clear:

The mess inside him is the accumulation of every word he and Dahyun have exchanged. They are both too much and too little, all at wrong angles. He doesn’t need more time to sort them out, readjust to make them fit together correctly.

They never will, because none of them are yours.

~~~

[ III ]

He breaks the proposal next day.

He sees how Dahyun’s face falls, fighting against tears. He knows she felt something was off too, but still, she doesn’t deserve this. He never did deserve her.

When he goes back to his room to pack, he hurls his clothing in his suitcase with his head cast to the floor, avoiding mirrors. He doesn’t want to look at himself.

He is rushed quickly and unceremoniously into a carriage, spends the whole ride back to his hometown with his head buried in his hands. He knows it would have been crueler for him to stay, but he also knows that him leaving is self-preservation, the desperate need to relief the pressure in the center of his being. He can’t pretend it’s anything noble.

As they move past the city lights, to the untamed countryside, the jumble starts to dissipate. But there is no relief – it is immediately replaced by fear, the panicked sting of uncertainty. He has no plan. He doesn’t know what he’s allowed to ask from his future.

There’s an emptiness too, that opens, particular in its tastes, screaming to be filled. A new pressure emanating from the negative space.

When he arrives home, his parents don’t speak to him for a week. And then, when they do, they just say – What a shame. How could you do this to us?

He can’t explain the truth, so he stumbles over generic excuses – sometimes things just don’t work out, I wasn’t the right one for her, I tried my best to make it work but –

They just shake their heads and turn, walking past the smudged windows, under the decaying eaves, leaving him alone to explain to himself. This, somehow, is even worse.

He hides out in a dark corner of his bedroom, knowing the whole town is abuzz with the news, afraid to run into any member of Dahyun’s family. Of being asked for an explanation that he can’t give, a truth that can’t exist.

Sitting still, the guilt accumulates around him, haunting him. But there’s another ghost, far more terrifying, made of brass, howling his name. In the haze of his future, in the swirl where potential and missed opportunity mix he knows one thing – he aches to hear your voice.

Still, though, he finds himself stalling. Passing by the phone, never touching it. The blur of the last few months has finally slowed, and with all the time alone, his brain is finally able to grasp onto everything that has happened, to inspect it. And he realizes – he told you he’d call you, but never did. Twice. He didn’t mean to break his promise, but he was so stupid and inexperienced and foolish, caught up in a dream he had thought would be his reality that he had gotten lost in time, lost track of you.

But his intentions didn’t matter. He was sure you had felt abandoned. Among all the things he is sorry for – disappointing his parents, hurting Dahyun – he hates himself most for this. He thinks of all the little thoughts and tiny hurts you had to nurse by yourself, while he was blissfully, selfishly unaware.

And so he aches to call you, more than anything, but he is equally terrified. He doesn’t know how you’ve changed over the last few months, if you are angry, if you even want to talk to him.

But after a few more days, he finally finds himself seated next to the phone, his hand on the cold metal. He starts counting down from ten, tells himself he will call at zero. He doesn’t. He counts ten more. Another ten. And then, in a huff and a blaze of courage he picks up the receiver, jamming his finger in the dial, swirling it. And the he waits, terrified, the rings of the phone and the hammering of his heart joining in a percussion of anticipation.

And then he hears a click, your voice.

“Hello?” you ask, “To whom –“

“Hi it’s –”

“Felix,” you finish.

And then there is just the crackle of a briefly severed connection. Silence.

He doesn’t know what to say, knowing that he can’t say the truth – that he returned home because it didn’t feel right, despite all the good in it, because it wasn’t this and he doesn’t know what that means and is too scared to figure it out and he misses you and he’s so sorry and he prays that you’re not mad but understands if you are. He’s not asking for forgiveness, just to hear your voice and your thoughts and any words you’ll give him. He’s empty and desperate for them. Needs them, you.

So he settles for:

“How are you?”

You respond, flatly, simply:

“Well, and you?”

He winces. This isn’t you — it’s a script. Worse than silence, worse than not knowing what you had left to offer him.

And then –

“I was sorry to hear the news about your engagement ending. I hope you are both well.”

Another line pulled from an etiquette book. Panic bubbles, and before he can think he is apologizing profusely, explaining how he just lost track but he really, definitely, still should have called. He is so sorry, so so sorry, he repeats again and again. He hopes it will help mend any hurts, will ease the block between you. But you just brush him off, saying that you were busy too, that you understand. And then nothing more.

So he then tries to lead with the things you like to talk about, to pull more from you. The kind of things that used to have you uncorking yourself, pouring into him, at the whiff of a suggestion that he was listening. But you remain restrained – not rude, just a stranger.

And then there’s a rustle in the background, and Felix hears the quick tumble of your mother’s words. He strains to make out the meaning, and then he hears another voice. A man’s voice.

And then there’s a brief quiet. He knows you’re holding your hand against the receiver, blocking your voice from him as you speak to your mother and your visitor.

“Sorry, I have to go but,” you say when you remove it, “I’ll call you later, Felix, okay?”

And then the phone clicks and he is left holding the phone to his ear like a seashell, straining to hear depths. But there is only the sound of empty space, reverberating.

~~~

Over the next few days, Felix finds himself hovering near the phone, never outside hearing distance. He knows it’s futile, knows nothing will come, but he can’t help but have a little hope. And besides – it’s easier to focus on the possibility of your voice than the probability that your guest represents.

But after a few days Felix’s hope has diminished to just a sliver, and he finally, begrudgingly, starts to force himself into the outside world, back into attempting some semblance of normal life, but he still is always thinking of you. There are side glances and hushed whispers downtown, as expected, but this isn’t the worst of it – he sees now what he was missing, secluded in his home.

You and Changbin, waltzing down the street, accompanied by your mother. In Mrs. Cho’s parlor, eating tarts. Giggling together as you ride the newly refurbished trolley, funded by his family. You have begun a courtship.

When you run into one another you are polite, an appropriate level of lukewarm. Changbin is curt – because of his sister, Felix is sure – but there’s something else there too. The edge of a possessiveness, a warning for Felix to stay back, turn away. Your mother, your new chaperone, seems oblivious to it, so Changbin doesn’t fuss. But Felix can feel its quiet heat.

And he doesn’t know if it’s this new dynamic, or your own anger, or if you simply have no attachment to him anymore, but it’s clear – that afternoon in the garden was the last time you would ever pour yourselves into one another. You have nothing to give him, want nothing from him.

So he doesn’t bother you – he just watches you from afar, sitting alone. He can never hear exactly what you say, but he watches you mouth words quickly to Changbin, laughing, raising your eyebrows in reaction to his jokes. It breaks his heart.

Felix always knew that change would come, had seen the way it did for others, but he hadn’t fully realized its weight or scope until was already upon him, crushing him. He had somehow thought that even with the backdrop of your own separate marriages, you would still be able to maintain some freedom. He had been stupid, thinking he was some exception. He had thought you would always have more time, and so he had spent it all without knowing, fool’s gold. He aches for more, still.

And so he can’t help but to nurse a space inside himself to receive anything you might be willing to give, at any time. He struggles to pad the void with blades of time he still holds from your childhood, trying make himself feel less hollow. But they’re too light, dried out, crumbling. He aches for freshness, something he can tend to.

So he collects whatever clippings he can from a distance – a glance, a faint smile, a few words – gloriously green for a second, and then all too fast brown in his clutched hands.

They are not alive. They cannot give him what he wants.

~~~

And then in Mrs. Cho’s parlor he hears it – gossip, solidifying too quickly into fact, trapping him like a cast. A snippet from a conversation behind him:

“Changbin is finally going to propose tomorrow, I hear. Asked for permission from her parents and everything already. He’s heading to the city so he has to propose, if he wants to bring her with him.”

Felix chokes on his tea. He knew this was coming, but still, he isn’t ready.

“They’re not having an engagement party here?” another voice asks, “Just leaving?”

“No, Changbin has stronger ties to the city – he’ll want to celebrate there, with his friends and business partners. Wants to set up a life there as fast as possible.”

As fast as possible. The sentence jolts through his chest.

“He’s eager to get her accustomed to city life – and he’s smitten by her, besides. Wants to move things along, start a family, establish themselves as a force in the elite circle. I spoke with his parents last week, and they say he came to them, assuring them she was the one. Said to them, ‘…she’s just so eloquent you know? Never says too much, always precise. Has a point to everything. She’ll fit in well at any party, perfect for me.’”

“Sounds like a perfect match then,” remarks the other woman gleefully.

Felix forces himself out of his chair, unable to hear anymore. The women at the table turn to him as his chair scrapes, and he pays quickly, rushes out the door. Past the crumbling walls, the shattered scales of tile, the unkept grasses to his compound, the whole time his brain replaying their conversation.

And then it gets stuck, like the needle on a phonograph.

Never says too much, always precise. Has a point to everything.

It makes him boil, limbs on fire, fists clenching. Changbin wants you like the water that runs through his pipes – washing his hands, watering his garden, filling his glass. Controlled, portioned, calibrated to a purpose. Discarding the rest down the drain, without a second thought.

And, now, too, there is the question of what to do. He had expected that you would have some sort of sendoff, a way for him to see you for the last time before you were whisked away to your new life. A few more minutes of time guaranteed before you vanish. But now, suddenly, there is nothing left.

So he makes a decision, as selfish as it is self-sacrificing. He will visit your home one last time, for one final goodbye. To wish you the best, make sure you seem happy, to let you know he’s there if you ever need him. But also, to steal a few extra moments with you, a last chance to pad out the emptiness he has carved involuntarily inside himself.

~~~

That night he stands in front of your door, fist hovering a few inches from the wood. He starts counting down from ten, tells himself he will knock at zero. He doesn’t. He counts ten more. Another ten. And then his fist is against the wood, feeling as if his hand belongs to someone else.

Your mother opens the door, wearing an apron, clearly have just come from the kitchen. She breaks into a familiar smile.

“Oh Felix! It’s been a while, come in.”

And so he does, stepping past the threshold. He hears voices down the hall, laughter.

“What brings you here, dear?” your mother asks, shutting the door behind him.

Felix swallows hard, manages to mumble, “I heard the…happy news, about tomorrow. So just wanted to come by to wish her well in person before she leaves for the city. Uh, say, goodbye to my oldest friend, you know, and – “

“Oh! Yes…that’s sweet of you,” your mother says, “She’s in the library. Changbin and her father are in the parlor actually, and sent her back there to fetch a volume on history. She’s been there a while, you can go meet her there. Ask her to rejoin the parlor when you’re done, okay?”

Felix nods, assuring her that he’ll do just that, and moves quickly down the corridor. He is relieved and deeply grateful that just your mother answered the door, that she still has a blind spot after all of these years, allowed him this one final opportunity. Perhaps a final repayment, a few minutes of turning the other way for all the hours you had given her to focus on what she wanted. He knows that if Changin saw him instead, that he’d stop Felix, politely of course, but still.

So he passes the parlor as quickly as he can, catching only a glimpse of father and soon-to-be-son-in-law sitting with piles of books, Changbin’s hand splayed over one, his index finger pointing to a line. He continues down corridor after corridor until their distant laughter fades to silence.

~~~

The library is at the very end of the hall, facing the family garden.

When he enters, he first sees your family’s phone, deceptive in its inanimate innocence. And then he your silhouette, facing the bookshelf, illuminated by candles and moonlight. You are crouched on the floor, a tumble of books to your left and right, your hand between shelves, adjusting an old leather volume.

The worn floor creaks beneath Felix’s foot, and you turn, eyes wide as you see him.

“Felix…” you breathe.

“Your mother said you were here fetching a book,” he rushes to say, only a partial explanation for his presence. He has been thinking about what to say all day, craved a moment like this for weeks, but he feels awkward, unprepared. He’s not sure exactly what he wants to say, knowing it won’t be everything he wants to say.

So for a few moments he’s just silent, his eyes fixed on the books piled around you, the empty shelves in front of you. He wonders what exactly you’re doing rearranging the library with a guest – your future husband – waiting for you.

You must catch some confusion in his expression, because you explain:

“A while ago, I organized everything by size…”

“I remember,” Felix responds.

“…But it still didn’t seem quite right, so I’m trying it in alphabetical order.”

You don’t say anything else, don’t ask why he’s there, just continue slotting in books. He worries that he want him to leave, are just being polite, but you don’t seem bothered either. You just pick up a book at a time, examining the spine, before placing it next to its new neighbors. Unhurried, in no rush to get back to the parlor.

But he still worries, so he offers, “Don’t want to take up too much of your time, I know you probably want to get back to Changbin – “

“He and my father will be perfectly fine without me for a while,” you interrupt, your back to him as you adjust a dictionary, “He sees so much of my anyway, and he’ll have plenty of time to see more of me.”

Felix swallows down the jealousy, poison rising from his heart. He’ll have plenty of time.

“I just –,” Felix continues, “Wanted to come say goodbye, I guess. I…know about Changbin’s plans for tomorrow. We just spent so much time together, so it just seemed…wanted to wish you the best, before you head to the city. To say congratulations.”

“Thank you. But it’s not like I’m leaving forever, Lix,” you say, “I’ll come back to visit now and then.”

“It won’t be the same, though.”

“No,” you say, “It won’t.”

And then you pause, before confessing, “But it hasn’t been for while, either.” Your tone is just truthful, like you are stating an everyday fact, one that doesn’t require you to form any feeling about it -- the price of milk, the time of the sunset.

Felix drops his eyes to the floor, unable to hold your gaze.

“…I had to make a real future,” you say. Your tone still holds no emotion, but it’s softer, gentler than anything else you’ve said.

When he looks back up he sees: the curtains, slanted. The fireplace, covered in soot. The paint, peeling. All the things that now fell to you to somehow fix.

“I know,” he says, gentle, too.

And then, before he can think it through:

“I miss you.”

A moment passes.

“I miss you, too,” you respond.

It isn’t an opening. It’s just an acknowledgement of the way things are, the way they will continue to be. Closure, but with none of the relief.

And then you turn back to the shelf, slotting a book back in. You are quiet for a few seconds, and he wonders if they’re the start of the eternity he has been dreading.

“Thanks for stopping by, though. Nice of you,” you say.

And then true silence. Now permanent.

He knows this is the end. That, finally, definitively, time is up. He feels like he should say goodbye, farewell, something, but to do so seems too cavalier, almost sacrilegious. There is not a word that Felix knows that can capture the weight of this departure.

So, he steals just a few more seconds, watching you before he turns, and then he hears –

A sob. You are trying to choke it down, but it’s unmistakable.

His next move is all instinct, muscle memory moving him to you, his chest to your back, arms wrapped around you, head on your shoulder. Just as he did when you fell and scraped your knee as a child, or broke your favorite toy. He should have thought before acting, turned around and left, but his head is empty, his body full of a primal need to fix and soothe.

“Hey, hey, ” he coos, “Are you okay? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come…so sorry…”

You shake your head, drawing a broken inhale. And then you turn, locking eyes with him, and he recognizes your expression. It is the same one he sees every time he looks in the mirror.

And so his next movement is both a natural progression and a huge leap. His lips, placed gently on your shoulder. Then to your neck, upwards.

He pauses between each kiss to see if it’s too far, if you want to pull away, but you don’t. You just melt back into him, moving your hand back to grip in his hair, letting him explore you. But still - you’ve only ever walked him through your mind, never through your body. He needs to stop, to ask where he’s permitted.

“Is this okay?” he whispers into your neck, “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” you sigh, “No, please, don’t stop, please.”

He presses his lips again to your neck again, reassuring you that he won’t, before asking, “Okay, let me know if I go too far, though, promise?”

You nod, and so he moves to give you what you want – his lips on yours, down your neck, fingers caressing your curves, pulling at the fabric. There’s a burning fire in his hands that finds relief only in your skin, but this is a secondary need. He doesn’t know what any of this means, what’s going on inside your head, knows it can’t change things, but he now sees a glimpse of you, an opening. He wants to soothe all of you, see all of you, hear all of you, while he still can.

So he is panicked in his questions – he knows his time is short, the door already against his feet. There is therefore no organization, just plea after plea, all that he has been aching to know, all that he is just now learning to ask. Racing to jump first from his tongue.

“Can I touch you here?”

“Have you been okay?”

“Can I take this off?”

“Did you see those weird clouds a few weeks ago?”

“Will you be happy?”

“You’re sensitive there, huh?”

It’s comical, but he doesn’t care, and, apparently, neither do you. You just answer, giving back everything that he pours into you. He hovers over you, clouds to rain, rain to your sea, evaporating back up in his sunshine. Raining down again. The cycle is endless, as natural in you as it is to the earth.

And so, you respond as best you can between gasps, the ache of pleasure in your throat as his lips travel across your jaw, below your ear, his hands gently pulling off your clothing. You don’t respond to his last question, the moan answer enough as his lips suck at your sweet spot.

And then he pauses. There’s a new riddle he has to answer – something else from your throat, requiring just his tongue but no words. His hand slides down your front, between your legs.

“Can I kiss you here?”

You nod, and he drops to his knees, pushing up your skirts. The angle is awkward, but you are both too rushed to figure out a better position, desperate for the new contact. You lean against the table behind you for support.

He’s gentle as he pulls off your undergarments, his gaze always upwards, devoted, watching your reaction carefully as he kisses up your thigh. He just wants to make you feel good, to make up as much as he can in this little additional time he’s been given for all the pain he’s caused. He’s nervous, afraid he won’t be good enough, but you know he’s new to this – he had told you, late one night in a blushing haze, everything he had never tried but desperately wanted to, so you gently guide him as you discover your body together. He listens to every word you say, every direction, until there are no more suggestions, just moans tumbling from your lips.

And then just his name – over and over, laced with pleasure, the prettiest it has ever sounded – until you give one final cry, throwing your head back.

He then sits back in the desk chair, pulling you on top of him, cradling you against his chest as your breathing evens out, as you recover from your high. He gently your hair, kissing your forehead, asking gently, “Feeling okay?”

You nod against his chest, then scoot up, burying your head into his neck. He pulls you closer, fingertips ghosting over your back.

“Lix?” you whisper into his neck.

“Mhm...?” he hums, gazing down at you, wanting to inhabit this moment forever, hold you forever, so grateful for it.

“I want you to take me.”

His heart stops. He pulls you away from him for a moment, so he can look into your eyes. He needs to be sure.

“Do you mean…?”

“Yes.” you say. Your voice is firm, determined.

It’s too much for his brain to process. To have you once and then never again, especially this once – he knows it will haunt him, that he’ll never recover. If he does this, the damage is permanent. And he knows, too, as much as he wants it – he shouldn’t.

“I know we’ve…” he says, gesturing to their position, the obvious sin in it, “But that, that I shouldn’t take. That’s for – “

“Please,” you say, “I just want this. Just this one thing. Please. One choice.”

And then, the most devastating thing you could say:

“I want this to be ours, even if nothing else is after.”

And this time, he’s the one that has to bury his head into you, to steady himself, to comfort himself. Trying to grapple with how full this moment is, and how empty he’ll be after.

Ours. And then, abruptly, just his. But he knows, with certainty, he’ll give you anything you want. Pour his whole future into this moment so that you can carry into your own separate future. A parting gift.

“Okay,” he exhales, “How do you want me?”

You readjust your legs, straddling his lap, then lean in to press your lips to his. You kiss him slowly, tenderly, and he reciprocates, supple in your hands. Letting you take him as you want, anything you want.

“Just like this,” you say. He cups your face, nodding.

And then you reach for his belt, and he watches as you undo the buckle, unbutton his pants. He can’t believe it’s happening, wonders if it’s a hallucination – until you reach inside, gently grabbing his already hard length, tip weeping, and he feels how sensitive he is to your touch. He’s worried about how long he can last, if he’ll do a good enough job, that this will be a lousy gift, a lifelong disappointment to remember him by. This is, after all, his first time too.

You reposition yourself and move down slowly, his tip just brushing against your folds. They’re wet, swollen. He’s already fighting to keep his orgasm down.

And then you begin to sink down on his length, and he sees the way you bite your lip, your eyebrows knit together.

“Hey,” he says, lifting your chin so your eyes meet him, “What’s wrong?”

“Hurts…” you admit. He feels a flutter of panic – the last thing he wants is to hurt you more.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks, rubbing circles into your cheek, “We can stop, whenever, if it’s too much.”

“No, I want this. I’m sure, ” you confirm.

“Okay,” he says, moving his other hand to cup your face, “Take all the time you need then.”

So you do. It’s a slow process, full of fits and starts, as you ease down his length. The whole time he kisses you, can’t step telling you how good you are, how well you’re taking him, how you’re almost there. And then when you finally reach the bottom, he leans in, kissing you hard, his hands gripping your waist, then moving down to your hips.

And then you start to move. It’s sloppy at first, but you find a rhythm quickly. His dick only grows harder inside you as he watches you bounce in his lap, something he never thought he’d see, never even dared to picture in his most secret fantasies. He thinks he could never feel better, and then you start to speak –

“Feel so full, Lix.”

“You fit so perfect inside, me.

“So good, making me feel so good.”

They’re the best words he’s ever heard, and he never wants you to stop, wants to store as many inside him as he can for the long winters ahead, so he begs:

“Please, let me hear you. Want to hear you, please.”

So you let him, brushing his hair from his forehead as you say how pretty he is, how wet he’s making you, how much you love riding him. He’s dizzy and throbbing and oh –

His hands are on your waist, stopping your motion, and you whine in protest.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes glued shut, “I was going to cum. You feel too good, I’m too excited, I’m sorry. And I can’t…not inside, not when – ”

You’re about to be engaged to someone else. Leaving tomorrow. He can give you anything but this.

You wince at the reminder, but then nod slowly. You ease yourself off him, and his cock slaps back against his stomach, red and rigid, wet with his arousal and yours. His eyes are still screwed shut, on the very edge of release. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

“Can I touch you?” you ask gently. Felix nods. You place both of your hands on his cheeks.

“You still want to cum?” He nods again.

And then he feels one of your hands lace with his, the other wrapped around his cock. One, two pumps is all it takes, and he’s spilling all over himself. He knows he should feel embarrassed, exposed, but it just feels natural to have you be the first to see him come undone. Just another first in the long line of firsts that you’ve shared with him.

When he opens his eyes you are on your knees in front of him, gently wiping his release from his stomach, his softened cock. It feels good to have you tend to him like this – it feels familiar, just like when he was sick, or hurt. This is just a natural evolution, now that you’re grown. When you are done, he holds out his arms, beckoning you back to him.

And so you settle against his chest again, curling up in his arms. He checks on you again, asking if you are okay as he rubs your back.

But this time you pause before shaking your head, drawing one shuttering breath, burying your face in his shirt. He starts to panic – did he do something? Hurt you? Were you regretting this?

“Hey,” he says, “What’s wrong?”

You take another long, broken breath.

“Miss you already,” you say, “Don’t want to go, don’t want you to go, I…”

“It’s okay,” he coos, “I got you, I’m here now. I can stay for a little. We have time.”

He knows this is only partly true – your mother could change her mind at any moment, tell Changbin. But Felix will do anything to soothe you, to help your transition back to reality, even if that requires him to spin you a fantasy for a few minutes.

“I’m not ready,” you say, shaking your head against his shoulder, grasping at his shirt, “Thought I would be ready, been trying to get ready for this for years, for how hard this would be. Tried to stay away when you came back, focus on Changbin, my family, my future. Tried to want him. But I’m not ready to leave you and I don’t know what to do…”

You start to ramble, finally pouring your whole self into him, each of your thoughts immediately becoming his. Exactly what he has desperately wanted, but every one of your words hurts. And one more than all the others.

“Years?” Felix asks.

You nod your head against his chest.

“Why didn’t you talk to me about it?”,he asks, lifting your face to his. It’s not accusatory, just sad, echoing with the hollowness of missed opportunity, of time already passed.

“Didn’t want you to be thinking about it too. Didn’t want you worrying if you didn’t realize the full reality yet. I just wanted you to move on, forget about me, start a new life with Dahyun…”

His heart drops as he realizes – you had been nursing this alone, been scared alone, to protect him. Manufacturing the illusion of time for him to play in, a dark deal to extend his childhood. Paying for his joy with your own loneliness and exhaustion. And he knows, then, that it’s his turn to be honest with you – of all the things he has collected for you only over the last couple of months, there is only one thing, simple, at the core of everything.

“I couldn’t,” he admits, “I wasn’t ready either. I tried, but I couldn’t imagine a life with her. Because she wasn’t you.”

You look up, eyes wide, fixing your gaze to his, as the truth settles on your shoulders – you have always been on the same page.

And then two sentences emerge from where they had always been lurking in the shadows of Felix’s mind, placing themselves precariously on the stack of every other word you have ever exchanged. He chokes on them – he has never tried to say anything this heavy.

Please don’t marry him. Marry me.

Caught, they already sting his throat, his mouth – he knows they will always be branded on his tongue, regardless of your answer. He has to say them before they burn through the muscle, silencing him, leaving those words forever unspoken.

But he hesitates, and in the that wasted moment, your eyes catch behind him. He turns to see what you’re looking at – the garden, overrun with weeds, the flowers dying. A thought forms, and then, as is natural between you, it is tumbling out of your mouth:

“We should water the garden more often, until it recovers.”

When you turn back towards him he is beaming, and you beam back.

You know his question. He knows your answer.

~~~

Photo by Zach Plank on Unsplash

767 notes · View notes