Chapter Text
🕷 you 🕷
One strawberry tart, one white chocolate madeleine, one iced americano.
They weigh down the tray more than they should, as he grips it anxiously and scans the crowded second floor of the polished little café. You watch him, as he clings to the sides of his wooden tray like it’s going to protect him, as his eyes widen. You stir your drink, and you watch him.
You come to this café reasonably often, and you’ve long since figured out what times on what days are the busiest. The mastery of snagging a window table with the comfortable chairs is something that comes naturally, now, and today is no exception. You’ve been here, quietly working, for a good part of the day. But this guy (boy? man?) is throwing a wrench in your routine, simply by showing up.
He’s familiar in a way that tickles your brain, in his dad hat and mask and nondescript, pressed clothes and expensive shoes. Anonymous in a pointed way, normal in a strange way. He stands out as much as he blends in, as if by design.
And there’s nowhere for him to sit.
Every table is taken. He seems to not know what to do, as he lingers by the stairwell and simply watches, as if he’s going to make someone leave and free up some space by sheer nervous energy. You’re sat at a four-person table by yourself, belongings sprawled across the tabletop beside your own tray. Well. This is a problem you can fix, isn’t it?
You catch his eye. You beckon him over, gesturing to the empty chairs. He meets your silent offer with a raised eyebrow, and when you shrug and return your attention to your cup, you can feel his gaze still on you.
He comes over to you a second later, his tray clacking onto the table.
“Can I…?”
Two things stand out to you, as he asks his nervous little question and tries to meet your eye confidently.
He’s speaking to you in English, with a thick accent.
And you know who he is. Without a doubt. That voice is unmistakable. And once you look up properly, so is that face.
“Of course.”
“Everywhere else is full,” he says apologetically, “Unless you mind…”
You smile at him, “I offered, didn’t I?”
He pushes his tray onto the table properly and slides into the seat diagonal to yours after a moment’s contemplation. Not directly across from you, not next to you. A safe place to sit, when you’re sharing a café table with a complete stranger.
“Thanks,” he says simply.
The iced americano sweats into his palm as he sips it. His eyes flicker over to you every so often, as you scribble into your notebook and debate how to bring up that you know who he is. If you even need to; he might just eat and bail and that’ll be the end of it.
But then, you absently turn your phone over to check the time, and he glances down at the screen when it lights up.
The screen, with its background photo of an idol.
Not him. Someone else. But his eyes widen even more, saucer-like, and he looks up at you with no small amount of panic.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he says, voice strangled, obviously trying to brush it off and failing.
You tell him.
“Cool. I’m-”
“Felix,” you answer, deciding it’s best not to play coy.
“…Yeah.”
You can see that hint of panic grow larger in his gaze, as if he’s already picturing the headlines that will emblazon the web browsers of the world come tomorrow. As if you’re about to sell him out, as if you’ve already taken a hundred photos and sent them off to ruin his life.
“It’s nice to meet you,” you say, simply, like he’d spoken to you, and return your attention to your notebook and pen.
Silence.
The wheels are turning in his head as he takes a bite of the madeleine, as he worries his straw between his square front teeth. You’re still writing, genuinely trying to finish out the page of notes that you’d started before this entire encounter began. His presence is thrilling, but not necessarily distracting, you think to yourself.
“Are you…” he starts, after a while, “Are you…you know…a fan, of…”
“Yeah, you could say that,” you nod.
“Well I figured you liked k-pop, because of the-” he points at your phone with the hand holding the half-eaten madeleine, “But that doesn’t mean you like. You know. Us.”
“I like you guys, too.”
“Cool.”
It’s not like this is a task that you can pass or fail, but all things considered, you feel like things are going well. He’s talking to you. He only seems to be feeling the requisite amount of fear towards you, as a public figure meeting a fan without the buffer of a formal event.
You don’t want him to be nervous. He’s a person. You’re a person. You’re sharing a table because the café is too full.
It’s weird, but it’s not that weird.
“Those are good,” you tell him, pointing to the strawberry tart.
“Are they?”
“Yeah. They didn’t have any out when I came in earlier, or else I’d be about two deep right now,” you grin.
“D’you…d’you want half of this one?”
You blink at him.
He’s offering you something?
He’s offering you his food?
“That’s yours,” you brush off, with a laugh, “It’s fine, you enjoy it.”
“You let me sit here,” he counters.
“Just the nice thing to do.”
“A lot of people don’t look out for strangers like that,” he says.
“You’re not exactly a stranger,” you tease.
“You didn’t know that in the moment,” he replies, matching your pace perfectly. “Or did you. Did you? Do I need to be worried?”
But he’s grinning wide and honest under the brim of his low-slung hat, and butterflies take flight in your chest. The idea that he’s at least a little bit comfortable with you makes you warm and content inside in a way that you couldn’t have anticipated.
“Nah, it’s me who should be worried,” you reply.
He cocks his head to the side. “Why?”
“Why?”
He nods.
“Because one word from you that I was rude to you and I’m ripped in half by the rest of the stans,” you say, too honest to pretend it’s a joke.
“You’re not being rude,” he assures you.
He’s cutting the strawberry tart in half as he’s speaking, and you watch with apprehension as he scoops the pieces apart and deposits one onto your own empty plate, sitting beside your notebook.
“You really don’t have to do that,” you say.
“I want to. Consider it a thanks.”
You have no choice but to accept.
The two of you (and God, is it strange to think of you as ‘two’ even in this limited context) eat the tart in silence, again, his hands and your brain both too busy to make more conversation.
And anyway, what is there to say?
You want to write it out on your notebook, draw question marks and scribble shapes down the page until you understand what’s going on. This is too ordinary, too simple. It’s unnerving.
He breaks the silence, once his food is gone and his drink is down to the ice.
“I don’t have long,” Felix says, almost apologetically, as if you’d meant to meet here.
“That’s fine.”
“But before I go…would it be entirely inappropriate to ask for your number?”
Your mouth is honest. “Why?”
“Because I never really get to make friends on my own,” he says.
It’s such a normal answer.
It’s so normal that you want to believe it.
“I mean…I’m okay with it,” you say, “But do you really want me to have your number? Isn’t that, like…a huge risk?”
“Only if you plan on doing something suspicious,” he replies.
“I don’t.”
“Then it’s fine.”
He’s just smiling softly, like he’s really excited at the prospect of being in contact with someone new and non-famous that he met all by himself. It’s childish, almost, not immature but childlike in its simplicity. You would want to do it regardless, and his attitude only doubles your desire.
“Yeah, I guess,” you agree.
Just like that, Felix hands you his phone.
It feels like immense trust. Everything you’ve ever known, or just imagined, about famous people, and their privacy…it completely contradicts this moment. The idea that you’re holding his phone in your hands, a device with contacts that could change either of your lives in an instant, overwhelms you a bit.
So you decide not to think about it.
You just open his dial pad, and call yourself. It’s the most complete and polite way you can think of to give him your number, and also give yourself his number in return.
“How should I save you?” you ask him.
“In your contacts?”
“Yeah.”
“With my name?” he grins.
“Is that okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t wanna overstep any lines, here,” you say.
“I appreciate that,” he replies, “But you can use my name. It’s fine. I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t fine.”
“Okay.”
A few seconds of typing, and he’s in your contacts. Casual as anyone. He must add you to his phone, too, because there’s a message comprised entirely of emojis pinging onto your screen soon after. You just stare at the name, trying to figure out if the butterflies still tickling at your ribs are anticipation or anxiety.
That name, solidified in pixels, yours to borrow for now.
Felix Lee.
🦋 him 🦋
That girl is leaving when he gets home.
That one that Chan likes.
No, Felix amends, as he watches Chan linger just out of her reach for a goodbye kiss and smirk at her with his very best stage smirk, the one that doesn’t quite soften his eyes. That girl that Chan keeps around.
He hasn’t bothered to learn her name. Chan says it all the time, but it hasn’t found its way into Felix’s mind yet. Maybe if they decide to make things official, he can learn it. Not official with the fans or anything, since that would go over about as well as a death or a disbandment, but official between the two of them.
She’s just a fuckbuddy. A cool girl, smart and gorgeous, but just something that Chan uses, like he uses the gym and the studio room and the microwave. She knows it, too, and that’s what confuses Felix the most about the entire deal.
They work well for each other. But that doesn’t mean that it’s a good thing.
But Felix reaches the front door, and that girl gives him a half-smile and a wave as she turns on the heel of her chic ankle boots and walks away. Chan stares after her, watching her skirt swish around the back of her thighs. Felix isn’t really looking. He follows Chan’s gaze, sure. But there’s nothing of interest in her retreating figure.
She’s extremely pretty, and nice enough, but she’s nowhere near as interesting as the person Felix met today.
“Hey,” Chan says, his normal demeanor returning now that his girl is gone. “Where’ve you been?”
“Out,” Felix tells him.
“Do anything fun?” he grins.
“Got some coffee. People-watched a bit.”
Chan ruffles Felix’s hair absently, as he passes by and wanders toward the kitchen. “’S nice. Sounds like a good day, bro.”
It’s amazing to watch Chan settle back into his own skin after time with that girl. It’s not dissimilar to watching him relax after a performance, watching the hard shell of stage adrenaline wear off and the soft, thoughtful, decently emotionally-aware person underneath resurface.
Felix watches Chan a lot. It’s just how they work. But these moments always feel different, somehow.
And today is even more different, still. Felix has his own corner of a secret to hold, his own number to text and his own someone to reply. Not in the same way, because Felix isn’t Chan and he’s not looking for a warm body with a golden ratio. But he has someone, now.
Maybe.
If she’s interested.
🕷 you 🕷
Evenings are leisurely for you, most of the time, but tonight there’s a sense of importance in everything you do.
Your brain is running a mile a minute, and it’s all you can do not to stare at your phone screen, to open that text conversation with a total of two messages in it and look at it until sleep claims you. You can’t do that, because that’s beyond unhinged and you have to get unready for the night, anyway.
But you want to.
You wash your face, and you think about Felix’s worried eyes, his panic that you knew him. You meet your own gaze in the mirror, wonder what he was thinking. Well. You know what he was thinking, in general.
No, you wonder what he was thinking about you.
As you get into bed, as you sync up something to watch on your phone to distract you, you wonder. What’s he doing right now? What does his room look like?
You wonder if his room tells as much of a story as yours does, as you look at your albums shoved into corners and tucked onto shelves. Your lightsticks, collecting dust above your vanity. You’re sure that if Felix could see your surroundings right now, he would block your number and never speak to you again. And it would make perfect sense.
But even so. You treated him like a person today, and you’re proud of that. If nothing else, it gets you a cool story to tell and maybe even a drinking buddy or something, a few-times-a-year hangout. You’re happy to be one of his real-world escapes, if that’s what he wants.
You settle in for some YouTube in the darkness, a bit of calm for the buzzing under your skin, a dimmer for your blinding excitement. But you can’t turn it off entirely.
Tonight, the glassy paper eyes of the posters tacked across your apartment walls seem just a little more alive than usual.