Not for a single moment had Felix considered the possibility that Chan might kiss him back. That prospect simply didn’t exist in his mind. Taking a punch to the face had seemed far more likely—deserved even—since he’d just crossed a line that should have been unbreakable, even though neither of them had explicitly defined it. And yet, Chan didn’t punch him. He hesitated, but only for a moment, just long enough for surprise to catch him off guard. Then it was as if someone had flipped a switch. The playful, defiant tension shifted in an instant. Felix couldn’t possibly be the only one who felt it, that heat. Could Chan feel it too? He must.

The answer comes when Chan’s teeth graze Felix’s lips, and for a moment, Felix feels like he’s dying. His mouth parts to say something, but not a single sound escapes. Chan takes advantage of the opening, pushing his tongue between Felix’s lips, and Felix clings to him, pressing their bodies together so tightly that not even a sheet of paper could fit between them.

Chan’s hands trail down his body. When they grip his ass, Felix completely loses himself. Screw the party, Jennifer, his parents, the entire world. He moves his tongue against Chan’s, grinding his hips against him, and Chan groans into the kiss. Felix devours that sound. Chan’s hands roam and squeeze without hesitation or restraint. If the world around them didn’t exist, Felix is certain they’d end up fucking. Just to spite Jennifer, obviously.

They break apart, gasping for air. Chan rests his forehead against Felix’s, and Felix realizes it’s over. That damned moment he’d been waiting for his entire life had come out of nowhere, burned brightly like a flash of fire, and now it was nothing but smoke and ash. He breathes slowly, his heart pounding in his veins. Chan’s grip on his ass loosens and finally lets go. Clearing his throat, Chan says, his voice still rough, “Shit. Maybe we put on too much of a show?” He laughs, as if it’s all innocent, just a dumb overreaction between bros.

Felix doesn’t even know how he’s going to hide his hard-on under the skirt. He simply can’t. He pulls away from Chan, and the backlash hits him—the punch that should’ve come earlier strikes now, and even though no one’s throwing it, he feels it anyway. He needs five minutes, maybe five hours, five years, five lifetimes. He steps away from Chan with his head down. He doesn’t have the courage to look him in the eye, but he doesn’t feel embarrassed. He feels... angry. And he doesn’t even know why that anger is bubbling up inside him, but it is. “I’m going to the bathroom,” he snaps. Chan stammers something, caught off guard, but Felix doesn’t listen. He walks past him without looking back, moving until he finds what he’s looking for, then shuts the door behind him. Leaning against it, he stares straight ahead. Smooth white tiles. He breathes slowly.

He kissed Chan, and it was the best moment of his life. Now he has to deal with the aftermath. Because that moment is over, but life goes on. Because before, he didn’t know what it felt like, and now he does. And the difference is staggering.

He kicks off his heels and hurls them against the wall, as if they’re to blame for all this mess. He buries his hands in the wig and yanks it off. Walking to the sink, he turns on the faucet, takes two big gulps of water, then stares at his reflection in the mirror. It’s a joke. How can he take himself seriously? Of all the fools in the world, he’s the king. The buzz is completely gone now. His throat still burns with a thirst for wine. He needs alcohol, and there’s no real reason why—it just is. He wants to silence the voices that are ready to torment him. He doesn’t want to listen to them, not yet. He’ll have a thousand nights to agonize over everything that went wrong tonight, but not now.

The wig, abandoned on the sink, looks like a dead animal. Felix sighs. He shoves it back on his head, trying to fix it with his fingers, though it doesn’t look as good as before. He picks up his shoes from the floor. When he puts them back on, they hurt more than ever. He curses under his breath, then stands up straight in front of the mirror and looks down. At least his little friend below is too depressed to stand at attention now. Small blessings.

He leaves the bathroom. The party hasn’t stopped, and people are still dancing, romantically entwined. Felix walks past them with disdain, as if their happiness personally offended him. He grabs a glass of wine from a waiter and moves to a corner of the room to drink it. When that glass is empty, he takes another.

By the time Chan finds him, Felix has drunk enough wine to see blurry and feel nausea creeping in.

“Jesus Christ. Stop drinking—fuck,” Chan curses. Felix feels his friend’s hands on his shoulders and mutters, “Fuck off,” in a kind of whimper.

“Fuck off yourself,” Chan fires back, frowning, though his tone isn’t angry or harsh. “I’m sorry, okay? I overdid it. Don’t act like a child now.”

“Ah!” Felix laughs, throwing his head back. “Fuck you, Chan. Fuck you and leave me alone. Don’t make me repeat myself, or I’ll—”

“What? Lose your shit like you do every time you’re drunk? Not now. Fuck. Look—let’s go upstairs.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“I’m not going to touch you—”

“That’s not the problem!” Felix shouts, raising his voice. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

“Fuck,” Chan hisses through clenched teeth. Then he grabs Felix by the wrists, yanking him up despite his protests. Chan’s stronger, and that’s enough to win. Felix squeezes his eyes shut; his wrists ache under the tight grip. He tries to brace himself with his legs, but the heels don’t give him enough traction. Chan drags him upstairs, and Felix hates him more with every step.

The ordeal ends only when Felix is pushed into a room. Chan turns on a lamp, its dim light partially illuminating the space. “You can’t drink like that at a party with my entire family here.”

“Fuck you,” Felix growls.

“Is the record stuck? Can you say anything else?”

“Fuck you, Chan.”

“Fine, I’ll fuck off. But not now. Christ, I didn’t know you were this—this sensitive. It was just a stupid kiss. Why act like the world just ended?!”

“You don’t know shit—” Felix snaps.

“Because you don’t explain!” Chan retorts.

Felix yanks the wig off again, and this time he feels like the lead in a drag queen drama. There’s something both comedic and tragic about it all. Felix thinks: Now I’ll tell him. Now I’ll confess and ruin his night. Now I’ll tell him and make him understand why he’s such an asshole. But not a single word comes out. He stands there, lips parted, a scowl on his face.

Chan runs a frustrated hand over his face. “I don’t get you. I really don’t. You kissed me first. I didn’t think it was a problem if I—look. I’m sorry, okay? For everything. I guess it’s hard for you. I made you dress up like this ridiculous—thing, and then I… I went too far. I fucked up. I thought we were having fun. I was wrong. Don’t hate me for this—I’m not an asshole. I care about—”

Felix steps closer to Chan, placing his hands on his cheeks. That torrent of words is silenced against his mouth. The only thought Felix can form is that Chan tastes like vodka lemon. He sucks on his lips as Chan presses into him like someone’s wound a spring. Felix finds himself pinned against a wall again, but this time, there’s no one watching.

This time, they’re alone.