( This is dedicated to my newfound soulmate, Ai. This is for you, little stalker. Much love from the Nazi! )

“Come on, kiddo, it’s time for beddy-bye!”

Seungcheol pushed the door open and stepped into his son’s messy, cluttered bedroom. His eyes slightly widened at the sight—action figures sprawled on the carpeted floor, Michael Jackson posters peeling off the blue-colored walls, and plastic chairs tumbled against the foot of the bed. And he could not miss the stereo blasting Billie Jean loudly and Chan moonwalking towards him from the other side of the room.

“I think I got it, Dad, I think I got it!” he screamed excitedly after he twirled on his toes for the big finish.

Seungcheol playfully rolled his eyes and scooped him up with his arms in an instant, inviting Chan’s off-guard squeals.

“Put me down! Put me down!”

He directed his legs to kick Seungcheol’s waist, but the latter did not budge or grunt in pain while he settled Chan on his Lightning McQueen-shaped bed. A frown was permanently seared across his face as Seungcheol dragged the comforter up and puffed the pillows for him.

“I don’t want to sleep yet,” he said, pushing the comforter off of him, much to Seungcheol’s dismay.

“It’s one-thirty, Chan! And it’s a school night! I know I said you should have fun but that doesn’t mean you should have no sleep!”

“But I’m not tired yet!” Chan protested while Billie Jean picked up for a second time. “Just this once, Dad, just this once, pleaseeee?”

Then Chan instantly launched into his perfected sequence of begging: adorable puppy eyes, pouty lips, fingers clasped in front of his chest in plea.

Seungcheol stared blankly at him, trying not to pinch his son’s cheeks. I’m immune. I’m immune. I’m—

Chan let out an undoubtedly fake sob, but Seungcheol gave in anyway.

“Fine, but just this once.”

Chan’s eyes brightened. “Yeay!” he cheered and leaped joyfully, unnoticing Seungcheol’s shoulders sagging in defeat. The former quickly tweaked with the stereo, replacing the King of Pop with Guns N’ Roses before he danced on the bed, just when the first tunes of the song were heard.

“Sweet Child O Mine? Really?” Seungcheol sighed, helplessly watching his son mimicking every movement of Axl Rose, an imaginary microphone in his hands. But he sat on the edge of the bed and nodded along to the music, waiting for his perpetual ball of energy to simmer down. Before he knew it, he had fully surrendered and extended a hand towards the stereo, bringing Kurt Cobain into the picture.

Chan whined, loud and disapproving, “Dad, not Nirvana!”

Seungcheol pretended not to hear, though. Heart-Shaped Box rumbled intensely through the walls and soon he was the one with an imaginary microphone in his hands, and Chan’s expression had distaste written all over it, although he did a few popping here and there.

By half past one, Chan was sweating and panting but Seungcheol knew he still wouldn’t be able to sleep without some lullaby. Kurt Cobain climbed out of the window as he tucked the eight-year-old securely under the comforter, smiling when Chan opened his lips for a yawn.

“Sleep tight, Channie,” he whispered, planting a kiss on Chan’s forehead, and his son hummed in response. Seungcheol pressed a button on the stereo and welcomed the soft, mellifluous voice that belonged to Yoon Jeonghan.

Chan fluttered his eyes closed, and that was when Seungcheol got to work. He gathered all the action figures and placed them on the wooden shelves; he ripped double-sided tape with his teeth and attached the corners of the posters back in place; he lifted, folded and propped the chairs; he closed the windowpanes, blocking out the harsh rain of Rio de Janeiro, all the while accompanied by Jeonghan’s croons and Chan’s steady breathing. Warmth spread through him, to the edges of his toes and the tips of his fingers, and continued to do so when he pulled up a chair he just folded and sat on it.

He liked watching Chan sleep. Partly because he was beautiful and fragile and at peace with the world when he was in slumber. Partly because Chan was awfully good at pretending to be asleep and once had replaced Jeonghan’s Madman with Alice Cooper’s No More Mr. Nice Guy when Seungcheol had exited the room.

“Chan?” he tentatively asked.

“Yes, Dad?” the young boy answered in a low, sleepy tone.

“Are you happy?”

Chan’s eyes peeked open and he tugged a sincere smile. “I am, Dad.”

“Okay,” he replied, but guilt washed over him before he knew it.

The snores started at a quarter to two, signaling that Chan was completely in dreamland, but Seungcheol couldn’t leave just yet. He set the stereo to play Jeonghan’s entire album and listened in his seat, letting the guitar strums cool his aching muscles and Jeonghan’s singing to distract his attention from his restless heart.

“These are crap.”

Jeonghan rolled his eyes. “You’ve said that for thirteen times now.”

“Fourteenth, then—these are crap,” Seokmin repeated, shaking his head in disgust. “Are you ting me, Jeonghan? These look like they’ve been written by five-year-olds.”

Jeonghan heaved an exasperated sigh and punched the opened notebook set in front of them with his ballpoint. “What about this one? I think this one is the best. Maybe I can make it the title track.”

A frown was drawn on Seokmin’s face. The brown-haired male scanned the multiple song lyrics jotted down on the yellowed papers, furrowing his brows at Jeonghan’s signature scrawny writing. “It’s decent,” he decided. “That’s my highest compliment.”

“Highest?” Jeonghan asked disbelievingly. His confidence declined a little bit, but he tapped the lyrics with his ballpoint again, urgent and vehement. “Come on, Seokmin. Take a really good look at this one. It brings a nice message, don’t you think?”

The way Seokmin scoffed made Jeonghan cower in the meagerness of his self-esteem. “Nice message? You’re ed up, man. These lyrics may be about love, but I don’t feel it when I read them.” He leaned back on the mustard-colored sofa he was sitting on (it was the ugliest thing Jeonghan had ever laid his eyes on) and dipped his head against the headrest, signifying his final words.

Jeonghan chewed the insides of his cheeks. It was something he always did whenever he was uneasy, and Lee Seokmin was the only person he had ever known that could prompt amplified agitation upon him. He could feel the blood on his tongue, rough and metallic, while he flipped through the crumpled pages of his notebook and showed another set of lyrics to his friend and confidant.

“I’ve read all of them, Jeonghan,” Seokmin grumbled as he waved his hand in rejection. “Rereading them won’t change my opinion.”

The firmness of his tone was a sign of (another) failure to Jeonghan. The latter slumped in his seat across the glass table, letting the ballpoint slip away from his fingers towards the floor. Where did he go wrong?

“Have I lost my touch?” he croaked. He did not want to sound that desperate, but he figured everyone that stayed and survived in this industry was not fueled by happiness, either.

Seokmin folded his arms in front of his chest, his speculating eyes boring into Jeonghan’s perturbed face. “I think you have. This music isn’t you, Jeonghan. I don’t see any connection between you and the words.”

“But I wrote them,” the long-haired man insisted, like a child.

“And yet there’s no truth in those!” exclaimed Seokmin.

A patch of silence stood between them. Jeonghan turned his head, focusing his gaze on the glass-paneled walls that overlooked the city below: the Marvelous City, in all its breathtaking January glory. He could see the ocean from up here, crushed waves of crystal blue lapping up the golden dunes. Lines of black roads specked with yellow blurry dots, flanked by colorful and humongous skyscrapers rising to the clouds. Christ the Redeemer was in the far corner, arms outstretched, guarding Rio from atop Corcovado Mountain.

“Look, you’ve still got hours to spend before your concert starts.”

Seokmin’s words retracted him from his daze, and Jeonghan reluctantly tore his eyes off the grand view.

“Huh?”

“Why don’t you take a look around? Visit the beach, go shopping, eat at a restaurant, flirt with a guy, have some irresponsible, unemotionally invested ? You’ll feel better in no time.”

A scoff escaped Jeonghan’s lips, and Seokmin let out a chuckle. “Don’t lie to me. We all know how prurient you truly are.”

“Shut up before you lose your mouth,” Jeonghan scowled, inviting Seokmin’s loud snigger.

“But, in all seriousness,” the producer continued, his voice hardening, “I think you should let go, Jeonghan. It’s okay to let loose.”

Jeonghan grimaced. “Letting loose is a luxury I can’t afford, Seokmin.”

“Don’t you know why Madman was such a hit?” Seokmin questioned in an impatient tone. “Or why every album you put out were?”

“I—”

“Because they spoke the truth. They were honest. They were honest about you, Jeonghan. Vulnerability is very rare in music and in the industry itself nowadays.” He paused. “That’s why people appreciate it so much.”

Jeonghan bit his lips. Seokmin was looking at him expectantly, but he merely stood up from his seat and inserted his notebook to his backpack, his sad eyes meeting Seokmin’s a few moments later.

“That’s why people take advantage of it, too,” he murmured, slinging his backpack on his shoulder. “I’ll see you later.”

Mingyu was propping against the wall when he reached the lobby. He instantly shoved his phone into his pocket when Jeonghan was within earshot. The long-haired man raised a suspicious brow at him. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” his manager replied, sweeping his electric blue fringe away from his sweaty forehead. “Come on, put your sunglasses on. Let’s go for a walk.”

Jeonghan fished his sunglasses from his jeans’ pocket and put them on just when two young girls near them began whispering. Mingyu cleared his throat and pulled him out of the building and to the open streets before the nerves and headaches could settle in. Being outdoors was something he despised—the inquisitive glances, the people enclosing him, the desperate act of clinging towards the last shreds of anonymity. As they wove through the bustling street, passing high-end restaurants and sparkly boutiques and yellow-hued taxis whizzing by, he walked with his head permanently bowed. It was not until a few seconds’ silence and ten meters later that Mingyu barked.

“Knock it off. They’re gone. No one will recognize you. Honestly, Jeonghan! We’re in Rio, for ’s sake. Live a little.”

A frown managed to make its way to Jeonghan’s face, but he knew better than to kick-start an argument—there was a likely chance that Mingyu would invent some strange but inexplicably relevant reason if he did. So, he chewed on the insides of his cheeks and tried to withstand the hot and stifling temperature. Mingyu sensed his restlessness and babbled to no end as a distraction, but it didn’t make things better.

“Oh, look!”

Mingyu stopped in front of a newsstand, aiming an eager finger at the headline of one newspaper.

“I don’t know what it means, but it has ‘Yoon Jeonghan’ on it and I bet you R$20 that it only says good things about you.”

Jeonghan peered at the newspaper and scoffed. “What if it’s only about how crappy my tour has been?”

“Then I’ll go to the office of”—Mingyu squint his eyes—“Rio de Janeiro Jornal and kick some asses.”

He chuckled at that, but supposed it sounded bitter, because Mingyu stared at him through his big, earnest eyes and said, “I’m serious. You’re worth more than any of those hate articles they’ve been throwing at you.”

Jeonghan looked up, searching his orbs for any sincerity and honesty before mumbling, “It’s easy for you to say.”

“No, it’s not,” Mingyu protested, patting him on the shoulder. “I know you’ve been losing your touch lately, but I just know you’ve still got that spark somewhere in you.”

There it was, one of Mingyu’s usual pep talks, consisting of implied “I care about you a lot more than you think”s and explicit “I believe in you”s and overall sympathetic, pitiful tone. Jeonghan normally, silently endured it. He was already enough of a jackass without having to shout at his manager and beg him to stop. But maybe it was how Brazil was immensely scorching in January, maybe it was how he pictured Seokmin sighing in disappointment, maybe it was how the monsters gnawed on his insides that caused him to snap.

“Stop it, Mingyu,” he demanded, sharp and intense. “Just stop. Don’t sugarcoat for me.”

Mingyu’s eyes widened. “Jeonghan, I—”

“They want me out, don’t they?” he cut off, his eyes locked on Mingyu’s face, which was drained of any color. “The recording company.”

“You’re not supposed to—”

“You’re not my only eyes and ears, Mingyu,” Jeonghan said flatly. The nerves and headaches were knocking haphazardly on the door and he crumbled as he let them in. “How—how much time have I got?”

Mingyu’s fingers trembled against his shoulder. “Come on, Jeonghan, let’s not—”

“I’m not going to ask you twice.”

An internal battle seemed to be occurring, but Mingyu relented anyway. “The next album will be your last.”

His world was crumbling along with him.

“It’s not a fixed deal, yet,” Mingyu enunciated in an instant. “There are still a few things we’re considering, and it’s definitely—”

“It’s fine,” Jeonghan interjected. He swiftly removed Mingyu’s hand from his shoulder and backed off a few inches. “I’ll—I think I should take a walk alone.”

Without lingering for a reply, he his heels and resumed to walk. Mingyu didn’t chase him, thankfully, but his voice reverberated above the crowd.

“The concert’s at six! You’ll be there! Right, Jeonghan?”

He didn’t answer.

“Make sure he does his homework first things first. Math and Portuguese are due for tomorrow. After that you can give him dinner. But he gets really sleepy after seven, so don’t make him eat anything too heavy, but also let him make his own decision—he doesn’t like being pushed. There’s some leftover casserole in the fridge, but if he doesn’t want that, you can order takeout or eat outside. It gets pretty hot, even at night, but you have to bring his jacket so that—”

“Seungcheol?”

“Yep?”

“Shut the up.”

A sheepish smile tugged at Seungcheol’s lips. “Sorry, went overboard, didn’t I?”

“Like you need to ask,” Wonwoo huffed. “I’ve been babysitting him for years. I know what I’m doing.”

Chan hollered from the sitting room. “I’m not a baby!”

Seungcheol emitted a chuckle while Wonwoo rolled his eyes. The sound of footsteps touched their ears and seconds later, Chan appeared next to Wonwoo, pouting up at him.

“I’m not a baby,” he insisted.

“You’re not, my mistake,” Wonwoo easily replied as he ruffled Chan’s hair. “Come on, we better start on homework. Let’s not keep your dad here too long.”

Chan’s pout transformed to a deep frown. “But I don’t want him to go!” He immediately wrapped his arms around Seungcheol’s waist, burying his face in Seungcheol’s dress shirt. “Please stay, Daddy.”

Seungcheol smiled and peeled his son off of him gently. “What’s the matter, buddy? I do this all the time.” He dropped himself to his knees as to match Chan’s height, their heads now at the same level. “I’ll be back before you know it. Be nice to Uncle Wonwoo, okay?”

A reluctant nod was his answer. Seungcheol circled an arm around his son and squeezed him tight before pulling away and getting back to his feet. Chan groaned at the loss of warmth, but his crestfallen expression instantly brightened up when Seungcheol held out his hand. They did their special, zestful handshake, which was copied straight from The Parent Trap. Wonwoo laughed as they stacked four of their hands atop each other, and he nearly toppled over when Seungcheol and Chan bumped hip-to-leg twice.

After Wonwoo had persuaded Chan back into the apartment with promises of chocolate milk and Hershey’s Kisses, Seungcheol went down the stairs and exited the apartment building. He was about to flag a cab when second thoughts struck him, so he quickly crossed the street instead and examined the blue doors of his shop, making sure they were properly locked. He took a yellow taxi afterwards and arrived at Castanho when his wristwatch read five o’clock sharp.

The restaurant in which he had worked for well over three years lived up to its name: the arched doors, the gilded windowpanes, and the striped canopy were all colored in refreshing shades of brown. The whole restaurant was brightly lit and densely packed, even though only a mere half an hour had passed since it was opened. Seungcheol knew how hard it was to reserve a table here, and he was eternally grateful that he was the restaurant’s bartender—he always brought Chan and sometimes Wonwoo to eat here on weekends.

Five minutes and three co-workers later, he was stationed behind the bar, concocting cocktails and vodkas for gentlemen with pressed suits and high-pitched girls with barely any clothes on them. He activated his phone and tucked an earphone into one ear—listening to music helped him do his job well, and his manager was never around to catch him red-handed. Love Me Two Times blasted, husky and groovy, and he bobbed his head along to Jim Morrison for the next hour.

“Um—Jameson on the Rocks—por favor?”

Seungcheol lifted his head. A black-clad young man with flowing blonde hair was slumped on the bar, holding out one finger at him. He seemed strangely familiar and excessively drunk—Seungcheol narrowed his eyes to get a closer look, but the blonde mistook it as confusion and wagged his finger in front of his face.

“Jameson on the Rocks. Um. Um. Um!”

Once he saw past the purple bruises decorating his sunken cheeks and the bleeding lips and the black hugging the corners of his eyes, Seungcheol could easily recognize him. “Aren’t you Yoon Jeonghan?” he blurted out in Korean.

The man blinked a couple of times and breathed out a sigh afterwards. “Finally. Someone who speaks the same tongue.” He put his hand down. “Selfie or autograph? Take your pick.”

Seungcheol shook his head. “Neither, I guess. Jameson on the Rocks, you say?” He took a rocks glass in hand and scooped a few ice cubes into it.

“Yeah.” Jeonghan paused. “You’re not going to ask me why I look like this?”

Seungcheol shrugged. “It’s none of my business, isn’t it?”

Jeonghan stared at him funnily. “Yeah.”

Seungcheol served him his drink and Jeonghan downed it in a single go. “Whoa, take it easy,” he uttered, shaking his head. “I think you’re already too drunk to begin with.”

“Exactly,” Jeonghan agreed. He leaned forward to grab a bottle of Irish whiskey and poured it into his glass, and Seungcheol wondered why he didn’t stop him. Jeonghan raised his glass and curled his lips into a tipsy smile. “Cheers to the four thousand fans waiting for me in downtown Rio.” He drank the second one in one go as well.

A flash of remembrance caught Seungcheol. “Oh, right, you’ve got a concert tonight.” Chan had sobbed his eyes out for wanting to go, but the tickets were already sold out by the time Seungcheol knew about the show. “And you’re making them wait? Has it started?”

Jeonghan snapped his eyes closed. “Yes, I think, four—five—maybe ten minutes ago. I don’t know.”

“Are you going to end their misery and show up?”

“No.”

“Lucky I didn’t buy the tickets.”

Jeonghan laughed, opened his eyes, and set his glass down on the wooden bar. “A French seventy-five, please.”

One of the waitresses called him over, and Seungcheol left Jeonghan to his own drunken thoughts while he crafted his drink. When he returned and settled his order in front of him, Jeonghan squint his eyes at him and questioned, “What’re you listening to?”

“The Doors,” he answered.

“Jim Morrison?” Jeonghan cocked a brow. “You’ve got good taste. Which song?”

Seungcheol swiped the screen of his phone a few times. “It’s Light My Fire now.”

“Huh.” He finished the drink in a few gulps and twirled the empty glass with his fingers thoughtfully. “Do I look like a dead man to you?”

Seungcheol furrowed his brows.

He was hideous, that was for sure. A face sprinkled with contusions and little bits of bloodstained skin belonged to criminals and gang members, not world-class musicians. But he didn’t look dead, not entirely. There was still something about him that connected him to life—Seungcheol reckoned it was his eyes. The glint they wore was a little whimsical, a little crazy, but at least it sparkled, even with the littlest bit of life possible.

“No, I think you look like a madman.”

The corners of Jeonghan’s lips rose to form a grin.

Seungcheol gulped. He probably is whimsical and crazy.

“That’s the lyric to my song,” he said, triggering Seungcheol’s memory of his sleeping son and the timeworn stereo and the temporary warmth inside the blue bedroom.

“Yeah, it is.”

Jeonghan nodded his head. They held eye contact for a moment, a fleeting moment, until Jeonghan broke into a noisy guffaw. He ducked his head down, his shoulders and arms trembling in laughter, his grip around the glass faltering.

“Jeonghan?” Seungcheol asked, worry in his voice. “Jeonghan, are you okay?”

The said man met Seungcheol’s eyes minutes later, the guffaw reduced to remnants and at last died on his lips. He threw a glance at the nametag pinned above the pocket of Seungcheol’s shirt.

“I’m a madman, Choi Seungcheol.”

And then he fell down from his chair, headfirst and unconscious.

The sunrays didn’t wake him up. Fear did.

He struggled to stabilize his ragged breathing, to quiet his pounding heart. He parted his lips, gasping for air and strength. They were knocking, they were furious, the anxiety and the headaches and the monsters—

“Are you okay?”

His breath hitched and he brought his gaze up.

A kid was seated on the far end of the bed, legs tightly crossed and eyes gaping with curiosity. His black hair was windswept, as if he had just hustled from somewhere outside. He curved up a timid yet warm smile, and Jeonghan halted himself from coming completely undone.

“I’m—I’m—” The words tasted rough on his tongue. “I’m fine.”

He knew the kid wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t force another answer out of him. Instead, Jeonghan watched as he scooted off the bed, scooped garments from the nightstand and handed them to him with his small hands.

“Daddy said that you should change into this after you wake up.”

Jeonghan blankly stared at the pile of clothes. He didn’t extend a hand to receive them, so the kid deliberately dropped them to his lap with a thud. His senses gradually stirred alive, though, and Jeonghan thumbed through each piece of clothing. It wasn’t until he was ready to get off the bed that he realized the kid was still there, his gaze locked on him.

Jeonghan frowned. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, nothing is wrong.”

“Who is Daddy?”

The kid tilted his head to the side. “My dad.”

Jeonghan suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

“I have to change,” he said in a low tone, his peripheral vision discovering a door standing ajar, revealing a bathroom behind. “You need to step aside.”

The kid moved away from the bed without a word, and Jeonghan carefully picked up the clothes and got to his shaking feet. He was striding halfway towards the bathroom when the kid made him turn around with a soft “Wait!”

“Yes?” Jeonghan responded, unsure to be annoyed or terrified.

A wide grin was hanging on his lips as his face lit up with wonder and excitement. “I’m a really big fan of yours! You’re my idol! I listen to you every single night when I’m about to go to bed!”

Jeonghan blinked, the words in his mind scrambling to fit into an orderly sequence, and he woke them up. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

His words seemed to generate a whole new level of elation: the kid beamed, his eyes wide and jubilant, before he jumped giddily on his heels and ran out of the room and along the hallway. “Daddy! Daddy! Yoon Jeonghan apliciates me!”

A chuckle escaped his lips and Jeonghan entered the bathroom. The amusement was swift to depart; he shrieked the minute he saw his own reflection on the mirror. His face was adorned with fading bruises, his lips were both bluish and pale, and small portions of his skin were caked with dried blood. Last night’s events slowly dawned on him as he splashed cold water on his face. He always regretted every single one of his drunken endeavors, and this time was no exception. Cursing under his breath despite no one could hear him, he attempted his best to strip the blood off his skin and conceal the bruises, but he gave up soon after. His fingers curled on the edge of the sink, upholding all his weight.

“Get it together, get it together,” whispered him.

He willingly heaved the mental door open and welcomed the causes of his destruction—by now, he was used to their presence. The nerves were making his hands tremble, the headache was relentlessly palpitating in his head, the monsters were roaring their incensed roars deep within him, but somehow he was able to strip off yesterday’s battered clothes and slipped into the given ones without falling down to the floor. They were too warm and big for him, but the long-sleeve shirt aided his intention by covering the wounds along his arms.

Clumsily, Jeonghan walked out into the hallway and descended the stairs. The place was palatial and welcoming and he wanted to observe everything around him, but the pounding in his head forbade him to. The scent of something fried wafted through the air and roused his hunger, but it wasn’t why he eagerly followed it to the whitewashed kitchen.

It was also the source of Pink Floyd, Another Brick in the Wall—the sound of peace.

“You’re here!”

Seungcheol raised his head. Jeonghan had just entered the kitchen, looking disoriented and small beneath his considerably too large of a sweater. The bruises were still noticeable, but at least they were slowly vanishing, and that ignited relief within him. He thought Jeonghan looked better this way: sober and standing up straight, instead of intoxicated and paralyzed on a restaurant floor.

“Good morning,” Seungcheol greeted.

Jeonghan blinked and gave a tentative smile. Chan motioned for him to sit down on the stools that surrounded the marble island, and when he did, he pushed a plate of omelet and a glass of water towards the long-haired man. “Eat well!”

The latter’s surprise invited his chuckle, and Seungcheol resumed to his task of whisking the eggs. “I see you’ve met my son.”

Jeonghan slowly nodded his head, although a more sincere smile was blooming on his lips. “Mhm. He’s great.”

Chan gasped and shook Seungcheol’s hand violently, almost causing the bowl to plummet to the floor. “Did you hear that, Daddy? He says I’m great! He apliciates me!”

“Appreciates,” Seungcheol corrected him as he poured the eggs onto the sizzling pan. “Sorry, his Korean’s a little rusty.”

Jeonghan stabbed his fork through his omelet and looked up. “Oh, no, it’s okay. It’s already a miracle I could find someone to speak Korean with here.”

“Why didn’t you go to your own concert?” Chan piped up, strapping a green backpack on his shoulder. “Were you sick? Daddy told me you had to rest! Can you sing for us now?”

Seungcheol heaved a sigh. “Now, Chan, you can’t just bombard people with questions—”

“What’s bombard, Dad?”

Jeonghan lifted his hand in the air. “No, I’m okay with it.” He gave a reassuring smile to Seungcheol and turned to Chan. “Well, I think I was, but I’m feeling better now. Maybe I’ll sing for you after you get home from school.” He pointed to his school uniform and then to the stereo sitting between them on the island. “And you two are playing Another Brick in the Wall? It’s pretty ironic.”

“It was his idea,” Seungcheol nudged Chan, who nodded his head proudly. “I just like the tempo.”

“You’re a fan of Pink Floyd’s?” Jeonghan asked, disbelief in his voice.

“I like you and Guns N’ Roses more!” Chan cheerily answered. “But Daddy doesn’t like Guns N’ Roses, and I don’t like his favorite band Nirvana, so we go with Pink Floyd in the mornings.”

“Why not my music?” teased Jeonghan.

“Well, you’re here in the flesh!” Chan clapped his hands. “Sing for us! Sing for us!”

Seungcheol let out a laugh as Jeonghan blatantly refused. A quarrel then ensued and ended with Jeonghan complying in exasperation. He sang a few lines of Madman, and Seungcheol could not help but to raise a brow. Did he—however unlikely— remember last night at all? Or was his most hit single always a convenient number-one choice whenever somebody asked for him to sing?

Chan’s deafening clapping closed the snippet of the song. Jeonghan laughed as the former gushed about how perfect that was in his broken Korean—he exclaimed “Daebak!” repetitively and held out both of his thumbs. Seungcheol shook his head in amusement, but by now he was used to Chan’s adorable antics. He darted a glance to Jeonghan, and Seungcheol decided he looked even better this way: singing and cackling, his face flourished with color, instead of gaudy complexion and sweaty forehead and almost vomiting at the back of a taxi.

Wonwoo rung his mobile a few minutes later, announcing his presence downstairs. Chan immediately groaned when Seungcheol told him it was time for school, and he demanded Jeonghan to see him off too, but the singer managed to decline as kindly as he could. The father and son duo trod down the stairs after Chan had waved farewell, and he murmured, “You’re so lucky, Daddy. You get to spend half a day with Yoon Jeonghan!”

“I still have to open the shop, kiddo,” reminded Seungcheol. “And he’s probably going to leave now that he’s healthy again.”

Chan abruptly stopped in his tracks and curled his fists around Seungcheol’s shirt, his lips jutted out into a pout. “No! Don’t make him leave, Daddy! I haven’t even asked for an autograph!”

Outside, after Wonwoo had laughed at their special handshake and Chan had made him promise that Jeonghan would stick around long enough for the kid to flaunt his Bon Jovi memorabilia after school, Seungcheol saw them off in Wonwoo’s Lexus, the car rolling down the street and away. He went back inside and encountered Pedro, a twelve-year-old paper boy, on the stairs, a bag bursting with a multitude of tabloids and newspapers slung over his shoulder. He handed Seungcheol a whole stack of his subscriptions, chuckling as he did so.

“What’s so funny?” Seungcheol questioned.

“Almost every front page of them has that Korean singer on it,” answered Pedro matter-of-factly. “You wouldn’t believe the things they say about him.”

Seungcheol was quite hesitant on bringing the newspapers inside.

Jeonghan tightened the grasp of his fingers around the mug, as if the simple act could provoke the courage that he had been trying to gather. He took a forceful sip of his coffee to calm down. It was black and strong and just what he needed to focus his attention to Seungcheol, seated across the island, thumbing through the numerous newspapers placed in front of him.

“‘… Many of the audience think that this is merely a public stunt of sympathy, considering a trail of petty crimes and offended peers left in his wake in Seoul, South Korea,’” Seungcheol read aloud as he grimaced. “Also—”

Jeonghan lifted his gaze up once he paused. “What? Also what?”

Seungcheol fervently shook his head. “No, this is too rude for me to translate.”

The long-haired man grumbled. “You’re already being too nice to me, Seungcheol. The least you could do is to translate everything the way they are.” He drank his coffee again, the bitterness skillfully aiding in soothing his nerves.

“Well, I don’t want to translate this one,” Seungcheol remarked, folding the newspaper and placing it atop the pile of the ones he had already interpreted for Jeonghan. “Five—seven—eleven newspapers! That’s it, you’ve tormented yourself enough.”

A groan left Jeonghan’s lips while Seungcheol compiled all the newspapers and tossed them carelessly into the trash bin. He settled the mug back on the island and pressed his forehead against the cold marble, eliminating the black-haired man from view.

Hearing those articles, written mercilessly in castigation, had contributed a definite abundance to ruining his already-bad-from-hangover morning—or better yet, his already torn-apart life. The news was no doubt proliferating online, a documentation of his so-called tour de force of attention. He had long surpassed the point of desiring acclaims and accolades for everything he did, but that didn’t mean the spiteful comments hurt any less. It is unbearably difficult when you are broken inside and the whole world hates you for it.

He was perishing bit by bit, consumed by the throbbing of his head and the claws of the monsters inside and—

“Here, this will make you feel better.”

Jeonghan compelled himself to detach his face from the island. When he did, the fragrant smell of chocolate filled his nostrils. It originated from a plate nearby, consisting of a baker’s dozen’s worth of small chocolate balls coated with sprinkles.

“What are those?”

“Brigadeiro. A Brazilian dessert. I always make this for Chan.”

They were sweet and scrumptious and they consoled him, in a way. He munched the first batch in no time and soon helped Seungcheol craft a new one. Jeonghan had hoped that they would go through an episode of stirring the mixture and rolling frozen chocolate in silence, but he supposed Seungcheol thought that some distraction was required as to prevent him from self-destructing.

“What are you going to do now?”

Jeonghan exhaled a sigh. “I don’t know. But my manager is probably ting his pants right now.”

“And the four thousand people that attended your concert,” Seungcheol added. “Or lack of it.”

He bitterly scoffed. “Yeah, let’s not forget about that.”

Seungcheol curved up a smile, but it disappeared as soon as it came up. “Are you going to leave now?”

Jeonghan stopped stirring.

Should I? Seungcheol had been remarkably cordial to provide him food and shelter and let him stick around for this long, and there were no signs that he was in it for any possible profit or that he was a star-struck fan exploiting every little thing he could from his idol while he was here (well, perhaps that was his son). He was, Jeonghan concluded, simply kindhearted. There were not many people like that in the world, and being someone who had seen almost every inch the world had to offer and enduring the cruelty of the industry and the open, erratic realm beyond, he was sure he could verify that.

But what about his responsibilities? What about Mingyu? He had put him through enough, hadn’t he, cleaning the havoc he continuously wreaked? How much trouble did he have, composing a throng of audience bubbling with anger? The least he could do for his poor manager was to return and make sure he was okay.

It was what he needed to do. It was not what he wanted to do, though.

Mingyu was practically identical with the music industry. Heck, he was the epitome of it: everything that was happening, good or bad, was delivered from his mouth. Having him around only meant that Jeonghan was attached to the world of extreme distraught, disguised by a promising, glamorous façade—an active participant in it.

But what if he terminated all relations? What if, despite all of the unlikeliness, there were no managers hovering over him, no fans present in every corner, no critics probing and mocking all of his faults?

It was a fantasy too good to be true, but Jeonghan was sick of reality.

“Would it… be alright if this madman stays in your apartment for a little longer?”

A cheeky grin tugged at Jeonghan’s lips once he saw Seungcheol’s eyes widening at his tiny remembrance. He cocked a brow upwards in query, but the singer just shrugged. Seungcheol snorted, but a smile was plastered on his lips.

“You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you like.”

“I can turn and walk away, or I can fire the gun. Staring at the sky, staring at the sun.”

Seungcheol jutted his lips out in determination. “Killing an Arab.”

Jeonghan’s jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”

“By The Cure—”

“Don’t, don’t—”

“Out in 1978!”

“No!” Jeonghan let out a dissatisfied groan. “Why are you so good at this?”

Seungcheol laughed triumphantly. “I told you, didn’t I? Now you believe me.”

“I’ll get the next one,” pressed Jeonghan, half-glaring at Seungcheol. “Throw it at me.”

Seungcheol cleared his throat, twirling his pencil between his fingers. He had a good one—D.O.A., Van Halen, 1979—but the bell rang, and soon tentative greetings in English were coming from downstairs. Seungcheol automatically groaned, but Jeonghan jumped to his feet and picked up the vintage goggles from the round mini table nearby.

“Don’t cheat,” Jeonghan warned before disappearing down the stairs.

Seungcheol had considered the fact, but he liked to be a good sport. They were playing a game they invented on their own, in which one of them had to mention a song lyric and the other had to guess from which song it was, who sang it, and which year it was released. This game sprung from their mutual love of rock music, which kept them chattering and swapping stories for hours. Seungcheol was currently in the lead by twenty points. As a musician, Jeonghan was ironically terrible in this.

Jeonghan had insisted that he should accompany Seungcheol in his vintage shop instead of staying in the apartment. Seungcheol had argued about how his buyers will recognize him immediately, so Jeonghan had grabbed a pair of goggles near the entrance and tied his hair up into a messy bun. To Seungcheol, he still looked like Jeonghan, but the new addition—and how Jeonghan spoke in a strange, low tone whenever asked—turned out to be a decent camouflage and no one threw a suspicious glance.

It was kind of nice, having someone else around for a change. It had always been him alone in the shop during Chan’s school hours, and sometimes the solitary and the bountiful of purchasers were overwhelming. But Jeonghan was good companion. He had been understandably reserved in the beginning, but he grew to be more comfortable in Seungcheol’s presence. By ten o’clock they were bickering with each other, occasionally throwing snarky remarks and threatening yet jocular sideways glances.

Seungcheol had expected Jeonghan to be the usual type of celebrities: arrogant, temporal-minded, and a huge show-off. But he turned out to be entirely wasn’t. All those stories and articles he had read about “foul-tempered Jeonghan” and “Jeonghan, the most difficult to work with” may be apocryphal. Omit the slightly sarcastic replies and a rather strange sense of humor, Seungcheol did not see anything inappropriate.

Jeonghan was stubborn, though, and Seungcheol had realized that the hard way. He refused to sit in the backroom while Seungcheol handled the customers, and his inability to speak Portuguese did not hinder him from interacting with them. When Jeonghan was aware that Seungcheol’s English was “ing horrible”, he practically leaped in joy and shoved Seungcheol out of the way when they were faced with English-speaking tourists.

When his wristwatch read 12 P.M., Seungcheol ordered takeout from his favorite Korean bistro—he always opted for a traditional Brazilian empadão for lunch, but bearing Jeonghan in mind, he reckoned that the singer could use a taste of home after all the things that he had endured. They ate upstairs, amidst the brocade chairs and the mismatched lampshades, the mouthwatering grilled beef and crunchy side dishes discharging them from hunger.

“Is it hard, being a singer?” Seungcheol asked through a mouthful of rice.

Jeonghan did not respond straight away. “It’s hard for me.”

Seungcheol opened his mouth for another question, but Jeonghan hastily changed the subject.

“How about you? Tell me about yourself.”

“There’s nothing much to tell,” he evaded. How much could be compared between a single parent and a well-known singer?

“You would’ve been toasted in interviews if you’d said that,” remarked Jeonghan with a laugh, clicking his chopsticks together. “I’ll ask the questions. How long have you lived here?”

“Six years.”

“When did you learn Portuguese?”

“Six years ago, but I didn’t fully master it until the third year I’m here.”

“And Chan?”

“Kids pick up languages faster than us, so he’s always been fluent.”

“Has it always been you and him?”

Seungcheol’s eyes involuntarily widened, and he knew Jeonghan had caught a glimpse.

“There was someone?” Jeonghan resumed in a quieter tone.

The very question had hit the play button, and the memories were now playing in his mind, blurry and unwanted. His eyes mildly stung, but no tears ran down his cheeks.

“There was,” he answered, glad that his voice did not break. “But he left, quite a while ago.”

Jeonghan blinked. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s fine.” Seungcheol snapped his chopsticks around the beef. “I don’t really think about it much nowadays.”

The stare Jeonghan gave him was rather puzzling. “Are the memories too painful?”

He furrowed his brows, munching on the beef that was now flavorless on his tongue.

“No, I just don’t deserve them.”

Two o’clock found Jeonghan in Seungcheol’s lavish apartment, head and attention immersed in the complete rock album collection that belonged to the father and son duo. The albums were stored in glass cases that were propped up against the ivory walls of the sitting room, ranging from Santana’s Abraxas to Rolling Stones’ Exile on the Main Street to Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors. For someone whose first love was rock music, this was practically heaven for Jeonghan.

“Is this an original Hotel California?” he gasped, retrieving one album from a section of the case. “Can I play this? I haven’t listened to this for quite some time—”

His sentence was disrupted by the noise of a door slamming shut, and seconds later Chan appeared. He ran past Seungcheol, seated cross-legged on the sofa, and made his way straight towards Jeonghan, his arms grasping the singer’s knees from behind.

“You’re still here! You’re still here!”

A breathless laugh escaped Jeonghan. “Yes, I’m still here.”

“Good! I can show you my Bon Jovi things!” Chan fervently nodded as he dropped his arms to his sides. He beamed in an instant once his gaze landed on the Eagles album in Jeonghan’s hold. “Ooh! I love that album! I can dance to it! Do you want to see me dance to it?”

Jeonghan had no power to say otherwise. He sat next to Seungcheol as Chan glided through the sitting room, his limbs moving in a series of surprisingly languid motions, his foot twisting and turning to the slow, crawling beat of the first track. Seungcheol did much fuss of clapping and cheering, his voice drowning the music, and Jeonghan had his jaw half-dropped until Chan completed the routine with a climb up the coffee table and a twirl that sent the tablecloth to the floor and the two adults laughing.

“You dance better than my backup dancers,” complimented Jeonghan, issuing Chan’s euphoria.

“He loves to dance, don’t you, buddy?” Seungcheol nudged the young boy with a lopsided grin. “He’s going to be up there with the big boys one day!”

Chan jumped on his toes in agreement. “I have dance classes almost every day! I’ll be there in no time!”

The young boy then dragged Jeonghan up to his blue bedroom to show off the plentiful rock collectibles in his possession: Elvis Presley jackets, Bon Jovi-signed memorabilia, a few sequined gloves that closely resembled Michael Jackson’s, and original posters of rock stars with black-inked handprints. Chan even accumulated an array of Jeonghan’s merchandises: caps, shoes, bags, and even cardigans. Jeonghan’s albums were stacked in a neat pile on Chan’s bedside table, arranged in the order of Chan’s most to least favorite, and Jeonghan spotted Madman at the very top.

“You listen to them every night, huh?” question Jeonghan, a finger pointed at the albums.

“Mhm!” Chan nodded enthusiastically. “I can only sleep to the sound of you singing. Daddy tried to put on other singers, but they don’t work much.”

“Is my music that boring?” Jeonghan mused.

Chan made a surprised gasp. “No, no, of course not!” and tried to convince otherwise to a laughing Jeonghan.

He had never had experience with children before, so he mostly did not know what to do around Chan. But the little boy loved talking—just like his father—as Jeonghan had gathered. He let Chan lead most of the conversation, showing him everything there was to show and telling him everything there was to tell. As he warmed up to the eight-year-old, he could feel himself relaxing in contentment. The nerves, the headaches, and the monsters were temporarily sealed and forgotten while he and Chan played the game he had come up with Seungcheol, gasping and shouting and once again, Jeonghan losing, though he did it on purpose this time.

Jeonghan gave a helping hand to Chan with his homework when he noticed that Seungcheol was not very good at that. They managed to complete them all by six o’clock, just when Wonwoo arrived for cooking dinner. Seungcheol assigned all of them tasks for dinner duty, with Jeonghan doing the easiest feat of chopping the ingredients. Tonight was moqueca de camarão night, as Seungcheol announced, which turned out to be a shrimp stew cooked in coconut milk and palm oil. Jeonghan worked his way through the onions and corianders next to Wonwoo, who had both of his hands soaked in a puddle of raw, soggy shrimps.

Wonwoo was more than surprised to discover a world-class singer in their midst, but Jeonghan’s story of what had occurred calmed him down a little bit. Their slow yet steady talk mingled with Seungcheol and Chan’s squabbles from the other side of the kitchen. Jeon Wonwoo was an animator, as Jeonghan had discovered. The kind that submits inchoate ideas, pitches them to the ones more in power, and pulls all-nighters in the office until completion. Wonwoo had been close with the father and son ever since their move to Brazil. He was the family’s supplementary chauffeur because a) Seungcheol was rather terrified of driving after an accident he had had in his youth, and b) Chan’s school was in the direction of Wonwoo’s commute route to the TV station downtown. He always helped for dinners and gave lifts in his Lexus for Seungcheol and Chan after their outings, in exchange for a VIP pass on their DVR, free purchases in Seungcheol’s shop, and unlimited usage of Chan’s extensive game console.

Jeonghan thought it was ridiculous, but Wonwoo simply considered himself as an opportunist. Beneath his taciturn demeanor, he was rather congenial and easily likable. Not only wasn’t he a fan of Jeonghan’s (a fact that he absolutely loved), they shared an admiration of Billy Joel, who turned out to be the only singer Wonwoo willingly listened to.

“How long are you going to stay?” Wonwoo inquired while they watched the stew percolate on the stove from afar. Chan was having a bath, while the paranoid Seungcheol was in his shop across the street, examining and reexamining everything.

“I’m not sure,” he answered quietly. “It’s a really pleasant place here.”

“I’m surprised the three of you can get along so well,” remarked Wonwoo. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s not anything bad—it’s just a short span of time, you know? And yet you all click so well together.”

Jeonghan curled his brows. Truth be told, he believed Wonwoo’s words. Jeonghan had known himself as someone difficult to work with—other people kept pressing this issue, too. He was not known for his high level of patience nor his amiable personality. But the few hours that he had found himself in Seungcheol’s and Chan’s company had proven him wrong. It was as if he had never entered the industry at all. It was as if he had shredded out of his own skin, leaving worldwide musical sensation Yoon Jeonghan on the floor of Castanho and never looked back. It was as if he was himself again, truly, completely himself.

He did not voice all of these thoughts. If anything, his tendency to be reticent about his feelings was the only thing that followed him here. Instead, he just shrugged and responded, “I must’ve been very lucky today.”

A hectic dinner commenced at seven o’clock, with Chan bringing over one of his water guns and the battered stereo playing Mascara and Monsters over and over. Chan kept shooting water at the food, and Seungcheol went into his responsible-father mode and nagged authoritatively at his son. While slurping on his stew, Jeonghan could not bear the urge to sneak a few glances at him. He didn’t seem like someone who once had lost a person. He just seemed like a normal person, a happy father taking care of his son. But people are not always what they seem to be. Jeonghan figured he should have known that.

By the time there was not a single trace left of moqueca de camarão, they exited the kitchen with damp shirts and Jeonghan constantly complained that he had no other clothes to wear. And Chan, being the little devil he was, poured more water as his ammunition and sprayed a fleeing Jeonghan all over the apartment.

“You have school tomorrow! For goodness—Chan, stop! Stop!”

Seungcheol at last stepped into the scene after a whole three minutes of chortling, tackling a reluctant Chan into his blue bedroom. Jeonghan cursed under his breath and climbed the stairs on the tips of his toes as to not wet the carpet, pursuing both of them and leaving Wonwoo downstairs, settled on the sofa and flicking through the TV channels.

Due to the scarce amount of clothing, Jeonghan had to change into one of Seungcheol’s shirts again. He realized he had stashed his phone in his pocket all along, and with a fearful gulp, activated it and opened his logs. Fifty-two calls from Mingyu. Forty-three from Seokmin. Jeonghan set his phone off before his gaze could land on the plethora of missed calls from curious acquaintances and hungry journalists. This was the most fun he had in years; he was not going to ruin the boxed-up life he had waiting outside to destroy it. At least not now.

Chan requested that Jeonghan put him to bed tonight, and surprisingly Seungcheol complied. “I haven’t done the dishes,” he reasoned with a smile. He circled his arms around Chan’s shoulders in a tight hug, and Chan’s small hands cup his father’s neck, pulling him close. “I’ll see if Wonwoo can help me.”

“This is sickeningly adorable,” groaned Jeonghan, ushering Seungcheol out of the bedroom once he had let go of his grasp around his son. “Now go. We can manage.”

The Lightning McQueen bed was too small to fit them both, so Jeonghan sat on the carpeted floor while Chan lay near the edge of the bed, the covers tightly wrapped around his figure. Seungcheol had carried the stereo back to its original position on the bedside table, and Bohemian Rhapsody was booming from it in a low volume.

“Do you like being with Daddy and me and Uncle Wonwoo?” Chan timidly asked, his big eyes staring at Jeonghan.

Jeonghan earnestly nodded his head. “Mhm, I had such a great time today. It’s the most fun I’ve had in years.”

“Years? But aren’t you happy being a singer?” Chan frowned.

“I am, but it’s difficult, Chan.” Jeonghan pursed his lips, his hand finding its way to the young boy’s black locks. “I’ll tell you someday.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

A grin was visible on Chan’s face. “If you’re not happy being a singer… that means you can stay here, right?”

Jeonghan parted his lips for an answer, but Chan’s hopeful tone and beaming expression caused him to not have the heart to say no. “I don’t really know, Chan, but I guess we’ll see.”

The way Chan’s face fell almost instantly crushed him, and Jeonghan was about to say some things that might soothe him, but Chan interjected his thoughts.

“Do you mind if you sing me to sleep? It can make me forget about that.”

Jeonghan ended his train of thoughts and nodded yes.

He did not have the yen to sing one of his songs. It reminded him of the left life, and all he wanted now was to look forward to a new one, however improbable that may be. He serenaded Chan with his utmost favorite classic, Monty Python’s Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.

Jeonghan had had assumed that the day would be full of boredom and frustration, and he was glad he had been wrong. Spending time with Seungcheol and Chan had been surprisingly delightful. Maybe it was how the father and son duo were an absolute contrast to—and a refreshing change from—the intimidating music industry. Maybe it was how they welcomed him with open arms. Maybe it was how Jeonghan could have some time off, some distraction. Whatever it was, he was grateful for today.

Chan lulled to sleep as he entered the bridge. He ended up saying the lyrics in a monotonous tone, his fingers delicately brushing Chan’s bangs out of his forehead.

“What have you got to lose? You know you come from nothing; you’re going back to nothing. What have you lost?”

What have you lost, Yoon Jeonghan? On these perplexing paths between the exceptional and the conventional, what have you lost?

Wonwoo rarely stayed to help him with the dishes. He always fled the premises whenever his stomach had been full with Seungcheol’s cooking. But tonight was none of those nights. They stood side by side before the sink, Seungcheol washing the dirty cooking paraphernalia and Wonwoo drying them. The repetitious acts were done in complete silence, save for the sound of water splashing on ceramic and metals clanking against each other. Seungcheol enjoyed the whole invariable episode, but Wonwoo seemed to think it was dull.

“What do you think of Jeonghan?”

He pursed his lips once he heard Wonwoo’s question. “He’s okay. Good company.” He paused. “He’s not like what the press says he is.”

“You mean nice and friendly instead of temperamental and vicious?” Wonwoo laughed. “Yeah, I think he’s not like that, too.”

“Celebrities get misunderstood a lot of times, right?” Seungcheol rinsed the soap off of the last piece of dirty silverware. “And media tends to blow things out of proportion. Jeonghan’s not that bad.”

Wonwoo stared at him with an unreadable expression, and Seungcheol realized that what he had said may have a different meaning to his friend. He gulped, attempting not to cower under his strained gaze.

“Not that bad?” repeated Wonwoo, draping the small cloth onto the final silverware.

“Yes,” Seungcheol confirmed as he switched the tap off. “Not that—”

“How long is he staying, Cheol?”

Seungcheol bit his lips. “I don’t know. We didn’t talk about that. We didn’t even talk about how he was drunk and all when we first met.” Meeting the flickering glint in Wonwoo’s eyes, he hastily added, “But it’s probably going to be a sojourn, he’s got responsibilities, right? As a musician—”

“I’ve seen the way he looked at you,” Wonwoo cut off, and this caught Seungcheol by surprise. “At times when you weren’t looking. He stared at you like you were the ing God or something.”

“That’s not true,” Seungcheol disagreed, albeit a blush was creeping over his cheeks in an instant. “It’s just because he’s had a rough time—didn’t you read the articles about him earlier today? I think he was just grateful about me being kind and giving him a place to stay—”

Wonwoo shook his head in disbelief. “So he’s on something of a respite now? Jesus Christ.”

Seungcheol huffed, his fingers clenching on the marble island behind him, his tone final and firm. “He’s been through a lot. I’m not going to ask him about that now. He deserves some break after all those mean things they said about him.” He hesitated. “And what’s with all this , Wonwoo? Why are you so freaked out over one celebrity crashing at my place? You’re not even his fan, for goodness’ sake—”

“I’m not freaked out over him,” claimed Wonwoo, sending the now-dry silverware on its proper place in the cabinet and pointing a finger at Seungcheol afterwards. “I’m freaked out over you. You know why. The last time you got attached—”

Seungcheol’s eyes widened. How could Wonwoo bring that up now? “I’m not going to get attached to him!” he exclaimed before Wonwoo was able to finish his sentence. “He’s freaking famous, he’s out of my league, and it’s not like I’m interested in him—”

“I’m just saying,” Wonwoo interrupted, his tone becoming icier by the second, “That this is the first time in two years that you and Chan have got a new person around in your lives. One of you is bound to get hurt.”

The words, the piercing, ruthless words, sank in the patch of silence that grew between them. Seungcheol closed his eyes, because he could think of nothing else to help dam the memories at bay. His fingers quivered and his legs shuddered and his mind catapulted him back to two years ago.

“I’m not going to abandon my son,” he retorted, “if that’s what you’re saying.”

He and Wonwoo parted on shaky terms. The noise of a Lexus’s engine rumbling off accompanied him as he ambled through the sitting room, up the stairs, and into Chan’s blue bedroom. Both of them were in deep slumber: scratchy snores were ripped out of Chan’s throat as he slept, and Jeonghan had his head down on the mattress, his blonde hair curtaining his hidden face.

A brief consideration of waking Jeonghan up to sleep on his bed while he himself would settle on the sofa just like last night whizzed through his mind. Instead, he curved his fingers on the comforter, extended it to wrap around Jeonghan’s hunched figure, and strode out of the room, as if Wonwoo could see it as living proof—that constraining feelings was his area of expertise.

Headlines along the lines of “South Korean Sensation Abandoning 4,000 Fans” had been transformed to things along the lines of “Yoon Jeonghan Issues Formal Apology”. Jeonghan could not draw back a degrading scoff once Chan had interpreted snippets of one of today’s newspaper article for him.

“I haven’t contacted my manager in days,” he explained, taking a sip of his black coffee. “This is just a show to save face.”

“Whose? Yours?” Seungcheol asked in doubt, his nose scrunching while he skim-read the article.

“Theirs,” corrected Jeonghan. “I’m just a tool for money and publicity. Don’t worry, Channie, you’re not missing out on anything,” he reassured the little boy, who was pouting in confusion.

The news of Yoon Jeonghan being AWOL at his own concert first flooded the papers and the televisions a week ago. And for the entirety of those seven days, Jeonghan had not once picked up his phone. He had not even switched it on after deactivating it on his first (second, after the drunken incident?) night here. He had assumed Mingyu would stomp and ransack Rio de Janeiro in search for him, but so far it had proven to be untrue. Instead, Mingyu came up with a fabricated story of how “deeply sorry” Jeonghan was and that the money-return ordeal for the neglected audience was being processed. He guessed Mingyu would rather prefer sacrificing his ego than to see “Yoon Jeonghan Missing in Action” decorating the tabloids in big block letters.

“Is this okay?” Seungcheol inquired as he bit into his burnt-out toast. “What would your manager and your agency think about you disappearing off the face of the earth for seven days?”

“They would set fire to the whole planet once I returned,” answered Jeonghan confidently, “but I’d manage. I always would.”

He did not want to return. The music industry was better off without his unpredictable and bizarre antics, and he was better off without its stress-inducing and confidence-crushing nature. Even so, deep down he knew that they were inevitably a match, as if they were some sort of pieces that formed a sickening kind of puzzle.

In spite of everything, the accumulating exultance that he had been on the receiving end of for the past five days defeated the amount of joy he had accepted during his steady six-year career as a musician. He had grown accustomed to Chan crawling on the sofa he slept on in the wee hours of morning, to eating new yet delicious Brazilian dishes, to jam to rock music while wandering around Seungcheol’s half-color-coordinated vintage shop, and to revel in the uniqueness the father and son duo had.

It did not take a long time for Jeonghan to discover that Seungcheol had an exorbitant amount of income. Whether it was from his hit vintage shop or his bartending job at Castanho three times a week, the money just kept rolling in. Jeonghan knew that Seungcheol was somewhat of a responsible yet simultaneously messy father, but he was shocked to find out that he and Chan basically frittered their money in such an offbeat way, it almost bordered on pathological.

They had woken him up on his third night, in the blind hours of 1:30 A.M., just to drag him out to the streets of central Rio because Seungcheol wanted to overcome his fear of driving. They had speeded down traffic-free roads and empty beaches of Ipanema in a rented Prius until Seungcheol could go past 88mph. Fully knowing that this had occurred on a school night, Jeonghan could only shake his head in the back seat and shoot glares at a chuckling Seungcheol whenever he had the chance. Then, Seungcheol had bought the car for half price just because Chan liked the silver color.

Jeonghan stifled a snort at his remembrance. He dipped his toast into his cereal-filled bowl and took a bite of the milk-coated end. Seungcheol was preoccupied, fumbling with the toaster that seemed to run on his resentful groans instead of electricity. Chan was scooping up only the red-colored cereal bits that were swirling in his milk, because he claimed that red was his least favorite color but they tasted the best.

The three of them were all wearing pirate hats atop their heads, made out of torn pages of Agatha Christie novels that they had purchased at eleven the night before, specifically for this feat only. They had folded and glued the pages into flimsy swords and skull-shaped flags and then they pretended to be part of Captain Jack Sparrow’s crew for an entire night before passing out on top of the sitting room rug. Jeonghan vaguely remembered Chan’s talk of real pirates getting their just rewards—he thought that they had earned it, only in the forms of puffy eyes and severe drowsiness.

“What are today’s adventures?” he queried groggily, chugging down more of his coffee that seemed to be unable to rid him of his exhaustion.

Seungcheol beamed as soon as he heard the question. “Chan is having an adventure of his own. Right, buddy?”

Chan tiredly nodded his head. “I have a—audition—for—a crew—later,” he answered with the disruption of long yawns.

“Audition?” repeated Jeonghan in disbelief. “What crew?”

“Some Brazilian dance crew for juniors,” Seungcheol enunciated as he stuffed slices of bread in the cooperative toaster. “He’s been wanting to go since last year, but we found out a little late that he was too young to join back then.”

“You can watch my audition later!” Chan enthusiastically told, tapping his spoon on the edge of his bowl, signaling that he was done with his breakfast. “And videotape it for Daddy!”

“Mm, that sounds like fun,” agreed Jeonghan. He set the mug of useless coffee down on the island as Chan cheered and Seungcheol clapped.

Wonwoo rang in to notify that he was going to be a little late, so the three spent time waiting for him by doing another round of their buccaneer outings, swinging their paper swords and sliding down the rail of the stairs and mouthing to the lyrics of It’s My Life playing in the background, repeatedly playing from the stereo now perched on the sitting room coffee table.

As Chan jumped up to Jeonghan’s arms and the two of them dashed upstairs in fake fear of Seungcheol chasing and swaying his sword ferociously behind them, a realization swooped over Jeonghan.

He felt like he belonged here, in a Brazilian apartment, running alongside the child of the most stress-free single parent he had ever met, laughing wholeheartedly with them and seeing them smile their joyful smiles.

He felt like he belonged here, and that scared him more than ever.

“He’s got good hair.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“Of course it counts! Have you realized how many shampoo ads he’s been in?”

“You know I don’t watch TV, Wonwoo.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re always taking over whenever I do?”

“Ah.” Wonwoo nodded his head a few times as he retrieved an apple from the fruit shelves. “Touché.”

Seungcheol rolled his eyes and a plastic bag to him. “I’ll need eight.”

Without uttering another word, Wonwoo filled up the bag with eight green apples, his eyes glued on Seungcheol, who was busy over at the oranges section across him. The black-haired man could feel the intense gaze burning his skin, so he picked up a few oranges in one hand and threw them at Wonwoo’s direction.

“What—hey—ow!”

“I’m not going to like him,” Seungcheol pressed, a frown etched on his face. “I told you, he’s only a friend.”

Wonwoo raised a brow. “So he’s a friend now? After only a week?”

“What, do you expect him to stay longer?”

“Well, he’s still there, right?”

Seungcheol huffed in exasperation. “I’m going to get the pasta,” he muttered, his fingers stretched towards the trolley. “You go find the ice cream.”

The aisles of the grocery store were long and stuffy and endless. He maneuvered through them expertly, his fingers tapping against the rail of the trolley, which had wheels that were squeaky and rough against the smooth surface of the linoleum floor. When he reached the pasta aisle and was perusing through the numerous labels, a low scream pierced his ears, originating from the frozen section. Undoubtedly Wonwoo, Seungcheol thought, shaking his head in dismay.

Wonwoo had had the rest of the day off, and after he had returned from driving Chan off to school, he volunteered to accompany Seungcheol go grocery shopping. Jeonghan stayed at the apartment before he had to depart for Chan’s dancing class—Seungcheol thought that it would be impossible for Jeonghan anyway to come with him here, due to the fact that he was supposed to be “quietly reflecting on his actions”.

He and Wonwoo had left things wobbly and uncertain a week ago, but Wonwoo disregarded it and pressed how the presence of Yoon Jeonghan will thoroughly affect his life. “I’m just looking out for you,” he had reasoned during their entire car ride. “I don’t want mistakes to repeat.” He then recited a mental list of why Seungcheol could possibly be attracted to the long-haired man, which mostly consisted of things that did not make any sense at all.

Mistakes won’t repeat, Seungcheol promised to himself as he pushed the trolley further down the aisle. Sure, he tolerated Jeonghan’s company. He liked it, even. But that didn’t mean he liked him—it was just refreshing to have someone else around. Both Chan and Jeonghan seemed to be a lot happier with each other’s presence nearby, and that made Seungcheol happy. And that had nothing to do with his feelings crossing the line from platonic to romantic. There were no feelings to begin with, even. There was just fondness. In a less-than-platonic sense. They were just plain, one-week-old friends.

He was sure of it. Sure, so sure, so—

His hand was gripping a pack of fettuccine, and he didn’t know how that managed to happen.

Jihoon used to love fettuccine.

Damn.

Puffing out the breath he didn’t know he held, Seungcheol placed the fettuccine back on the rack with convulsing fingers. The ravioli and farfalle were located all the way down the aisle, and he unnecessarily broke into a sprint towards them before dropping the packs in something that resembled relief and gratitude. He did not like ravioli or farfalle in the slightest bit—he much preferred some good old spaghetti for meals—but Chan loved them, and he had survived eating them for the past two years, so he skipped the spaghetti rack and went on his way.

He skimmed through the remaining aisles, selecting chocolate candy bars and beef sausages and heaps of spinach to go into the trolley. The rickety cart was soon filled to the brim with Chan’s utmost favorite food and drinks, a majority of them unhealthy, but Seungcheol had never been wholly strict with his son’s ingestion, anyway.

Seungcheol’s trained eyes found peppermint candy and ground pork and ice cream cakes but he did not stop to get any of them, despite them being several of his favorite snacks. This was better, he decided. This was better than staining his bright-colored Moroccan rug with tears of remorse. This was better than seeing your son absentmindedly plucking the strings of his dusty toy guitar in the corner of the room. Guilt was better than regret, but Seungcheol thought that the boundaries that separated the two were beginning to blur for him.

Jeonghan had been calling him many names for the past week: super single parent, skillful bartender, friendly shopkeeper, messy father. Those names were based from the truth and embodied him, whether he liked it or not. And he was sure as hell not going to let self-absorbed bastard become one of them.

Big Steps Little Steps Dance Studio was starting to include itself on the list of Jeonghan’s favorite places on earth. He did not know a single thing about dancing—except that it is exhausting and time-consuming and his limbs are “too awkward”, so they say—and it was a wonder why he liked the studio in the first place. Then, he managed to identify the reasons as the quiet, marble-dominated waiting room that allowed him to watch uninterrupted TV for a whole two hours and the fact that most of the dance instructors were able to speak English.

The routine of him waiting and picking up Chan was initiated by accident. Wonwoo had had glitches at work and Seungcheol had been busy handing directions to the Sugarloaf Mountain for a hoard of tourists-slash-customers, so all Jeonghan needed to do was offer a helping hand. Difficulty played a big part during his first attempt at navigating the Metro, but he managed to ask for directions quite nicely until he had Chan secure on his side and at the dance studio. With a pair of sunglasses perpetually perched on the bridge of his nose and a suede hoodie hiding his blonde locks from view, not a single person managed to recognize him.

That day, after digging out information from a cobweb of English-spoken gossips by the junior dance instructors, Jeonghan deduced that this dance crew audition thing was a much bigger deal than either Chan or Seungcheol were willing to admit. They also talked about Chan’s failed audition last year. “They would’ve taken him in if it weren’t for his age,” a female instructor said, brushing her fuchsia pompadour hair in an affectionate manner. “He was brilliant. Emotional, fragile—I would even say vengeful. I was there when he danced. Your brother was there, too,” she added, nudging Jeonghan.

Jeonghan’s eyes widened, slightly taken aback, before he recalled the lie he had told. “Ah, Seungcheol?” he masked his voice in a low tone, which so far had been successful in deceiving other people that he was Chan’s long-lost uncle. “He never visits anymore, right?”

“I think he stopped waiting for Chan and picking him up the day after that audition,” answered another instructor. “I would not expect him to come over after what he had seen. It’s been that Wonu guy ever since.”

He did not consider himself a nosy kind of person, but the curiosity was simply overwhelming. Five minutes later, he found himself settled on one of the futon sofas that were scattered in the waiting room, an iPad held between his fingers and nervous breaths of air out of his lips. His finger was poised above the play button. The dance instructors had warned him about bawling his eyes out.

He pressed the button.

Chan stood in a practice room, uttering a fluent stream of greeting and introduction in Portuguese, a language he could barely understand. His shirt contained a caricature of Michael Jackson, and he donned on the glove and fedora hat Jeonghan had seen in his rock collection. He looked extremely adorable, smiling his jitters out of the way, but then the music started and his expression sharpened into focus.

He may not know much about dancing, but Jeonghan do know whether someone was or was not investing all of their bare emotions into a performance—he had done it multiple times himself, despite not recently. Chan was a prime example of the former. You would not have guessed he was seven years young when you witnessed him dancing. His body spoke of another language, moving and turning and gliding in sinuous grace. He was telling a story.

Chan talked about Seungcheol, how it was just the two of them, how Seungcheol would have fun with him every day and jam to rock music with him every evening and hug him to slumber every night. Then it was of another man, who came and made them three components of total happiness. The man had narrow eyes and a dazzling smile. He was a second father to Chan.

It did not last long. Soon, Chan was hiding in his bedroom from the adults’ fights and his own fear. On his own, he felt useless and fidgety and guilty. He would cry every single night, his parents’ arguments drowning his sobs. No one helped him. Jeonghan could not spot Wonwoo anywhere in the story.

A sudden, intense gust of anger grew within Jeonghan. How could Seungcheol have possibly done this? How could he have done that to his own son? What kind of father was he? He was quivering, mere inches away from ire, the iPad shaking in his grip, but a voice on the back of his head reminded him that this was over a year ago—Chan must be different. Chan must have healed, somehow.

It was a shock to Jeonghan, how much he could comprehend the entire choreography. It was as if he was reading an open book. Perhaps it was the concurrent simplicity and complexity of the whole routine. Perhaps it was how Chan was defenseless. He poured his heart out on the dance floor and was not hesitant or scared in letting it shout out its pain. His tears were the agony written all over his face, and his sobs were the erratic, controlled movements of his limbs.

When Chan bended his torso forward in a bow, hot tears were cascading Jeonghan’s cheeks.

“Oh my God, you’re crying like a baby!”

Jeonghan’s head jolted up. The lingering bits of self-conscious floated away from him the minute he landed his gaze on one of the dance instructors he had conversed with prior, the one with purple braids and piercings on her nose and tongue. She was guffawing, but Jeonghan did not bother to conceal his tears and shamelessly sobbed in his seat. Her name escaped him—names were never his strong suit, anyway, he had always relied on Mingyu for that—and he felt slightly guilty when she extended a hand to pat him on the shoulder.

“It’s almost Chan’s turn now. Let’s go watch through the mirror.”

Jeonghan wiped his damp face on the sleeve of his jacket and got to his wobbling legs. He trailed behind the instructor, who led him to a more spacious waiting room, teeming with floral-printed armchairs and suffocating fug of cigarettes. They were all blurry and distorted due to the sheen of tears blocking his vision, but he managed to blink it away once they reached a one-way mirror implanted on the wall, overlooking the dance practice room next door.

Chan was already on the center of the dance floor, facing the judges that seemed to be the senior members of the crew. Jeonghan could see their faces lit up once recognition dawned on them. As Chan amiably greeted the people in the room, Jeonghan fished his phone out of his pocket—over a hundred and fifty missed calls from Mingyu and Seokmin—and began recording the audition.

The music was muffled marginally, but Jeonghan thought it did not really matter—he was heedful through the eyes. His teeth sank onto the insides of his cheeks as he watched Chan assuming position.

“Break a leg,” Jeonghan mumbled.

And then the magic began.

It was simply his passion to dance, Jeonghan thought. It was how Chan loved dancing so much—whether or not he consciously realized this—that engendered captivation and amazement to those who watched him. Every of the limb, every shifting facial expression—all were honest, soulful, and breathtaking.

Chan picked up where he left off. The story unfolded to the next chapter, but it did not convey any kind of heartaches, as Jeonghan had mildly expected. Instead, it was about him.

A well-known stranger. A traveler that had devoured the far-flung corners of the world. A man with unsteady legs and tipsy words. Yoon Jeonghan, in the eyes of an eight-year-old, Yoon Jeonghan was someone who carried happiness and brought it to their home.  Yoon Jeonghan was a bridge that linked the unspoken hopes and desires from the deafening silence to the ever-so-changing reality. Yoon Jeonghan was someone who—

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s dancing about you,” the instructor muttered next to him.

Mere seconds after the dance was completed, the judges shook their heads in awe and rose from their seats, gifting Chan with a standing ovation.

Chan got in. Had there ever been any question?

The poor boy was fatigued yet gleeful, so Jeonghan took him to a secluded, waterfront café near the permanently congested Ipanema Beach for a celebratory meal. Chan’s babbles were nonstop as they dined on puddings and chicken, and it was not until moments had passed that Chan realized Jeonghan had been awfully quiet.

“Did I say something wrong?” he timidly asked, brows furrowing in confusion.

“No, no, of course not,” Jeonghan convinced him as he shook his head. “I just—I just—”

Chan stayed silent while Jeonghan struggled to collect his thoughts and string them into words.

“You—you danced really well,” he finally said, a small smile visible on his lips. “I’m proud of you, Channie.”

Chan’s face lit up in pride. “Thanks!”

“I watched your last year’s audition, too,” Jeonghan continued in a hurry before he could lose the opportunity. “It was… really something.”

Chan blinked, and all the color immediately drained out from his face. “Oh,” he blankly responded, scooping a piece of tart with his spoon.

Jeonghan tilted his head to the side and whispered, “It must’ve been really hard for you.”

It took a while for Chan to voice out his words, and they came out choked and strained. “I guess. It’s okay now, though.”

Something inside Jeonghan’s chest twisted. Chan had regarded him highly—of how he pieced him and Seungcheol together, of how he gave them something that had been nonexistent since a long time ago. On the sticky sofa where he sat, in a smoldering hot café which had too little air conditioners and too many chili powder in their food, making the young boy happy turned from something he subconsciously did to a much heavier obligation. Chan might have expressed his heart out, but that did not mean it instantly healed soon afterwards.

“Do you forgive him?”

Chan’s eyes widened. “Of course I do,” he answered straight away. “Daddy really loved Jihoon. Daddy was sad when he left. It’s okay to be sad, right?”

“But he abandoned you,” Jeonghan remarked, a tinge of disbelief in his tone.

“He did.” Chan nodded his head. “But I got it. I understood why. He was always strong for me, so—when it was just us again—I thought I could be strong for him.”

Jeonghan’s chest began to throb in pain and his stomach churned, albeit it had nothing to do with the food. It all clicked. In just seconds, it all made sense. Chan, the boy who was always short on sleep but never on happiness, was not well taken care of due to just love and affection. It was guilt that drove Seungcheol to put Chan his number-one priority.

“He saw your audition, too,” stated Jeonghan. “Last year. He stopped coming ever since.”

Chan bit his lips and ducked his head down. Jeonghan could not know if he was crying. If he were, the man figured that the last thing Chan needed was comfort. It was just him now, stripped of all the hypnotizing dancing and grand music. It was just him and emotions, and overwhelming.

“I—I was just really mad,” the boy uttered. The spoon slipped from his quivering fingers and dropped to the floor, but neither of them bent down to pick it up. “The audition day was not long—after Jihoon left. I just wanted to let it all out. I didn’t mean to hurt Daddy.

“After the audition, I felt sort of light. I don’t know. It’s like… I left all the hurt on the dance floor, and when I came back home, it didn’t follow me. I forgave him then. Right after I finished dancing. I didn’t blame Daddy anymore. But I guess he didn’t think of it that way.

“He keeps asking me if I’m happy or not. Every day. He never stops. I—I don’t feel light anymore. He keeps getting worried that I’m not happy, and I keep telling him that I am, but… he doesn’t believe me. I just want me and Daddy to be happy, but I don’t know how to make that happen. But then… you came.

“It feels better when you’re around. Sometimes, it gets weird between me and Daddy, but when you’re here, it’s not weird anymore. I can see he’s happy again. I think he doesn’t want to say it out loud, or maybe he doesn’t really know it, but I know he’s happy.”

Slowly, Chan pulled his head back up. Traces of tears were evident on his pale cheeks, but a bright smile was playing on his lips.

“And that makes me happy, too.”

190+ missed calls. Props to you.
3:31 P.M.

YOON ING JEONGHAN WHAT THE DUDE WHERE THE HAVE YOU BEEN YOU LIL JUST WAIT TILL I GET MY HANDS ON YOU YOU ER
3:33 P.M.

I’m alright. Sorry about the whole MIA thing. How much trouble did you get?
3:45 P.M.

DO. NOT. ASK. WHERE U AT?
3:47 P.M.

I’m still in Rio. Let’s meet up tomorrow. I’ll tell you everything.
3:55 P.M.

DUDE YOU SOUND CREEPY AF BUT YEA ALRIGHT WHERE
3:59 P.M.

I’m not coming back yet, though.
4:06 P.M.

???????????? THE ACTUAL SO WHAT IS THE PURPOSE OF YOU TEXTING ME YOU
4:07 P.M.

JEONGHAN
4:29 P.M.

JEONGHAN
4:47 P.M.

EARTH TO JEONGHAN
5:02 P.M.

YOU BETTER ANSWER MY CALLS
5:24 P.M.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU AIN’T COMING BACK
5:36 P.M.

Castanho. Go look it up. 8 P.M. See you there.
12:03 A.M.

this wasn’t supposed to be divided into two parts, but i still need to edit the rest because I’m such a lazy- and i just realized i haven’t updated in over a month e__e do tell me what you think of this in the comments! also happy holidays to everyone < 3 thank you for the upvote: Ayatoo, jeonghaneko, choicesmakeus, missbazinga, misha65, Deredereclown, han_hunney3, waiclareli, exozhangyixing, Kagura_Sen, BlackLilies, on_you, cheonsa_jeonghan, byacell, Dianis06, latte_mint, VelvetLove, yoondong, koffilatte, royalcb614, oceanflow, hotsunkiss, thatkidrd, SeobWipeu, Mirage, cdotjhn, classca, and OrangeBright!