Chanyeol plays mindlessly with the silver band around his ring finger as he sits in the air-conditioned café, surrounded by plants and bookshelves and students tapping away at their laptops. He’s watching the door for his sister, even though there are still five minutes to go. Chanyeol was here fifteen minutes early, nervous and jumpy, twitching every time the chime above the glass door jingles. He looks away, down at his hands in his lap, and tries to breathe normally.

He has spent the last month working up to this. A month of convincing himself he can do it, that it’s the right thing to do, that it’s time. Yoora is coming with him, offering her steady support, just as she has ever since they were teenagers. Yeonseok offered to come too, but Chanyeol daren’t risk it. He is not confident of how his parents will react, and he would die before letting them hurt Yeonseok.

The chair on the opposite side is dragged out from under the table. Chanyeol looks up as his older sister sits down with a sigh. She drops her bag on the floor and smiles at him. Chanyeol tries to smile back. It comes out more like a grimace.

“Are you ready?” Yoora asks.

Chanyeol looks away. He doesn’t think he will ever be ready. He doesn’t think he can ever be prepared enough for this.

Yoora senses his hesitation. “I just meant if you’re ready to order,” she says, tapping the small menu on the table. Chanyeol hadn’t even noticed it was there. He’s been too caught up in his anxieties. He shakes his head. His stomach is tight with anxiety. He’s not sure he’ll be able to eat anything.

“Isn’t it a bad idea to be eating an hour before dinner?” he asks.

Yoora smirks at him. “Since when have you not been a bottomless pit, little brother? I know you inherited the family metabolism, don’t even try and deny it.”

Chanyeol shrugs. Yoora shakes her head, gets up from her chair and saunters to the counter to order. Chanyeol looks after her and sighs. He loves his sister, but he’s not sure she completely understands just how bad this could be. She’s never had to hide from their parents, never had to worry about being a disappointment, or worse, a shame to the family. She’s never been hyper-aware of every casual slip in conversation, every oblique reference that might imply homophobia. There are no dirty little secrets in her closet. Chanyeol has always tried to match up to his big sister, always tried to be just as good a son to their parents as she is a daughter. Today, he risks ruining all of that.

He wonders if it would have been better if he hadn’t hidden it quite so well. If they had seen him read comics with gay main characters like Yoora, or somehow sensed it like Baekhyun, or even if they’d seen him with Yeonseok, noticed hands held or cheeks kissed, and figured it out for themselves. Then he wouldn’t have had to say the words out loud. He wouldn’t have had to tell them to their faces. He supposes it’s cowardly of him to wish they’d just figure it out on their own, so that he doesn’t have to really come out to them.

Then again, Chanyeol has always known he is a coward.

Yoora returns with coffee and a chocolate croissant. Her fingers skillfully shred the pastry into pieces, and Chanyeol’s stomach lurches at the sight. He presses a hand to it to try and hold it steady. Yoora notices, and her eyes soften a little. “Hey, little brother,” she says. “It’ll be okay.”

Chanyeol is not so sure. It’s been years since he last heard his parents make blatantly homophobic comments, but the memory of them hasn’t faded.

“I hope so,” he mumbles.

Yoora reaches over the table to pat his arm. He’s so glad he has her. He couldn’t do this alone.

She changes the subject, telling him about her two-year-old son’s latest antics. Chanyeol listens to the stories with as much attention as he can, appreciating the distraction.

“I dread even taking him to the supermarket after the last time. He pulled an entire display of toilet paper down, it was a total disaster. Toilet paper everywhere! He’s really hit the terrible twos.” Yoora sighs. “He’s nearly as bad as you were.”

Chanyeol rises to the bait automatically. “What do you mean, nearly as bad? I never pulled down a toilet paper display! Or any kind of display!”

Yoora sniggers. “You were horrible. An absolute monster.”

“I was not and you can’t remember anyway, you’re only three years older than me. I bet you were worse than me, you were an only child when you were two. I heard only children are the worst,” he says with relish, the queasy feeling in his stomach receding as he’s pulled into familiar sibling banter. He steals a shred of her croissant and pops it in his mouth, grinning at her indignant protest to go buy your own, you little scab!

They talk more about Yoora’s family and Chanyeol and Yeonseok’s plans for summer vacation, and time passes swiftly until Chanyeol feels almost normal again. He wishes this could last forever, that he could just stay here happily with the one member of his family he can trust to accept him for who he is, but Yoora is keeping track of the time. She drains the last of her coffee and looks at him, her face going unusually solemn. They’re so similar, with their big eyes and goofy ears and wide smiles, always full of laughter, rarely serious. Chanyeol wonders if he looks like this when he’s serious, eyes huger than ever without the smile to balance them.

“It’s going to be okay,” she says. “I promise.”

Chanyeol wishes he could believe her, blindly and without question, like he had when he was little. He used to believe anything Yoora told him when they were kids, no matter how crazy or bizarre. The fight-or-flight reaction he’d been able to briefly suppress slowly rears its ugly head again, travelling in shivers of adrenaline through his veins, along with his blood.

Chanyeol’s first response has always been flight. He’s never liked confrontation, but over the years he has learned that confrontation is sometimes necessary. He’s been fleeing this dragon for his whole life, and he can’t live with it looming over him any longer. It’s time to fight it, and whether that fight is to the death is beyond his control.

They walk out of the cool haven of the café and into the heat of the afternoon. Yoora gently links her arm into his as she leads him towards the subway station. He wonders if she can feel him trembling. He is grateful that she doesn’t say anything, if she does.

The ride towards their parents’ apartment gives him too much time to fret. His fingers are clammy and beads of sweat slowly slip down his neck. He’s scared. He’s so ing scared, and he hates it. He hopes Yoora doesn’t see it, but of course there’s no way she wouldn’t. Her hold on his arm tightens slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep him grounded.

Chanyeol people-watches to distract himself. He sees parents with small kids, lanky teenagers, and the tiny elderly, often barely half Chanyeol’s height, who grew up in the war years without enough to eat. He sees power-dressed business people, a cluster of middle-aged women in bright new hiking outfits, and a man with a huge instrument case, maybe a tuba, balanced on his knees. The subway goes above ground as they get close to their parents’ stop, and he stares out of the window at the buildings clustered together, and the hills fading into the haze beyond.

When they step out of the subway car and onto the platform Chanyeol shudders, hard and uncontrollable. Yoora glances at him and squeezes his arm even tighter. He can sense her willing him to relax, but there’s no way Chanyeol can relax now. As they descend the steps to street level and walk towards their parents’ apartment building, he finds himself regretting every choice he’s ever made that has brought him to this point. What the is he doing? Why wake up a sleeping dragon when he could let it lie? He stops dead in the street and turns to Yoora, opening his mouth, but she gets in before he can speak.

“Oh no you don’t, little brother.” Her tone is teasing, but there’s a determined look in her eyes. “You don’t get out of this, not now.”

“I can’t do it.” Chanyeol feels like he’s going to shake apart, fall apart at the seams. His voice is grating, booming in his distress, too loud and raw for him to control. “I can’t do this, I can’t. They’re going to hate me. They’re going to...”

Yoora grabs both his hands, uncaring that they’re standing in the middle of the pavement and blocking the way. Her hands feel hot, which means his must be too cold.

“You told me that you didn’t want to hide any more,” she reminds him. “I asked you if this was really what you wanted, and you said yes. You wanted to be yourself. You wanted to be free.”

Chanyeol stares at her, trembling.

“Even if the worst happens,” Yoora continues, “you will still have me, and my husband, and your terrible nephew who adores you. You will still have Baekhyun and Jongdae and all the other friends you’ve told me about who have supported you. And you will still have Yeonseok, who you love, and who loves you.” She grins at him, wide and sparkling and so similar to his own. “Be brave, kiddo. I’ve got your back.”

Chanyeol blinks, and blinks again. She is right, of course. He has so many people to be thankful for. It doesn’t take away the fear of losing his parents, but at least Chanyeol is not alone. And he has to do this now. He knows himself. He will never, ever find the courage to get to this point again if he backs out now. He must give his parents the chance to accept him, and he must give himself the chance of being accepted, no matter how slim that chance seems to him.

He nods.

Yoora lets go of one of his hands, keeps hold of the other, and leads him home.

“Yoora! Chanyeol!” Their mother, smaller than both of them, lights up in smiles when she opens the apartment door. She drags them both into a hug, up on her tiptoes as she stretches her arms around them. “How did I give birth to two such giants,” she grumbles as they lower their heads to let her kiss them on their cheeks.

When she lets go of them, Yoora kicks her shoes off and slides sideways into the kitchen to put the bottle of wine she’s brought in the fridge to chill, leaving Chanyeol alone in the hallway with their mother. She holds him at arm’s length and rakes him up and down with her eyes. “Look at you, my handsome boy! We rarely see you these days. You must be so busy at that hospital.” He can hear the warmth in her voice, as if he’s something to be proud of. Chanyeol wonders sickly for how much longer she’ll be proud of him. The anxious stomach from before makes its return with a vengeance, the scents of food streaming from the kitchen suddenly overpowering.

“Take your shoes off and come in. Your slippers are in the cupboard. Dinner’s nearly ready.” Chanyeol’s mother lets go of him and disappears into the kitchen. Yoora slides back out to grab her own slippers. She sends Chanyeol an encouraging smile as she gets his slippers out too and puts them in front of him, like he’s a kid. Chanyeol is grateful. He’s too busy trying to swallow nausea to fully function.

“Hey, you’re okay,” she says quietly.

“Tell that to my stomach,” Chanyeol jokes uneasily.

Yoora grimaces. “Go talk to dad, get your mind off it. I’ll be in the kitchen with mom.”

Chanyeol slides his feet into his slippers and walks into the lounge to greet his father.

“Hello, son,” his father says, smiling widely. Chanyeol smiles back, trying not to feel awkward. His father has never shown anything but love to Chanyeol, but Chanyeol is pretty good at projecting his fears. He’s felt wrong looking his dad in the eyes ever since he was thirteen, knowing that if he knew who Chanyeol really was, he wouldn’t be looking at him with pride.

He shoves his thoughts down ruthlessly as his father steps closer to hug him. “You should stop by more often,” he tells him. Chanyeol nods emptily, wondering if his father will be singing a different tune after tonight.

He follows his father to the couches around the coffee table, where he answers the usual questions about work. No, he isn’t getting a promotion, yes, he’s being treated well and still very happy with his speciality, no, he has no plans to move closer to home. He diverts the barrage of parental questions by telling stories about some of his patients. Luckily, his father seems interested, and thirty minutes pass without further difficulty, until Yoora interrupts to tell them food is served.

Getting away from the questions forever is impossible, however. Sitting at the dinner table with the many traditional dishes his mother has prepared is the perfect forum. At first, the attention is on Yoora, and Chanyeol pushes food around with his chopsticks in a poor imitation of eating while his big sister lights up the table with her lighthearted chatter.

All too soon, though, the attention comes back to Chanyeol. At first, he gets the same standard questions about work. He dredges up more stories about his cutest patients, and their parents tease them both for a while about how they’d thrown fits every time they had to get their childhood vaccinations, but the questions soon stray into other areas.

“Have you met a nice girl yet?” his mother asks innocently.

Chanyeol drops his chopsticks. They land on his plate with a startling clatter, and everyone at the table looks at him. Not that they weren’t looking at him before, but now they’re really seeing him. He picks them up, laughing awkwardly to hide his panic.

“Sorry, fumbled them,” he says. His voice has gone raw and loud again, and he winces. It’s not that he hasn’t gotten this question before. It’s just that this time, this time he’s twitchy and on edge, hypersensitive to everything. Other times he’s easily brushed this question aside, saying that he’s focusing on his career right now, pointing out that he’s still young, that the right person will come along when the time is right, but he can’t do that today. He’s supposed to be truthful today.

Chanyeol looks at his mother. He looks at his father.

“No, I haven’t,” he says, wishing his stupid, loud voice wouldn’t grate so. “I -”

“Oh, what a shame,” his mother continues so smoothly that he knows she was expecting his negative answer, barely even waiting for him to get it out before going full steam ahead. “You’re already thirty-three, darling. I know you want to focus on your career, but it’s high time a man of your standards finds a nice woman. I can’t imagine who wouldn’t have you. I know!” she claps her hands artificially. “I’ll look out a nice date for you. I know a good matchmaker -”

Chanyeol inhales his sip of water. He coughs violently into his napkin, eyes watering. At least he stopped her talking.

“No,” he blurts out as soon as he can speak. His chest hurts, and he can’t decide whether the pain is from the coughing fit or if his anxiety has actually become physical pain. “No, I...” He coughs again, rubs at his chest, trying to soothe the discomfort. “I have something to tell you.”

His mother leans forward. Her eyes are shining. Chanyeol can see that she’s hoping for good news, it makes sense too with the way he worded it after her question, and his heart constricts.

His father nods, eyebrows furrowing. Where his mom looks eager, his dad looks concerned. Chanyeol stares between them. He can hear his own heart beating, pounding like a drum in his ears.

He can do this. He can.

“I won’t ever find a wife,” he says. His voice rings around the quiet room, too deep and too raw. He hears the distress in it as clear as if tears were pouring down his face.

His mother gasps. “Nonsense, dear! You’re successful and handsome and a good man. We’ll find the right girl for you, don’t worry.”

She reaches over the table to take his hand, but Chanyeol instinctively pulls away. His mother looks hurt.

“No, I won’t,” he tries again. It’s so hard to get the words out, but he needs to say this clearly. He needs to put an end to this, once and for all. “Just. Just listen. Please. Listen to me.” He’s breathing hard, words coming in jerks. His mother looks concerned too now, matching his father. “I’m telling you I won’t….won’t ever have a wife. Or...or a girlfriend. Because...because...”

And here they come.

“I’m...I’m in a committed relationship…with a man. A man I love very….very much. I’m...I’m…”

Chanyeol can’t get the last word out. His throat has locked up tight. He wants to scream, or throw up, or break something. But all he does is sit there, wound tight and taut as a guitar string at the very point of snapping.

Silence.

No one is saying a word. The tension in the air is so thick it almost chokes him. Say something, he screams inside, but he doesn’t know whether he’s screaming at himself or them or something else entirely.

“You’re in a relationship with a man?”

It’s his father. Confirming his words. There’s no anger in his voice. At least not yet. Chanyeol can’t find his voice, so he nods. Then nods again and again, head bobbing up and down like the stupid bobble-head bulldog on the dashboard of Baekhyun’s car. Yes, he’s with a man, each nod of his head is saying. Yes, he loves a man. Yes to all of it.

“No.” It’s his mother. Her voice is cold. It forces Chanyeol’s head up against his will. Her face is cold too. “No. You’re seeing the matchmaker tomorrow and I will find a lovely girl for you and you will settle down and -”

“No, mom!” Yoora breaks in angrily. “Listen to what he just told you!” She glances at Chanyeol, perhaps for permission to go on, but Chanyeol feels like the ice in his mother’s voice has flooded out and frozen him solid.

“Chanyeol is already in a relationship,” Yoora goes on. “I’ve met his partner. He’s a lovely man and they are very happy together.”

His mother goes white. Her eyes are pinched. Her lips. Pinched.

“Nobody...in this family...will be one of those...aberrations.” The words sound like they’re being dragged straight out of . She’s white with anger. Ice with it. “I won’t have it. I won’t. No child of mine...no, never. This...this is just...confusion. A phase. It’s unnatural. Wrong.” She looks at Yoora. So does Chaneyol, numbly. Yoora’s fists are clenched. “Daughter. You knew about this?”

“Of course I knew!” Yoora cries, anguished. “He’s my brother! He’s been gay his whole life and if you weren’t so prejudiced he would have felt safe to tell you sooner! Mom, this is your son you’ve known and loved your whole life! Being gay doesn’t make him anyone different!”

His mother stands up and so does Yoora and suddenly the room is full of screaming. His mother screams at Yoora and Yoora screams back, and it hurts Chanyeol, it hurts him like he’s a battlefield and two armies are fighting to the death inside him, every word slashing him open inside until he’s nothing but blood and pain. He rocks on his chair, curling in on himself with the agony in his chest, clutching his hands to it. How is it possible for his chest to be hurting so much? How can words cause this much physical pain?

He becomes aware that his mother has turned from Yoora and is shrieking at him now, and Yoora is still shouting at their mother, but he can’t make sense of the words, not any of them. He rocks beneath them like they’re physical blows, curling tighter around his hands, around his heart. It hurts, oh God it hurts so bad. Why won’t they stop? Why won’t they -

“STOP!” The word punches, raw and bloody, out of Chanyeol’s chest. Louder than their screaming. Louder than anything

They stop.

Chanyeol looks up into the ringing silence, inexorably, unable, no, unwilling to protect himself from the pain he deserves. His neck is so tight that the movement hurts. The room is white and overbright.

His mother is looking at him.

He barely recognizes her face, cold and twisted as it is.

Mom, he wants to plead, to cry, to beg. Mom. Please. It’s me. It’s your Chanyeollie.

Please don’t look at me like that.

“Get out.”

Chanyeol’s bones, his blood, have turned to ice.

“Mom,” gasps Yoora.

“Out,” his mother repeats. She’s not screaming any more. Her eyes are so cold. “Until you have a good woman, you are no longer welcome in this house.”

“Mom,” Chanyeol croaks.

His mother flinches. Actually flinches.

“You are not my son.”

They’re the quietest words she’s said all evening.

They’re the last twist of the knife.

Chanyeol pushes blindly from the table. He stumbles towards the hallway. He hears them start up again in the dining room, his father’s deep voice joining in now, but Chanyeol can’t hear it, doesn’t want to hear it. All this anger, all this fighting, all this pain. All because of him.

You are not my son.

Hot evening air hits his face like a blow as he stumbles out of the front door and down the stairs. Every breath of air hurts his entire body. He wants to collapse to the ground and scream his pain into the universe, but he can’t do that, not in the middle of a public street. He’ll get the police called on him.

Police.

Yeonseok.

Chanyeol needs, oh, he needs Yeonseok.

You are not my son. The words repeat in his head as he tries to find his way to the closest subway station. What did he gain from this? Nothing, his broken heart cries. He lost a mother, a father perhaps too, and he gained nothing.

He reaches the train station and staggers clumsily up the steps to the line level, clinging to the concrete walls like a drunk. Yes, he’s drunk, he thinks at the sidelong glances he gets, he’s drunk and the disgust in their eyes is not because he’s gay, but he deserves it just the same as if it was. He reaches the platform at the same time as a train, and as he lurches through the doors he hears Yoora’s voice, crying his name from halfway down the stairs, Chanyeol, wait, don’t get on the train, come back...but he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t care, can’t care. The doors slide closed behind him and the train slides away, carries him away into the empty night.

Chanyeol slumps in one of the free seats and stares at the lights out of the window in front of him. The woman next to him edges away a little. Chanyeol understands. Who would want to sit next to him? He’s drunk on pain, all cut to pieces inside, and he’s sure they can read it in his face, his eyes.

You are not my son.

The pain of the echoed words has him gasping out loud. A few people turn to stare at him, but when he doesn’t react more they go back to their phones.

You are not my son.

Chanyeol will never be her son again. The first tear slips down his cheek, followed by another.

By the time the subway train stops at the next station, Chanyeol is full-on sobbing. Deep, guttural noises of grief tear out of his chest. They hurt. The people around him have all moved away. Chanyeol really doesn’t blame them. Nobody wants to see a grown man fall to pieces in a subway car. Chanyeol doesn’t want to see that either. The only problem is that he can’t edge away from himself the way they can.

He buries his face in his hands in a futile attempt to muffle his grief, and his palms grow soaked with tears.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, but he doesn’t check it, even though there’s a chance that it might be the hospital, though he’s not on call. He’s no use to anyone like this.

The subway trip back to the other side of town takes 45 minutes, and by the time it’s Chanyeol’s station he’s cried himself out. He probably looks like a disaster after crying so hard, eyes and nose doubtlessly swollen and red. He hangs his head as he walks the few quiet streets towards their apartment.

Yeonseok is going to know as soon as he sees him that something is wrong. Chanyeol’s aching chest gives another wrench when he realises he’s going to have to explain what has happened to his boyfriend. How can he do this? How can he say those words out loud? How can he tell him that his own parents think he’s an unnatural freak, a thing so appalling that they cannot even bear to keep him in their family? Yeonseok is like Chanyeol, too.

Yeonseok is strong. Stronger than Chanyeol will ever be. Chanyeol isn’t a warrior. He should never have gone to war. But Yeonseok loves Chanyeol anyway, and that is one thing his mother cannot take from him.

“Chanyeol? You’re back early?” Yeonseok calls when he opens the front door. Chanyeol closes the door behind him and automatically starts to take off his shoes. That’s when he realises he’s still wearing the slippers from his parents’ home. He wore thin indoor slippers all the way home and he didn’t even notice. For some reason, this shocks him more than the knowledge that he cried like a child in front of dozens of people in a subway car. He stares down at his slipper-clad feet. They’ll be too dirty to wear inside now.

“Honey, why are you…”

Chanyeol looks up again to see Yeonseok standing at the end of the short hallway. Yeonseok’s voice fades out when he sees Chanyeol’s face. He makes a wordless noise of dismay and hurries forward to wrap his arms tightly around him. Chanyeol’s tears start up again on cue, and he cries into Yeonseok’s shoulder. His body feels heavy and lifeless, energy drained completely as he sobs. Yeonseok holds him steady with a strong hand on the back of his head and croons nonsense into his ear until Chaneyol gets a hold of himself again..

“Sorry.” His voice is hoarse. Yeonseok just takes his hand and leads Chanyeol through the apartment, ignoring the TV in the lounge as he pulls Chanyeol into the bedroom and closes the door behind them. Light fingers brush the tears from his cheeks.

“I…” Chanyeol starts, but doesn’t know how to go on.

“Shh, darling, I’ve got you,” Yeonseok murmurs. He helps Chanyeol undress, then strips himself and leads Chanyeol into the adjacent bathroom. He turns on the shower and gently pushes Chanyeol in, then follows him, wrapping his arms around Chanyeol’s waist as the hot water rushes over them both. Chanyeol closes his eyes and rests his head on top of Yeonseok’s. His mind slowly starts to file the worst of the terribleness away into boxes, away from the present. He has Yeonseok. He still has Yeonseok.

Yeonseok dries him off when they’re done showering and then redresses Chanyeol in his pyjamas. They lie in bed, under the covers, face to face. Yeonseok removes a strand of hair from Chanyeol’s forehead and moves closer, until their noses are almost touching.

“It was bad, huh?” he murmurs.

“They hate me,” Chanyeol whispers, and has to bite his lower lip to prevent himself from bursting into tears again. Yeonseok’s arms slide around him and he presses their foreheads together.

“Tell me what happened.” Yeonseok’s breath is warm on his face.

“I told them. Dad, I don’t really know, he didn’t actually say anything, but m-mom…
He chokes on the word for a moment, wondering if he still has the right to call her that. But no, he can call her that. Even though she’s rejected him as a son, she is still his mother. “Mom told me to get out. Unless I bring home a woman I’m not welcome there. She said -” The words are so painful, but Chanyeol needs to say them. He needs Yeonseok to know. “She said I’m not her son.”

Yeonseok closes his eyes for a second, then opens them again.

“Oh, my darling. Oh baby, I’m so sorry.”

Chanyeol shakes his head a little. There’s no nee