Chapter Text
One of your father’s disgruntled bodyguards shoves you for walking too slowly. You have enough tenacity to glare at him when you stumble, but even at fourteen years old you are smart enough refrain from retaliation. You know your father will not take your side as you are already in trouble for sneaking out last night. You met with some school friends and attended a house party like a normal fourteen year old, a punishable offence because your life is anything but normal.
You just hope this punishment is a physical one. A few smacks might sting but you’ll get over it, whereas you don’t want to lose your already limited phone or computer privileges.
You walk into your father’s home office with the expectation you will be alone, so you stop short when you see the back of a stranger’s head.
Your father’s guests are usually suited old men or pretty young women, not a beanie-wearing teenage boy. He’s kicking his legs like he’s in an ice cream parlour and not in a chair across from one of the most powerful men in the country. Your father is behind his desk, hands steepled and attention determinedly fixed on you. Punishment time is the only time his attention is so rapt.
The door closes behind you, the guard outside slamming it shut. The boy in the chair looks over his shoulder at you. He has a soft face, much too soft for a place like this, his cheeks sweetly freckled and mouth like a pretty pink bow. He has dark eyes, his eyebrows the same shade of dark brown. His hair has been dyed a strawberry blonde, bangs sweeping out from under the beanie. He has to flick them out of his eyes as he looks you over.
You stare at him. A change in routine does not bode well for you and this is a massive change.
The boy just smiles. It is disarming in its sweetness and it petrifies you. You know how to behave when an ugly brute glares at you but a pretty boy smiling is unnerving.
Your father clears his throat. You and the boy both look his way, the boy dropping his gaze in a subservient way while you glare.
“Daughter,” your father says coolly. He gestures to the free chair beside the boy.
Some days, when you are feeling especially petulant or when your father is distracted with his phone even while meting out punishment, you will stomp your foot and refuse him. Maybe it is your stunned bemusement, but today you oblige without argument.
Your gaze drifts to the boy as you approach your seat. The boy does not look at you.
He looks like a normal teenage boy, wearing a hoodie under a flannel and blue jeans ripped at the knee, but you know better. There is always a flaw and this one is immediately jarring: his shoes are army regulation boots, the same as your father’s guards, albeit smaller. You have no idea why he would need them. He looks about your age and is a slender, delicate thing.
“Sit,” your father says. You realize you have standing there, staring. You look at your father and obey, sinking into the other chair. “Good.” Your father folds his hands on his desk. “My loving daughter,” he says dryly, “It has occurred to me that your present circumstances are not the most conducive to your development and well-being.”
You cannot help but scoff. Talk about understatement of the century.
The security teams? The constant surveillance? The knowledge that your wealthy father has accrued so many enemies that you can barely step outside without feeling threatened?
The fact you desperately want something bad to happen, because at least it would be different than the bad in here?
Your father just frowns.
“Don’t test my patience,” he says. “Especially as I have constructed a compromise according to your whims, young lady.”
Your brow furrows. You have no idea where this is going but you know you won’t like it, because you never like it.
“I only want what’s best for you,” your father says. “You’re my daughter, after all. My only child and my only heir. I want you protected but I want you capable, and you can’t be expected to thrive with the company of my men constantly surrounding you.”
Your heart kicks up with hope even while your brain knows better. Your father is not a generous man and he is clever with his words. There is a reason he has reached the heights he has reached. No one is better than your father and your father settles for no less than the best in turn.
You are an agonizing disappointment, but you lash out because you would be a disappointment regardless. Your father does not want a human daughter but a plastic doll that he can lock away until it has use, at which point he expects unending gratitude for your very existence.
This might sound like a concession of freedom but you know him better than that. The vice is tightening, not loosening. You will never be free.
“I have a gift for you,” your father says. “This is Felix.”
You and the boy, Felix, look at each other. Felix smiles again. He has the audacity to wave at you, a little salute and cutesy tip of the head.
Your nostrils flare with a sharp intake of breath. You look at your father.
“What is this?” you ask, so much wrong with this scenario that you don’t know where to start.
Your father smiles for the first time since you walked in the room. He needs to be in the position of highest power and that is obtained through making everyone else small. The more visibly uncomfortable you are, the more at ease he feels. He slouches comfortably in his big chair as he stares you down. You feel trapped in the little seat across his desk.
“This,” your father says, “is your new bodyguard.”
You look at Felix again. He is once more looking at your father like an obedient little puppy. It’s for the best as you are certain your expression is betraying every single thought. You are angry, confused, frightened. The confusion worsens your other emotions.
“Bodyguard,” you repeat. “He looks like he’s twelve.”
“I’m fourteen,” Felix says, startling you with a deep voice that does not remotely match his face. The rounder sounds are accented with an Australian twang. “Same as you.”
You look at each other again. You hide your confusion under a piercing glare. Felix draws his mouth into a flat line, not quite smiling, not quite frowning. He taps his fingers on the arm of the chair, a mismatched rhythm, some song only he can hear. His leg bounces.
You look at your father.
“Fourteen,” you say. “And short. And skinny. Look at him! I could throw him out a window!”
“You could try,” your father says, drole. “You wouldn’t succeed. Oh, hush.” He swipes a hand through the air when you open your mouth to speak again. “Felix is more than competent, believe me.”
Your father would not hire a second rate bodyguard, but there is simply no way this Felix kid is good for anything. You just can’t believe it. This is a test of some kind, maybe a mind game.
Your hackles are up and they won’t come down. Felix flicks some hair out of his eyes and the motion makes you jump. He doesn’t comment. He clears his throat and sits a little straighter, looking like every goody-two-shoes keener you ever gave a sneer.
“You will no longer require a full security detail,” your father says. “Not at home or at school. No where, barring certain occasions under my discretion.”
This has your heart racing again. Currently, your father has guards posted in several places around your school. No one but the school administrators know they are for you, but that doesn’t matter because you know. You know they are not general security, that they are specifically watching your every move. If you skip a meal or eat too much, they know. If you talk to one person and not another, they know. If you forget to do homework or flunk a test, they know. If you put on more make-up or roll up your skirt, they know. If you fall, if you laugh, if you flirt, if you breathe a little too hard, they know, and they report it all back to your father.
It doesn’t end there. They keep you on a schedule for your “protection” and if you stray from that agenda, they are on you. That means no chatting too long after class, no extended bathroom breaks, no stopping to smell a fucking flower. In the car, out the car, through the doors, at your seat, at your locker, upstairs, downstairs, fuck, fuck, fuck. How you’ve lasted this long, not even you know.
You spend all day suffocating under the extension of your father’s eyes, then you return home, flanked by bodyguards, only to be stuck with supervision until you are finally permitted to go to bed. Naturally, this is the easiest time to escape so you are in the habit of breaking out at night. You’re good at it too. Most nights you move without any detection, having memorized all the chinks in the mansion’s high-tech security armor. Last night was the result of some bad luck.
Now you are here, your heart racing, your breath catching.
It must be a trick. You look at Felix then your father, trying to hide your eagerness and your suspicion.
“In exchange, you will have Felix,” your father says. “He will attend school with you as a classmate. He is in all your classes and extra-curriculars. You are to keep him with you at all times of day. He will accompany you everywhere at all times of day.” Your father leans in. “Do you understand that? At all times of day.”
It does not sound too different from the security team other than the obvious fact there is only one of Felix. Even if Felix is the most skilled bodyguard in the world, he is still just one person. It seems too good to be true so it must be. Your father is waiting until you are comfortable so he can rip the rug out from under you, to put you in your place, which is flat on your back like a stupid, helpless, needy baby.
You will not give him the satisfaction. Curtly, you say, “I understand.”
“Good,” your father says. “I’m having a new bed installed in your bedroom as we speak. It should be ample space for two people without your privacy being overly encroached. When you get home, you will clear a space for Felix to move his things into your room.”
Despite your effort to remain neutral, obvious surprise blinks across your face.
“Wait, what?” you ask, darting forward in your seat. “What are you talking about?”
Your father tips his head as if perplexed with your outburst.
“Did you think you were getting away with something?” he asks. “Constantly sneaking out at night, evading my men. Do you know every time you pull a childish stunt like that, it endangers me and my business just as much as you?”
Your anger bubbles to the surface as quickly as his, cold laughter punching out of you as you say, “Oh! Your business! Of fucking course!”
“Don’t use vulgar language with me, child!”
“Don’t call me a child!” you snap back with as much fervour. “I’m fourteen years old! I’m not a little kid and I don’t need some other idiot kid babysitting me! I don’t need anyone fucking watching me!”
Felix is sitting ramrod straight, his eyes flicking back and forth between you and your father. He says nothing. He just sniffs and scratches a little circle on the exposed skin of his knee.
“You are my daughter, this is my house, and I will do with both as I please,” your father says.
“Then maybe I don’t want to be in this house!” you shout.
“You want to leave?” your father asks. He smacks a vicious hand down on his desk, rattling his computer. “Go ahead. Pick yourself up and walk out that door. Where are you going to go from here? You have no money and no skills and no protection. See how long it takes someone to pick you up off the street. You don’t want to be my daughter? You want me to ignore you when they put a gun to your head? The least they will do is kill you, you stupid little thing. But go on, since you’re so wise and brave and all grown-up. Walk out that door. I dare you.”
You sit on the very edge of your seat, your hands balled into fists. You long to swing them at his smug face but you can only sit there, vibrating with rage.
“Do you have something more to say?” your father asks.
You kick his desk, the adrenaline forcing it out of you. He smacks a mug and it smashes on the floor. Felix still does not react, though his gaze does linger on the broken mug.
“What about him!” you shriek, pointing at Felix. It draws his attention back to you, his eyebrow lifting at your pointed finger. “You’re going to leave me alone with a boy? In bed?” You imbue this exclamation with all the suggestive horror you can. “I can’t share a room with a boy! What if he’s a pervert! What if he takes pictures of me! What if he rapes me! You really trust some random boy to be alone with me?!”
The silence that follows is somehow more shrill than the yelling. Your father stares at you, resolutely focussed with such a cold glare that you shiver.
Felix shuffles in his seat. His mouth opens and he looks contemplative, weighing his words, but your father speaks before he can.
“Felix,” he says, “put your hand on the desk.”
Felix delays only seconds, more surprised by the order than reluctant. He obediently rests his hand on the desk, palm facing up.
Without looking away from you, your father grabs that hand and flips it over. Felix jerks, his feet planting, but he manages to restrain whatever instinct rattled him. He looks at his hand, at where your father pins it to the wood.
You look there too, fuming, then you look at your father. He is still glaring at you, even when he reaches into his desk. Your brow furrows when he retrieves an enveloper opener, a sleek little knife, shiny and sharp. He smacks it onto the table beside Felix’s hand. It makes you jump.
Felix just looks at the knife, tipping his head as if only mildly curious.
“Felix,” your father says. “Pick up that knife.” He leans back in his desk chair and crosses his arms, his expression bland and uncaring as he looks at you. You shake less from fury than fear, looking from your father to Felix.
Felix picks up the knife with his free hand. He looks at it, his expression revealing nothing.
“Thank you,” your father says.
He has not looked away from you even once, asserting his knowledge that Felix will obey without his supervision. You try to be as steadfast as him. You act like you couldn’t care less about the unknown boy and his freckles and beanie. This is between you and your father. You glare just as fiercely.
“Now, Felix,” your father says, “I am going to count down from three, then you are going to drive that knife into your hand. All the way through to the desk. I trust you know the spot that will do the least lasting damage.”
Your gaze whips from your father to Felix, staring at him wide-eyed as the stupid boy doesn’t even flinch. He just turns the knife over. His brow briefly pinches as he rests the tip of the knife against a soft spot on the back of his hand.
Your horrified brain is already several paces ahead, picturing his bloodied hand pinned to the wooden desk. You taste bile and it is only partially for the gore. The rest is for the fact Felix does nothing more than blink at his hand.
“Three,” your father says. “Two.”
You scream, “Stop!” at the same your father says, “One.”
You tackle Felix. The adrenaline flies out of you the same as that kick. The knife clatters to the desk and both your chairs fly out from under you.
Felix is fast. He flips you around so he takes the brunt of the fall, your head pillowing on his stomach when you land in a tangled heap on the floor. His beanie falls off when his head hits the ground. He barely winces, looking down at you.
You stare back at him, breathing hard.
“Are you fucking insane?” you ask. Tears fill your eyes, much to your horror. You try to suck them in because there is nothing you hate more than crying in front of your father. You don’t even know what is prompting the tears. Maybe it’s the forced recollection of how thoroughly his guards have invaded your life, the revelation that you will be forced to share every living moment with another intruder, or the fact he almost maimed a fourteen year old boy just to make a point.
Or, maybe, the fact you fell for it like you always do. Just a stupid little girl, high in her emotions, vulnerable and weak and in need of intervention.
You push away from Felix, directing all your emotions at him.
“You’re a fucking lunatic,” you say, spitting when you talk. “What did you think you were doing? Freak. Do you think you’re brave? You’re an idiot.”
Felix props himself up on his elbows, just staring back at you. His gaze flicks up when your father stands. That awful man circles the desk to look down at you.
You refuse to look up. You wipe your arm under your nose. Tears blur your vision.
“Felix,” your father says, “there is a car waiting outside. Take my daughter home. She is not to leave the house tonight.”
You wrench your arm away when Felix tries to help you up. He says nothing to your glare but at least he’s smart enough not to smile again. He gets up and dusts off his pants, then retrieves his beanie. You clamber to your feet and march toward the door without looking back or waiting. Only when your hand is on the doorknob does your father call your name.
You freeze, wanting so badly to ignore him and storm outside, but once the coldness settles in your veins you cannot move.
“Come here,” your father says. As if under a spell, you can only move when he demands it. You turn, facing him as he approaches. You hold still, your eyes full of tears and fists curled at your side.
Your father walks up and swiftly strikes you across the face. Tears spill over and you grab your cheek, heaving with frightened breath as your useless new bodyguard just stands there and watches.
Your father sighs.
“You’ll learn,” he says. “One way or another. If I have to chip at you with an axe until you take my shape, I’ll do it. You’ll thank me one day. Felix. Take her home. Now.”
You let Felix take your arm and guide you out of the room, too drained to fight him.
You refuse to be accommodating. If you’re unhappy then you will make Felix unhappy too, and if Felix is unhappy then maybe he will leave. Then your father will be unhappy and you finally won’t be.
You glare at the massive new bed taking up space in your room. It is still a big room otherwise, with plenty of space for two people, but your things are spread out everywhere and you have no intention of moving them. Instead, you empty out a single bedside drawer and point to it.
“There,” you say. “That’s yours.”
Felix is standing in the bedroom doorway wearing a backpack. He looks around the room, not sneering at its lacey, ivory princess-ness but not looking too enamoured either. He is passive as ever, quietly receiving his surroundings. He closes the door behind himself and shrugs the backpack down to the crease of his elbow.
“Kk,” he says. He puts his backpack on the floor by the bed then takes off his beanie and puts it in the drawer. He sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap. He stares at the wall.
What a weirdo.
You stare at him until he looks at you, then you scoff and roll your eyes. You dump your things on your desk and stalk over to your private bathroom door.
“Can I go pee without your supervision, or do you need to hold my hand?” you ask sarcastically.
“I don’t need to,” Felix says, “but, uhhh, I guess I can if you need help. But if you have a problem with doing it by yourself then we should probably take you to a doctor. I know first aid but I can’t really help with incontinence or like the opposite. Lol.”
He says the word lol out loud, a single grating syllable. You do not dignify his weird humour with a response. You stomp into your bathroom and slam the door shut.
There are bars on the bathroom window now. You grab the nearest bottle of soap and chuck it there, furious when tears spring back to your eyes. You feel violated even in your privacy, glaring at those bars as you shower and wash away the day.
You look at your reflection in the mirror, touching where your cheek feels tender from your father’s strike. He usually doesn’t hit your face or anywhere someone could see swelling or a cut. You suppose today’s slap was more personal than strategic.
You put on a thick sweatshirt and sweatpants. When you step back into your room, the weirdo is standing at the window with his hands behind his back. He is wearing just his ripped jeans and a t-shirt, plus those ugly army boots. He looks at you when you open the door, giving you a brief assessing stare before he smiles.
It would disarm someone more naïve. You just glare.
“Where are your things?” you ask.
He tips his head like an inquisitive cat. “Huh?” he asks.
“Your things,” you say venomously. “Aren’t you moving them in here?”
“Uh, I did,” he says. He turns and points to his side of the bed. “You gave me a drawer, remember?”
This kid unpacked a beanie.
Maybe it’s a good sign he isn’t fully moving in. Maybe this whole charade is just your father threatening you. He will torture you with this invader until he thinks you have learned a lesson, then things will go back to normal. Felix probably isn’t even a proper bodyguard, and how could he be? A skinny, pretty fourteen year old boy? He’s probably an actor or model or something.
You give him a derisive smirk and shove past him. He just shrugs and approaches the bathroom door, pausing before entering. He looks back at you.
“Don’t go anywhere, yeah?” he says, then walks into the bathroom and closes the door.
You exhale sharply. You had no intention of going anywhere, honestly too exhausted to do anything but putter around on the computer, but fuck this kid. He’s your father’s paid actor or some other nonsense, so who does he think he is to give you any orders?
You storm out of the room with the intention of marching around outside, but you stumble when you enter the upstairs corridor.
The huge house is eery in its silence. You shudder as you look around.
Even when your father is not home, the security team is here. Someone is always awake, at least one person keeping guard in the corridor, the rest of them scattered in the house and guest house. But they’re gone. They’re all genuinely gone. And because it is late evening, all the housekeepers and cleaners are gone too. You have not been in a house this empty your entire life. It feels uncanny, ghostly even. It completely halts your half-baked plan to leave, not that you planned on going much further than the pool-house.
You stand still, suspended in the unfamiliar emptiness.
“Whatcha doin’?” Felix’s freaky deep voice is suddenly right beside you. You jump away from with a startled squeak. He just stands there, his mouth in that stupid flat line, his shaggy blonde hair bouncing when he tips his head.
“Nothing,” you snap, annoyed that he scared you. “I’m just going to the kitchen for a snack. Is that against the fucking law now?”
“It’s not really healthy to eat this late at night,” Felix says, “but it’s not illegal. That would be weird.”
“I hate you,” you say. His even temperament has been driving you insane, so it is satisfying to see a flicker of genuine surprise on his face. “Just leave me alone.”
“Sorry,” he says, recovering quickly. His voice is steady. “Can’t do that. Sort of my job, you know?”
You roll your eyes then turn and stomp all the way down the stairs. Felix trails behind you without protest, not making much noise despite the boots but he is impossible to ignore regardless.
You go to the kitchen and open the fridge. You aren’t hungry but you feel like you have to eat something now just to prove a point.
Felix ambles up to the counter and perches himself on a stool. You look over your shoulder at him. He waves.
“I’m not making you anything,” you snap.
“That’s fine.” He folds his hand on the counter. “I’m not hungry. Thank you.”
You reach into the fridge and grab an eggplant out of the produce drawer. It is a ridiculous response, but you decide to out-weird the weirdo, making eye contact as you bite in the raw eggplant. You try to hide your displeasure, chewing the thick vegetable slowly. Felix tips his head very far then straightens. His eyes narrow.
“I’m pretty sure that’s toxic,” he says.
You stop chewing.
“Yeah,” he says. “Eggplant, yeah. I think when it’s raw it’s like not good for you or something? I think there’s like a chemical in it. Maybe it’s only if you eat a lot of it, uhhh, I don’t know. Just in case, I wouldn’t eat it like that if I were you.”
You stare at him with a chunk of raw eggplant still on your tongue. He could be bluffing. He could be playing mind games. He could be telling the truth, since he delivered each sentence so uncertainly. Maybe he’s just bad at mind games. You’re good at them. You’ve been playing them since you were a child, so you just stare him down, swallow the eggplant, then take another bite.
His brow furrows. You are pretty sure your displeasure is a little more obvious now, your mouth partially open as you chew. Felix did not balk at stabbing his own hand but he looks very scandalized right now. You consider it a success.
“Stop it,” Felix says.
You take another bite, ripping into it with a ferocious tear.
“What are you doing?” he asks. “What? Are you trying to commit suicide by eggplant?”
You just shrug, chewing with your mouth wide open now. His stool scrapes the ground and you brace yourself, shuffling in the opposite direction when he circles the kitchen island.
“Spit it out,” he says.
“No,” you say, spitting eggplant as you say it. You very nearly choke.
“Seriously,” Felix says. “This isn’t funny.”
You chew obnoxiously big in his direction and he pounces, smoothly intercepting your escape. He cages you in against the counter, blocking you when you try to move. You drop the rest of the eggplant and push at him, dribbling mushy vegetable and cursing through your mouthful.
“Spit. It. Out,” he says, putting his hand under your mouth like a mother to a baby. You shove that hand away, then try to shove his face away. He clearly doesn’t want to get too physical with you, but eventually he grabs your chin and holds you still, your face pinched in his hand. You stare at him, breathing hard through your nose. “Stop it,” he says.
The house is empty. The house is genuinely, seriously, completely empty. Your father trusts Felix that much.
Who is this fucking kid?
You spit the eggplant at him. It spatters on his shirt and wins you an eye roll. It’s the first expression from him to make you smile.
“Bed time,” he says, stepping back to brush the mess off his shirt.
You cross your arms and lean against the counter. “No,” you say.
“No?” he asks. His deep voice fractures with a higher-pitched sound of surprise. “Why not?”
Because you hate your father and everything he puts you through. Because petty victories are your only victories. Because there is something seriously wrong with Felix if this is his life situation, and there is something seriously wrong with you for the same reason.
So you shrug. “Make me,” you say.
There is a beat of silence.
Then the world is upside down because Felix picks you up and slings you over his shoulder. You cry out, slapping his back as he marches to the stairs. Where is he even hiding this strength?
“Put me down!” You pound on his backside while he carries you up the stairs. “When my father hears about this—”
He puts you down on the landing, swinging up a step to afford him an extra foot of height over you. He holds your wrist in his hand and looks at you very seriously.
“What?” he asks. “When he hears about me doing my job?”
You try to tug your hand back but Felix holds it tight.
“Are you serious right now?” you ask. You continue to squirm your hand in his grip. “Who the fuck are you? What do you even get out of this?”
“What do you get out of this - this - everything?” he asks.
“I get my life,” you snap. “In pieces and only for a little bit, but mine.”
“Me too,” he says.
A breathless silence follows. You realize you are holding his hand, having twisted and turned so much that he clasped your fingers with his. You both look there then at each other. You abruptly let go.
“Can we go to bed?” Felix asks, softening his voice. “Please.”
Your lower lip wobbles. You look at the stain on his shirt. You think about his hand on that desk.
“And what about my other question?” you ask.
He tips his head again, but his expression is no longer neutral. He wears his confusion openly, briefly but substantially.
“What?” he asks.
“My other question,” you say, blinking back your tears. “Who are you?”
“You tell me first,” he says. “Who are you?”
It’s easier to fight and scream than plainly express yourself. No one ever listens, so you are not practiced. You have Felix’s undivided attention but it suddenly feels like too much. You do not have it in you to glare anymore. You meet his pained gaze with your own and join him on the next step.
“I’m tired,” you say. “Let’s go to bed.”
He goes to check the security system while you get ready for bed. You are already nestled under the covers, shivering despite the thick layers because the house sounds so quiet and you are honestly scared. You jump when the door opens and Felix enters, your eyes meeting in the dim light. He looks away first, going about his own routine. You turn your back to him.
The bed is big but you still feel it dip when he gets inside. You look over your shoulder. He is laying on his back with his eyes closed. He is clearly still awake but the semblance of sleep accentuates the natural innocence of his face. You have seen the flicker of a few deeper emotions, none of them childish, but he looks his age while laying there.
His eyes open. He glances at you. You wonder what you look like to him.
“Good night,” he says, shattering the terrifying silence.
You don’t argue it. You just nod then turn away, closing your eyes, letting the sound of his breathing lull you to sleep faster than usual.
It did not occur to you to set a morning alarm as you are always woken by a knock on the door and a shout to get ready for school. Today you are woken by a hand on your shoulder and the unexpected touch startles you out of slumber.
Your hand swipes in a frenzied arc that Felix catches, smooth and swift.
And that’s how yesterday comes rushing back all at once. You stare into the eyes of your so-called bodyguard and bed-mate, recalling his brief outburst of emotion but finding Felix to be unresponsive and bland once more. His mouth is in that stupid flat line and he cocks his head, glancing at your hand in his fist.
“Good morning,” he says in that deep voice.
You wrench your hand back. He lets it go.
“The car’s outside,” he says. “You should get dressed for school.”
“What?” Your head whips to your bedside clock. You are usually woken half an hour before the car arrives, not when it is already at the door. “Why didn’t anyone wake me!”
You frantically swing out of bed, limbs in a windmill. Felix takes a few steps back.
“Sorry,” he says. “I thought you’d get up on your own.”
He is already dressed in his school uniform, white collared shirt, grey dress pants, grey blazer. He has the dark necktie in his hands and his red beanie on his head. Your eye twitches with annoyance at it, but maybe that annoyance is just for his general existence.
“You can’t wear hats, stupid,” you say, reaching to snatch the beanie off his head. He dodges your hand. “They’ll take it away.”
He looks at you uncertainly but swipes the beanie off his head.
“Go get dressed,” is all he says.
With an eye roll, you stomp over to your massive walk-in closet. It is very annoying that it does not have a door you can slam, but you slide it shut as forcefully as you can.
The uniform makes it a little easier to get ready quick, but you are still annoyed at the rush. You scurry out of the closet still shoving your arms through the blazer sleeves, your kilt longer than you like, with one sock pulled up to your knee and the other stuck around your ankle.
Felix is perched on the edge of the bed, all his attention on his tie. He clearly has no idea how to wear it properly, looping the fabric like an army knot.
You watch him. He looks at you then rips the tie off completely, crumpling it in his fist. Your own is already tied and he looks at it. You cross your arms. He stares at you.
You want him to ask for help just so you can say no, but he looks so pathetic sitting there in your girly bedroom in his schoolboy uniform, his hair still ruffled from removing his precious beanie. He looks even more ridiculous when he dons an unaffected air as if trying to appear more adult. It makes him look even more his age.
“Ugh.” You stomp over to him. “Give it to me.”
He obeys without protest, passing you the tie.
“I should strangle you with it,” you say, hooking it around his neck and jerking him closer. He bumps into your stomach. “Then all my problems would be solved.”
“Would they, though?” he asks, looking up at you with his glassy dark eyes, innocent despite the sass in his tone.
“Shut up,” you reply.
Even his laugh is deep. You hate him.
“There.” You push the knot up to his throat, tighter than necessary. He adjusts it wordlessly. “You’re welcome.”
“Thank you,” he says, pretending to miss the sarcasm.
He ducks down and grabs your sock, tugging it up to your knee. The unexpectedness makes you jump. You feel an unbidden rush of embarrassed heat flow to your face, worsening when he looks up at you. You have a moment of proximity awareness, that a boy your own age is in your room and he is alone with you, and he has pretty dark eyes and freckles and a cute smile.
But then he says, “I’ll call your dad and tell him we slept in but should be on time for school.”
Then you remember what he is, and you hate him again.
“You’re gross,” is your lacklustre retaliation.
“Hmm, maybe, I haven’t showered yet today,” he says, then reaches into his backpack. “Also, if they’d take away my hat, do you think they’d take away this?”
The little freak pulls a gun out of his backpack and blinks up at you with complete innocence. When you just gawp at him, a smile tugs at his mouth and he scrunches up his face.
“Nahh, you’re right,” he says. “Bad idea for the first day of school.” Then he puts it in his drawer with his beanie and slams it shut. He smiles at you. “Shall we?” He gestures to the door.
You do not dignify his nonsense with a response. You grab your own backpack and storm out of the room.
The driver stops in his usual spot. It feels very routine until you and Felix get out of the car and it simply drives off. The driver usually waits until you are in sight of a guard posted at the main entrance to the high school.
Today, you and Felix walk side-by-side, looking like two regular students as you approach the school. You are still expecting to see one of the usual guards lurking around but you find no one when you search.
A part of you feels lighter, the weight of their scrutinizing stares lifted, but then you remember how Felix spent the car-ride on the phone with your father, and that weight settles heavy as stone in your gut. Felix is even worse than them, you tell yourself, because he is truly right beside you. The schoolboy routine might fool other people but you can’t let it fool you. Felix might look normal but he is not. You are still trapped. You cannot get complacent.
You huff and look at Felix. He has his head tipped all the way back, looking in awe at the high ceilings of the entryway. With his true purpose in your mind, his presence grows more infuriating by the second.
“Between this and the uniform, you’d think they don’t have schools in Australia,” you say dryly.
He looks at you. He is wearing a pristine new backpack and clutching the straps, standing ramrod straight, very contrary to the lazy sling of your worn leather bag and equally lazy slouch.
“They do,” he answers simply.
“Then why are you acting like you’ve never attended school before?” you snap.
He just blinks. “I haven’t,” he says.
The answer surprises you to silence. Before you can find a reply, you are interrupted by the familiar voice of your best friend.
“Yo, yo, yo, what’s up, it’s my favourite girl and I’m not just saying that because she’s the only girl who will talk to me.”
You can’t help but snort, forever amused with Jisung’s antics. He very literally bounces up to you, miming dribbling a basketball, then looking like he’s dancing, or maybe casting a spell. He swirls his hands around and around, then holds his arms open for a hug.
You accept it, looking at Felix even though there is nothing for him to report. The previous guards already reported your friendship with Han Jisung but your father has never said anything about it. You figure he sees Jisung as a non-entity, too poor to cross his radar, unthreatening with his anxiety and goofy disposition, and ultimately worthless thanks to his shit grades. Your father doesn’t pay attention to human things, like how Jisung is funny when you get to know him, how he loves music more than anything, or how he is masterful with a pen, just not academically.
Felix also fails to notice these things. His attention narrows to a pinprick, gaze focused on Jisung’s backwards cap.
“Nice hat,” Felix says, undoubtedly thinking about his beanie back home.
Hats are genuinely not allowed; Jisung just makes his own rules and lives by them, even when it gets him walloped him up the head by the math teacher.
Jisung notices Felix for the first time, his mouth curving into a perfectly round ‘O’ of surprise. It is not everyday you are towing another student in your shadow. You are cordial enough with your classmates but it’s hard to keep friends when you can never see them. Jisung is the only one who never pushes it, content with your company when he has it.
“Whaaat,” he says, looking at Felix then at you. “Another new kid?”
“Huh?” you say. “There’s another new kid?”
“Bro, things are weeeird today,” Jisung says, making an exploding gesture beside his head. “Got back from the weekend: no more security guards! And that janitor with the lazy eye who used to stare at me? Gone. Just poof.” That janitor was one of your guards and he was watching you, not Jisung, but you always nodded along whenever Jisung went on a tirade about government watchdogs. “Then someone says it’s all because of this rich new kid, that his dad didn’t like it or something so all he did was snap his fingers and boom, now the school is his. Which is obviously stupid. Money doesn’t let you get away with changing a whole school.”
Money lets you get away with a lot of things. There is a tingling pain where your cheek is still swollen from your father smacking you. Your force yourself to smile at your naïve friend.
“I don’t think that’s this kid,” you say.
“Aw, no, I knew that,” Jisung says. “I saw the other guy already. He’s like… whoa. Like whoa. Like I hate him. He better not talk to me, because it’s on fucking sight.”
You burst out laughing because Jisung couldn’t win a fight against a battered puppy. He laughs along, aware of his own ridiculousness.
Felix just stands there, smiling politely but not laughing. Eventually he asks, “Why don’t you like him?”
“Bro, this dude was so beautiful it’s like he was wearing a filter in real life,” Jisung says this like a curse, dramatically scowling. “Don’t worry, though, you’re cool with me. Not that you’re ugly or anything. My bad. Anyway, I’m Jisung, what’s up?”
“Hi, I’m Felix.”
Jisung holds out his fist and Felix looks at it. You wonder if Felix even knows what a fist bump is. Maybe they don’t have them in whatever backcountry crevice your father dug him out of, seeing as he has balked at several other mundane things, but then Felix smiles and completes the fist bump.
He really does look like normal school kid. You have to swallow down your aggravation.
“Fee-licks…?” Jisung says. “Weird name. Cool boots. Sexy voice. I’m super jealous, maybe I do hate you. Are the freckles real?”
“Uh.” Felix furrows his brow. “Yeah?” He says it like it should be obvious and you hate that you almost laugh.
“Cool, cool,” Jisung says. “And the accent is…?”
“Australian.”
“Naaaur, that’s sick,” Jisung says, then clearly regrets it. He turns his cap around to cover his eyes. “Sorry. It’s a Monday. But this is fun, we’re a menage-a-trois now.”
“Um,” Felix says, coughing. “Do you know what that means?”
“It doesn’t matter,” you say, frowning at Felix. “Because no we’re not. Felix isn’t my friend. I just said I’d show him to his classes but I’m still sitting with you and he’s gonna deal with it.”
You and Felix stare at each other and Jisung looks between you, eyes ping-ponging. Eventually, he smiles and puts a hand on your shoulder.
“All right,” Jisung says. “You’re in a friendly mood, as usual. We love to see it. Felix, don’t let her scare you, she’s nice, you just need to give her a treat first. That’s why I carry around a bag of her favourite spicy peanuts even though I am super allergic.” His backpack is already unzipped, a messy binder sticking out of it, so he easily reaches back and plucks out a bag of peanuts.
You take them from him, rolling your eyes affectionately.
“Come on,” you say. “Let’s go before your new arch nemesis walks by and I have to save your sorry ass.”
You loop arms with Jisung and move swiftly ahead. Felix trails behind you, hands on his backpack straps, glancing around the corridor. You don’t know if his careful regard is curiosity or just him being a bodyguard, eyeing the rambunctious students and their open lockers with a wary eye.
Jisung prattles on about some new cartoon. He looks back to ask Felix if he has ever heard of it and Felix shakes his head. While they are engaged with each other, your own attention strays.
It’s then you see him.
You couldn’t care less about a beautiful new kid, not when Lee Minho is just a few feet away.
Oh god. He really is perfect. He looks like he walked off the screen of a drama, slouching against the wall with his hands in his pockets, his tie loose and blazer unbuttoned. His brown hair falls neatly around his handsome face, his mouth quirked up in a smirky little half-grin. He raises an eyebrow in reply to his friend, then he laughs, his whole face brightening with his delight.
Minho is two years older than you, not yet a senior but the school’s It Boy regardless. He attended the senior prom in his freshman year, escorting one of the senior girls, and it’s no surprise. He’s handsome, he’s hilarious, he’s smart, he’s talented. He’s everything. Charmingly brusque and occasionally snarky, but a famously good friend underneath his teasing. He has never been single for more than a day, but his ego has never blown up and none of his ex-girlfriends have anything bad to say about him.
Your crush is like a fuzzy hug. The edge of your vision blurs in a dreamy frame around his face. He lifts a hand and tucks some hair behind his ear at the same moment he glances aside. For a brief but substantial moment, your eyes meet. Your heart stops.
Then you step down funny and roll your ankle.
Despite holding your arm, Jisung is too slow to catch you. A small but strong hand grabs the back of your jacket and yanks, keeping you upright. It doesn’t stop you from stumbling around like a newborn foal, but at least you don’t hit the ground.
Your face is burning hot, your gut sinking with a flush of embarrassment. You chance a look at Minho, his face in a somewhat concerned cringe before he goes back to laughing with his friends.
Oh my god, you think. This is the worst week of my life. And that’s fucking saying something.
“Are you all right?” Felix’s dumb deep voice is suddenly in your ear. He is standing a lot closer, his hand in the middle of your back.
You shove him off, glaring. Jisung puts a hand on your shoulder and says, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” It makes you feel like a poorly behaved horse. Minho isn’t paying attention anymore but it all feels so wretchedly embarrassing.
Why is your existence so pathetic? All you do is get jerked around, physically and emotionally. You are a walking, talking font of humiliation. Your face stings and your ankle hurts and both boys are looking at you with concern, except one of them is your friend who doesn’t know anything about your life and one of them is on a payroll and knows too much.
“I’m fine!” you snap. You tug down your blazer and adjust your collar. “I’m fine.”
“Okay, baby,” Jisung says, trying to laugh, his big eyes still full of pity. He glances back at Minho, then looks at Felix. Barely audible, he whispers, “She likes him.”
“Jisung!” You whack him in the arm and he cries out like you chopped a limb.
Felix just looks over at Minho, cocks an eyebrow, then looks back at you. You have no idea why but it makes everything ten times worse. It is silly to feel that way because all the girls have a crush on Minho so it is not a well-kept secret. For some reason, Felix knowing you like someone makes it more embarrassing. Not even because of your father, though you are certain Felix will tell him soon enough.
You can’t even stomp to class because your ankle hurts. You settle for stalking with a broody countenance.
Your first classroom is arranged in tables that seat two, so you sit with Jisung in your usual spot. Felix takes the spot directly behind you. As a new face, he gets curious glances from other students. He pays them no mind. He unpacks his bag in silence then he folds his hands neatly on the desk and stares at you.
You are glaring ferociously at a straight-faced Felix when Jisung elbows you sharply in the side. You whack him but this time he whacks you back, making his big brown eyes even bigger than usual. You look at him funny. It takes a second to realize he is trying to point with his eyes.
You look up just in time for an insanely gorgeous stranger to pass the desk. You are certain your expression betrays you. At least with Minho, you are mostly practiced at schooling your reactions, but this one catches you off guard.
This must be the other new kid. He’s really tall and slender, lacking Minho’s slightly thicker athleticism but more than compensating with a natural grace. His black hair falls in a very neat shape around his perfect face, his cheekbones high, his brows thick, his lips full. He is wearing a cross-strap satchel that he gracefully swings off.
The only available seat is the one beside Felix. The two boys glance at each other only briefly, neither knowing the other is also new. All eyes are on them. Felix must be aware but ignores it, his gaze resolutely focussed on yours. The other new guy is clearly used to attention, smiling softly as he looks around.
His eyes meet yours, your heart puttering because he holds your gaze.
His soft smile spreads.
Jisung coughs loudly. You look at him and he mouths the word, “Traitor.”
There is no time for conversation because the bell rings and the teacher starts class. She takes a minute to introduce the two new kids: the foreigner, Lee Felix, and the transfer, Hwang Hyunjin. Hyunjin apparently attended school on the other end of town but switched when his family moved into this district.
It sounded like bullshit. He crossed the city, not the country. Surely no one transferred schools for something so petty as a twenty minute commute. Maybe if Hyunjin was not so stunning, people would have bought the excuse, but the whole school was very interested in knowing everything about him.
By lunch, several stories have spread, everything from expulsion for fighting to sleeping with a teacher, but you doubt the truth of the tales. Almost all the stories tie into the removal of the security presence and you know that has nothing to do with Hyunjin.
By far the most ridiculous is that he murdered another student and his rich father got rid of the security team so they would never find evidence if he killed again.
Jisung told you that one. You are not entirely convinced he didn’t start the rumour himself.
“Felix,” Jisung says. He points across the cafeteria table with a carrot stick. “Tell the truth, have you ever killed anyone?”
Felix chokes on his soup. “What?” he asks, smiling with forced civility.
You doubt Jisung notices his discomfort. He is off in his own world, drawing shapes in the air with the carrot.
“I just think,” Jisung drawls, “that it would be funny if everyone thought Mister Supermodel Oh Look At Me Look At Me was a serial killer, which he totally is by the way, but actually it was the super chill Australian dude with the skater hair.”
Felix brushes at his dyed blonde bangs. He glances at you but you have no rescue to offer, especially because Jisung’s question rattled you.
No, not the question. The answer. It clearly unnerved Felix. Why would it startle him if the answer was not a resounding yes? Has Felix killed someone? He’s fourteen years old. How could a kid have that kind of history?
How could a kid get hired for a job like this? you remind yourself. How could a kid be trusted to do the work of a whole team of men? How could a kid devote every second of the day to watching someone else?
How could a kid be willing to drive a knife through his hand just because an awful old man asked him?
Felix clears his throat. He grabs a napkin and dabs at his mouth. By the time Jisung looks at him, Felix is smiling brightly. He laughs a carefree laugh, completely blithe, like he has never had a problem bigger than flunking a math test.
“You’re funny,” Felix says. “I’ve like killed a few bugs if that counts. Augh, you don’t even want to know the things I’ve squashed.”
“Ohh, gross, yeah, Australian bugs are like the size of my head, right?” Jisung cups his whole face in demonstration.
“Bigger,” Felix says, scrunching his nose cutely.
You feel sick.
You shove your tray away and stand up, drawing their eyes to you. Jisung asks where you’re going but Felix is already on his feet, ready to follow. You don’t bother protesting. It won’t do any good.
You are thinking.
Everyone has been so preoccupied with Hyunjin that no one has remarked on Felix at all. You and Jisung tend to blend into the background so his seeming friendship with the outsiders probably didn’t help matters, but a new kid tends to garner attention no matter what.
You wonder if Hyunjin is a plant, another of your father’s men, someone to take the heat off Felix until he’s settled. Another pair of eyes. Watching you. Studying you. Following you. In the light, in the dark, staring, recording, remembering –
Felix touches your arm and you whip around. It catches him by surprise and clearly triggers something, because two seconds later you are squished against his chest with no way out.
He releases you quickly, realizing what he did, and you stumble.
“Closet,” you say before he can speak.
He follows your line of sight to the nearby janitorial closet, opening his mouth to protest when you push him. He gives you a beleaguered look but goes. He walks with a casual saunter like nothing is amiss, like a closet is a normal place to go.
You close the door, leaving you and Felix in the pitch black darkness. There is probably a light somewhere but you are too frazzled to bother searching. You get right to the point.
“Is Hyunjin one of ours?” you demand.
“Huh?” You can’t see his face but you can picture that crinkle in his brow. “What do you mean, one of ours?”
“Does he work for my father?”
“Obviously not,” Felix says. “He’s clearly a civilian?” He says this with incredulity, like it should be obvious.
“How do you know that for sure?”
“Because I’m not a civilian,” he says, sounding impatient. You wish you could see his face after all, wondering if he is showing proper emotion again. Maybe he’s rolling his eyes. It would reassure you, in a way, make your fears feel silly. “Look, I know the timing is like funny and stuff, but it’s really just a coincidence. Your father would tell me if he was planning something so I could play along. It would be stupid to plant something and not tell me.”
“So maybe you knew,” you say. You are now thankful for the dark because tears spring to your eyes. “Maybe you knew all along. Maybe Hyunjin isn’t the only one. Maybe there’s a dozen of you except now I don’t know what you look like. Maybe you’re all watching me. Maybe you’re all laughing at me, watching my dad do what he wants, watching him laugh at me too—”
“Are you crying?”
He sounds genuinely surprised. A moment later, his clumsy hands are bumping your face. You try to push him away but he mistakes it in the dark, thinking you are pulling him closer. You can feel him step forward, his hand on your cheek.
“Sweetheart,” he says, with so much depth that it makes you shiver. His accent makes the word sound fuller, the heart deeper. It sounds honest. “I have one job,” Felix says. His thumb catches a tear. “Just one. My job is to keep you safe. Not to keep secrets from you, and not to lie for your father. Maybe that’s someone’s job, probably, but it’s not me. I’m not lying to you. I’m just here to keep you safe. That’s it. I promise.”
You grab his wrist and hold it for a shuddering second. A part of you wants to cling to it like a foolish little girl. You’re both too young to be in here.
You fling his hand off your face.
“I don’t feel safe,” you say. You wipe your own face quickly. “I hate you. I hate my life. Get away from me.”
He has the decency to hang back a few feet, but Felix has no real choice in the matter. You wonder if he ever did, but you don’t dwell on that thought for too long. You can’t bring yourself to mourn for his life as well as your own. You need someone to hate and your father is never around, so you spend the rest of the day glaring at Felix. You don’t talk again, not on the car-ride home, not at the house, not in your room.
The cook prepared dinner and left it on the stove. You refuse to eat until late evening, holed up in your room under the pretense of doing schoolwork. You text Jisung but not about anything substantial. You are pretty sure your father installed spyware on your phone. Better to keep it simple and veer away from heavy subjects when Jisung hits you with the watery-eyed emojis.
Felix checks on you occasionally but otherwise leaves you be. You hear him on the phone with your father, his professional voice so uncanny for a kid, deep voice or not.
Eventually you make your way to the kitchen where Felix is sitting at the counter. He is wearing his stupid beanie again, the same ripped jeans as yesterday, the same t-shirt and flannel. There is a stack of papers beside an open schoolbook. You can’t help but notice the printed book report sitting at the top of the pile, one not due until Friday.
“How’d you finish that so fast?” you ask, forgetting you weren’t going to speak to him.
Felix looks up from reading the textbook. Surprise creases his brow. He probably didn’t expect you to start a conversation, and certainly not about something so mundane as schoolwork.
He glances at the report then up at you. “Uhh,” he says, then his face cracks into a grin, “I’m not actually here for an education. I mean, the readings are… kinda fun… I never did homework before so… anyway. Someone does the homework for me, you know, to keep up appearances and stuff.”
“That’s not fair,” you say. “Why can’t they do my homework too? Wait, do you wanna do my homework while they do yours?”
“No, because you are there for an education,” Felix says lightly, almost teasing. This is your nicest conversation so far. It unsettles you more than an argument, so you say nothing more and head to the stove for your dinner. You are spooning it into a bowl when Felix clears his throat. You hear papers shuffle. “That’s not all,” he says. “I, uhhh, I don’t know if you… if you even want this. I just… thought it might make you feel more, I dunno, at ease, or something, if you saw for yourself.”
You cannot help your curiosity. You accept the paper he offers.
“It’s, uh, Hyunjin,” he says. “I asked for some research and information just to show you he’s, like, real. It’s just his school record and stuff…”
You give the papers a cursory glance. They could be faked but you do actually believe that Hyunjin’s timely arrival is nothing more than coincidence. No one can get his story straight but that’s because high school gossip is stupid and unreliable. Hyunjin is gorgeous and graceful when he is trying, but he’s also somehow clumsy as a newborn foal, stumbling all over the field during gym class and whining when a tennis racket grazed his elbow. Nothing about him really screams super spy. Plus, you doubt a spy would have got detention on his first day for skipping class and making out with one of the senior girls.
“It was fighting, if you’re curious,” Felix says.
You look up at him, eyebrow lifted.
“The reason he left his old school,” Felix clarifies. “He got expelled for getting in a fight with another student. Over a girl.”
He rolls his eyes and the unexpectedly sassy judgement makes you laugh. You don’t miss the flicker of delight that crosses his face, though you do ignore it. You poke at your rice bowl.
“I guess you’re not a romantic,” you say dryly.
“Uh, beating the shit out of someone is not romantic,” he says, still in a somewhat sassy tone, his eyebrows high. He closes the book and shakes his head. “Violence is never romantic. Violence is just violence.”
That does make you look at him longer. You are talking about romance, not family love, but it is still the closest anyone has come to telling you there is no love in violence.
“What about me?” you eventually say. “Aren’t you supposed to beat the shit out of someone for looking a little too long in my direction?”
“That’s different,” he says, frowning. “It’s my job. Why, who’s looking at you?”
You feel like he is goading you so you roll your eyes and walk away with the rice bowl.
“Is it Lee Minho?” he asks.
You turn and look at him with a scowl. “Minho hasn’t down anything,” you say. “He doesn’t even know I exist. What, are you gonna tell my dad every time someone takes a breath in the same room as me because they are stealing my potential oxygen?”
“Okay, first of all, don’t say hilarious things like that when you’re starting an argument, it’s really annoying.” Felix gets up and crosses the room. “Second of all, I didn’t tell your father anything. I didn’t tell him about Minho, and I didn’t tell about Jisung. Even though I’m pretty sure Jisung is the reason you snuck out for that party.”
Well, Minho was the reason, but it was Jisung who texted to tell you that he was at the same house party. The security team had confiscated your phone for the evening, adhering to your father’s phone privileges timetable, and you only got it back before bed. By the time you got dressed and snuck out, Minho had left the party, so you spent the night sitting with Jisung on the roof, complaining about stupid shit, completely unaware how much your life was about to change.
Did it change for the worse? You still don’t know. Felix has not confiscated your phone. It lends some credence to his honesty, but maybe it’s all a ploy…
“I can see you thinking,” Felix says, tipping his head as he scrutinizes you. “It’s like your face turns into a book.”
“I’m not thinking anything,” you lie. “And if I was, thinking isn’t a bad thing.”
“No, it’s not,” he says. “Except when you overthink so much that it makes you cry for no reason.”
“For no reason?” you shriek, a hot ripple of anger moving through you.
“Or that,” he says calmly. “You feel everything a lot and you let it take over—”
You look at him, mouth open, utterly incredulous. “I think I have every reason to behave the way I do,” you snap. “But aren’t you my daddy’s good little watchdog, repeating his words back to me?”
“I’m not repeating anything,” Felix says, looking marginally more worked up because of the accusation. He takes a breath and calms himself again. “I’m just saying, your anger isn’t helping the way you think it is.”
“It makes me feel better.”
“No, I’m sure it doesn’t,” he says. “Because it has no where to go. I see you and you just keep turning it onto yourself. And I get it. I know what that is, and I know what it feels like, and I also know if you let yourself feel all that… all that everything, so much, all the time, then it’s just going to burn you out. Then no one will have to lift a finger against you. You’ll do it to yourself. You’ll get tired. And he’ll win all the same.”
You just stare at him. You are certain your face is a book again, emotion written plainly.
Felix touches the back of his head and looks away. He looks at the ground. Finally, he looks at you.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I really am just trying to do my job.”
“Right,” you say. “Your job.”
Keeping you safe from other people is just one part of the gig. The biggest part is keeping you safe from yourself.
You take your phone out of your back pocket and practically throw it at him. The bowl shakes in your trembling hand. You hate, more than anything, that he is so right, because your tears are on the surface again and it does not feel good.
“There,” you say.
His reflexes are fast. He doesn’t even fumble. He looks at the phone with confusion.
“You can take away the power chord for my computer too, if you want,” you say. “And you can lock me in my room – sorry, our room – when it’s curfew. And you can—”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Felix says, exasperated. He holds the phone out. “I’m not going to do any of that stuff. I’m not your enemy, I’m your bodyguard.”
“What if he makes you?” you ask. The he needs no clarification. “What if he puts my hand on the desk and tells you put a knife through it?”
“That won’t happen,” Felix says seriously. “Not if we work together. But if we keep going the way we’re going, then something bad is going to happen and we won’t be able to stop it.”
“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” you say, venomous.
“Trust me,” he says. “I don’t. I’m just the same as you.”
“And what am I?”
“Scared.”
Silence settles between you. His arm is outstretched, the phone an offering. When all you do is stare at it, he tentatively approaches. He leaves room for refusal but steps closer and simply puts it in your pocket himself. He nods sharply at you.
A single gesture of goodwill cannot undo a lifetime of conditioning to assume the worst in your captors. Felix occupies a strange liminal territory in that he seems to simultaneously be a captor and captive. You spend the next couple weeks watching your bodyguard carefully, watching him as he establishes a routine, watching him as he blends into the background of your life as if he was always there.
You don’t hear from your father. You excel on your book report. You don’t hear from your father. You fail a math test. You don’t hear from your father. You fall in the backyard and scrape your leg so badly that Felix has to give you stitches. You don’t hear from your father.
You get in a fight with some asshole at school. The oafish senior smashes into Felix’s shoulder as he walks past. Felix can take a hit, of that you have no doubt, but he plays the part of skittish fourteen year old well. He ducks out of the way.
The senior thinks this is funny and grabs Felix by the hair, yanking him back. You watch, shocked, as the guy slams Felix up against the lockers so hard they rattle. There are a few shrieks and gasps from scattered onlookers. Someone runs off for a teacher but mostly people give a wide berth.
Felix’s jaw clenches then he smiles. Everyone is looking at the sweet, sunny face. You are certain only you see his balled fist.
“Aren’t you gonna apologize for walking into me?” the senior asks.
“Sorry,” Felix says, playing his part well. “I didn’t see you.” He tries to step away and the guy shoves him back. Felix sucks in a breath, steadying himself.
“Why not?” the guy further taunts.
Felix cannot fight for himself without revealing too much. You, on the other hand, can walk right up and smack the guy with your math book. You hit the back of his head and he stumbles then whips around with a furious glare.
“What the fuck, bitch?” he says.
You see red quickly. You spit at him.
“Don’t call me a bitch, bitch,” you snap.
He wipes the spit off his face and takes a menacing step towards you. Felix is quick, his feet planted, his assessing gaze no doubt analyzing weak spots.
The scene ends abruptly because someone else grabs the guy and shoves him back. You jump, startled, your heart rate tripling when Minho turns around to look at you.
“You okay?” Minho asks.
Your mouth opens but no sound comes out. Your anger evaporates, a mushy warmth replacing it.
Minho’s brow furrows and he looks at the senior. He gives him a little shove.
“What’s your problem?” Minho asks. “You like picking on kids?”
A viciously mean laugh rings out beside you. You turn your head to Hyunjin, his hand covering his mouth as he tries and fails to hold his giggles.
“That’s pathetic, man,” Hyunjin says, then he winks and puts up his fists. “Wanna try me next?”
You remember that Hyunjin got expelled for fighting. He must be putting on a show right now because his silly, limp fists wouldn’t do any harm.
It gets everyone laughing but that doesn’t take much given how much people swoon over Hyunjin. An unspoken rivalry has risen between him and Minho, though you never see them interacting. In true popular boy fashion, they are above active engagement. Still, it is significant that they have openly taken the same side in this altercation. It means the senior stands absolutely no chance.
He shoves Minho’s hand off his shoulder and glares at Felix.
“You’re not worth it,” he says and stomps off. You watch him go, hoping you don’t look so pathetically wounded when stomping around.
Jisung arrives late, but just in time to ‘comfort’ Felix.
“Don’t stress it, man, don’t stress it,” he says. “I mean, stress it a little, the hot guys got hotter and you’re gonna be bitchless forever, but other than that, don’t stress it.”
You are staring silently out the window on the car-ride home. Felix pokes your shoulder and you look at him.
“You know I’m supposed to be the bodyguard, right?” he says, dryly, but the faintest smile tugging at his lips.
You don’t return the smile, but you are less venomous than usual when you say, “You’re welcome, you big baby.”
He looks out the window and smiles.
You still don’t hear from your father.
One night, you are laying in bed beside Felix, a gulf of space between you as usual. You can hear him snoring. You think about him up against that row of lockers. You start overthinking. You know, logically, your father would not hire a second-rate bodyguard. You know better. You do.
“Felix,” you whisper, but he keeps snoring. You slip out of bed and he rolls onto his back, but then he goes back to snoring.
You slip into your walk-in closet. You text Jisung. It’s a Friday night so there’s a party somewhere. You change into party clothes and sneak back into your room. Felix is laying on his back, fast asleep, his breathing light.
The doors are all alarmed so that’s a bad way out. You make it all the way to the bedroom window when a very sturdy pair of arms wrap around you. You don’t even have time to scream. Felix bodily pulls you back through the window. When you fight him, he easily outmanoeuvres you. He always tries to be gentle with you, though, and it gives you an advantage. You manage to topple over, taking him with you. You land in a tangled heap on the huge bed, squirming under him.
“Stop it!” he says, sounding righteously pissed off. “Seriously?! What the fuck! I thought we were past this shit? What do you think you’re doing!”
“What are you doing?” You try shoving him to no avail. “Can’t you be normal for once—”
“Do you know what kind of danger you’re putting yourself in by going out alone at night, on a weekend, for fuck’s sake—”
This time when you shove him, he actually moves. He sits up with an aggravated huff, shoving his sleep-messed hair out of his face. You keep eye contact, an intense stare that fractures on his end, his gaze dropping when you suddenly pull your shirt off.
“Look at me,” you say. “You think the danger’s out there? What about the danger in here?”
He looks. He looks at the scar on your collarbone and the one on your stomach. You can’t tell if his morose expression is a reaction or just his frustration simmering.
“I don’t understand,” he finally says. “You have choices. It doesn’t have to be like this. Why do you intentionally—why do you keep—”
“What choices?” you ask. “Submission or else? How is that a choice?”
“So that’s how it’s gonna be?” he asks. “Kicking at the bars just to see if they’re still there when you already know the answer?”
“See,” you say, smiling a bitter smile as you lay back, “you do understand me.”
He scrubs a hand down his face. He wears a big t-shirt and baggy shorts to sleep, the shape making him look even smaller than usual. Felix is skinny, despite his hidden strength, pretty and unassuming and too competent for his own good.
Your smile fades. You watch him rack his brain, his face a plainly written book to you just as much as you are to him.
“Where did you come from?” you ask. “Who were you? What happened to make you like this?”
His glance grazes your scars. He steps back, off the bed. He holds your gaze in his.
“I’ll tell you,” he says. “I’ll tell you. I told you I will always be honest with you. So if you ask, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything and I won’t spare any details.”
Something in the tone of his voice makes you feel sick. You reach for your shirt and twist the fabric between your fingers.
“So?” you say, voice unsteady.
“So,” Felix says, “I would really appreciate it if you didn’t ask me. Because if you do, I will be honest with you. I will always be honest with you. So ask me, if that’s what you want. Is that what you want?”
“I don’t know what I want,” you say. “I don’t think I know how to want something.”
“That’s probably for the best,” he says. He gives you no time to dwell on this, sharply adding, “Go get dressed for bed. It’s late. I won’t tell your father what happened. Just get back in bed. Good night.”
He pivots as swiftly as his tone, straight to the bathroom where he closes the door to give you privacy. It is also an implicit statement of trust, or maybe a statement of ability, that you could make for the window again but you wouldn’t get far.
You don’t think anywhere is far enough. You think you could scour the world and not find another person who understood you even half so well as Felix.
You are under the covers when he returns. He doesn’t say anything, just slips into bed and lays on his back. You feel small under the thick blanket in the huge bed, so much space between you that it feels like a tangible block, cold and cruel and solid. His eyes are open, not even pretending to sleep, but he stares up at the ceiling. He is shivering. He must feel the cold too.
You reach out slowly, your hand gliding across the blanket. It gives him ample time to notice, even with his mind so far away. His dark eyes flick down to that hand, suspended in the big open space between you. He stares at it for a long time, so long that sleep starts to creep into the corners of your vision. You float in a quiet, cool, half-waking world.
Then he takes your hand. You wake up. He looks at you across that chasm, your arms stretched between you, your hands clasped together. You squeeze his hand and he squeezes yours back.