how it feels to fly | jeonglix

02

Felix is throwing up for the sixth time today.

He groans, sitting back on his heels and tipping his head back, trying to relieve the knot running through his spine. Hand reaching out, he grasps the glass sitting beside him on the floor, lifting it to his lips in attempt to wash away the foul, burning taste only to find the glass empty. But he's in too much pain to stumble to his feet and refill it in the sink—especially when he can feel another load of vomit creeping up his chest.

Tears spring to his eyes as he wretches over the side of the toilet once again, unable to help his body wracking with a sob.

There's a knock at the bathroom door, and after a few moments Felix's father calls out. "Need anything?" he asks.

With a trembling hand, Felix hands him the glass. His father doesn't even question why he couldn't fill it up himself—the sink is only a few steps away, if that—and hands it back to him full, gently moving his hand to run it through his son's hair.

"How many days did they say?"

Felix coughs into his elbow, chest caving in so he's hunched over, head almost between his knees. "Thursday, two days." His father sighs, and lowers himself to the floor beside him, bringing out an arm to wrap over Felix's shoulder. He smiles when Felix leans into him—something that happens so rarely between them—and continues lifting the dark hair away from his son's forehead.

"I'm sorry," he says suddenly.

Felix stills. "Why?"

"Sometimes I feel like it's my fault."

Felix scoots away from his father's embrace, instead leaning against the side of the bathtub to stare at him curiously. This is a new conversation topic, different from their normal talk about similar things: funerals, the latest story his father's picked up from his favourite newspaper, how Felix has been entertaining himself all day... this is something entirely unfamiliar, and unexpected. "Why would me getting sick be your fault?"

"Because," he starts, then pauses as if trying to find the right words, "What if I had been the one who raised you? Things might be different. You might not have felt so alienated, and you could still be healthy and going to college like all the other kids your age... And Jesper-"

"Even if you did raise me, that doesn't mean things would be any different." Felix interrupts him, shaking off the bristle that accompanies memories his father had just dug up. "Don't blame yourself, because things would've worked out similarly no matter what. All there is to do is deal with it." he pushes himself slowly off the ground, clambering to his feet which shake and stumble beneath him, gripping onto the side of the bathtub as he finally steadies himself. "I'm going to lie down," he mumbles, careful to not fall over from the weakness now plaguing his body.

His bed welcomes him, and he falls onto it, eyes closed and body curled in on itself. He briefly registers his father putting his water on his bedside table and leaving, but by then sleep has already started to claim Felix, and he drifts into a dreamless trance.

When he wakes up, his body is restless, and one look at the clock tells Felix he was only out for an hour, and he feels just as tired as he did then. So much for gaining some energy back. It's early afternoon, and the sun is at just the right point where it filters through his windows to enlighten his room but isn't overly blinding. His gaze drifts to the window in front of him, the one he sits in front of every day to stare at the accumulation of headstones beside their house.

From his pillow, he can just see the back of someone's head, now the third day in a row Felix has seen the boy sitting at Hyunjin's grave. They must've been good friends, Felix thinks.