Between two worlds | Chanlix

The crack of it all

The party was still breathing in the background, its golden lungs expanding with laughter, champagne fizz, and the sound of heels tapping against marble. Guests swirled in tailored suits and glittering gowns, dancing beneath chandeliers that dripped with light like honey. But in the shadows of the house—vast, cold, and quiet—Felix sat alone, nursing a glass that had long since lost its bite.

The whiskey didn't help anymore. Not when Chan's voice was still echoing in his ears. Not when every lyric of that song had been a knife dressed in silk, slicing him open without ever saying his name.

He blinked slowly, staring at the fire, watching it flicker like memories he couldn't burn away. His throat was dry. His chest felt hollowed out.

Footsteps approached, slow and deliberate.

"Darling," came the voice behind him. Smooth. Artificial. Iced honey over daggers.

He didn't move.

"You vanished," she said softly, walking around the couch in her gold, glitter-drenched gown. She looked like money. Cold, polished, practiced. "Is the big strong CEO hiding from his own celebration?"

He said nothing.

She sat beside him on the armrest, tilting her head as if genuinely curious. "So dramatic. But I suppose heartbreak does that."

His eyes flicked toward her, bloodshot and tired.

She leaned in, lips ghosting against the edge of his ear. "How long?" she whispered. "You and your little singer boy."

Felix let out a slow, humorless breath. "You're drunk."

She smiled. "And you're a terrible liar."

His hands tightened around the glass.

"I mean—come on," she said, chuckling, twirling her fingers. "The tension between you two? It was practically pornographic." She smirked. "And that song? That wasn't a wedding gift. That was a funeral."

Felix's jaw tensed.

"You know," she said, crossing one leg over the other, "I used to wonder why you were so cold in bed. So uninterested. I thought maybe it was me. But then I saw the way you looked at him tonight." She paused, her voice lowering. "Like you were watching your whole damn soul walk out the door."

Felix turned his head, meeting her gaze—red-rimmed, cracked.

She smiled wider, victorious.

"It's tragic, really," she said, swirling the wine in her untouched glass. "You could've had him. Maybe. But you let a boardroom full of old men and a billion-dollar name ruin that for you."

"Shut up," Felix murmured.

"Oh, please," she laughed. "Now you're angry? You made this bed, sweetheart. The cold, sexless, loveless one. And now the man you actually want won't even stay in your building." She stood up, adjusting her neckline. "And all because you couldn't grow a spine."

He watched her walk away, every click of her heels on marble like a nail in a coffin.

She paused at the threshold, looking back over her shoulder. "But hey," she added, voice dripping in cruelty, "at least you still have me. For now."

And then she disappeared back into the golden light.

Felix sat still for a moment, the silence roaring in his ears. His hand trembled. Then, without thinking, he threw the glass—the bottle—the everything. It shattered against the wall in an explosion of crystal and whiskey and rage.

The fire flickered in front of him.

But nothing burned like the fact that she was right.

He had been playing pretend for too long.

And now, he didn't even know who he was without the mask.

Chan's POV

The key slipped into the lock with too much force. The door slammed open against the wall, and Chan didn't bother to catch it. His jacket was off before he even crossed the threshold, flung somewhere toward the couch that didn't catch it either. The silence of his apartment greeted him like an old enemy, and for once, it was too loud. Too close. Too hollow.

He stormed inside, shoes still on, blood still boiling.

That damn party.

That damn woman with her flawless lies and fake affections.

That damn man with his soft voice, his unreadable eyes, and the way he still looked at him like none of it ever happened. Like he hadn't been the one to push Chan into fire and then expect him to dance through the flames.

Chan's fists collided with the kitchen counter.

Again.

And again.

The thud of skin against marble was solid. Real. The only real thing left in his night. He grabbed the bowl that had once held fruit and threw it against the far wall. The sound of porcelain breaking was satisfying for a moment—until the silence swallowed it up again.

He stood there, chest heaving. Heart racing.

And then it came. A sudden, awful pull from inside his ribs. Like something cracked open.

He slid down the cabinet, his back hitting the cold surface as he sank to the floor, legs folding beneath him. His fingers trembled as he covered his face, trying to hold it back. Trying to breathe. Trying not to let the damn pain win.

But the tears came anyway—angry, bitter things that spilled down his cheeks without permission. Shamelessly. Mercilessly. As if his body had betrayed him completely.

He let out a choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, echoing in the emptiness.

"I hate you," he whispered, his voice barely there. "I hate you, Felix. I hate you so much."

But he didn't.

God, he didn't.

That was the worst part.

He'd let him back in. One stupid night. One selfish request. One kiss that still haunted the edge of his mouth. One room where his body betrayed his brain and begged to be remembered.

And now this.

Felix got to go back to his world.

To his wife.

To his perfect suits and spotless lies.

While Chan sat on the floor of his one-bedroom apartment, crying like some heartbroken teenager, feeling used and discarded, like something borrowed—something only meant to be temporary.

He pulled his knees up to his chest, hugging them tightly, as if it could somehow keep the pieces of himself from falling apart entirely.

"I can't do this anymore," he whispered.

His voice cracked. His hands trembled.

And he sat there until the night began to stretch its arms across the city, and the sky outside the window turned pale.

Until there were no more tears left to give.

Only silence.

And a heart that kept breaking, over and over again, for the same person it never stopped loving.