Chapter Text
Coy had an okay relationship with his parents.
Not bad enough to cut them off, not good enough to call them whenever something happened. Somewhere in the middle.
They watched his videos sometimes, though his mom usually complained afterwards that all the shouting gave her a headache. They’d helped him move into his current house without too much commentary, carrying boxes up a flight of stairs while pretending not to notice the framed poster in the living room that simply read I <3 Hot Dads. His mom had frowned at it for a long moment before quietly asking if he wanted her to wash his bedsheets before she left.
They were trying.
Or, at least, his mom was.
Coy loved his mom. She was funny in a way she didn’t mean to be, deeply Christian in the sort of committed, immovable way that made her own existence revolve around church bake sales and Facebook prayer posts and forwarding him articles titled 'The Modern Man’s Relationship With God'. She could also be incredibly kind. The kind of woman who cried over injured pigeons and bought too many groceries because she worried the cashier looked tired.
She tried very hard with him.
Sometimes she got it wrong. Most times, actually.
She did not approve of his life in any real capacity. The living situation alone seemed to give her chronic stress: Coy sharing a flat with Will and Anthony, plus Berto and Yuutah, all of them loud and incapable of washing dishes properly. Then there was the channel itself – filming stupid videos with Anthony, Hanbon, and Will for an audience his mom clearly did not understand. She thought YouTube fame was temporary and vaguely sinful, though she’d never said that outright.
Instead, she’d ask things like, “Do you think maybe one day you’ll want a proper career?”
Or, “That Hanbon girl seems very sweet. Why is she hanging out with all of you boys, though?”
Condescending, maybe, but never cruel.
And Coy knew, in the quiet, instinctive way children know these things, that she loved him very much. Even when she didn’t understand him; even when she wished he was different.
His dad was more complicated. Better, though, since he was a teenager.
Things had improved with age and distance and the simple fact that Coy no longer lived under the same roof as him. Anything was better than being fifteen years old and standing in their kitchen trying to explain, voice shaking, that yes, he was gay, and yes, he was sure, and no, he couldn’t help it, and actually he didn’t particularly want to be either.
That had been a bad year.
Coy remembered mostly fragments from it now: the smell of coffee gone cold, bible verses spoken like threats, his mother crying quietly in another room while his father shouted so loudly the walls seemed to vibrate with it.
And sometimes he thought about the hitting.
It wasn’t constant – Coy always felt strangely defensive about that detail, even in his own head. It wasn’t every day. Not enough to count, probably, but enough.
Enough that sometimes, even now, when one of his friends raised a hand too quickly as a joke, Coy flinched before he could stop himself.
Enough that his nose had been broken once at sixteen.
Still, Coy insisted to himself that it was different now, because what else was he supposed to think?
If Will sat him down tomorrow and admitted his dad used to beat him as a teenager, Coy would genuinely make it his personal mission to ensure that man never came within ten feet of Will ever again. He knew exactly how furious he would feel; how sick.
But his own dad was complicated. His own dad had been stressed, religious, and trying his best.
People went through rough patches in life. And yes, maybe it had left Coy with a deep, rotting sort of self-hatred that still occasionally surfaced unexpectedly; maybe part of him still felt fundamentally wrong in a way he could never fully scrub clean, but he was fine now – mostly.
He was twenty-two and medicated on Lexapro and living with his favourite people in the world, spending his days filming stupid videos and his nights drunk in bars with friends who loved him loudly and easily. He woke up to noise and laughter and Anthony making coffee in the kitchen and Hanbon sending voice messages at three in the morning just to gossip.
He was fine, and he didn’t think about any of it too hard.
None of his friends knew, anyway.
His mom knew, obviously. She’d seen him sitting on the kitchen floor at sixteen with both hands cupped over his bleeding nose while his father paced nearby, still furious; but she’d looked away eventually. Coy had never blamed her for it, not really. She loved her husband, and she loved Coy too, in her own way.
Coy loved his friends more carefully than that. Desperately, maybe.
The bar was loud and warm around them, golden light reflecting off glasses and sticky tabletops, somebody shouting over a football game near the televisions. Their table was too small for four people, which meant Coy was half-pressed against Anthony’s side with their shoulders knocking together every few seconds whenever either of them moved.
He was six beers deep already, face warm and flushed, thoughts pleasantly blurred around the edges. Anthony’s arm rested along the back of the booth behind him and every time he shifted, Coy became painfully aware of it.
Which was humiliating. Because Anthony was his friend, and Coy had already spent enough of his life feeling fundamentally wrong about things.
The ‘crush’ had arrived quietly a few months ago and refused to leave – it developed in stupid moments. Anthony shoving food onto Coy’s plate because he “forgot to eat again,” Anthony defending him during arguments, Anthony absentmindedly touching the back of Coy’s neck when squeezing past him in the kitchen.
A few weeks earlier, Coy had walked into the edge of a kitchen cabinet door hard enough to bruise his forehead, dry blood ever so slightly tinging the base of his hairline red. Anthony had laughed at him for a full minute before gently pushing Coy’s curls back out of his face to inspect the scab properly, thumb brushing carefully against his temple.
That night Coy had gone to his room and prayed for the first time in nearly three years. Not for forgiveness, like he used to, just for those feelings to go away (because he could survive a lot of things, honestly, but ruining his friendship with Anthony would probably kill him).
Across the table, Hanbon was halfway through telling a story and already crying laughing at herself.
“No, because he committed to the bit immediately,” she wheezed, pointing at Anthony. “The waiter asked if we had allergies and this idiot goes, completely serious–”
Anthony sat up straighter automatically. “Water.”
Will made a choking sound into his drink.
“And then,” Hanbon continued, slamming a hand against the table, “the waiter starts panicking! Fully panicking. And instead of correcting himself–”
“I got scared,” Anthony defended.
“You started asking what oil they cooked things in!”
“Because at that point it would've been more embarrassing to admit I lied.”
“The chef came out,” Hanbon added weakly.
Coy laughed so hard his chest hurt.
The room blurred pleasantly around the edges as he leaned sideways into Anthony without thinking, forehead briefly knocking against his shoulder. Anthony steadied him automatically with a hand against his side.
“You good?” Anthony asked.
Coy gave him a lazy thumbs up. “So good.”
“You look concussed.”
“It’s called having fun!” he drawls.
Hanbon snorted loudly.
Coy finished the last of his beer and immediately felt it hit him all at once: head heavy, palms warm, colours softening together slightly. Coy pushed himself upright.
“Need toilet,” he announced.
Anthony and Hanbon shared a look.
Coy narrowed his eyes instantly. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Anthony asked innocently.
“The ‘he’s about to throw up in a sink’ look.”
“You are, like… 6 beers in Coy,” Hanbon reminded him.
“I’ve had more before.”
“Yeah, and thrown up.”
Coy ignored her and started walking anyway, wobbling only slightly.
Anthony followed immediately.
“I can piss independently,” Coy informed him.
“Mhm.”
“I can.”
Anthony caught him gently by the shoulder before he walked directly into a waitress carrying drinks.
“Very convincing,” he said.
The bathroom lights were painfully bright. Coy squinted at himself in the mirror while washing his hands, curls messy from running his fingers through them all night. Anthony leaned beside him against the counter, watching with quiet amusement.
“You’re so drunk,” Anthony said.
Coy pointed at him seriously. “Not true. I think I’m still capable of basic functioning.”
“What’s seven times eight?”
Coy stared at him.
“…fifty-six.”
Anthony blinked. “Okay, fair enough.”
Coy grinned smugly at himself in the mirror. “My dad used to, like, scream at me over maths homework.”
Anthony huffed a laugh. “Explains a lot.”
“One time he threw a calculator at my head and I hurt my nose really bad.”
Anthony paused slightly.
Coy kept talking easily, words loosened by alcohol. “Actually no, wait, that wasn’t the time he broke my nose. That was a– that was a different occasion.”
Silence.
Anthony looked at him properly now. “What?”
Coy shrugged, still smiling faintly. “Yeah. Broke it when I was uhh– sixteen.”
“I knew you broke your nose,” Anthony said slowly, “I didn’t know your dad-”
Coy cut across him instantly.
“It’s fine,” he said, too quick, already turning toward the door. “C’mon, before Bon starts telling Will we died in here.”
Anthony stayed still for half a second longer, then he followed him back out.
The noise of the bar swallowed them immediately. Bon was already midway through another story, and Will shoved a basket of fries across the table without looking up. Coy dropped back into conversation effortlessly, alcohol smoothing everything over again, laughing at the right moments, pressing too close to Anthony’s side like nothing had happened.
But Anthony was quieter now, and every so often, Coy could feel him looking at him strangely.
Coy reached automatically for another drink.
This time, Anthony stopped him.
A brutal throbbing behind Coy’s eyes dragged him half-conscious before he was ready, sunlight stabbing through the gap in his curtains directly onto his face. His mouth tasted awful and bitter, while his stomach rolled unpleasantly the second he shifted beneath the duvet.
Coy groaned quietly and shoved his face deeper into his pillow.
‘Never drinking again,’ he decided for possibly the hundredth time in his life.
Then, slowly, his memory returned: Hanbon laughing; Anthony following him to the bathroom; Actually no, wait, that wasn’t the time he broke my nose. That was a– that was a different occasion.
Coy opened his eyes instantly.
“Fuck me,” he muttered into the mattress.
Heat crawled up his neck immediately, equal parts shame and panic twisting uncomfortably in his chest. He lay still for a long moment, trying to piece together exactly how much he’d said – not much, probably, but enough that Anthony knew now.
Coy squeezed his eyes shut again; he hadn’t meant to tell anyone… ever, ideally.
Not because he thought his friends would react badly, honestly, that was almost the problem. They’d react too well, too sympathetically, and Coy didn’t want that.
He didn’t want people watching him differently after learning something ugly about him. He didn’t want awkward pity or weird gentleness or the horrible shift in atmosphere whenever parents got mentioned, and he especially didn’t want his friends overthinking every stupid thing he did.
Sometimes he flinched when people moved too fast near him; sometimes yelling made his chest tighten unexpectedly; sometimes jokes landed wrong and left him quiet for hours afterwards without understanding why. But those were manageable things, small things.
And besides, he and his dad were fine now. They’d had a rough patch. People had rough patches.
Coy repeated that thought often enough these days that it barely even sounded like a lie anymore.
Eventually nausea forced him out of bed. He stumbled downstairs squinting against the brightness flooding the house, one hand pressed dramatically against his stomach.
The kitchen smelled like burnt toast.
Anthony was already there.
He stood at the counter in grey sweatpants and a hoodie, scrolling on his phone while absently drinking coffee. He glanced up when Coy entered.
“Jesus Christ,” Anthony said immediately. “You look terrible.”
Coy pointed weakly at him. “Don’t speak so loud.”
“I spoke at a normal volume.”
Coy shushed him with a finger to the mouth.
Anthony snorted softly and turned back toward the coffee machine. “There’s Advil and water on the side.”
“Ugh, marry me.”
“You’d annoy me too much.”
Coy managed a tired grin at that, automatically slipping into familiar conversation because that was easy. Easy meant Anthony probably wasn’t thinking too hard about last night.
Coy shuffled around the kitchen gathering water and painkillers while Anthony talked idly about something Will had apparently done at three in the morning involving a traffic cone. Coy laughed in the right places, grateful for the normalcy of it; but every few seconds he caught Anthony looking at him strangely, and eventually Coy couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Look,” he said abruptly, voice rough from sleep.
Anthony glanced over.
Coy immediately wished he hadn’t started speaking.
He stared down at the kitchen counter instead. “I’m sorry about what I said last night.”
Anthony frowned slightly. “What?”
“In the bathroom.” Coy rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to say all that. I was just drunk.”
Anthony’s expression changed instantly, confusion giving way to concern so quickly it made Coy’s stomach twist.
“Coy–”
“And I just,” Coy continued quickly, words stumbling over each other now, “I don’t want you to like– look at me differently now or whatever.”
Anthony stared at him.
“What?”
Coy blinked. “What?”
“Why would I look at you differently?”
Coy shrugged helplessly, uncomfortable under the intensity of Anthony’s attention now.
“I don’t know. It’s just a lot.”
“Coy,” Anthony said carefully, “you telling me your dad hit you does not change how I feel about you.”
The word ‘hit’ landed unpleasantly.
Coy immediately tried to soften it. “It wasn’t like–”
“And honestly,” Anthony interrupted quietly, “I think I’m more freaked out by the fact that I’ve met him… I– I was flattering him”
Coy looked away.
A vivid memory flashed briefly through his head: his dad shaking Anthony’s hand the day Coy moved into the house, smiling politely while Anthony told him he was ‘raising a cool guy.’
At the time, Coy had felt absurdly relieved they seemed to get along; now shame crawled hot beneath his skin instead.
“It was a long time ago,” Coy muttered.
Anthony stayed silent.
Coy pushed on anyway.
“We’re better now.”
“Coy–”
“It was six years ago,” Coy said quickly, defensive now despite himself. “People change.”
Anthony’s jaw tightened slightly like he wanted to argue, but after a second he just exhaled through his nose instead.
“Okay,” he said finally.
The conversation dissolved awkwardly after that. Anthony changed the subject eventually, thankfully, and Coy clung to the normality of it hard enough to almost convince himself nothing had changed.
Anthony never brought the bathroom conversation up again. He didn’t treat Coy differently either, which Coy appreciated more than he could explain. Mostly, though, Anthony just seemed quieter around certain things now – more observant.
Coy noticed it a few days later while filming in the garage office.
The garage office (‘goffice’ as Will had informed him upon moving in) was unbearably warm as usual, packed with camera equipment and half-empty energy drinks and four people all talking over each other at once. Hanbon sat cross-legged on the couch arguing loudly with Anthony in their familiar, standard manner.
“They literally are,” Anthony insisted.
“No they aren’t,” Hanbon shouted back.
“They have a joint Instagram!”
“We all have a joint Instagram and we aren’t, like, in a polycule!”
Coy, sprawled sideways on the couch, shoulder to shoulder with Hannah, made the unfortunate decision to contribute.
“I do support women’s rights,” he announced solemnly, “but Bon you do not deserve any right now, you’re being ridiculous.”
Hanbon gasped and immediately raised a hand to smack the back of his head.
It wasn’t hard, barely even real contact, but Coy flinched anyway, a soft gasp escaping from his mouth.
Then Coy laughed loudly before anybody could think about it too much.
“Jesus Christ,” he said dramatically, clutching his chest. “See? You’re insane.”
Hanbon laughed immediately. “More misogyny, wow.”
The moment passed; but across the room, Anthony didn’t laugh. Coy could feel it without even looking directly at him – that awful, quiet attention again.
He hated it.
So he talked louder for the rest of the video.
Two weeks after Coy’s twenty-second birthday, his parents decided to visit New Jersey.
Not for his birthday, obviously, that would’ve required planning around him.
His mom had texted him happy birthday at 11:07 PM the night of, sandwiched between a prayer emoji and a reminder to “stay safe in that city!!!” with three exclamation marks.
Coy genuinely hadn’t minded much – they were busy people. His dad worked constantly and his mom followed him around to conferences because she hated being home alone.
So, it was fine.
Coy sat cross-legged on the couch the evening before their flight, typing into his well-used group chat.
coy: btw my parents are visiting tomorrow
bon: yay!!!!!! i can meet mommy and daddy piso finally!!
bon: so sad to have missed them last time :((((((
will: ayyyyy can’t wait to see ur mom again ;)
ant: are they staying here?
Coy snorted softly at that.
His mother would probably call a local priest upon witnessing the state of the bathroom.
coy: no they’re staying at a hotel nearby
A pause.
ant: which one?
coy: the hilton 10 mins down the road
bon: can i join
will: damnnnnnn
ant: that’s crazy expensive
Coy hesitated briefly.
coy: yeah but it’s a treat for them
He didn’t mention that he’d paid for it himself… or the flights.
It wasn’t a huge deal, really. His parents weren’t exactly struggling financially, but his dad complained constantly about travel expenses and Coy made more money than either of them realised, so he was happy to pay.
Besides, he wanted the visit to go well. That was worth a few thousand dollars, if anything.
Even if part of him knew, deep down, that if he didn’t organise things himself they probably wouldn’t have come at all.
Anthony brought it up the next morning while Coy was making coffee.
At first things were normal enough. Will was asleep on the couch downstairs for reasons nobody would investigate too closely, the house weirdly quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional sound of traffic outside the windows. Coy stood at the counter in an old hoodie stirring sugar into his coffee while Anthony scavenged through the fridge looking for something edible, if they even owned anything.
“You know,” Anthony said eventually, “I still can’t believe your mom mailed you vitamins for your birthday.”
Coy snorted. “She thinks New Jersey has different nutrients.”
“She labelled the bottle ‘For Immunity’.”
“She labelled my antidepressants once, actually.”
Anthony laughed softly at that, finally locating his leftover stir fry. The sound warmed something embarrassingly fond inside Coy’s chest.
“Stir fry for breakfast?” Coy asked, eyebrow raised.
“Not as if we have any other options.”
Coy let out a quiet laugh despite himself.
Anthony busied himself with the microwave, turning it on with a beep. Silence took over the room, save the mechanical whir of the microwave.
Then Anthony said carefully, “Are you okay about your parents coming?”
Coy immediately stiffened, focusing very hard on the coffee in front of him.
“Yeah,” he said lightly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Anthony leaned against the counter beside him, arms folded loosely, . “I don’t know. You just seem stressed.”
“I’m not stressed.”
“You, like, deep cleaned the living room yesterday.”
“That’s just regular upkeep,” he joked.
Anthony smiled faintly, but it disappeared quickly.
“Coy.”
There it was again: that tone. Careful, as though Anthony was approaching a nervous animal.
Coy hated that tone.
“They’re just visiting,” he said, sharper than intended. “It’s not a big deal.”
Anthony was quiet for a second.
“I just mean after what you told me–”
Coy cut him off instantly.
“My dad’s not gonna beat me to death in the living room, Anthony.”
Anthony blinked hard. “Jesus, Coy, that’s not what I meant.”
“Well it’s what you sound like.”
Silence dropped heavily between them. Coy stared down at his coffee, jaw tight.
Immediately guilt began curling unpleasantly in his stomach; Anthony hadn’t done anything wrong and he knew that. Anthony was worried because he cared about him, and somehow that only made Coy more defensive, because if Anthony cared too much, he might realise things Coy had spent years carefully convincing himself weren’t important.
The microwave dinged on the counter. Anthony ignored it.
Anthony exhaled quietly. “I’m not trying to piss you off.”
“I know.”
“I just…” Anthony rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I want to make sure you’re okay. You did drop something pretty big on me and we haven’t even, like, spoken about it.”
The sincerity of it made Coy feel suddenly exhausted.
He looked away first.
“I’m okay,” he muttered.
Anthony clearly didn’t believe him, but after a second he just nodded anyway. “Okay, just– I’m here if you need me.”
Coy nodded, refusing to meet his eyes.
Anthony took his stir fry from the microwave and left.
His parents didn’t come see him the first day.
Coy found out via text at nearly three in the afternoon while sitting in the goffice pretending to do meaningful work.
mom: Your father and I are very tired from travelling! We thought we might spend today exploring together instead. Lunch tomorrow? Xx
Coy stared at the message for a long moment.
Then typed back:
coy: yeah sounds good
That was normal – reasonable, even.
People got tired after travelling, so it wasn’t weird that they didn’t immediately want to see him after flying across the country. The disappointment settled low and heavy in his chest anyway.
He spent the rest of the afternoon trying not to think about it.
By evening the house was loud again. Somebody had ordered takeaway, Hanbon and Will were arguing over movie choices while Berto repeatedly spoiled endings just to annoy them. Yuutah wasn’t home, but he never was.
Coy curled into the corner of the couch with his knees pulled loosely to his chest, phone face-down beside him.
“So, where are your parents then?” Will asked eventually around a mouthful of fries.
Coy shrugged like it meant nothing to him.
“Doing tourist stuff, I think.”
Will frowned slightly. “Without you?”
“I don’t know. It’s their trip too.”
Nobody replied immediately.
Hanbon glanced briefly toward Will; Coy pretended not to notice.
The movie started eventually – some terrible action film none of them were paying proper attention to. Halfway through, Berto disappeared upstairs and Hanbon announced she was going to walk home not even 30 minutes into the movie, claiming it was “too masculine”.
Coy stayed where he was curled into the corner. At some point, Anthony came down from his room and sat down beside him. After a few minutes, Anthony shifted slightly and draped an arm loosely along the back of the couch behind Coy’s shoulders, close enough that Coy could lean into it if he wanted to without it being obvious.
Coy stared very hard at the television.
“You cold?” Anthony asked quietly after a minute.
“No.”
“You’re shivering.”
“This movie is stressing me out.”
Anthony huffed a laugh, but he left his arm there anyway. Eventually, without really thinking about it, Coy leaned sideways until his shoulder rested lightly against Anthony’s chest.
Anthony didn’t react at all, just adjusted slightly so Coy fit more comfortably against him.
Something painful tightened in Coy’s throat unexpectedly.
He focused very hard on the movie after that.
Lunch the next day was at an aggressively expensive restaurant near Midtown that Coy had booked three weeks in advance.
His mother hugged him tightly the second she saw him.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said warmly, holding his face between her hands for a moment. “You look so tired.”
“Hi to you too.”
“You’re too skinny.”
“I live off pasta, mostly.”
“Yes, I can tell.”
Coy laughed softly, despite her tone.
His mom looked nice, trying as hard as usual with her soft floral perfume, gold jewellery and careful makeup. Seeing her always made him feel strangely off-balance, like being abruptly dropped back into an earlier version of himself.
His dad greeted him with a clap on the shoulder instead of a hug.
“Son.”
“Dad.”
The lunch started pleasantly enough.
Mostly his mother talked. About church friends and neighbours and somebody named Linda whose daughter had apparently gotten divorced under “very unfortunate circumstances.” Coy nodded along in the right places while picking absently at his food, food that he would be paying for.
His father asked occasional questions about work.
“How’s the channel doing?”
“Good.”
“Are you still making those skit videos?”
“Unfortunately.”
His dad grunted approvingly enough at that.
For a little while, Coy relaxed. Maybe this would be okay.
Then his father said, casually, while cutting into his steak, “You know, I watched one of your videos last week.”
Coy smiled weakly. “My condolences.”
“You act very…” His dad hesitated. “Different on camera.”
There it was.
His mom looked down at her wineglass.
“Different how?” Coy asked carefully.
His father shrugged. “Just quite promiscuous sometimes. Quite feminine.”
Coy laughed once under his breath.
“You gotta let that one go eventually, Dad.”
“I’m serious.”
“Me too. I’m twenty-two now.”
“You know what I mean.”
Coy did know, that was most of the problem.
Something hot and frustrated twisted suddenly in his chest – weeks of embarrassment and defensiveness and disappointment piling up all at once.
Before he could stop himself, he said tightly, “If you think I act too gay in my videos, you’d hate the stuff I do in my free time.”
His mother’s head snapped upward. “Coy.”
His dad’s expression darkened instantly, and Coy felt his own stomach drop at the words leaving his mouth.
Nobody spoke for several long seconds; the restaurant noise suddenly felt unbearably loud around them.
Finally his father said quietly, “You think you’re funny?”
Coy looked down at the table.
“No,” he muttered.
The rest of lunch passed in near-total silence, his mother picking nervously at her salad, and his father barely looking up at him.
Coy felt sick.
Outside the restaurant the air was cold enough to sting.
Coy shoved his hands into his pockets automatically as they stood awkwardly near the curb. People moved around them in busy streams, taxis blaring horns further down the street.
His mother sighed first.
“I think,” she said carefully, “it may be best if your father and I have some space for the rest of the trip.”
Coy frowned slightly. “What?”
“Things are clearly tense.”
Something about that made his chest tighten.
“What?” Coy said slowly. “You’re here for like another– what? Four days? And you’re just going to ignore me?”
His father answered flatly. “We have other business to attend to, Coy.”
“Like what?”
Neither of them replied; then, suddenly, understanding hit him.
“You’re here for work.”
His mother hesitated.
Coy stared at them, disbelief in his eyes.
“You came to New York for a conference,” he stated, scoffing.
“Nobody said we didn’t want to see you,” his mom said quickly.
“Oh my God.”
“Coy–”
“Fuck.” He laughed once in disbelief. “Are you actually serious?”
His father’s expression hardened immediately. “Watch your tone.”
Coy barely heard him now.
“You didn’t come here for me at all.”
“That’s unfair,” his mother said softly.
“Is it?”
His dad grabbed his shoulder suddenly, grip tightening hard enough to hurt.
“Lower your voice.”
The contact sent something cold and instinctive through Coy instantly.
For one awful second he was fifteen again. His father must’ve realised too late because his grip loosened slightly afterward, but the damage was done.
Coy yanked his shoulder back.
“No, actually,” he said, voice shaking now, “you know what’s unfair? I paid for your fucking flights.”
His mother looked startled.
“I paid for your hotel too,” Coy continued, anger spilling out faster now. “I paid for the lunch you just ate! And you’re here for a business trip?”
“Coy,” his mom said quietly.
“No, that’s insane, actually.”
His father’s face had gone thunderously angry now. “You’re behaving like a child.”
Coy laughed again, sharp and miserable.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m behaving like a child? God.”
Then he turned and walked away before either of them could answer.
He cried on the train home, silent tears sliding down his face while he stared hard at the subway floor pretending everything was normal. He wiped them away angrily whenever anybody looked in his direction.
By the time he walked through the apartment front door, his eyes burned painfully.
Muffled voices drifted from the living room, Anthony laughing at something AJ said. Coy swallowed hard and headed upstairs automatically, keeping his head down.
The living room door was open.
AJ sat at a desk scrolling through footage while Hanbon sprawled sideways across Anthony’s lap on the couch, both of them bickering over video ideas.
Anthony looked up immediately when Coy appeared.
“Hey,” he said easily. “How’d lunch go?”
Coy couldn’t answer, his throat closed painfully around the words; so instead he just walked past them down the corridor.
Behind him, silence fell.
“Coy?”
He kept walking.
By the time he reached his bedroom his vision had blurred completely again. He shut the door hard behind him and pressed both hands over his face immediately, breath hitching embarrassingly in his chest.
Humiliation crashed through him all at once.
He felt stupid.
So fucking stupid.
For paying for everything, for thinking they came to see him, for still wanting their approval after all these years.
A sob escaped before he could stop it. Coy covered his mouth hard with his hand, shoulders shaking violently now as he finally let himself cry.
Then footsteps sounded outside his door. He froze instantly.
A soft knock followed.
“Coy?” Anthony’s careful voice echoed. “You okay?”
Coy scrubbed aggressively at his face with the sleeves of his hoodie.
“Yeah,” he called back immediately, voice painfully strained. He coughed once, trying to clear it. “Yeah, you can come in.”
There was a brief hesitation outside the door before the handle turned carefully.
Anthony stepped inside slowly like he was trying not to startle him. The room behind him glowed dimly with late afternoon light spilling through the hallway windows, outlining him in soft gold for a second before he shut the door quietly behind himself.
Coy kept his back turned.
He sat hunched on the edge of his bed, elbows braced against his knees, one hand still covering part of his face. His chest hurt from trying too hard to hold himself together.
Anthony stayed by the door at first.
“You okay?” he asked gently.
Coy nodded once without looking up.
The silence stretched.
Anthony took another step closer. “You disappeared kinda fast.”
“Mhm.”
“How’d lunch go?”
Coy laughed weakly through his nose at that, thin and shaky.
“Great,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Really nice bonding experience.”
Anthony’s expression tightened immediately.
Coy stared hard at the carpet; he could still feel his dad’s hand around his arm, still hear his mother’s careful disappointed voice.
It may be best if we have some space.
Anthony moved closer slowly until he was standing in front of him now. “Coy.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are very clearly not.”
Coy shook his head quickly, still refusing to look at him. “No, I just– I’m being dramatic.”
“Coy.”
Anthony uttered his name soft enough that something inside Coy split cleanly down the middle. His breathing hitched.
He covered his face fully with both hands immediately, shoulders curling inward as a guttural sob escaped him before he could stop it.
“Oh,” Anthony said quietly, startled more than anything.
Coy made a horrible choking sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Sorry.”
“Why are you apologising?”
“I don’t know.”
The words dissolved into another shaky breath.
Anthony sat down beside him carefully on the bed – not too close at first, giving him room to move away if he wanted to.
Coy didn’t.
He stayed folded in on himself, hands pressed hard against his face like if Anthony couldn’t fully see him then maybe this would feel less humiliating.
“Hey,” Anthony said softly after a second. “Look at me for a sec.”
Coy shook his head immediately.
“Okay, that’s okay.”
Another silence settled between them, quieter this time. Outside the bedroom door Coy could faintly hear AJ and Hanbon talking in the living room, muffled through walls and distance. The normalness of it made the ache in his chest worse somehow.
Anthony waited him out patiently, until eventually Coy dragged his hands away from his face long enough to inhale properly.
His eyes burned.
“I’m sorry,” he said again thickly. “I literally never do this.”
Anthony frowned immediately, confused. “Cry?”
He’s seen Coy cry dozens of times.
“Not about this. Never about them.”
“Well,” Anthony said carefully, “Maybe it’s been a long time coming.”
Coy let out another weak watery laugh despite himself; Anthony’s expression softened slightly at the sound.
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
Coy swallowed hard.
For a second he considered lying. Saying lunch was awkward and leaving it there, pretending this was just stress or alcohol or exhaustion.
But the second he opened his mouth, the truth came spilling out anyway.
“They didn’t even come here for me.”
Anthony stayed silent.
Coy stared at his own hands while he spoke, words tumbling over each other unevenly between breaths.
“They’re here because of my dad’s work conference and I didn’t even know that and I paid for everything because I thought–”
His voice cracked badly.
Anthony’s face changed immediately. “Wait. You paid?”
Coy nodded once, embarrassed.
“The hotel… lunch. Flights too.”
“Coy…”
“And then my dad started his usual shit about me acting gay online and I made this stupid joke and–” Coy squeezed his eyes shut hard. “I don’t even know why I said it, I just got annoyed and then everything got weird.”
Anthony listened without interrupting, jaw tightening slightly the more Coy spoke.
“He grabbed my shoulder outside,” Coy admitted quietly after a moment.
Anthony went still. Coy noticed immediately and rushed to soften it.
“Not like– not badly,” he said quickly. “He was just angry. But I thought he was going to hit me.”
Anthony stared at him in disbelief. “Coy.”
“He didn’t actually hurt me, though.”
“That’s not really the point.”
Coy rubbed harshly at his eyes again. “I just feel stupid.”
“For what?”
“For caring.”
The honesty of it hung ugly and exposed between them.
Coy laughed shakily at himself. “Like logically I know how they are. I know they suck at this, but every single time they call or visit I still somehow convince myself it’ll be different.”
Anthony’s expression ached suddenly in a way Coy couldn’t stand to look at directly.
So instead he looked down at the comforter twisted in his fists.
“I’m twenty-two,” he muttered. “I should be over this by now.”
“Coy,” Anthony said quietly, “they’re your parents.”
Coy shrugged helplessly.
“I just wanted them to actually want to see me.”
The words came out small, painfully young.
Anthony inhaled slowly through his nose like he was trying very hard to stay calm about something.
He shifted closer, carefully. “C’mere,” he murmured.
Coy barely had time to process the words before Anthony’s arm wrapped gently around his shoulders, pulling him sideways against his chest.
Coy froze for half a second, before everything caved in on itself.
Another sob tore out of him violently as he folded forward into Anthony without meaning to, forehead pressing hard against his shoulder while his whole body shook.
“Woah,” Anthony whispered immediately, one hand moving instinctively to the back of Coy’s head. “Okay. It’s okay, I got you.”
Coy cried harder at that – which was deeply humiliating.
He clutched weakly at the front of Anthony’s shirt, breathing uneven and messy against his shoulder while years worth of swallowed-down hurt seemed to finally catch up with him all at once.
Anthony stayed steady through all of it: one arm around Coy’s shoulders, one hand rubbing slowly up and down his back.
“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “You’re okay.”
Coy shook his head hard against him.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“They don’t even like me.”
Anthony pulled back just enough to look at him properly then, eyebrows drawing together sharply.
“Coy,” he said firmly, “that is not true.”
Coy laughed miserably. “Ant, he hates me. He really hates me.”
Something fierce flickered briefly across Anthony’s face now. Anthony brushed his sleeve lightly beneath one of Coy’s eyes, wiping away a tear before it could fall properly.
The gentleness of it nearly undid him again.
“You know what I think?” Anthony said softly.
Coy shook his head once.
“I think your parents have spent a really long time making you feel hard to love.”
Coy’s breath caught painfully.
“And I think they’re wrong.”
Silence.
Coy looked at him finally then.
Anthony’s face was still open with concern, arm warm around Coy’s shoulders, eyes soft in that unbearable way they only ever seemed to get when looking at him specifically. Something sharp and terrified twisted in Coy’s chest.
Because this was exactly why he’d prayed for the crush to disappear, not because he thought it was sinful anymore, but because being loved by Anthony even a little bit already felt dangerously close to drowning.
And wanting more than this might actually kill him.