The world, which had stopped, juddered back into motion with the force of a slammed door.
Before their lips could touch, a sudden, sharp creak of old wood, followed by the decisive click of a latch, shattered the air between them. The sound propelled their bodies backward as if they'd touched a live wire. Papers once in Matthew's hands neatly rolled back to places where he picked them.
It was Aunty Dawn, emerging from her bedroom, her mouth stretched wide in a yawn so profound it felt like a roar, a sonic announcement to the entire neighborhood that she had awakened from her siesta.
"Aaaay," she sighed, the yawn tapering off as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Blissfully unaware of the tableau of shattered tension she had just created, she smiled warmly from the second floor. "Ah, mga iho. Are you hungry? Let's have merienda, I'm suddenly craving the pan de coco from Aling Lilia's bakery, I'll go get some for us to eat."
Matthew, who had been a statue of pure anticipation, shot to his feet with a jolt, clencing the pieces of paper in his hand like a stress toy. At the same time, Felix flinched back so hard he nearly toppled over if it wasnt for the couch behind him. A tidal wave of heat washed over him, a blush so intense it felt like a fever. What had he done? What had he been thinking? He covered his face with both hands, as if he could physically hide from the sheer, mortifying audacity of his own actions. Both of their faces, and all of their wits, were in complete disarray.
Aunty Dawn, already humming and making her way to the kitchen, where she imagined her wallet stayed. She paid them no mind.
Matthew didn't leave the living room as quickly as Felix expected. He didn't bolt. For a long, agonizing moment, he just stood there, running a hand through his still-damp hair, the scattered papers at his feet a messy testament to the moment that had been obliterated. There were no words, but the silence wasn't empty. It was thick with the ghost of the kiss, with the frantic thumping of two hearts that were completely out of sync with the lazy afternoon.
He took one last, mortified look at Felix.
Peeking through the gaps between his fingers, Felix saw him. He saw the flush on Matthew's high cheekbones, the conflicted, embarrassed twist of his lips. He saw his own desperate longing reflected in Matthew's dark, bewildered eyes. The shared look was a silent, mutual question: What the hell happened?
Felix gulped, the sound loud in his own ears.
That was the final straw. In a sudden flurry of motion, Matthew turned and fled. There was no grace to it, no casual retreat. He was gone with the frantic, single-minded purpose of a Londoner about to miss the last train home on the Northern Line—a head-down, no-looking-back escape.
Felix was left alone on the floor, his face still buried in his hands, surrounded by the mess they'd made.
At evening, in Felix's room...
The ceiling fan in did little more than stir the thick, soupy evening air. Outside, the familiar chorus of crickets and the occasional passing tricycle did nothing to soothe him. He was a tangle of limbs and bedsheets, rolling over for what felt like the hundredth time, his body restless and his mind a frantic, repeating loop of the afternoon's disaster.
He was a creep. A predator. He had misread everything and acted on a stupid, reckless impulse. The shame was a physical thing, a hot, suffocating blanket he couldn't throw off.
"What were you thinking?! You absolute idiot. He must think you're a creep. A desperate, weirdo who just... throws himself at people. He was just cleaning, picking up the stupid paper, and you—God, you practically lunged at him. He'll never look at you again without seeing some kind of freak."
He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling as if it held an answer. But another voice, a quieter, more desperate one, fought to be heard. The voice that wanted to believe.
"But it wasn't like that. It wasn't just you. The way he looked at you… no one just looks at someone like that. That wasn't politeness. And he didn't move. He leaned down. He was waiting, I know he was. If Tita Dawn hadn't— if she had been asleep for one more minute—it would have happened... Maybe?"
The two voices warred in his head, leaving him exhausted. With a groan of frustration, he buried his face in his pillow, inhaling the familiar, dusty scent of cotton in an attempt to block out everything. He willed his mind to go blank, to just shut down and let him sleep.
But in the quiet darkness behind his eyelids, his thoughts began to travel to dangerous waters. The frantic loop of what-ifs and shouldn't-haves faded, replaced by something far more potent. An image, unsolicited and crystal clear, bloomed in his mind: Matthew, crouching down, the white cotton of his shirt pulling taut across his shoulders. The memory of the flex of his arms as he reached for the paper. The clean, sharp lines of his collarbone. The perfect, lean form of his body, still damp and smelling of soap.
He felt something shift deep in his core. It started as a low, coiling warmth in his stomach, a stark contrast to the cold dread he'd been feeling moments before. It was a slow, rising wave of undeniable pleasure, making the muscles in his thighs and stomach contract involuntarily. A full-body shiver traced its way up his spine. The heat of his own body surged, his skin suddenly feverish as the memory of Matthew's closeness, of his scent, of the look in his eyes right before the world shattered, consumed him completely.
In the darkness of his room, there was no fear and no shame. There was only this undeniable, electric feeling—a visceral, physical wanting that his body refused to let his mind sleep.
He couldn't sleep. It was too hot to think, let alone rest. He felt his body surge with a different kind of thirst now, a primal ache that demanded release. With a trembling, hesitant hand, he slowly grabbed his member. He pulled the hem of his thin shirt up with his teeth, the worn cotton bunching in his mouth, giving him the illusory feeling of being bare.
His eyes slipped shut, and the image of Matthew was right there, waiting for him in the darkness. Stroke after stroke, guided by memory, he felt himself getting closer and closer.
In the grip of a quiet madness, his movements went from tentative to urgent, rougher and rougher against his own skin until he had to press his face deep into his pillow to muffle the sounds escaping his throat. A low moan vibrated against the cotton, swallowed by the fabric. One split second of perfect, blinding clarity and then...
"Ah! Ah...!" He came, a silent, shuddering gasp.
For a moment, there was only the release. A wave of intense pleasure washed over him, wiping his mind clean, his muscles uncoiling as the last of the tension left his body in a series of fading aftershocks. He lay limp on the sweat-dampened sheets, his breathing ragged, the cold air of his room feeling heavy and thick in his lungs. The only sounds were his own panting and the relentless sound of the fan.
The heat in his body was replaced by a different kind of warmth. He grabbed a random piece of fabric to clean himself. He pulled the sando from his mouth, letting it fall back against his slightly sticky chest. The reality of what he had done, of who he had done it for, settled over him—this wasn't the first time he had done this in mind of someone, but it was the first time that felt too early...too fantasized.