It was three days since. Matthew's mother went off to Batac where she hoped for a job. It was a hospital, as a nurse, but it was one that reluctantly took her in because she didn't have a 'backer'. Matthew, meanwhile, sat irritated at home, busying himself with a sketchbook from Trafalgar square he had bought a few days before the flight. Some pages were ripped from its rings. It laid waste on the tiles as if someone knocked over a trashcan.
"Bloody hell. How can a bloke cool off from this weather?"
He groaned. It was too hot to think, to do anything in fact. Even the fan betrayed its use—breathing fire instead of air, and because he already took three showers, a fourth one would just be admitting defeat.
He threw his head back, before he peeled off his sando with all the grace of a man shedding his last bit of dignity. He was alone in the living room. Somewhere behind the half-closed door, Aunty Dawn was napping in her woven recliner, snoring softly like a distant frog. Uncle Nando was at the law firm, elbow-deep in legalese. And Amor—Amor was out with him.
Him.
His mind flew back to the day he saw the palpable marks on Felix's frame. It brought to mind the boys he'd once seen scrapping behind a Brixton estate, fists flying with the sort of reckless poetry only London guys knew—where pain was a currency, and bruises were worn like medals no one asked for but everyone understood.
Stupid fights over nothing, really. Someone's bike, someone's pride, or a glance held a second too long. It became a reference in the long term. Felix's injuries, wouldn't have been accidents. Someone must've—wait no...why—
"What am I even thinking…" Matthew muttered, dropping his sketchbook on the table like it had personally offended him. "It's out of my business."
"We have ice cream!~"
The voice came slicing through the heat like a knife through cheesecake—piercing layers of silence seamlessly with a loud boom that would qualify for a prison bell.
Matthew flinched, nearly knocking over the glass china Aunty Dawn prized over her decorative masetas. His whole body tensed like a stretched trapo on a windy clothesline. "Jesus!" he jerked, wiping his forehead with the heel of his palm.
Amor stood in the doorway like the heat hadn't touched her at all—grinning, plastic bag in hand, slippers already kicked off in the grace of someone who made messes for a living.
She grinned, holding up a plastic bag heavy with sweat-slicked tubs of ice cream, their sides already wet from the humidity, and he could see the familiar gold curve of Selecta mango and a speckled tub of double dutch threatening to melt inside the bag.
Her grin, however, began to melt as her gaze slid past him, catching on the chaos of ripped paper strewn across the floor. The smile didn't so much fall as it did droop, a slow, disappointed curve at the corners.
"Ay, Matmat," she sighed, and Matthew practically snorted, not mused nor used to the nickname she'd given him.
She didn't wait for a reply, already pivoting towards the kitchen to rescue the rapidly softening ice cream. Before disappearing through the doorway, she craned her neck back, one hand on her hip, and crooked a finger towards the entrance in a grand, sweeping gesture. "Hurry up, sister!" she called out, her voice a stage-whisper that carried through the entire house. "Ice cream's melting!"
"Girl come on! I'm exhausted!"
A figure filled the doorway then, backlit by the unforgiving afternoon sun that turned the edges of his frame into a hazy gold. It was him.
Felix.
He was a study in humidity, beads of sweat clinging to his temples and tracing the line of his jaw. The white cotton of his t-shirt was more a suggestion than a barrier. It clung to his chest and shoulders, a second skin made translucent by the heat, barely obscuring the very same planes and shadows Matthew had been trying—and failing—not to think about.
He bent to slip off his tsinelas, placing them neatly beside Amor's haphazardly discarded pair, and when he straightened, his eyes found Matthew's.
It left early. Like a bulilising, Felix's eyes, took their chance to wander. His gaze caught on the ink, the dark patterns that snaked up one arm and over his shoulder, the kind of bold markings that would make Felix's own lola (if she was still alive) purse her lips and mutter about bad influences from his cellphone.
Before he could follow the trail of hair that disappeared below the waistband of his shorts, he looked away. Hastily. His focus snapped to the dusty blades of the electric fan as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world.
He crossed the threshold, he cleared his throat then smirked, face flushed in light pink before gathering some courage for a quick remark not wanting to appear awkward.
"Hello," Felix had said, the word simple, almost flimsy, yet it landed with enough force to make Matthew's eyes snap up. They left the faded map of old bruises on Felix's skin and crashed right into the flustered warmth of his hazel gaze.
He was still mad about last time, about being trapped, cornered during his morning jog by Felix's relentless, infuriating immaturity. But now… now he wasn't so sure. Maybe it was the oppressive heat, the way it warped the very air in the room, or maybe it was the sight of Felix's body. The anger he expected to feel was absent, replaced by a strange—something he didn't quite understand. There was no space in his head for a rude quip, not one that wouldn't earn him a lecture from his mother.
"I'm going to take a shower," he said, and the words felt less like a statement and more like a surrender. A white flag waved in the thick, sweltering air between them.
Felix wanted to say something smarter, something wittier and just a little bit insulting—it was his language, after all. But the remark was caught in the bars of his throat. He was thirsty. So incredibly thirsty. He watched as Matthew turned and walked away, the curves of his tattoos shifting with the movement of his shoulders, the mess of ripped paper on the floor seemingly forgotten, a minor casualty in the wake of Felix's arrival.
The living room was suddenly too quiet, the only sounds the whirring of the fan and the frantic thumping of Felix's own heart. He stood there, rooted to the spot just inside the doorway, his mind a flickering slideshow of dark ink on sun-kissed skin. The way the tattoos flowed, disappearing beneath the low-slung waistband of Matthew's shorts, had sparked a curiosity in him that felt dangerously close to a lit match. He could still feel the phantom heat of his own blush, a traitorous warmth that had nothing to do with the sun.
"Hoy, Felix! Help!" Amor's voice cut through his trance, pulling him from the living room's heavy atmosphere. "What are you doing out there?!"
"Coming!"