It was awkward—painfully awkward—and Felix's brain had decided to take the most inconvenient detour imaginable. Matthew was on the patio toweling off, moving the cloth over his shoulders with this slow, casual ease that FELT intentional, like a tease, even though Felix knew that was just… probably Matthew. Being Matthew.
Felix kept sneaking glances he absolutely should not have been sneaking, which was why he'd exiled himself to the far edge of the garden—specifically the edge Amor had already watered.
He sighed. Hard.
It was a sickeningly familiar routine, a reflex honed until it was muscle memory. Felix realized with a jolt that he was doing the exact same thing he used to do with Gray. It was that same hungry, terrified observation—stealing glances at parts of a person he had no business looking at, seizing any chance to catalogue the details before he was caught.
With Gray, it had become an obsession. By the end, Felix had practically drawn a map of him in his mind. He had memorized the precise location of every single one of Gray's beauty marks: the small, dark speck on the side of his neck, the one resting over his chest, the scattering across his arms. He knew the same on his legs, the solitude of the mark on his back, and the secret one high up on his thigh.
Felix squeezed his eyes shut and gave his head a sharp, violent shake, trying to dislodge the image. The sun was high and unforgiving, lashing against his skin, but inside, his brightness was rapidly fading, replaced by a cold, hollow shade of gloom.
What the hell was he doing?
Guilt clawed at his throat. What the heck had he even done? The feeling washed over him, sticky and hot, dragging his mind back to that night. The memory was vivid enough to make him nauseous—lying in the dark, the sound of his ragged breathing. He had been lost in his own head, secretly climaxing to the thought of another boy while his mind still had traces of the boy he loved.
He felt like he had betrayed all the times they had—every shared laugh, every comfort, every moment built over years. It was a retroactive poisoning of their history.
At least, somewhat in their friendship, with all the things they'd done together without anyone else—the strenuous rides to Sabang Beach, the fun they had chasing the dogs on Farms in Sabangan, the secrets whispered in the comfort of Gray's room—Felix had felt, somehow, that Gray was his.
He had validated that unspoken ownership with nights of solitude and passion, smudging the lines until it vanished, using the friction of his own to convince himself that what they had was intimate and magical.
God, it was pathetic.
"Great," he muttered under his breath. "Amor bluffs straight to your face and now you're digging yourself a grave."
"Who are you talking to?"
Felix jolted. He turned slowly to find Matthew watching him with his arms crossed and eyebrows raised in the universal look of I have several questions and zero context.
"I was just—"
"That bit's already been watered," Matthew cut in gently.
Felix smiled, or something close enough to pass as one, then stared down at the hose like it held the secrets of the universe. He avoided Matthew's eyes, instead letting his gaze skim over his shoulders, his wet hair, the tattoos curling along his arm—then, disastrously, down to his mouth.
Felix groaned internally, he couldn't help it, but he hated it. He locked his focus somewhere safe: Matthew's forehead. Neutral territory.
Then the world paused...
...
...
...
...
Matthew didn't know why that got under his skin. Felix looked… small, somehow. Like he was hiding behind the hose, clutching it the way a kid might clutch a stuffed toy for protection. And Matthew didn't know what Felix was feeling, not really—but he did know that the bloke was...well...he was—
...
...
...
...
"Just let me—" Matthew finally spoke. Trying to grab the hose.
"No!" Felix practically jumped behind, which made Matthew look at him like a stunned courtesan after being slapped.
"I-I'll just go over that side," Felix blurted instead, already sighing as he marched toward the opposite corner of the garden—the one the hose could barely reach.
He made it there, stretched the hose as far as it would go, lifted the nozzle—
And the water died. Completely.
"Oh… uh…" Felix twisted the nozzle, tightened, loosened, tugged the hose this way and that—but nothing. Water refused to flow.
Matthew's eyes followed the struggling hose, noticing a stubborn kink near the faucet. Felix, meanwhile, had decided the nozzle itself was the culprit and leaned in like a detective inspecting a crime scene. Matthew sighed, stepped over, and with a casual tug unknotted the snake.
The water surged through like a tiny waterfall. Felix shrieked, flinching backward as the spray hit him square in the face. The hose slipped from his hands, clattering to the ground, while he coughed and sputtered, soaked from hair to shirt.
"Put—Fuck!"
Matthew chuckled, low and easy, the kind of laugh that felt like it was meant to soothe both of them. Because, honestly? He knew this day was absurd, but at least he wasn't the only one suffering.
And then he noticed Felix's shirt—a faded white thing with a fiesta printed across the chest. It was the kind that you'd find as a souvenir in Vigan's busy marketplace in January or the one's schools gave away when you were a competing journalist for DSPC.
As the water sunk into the fabric, the protective layer of cotton slowly softened against the afternoon sun.
Felix stared at himself with complete, unfiltered frustration. "Great," he muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Absolutely perfect. Couldn't have picked a better day for a dip." His shirt clung to him, cold and damp, and he swiped at it like a very annoyed toddler.
Matthew had already returned to the patio, towel slung over his shoulder, but his eyes never left Felix. He didn't look nervous. Not even a little. It was as if he were surveying a finely crafted pearl—taking in every silk of sunlight on wet skin.
Felix tried to dry himself the old-fashioned way by furiously rubbing his arms and chest, muttering complaints that sounded more like tiny curses than actual sentences. He twisted the nozzle off the hose, leaving the spray behind, and finally trudged toward the patio where Matthew lounged.
"..."
Every step he took made the sunlight catch him differently—on his wet hair, his damp shirt plastered to his back, the small beads of water dripping from his arms. He looked like a glittering, ridiculous, slightly vulnerable little creature… and Matthew's eyes seemed drawn...like unsuspecting fish to a lamp in deep sea.