Chapter 1 #3
Beside it, a newer frame: his dad, who’d died back when Allan was still in high school, younger in the photo than Allan was now, holding a palette, streaks of red and blue on his cheek. Behind him, a hand-painted title, half-finished: ORO, PLATA, MATA.
Allan stopped. He didn’t remember that particular photo being framed before.
His room smelled like dust and teenage rebellion. Christina Aguilera and the Backstreet Boys still lined the walls, their posters curling at the edges. The periodic table above his desk looked like a relic from a museum about failed futures.
In one corner, a rolled-up tarpaulin leaned against the wall, the last science fair banner he’d made with Microsoft Word and far too much enthusiasm.
He dropped his bag and collapsed onto the bed. The mattress complained but held.
Manila flashed behind his eyelids: endless meetings, polite gaslighting, you’re such a rockstar when they meant we own you. His resignation email still sitting in some HR inbox. His lolo’s and dad’s paint-streaked fingers. His mom calling a stroke “mini,” like a pop quiz, not a warning.
His chest ached in a way that felt familiar and odd, so he closed his eyes.
Sleep hit him like a slap he’d been asking for.
He woke up to the Backstreet Boys.
Specifically, the unmistakable, deeply committed strains of Quit Playing Games (With My Heart), muffled through the wall, accompanied by someone enthusiastically kicking a shower door in rhythm.
His head throbbed. His mouth tasted like dust and mild depression.
He groped for his phone. Dead. Of course.
Light glowed from under the bathroom door, pulsing with steam. The singing got louder. Off-key, but so committed it almost looped back around to impressive.
Then came the falsetto—a long, wavering note that seemed to physically require both hands cupped around an invisible microphone, followed by a beat of reverent silence, the universal pause every shower performer takes before the big finish, like the bathroom tiles owed him a standing ovation.
Whoever this was, they weren’t just singing. They were headlining.
For a hopeful second, Allan thought, Kuya Ver?
He padded to the door and knocked. “Kuya, I really need to pee.”
No response. Just more Backstreet Boys.
He knocked harder. “Kuya! Please, I’m dying here.”
Still nothing.
Desperation overruled dignity. He fished a hairpin off the dresser, one of Cora’s, sitting in a little dish by the mirror since forever, and jimmied the knob with the muscle memory of someone who’d broken into this exact bathroom far too many times as a teenager.
Click.
He pushed the door open.
Steam exploded out, instantly fogging his glasses. He stepped in, his foot hit something slick, and he went down like a Miss Universe contestant on a wet runway.
“Ow—”
By the time he blinked enough to see shapes, three facts hit him in rapid succession:
This was not Ver.
There was a naked, very toned back in front of him.
The owner of that back was turning, towel yanked around his hips, eyes wide.
“Allan?”
Robby.
Ver’s best friend. (And, if anyone bothered to check the yearbook, Allan’s actual batchmate—Ver was three years older, but Robby had simply always orbited their house since they were kids, close enough to Ver’s circle to be Kuya’s shadow, and close enough to Allan’s age to be an entirely different kind of problem.) High school varsity star.
The boy who had lived in his peripheral vision and ruined his hormone levels for the better part of adolescence.
The center of his single most humiliating high school memory.
Now in his mother’s bathroom. Wet. Toweled. Muscled. Rude.
Allan scrambled upright, his face doing its best impression of a traffic light.
“Oh my God—sorry, I thought you were—”
“Ver?” Robby supplied, already laughing a little. “He’s in Legazpi, remember? Suit fitting.”
“Yes, I know he’s in Legazpi, I just—the door—Backstreet Boys—soap—” Allan pointed accusingly at a bar of soap lying near the drain, gleaming like an innocent villain.
Robby held the towel tighter, though he didn’t seem particularly bothered. “It’s been a while, huh,” he said. “Still know how to make an entrance.”
“This was not choreographed,” Allan said. “I would have chosen different lighting.”
“Welcome home anyway, Wonder Kid,” Robby said, smiling the same easy, lazy smile that used to make Allan forget entire sentences in front of an audience.
Something in Allan’s chest did an ill-timed somersault.
“Sorry,” Allan muttered again. “I thought you were my brother. I’m going to—leave my dignity here—and back out slowly.”
He did exactly that, almost tripping over Oryo, who had appeared in the doorway and was watching the whole scene with the absorbed look of someone catching up on their favorite teleserye.
From inside, Robby called, “Hoy, Allan?”
He paused, hand on the knob. “What?”
“Still the same,” Robby said. “Weirdly comforting.”
Allan shut the door and let his forehead rest against the wood for a second.
This definitely wasn’t his first encounter with a cock today.
But this? This felt like the start of a whole different storm.