Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Crispy Pata arrived at half six in a foil tray the size of a hubcap, delivered by a man on a moped who handed it over with the gravity of someone transferring state secrets.
Diwa tipped him twenty quid, carried it through to the kitchen, and set it on the island beside the rice cooker, which had been doing its job for the past forty minutes and was now emitting the sweet, starchy exhale that meant the jasmine rice was ready.
He’d ordered it from a place in Earl’s Court that his Tita Cora had discovered on her last visit and declared acceptable.
The pork knuckle was golden and blistered, the skin pulled tight as a drum, crackling audibly when Diwa shifted the tray.
Beside it, he’d laid out the dipping sauces in small ceramic bowls: soy with calamansi, spiced vinegar, and the chilli garlic paste that Colin had graduated from avoiding entirely to spooning directly into his soy sauce as though he’d been eating it his whole life.
Colin was due at seven. He’d texted from the bus forty minutes ago. Leaving Pimlico. Mrs Gregory’s bathroom took longer than expected. Don’t start without me. That was Colin’s way of saying he was hungry and would be annoyed if Diwa had eaten the good bits by the time he got there.
Diwa had not eaten the good bits. He had, however, pulled a piece of crackling off the edge of the knuckle, because he was only human, and the sound it had made when it snapped between his fingers had been too much to resist. He’d eaten it standing at the counter with his eyes closed.
The rest of the spread was already out. Garlic rice in a huge blue bowl.
Achara, bright and sharp, the pickled green papaya catching the kitchen light.
A dish of sliced tomatoes and salted egg that was missing its bagoong, because Colin had tried the shrimp paste once, held it in his mouth for three seconds with an expression of frank betrayal, and spat it into a napkin with a finality that closed the subject forever.
Bagoong remained the single hill his omega would die on.
The yellow door opened at ten past seven, and Colin came down the hall with his bag on one shoulder, his jacket already half off. He hung both on the hook, and the smell of cleaning solutions and hours spent in public transport gave way, as it always did, to the warmth of him.
“Something smells good.”
“I got us Crispy Pata.” Diwa pulled Colin’s stool out and nodded at it. “Whole pork knuckle, deep-fried. The skin’s still crispy, so we need to eat it now before it goes soft.”
Colin sat. His eyes moved across the island before he picked up a fork and broke a piece of crackling off the knuckle. The snap was audible. He put it in his mouth, and his eyes closed.
Diwa watched him eat.
Months ago, Colin would have sat at this island with his elbows pulled in, occupying as little space as possible, clearing his plate in under ten minutes. He’d have refused seconds. He’d have rinsed his plate before Diwa had finished his own.
Now Colin reached across for the garlic rice without being prompted, spooned it onto his plate in a heap that would have fed two of the Colin who’d first walked through the yellow door, and ladled soy and calamansi over the top with a liberal hand.
His free hand tore another strip of crackling from the knuckle while he chewed.
He’d filled out across the shoulders and through the chest over the past months, his frame no longer quite so spare.
The chilli paste went into his soy sauce. Two spoonfuls, pressed off the edge with his thumb, stirred in with the handle of his fork. He didn’t look up, or so much as acknowledge that six months ago he’d have called this amount of chilli a biohazard.
Diwa’s chest went hot. This was his omega, eating at his table, reaching for the food he’d laid out without hesitation or apology, his body carrying the weight that Diwa’s kitchen had put on him.
He wanted to photograph Colin. He wanted to send it to his family group chat with the caption look what I’ve done.
He did neither of these things, because Colin would have killed him.
Instead, he loaded his own plate, sat down across from his omega, and began working out how to ask a man who had never left the United Kingdom to come to Manila with him.
He spooned another heap of garlic rice onto Colin’s plate before the first serving was finished off, and Colin started eating it without protest.
“You know what this reminds me of?” Diwa nudged the achara closer to Colin’s elbow.
“There’s this place in Quezon City, near my grandmother’s old house.
Aling Nena’s. It’s just a carinderia. Basically a street stall with plastic chairs, and a tin roof.
The fan doesn’t work half the time. But they do this sweet spaghetti that I have genuinely never been able to replicate.
Banana ketchup, hotdog slices, processed cheese on top.
It sounds disgusting. It is, objectively, disgusting.
But Colin, if you tasted it, you’d understand. ”
Colin tore another strip of crackling from the knuckle and dipped it in the chilli soy. His eyes had gone half-lidded, softened to something glazed and content. He was no longer hungry, but he kept eating because the good food was there.
Diwa put two more pieces of pork on his plate.
“And Jollibee, obviously.” Diwa tipped the last of the achara onto Colin’s plate. “You like Jollibee, don’t you, Colin?”
The corner of Colin’s mouth lifted into a small smile. “Chicken Joy.”
Diwa bit down on his bottom lip. The way Colin said it nearly undid him.
The memory was right there: Colin in the Earl’s Court branch, sitting across from him in a plastic booth with a piece of fried chicken in each hand, grease to his wrists, refusing to acknowledge the peach mango pie until the second box of Chicken Joy was finished.
He’d eaten the pie afterwards in silence, licked his thumb, and said “Right.” in a tone that made it clear he’d been won over.
“The Philippines is a beautiful country, Colin.” He kept his voice even, conversational, as though this weren’t the most calculated segue of his adult life.
“The beaches are incredible. Palawan looks like someone Photoshopped the ocean. The food’s better than anything I can get delivered to Notting Hill, and my family, you’d like them.
They’re loud and they’d feed you until you couldn’t move, which, based on tonight, seems to be your ideal scenario. ”
Colin’s fork jabbed at the last piece of pork on the tray.
“I had my PA book my flight yesterday.” Diwa reached for his water glass and took a sip, casual as anything, as though the Singapore Airlines first-class suite confirmation wasn’t already sitting in his inbox with both their names on it.
“For Lola Joy’s ninetieth. And I was thinking…
what if you came with me? You could meet my family, try sweet spaghetti, and eat your body weight in lechon.
Our cook makes the best leche flan I’ve ever had.
” He watched Colin’s profile. “You like leche flan, don’t you? ”
Colin set his fork down. He turned on his seat to face Diwa square-on, chin level. “Stop trying to control me with food, Diwa.”
“I’m not trying to control you.” Diwa held both hands up, palms out. “I’m giving you a choice, aren’t I? That’s all this is. Presenting you with a choice.”
Colin’s eyes narrowed. His fork was still on the counter, but his hand hadn’t moved far from it.
“Come to the Philippines with me.” Diwa kept his voice light, easy, the same pitch he used when suggesting a walk or a second helping of food.
“It’ll just be for two weeks. It’ll be sunny.
We’ll go to white sand beaches, stuff ourselves with mangoes and lansones.
You’ll get a tan. Your knees will thank you for the break.
” He leaned towards Colin, hoping his alpha scent would compel an agreement out of him.
“Or you could stay here, alone in London. And you don’t like being without me, do you? ”
Colin didn’t answer. His gaze stayed on the plate in front of him, on the stripped pork bone and the smear of chilli soy. Diwa’s hand curled around the back of his neck, his thumb settling against the warm skin below his hairline, and Colin didn’t move away.
“It’ll be fun,” Diwa insisted. “It’ll be something new for you. I want you to see where I come from, and I want to show you off to my family.”
Colin kept his eyes on his plate. “Why? It’s not like I’m a catch.”
Diwa’s hand stilled on his neck. “Not a — Colin.” He ducked his head until he was directly in Colin’s sightline, which took effort, because Colin was doing his level best to avoid his gaze.
“Last Thursday, in Waitrose, I had to stand behind you at the deli counter glaring at an alpha who spent four solid minutes staring at your ass while you were choosing cold cuts. He wasn’t even bothering to be subtle about it, Colin! ”
The corner of Colin’s mouth twitched.
“And the one in Hyde Park! The jogger. He slowed down, turned round, and came back for a second look. I had to actually body check him.”
“You barely touched him.”
“I absolutely body-checked that man, Colin, and he deserved it.” Diwa wasn’t above begging, and did his best to keep his voice level as he pleaded his case.
“Come with me. You’ll be doing me a favour.
I have forty cousins, and you’d be a good diversion from all the shit that’s gone down with my business. ”
He’d gone too far. He could feel it in the way the sentence landed.
He’d got much too close to the thing he’d been holding at arm’s length for weeks.
Diwa had been putting on a good face around Colin.
Except that he’d spent the four days after Ezra left sitting across from his legal team in his study while they went through the board’s decision line by line, looking for a crack, a procedural misstep, anything that might give him a foothold.
There was nothing. The board had done everything by the book. His lawyers had been very sorry, but they’d charged him eleven thousand pounds for the privilege of telling him that there was nothing that could be done about his ousting.
Colin had been there through all of it, making tea that appeared at Diwa’s elbow without being asked for, running him a bath when the meetings ran late. He’d sat beside him on the sofa in the evenings for hours, saying nothing while Diwa pecked away at his mobile, replying to emails.
“I need you there. It’ll be the first time I’ve seen my family since everything that happened with Orthos. And I’ll have to talk to my mother.” Diwa took a deep breath. “I can’t do that on my own, Colin. I don’t want to.”
Colin was quiet for a long moment. His fork rested on the edge of his plate, and his eyes stayed on the stripped pork bone in front of him. “I don’t like getting too hot, Diwa.”
Diwa’s hope rose, because that wasn’t a no. That was a logistical objection that meant Colin was gearing up towards a yes.
“You’ll be kept in the air-conditioned style to which you are accustomed, Colin. I swear. If it comes to it, I’ll have staff with woven palm-leaf fans following you round and fanning you wherever you go.”
Colin’s teeth caught his lower lip. “I reckon a two-quid fan from Temu would do the job just as well.”
“I’ll get you a hundred fans. A hundred people carrying them. A full entourage, Colin.”
Colin reached across the island, picked up a tiny piece of crackling from the tray, and put it in Diwa’s mouth to stop him talking. “How long’s the flight?”
Diwa swallowed the crackling. “Thirteen hours. Fourteen with the layover.”
“I’ll need to get a passport. And I’m not wearing shorts, Diwa. I don’t care how hot it is.”
“You’ve got amazing legs, Colin. I want you in a speedo.”
Colin looked at him with the flat stare of a man who had just been asked to film a sex tape. “Fuck off, Diwa.” But Diwa didn’t care, because that was ostensibly a ‘yes’.