The first thing Pol tasted, was metal.
A dry tongue grazing the roof of his mouth, searching for water, meaning, absolution. His head was a glass bottle rolling under a passing bus. The ceiling bulb hummed faintly above like a judgmental god.
This wasn’t his apartment.
The bedsheets weren’t his, too clean, too pale. The walls were cream-colored and steady, the kind that held back secrets rather than shared them. A small oscillating fan ticked in rhythm. And next to him, in the quiet of a Quezon City morning, Joseph slept.
Naked.
Pol blinked twice. The world refused to change.
Joseph’s bare chest rose and fell, slow and patient like he knew something Pol didn’t. His face, half-buried in a pillow, looked impossibly calm. As if he’d been born here, sprawled like an unfinished thought on a borrowed bed. Pol turned away, not out of shame, but fear of letting that image burn too brightly into memory.
He stumbled out of the mattress, gently, reverently, like exiting a church after committing a sin no priest could understand. His legs were jelly; his stomach a dried-up well. He found the water dispenser near the door, the blue gallon like a plastic oasis in a desert of metal.
One cup. Then another. By the third, the water began to hurt.
Last night returned like a badly edited montage.
Samgyupsal smoke curling into dusk. The laughter of Joseph’s friends, no, his friends now, perhaps. Beer clinking like windchimes. Joseph’s smile next to him. Joseph paying the bill. The promise of I’ll tell you later.
Later was last night, after reaching home.
The confession, how they’d been robbing from the towers, from the men with glass elevators and golden dog bowls. Selling branded belts, limited-edition sneakers, stolen PS5s. Donating cash to sick kids and leaky rooftops. Feeding families with Gucci money.
And finally: the kiss. That damn kiss.
Or rather, what cracked open before it, the moment Pol felt something slide out of his chest and into the air between them. He had lunged, Joseph had leaned in, the world had tilted slightly off-axis. Then darkness, softness, skin, heat. Something like joy, but quieter.
Now: morning. Stillness. Breath. A body beside him that wasn’t just a body.
He walked back to the bed slowly. On the floor: his shirt, inside-out. Joseph’s jeans curled like a dead snake. A single sock clung to a shoe like a child afraid to be left behind. All their receipts laid out plainly.
He slipped under the blanket again. It was warm in the way a memory is warm, fragile, fleeting. He turned to face Joseph, careful not to wake him, like how you’d watch someone you’ve yearn led for too long from afar.
Pol didn’t know what this feeling was. It had no name in the languages he’d grown up with, Tagalog, street talk. All the old terms for man and woman, straight and not, seemed made-up now. Like a lie that was once helpful.
He reached out, tentative, drawing invisible paths across Joseph’s shoulder, down to his arm. The same skin from last night. Touched, held, understood.
He tried imagining other men. Blank. Nothing.
But Joseph… Joseph was a gravitational anomaly.
It was not desire, not the kind that barked and growled. It was something more illicit: comfort.
He traced another line down Joseph’s spine. Joseph stirred slightly but didn’t wake.
There were questions. Big ones. What now? What next? What if? They hovered above the ceiling like stains. He had joined Joseph’s little band of thieves, that was simple. This scene in front of him though, that was a question he had no simple answer to.
But right now, he savored just this: two young men, half-dressed in sunlight and hangover, buried under a blanket in a quiet Quezon neighborhood, one of them tracing the other like he was reading Braille for the first time.
Pol didn’t know what he wanted.
But this?
This felt right.
And sometimes, that’s the only compass you get.
* * * * *
The apartment was too large for one person, and maybe that’s why it felt like it had secrets soaked into the grout. It belonged to Celine’s aunt, who had fled to Canada or the US or somewhere equally foreign, and left behind her furniture like memories she didn’t want to carry. Every lampshade in the apartment had a faint yellow tinge, as if everything here had been caught mid-exhale for a decade.
They were huddled in the living room like fugitives of time.
Pol had been here before, on lighter nights, movie nights, karaoke nights, when everything was laughter and banana chips and someone’s playlist on loop. Back then, the place had felt warm. Now, it was a war room in disguise. And he was suddenly unsure if he’d ever truly been invited before.
He sat directly across from Joseph.
Joseph had patted the cushion beside him, that half-smile on his face, casual, habitual, like nothing had happened the night before, like their limbs hadn’t touched under an unfamiliar blanket. Pol had paused. Then sat across instead. He didn’t know why. Or maybe he did.
The seat next to Joseph was too loud.
Banjo dropped an oversized iPad on the table like it was a tarot card. Its glowing screen filled the room with blueprints, a digital geometry of wealth and glass. Lines crisscrossed in architectural certainty. Montejo Heights. Fifty-six floors. Makati. All glass, all promise.
Montejo.
The name cracked against Pol’s ribs.
The image appeared uninvited: a young man in fancy slacks and soft leather shoes, hair too neat for the mess he caused. The community hall in Tondo had smelled like disinfectant and disbelief. That young executive had spoken about fairness as if it could be printed on glossy paper and handed out.
Pol didn’t know if what they were doing now was fair.
He didn’t know a lot of things lately.
But he knew the Montejo name. Knew what it sounded like when screamed across alleys by mothers holding children and eviction letters.
Across the table, Joseph’s hands were folded neatly. Too neatly.
Pol stared at the floor instead.
Banjo’s voice, thick with excitement, filled the room.
"Nakajackpot tayo, mga pre."
(We hit the jackpot, guys.)
Jackpot. The word sounded wrong. Like it belonged in a commercial for a resort where no one who looked like them could afford to stay.
"Bakit jackpot?” Pol asked.|
(Why is it a jackpot?)
Tonette lit a cigarette. She always looked like she was about to disappear into smoke.
"Ang hirap tirahin ng condo. Iba ang layout, mahigpit ang seguridad. Dalawang beses pa lang kami nakalusot sa ganitong setup.” She said, exhaling a puff od smoke.
(Condos are hard to hit. Different layout, tight security. We’ve only pulled off two hits in this kind of setup.)
Pol nodded slowly, though he wasn’t sure if it was agreement or just motion.
The floor plan on the screen blurred slightly, like watercolors left out in the rain.
He didn’t understand how the others could speak so clearly in a room where silence was louder than any siren.
Banjo explained further, quietly, almost like sharing a secret he wasn’t supposed to know. A unit in the building had hired a contractor, a friend apparently, to do renovations. That was their way in. No fake identities, no need to sneak through fire exits. Just legal paperwork and the sound of hammering that no one questioned.
“Nasa loob na sila,” Banjo said. “Bilang mga trabahador. Renovation lang kuno. Halos isang buwan na silang nagpapakita ro’n.”
(“They’re already inside. As workers. Supposedly just renovations. They’ve been showing up there for almost a month.”)
He glanced at Joseph, who simply gave a slow nod.
“Kung gagalaw tayo, ngayon na. Hindi agad sila madadawit. Natural lang ang kilos nila sa mata ng guard.”
(“If we’re going to move, now’s the time. They won’t be immediately implicated. Their movements look normal to security.”)
Joseph tilted his head slightly, lips pressing together in thought. His voice was low, but firm.
“Sino ang mga target?”
(“Who are the targets?”)
Banjo didn’t even pause. He already knew who stood out.
“Pinaka-lantad si Javier Montejo. CEO ng Montejo Holdings. Nakatira sa 53rd floor.”
(“Most obvious is Javier Montejo. CEO of Montejo Holdings. Lives on the 53rd floor.”)
He pulled out a crumpled sheet of notes from his jacket and tapped the edge of it as he spoke.
“May corporate retreat sila ngayong weekend. Pinauwi niya yung karamihan ng staff. Skeletal lang ang matitira sa unit.”
(“They’ve got a corporate retreat this weekend. He sent most of his staff home. Only a skeleton crew will be left.”)
Joseph’s eyes drifted upward, mentally counting.
“Fifty-six floors to, diba? Sino ang nasa taas?”
(“This place has 56 floors, right? Who’s above him?”)
Banjo scrolled through his phone, the screen casting a cold blue glow across his face. He found the name, and paused.
“Tatlong palapag sa itaas… lahat pagmamay-ari ng isang tao. Marius Zhu.”
(“Three floors above… all owned by one man. Name’s Marius Zhu.”)
A short silence settled over the room. Ricky leaned back in his chair, let out a low whistle, and shook his head in disbelief.
“Putangina. Tatlong floors? Sino yun, hari?”
(“Holy shit. Three whole floors? Who is he, royalty?”)
But Banjo didn’t look impressed. He kept scrolling, brow furrowed.
“Wala masyadong info. Founder lang daw ng ilang startup. Hindi kilalang angkan. At ilang taon pa lang siya sa bansa. Parang multo.”
(“Not much info. Said to be the founder of a few startups. Not from a known clan. And he’s only been in the country a few years. Like a ghost.”)
He looked up, and his voice dropped a note lower.
“Wala tayong dahilan para galawin ’yan. Maingat ang kilos. At kung may ganung kalaking yaman pero walang ingay... delikado ’yon.”
(“We’ve got no reason to mess with someone like that. He moves carefully. And anyone that rich who keeps that quiet... that’s dangerous.”)
Joseph leaned back, gaze still fixed on the invisible blueprint in his mind.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“’Pag malapit lang sa unit ni Javier, hindi ba risky rin?”
(“If it’s close to Javier’s unit, doesn’t that make it risky too?”)
Banjo kept his voice low.
“Isang unit, isang palapag,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the imagined blueprints in his head.
(“One unit, one floor.”)
“Noong nag-design sila ng building na ’to, sinigurado nilang hindi magkakabanggaan ang mga residenteng ayaw makakita ng empleyado. Lahat ng galaw ng staff... naka-shadow. Para silang multo.”
(“When they designed this place, they made sure residents would never cross paths with the staff. All staff movement is shadowed. Like ghosts.”)
He tapped the table lightly with his knuckle.
“Magagamit natin yon. Walang makakarinig ng ingay mula sa hallway. Kasi walang hallway. Pag kailangan natin bumaba, may service elevator. Palipat-lipat tayo gamit ang fire stairwell.”
(“We can use that. No one will hear anything from the hallway. Because there is no hallway. When we need to go down, we use the service elevator. Move between floors through the fire stairwell.”)
The air between them was still, heavy with the weight of the opportunity Banjo had just laid out. The plan wasn’t just good, it was elegant, almost poetic in how it turned the arrogance of luxury into a vulnerability.
Joseph nodded slowly. His voice was soft, almost reluctant to disturb the quiet.
“Magandang target,” he murmured.
(“Nice target.”)
He looked around at the others.
“Anong tingin nyo?”
(“What do you all think?”)
Celine didn’t hesitate.
“Ang ganda ng timing. Baka wala na tayong makuhang ganitong pagkakataon ulit.”
(“The timing’s perfect. We might not get another shot like this.”)
Tonette gave a small nod, arms crossed, eyes thoughtful.
“Same ako. Ang linis ng pasok.”
(“I agree. It’s a clean entry.”)
Ricky, leaning back, gave a crooked grin.
“Gusto ko ring silipin kung pwede nating pasukin yung unit ni Marius,” he said with a shrug. “Pero sige. Si Montejo muna.”
(“I’d still like to see if we can get into Marius’s unit too. But alright. Let’s hit Montejo first.”)
Joseph turned to Pol, whose hands had been still on his lap the whole time. His eyes met his, patient but firm.
“Pol?” he asked. “Anong tingin mo?”
(“What do you think?”)
Pol straightened slightly. His voice was hesitant, quiet, the words climbing out of him with effort.
“Kung tutuusin… bago pa lang talaga ako sa ganito. Lahat ng sinabi niyo, ngayon ko lang narinig.”
(“Honestly… I’m still new to all this. Everything you’ve said, this is the first time I’ve heard it.”)
He swallowed and looked around the room, the walls pressing in like old eyes.
“Pero sasabay ako. Kayo naman ang may alam.”
(“But I’ll go with you. You all know what you’re doing.”)
Joseph smiled, almost kindly. His voice softened with understanding.
“Ayos lang. Matututo ka habang pinaplano natin ’to. Tsaka habang ginagawa.”
(“That’s alright. You’ll learn as we plan, and when we pull it off.")
He stretched, stood, and looked toward the corner of the room where sunlight filtered weakly through a dusty window.
“Break muna tayo,” he said. “Mamaya na ’yung details ng roles.”
(“Let’s take a break. We’ll get into the roles later.”)
Then he turned to Pol, his voice just a bit quieter, more deliberate.
“Pwede ka bang makausap sa labas?”
(“Can I talk to you outside?”)
Pol felt something seize in his chest. Not fear exactly, not yet, but the kind of unease that comes before an answer you’re not sure you’re ready to give.
He stood, nodded.
But in his mind: last night hadn’t left him. Not fully. Not yet. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to talk about it.
Joseph leaned back on the wall of the corridor, where the tiles met a small patch of sunlight, dim, indirect, like light remembered instead of lived. The walls still smelled faintly of old paint and dust.
He turned to Pol, voice quiet but steady.
“Ano sa tingin mo?”
(“What do you think?”)
Pol paused, eyes flicking toward the floor. His hands were in his pockets. The edge of his thumbnail rubbed against the seam of the denim. The question felt too large for his chest.
“Hindi ko pa talaga alam,” he said, the words falling out in a half-exhale.
(“I honestly don’t know yet.”)
His voice was gentle, uncertain, not quite apologetic.
“Alam kong bawal to. Illegal. Pero… yung gamit, ibebenta tapos ibabalik sa mga tao. Yun ang sabi n’yo, di ba?”
(“I know it’s wrong. Illegal. But… the stuff, you said it’ll be sold and returned to the people, right?”)
He looked up, eyes searching Joseph’s face.
“Hindi ko pa alam kung tama ba yon o mali. Kasi hindi ko pa rin alam kung ano ang itsura ng mundo.”
(“I still don’t know if that’s right or wrong. I don’t really know what the world looks like yet.”)
Joseph gave him a soft smile, not pitying, but understanding, like someone looking at a younger version of himself.
“Ayos lang kung may pagdududa ka,” he said. “Walang sapilitan dito. Kung hindi ka kampante, puwede kang hindi sumama. Walang samaan ng loob.”
(“It’s okay to have doubts. There’s no pressure here. If you’re uncomfortable, you don’t have to join. No hard feelings.”)
Something in Pol released, a soft sigh that didn’t reach his lips. The permission, the lack of demand. It gave him air.
But even before Joseph had spoken, Pol had already made up his mind.
“Hindi. Sasama ako,” he said quietly.
(“No. I’m coming.”)
He looked at Joseph, earnest in the afternoon stillness.
“Wala pa akong alam, pero alam ko… na ikaw ang may alam. Kaya ikaw ang susundan ko.”
(“I don’t know much. But I know you do. So I’ll follow you.”)
Joseph’s smile deepened, eyes warming.
“That’s fantastic,” he said, the words casual, but somehow meaningful in their simplicity.
Then he tilted his head slightly.
“Pero… parang may iniisip ka pa,” he added, tone shifting. “Kanina ka pa umiiwas sakin simula nung nagising tayo.”
(“But… seems like something else is on your mind. You’ve been avoiding me since we woke up.”)
Pol froze.
He felt the heat rise into his cheeks like a match catching skin. He looked away, suddenly all too aware of the space between their shoes, the way the silence pressed on his shoulders.
“Ah…” he mumbled, voice dry. “Kasi… tungkol sa kagabi.”
(“It’s just… about last night.”)
Joseph didn’t interrupt. He waited.
Pol’s words came out slowly, like someone speaking for the first time in a language he hadn’t yet learned.
“Hindi ko alam kung anong nangyari. Hindi ko alam kung ano tayo. Hindi ko alam kung anong gagawin ko pagkatapos. Pero… nung gabing yon, parang tama lang.”
(“I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what we are. I don’t know what to do after. But… that night, it just felt right.”)
Joseph reached out, not dramatically, just gently, and placed a hand on Pol’s shoulder. His palm was warm. Solid.
“Okay lang. Hindi natin kailangang pag-usapan ngayon kung hindi ka pa handa.”
(“It’s alright. We don’t have to talk about it yet if you’re not ready.”)
His voice was calm, even. But the look in his eyes was honest.
“Pero gusto kita, Pol. At nagustuhan ko yung nangyari kagabi.”
(“But I like you, Pol. And I liked what we did last night.”)
The floor beneath Pol seemed to dip slightly, not because he was faint, but because something in him had softened. Something braced had released.
No defenses. No accusations. Just… warmth.
And in that warmth, Pol felt safe.
“Salamat,” he said softly. “Sa pagka-maunawain.”
(“Thank you. For being understanding.”)
They stood there a moment longer, the city murmuring below, the hallway as quiet as the space between two held breaths.
Then Joseph gave him a small nod, and together they walked back into the apartment.
* * * * *
Later that day, Pol found himself hunched over a chipped table at a carinderia whose name he didn’t bother to look at. It was just far enough from the neighborhood that he wouldn’t run into anyone he’d grown close to in the past two months, but near enough that the commute didn’t feel like an escape. A bowl of sinigang steamed in front of him, untouched.
The man who took the seat across from him arrived without ceremony. No dramatic entrance, no sweeping glances, just the unmistakable face of someone who had become familiar in the quiet corners of his new life.
“Pasensiya na, naipit ako kanina.”
(“Sorry I’m late, I got caught up earlier.”)
Francis spoke softly, like he always did when meeting outside official buildings. He looked around once, briefly, then focused his gaze on Pol.
“Kumusta ka ngayong linggo?”
(“How are you this week?”)
His voice had that usual mix of formality and reluctant warmth, like someone who didn’t know if he was a case officer or a friend today.
“Maayos naman,” answered Pol, trying to smile. “Matatapos ko na yung Basic Literacy Program sa susunod na linggo. Nakakaipon na rin ako konti mula sa Livelihood Program.”
(“I’m doing alright. I’ll be finishing the Basic Literacy Program next week. I’ve managed to save a bit from the Livelihood Program.”)
“Magandang balita yan,” said Francis, nodding as he leaned on the chair. “Itutuloy mo pa rin ba yung TESDA training?”
(“That’s good news. Are you still planning to continue with the TESDA training?”)
Pol nodded.
“Opo. Ayoko naman pong umasa palagi sa tulong ng WPP.”
(“Yes. I don’t want to always rely on the WPP’s help.”)
Francis hesitated then. The pause wasn’t long, but it was enough to shift the air between them.
“Tungkol pala diyan,” he said, his finger tapping on the chipped table, “may bago kasing development sa kaso mo.”
(“About that, there’s been a new development in your case.”)
Pol’s eyes narrowed slightly, unsure whether to lean in or lean back.
“Akala ko po patay na si Gino Sanchez? Wala na ba yung panganib?”
(“I thought Gino Sanchez was already dead? Isn’t the danger over?”)
Francis raised a hand, calming.
“Hindi mo na kailangan mag-alala. Wala pa ring direct threat. Pero, dahil lang sa pag-iingat, ipagpapaliban muna yung pag-phase out ng protection mo. May nangyayaring hindi pa malinaw, pero posibleng may kaugnayan kay Gino.”
(“You don’t need to worry. There’s still no direct threat. But just out of caution, the phase-out of your protection has been postponed. There’s something going on that might be connected to Gino.”)
“Anong ibig mong sabihin? Anong nangyayari?” Pol asked, trying to hide his worry from his tone.
(“What do you mean? What’s happening?”)
“Sa totoo lang, hindi ko rin alam ang detalye. Ang alam ko lang, may active investigation ang NBI. Ang resulta lang ay ikaw pa rin si Leopoldo Sanchez, at tuloy pa rin ang full support sayo, stipend, livelihood, lahat.”
(“To be honest, I don’t know the details either. All I know is that the NBI has an active investigation. The result is that you’re still Leopoldo Sanchez, and you’ll continue receiving full support, stipend, livelihood, everything.”)
Pol stared at his bowl, where the steam had already faded into nothing. His voice was low when he finally spoke.
“Kinakabahan ako, Kuya Francis. Hindi dahil sa akin, pero sa mga kaibigan ko. Paano kung sila ang puntiryahin? Parang sa Tondo noon.”
(“I feel uneasy, Kuya Francis. Not for myself, but for my friends. What if they become the target? Like what happened in Tondo.”)
Francis was silent. He just nodded, heavily, like someone who was also uncomfortable with his own answer.
“Salamat po sa tulong niyo sa akin,” Pol added. “Pero hindi ko gusto yung pakiramdam na may panganib pero hindi ko alam kung ano. Pakiusap, tanungin niyo naman sila. Baka may mas konkretong sagot.”
(“Thank you for everything you’ve done. But I don’t like the feeling of being in danger and not knowing what it is. Please, ask around. Maybe there’s a more concrete answer.”)
Francis sighed. From his words, you could feel a sense of fatigue.
“Sige, Pol. Susubukan ko.”
(“Alright, Pol. I’ll try.”)
And for a long moment, neither of them said a word. Outside, a tricycle backfired. Someone laughed across the street. The world went on, but Pol couldn’t tell if he was still in it, still safe in this name that wasn’t his, in this life he was only just beginning to believe could be real.
- * * * *
Later that night, Pol was hunched over his Literacy Program homework, but nothing would stick. The words blurred. His mind kept drifting back to what Francis said. The life he had been building, slowly, steadily, with his own hands, now felt like it was balancing on the edge of a blade.
Joseph’s face drifted into his thoughts.
The idea of losing Joseph terrified him more than he expected. It was a fear that took root in his chest, growing with every second he tried to push it away. Eventually, he gave up on the homework. Slipping on his slippers, he stepped out of the apartment and made his way to the workshop.
Joseph’s place above the talyer was dimly lit. When Pol knocked, there was a pause. Then the door opened, and Joseph appeared, already dressed down for the night, shirt loose, hair still damp from a shower. He raised a brow in mild surprise, but smiled all the same.
“Uy,” Joseph said, stepping aside. “May tanong ka ba sa plano?”
(“Hey. Do you have questions about the plan?”)
Pol shook his head as he entered.
“Wala.”
(“None.”)
Joseph looked at him curiously. Pol stood still for a moment, glancing around the familiar room, heart pounding for a reason he couldn’t name. Then, quietly, he spoke.
“Iniisip ko lang buong araw. Hindi ko pa rin alam kung ano talaga ’tong nararamdaman ko para sa ’yo…”
(“I’ve been thinking all day. I still don’t know exactly what I feel for you…”)
He stepped closer.
“…pero ang sigurado ako, gusto rin kita.”
(“…but what I do know is, I like you too.”)
Then he leaned in. Joseph didn’t flinch, didn’t pull back. He met Pol halfway, lips parting naturally, like the kiss had been waiting between them all day. It wasn’t like last night, rushed, half-drunk, and uncertain. This time, there was no hesitation.
They fumbled through the room, Pol’s hand in Joseph’s hair, Joseph’s fingers tracing the hem of Pol’s shirt. They stumbled toward the bed, collapsing onto it with quiet laughter. Pol pulled away for a moment, looking Joseph in the eyes.
“Gusto ko lang malaman mo,” he said, breathing a little heavily, “na wala na akong ibang gusto kundi makasama ka. Ikaw ’yung nagpapakalma sa akin. Kahit nandiyan ka lang sa kwarto, parang kaya ko nang huminga.”
(“I just want you to know, I don’t want anything else but to be with you. You make me feel safe. Just being in the same room as you, I feel like I can finally breathe.”)
Joseph smiled, warm and quiet, brushing Pol’s cheek with his knuckles.
“’Di mo na kailangang sabihin. Naiintindihan ko.”
(“You don’t even have to say it. I understand.”)
They kissed again, slower this time, more certain. Their clothes were shed without urgency. Skin pressed against skin. Joseph paused, leaning close to Pol’s ear.
“’Nagawa mo na ba ’to dati?”
(“Have you ever done this before?”)
Pol shook his head. “Kagabi lang.”
(Just last night.)
Joseph chuckled, low and gentle. “’Yung kagabi… laro lang yun.”
(“Last night… that was just fooling around.”)
He leaned down, lips brushing Pol’s collarbone.
“Ngayon, tuturuan kita kung paano talaga to ginagawa.”
(Now, I’ll teach you how it’s really done.)
They lay entangled in the quiet warmth of the room, Joseph now beneath Pol, his legs shifting slightly to let Pol settle into him. There was no rush between them now, no blur of uncertain touches. Joseph guided with a steady gaze, his voice low and reassuring.
“Diyan,” he whispered, one hand gently pressing against Pol’s hip.
(“There.”)
He nodded, coaxing Pol to come closer. They kissed, slowly, deeply, as Joseph’s fingers moved on Pol’s appendage with a quiet rhythm, careful and deliberate, helping Pol stay steady, easing the tension between anticipation and inexperience.
“Relax ka lang,” he murmured between breaths.
(“Just relax.”)
Pol’s heart raced. He had imagined this before, in vague outlines, in stories from Toto about his fling with girls, but the reality was something else entirely, real and dizzying and overwhelming in its closeness. Every touch seemed louder than the last. Every breath, shared.
Joseph looked up at him, eyes dark and open.
“Handa ka na,” he said softly.
(You’re ready now.)
And Pol believed him.
He moved as Joseph instructed, each shift of his weight met with a quiet gasp, a guiding hand, a murmured encouragement. Joseph spread his legs wider, his hands helping aim Pol’s appendage. He tells Pol to push. The pressure and warmth the moment it entered stole the air from his lungs. Pol held onto Joseph’s gaze, his lips parting without words.
“Ganyan,” Joseph breathed, fingers curled around the back of Pol’s neck. “Ang galing mo.”
(“Just like that. You’re doing so well.”)
Pol moved again, and again, feeling his way forward, each motion carrying more confidence than the last. Joseph met him every time, breath hitching, body rising to match.
“Ulitin mo,” Joseph whispered, a smile on his lips.
(“Do it again.”)
And Pol did. His body moved on instinct now, guided more by Joseph’s warmth than any thought. Their lips found each other once more, messy, breathless, sincere. Joseph’s praise came between kisses, gentle and proud.
“You’re doing perfect.”
The rest of the world melted away. All that remained was the soft creak of the bed, the heat of their skin, and the quiet, wordless awe between them, as if they'd discovered something sacred.
By the time the night slipped past them, neither wanted to let go.