At first, Julian can't believe what he's heard, his jaw hanging with surprise. Then, without a follow-up clarification from Joaquin, his whole face slowly reddens, his hands fiddling with his shirt sleeves as if it might help him regain his balance.

"Aha... Ahahaha..." His fake laughter sputters like a faulty engine, a failed venture to mask his mental disarray, exacerbating the tension.

Joaquin flinches, looking away. What the hell? Saying yes was supposed to defuse things, but he's made it into a full-blown disaster. He's never felt this trapped in his own words. How is he going to dig himself out of this mess?

"Uh, I... I was just joking," Joaquin speaks, releasing a peal of laughter that dies too quickly. "I mean, there's no other meaning, is there?"

Julian gulps, his throat suddenly dry. "N-No. I was... saying thanks. Kinda overdid it."

"Exactly. Just gratitude. So, uh, no other meaning."

An oppressive hush descends, making them both feel more on edge. Julian toys with the strap of the canvas bag while Joaquin repeatedly taps a restless beat on the steering wheel.

"Do... Do you want to go back?" Joaquin asks tentatively, breaking the silence. "They might be wondering where the birthday boy is."

Julian's nod is a bit too enthusiastic. "Yup! For sure. Let's, uh, head back," he agrees, bolting out of the car.

Joaquin trails after him, ensuring a safe distance between them. He brushes his knuckle over the spot on his cheek where Julian's lips had grazed. The same intense fluttery feeling spreads in his chest, sinking lower to his stomach.

Shit. Is he... Is he actually developing feelings for Julian? Like actual romantic feelings? Or maybe... just sexual attraction?

How could this happen? Isn't he... straight?

And again, with Julian, of all people?

Joaquin spends the rest of the night in a daze, half-lost in his thoughts as he watches Julian mingle with the other guests without sparing a glance in his direction. As the celebrant, he has the perfect excuse, though Joaquin can't shake off the feeling that he's also unsettled, flitting from one conversation to another like a butterfly refusing to stay in one flower.

Julian's now forcing himself to talk to everyone else but him. Just after he'd confessed his social battery was already at zero.

It was just a peck. Didn't even last a second. And he said he was just thankful.

Feeling a bit suffocated and baffled, Joaquin retreats to the front porch for some air. He sits down, stretches his legs, and lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Joaquin, Joaquin, my man... Why are you out here?" Alexander asks as he drops beside him, setting a bottle and a shot glass between them.

"It's too hot in there."

"You look stressed. You good? Need a drink?"

"Sure," he replies, holding his hand out. Alexander pours him a shot of tequila, the rim dusted with salt, and he downs it, barely wincing as the burn hits.

"No lime?" Alexander waves a slice at him.

He returns the glass, shaking his head as his gaze settles somewhere in the distance.

"So, uh, about Julian..." Alexander prompts, his tone careful. "You're aware... right?"

Joaquin nods. "Yes, I know."

"Are we... good?"

"Mm," he answers, eyes fixed on the street. "I'm not involved. It's between you and him."

Alexander sighs, filling the glass, taking a shot, then biting down on a lime. "Okay. Just wanted to clear the air."

"I don't know how your conversation panned out, but I appreciate you for not playing it safe."

"Honestly, I was half expecting you to come and beat me up."

Joaquin lifts an eyebrow, pushing his glasses back into place. "Why'd you think that?"

Alexander chuckles under his breath.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Just didn't think you'd ask something with such an obvious answer," he retorts, leaning back and throwing him a pointed look. "You're quite protective of him, y'know. Maybe you don't notice, but I do."

Joaquin clenches his jaw. "I'm older than him. And he's still kinda new to university life. Still figuring things out here."

"So you're looking out for him like a good friend, huh? After all this time?"

Joaquin squishes his eyebrows. "What're you trying to get at? You're getting on my nerves."

Alexander roars into another laughter.

"Alex, you better knock it off," he warns. "You've had enough to drink."

"Guess so." Alexander rolls his shoulders in a lazy shrug. "I'm just glad you ain't ditching me."

"Why would I ditch you? I'd rather take a swing at you than do that," Joaquin replies dryly.

He and Alexander may not meet eye-to-eye about several trivial things, but Joaquin recognizes a true friend when he sees one. From street kid to trust fund, Alexander helped him adjust to the world he once thought was unreachable. And it was unreal. Too unreal to take in that it warranted therapy.

And through it all, he was there. He didn't know the full story, but he was there where it counts.

"Just do him a favor; keep your hands to yourself. And don't pay too much attention to him. He'd misunderstand."

"Fine, fine. In my defense, I didn't know he was into men. And even if he was, I didn't think he'd develop feelings for me. I was really just curious about you two. And I liked seeing you show some emotions for once," he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "But maybe you should take your own advice."

"Take my own advice? What's that supposed to mean?"

Alexander smirks knowingly. "You said it yourself—he'd misunderstand."

******

Around midnight, the guests begin to filter out one by one, and by 2 AM, the house is finally empty—everyone's gone home except Joaquin. Worn out but fully sober, he stays back despite Julian's insistence that he head home.

"Seriously, go home. I can handle this by myself," Julian mutters, dark circles under his eyes, his hair an untamed mess.

"I doubt it. Look at this place," Joaquin says, surveying the chaos. Red cups, wrappers, used paper plates, and utensils cover the floor. A mix of stale booze and sweat hangs in the air. Lina would go ballistic. "Look, I'll help you with the trash at least, alright?"

Drained, Julian relents, "Fine. Help yourself." He goes to the kitchen, leaving Joaquin in charge of the living room.

Julian sorts through the leftovers, throwing away those that appear unsafe and transferring the salvageable into Tupperware. He dumps the used disposable containers into a trash bag and wipes down the counters.

A low melody starts to play in the living room. Wondering what Joaquin's up to, Julian pokes his head out, spotting him, broom in hand, diligently sweeping the floor.

Julian lets a small smile slip before sighing and returning to the kitchen to resume the task.

He doesn't understand what's going on with him; it's like there has been a switch in his brain, and the kid from years ago has dissolved, pushed down. And all can see is Joaquin's version today: the 23-year-old one, with defined edges on his face and his torso, carrying an air of confidence and authority.

A pang of guilt hits Julian—for making things weird and for running away. Why did he do that? And why did Joaquin give him some kind of retroactive consent that permits him to do it again?

Ah. Perhaps it doesn't matter to Joaquin. He's had his share of relationships, and a kiss on the cheek is nothing. It's not even first base! More like base 0.5.

Besides, he's a straight guy. What would a kiss from a guy mean to him? He's simply open-minded, the kind of friend who accepts Julian for who he is. It's the reason why he isn't disgusted.

Still, Julian can't help but cringe. He shuts his eyes and lightly bumps his head on the island, grunting, "Stupid, stupid, stupid—"

"Hey, you okay?"

Julian raises his gaze, cheeks warming. "Y-Yep! Just tired... Did you finish up?"

"I've managed to collect the visible ones. You might want to vacuum and mop the floor. It's still kinda sticky."

"Yeah. I'd do that in the morning before Mama and Tito Randy get back," Julian mutters.

Joaquin scans the kitchen. "You've done a pretty solid job here. Booze all cleared out?" he asks as he walks to the sink to wash his hands.

Julian motions to the side to give him more room. "Yeah. Next time, it's just gonna be a board game night."

"You're only in your first year. You've got three more years ahead of you."

"No way," Julian retorts, releasing a loud yawn. "I'm not built for this... I'm so sleepy..."

Drying his hands on the towel, Joaquin says, "Then go to bed."

"How about you? Do you think you're okay to drive?"

"Yeah. I'm good," Joaquin replies. "I sobered up."

"You could crash in my room," Julian offers, yawning once more.

He's too exhausted to realize the gravity of his offer. As if the two of them hadn't been rattled hours ago.

Joaquin swallows, tempted, but also wary that they will flirt with danger. They're both tired, and maybe they'd just fall asleep together, similar to when they were younger.

Yet, Joaquin's not naive to confuse now and then. Something's shifted in him—and between them.

Joaquin needs to control himself, can't let his urges win. It's not right. What would people say? Well, screw them. What would Tita Lina say?

His father?

A sudden icy chill sweeps over Joaquin, cold sweat dampening his temples. He begins to wheeze for air. A familiar, terrifying feeling he hasn't experienced in years is creeping back.

At the same time, Julian shuts his eyes, his body sinking against the kitchen cupboard.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Joaquin recollects the breathing exercises his therapist had taught him years ago.

You're fine. You're safe.

He focuses, inhaling deeply. Quickly. Before Julian catches on.

You're with a friend. Nothing to worry about.

He cracks an eye open and groggily calls out, "Joaquin?"

In a rush, Joaquin grabs Julian's shoulders and twirls him around. "It's fine!"

"W-What—"

"I'll... take you upstairs, then I'll... I'll be on my way."

"You sure about that?"

"Yes," he breathes out, his heart rate slowing. He guides Julian up the stairs and into his room. He holds the door open with one hand, staring at Julian's half-awake state. "Good night."

"T-Thank you, Joaquin," Julian murmurs, voice raspy, his body shutting down.

"You're, uh, welcome," he replies, letting him go. "Sleep tight."