Chapter Text

chapter one – The Shepherd

At twenty-five, most young adults were expected to start having steadier jobs or be adjusting to new ones. At twenty-five, most young adults would be looking for places to live alone or looking for ways to help pay the bills. At twenty-five, most young adults would be wondering what life would have to offer them.

But Ken Suson, Jr. was not most young adults. Ken was also twenty-five, and yet he was already Chief Operations Officer of the largest hotels group in Southeast Asia. Ken had a Masters Degree in Accounting on his belt, an ongoing PhD in Finance, and still had time to manage their company’s Foundation. Most of all, Ken was an exotically pretty face, a laurel he did not mind flaunting in events at all.

Meeting Ken, people either questioned or lauded his achievements. It was not everyday that a man his age would have achieved so much. Some of his father’s business associates often call him a miracle. ‘Such a splendid young man,’ they would say. ‘What a worthy successor.’ And then, they would aim to get on his good side or into his pants.

Ken had gotten used to maneuvering these kinds of ill-intentioned people. He has had two or three heartbreaks from trusting them too easily, and he learned. For instance, all those years of going to lavish corporate events taught him to speak little and listen more. It taught him to be watchful of who was being genuine or sly, who was just trying to talk, and who was sincerely interested in having a good time.

From the crowd, amid a group of couture-clad people whose names he cannot remember, Ken listened. He bowed his head to lend the guests his ear. All the while, his eyes darted around from signal to signal, observing. It was just a party, but his father also sent him to represent their label. His duty was to make as many connections as possible, and Ken liked to believe he was doing a splendid job. He had talked to just about everyone in the large hall.

Everyone, except for that man.

Ken was talking to the Vice President of M Fashion Incorporated when he caught sight of him. A lone man in all white stood apart from the crowd, trying to be inconspicuous and failing.

The quiet man stood out without even trying. He was more alluring than half the people at the party, and everyone who passed him by turned their heads. Ken was no exception. As soon as he laid eyes on the man, all he could think about was how to approach him.

My, my, what a find.

“Maius,” Ken whispered to the man sharing a table with him. “Do you know that person standing over there? Near the corner window?”

Maius Tiu, Ken’s close friend and business associate, followed Ken’s gaze to the man in question. A chuckle left his thin lips.

“Ah… JC Santos,” Maius replied, shaking his handsome head. “He’s a writer. Big bookworm. You must have read his work before? He goes by ‘Cullen Santos’ in his writings?”

“I have. Prolific writer. I didn’t think he would be so young,” Ken replied, eyes never leaving Cullen Santos even as Ken drank from his wineglass. “Do you know him personally?”

Maius gave Ken a suspecting smirk. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I’m only asking, Maius.”

“And then, you’re going to saunter your way toward him. Forget it, Ken.”

“So, I take it you have a history?”

“Briefly.”

“When?”

“Remember that time I got wasted in Singapore?”

“Oh… That was him?”

“The one and only.”

“Interesting.”

Maius sighed. “Ken, I know you. I know how you do things. Let me tell you, JC is not going to throw himself at your feet just because you charm him a little bit.”

“Are you saying this because you want to approach him, too?” Ken asked, setting his wineglass down.

“Unlike you, brother, I know when I’m not wanted.”

“Good,” he replied curtly. “If you’ll excuse me, Maius. I think I’ll go see if he wants company.”

Maius just chuckled, downing the glass of wine in his hand. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

When Ken approached JC Santos, the first thing he noticed was how beautiful the rosy tinge on his cheeks was. The man was pale, and his milky skin almost matched the color of his pristine white suit. The only color he wore on him besides his faint blush was the black turtleneck underneath his coat. The rest of him was as pristine as the first day of snow.

What enigmatic grace, Ken thought. A few honest compliments strung themselves together in his head.

JC Santos squinted his eyes when he noticed Ken approaching. His body language shifted, and he became guarded.

Grabbing a glass of wine from the waiter who walked by, Ken stood next to the writer before saying, “‘Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove’…”

The writer did not move, did not gift Ken with a glance. He might as well have been a statue who smelled faintly of vanilla.

But Ken was relentless. When the writer’s glossy lips tugged upward a little, he continued.

“‘The shepherds’ swains shall dance and sing for thy delight each May morning. If these delights thy mind may move, then live with me and be my love,’” Ken recited with near-perfect prosing. “Christopher Marlowe, The Passionate Shepherd to His Love.”

At that, JC Santos moved. He tilted his head towards Ken, still not looking in his direction and giving him the same regard as he would an interesting insect.

“Hm…” he hummed. Ken thought his voice sounded like a siren’s song. “Sir Walter Raleigh, 1600, The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd: ‘All these in me no means can move to come to thee and be thy love.’”

The response pulled Ken’s lips into an amused grin.

So handsome, so alluring, and so easy to reject.

It was these kinds of challenges that excited Ken even more.

“You are well-versed in literature,” praised Ken.

“I read a lot.” JC Santos’ tone was flat and dismissive.

“I hear you write a lot, too,” Ken pushed. “I’ve read some of your works, Mr. Writer. I particularly like your first International release. ‘Courting Death’, was it?”

Josh only hummed, then crossed his arms over his chest.

“Ah, where are my manners? I’m—”

“The COO and inheritor of FJS Holdings International, future CEO, am I correct?”

Ken was impressed. “My reputation precedes me.”

JC Santos scoffed. “Well, your flings like to talk.”

“My, I didn’t think scorn could sound so melodic coming from your lips.” The writer did not reply, nor did he bat an eyelash. But the way his lip twitched as he tried to bite back a smile was obvious to Ken.

How long has it been since he found someone as interesting as Mr. Writer?

Ken continued, “I beg your pardon, but I must say… Has anyone told you you look stunning in yellow light?”

The writer sighed, as if he had heard such a boring and trivial thing. “As a matter of fact, someone has. And I don’t talk to them anymore.”

Ken gasped. Then, he put his free hand over his chest and clutched it tight. “Ah, such a cruel yet smooth way of rejecting me. My heart is bleeding a little.”

“It’s not my responsibility to put you back together.”

“Agreed. And yet, here I am, trying to comfort you from your unease with crowds.”

For the first time, the writer showed a reaction. He looked up at Ken, big, brown doe eyes going wide. Mr. Writer must have thought he was doing a good job concealing his distress.

Ken only gave him a sultry gaze and smirked.

“I have keen eyes for people’s moods.”

If Ken were asked what his special talent was, he would say it was making people let their guard down. He knew when to push their buttons or pull their strings. He was also excellent at knowing how to flirt with which kinds of people. It did not take long for Ken to figure that the writer—wary, mistrusting, and guarded—was probably the type to loosen up in more intimate situations, familiar conversations, and enjoyable topics. Topics which, Ken assumed, were not far from his bailiwick.

As the young COO catalogued all the stories about books and literature he had in his head, Ken ran the numbers in his head. By his estimation, around three hours of conversation would suffice.

Then, Mr. Writer would be going home with him by the end of the night.

He reached over, attempting to brush the man’s silky black hair. When the writer moved away, Ken changed his mind and instead placed his half-full wine glass on the table next to them.

“If you do not wish to talk, at least allow me to take you away from this hall? You seem to be needing fresh air,” Ken offered, already making his move.

“What I need…” JC Santos sighed, “… is more wine.”

“Then, I’ll give you both.” Ken stopped a passing waiter and picked up a sparkling wineglass with a pale pink liquid inside. “A rosé,” he said. “For one who, I’m sure, ‘by any other name would smell as sweet.’”

JC Santos did not look at him but gave a full smile.

Two hours, Ken corrected. And he will be mine.

“And the librarian comes to my table and scolds me loudly about insolent Asian boys. So, I stand up, tower over him—because he was a short man—and I said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid you can’t be loud at the library.’ Then, I turn my heel and walk away, the original copy of that book smuggled under my clothes!”

JC’s eyes crinkled, disappearing into slits, and he laughed aloud as he set his third wineglass down. “Seriously? Haha! The sacrilege!”

Ken took a small sip from his own glass. “And it was the only copy they had, mind you… Yes, college sure was fun.”

“I think if I came across an original text from the 1950s, I won’t hide it in my pants!”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re not me,” Ken replied, eyebrows moving up and down.

“Ugh! You’re so stuck-up…!”

“If I was not, then who would I be, Mr. Writer?”

The two found an isolated balcony two floors up the events hall they left. Ken led JC to the elevator, taking with themselves wineglasses and a bottle of white wine.

In the few hours they had been talking, Ken affirmed that the writer was more than just a handsome face. His beauty, apparently, was nothing in comparison to his wit. JC had a sense of humor that Ken found endearing. He retorted to Ken’s subtle references to poetry with references of his own, and soon they found their common ground dissecting the proses originally phrased by William Shakespeare.

Stories about literature led to talks about college life and library stories. JC became more talkative. Be it the nature of the topic or the wine, Ken could not complain when he seemed to be enjoying himself. Even with the little information JC volunteered, Ken could tell he was a smart man with a strong devotion to the arts and literature.

Although he did not say anything outright, Ken could also assume that JC has had a wild college life. The writer was careful about what he shared, but Ken was smart. He knew what some of JC’s underhanded comments about men meant.

When their laughter died down like they downed their wine, Ken took the chance to lean into the writer’s space.

The man paused.

“You have… a dazzling smile, JC,” he began. “Such a shame you hide it with that grumpy façade of yours.”

JC chuckled, batting his eyelids in a way that only excited Ken. “Ah, flattery. I guess this is how you London boys do it, huh?”

“And what’s wrong with flattery? If it’s told only in honesty?” Ken slid his arm over to Josh’s side of the table they were using, essentially cornering him in a one-armed hug.

“Uh-huh. And you’ve told this lie to how many men and women, COO?”

“Only those for whom it’s true, I assure you. You… your beauty makes my heart ache, Mr. Writer.”

JC did not move when Ken reached up to touch his cheek. Instead, he returned Ken’s heated stare as the man leaned down, their alcohol-stained breaths colliding in a hot swirl between their lips.

But just when Ken thought he had consented, the writer turned away.

“I… no,” JC whispered, their foreheads touching.

“I apologize. Did I misread?”

“No, don’t apologize,” the writer replied. “I was just… not in my right mind.”

And yet, you are letting me touch you so intimately, Ken thought to himself. He did not let the writer’s waist go and pressed even closer to him.

“Do you not like me?”

JC blinked. It was almost as if the question sent a bolt of electricity through his body, and he pushed Ken away.

“Sorry. Not like this,” he said.

“I was so sure you wanted it.”

“Then, you were wrong. I… don’t.”

Ken smirked. He did not let go of the writer’s cheek, even brushing his thumb over the pale cheekbone. “Feeling shy, darling? Surely, you’ve done the deed before?”

At that, Josh held Ken’s wrist and set it aside with as much grace as a practiced dancer. He pushed Ken even further and took a small step back.

“Your euphemisms are cute. But I don’t do one-night stands…”

“Oh? But it’s just sex. I don’t see anything wrong with two people just having a good time. It’s how people get to know each other.”

In the dim light from the lamps surrounding the balcony, Ken could see the beautiful sad smile he had on his face.

“That’s not ‘getting to know each other’, COO. It’s just sex.”

“It’s the same to me.”

“Well, not to me… Not anymore.”

“I see. Are you the romantic type?”

“I’m… the abstaining type.”

“You are missing out, lovely.”

The writer heaved a sigh. Then, JC looked up at him with a resigned smile.

“One day, COO, you will find someone who will make you look at only them. Someone who makes other beautiful people pale in comparison.”

Ken only laughed.

“Ah, I see. You truly are a writer.”

“What do you mean?”

“You live in a fantasy. In reality, there is no such thing as true love; not in our circles.” Ken flicked his wrist for emphasis. “The world does not turn a little slower when meeting an attractive person, Mr. Writer. No matter how much you wax poetic, we sleep with people we find interesting. It’s fun that way. And I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

Ken took a step toward him again, and that time, JC held out his hand to his chest.

“Hm…” he hummed, giving Ken a small caress before pushing him backward slightly. “We’re alike, you and I.”

“In what way?”

“You and I… we’re both running,” he explained. “I run from my dark clouds, and you… You run… from your loneliness.”

JC’s gaze was piercing. He had the look of a man who had seen a lot of darkness and sadness. He had a look of knowing that made Ken shiver, made him feel naked and vulnerable.

For the first time, someone addressed the lonely man hiding behind Ken’s exuberant façade.

The writer impressed him even more.

“What a perceptive man…” Ken smiled, but he knew it was a sad one.

“One lonely person will recognize another,” JC replied. “I don’t think our gaps will fill each other’s emptiness.”

“So, you’re waiting for that person, then? This fictional character who will make your world stop turning and play music in the background as you stare at them eye-to-eye?”

JC’s smirk widened, but he seemed to find Ken’s statement funny. “I’m afraid someone like me will find no such thing,” he said. “I’ve given up on that.”

“You are too uptight, Mr. Writer… Someone needs to show you how to have a little fun!”

A scoff. “I’m allergic to fun.”

“Let me cure that for you.”

“Once again, COO. I’m telling you I’m not looking for a fuck buddy,” came the firm and final response from the writer. He heaved a tired sigh, as if he were talking to a toddler who had asked one time too many.

Please, Ken almost said.

Why he did, he did not know. He just found the warmth of the cold-hearted man comfortable; it was almost ironic.

JC took another breath. He fixed the white coat over his shoulder before addressing Ken again.

“I should go. Thanks for the chat. I really did enjoy it.” Then, he turned his back.

Ken could not find it in himself to reply, let alone stop the man who began to walk away.

A slight pain squeezed the COO’s chest.

Who was this man? How many stories has he yet to tell? Ken thought he had met all sorts of interesting people in his life, but only a few had a depth such as the writer walking away from him. It was a depth that only years of suffering and surviving could have dug; a depth that Ken himself was not yet able to achieve.

Something began to unravel inside Ken, like a bud sprouting. He felt as if he were on the verge of an epiphany.

Before he could stop himself, Ken called out.

“If…” he mumbled, his confidence crumbling for the first time in years.

JC paused but did not say anything.

“If I said… that I wish to know you more. Not as a… fuck buddy, but as a person… As a friend. Will you… see me again?”

Slowly, JC looked over his shoulder. Then he smiled, his cold eyes warming a little. Ken thought that was the most beautiful he had looked the entire night.

“A friend, huh…” he repeated. He bit his lower lip before looking back up at Ken. “I think I’d be okay with that…”

Warmth hugged the inside of Ken’s chest.

“Then, I’ll be in touch,” he told him.

“Wait, did I give you my number?” JC asked.

Ken shook his head.

“If I find it by myself tonight, then I’ll think we are meant to be.”

JC chuckled, and it was a precious gift that was better than many things Ken had experienced the entire day.

“Part of me wants you to find it,” he said. “Another part of me just doesn’t care.”

Ken stayed for a few more minutes to think about their conversation. Even as the writer’s muted footsteps left, his words and his wisdom stayed. People did say that twenty-five was a crucial time in a young adult’s life. Whether they were correct or not, after meeting the writer, Ken thought he could see why.

The COO ambled back to the hall. It was still fairly full of people, although Ken could care less about them. There was only one person he wanted to see, and he hoped the man would be okay giving away JC Santos’ number.

But when Ken went back to their table, Maius had already left. The only person from whom Ken could obtain his goal was nowhere to be seen.

Ken could only chuckle at destiny’s joke.

In the end, he did not find the writer’s number. And although it was his loss, Ken could not help but think it was how things were meant to be.

Destiny’s second joke happened a few weeks later. Ken met the alluring writer again at a publishing company’s luncheon meeting in one of Ken’s hotels.

As soon as their eyes met, they both had a humored look in them. It was no longer fiery and passionate, but sober and accepting. Like waking up at the end of summer or saying goodbye to a puppy love.

JC approached Ken that time, holding out a business card with his personal digits written at the back. They resumed their conversation about poetry, literature, and even about cars and wine.

The writer still looked like someone straight out of a painting. Even the loneliness in his eyes was surreal. Ken would admit he still found the man attractive; from the way the writer moved, Ken could tell the feeling was mutual.

However, neither of them felt the need to romance the other. For someone who was perpetually pursuing a warm body to bed, Ken found his companionship with JC stronger than his need for gratification. JC was right for him, but he was not for him.

It would take Ken years to realize why, but on the day he did, he could only laugh.

“I’m seeing someone,” came JC’s sudden statement. Ken, who was only half-listening to the call, had to pause from walking to listen.

“Wait, all of a sudden?!” he said aloud over the phone.

A few of the workers at the site he was at looked at Ken, but the CEO could not be bothered. His good friend for over five years, his sounding board, his wine-drinking buddy, and his celibate of a friend was dating someone? Only a few months ago, JC was still pining over that fling he had in his vacation. Just yesterday, when Ken met him at his book signing, JC was still single. And now, a day later, he is already involved with someone? JC was a tough nut to crack. For someone to have seduced him, it was either a miracle or JC was being swindled.

Ken Suson, Jr. was known for many things; overprotective was one of them. Whoever this fool was who dared take advantage of his friend, Ken would destroy them.

“Your silence right now is kind of scary, dumdum.”

“As I should be! JC, are you sure about this person?”

“Well… Yes… I think I am.”

“What do they do for a living? What degree did they finish? Are they insured?”

“Geez! Are you my mom?”

“I’m your father. Now, out with it. Have I met this person?”

“No…” Just from the tone of his voice, Ken knew JC was blushing. “But you know him. I’ve… talked to you about him.”

There was a unique fondness in JC’s voice Ken could hear. Ken was familiar with it. JC only used it when talking about one specific person.

Right then, Ken connected the dots.

In a voice that was calmer, he asked, “Is it that surfer boy?”

JC paused. Then, he sighed and replied, “Yes.”

“I see… So, you found him,” Ken could only say. His annoyance and anger subsided after hearing the contentment in JC’s voice.

While Ken was not yet too trusting of this man JC fondly refers to as his ‘surfer boy’, Ken could not deny the happiness he heard from his friend. It was a happiness JC deprived himself of for over a year. Hearing him like that, Ken could only imagine the joy JC was feeling.

“Well, I guess if you’re sure, JC… Just don’t get hurt, okay?”

“I… won’t,” JC said, sounding a little unsure. “Thank you.”

“Anytime you need to dispatch someone, I’m here.”

JC laughed. “No need for that. Although… I do wish you find someone for you, too…”

Ken only chuckled. He had gone a long way from when he first met JC. Despite being like minds in many aspects, Ken could not deny they still differed in the way they valued things.

JC was the loyal type. The writer kept a few people close, but he loved them fiercely. Ken, on the other hand, was the adventurous type. Sure, he was no longer that horny young man he used to be, but he enjoyed dating and meeting new people still.

The writer had told him off many times—‘Think about your health!’ he would nag—but the writer does not understand. Ken just does not feel the need to settle yet.

And besides, he had priorities. Ken was CEO, now. There was no way he would have time for something like a serious relationship.

“Well, not everyone I meet is as interesting as you, unfortunately,” Ken joked. “That seems like a tall order.”

“I’ll pray for it anyway. You deserve to be happy, Mr. CEO,” JC retorted, teasing.

“Oh, the woes of being a CEO!” Ken said, fake-crying. But in a more serious voice, he continued, “Think of yourself, for now, JC… Be happy enough for both of us.”

“Geez, you…”

“Well, I have to get back to work now. Cellular connection is bad at the site.”

“You’re at the construction, right? For your new hotel?”

“Yes. It’s giving me a headache.”

“I see. Well, best of luck.”

“Thank you. Good day, JC. Let’s catch up soon.”

“Of course. Bye…”

Ken cut the call. He breathed out, calm despite the sudden news. While he felt as if he were losing someone important to him, Ken could not help but feel a little bit glad all the same. JC deserved his happiness, after all.

And Ken… Ken needed to focus on his work.

“Apologies, Mr. Dizon. You were saying?”

Mr. Dizon, the Construction Manager, only nodded and continued to show Ken around the site. The man began to walk again, leading Ken to where the architects and engineers were meeting.

Pointing to one of them, he said, “And that’s our Junior Foreman, Mr. Josh Santos.”

Ken looked at the man Mr. Dizon referred to. The Junior Foreman turned and approached them when the manager called. He greeted Ken, quiet but confident as he held out his hand.

Then, the foreman smiled. He smiled a smile Ken did not know he had been missing all his life.

And then Ken wondered, was happiness possible for him, too?

The CEO grabbed the foreman’s hand in his, a light buzz warming his palm.

“Very glad to meet you, too, Mr. Foreman,” he said, smiling.

Somehow, I’m very, very glad.