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After saving for a year, Lapu finally managed to pay the down payment for his studio apartment.
It was miles better than his old place—a three-bedroom apartment he had to share with two disgusting housemates who treated basic hygiene like a personal insult. The studio was smaller, sure, but it was his. And it was closer to his office, which instantly made it perfect.
“Ahh… finally. My own place,” Lapu sighed softly as he set down two buckets of unopened paint.
Choosing his own wall color had always been a dream. Back in the shared apartment, even suggesting “off-white” had caused a civil war.
Lapu sat on the bare floor, painting tools neatly arranged beside him. All that was left was to open the paint.
He grabbed the edge of the lid and pulled.
Nothing.
“Huh. It won’t budge.”
He tried again. Harder.
Still nothing.
Grinding his teeth, Lapu grabbed a screwdriver, wedged it between the lid and the bucket, and yanked.
The screwdriver flew back, narrowly missing his left eye.
The lid remained untouched.
“Fuck.”
Lapu backed away from the bucket like it had personally wronged him, grabbed his phone, and dialed.
“Mayday. I need help.”
A few minutes later, Badang stepped through the door.
“Thank God you came,” Lapu said, immediately pulling him into a soft kiss.
When they parted, Badang raised an eyebrow. “What happened?”
Lapu pointed at the bucket.
The bucket.
“That,” he said, venomously, “won’t open. And I am losing my mind.”
Badang gently moved Lapu’s hand off his shoulder and crouched by the bucket. He gripped the lid and pulled.
“…Yeah. I can’t.”
“Aren’t you a carpenter?”
“Yeah,” Badang said calmly. “And I know when something doesn’t want to be opened.”
With that, he pulled out his phone and texted someone.
Mayday. Lapu needs help.
An hour later, Gatotkaca and Yu Zhong arrived.
“I texted you,” Badang said, glaring at Yu Zhong, “why is he here?”
“He insisted,” Gatot replied flatly, already walking past them.
Without a word, Gatot crouched, grabbed the lid, and pulled.
“Fuck.”
Yu Zhong scoffed. “All of you are weak.”
He tried.
“…Shit.”
Soon, all four of them were sprawled on the floor.
The apartment was completely unfurnished—just an inflatable mattress, a couple of pillows, and Lapu’s luggage stacked against the wall. They all stared at the white ceiling.
“Why,” Lapu asked slowly, “are we so weak when all of us are jacked as hell?”
“Because,” Gatot said, “we’re all dumbasses.”
A few minutes passed before a knock echoed through the apartment.
“Come in,” Lapu called. “It’s unlocked.”
Chou peeked inside. “Uh… hey, guys. Why are you all on the floor?”
“Questioning our life decisions,” Badang replied.
“Oookay…” Chou looked around. “I thought you were painting? I don’t smell any paint.”
“No,” Yu Zhong muttered, nudging the bucket with his foot. “Couldn’t open that shit.”
“Oh. I can help.”
Everyone watched as Chou sat down, picked up a flathead screwdriver, and—pop.
The lid came off instantly. The smell of paint filled the room.
“There you go.”
Silence.
Everyone slowly sat up.
“So,” Lapu said, voice dangerously calm, “you’re telling me we’ve been fighting that thing for four hours… and you opened it in fifteen seconds?”
“…I used to work as a painter in high school,” Chou said awkwardly. “I guess muscle memory?”
Lapu stood up.
“It’s time we all accept the truth,” he said, heading for the door. “We’re just himbos with big muscles. I’m going home.”
“This is your home,” Badang said.
“You know exactly what I mean.”
And yeah—his home was Badang’s house.