Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

People were always their worst selves when they thought no one was watching.
They picked at their teeth with keys. Sniffed their armpits in elevators. Whispered arguments into their phones they’d later repeat — louder — like volume made them more correct.

Josh had seen it all. Correction — was still seeing it.
Day after day. Street after street. One endless loop of awkward habits and secondhand embarrassment.

He didn’t mind watching. What else was he supposed to do?
Haunt?

Hard to say. He didn’t rattle chains or knock over lamps. He couldn’t even flicker a lightbulb for dramatic effect.

He felt like a ghost. No solid body. No presence.
He drifted through people like fog.
He floated. Literally.
So yeah. Ghost was the best theory he had.

He moved through places — not walls, not dreams, just... spaces.
Unseen. Unheard. A whisper of memory people shrugged off.
And maybe that was fine. No pressure to be social. No one to disappoint.
Still… the silence got old.

He didn’t look like a ghost — not the moaning-in-a-sheet kind, anyway.
Tousled black hair framed a sharp face that might’ve once belonged on a magazine spread, or at least a painfully curated Instagram feed.
His coat looked tailored, worn like muscle memory. The jewelry at his throat, his rings — gleaming, expensive — suggested a life that used to be anything but invisible.
He couldn’t remember choosing any of it.
But it looked right.
He looked… like someone used to being noticed. Admired, even desired.
Which made being unseen all the more disorienting.

Josh had seen enough bad first dates to last several afterlives.
He hovered now by a shelf of overpriced coffee tumblers, eyeing a couple by the window:
Guy in a blazer one size too small. Girl glued to her phone like it was a flotation device.
A walking case study in mutual disinterest.

Josh narrowed his eyes.
“Okay, let’s see. He’s sweating through his collar. She’s googling escape plans. Classic.”
He drifted closer, arms crossed, doing his best impression of a bored documentary narrator.
“Ah, observe the male mid-mansplain. Note the tight smile. The caffeine bravado. Truly, a courtship ritual destined for extinction.”

He glanced at the girl.
“And blink twice if you need me to fake a dramatic breeze. I’ve been working on my woooo voice.”

She let out a sigh that could’ve filed for divorce.
Josh floated above theatrically.
“If boredom were a drink, this guy just ordered a venti triple-bland with extra mediocrity.”

Then it happened.
A short, sudden laugh.
Not from the couple. Not even from the barista.
From someone seated a few chairs away — hoodie pulled up, earbuds dangling like decoration, sketchpad balanced on one knee.

Josh turned.
Blond hair — bleached, but the dark roots had started to grow in like he didn't care. One ear stacked with tiny silver rings. The other: matte black studs. Tattoos curled down one forearm, visible where his hoodie sleeves were shoved up — sharp, abstract, and deliberate.

There was nothing ghost-adjacent about him. If anything, he looked solid. Grounded. Like he belonged exactly where he was and didn’t owe that explanation to anyone.
The hoodie was oversized, the vibe was minimal effort, maximum detachment.
He wasn’t hiding. He just didn’t care if he was seen.
The only thing expressive about him was his mouth — curled slightly now, like whatever Josh had said had landed in the back of his throat and tickled something rusty.

Josh stared.
Oh no. He’s hot.
And then: Oh no. He heard me.

The guy looked up. Met Josh’s stare directly. Expression unreadable — except for the faintest lift of one brow, like, Really? You’re monologuing now?

Josh sank an inch lower in pure psychic shame.
“...Did you just laugh at me?”

The guy tilted his head. Pencil still in hand. Calm. Completely unbothered.
“You’re not wrong, though. That date’s got the chemistry of a wet napkin.”

Josh’s mind tripped over itself.
Which was impressive, considering he wasn’t sure he had a brain anymore.
“Wait—” He floated closer, pointing like he could tap pause on reality. “You can see me?”

The guy shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Josh flailed internally.
Hot and perceptive? Rude.
“This is — okay, this is new. You don’t understand. I’ve been giving top-tier commentary for months and no one’s so much as flinched.”

The guy flipped to a fresh page and kept sketching. Calm. Like this was Tuesday.
“Sounds lonely,” he said.

Josh blinked.
“I mean... yeah. But mostly rude.”

A flicker of something — not quite a smile — tugged at the guy’s lips.
“Well. Guess I’ve got manners.”

Josh was, for once, speechless.
He caught a blur of himself in the glass — faint, ghostly, but there. Tousled black hair. Sharp coat he didn’t remember choosing. Jewelry glinting faintly at his throat. Huh.
He didn’t look like a mess.
He looked... expensive.
Like someone used to belonging somewhere.

Josh had never followed anyone before.
Not like this.
Not because he wanted something.
But here he was — trailing hoodie-guy-who-laughed like some curious poltergeist with commitment issues.

“Okay, wait,” Josh called out. “So you can see me. And hear me. That’s—first of all, rude that you’re so chill about it. Second—where are you going?”

“Home,” the guy said, not slowing down. “You should go back to wherever you… linger.”

“Rude. And I don’t linger. I float with flair.”

“Yeah. And with zero boundaries.”

Josh zipped ahead to block his path. “I’m not clingy. I’m curious. There’s a difference.”

The guy stepped around him with practiced ease. “You all say that. Right before you move in.”

Josh froze.
That word again.
“You… all?”

He caught up, eyes wide. “Wait. Wait. Are there others like me? You’ve seen this before?”

No answer. Just hoodie up, hands in pockets, step after quiet step.

Josh floated backward, keeping pace.
He glanced at the guy again. The tattoos. The bleached hair. The unreadable stillness.
Seriously? Hot people can see ghosts now?

“You have. Oh my god. Are you some kind of spirit-whisperer? Do you run a ghost support group? Is this like The Sixth Sense or more like Ghostbusters? Be honest, do I need to worry about proton packs?”

The guy stopped. Turned. Leveled him with a look so flat it could press shirts.
“You’re exhausting.”

Josh grinned, completely undeterred. “You’re fascinating. Seriously. I haven’t been this interested in a human being since — well, ever.”

“That’s what they all say. Right before they decide never to leave.”

Josh softened a little. Floated beside him instead of in front.
“I don’t want to haunt you. I just… I want answers.”
His voice dropped.
“I don’t know who I am. I don’t know where I am. Or what happened to me. Or why I’m like this.”

Silence.
But something in the guy’s shoulders shifted.

“You’re the first person who’s seen me,” Josh added. “ Really seen me.”

That made him pause.
Josh waited.
Finally — a sigh. “Follow me.”

Josh blinked. “Wait — that’s it? No ‘get out, ghost boy’? No salt circles or holy water?”

No answer.
But he didn’t turn him away.

Josh followed. Still not sure what he’d just stepped into — but knowing, for the first time in a long time, that he wanted to keep going.
Because maybe…
He wasn’t just a ghost.
And maybe this guy — this stranger with the sketchbook and silence — already knew it.

Chapter Text

The house had a name.

That was the first red flag.

Josh floated just past the wrought-iron gate, eyeing the metal plaque like it might bite. The letters were carved in heavy script, darkened by sun and time:

Bahay na Bato.

“Oh good,” he muttered. “It has a title. That’s never ominous.”

The house looked like it had outlived generations — two stories tall, all stone and wood, with deep eaves and narrow capiz windows that caught the sunlight like secrets. Vines curled around its edges like the earth had once tried to reclaim it, then changed its mind.

It was the kind of house that watched you back.

The kind where doors didn’t creak by accident.

The kind where even silence felt like it had memory.

Josh hovered at the gate, uneasy.

He’d passed through plenty of places since… whatever happened. Hospitals. School courtyards. Airport lounges. Empty hotel rooms. They all felt sterile, like waiting rooms for something worse.

But this place?

This place remembered things.

It had roots.

It had weight.

It felt like someone had lived here forever and left pieces of themselves in the floorboards.

The guy — sketchpad still tucked under one arm, hood up like sunlight was a personal affront — didn’t wait. He slipped through the gate and onto the brick path like it belonged to him. Like he belonged to it.

“You live here?” Josh asked.

No answer.

Of course.

The guy climbed the steps and unlocked the door like he hadn’t just adopted a semi-transparent tagalong from a café.

Josh hovered at the threshold.

There was pressure there. Not physical — not quite — but a hush. Like the house was... listening.

He hesitated — then crossed.

And for a moment — barely a breath —

he felt something.

A soft tug. Like the air took note of him.

Like the house knew.

Then it let go.

Josh shook himself off. “Well,” he muttered. “This isn’t weird at all.”

The guy nodded toward the wind chimes under the windows — delicate shells, slivers of glass, bits of tin. They clinked softly in the breeze, mismatched and purposeful.

“Don’t touch those,” he said. “They’re not decoration.”

Josh arched a brow. “What are they? Spiritual doorbells?”

“They catch noise from the other side. Keep the air clear. ’La makes them.”

That shut Josh up.

Inside, the house smelled like dried herbs, old wood, and something warmer — maybe citrus peels, maybe the kind of scent that clings to memory. Every surface was cluttered but careful: baskets, feathers, handwoven fans. The walls leaned with time, but nothing felt forgotten.

It didn’t feel haunted.

It felt held.

Josh caught himself scanning the details — too many. Too fast.

Woven trays with real silk thread. Framed sketches that were old but expertly mounted. Even the brass hooks by the stairs looked… expensive.

Not showy.

Just well-chosen.

He didn’t know how he knew that.

But he did.

=====

A soft rustle came from deeper inside.

Then—

“Kenny,” came a voice. Soft. Certain.

Josh turned as an older woman stepped into view.

She looked like a portrait come to life — regal in the kind of quiet way that didn’t ask for attention but always held it. Her hair was silver, styled neatly away from her face, and her skin, lined with grace rather than age, carried the calm of someone who’d seen lifetimes of joy and grief — and kept walking anyway.

She wore a patterned blouse in vivid colors, the kind that looked handpicked rather than trendy, with pearl earrings that added an effortless dignity. Her eyes, framed by large, clear glasses, were shrewd — not cold, but precise. She saw everything.

And she saw him.

Josh stiffened.

She looked right past Ken.

And directly at him.

Josh blinked.

He raised a hand, awkward. “Uh. Hi?”

Her smile was small, and tired in the way old truths often were.

Like she’d seen his kind before — and worse.

“It’s been a while since one of you wandered in.”

Josh pointed to himself. “One of me? Okay. Cool. So what am I, exactly? Ghost? Echo? Sarcastic hallucination?”

Ken dropped his bag by the stairs with a sigh. “You’re not a ghost.”

Josh pointed to himself. “One of me? Okay. Cool. So what am I, exactly? Ghost? Echo? Sarcastic hallucination?”

Ken dropped his bag by the stairs with a sigh. “You’re not a ghost.”

Josh scoffed. “I float. I monologue. I haunt emotionally repressed men with sketchbooks. That’s pretty ghostly.”

The woman stepped closer, studying him not like a threat — but like a riddle she’d already solved once, long ago.

“You’re not dead,” she said. “You’re somewhere in between.”

Josh stilled.

Dead was supposed to be a door. Open or closed.
This was… worse.
This was being stuck in the hallway, no signposts, no end.

“I mean... I’ve wondered,” he admitted. “But if I’m not dead, where’s the rest of me?”

Ken leaned on the doorway, arms folded. “Somewhere. Probably a hospital bed. Someone’s keeping you tethered.”

Josh flinched at the word. “Tethered.”
It sounded too gentle to hurt.
It still did.

“I’ve been like this since March,” he said quietly. “It’s November now. I’ve drifted through seasons, through cities. I didn’t know who I was. Didn’t know I still had a body.”
He paused, voice raw at the edges.
“Whoever’s holding on… they’ve been doing it for months.”

“Then they care,” the woman said gently. “They care enough to want you to stay.”

Josh looked away.

Cared for sounded suspiciously like hope.
And hope — he was learning — was heavier than it looked.

“I’m Ibang Salcedo,” she said, voice like a calm tide. “But this one calls me ‘La.”

She jerked her chin at Ken, who ignored it with practice.

“You can call me that, too. You are?”

Josh blinked, caught off guard. The name came out before he could stop it.

“…Josh.”

It slipped free like breath. Like instinct.

Lola Ibang’s gaze flicked toward Ken, sharp. Measuring.

Ken didn’t react — not outwardly.

But behind his eyes, something shifted.

Like a click. A bell.

And then — just for a second —

a vision.

Josh. On his bed. Laughing. Real. Warm. Alive.

Not floating. Not ghost-like.

Just here.

A life not yet lived — but already waiting.

Ken’s breath caught. The image dissolved. But its weight lingered — not heavy, just true.

Josh belonged here.

Lola’s eyes narrowed. She’d seen that look before.

The pause. The quiet.

The knowing.

“You can stay,” Ken said.

Josh blinked. “What?”

“You can stay here,” he repeated. Like it wasn’t strange. Like it made sense.

Josh turned between them, uncertain. “I mean… I don’t take up much space?”

Lola gave a small, knowing nod.

They didn’t speak of the vision. But the air between them shifted — just a little.

Josh wasn’t just passing through.

=====

“Most drifters know who they are,” Ken said.

Josh looked up. “And I only just remembered I’m called Josh.”

“No name. No memory. That’s not normal.”

Josh said nothing.

Ken didn’t flinch. “Whatever happened to you — it was big. And it hurt. Enough that your mind decided not to look.”

Josh didn’t argue.

Because somewhere in the marrow of himself, he agreed.

Lola Ibang’s voice dropped.

“People think death is the hard part.”

Her eyes found him.

“But this? The in-between? It’s worse. It means someone’s still waiting.”

Josh looked down at his hands — transparent but still here.

Someone, somewhere, hadn’t let go.

He didn’t know who.

But for now —

he had a name to remember.

A truth to face.

And a quiet artist who, for some reason, had just opened the door.

Chapter Text

Josh floated just behind him like an overly curious balloon with boundary issues.

The door creaked open and Ken walked in, shedding his hoodie with the same indifference one might give to throwing keys in a bowl. Josh followed, eyes darting everywhere like a tourist afraid to blink and miss something.

The room was… normal. Maddeningly, insultingly normal. A neatly made queen sized bed. A scuffed desk chair. A towering shelf sagged under the weight of books and figurines — not alphabetized, but grouped by height and color, which Josh clocked automatically without meaning to. Near the window stood a massive drafting table angled to catch the light, half-covered in open sketchbooks, markers, and neat trays of tools.

Everything was precise. Thoughtfully arranged. Lived in, but curated. Like Ken needed his surroundings to be intentional — or else the chaos would start winning.

Josh hovered by the drafting table, tilting his head at the clean organization.

“So… you’re Kenny?”

“Ken,” he corrected, kicking off his shoes. “Ken Suson.”

“Right. Ken.” Josh glanced down at the sketchbooks. “You, uh... really into drawing?”

Ken finally looked over. “I’m a graphic artist. Freelance. Commissions. Painting, sketches, whatever’s interesting. Weekly comic strip for the paper.”

Josh blinked. “Oh. You’re... legit.”

Ken just shrugged. “It pays.”

Then, with no warning whatsoever, he pulled off his hoodie.

Josh short-circuited.

“What are you—”

He immediately regretted saying anything.

Ken wasn’t bulky — but he was lean in a way that didn’t leave room for excuses. Defined arms, corded with distinct muscle, like he worked out regularly without making it a whole personality. Tattoos traced across his shoulders and upper arms, each one not screaming for attention but demanding it anyway. They looked like something personal. Meaningful. Sacred.

Josh stared.

Then blinked.

Then floated a full inch backward like his brain had set off an internal fire alarm.

Ken didn’t react. He tossed the hoodie onto a hook and moved toward the drafting table like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just broken the ghost.

Josh tried to reboot his brain with sheer sarcasm.

“That’s... wow. Okay. That’s a lot of arm. Are you always this aggressively casual about undressing in front of dead people?”

Ken raised a brow. “You’re not dead.”

“Right, sorry. Spirit-adjacent people.”

“You’re also invisible. Intangible. You literally can’t touch anything.”

Josh sputtered. “Yeah, well, my feelings can still be wounded. And my eyes work just fine, thank you.”

Ken smirked slightly. “Noted.”

“I’m just saying,” Josh went on, drifting to the far side of the room like distance could buffer his internal chaos, “I didn’t ask for a front-row seat to the Ken Suson Arm Appreciation Show. Not that I’m complaining, per se, just—shutting up now.”

Ken sat down and flipped open a sketchbook, the smirk still faint on his face. His pencil slid into his hand like it belonged there.

Josh folded his arms and floated near the ceiling, sulking in silence.

“So,” he asked after a beat, trying to sound casual, “do you always bring ghosts home?”

Ken’s pencil paused. Just a breath.

“No.”

Josh blinked. “No?”

Ken didn’t look up. “You’re the first.”

First huh?

And for once, Josh didn’t have a comeback.

=====

Josh lingered near the drafting table, watching Ken work — quick, precise lines, all focus, no small talk.

He didn’t want to interrupt. Ken was clearly in the zone, and something about the way he moved — calm, sure, grounded — made Josh feel like he didn’t belong in that space just yet. At least not like this. Not when he couldn’t even hold a pencil.

He backed away quietly, floating down the hall until the scent of something earthy and sweet lured him to the kitchen.

Maybe Lola would talk to him. She seemed like the type who would. And he missed that — the simple, human feeling of someone knowing you’re there.

=====

Josh hovered above the breakfast table, watching the pot bubble quietly on the stove.

“You really don’t seem surprised to see me,” he said.

Lola Ibang chuckled, not looking up from her peeling.
“Surprise left this house a long time ago.”

Josh tilted his head. “You get a lot of floaty visitors?”

“Not often. But I know how to recognize one. Especially the ones who aren’t sure what they’re looking for.” She met his gaze, steady and kind. “You’re not the first. But you’re... different.”

Josh tried to brush it off. “I’m told that a lot. Usually by exes.”

She smiled, amused. “Charming, too. But I don’t think you’ve had exes.”

“Is it that obvious?” Josh blinked. Then quietly added, “I might have had some…”

Lola laughed, rich and kind. “Obvious only to old women who’ve seen enough love to know when someone’s still learning how to be loved back.”

Josh made a face. “Okay, wow. That was—wise. You should put that on a mug.”

She dropped a few peeled kamote into a bowl. “Ken allowed you to follow him.”

Josh blinked. “He didn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat.”

“No. But he didn’t close the door either.” She paused just long enough for the silence to mean something. “That boy doesn’t let people in easy.”

Josh floated lower. “Is that... normal for him?”

Lola nodded, her hands working steadily. “He was three when his gift showed. Started seeing things no one else could. Talking to shadows. Listening to silence. His parents didn’t want to deal with it. They said it was just a phase. When it wasn’t… they sent him here.”

Josh’s brows furrowed. “They just... dropped him off?”

“They said I’d know what to do.” She set aside another row of neat skins. “And I did. The gift runs in my family. Ken’s is strong. Stronger than mine, even.”

Josh looked toward the hallway. “It doesn’t seem like he thinks it’s a gift.”

“Not yet,” she said softly. “Then again, it’s usually in hindsight that we start appreciating things.”

There was a quiet beat between them, broken only by the simmering pot and the soft clink of her knife against the board.

Josh watched her hands for a moment. Then, without thinking, he said,
“He has tattoos.”

Lola didn’t look up, but her lips curved knowingly.
“Mmm. Yes, I’ve seen them.”

Josh winced at himself. “I mean—obviously. You live together. I just—he took off his hoodie and I wasn’t prepared for—arms. Just... arms everywhere.”

Lola finally glanced up, one brow raised, her expression warm but just sharp enough to sting.
“Not used to handsome boys, anak?”

Josh sputtered. “That is not what I—”

“Appreciation is always welcome.” She returned to her peeling. “He let you stay. That’s new.”

Josh quieted, hovering closer.
“Has he never brought anyone back?”

“Never like this,” she said, evenly. “He’s kind, but private. Keeps his world small. Safe.”

Josh hesitated. “So why me?”

She looked at him again, thoughtful.
“Maybe he’s intrigued about you not having a memory. Or maybe,” she added, a smile tugging at her mouth now, “he just likes your face.”

Josh made a strangled sound and shot upward like a balloon losing control.
“Oh my god, please don’t say that.”

Lola laughed. “You asked.”

She turned back to her cooking, but the warmth in her eyes lingered. And this time, Josh caught something else in her expression.

Not amusement. Not mischief.

Approval.

=====

They sat in silence for a moment — or something close to it. The only sound was the gentle simmer from the stove, the wind nudging the chimes outside.

Josh hesitated, then asked, “What is this place, anyway?”

Lola looked around the kitchen as though seeing it anew.
“It’s just a house,” she said. “Passed down, like the gift. Back then, it was the only stone house in the area. That’s what bahay na bato means — stone house. Mail would get delivered just with that name. No street, no number. People just knew.”

Josh floated a slow circle above the table. “It feels... like more than that.”

“It’s old,” she agreed. “Holds memory. But it’s not magic, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s just home. A place that lets people be who they are, even when the world doesn’t.”

Josh paused, hovering near the high ceiling. “It’s big, though. You and Ken are the only people I’ve seen. No staff?”

Lola smiled. “There are people. The staff quarters are in a separate building out back — you won’t see much of them unless you go looking. There’s a driver, a housekeeper, a couple of maids, and Mang Dado — he’s been our handyman and gardener since Ken was little.”

“They just… stay out of the way?”

“By design,” she said, not unkindly. “Ken doesn’t like people hovering. Neither do I. So the main house is mostly quiet. The staff handles their work with care and distance. That’s how we all like it.”

Josh nodded slowly, as if that explained something he hadn’t realized he was wondering. “Huh.”

Lola poured a bit of broth into a small bowl, testing the taste. “Quiet doesn’t always mean empty, hijo.”

Josh glanced at her. “And Ken’s stayed ever since?”

Lola’s hands slowed, her voice gentling.
“He could’ve left a hundred times. His siblings did as soon as they could. His brother and sister are both abroad. His parents expected him to follow. But he didn’t want that life. And maybe he didn’t want to be reminded of how little they tried to understand him.”

Josh was quiet for a beat. “He seems…”

“Distant,” she supplied.

“Yeah.”

“But he’s still here,” she said. “Still draws. Still wakes up early to open the windows before the sun hits them too hard. Still keeps the wind chimes in tune. You don’t have to talk much to care.”

Josh huffed, folding his arms across his chest like it might shield him from how much that landed.
“So what—you think he cares about me? He doesn’t know me. I don’t even know me.”

Lola met his gaze, steady and warm.
“I think he let you stay. That says more than most people ever do out loud.”

Josh opened his mouth for a retort — something deflective, probably — but found he didn’t have one.

He hovered there, quieter than he meant to be.

Lola smiled to herself.
“Ken doesn’t keep things unless they matter.”

Josh looked away, unsure what to do with that. His hands twitched like he wanted to fidget, but couldn’t touch anything. The stillness left behind wasn’t awkward, though.

The silence didn’t feel heavy this time.
It felt... safe.
And for the first time since waking up in this weird in-between state, Josh didn’t feel like he was intruding.

=====

Josh’s gaze kept flicking toward the hallway.

He told himself it was just curiosity. That he was intrigued. Maybe mildly obsessed. But only in a respectable way.

Lola Ibang didn’t look up as she said, casually, “You keep glancing that way.”

Josh jolted. “What way?”

She smirked faintly, slicing a new piece of kamote.
“You know which way.”

He floated back an inch, like distance would help his case. “It’s not like that.”

“I didn’t say anything,” she replied, all innocence.

“You didn’t have to.”

She finally looked at him — eyebrows raised just enough to make it clear: she knew too much and had zero intention of letting it slide.

“He’s not as cold as he looks,” she said. “Just careful.”

Josh crossed his arms, defensive. “I’m not—interested.”

Lola chuckled. “Didn’t say you were. But your eyes keep floating off like they have a mind of their own.”

“They do not float—”

“You’re literally floating.”

“Okay, but not romantically—”

“Mm-hm.”

Josh glared at her like that would help. It didn’t.

Lola just gave a small, amused shrug and returned to her peeling.
“I’m old, hijo. I notice things. Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

Josh grumbled and drifted higher, trying to look anywhere but toward the hallway again.

“He’s cute…” he whispered grudgingly. But he didn’t leave.

And when Lola glanced up at him one more time, there was nothing but quiet fondness in her eyes.

And maybe — just maybe — a little hope.

=====

The kitchen had settled into quiet.

Lola Ibang set the last of the peeled kamote in the bowl and rinsed her hands, the soft clink of water the only sound. Outside, wind stirred the chimes. The stillness was warm — content.

Then the hallway creaked.

Ken stepped into view, barefoot, his shirt a little wrinkled, hair askew like he'd run a hand through it too many times. He didn’t speak.

He just opened the fridge.

“You’re wondering where your new friend went,” Lola said, without looking up.

Ken paused, fingers resting on a pitcher of water.

She smiled faintly. “He wandered into the garden. Left about five minutes ago. Like a ghost with a sense of wonder.”

Ken didn’t reply. But he didn’t need to.

Lola glanced sideways and caught it — the way his eyes softened, the way his shoulders eased just a little. He wasn’t asking. But he’d come looking.

“You saw him?” she asked gently. But it wasn’t a real question.

“Yes,” Ken said after a beat. His voice was low, reluctant. “He’s in his body. Solid.”

Lola raised an eyebrow, turning to face him fully. “And?”

Ken looked away. But his silence wasn’t the closed kind.

Finally, he added, “He was laughing. Seated on my bed.”

A pause. Then—

“Mmm,” Lola hummed, eyes twinkling. “Your bed.”

“La—”

“I’m just saying,” she said innocently.

Ken poured water into a glass. “It was a vision.”

“Of course,” she nodded. “A vision. Of him on your bed. Laughing.”

He sighed.

Lola dried her hands on a towel and turned toward him, her tone softening. “I like him, Kenny.”

Ken stilled.

“But,” she added gently, “I feel this won’t be simple.”

He didn’t deny it.

And Lola, who’d spent a lifetime listening between silences, saw it clearly now — the quiet shift in her grandson’s gaze when he talked about Josh. The hesitation. The carefulness. The draw.

He wasn’t just curious.

And if she was any judge — Josh felt it too.

Chapter Text

If Josh had to describe his existence lately, he’d call it haunting with benefits .

Specifically: a front-row seat to Ken Suson’s daily routine.

He’d settled into it almost without meaning to. Ken had told him to stay — casually, offhand, like it cost nothing — and then never brought it up again. So Josh lingered. Mostly in Ken’s room, sometimes just above it, orbiting the drafting table like a nosy moon with boundary issues.

Mornings followed a pattern. Ken woke up before sunrise, made coffee like it was a ritual, walked barefoot through the house to open windows and check the wind chimes. Then came chores — sweeping the hallway, helping Lola Ibang with breakfast, hanging laundry in the courtyard out back.

After that, he worked out.

Josh had only noticed the dumbbells under the bed after Ken casually pulled them out one morning and started doing shoulder presses like he wasn’t built like a quiet sin.

Josh had floated to the ceiling and dramatically fanned himself with an invisible towel.
“Okay, sure. Ghost me harder.”

Ken hadn’t reacted. At all.
Which, annoyingly, just made it worse.

Then came the sketching. No set time, but always, every day. Sometimes four hours in the afternoon, sometimes two at night, sometimes a full stretch broken only by bathroom breaks and more coffee. The lines were always clean, always confident — like his hands knew things his mouth didn’t.

Josh would float behind him, pretending not to care, then toss out critiques like,
“You made her look too nice. No one that pretty orders extra foam and treats the barista like a sentient napkin.”

Ken never replied. But once — just once — Josh caught him smiling.

So yeah. Routine. Comfortable. Familiar.

Until today.

It's been almost a week since Josh arrived in Bahay na Bato. And he noticed the shift immediately — in the details.

Ken came out of the shower towel-drying his hair, and instead of the usual oversized tee, he tugged on a crisp, pale blue button-down. Fitted. Sleek. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. Then came dark jeans — no rips, no paint smudges. Just clean. Expensive.

Josh clocked it all instinctively: the subtle texture of the fabric, the slim Italian cut, the low-key flex of the watch. Not the kind of outfit you wear to sketch panels on your bedroom floor. Not even to see friends. That was designer. That was strategic.

The shoes? Leather. Polished. No creases. No nonsense.

Josh floated lower, circling like a fashion vulture.

“Whoa. Is this a job interview?” he asked. “Because you’re either dressing for capitalism or a funeral.”

Ken didn’t look up. “Lunch.”

Josh tilted his head. “That’s the most overdressed lunch I’ve ever seen.”

Ken checked his watch, fastened the last button, and finally said, “I’m going to my parents’ house.”

Josh froze mid-float.
Not home.
Parents’ house.

He didn’t say it bitterly. But he didn’t say it fondly either.

Josh hovered back. “Ah. That explains the watch. And the expressionless doom radiating off your body like Wi-Fi.”

Ken ignored him, grabbing his phone and keys.

Josh, quieter now: “Is this... a regular thing?”

Ken paused at the door. “Semi-regular.”

“You don’t seem thrilled.”

Ken’s answer was flat. “I’m not.”

Then he stepped out.

And for once, Josh didn’t have a quip.
Just a quiet ache that had nothing to do with being dead — or not-quite-dead.

Ken was halfway through the hallway when he stopped. He didn’t turn around — just said casually:

“You can come with me.”

Josh blinked. “Wait, what?”

Ken glanced over his shoulder, expression unreadable. “You wanted to know more about me.”

Josh opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

He’d made dozens of sarcastic remarks since arriving. Most of them ignored. But this — this one landed.

Ken didn’t wait for a reply. He just walked.

Josh scrambled — or the floating equivalent of scrambling — to follow.

The second surprise hit when they reached the garage.

“Is that—” Josh stared. “That’s a Mustang.”

Ken didn’t answer. Just unlocked the sleek black car and slid into the driver’s seat like this wasn’t the most personality he’d ever shown in one moment.

Josh drifted through the passenger door, jaw slack.

“Bro. You live in a 150-year-old house with wind chimes tuned for the afterlife, and you drive a black Mustang?”

Ken put on his sunglasses.

Josh groaned. “This is a hate crime. I’m supposed to be emotionally immune and I am not. ”

The engine purred to life.

And Josh — despite himself — stared for a moment.

Ken behind the wheel, crisp shirt rolled to his forearms, quiet jawline set, one hand loose on the gearshift, sunglasses catching the light like a scene from some slow-burning art film.

It wasn’t fair.

Josh looked away. “You are so annoying.”

The ride was quiet.

Josh tried a few times to make conversation — a muttered comment about the absurd smoothness of the car’s suspension, a jab about how Ken drove like a law-abiding vampire — but Ken didn’t bite.

Not cold. Just… distant. Like his thoughts were elsewhere.

Josh eventually fell quiet. The city blurred by.

And then — they weren’t in the city anymore.

The road curved through a high-walled village, guarded gates and manicured hedges giving way to the kind of houses that weren’t houses at all.

Estates. Mansions. Old money, new gloss.

Josh floated lower in his seat.

And then — they arrived.

Ken drove through a wrought-iron gate opened by a man in uniform who didn’t smile, didn’t ask questions, didn’t even glance at the passenger side.

Josh floated forward as the house came into view.

It was striking — all clean lines and sharp corners, the kind of architecture that screamed wealth without having to say it out loud. White concrete, polished stone, glass panels that reflected the sky, and warm wood slats arranged with surgical precision. The landscaping was minimalist — sculpted hedges, trimmed palms, a still, rectangular pool like a mirror laid flat on the lawn.

It looked like a house designed by someone who didn’t want to be touched.
All surface. No softness.

Josh stared.

“This isn’t a house,” he muttered. “This is a spreadsheet with walls.”

Ken parked in the driveway like he’d done it a thousand times. Stepped out. Smoothed his sleeves. Didn’t smile.

Josh hovered a beat longer before following.

A servant opened the door before Ken could knock.

“You’re expected,” he said.

Ken didn’t reply. Just stepped inside.

Josh lingered on the threshold.
Looked up at the enormous chandelier.
The sweeping staircase.
The absurd oil paintings on the wall — probably of dead people who’d never eaten sinigang in their lives.

It was beautiful.
And cold.

Josh, who didn’t even remember his own family, suddenly felt very certain this was familiar.

Too familiar.

=====

The house smelled expensive — not in the cozy, cinnamon way Bahay na Bato did. This was all marble polish, bulk florals, and something faintly chemical trying too hard to smell like elegance.

Ken greeted his mother with the lightest kiss on the cheek — barely more than air. She looked him over like a stylist inspecting a reluctant mannequin.

“You look tired,” she said instead of hello.

Ken offered a neutral hum. Nothing more.

His father didn’t look up from his phone. Just gave a short nod without lifting his eyes.

Josh floated in the foyer corner, invisible, unnoticed, uninvited — and somehow, still uncomfortable.

The dining room was cathedral-quiet — a long, lacquered table built to seat twelve, but only three places were set. Every surface gleamed. No warmth. No clutter. Just precision and space.

Lunch was served by two quiet staff, and eaten in silence so loud it buzzed in Josh’s ears.

Ken chewed slowly. His posture perfect. His answers, when they came, were brief and neutral.

His father broke the silence first.

“So when are you getting a real job?”

Ken didn’t flinch. Just sipped water before answering.

“I’m working.”

His father didn’t even look up. “I said real job. Something that can actually support you. Something stable.”

Josh bristled, drifting a little lower. “Is this a roast or a reunion?”

Ken smiled faintly — a tired, practiced expression. “I’ve got enough commissions lined up for the next three months. And the comic strip’s been renewed.”

His mother made a face. “Comic strip. Honestly, Ken.”

“It’s in print,” Ken said mildly. “Some people still read that.”

She didn’t laugh. Just dabbed her mouth with a napkin. Her eyes were sharp.

“You could be doing more,” she said. “Your brother is opening another branch this quarter. Your sister’s consulting for two firms abroad.”

Ken didn’t respond. Didn’t even shift.

Josh muttered, “Here it comes.”

His mother sighed. “Why can’t you be more like your brother?”

Josh felt it like a punch to the gut.

A sudden jolt. A flash behind the eyes.

The room flickered.

The chandelier above blurred, and Josh wasn’t in this house anymore. He was in another — just as cold, just as beautiful.

A voice. Not Ken’s mother. A different one. Clipped. Brittle with disappointment.

“Why can’t you be more like your brother?”

Josh flinched.

And for one brief second, he remembered:

A table. A perfect family.
Him, in a button down, trying to defend something he hadn’t even done.
A mother looking through him like he was background noise.
A father saying nothing at all.
A brother called Justin.

The memory slid away like a dream, and he was back in Ken’s parents’ dining room.

Ken was calmly cutting his food like he hadn’t just been publicly compared to someone else’s LinkedIn profile.

Josh stared at him.

“How are you so calm right now?” he whispered.

Ken didn’t answer, but the line of his jaw was tight.

Josh drifted closer, wanting to touch something — do something — but he couldn’t.

He was just a passenger again.

But now?

He wasn’t just watching Ken’s family dynamic.
He was remembering his own.
And the ache that came with being the wrong son .

Chapter Text

He floated low in the passenger seat, eyes on nothing, heart buzzing with something he couldn’t name. The memory was still buzzing under his skin — not fully clear, not fully gone. Just a snapshot: a table, a voice, that name.

Justin.

The silence settled thick between them.

Then, halfway through the drive — no music, no traffic — Ken spoke.

“You remembered something.”

Josh flinched, sharp and instinctive, like a slap without sound.

Ken didn’t glance away from the road. Just kept his eyes forward, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting calmly on the gearshift.

“You went quiet,” he added. “That’s new.”

Josh hesitated, words catching in his throat.

“I don’t know if it was real,” he said eventually. “It felt like a flashback. Just—someone said almost the same thing to me. ‘Why can’t you be more like your brother.’”

Ken nodded, like he’d known it before Josh said anything.

Josh stared out the window.

“I think his name is Justin, my brother, I mean.”

It felt strange saying it out loud. He half expected the memory to vanish again. But it didn’t.

Ken didn’t press.

Josh finally looked at him, not for answers — just for something steady.

“You knew that would happen. Going to your parents.”

Ken shrugged. “Families echo.”

Josh blinked. “That’s... unexpectedly poetic.”

Ken cracked the smallest smile. “You’re rubbing off on me.”

Josh didn’t smile back. Not quite. But something in his chest loosened.

The rest of the drive passed in silence again — not cold, not awkward. Just quiet.

But this time, it felt like a choice.

=====

Josh found himself in the kitchen again.

He didn’t plan to — just drifted there, like always, like it was a place that made sense when the rest of the world didn’t.

Lola Ibang was slicing ginger with the kind of focus usually reserved for surgery. She didn’t look up when she said:

“You’re quiet.”

Josh hesitated. Then floated to his usual spot across the table, hovering just above the old rattan chair.

“Long day,” he muttered.

Lola’s knife didn’t slow. “You remembered something.”

Josh blinked. “How do you do that?”

“I’m old,” she replied. “That means I’m either very wise, or very nosy. Sometimes both.”

Josh offered the ghost of a smile — faint, fleeting — but it didn’t stick.

Lola set the ginger aside and finally looked up, meeting his eyes — and, as always, seeing him.

“What do you want to know?” she asked gently.

Josh hesitated again. But he didn’t need to say it. She already knew.

She went back to peeling. “Ken was three when the gift first showed. Woke up screaming about a man standing at the foot of his bed. Said he wasn’t scary — just sad. Said he wanted to say goodbye to someone before he left.”

Josh stilled.

“His parents didn’t like that. Not the screaming, not the visions. They already had two perfect children who were much older. Ken was the unexpected one. The strange one.”

Lola said it without bitterness. Just fact.

“His mother is my daughter. She brought him here thinking it would pass. That I would fix it.”

Josh sank into the chair’s memory, as quiet as the walls around him.

“But it didn’t pass,” Lola continued. “It settled in him, like it did in me. And she didn’t want that in her house. In her family.”

Josh felt the air shift. “So she left him with you.”

Lola nodded once. “I didn’t mind. Ken... he never cried about it. Never asked why. He just adapted. Quiet child. Smart. Gentle in ways most people don’t notice.”

Josh thought of the way Ken ignored jabs, let things roll off his back like water. How he never raised his voice, but always noticed everything.

“He doesn’t say much,” Josh said.

“No,” Lola agreed. “But he listens. And he watches. And when he lets someone stay, it means something.”

Josh looked down.

She smiled, soft and sharp. “Which is why you’ve been floating after him like a lovesick mosquito.”

Josh nearly choked on nothing. “What—! I—That is not —”

“‘La,” Ken called from the other room, voice neutral. “I can hear him blushing.”

Lola laughed.

Josh buried his face in his hands — or he would have, if he had hands that could actually hide the embarrassment.

Lola set the ginger aside and gave him a look that was more knowing than teasing now.

“He’s never let someone stay before,” she said, voice low. “Not like this.”

Josh swallowed.

And for the first time, he didn’t try to make a joke.

The kitchen fell quiet again. The kind of quiet that didn’t need filling.

Lola Ibang went back to her chopping, slow and steady, the knife a rhythmic anchor in the air. Josh sat — or hovered — silently across from her, eyes distant. Not gone. Just somewhere deeper than before.

Then he said it. Barely a whisper.

“It was the house.”

Lola paused. She didn’t look up. Just waited.

“Ken’s family’s house. Something about it… unlocked something.”

Josh stared at the table like it might explain everything he couldn’t.

“I think I live in a place like that. Big. Cold. Beautiful in that way people show off instead of live in.”

“And I think…” — his voice caught — “I think I live there with my father and mother.”

Lola looked at him gently, but said nothing.

Josh’s gaze dropped to his hands. They were solid enough to see, transparent enough to ignore. A contradiction. Like everything else about him.

“I remember a table,” he said. “A long one. Too long. My mother saying something sharp, and my fatherjust… not looking up.”

The words tasted strange in his mouth. Like muscle memory. Like grief with no shape.

“They said something about my brother. Compared me to him.”
“Justin.”

The name landed softly. No thunderclap. No revelation. But real.

“I think I have a brother,” Josh said again, slower this time. “His name is Justin. And I think I…” — he took a breath he didn’t need — “I think I loved him.”

Lola’s knife stopped.

Josh looked up. His eyes were glassy, not with tears — he couldn’t cry — but with something deeper. Something pulled taut inside.

“He was the only good thing in that place.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Heavy with things neither of them needed to explain.

Lola set the knife aside, wiped her hands on a clean towel, and walked around the table. She didn’t touch him — couldn’t — but she stood near enough for it to feel like warmth.

“Memory is like soup,” she said softly. “It takes time to come together. But the good parts rise eventually.”

Josh gave a shaky laugh. “Is that a metaphor or are you actually making soup right now?”

She smiled. “Both.”

Then she looked at him — really looked.

“Hold on to the good parts, hijo. That’s how we remember who we are.”

Josh nodded, once. Still quiet. Still unsure.
But this time, he didn’t feel lost.

Just… beginning.

=====

That night, Ken lay in bed, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes open and fixed on the ceiling like he was trying to read something no one else could see.

Josh hovered near the bookshelf, silent for once — not because he ran out of commentary, but because for the first time, he didn’t want to break the quiet.

Ken was shirtless again. Josh had already looked. Twice. Then made a pact with himself to stop looking.
(He was failing.)

But that wasn’t what kept him up tonight.

He drifted closer, voice low.
“Why did you let me stay?”

Ken didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Josh assumed that was that — classic Ken. Master of the non-answer.

Then, finally:

“Because you and I were meant to meet.”

Josh blinked. “What the hell does that mean?”

Ken turned his head slightly, looking at him now. Calm. Certain.

“I saw you. That first day. In the kitchen.”

Josh frowned. “You saw me? Like… a vision?”

Ken nodded once. “Just for a second. But it was clear enough.”

Josh stared, thrown off-balance in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “And you just… believed it?”

“I don’t question the things I see,” Ken said simply. “The answers always come when it’s time.”

What he didn’t say — what he wouldn’t say — was that in the vision, Josh had been sitting on his bed. Laughing like he belonged there.

It had felt too intimate to explain.
Too soon.
Too much.

He wasn’t blind. He knew Josh liked him.
And he liked him too — in the same way.
But some truths took time.

Josh drifted back an inch, unsettled in the chest.
“You’re weird,” he muttered. “You know that?”

Ken smirked — small, fleeting. “Takes one to know one.”

Josh rolled his eyes and turned to float toward the opposite corner of the room.

But something about that vision stuck with him.

Ken had seen him — really seen him — before he’d even arrived.
And instead of being afraid, he’d just… made space.

Like Josh belonged here.
Like Josh had always belonged here.

Josh didn’t say anything else that night.

But he stayed closer than usual.

And for once, the silence between them felt like a promise.

Chapter Text

Ken woke before the sun.

The house was quiet — not empty, but full in a way that hummed beneath the silence. He didn’t reach for his phone or turn on the lights. He just sat at the edge of the bed, shirtless, steadying himself like he always did before moving through the small rituals that anchored his mornings.

He opened the windows first. Cool air slipped through, laced with the scent of damp stone and night-blooming flowers. Wind chimes stirred in the courtyard, delicate notes catching on the breeze like secrets. Somewhere downstairs, faint strains of Jose Mari Chan drifted up from the radio.

Lola was awake.

It was the last week of November, which meant officially Christmas season in this house — though truthfully, the moment the weather shifted and malls started decorating, Lola had declared it so.

Ken let the moment settle before crossing to the drafting table in the corner of the room. He reached for one of his sketchbooks — the thick, black-bound one tucked behind the lamp.

Inside, each page was numbered. Dated. A different sketch of Josh.

Today was Day 28.

The page before — Day 27 — showed Josh on the veranda, legs crossed midair, pretending not to eavesdrop on Lola’s phone call.
Day 26: upside down on the couch, expression halfway between annoyed and amused.
Day 25: asleep on the grass, one arm over his chest, hair a mess, face soft with the kind of rest that didn’t come easy.

Ken flipped through a few more. The early sketches were distant, indistinct — like trying to draw from fog. But somewhere between Day 9 and Day 17, something shifted. The lines sharpened. The ghost boy had become more than a blur. He was now a presence.

Josh wasn’t just a figure. He was a rhythm. A shape Ken had memorized.

He’d told himself the drawings were for practice. Observation. Work.

But now, the act of sketching felt almost like ritual. Like record-keeping. Like proof.

The new page stayed blank for a moment. Ken let the pencil hover.

He didn’t need a reference anymore. In his mind, Josh was already there — upstairs in bed, tangled in the sheets, still frowning in his sleep like the dreams were being difficult again.

Ken began to draw.

This version of Josh was quiet. At rest. The lines came quick, confident. Too confident.

It was only when he finished — when the page filled with a version of Josh that looked almost too alive — that Ken realized what he’d done.

Another Josh.
Another page.
Another lie he told himself.

It’s for work, he thought.

The weekly strip, Small Things by K.S.S., had started years ago — gentle, wordless panels about cracked mugs, tangled laundry, half-read books, and the small poetry of being alive. But the ghost? That had been a spin-off. A one-off.

Small Floaty Thing. A sarcastic ghost judging someone’s blanket choices.

Readers had loved it. His editor had asked for more.

Now Josh appeared in every strip.

A ghost with no name, too many opinions, and the kind of quiet presence that didn’t feel like absence at all.

Ken told himself it was just for the comic.

Just for the deadline.

Just another way of observing.

Just work.

He told himself that again — and didn’t believe a word.

====

Josh floated into the kitchen like he’d done every morning for the past few days.

He wasn’t sure if it was a drifter thing, but he always seemed to wake up tired — like sleep didn’t quite take. It didn’t help that he couldn’t drink coffee. He missed the warmth. The ritual. The smell.

“Morning,” he mumbled, mostly to the room.

Lola Ibang didn’t look up from her chopping board. “You’re late,” she said.

Josh glanced at the clock. “It’s 6:17 in the morning.”

She clicked her tongue. “Ken’s been up since five.”

“Ken’s always up since five,” Josh muttered, drifting toward his usual spot across the table. “I’m pretty sure he’s powered by moonlight and unresolved family tension.”

Lola let out a quiet laugh but said nothing more. Her hands worked quickly — chopping garlic, setting a kettle on the stove, moving with the kind of unhurried purpose that made Josh feel like maybe he belonged here after all.

He glanced out the window.

Sure enough, Ken was in the backyard, already sweeping leaves with that same slow precision he used on his sketches. Shirt slightly rumpled. Hair still damp from the shower. Face relaxed in a way that only showed when he didn’t think anyone was watching.

Josh stared for maybe three seconds too long.

Lola didn’t miss it. “You’re obvious,” she said without looking up.

“I am not,” Josh said — too fast, too defensive.

She unfolded the morning paper with a rustle, the corners soft from use. “Obvious,” she repeated, flipping straight to the comics section. “But it’s alright. That boy could use someone looking at him like that.”

Josh didn’t have a comeback for that. His mouth opened and closed. He muttered something about boundaries and snoopy grandmothers before pretending to study the table’s wood grain with great interest.

Lola slid the paper toward him. “Your favorite’s in today.”

Josh perked up despite himself. Small Floaty Thing — the comic spin-off of Ken’s weekly Small Things strip — had become part of his morning ritual.

He floated closer, hovering just above the print.

Today’s panel was simple. Four frames. Sparse lines.

Frame 1: A ghost floated above a bed, arms crossed, watching a figure sleep. A small thought bubble read:

“Not staring. Just... observing.”

Frame 2: The figure in bed stirred, half-asleep. The ghost panicked and turned invisible — but stayed.

Frame 3: The figure opened one eye, softly smiling. A speech bubble:

“You’re obvious.”

Frame 4: The ghost hovered back toward the bed, small and quiet.

No words. Just a little heart in the corner. Not bold. Almost hesitant.
Just there .

Josh blinked.

He read it again.

Then again.

The lines were clean — nothing dramatic, nothing too pointed — but it still hit like a shove in the ribs.

He hovered back a little. “Huh.”

Lola didn’t look up from her simmering pot. “Something wrong?”

“No,” he said, voice a little too level. “Just… wondering if maybe your grandson is passive-aggressively outing me via newspaper.”

Lola shrugged. “Or maybe he’s just answering you back.”

Josh stared at the page.

Was it fiction? A joke? A metaphor?
Or was Ken — quiet, careful Ken — actually saying something?

And if he was…

Josh pressed a hand to his chest out of habit. No heartbeat. But it still felt like something in there had skipped .

He looked back out the window. Ken had stopped sweeping. He was glancing up at the sky — or maybe at the window.

Josh wasn’t sure.

But he hoped.

He hoped a little too hard.

=====

Josh drifted into the living room sometime in the afternoon. Ken was there, hunched over his sketchpad on the low table, sunlight slanting in from the window and catching the edges of his hair. He looked like a painting himself, completely absorbed — the kind of stillness that made time feel slower around him.

Josh hovered near, tilted sideways like a bored ghost with nowhere else to be.

“So…” he said. “Ever drawn me?”

Ken didn’t look up.

Josh crossed his arms — or at least, the ghostly impression of it. “And the comic strip doesn’t count. That one guy who looks suspiciously like me is literally labeled ‘floating nuisance.’”

Ken’s pencil paused. Just a second. Then resumed.

Josh squinted. “Was that hesitation? That was definitely hesitation.”

He floated lower, trying to catch a glimpse of the sketchpad. Ken tilted it away with a flick of his wrist, cool and unreadable.

“Okay, rude,” Josh muttered. Then, after a beat, “So I guess I’m not your type, huh?”

Ken looked up.

Slow. Steady. No smirk. No sarcasm.

His eyes flicked down — just for a second — to the space where Josh floated. And when he spoke, it was quiet. Not evasive. Just honest.

“Too close.”

Josh blinked. “What?”

Ken went back to sketching, like it meant nothing. Like the warmth crawling up Josh’s neck wasn’t very much something.

“You asked.”

Josh tried to laugh, but it caught in his throat.
Too close.
Too close to what? His type? His space? His walls?

“I’ll just assume you have a secret shrine and you’re embarrassed,” he said weakly.

“No comment,” Ken murmured, still drawing.

Josh groaned. “Unbelievable.”

But even as he floated to the other side of the room, something in him hummed.

Too close.
He didn’t know what it meant.
But God — he hoped it wasn’t a bad thing.

=====

They didn’t talk about bedtime routines. But they had one now.

Ken would finish his final sketch. Josh would float nearby, making occasional comments — sometimes curious, sometimes chaotic. Then they’d retreat to the bedroom, the quiet between them settling like dust in warm light.

Ken had always slept shirtless. Long before Josh arrived, it was just how he ended his day. And when Josh showed up, he didn’t change the habit. Didn’t see the need.

But that first night, Josh had gone strangely quiet. Eyes flicking up, then away — like he’d seen something he hadn’t expected and hadn’t quite recovered from. After that, he started floating just a little higher than usual, as if putting literal distance between them might help.

Ken kept doing it anyway.

Now, every time Ken pulled his shirt off — slow, deliberate, brushing hair from his face before tossing the fabric aside — he noticed Josh noticing.

Subtle. But there.

And Ken felt it too.

It wasn’t just two people getting used to each other. There was tension now. Not uncomfortable — just present. Hovering in the space between breathing and touching.

Josh floated to his usual spot above the bed as Ken slid beneath the sheets. Lights off. Curtains fluttering. From the next room, Lola’s humming blended with Jose Mari Chan still playing somewhere on loop.

They didn’t say goodnight.

Instead, like every night, Josh spoke softly into the dark.

“Today I remembered something,” he said.

Ken turned his head slightly, eyes half-lidded. Waiting.

“I used to call my brother Jah,” Josh said. “A nickname. Just me. No one else.”

A pause.

“My mother said it was silly. Said it shouldn’t be heard in company. She hated how it sounded. But Jah liked it. So I kept using it.”

Ken didn’t speak. Just listened.

“She’s… very into appearances,” Josh continued. “Everything had to look a certain way. Sound a certain way. Be a certain way.”

A dry laugh.

“I like clothes, so that part? Sure. That’s fine. But it doesn’t end there. Every part of who I am… was supposed to match what she wanted.”

Ken’s voice came, low and steady in the dark.

“She doesn’t get to decide who you are now.”

Josh was quiet.

Then:
“No. I guess not.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full — of memory, and grief, and something like comfort. Of a quiet house and two people lying just near enough to almost touch.

Josh drifted a little lower, drawn by something he couldn’t name.

Ken closed his eyes.

And for a while, that was enough.

Chapter Text

It happened the following day.

Josh was hovering near Ken like usual — a slow, lazy float just behind his shoulder as Ken worked. It was late morning. Sunlight slanted through the windows. Lola’s radio hummed softly from the kitchen. Another quiet day at Bahay na Bato.

Then it happened.

Josh’s chest clenched — sharp and sudden, like a thread pulled too tight.

He froze mid-air, expression twisting in confusion.

“What the—”

And then he flickered.

Not just a blur around the edges. Not the light shimmer he sometimes got when drifting through walls.

He blinked out.
Like a faulty signal.
Like he’d never been there at all.

“Josh?”
Ken’s voice was sharp now, cut with panic.
“Josh.”

But Josh couldn’t hear him.

Because he wasn’t there anymore.

=====

Fluorescent lights.
A sterile room. The smell of antiseptic burned at the edges of his mind.

He was somewhere else.

A hospital.

The beep of machines pulsed like a second heartbeat — too fast, too loud. White walls. Monitors. Chaos.

And in the middle of it all — a body.

His body.

Unmoving on a hospital bed.
Wires snaked across his chest. A tube ran down his throat.
A nurse adjusting an IV. A doctor barking orders, voice clipped with urgency.

And then —

Justin.

Pale. Eyes rimmed red. Tears running unchecked down his face as he gripped the edge of the bed like it was the only thing anchoring him.

“You have to save him,” Justin choked out.
“He’s not gone—he’s not gone—he’s still here—I know he is—please—don’t stop—”

Josh couldn’t breathe.

He tried to reach for him — to move, to speak — but his arms wouldn’t work. He wasn’t in his body.

He was above it. Disembodied. Watching. Drowning in the fear he couldn’t voice.

Then —

A high-pitched alarm.
A wall of static.
A long, gut-deep pull.

And everything went black.

=====

He reappeared like a dropped signal — a shimmer in the air that snapped back into shape mid-fall.

Josh flickered into existence above the bed and drifted downward, collapsing in slow motion onto the mattress. No weight. No sound. Just the suggestion of gravity pulling something not-quite-there.

To anyone else, it would’ve looked like nothing.

But to Ken, it felt like a crash.

Josh’s form sputtered and stabilized, half-faded at the edges, eyes wide and unfocused as he blinked up at the ceiling — dazed, like someone waking from drowning.

Josh blinked up at the ceiling, dazed.

Ken stared, voice barely above a whisper.
“I nearly lost you.”

Josh turned his head, still stunned.
“You—what?”

Ken looked away, jaw tight, then met his eyes again.
“You were gone.”

Josh tried to smirk. “You’d miss me that much?”

Ken didn’t smile.
“I didn’t know if you were coming back.”

And just like that, the joke died in Josh’s throat.

He’d seen his body.
He’d heard Justin.

And Ken — unshakable, unreadable Ken — had let the fear show.

The air between them felt heavier now. Like it knew something had shifted.

Then, without another word, Ken stood up and walked out of the room.

Josh blinked after him, stunned.
“Okay,” he muttered, sitting up. “Cool. Cryptic exits. Love that.”

But Ken didn’t come back.
And Josh… couldn’t sit still.

=====

The kitchen smelled like ginger and old wood. Lola Ibang was pouring tea, calm as ever — but her eyes lifted the moment Josh drifted in.

She didn’t look surprised.

“Ken said you flickered,” she said simply, holding out a cup toward the air where he hovered. A gesture. A welcome.

Josh crossed his arms instead. “You’re going to have to explain that one.”

Lola nodded, settling into her chair. She poured a second cup for herself, steam rising gently.

“It means your body almost let go,” she said. “You were closer to death than life.”

Josh stilled.

Lola didn’t flinch. “It happens. Not often. But when it does, drifters disappear like you did. The world pulls you back to your body — and you either make it... or you don’t.”

His voice was tight. “So I almost died. Again.”

“But you didn’t,” Lola said, warm but unwavering.

Josh lowered his voice. “Because of Justin?”

“The boy who won’t let go,” she said softly. “He’s the reason you’re still here.”

Josh looked away. The back of his throat ached.

“I saw him,” he whispered. “I was in the room. I saw… me.”

He exhaled, shaky. “All hooked up. Monitors. Tubes. I looked like a smaller version of myself — swallowed by the gown, thinned out, like everything had been scraped away but bones.”

He stared at the table, at nothing.

“I’ve been in a coma almost a year, haven’t I?”

Lola didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

Josh swallowed hard.

“Justin was crying. Screaming. I’ve never seen him like that. He’s always been the composed one. I wanted to—”

His voice broke. “I wanted to do something. But I couldn’t even move.”

Lola reached across the table, hand hovering just above his — like she could feel where he was even if she couldn’t touch him.

“And then you came back,” she said. “That’s what matters.”

Josh hesitated. “Ken was... he looked like he couldn’t breathe.”

“He’s not used to caring for people,” Lola said gently. “Especially not ones he could lose.”

Josh gave a half-laugh. “He barely even talks to me.”

Lola looked at him, a faint smile in her eyes. “You don’t need to say much when someone’s already under your skin.”

Josh didn’t answer.

He turned toward the window, gaze distant. Outside, in the darkened backyard, Ken stood still — half-shadowed by the trees, staring into the night like he was listening for something he’d almost forgotten.

Josh watched him, silent.

And in the stillness, the house around them seemed to breathe.

Alive. Waiting.

So was he.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure he wanted to let go.

Chapter Text

Ken sat up in bed, bare-chested and wide awake, though the room was still sunk in early morning quiet.

The clock on his wall read 4:03 AM. Too early — even for him.

Across the room, Josh hovered in his sleep, curled slightly mid-air, arms loose at his sides. There was a softness to him like this — mouth parted, brows unknotted, the tension that usually clung to him now gone.

Ken’s eyes stayed on him.

He could still feel it — the weight in his chest from last night.
That split second when Josh flickered out of existence. When his presence just… stopped.

He hadn’t said anything when he came back to the room.
Didn’t trust his voice.
Didn’t trust himself not to say too much.

He’d gone through the routine instead — brushed his teeth, dimmed the lights, lay down on the bed beside empty space.

But his body wouldn’t rest. Not with that fear still clamped around his ribs.

He had nearly lost Josh.
And he hadn’t done anything to stop it.

Too laid-back. Too passive.
That wouldn’t happen again.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand, unlocking it with one swipe.

Josh had given him clues — fragments, like puzzle pieces half-submerged.

That his house reminded him of the Suson estate.
That he thought he had a brother named Justin.
That he came from a high profile family concerned with appearances.

If he was in a coma, and from a family like that…
Someone had to have reported it.

Ken opened a browser and began typing:

“Josh Justin coma”

Nothing useful.

He tried again:

“Brothers, business, coma, accident”

And then — a hit.

A headline.
A photo.

A sleek black sports car, crumpled like foil, pressed against a shattered concrete barrier. The impact had carved through the front like a knife.

“Joshua Santos, eldest son of business magnate Jonathan Santos and socialite Julia Santos, in critical condition following suspected DUI incident.”

Ken’s breath caught.

He clicked the link.

“Joshua Santos, known for a string of public controversies, was reportedly involved in a high-speed crash late Friday night.
An anonymous video surfaced earlier that evening showing a ‘Mr. Santos’ drinking at a downtown bar.
In a public statement, younger brother and current Santos Group COO, Justin Santos, denied the allegations, stating that toxicology reports confirmed his brother had not been under the influence.
Security footage from the bar has since shown that the man in question was not Joshua, though critics claim the Santos family is covering for him.
Santos was rushed to the General Medical Center where he remains in a coma.”

Ken stared at the date.
March. Alm nine months ago.

He slowly looked up.

Josh still floated there — utterly unaware of the weight of his name.

Joshua Santos.

Ken let the name settle into his mind.

So this was what the world thought of him — reckless, spoiled, dangerous. A troublemaker with too many second chances and a family powerful enough to clean up behind him.

But that wasn’t this Josh.

This Josh, who winced at the idea of hurting someone.
Who lit up reading comic strips with Lola.
Who hovered too close, like proximity made him feel safe.

None of it added up.

He went back to the photo — the car wreckage brutal, torn open like it had been split down the middle. Josh’s side had taken the worst of it.

If it had just been an accident…
Why was there something in Ken that didn’t believe that?

A flicker of unease moved through him.

The reports said suspected DUI.
The timing, the video, the way people were so eager to believe it.

Too convenient.
Too neat.

And Josh’s memory — so broken, so full of shame without knowing why.

Something had happened that night.
Something more than a crash.

Ken lowered the phone.

He looked back at the boy floating midair, the light from the screen casting a faint glow across his sleeping face.

Nine months. Stuck like this. Unseen by the world.

But not by Ken.

=====

The monitor beeped in a steady rhythm — each blip a stubborn heartbeat refusing to give up.

Justin sat at Josh’s bedside, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together like he was praying.
But he wasn’t praying.

He was watching.

Josh looked the same. Too still. Too pale.
Like if you blinked, he might dissolve into the sheets.

A nurse stepped out of the room just as the doctor entered — middle-aged, glasses slipping down his nose, voice practiced and calm.

“Vitals are stable again. He had a dip earlier, but we’ve adjusted the oxygen. The episode passed.”

Justin nodded once, jaw tight, silent.

The doctor glanced at the monitors, then at him.
“He’s holding on,” he said gently. “But you need to be prepared. If there’s another episode—”

“I said I’m not letting him go,” Justin snapped, the sharpness cracking at the edge of his voice.

The doctor didn’t argue. Just nodded professionally and stepped out.

Justin leaned forward again, reaching for Josh’s hand. Still warm. Still here.

“Kuya…” he whispered. “Hang in there.”

He rubbed his thumb over Josh’s knuckles, like that might somehow anchor him — might remind his brother that he wasn’t alone.

“I know I didn’t say anything back then.” His voice broke. “I let myself get used to how things were done. But not anymore. I’m not letting go.”

He blinked hard, swallowing down the burn rising in his throat.

“You always protected me. Every single time.”
A breath. A tremble.
“And this time… it’s my turn. I’m keeping you here.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Once.
Then again. And again.

He pulled it out, sighed.

FATHER
Where are you? You've already missed two meetings.

MOTHER
Why is that guy from the Board running your meetings? Are you hanging out in the hospital again?

Justin stared at the screen.

Then typed:

JUSTIN
I'm not “hanging out”. I almost lost Kuya.
We had an agreement. I’ll land the deal you wanted if Kuya is safe.

He hit send. Locked the screen.

And turned back to his brother.

“I mean it,” he said, softer now. “I’m not letting them throw you away just because you don’t have a use for them anymore.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes glassy but steady.

“You’re not done, Kuya. And I’m not done fighting for you.”

Chapter Text

The house was still hushed with sleep, early light filtering through the capiz windows in soft, golden threads. Outside, the wind chimes clinked lazily in the breeze. Inside, only the quiet scrape of a knife on ginger broke the silence.

Lola Ibang stood by the stove, steam rising in gentle ribbons from the clay pot. She didn’t look up when Ken stepped into the kitchen, barefoot and quiet, but her shoulders eased at the sound.

“You’re up early,” she said.

Ken poured himself a glass of water from the clay pitcher, his movements measured.

“I know where he is,” he said.

She turned.

“I’ll go today.”

Lola nodded once, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. “Are you bringing him?”

Ken shook his head. “Not yet, ’La. I want to see how bad it is first. I need to… be sure.”

Her eyes searched his face. “You’re scared.”

He didn’t deny it. Just looked down at the glass in his hands.

“I can’t lose him, ’La.”

It came out quiet, but the truth of it filled the room.

Lola moved closer, placing a hand on his arm. “You won’t.”

Ken’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know what I’ll find. I don’t know what they’ve done to him. I just— I can’t sit here. I have to see it with my own eyes.”

A pause. Then Lola said, “You are.”

He looked up.

She smiled — small, but full of all the faith he didn’t yet know how to hold.

“You saw him, remember?” she said softly. “On your bed. Laughing. Solid. Alive.”

Ken blinked.

“Your vision,” Lola continued. “It was a glimpse. Of what could be. Maybe even what already is — somewhere you haven’t reached yet.”

Ken swallowed hard. “You really think he’ll come back?”

“I think he already chose you,” she said, pressing the words into the space between them like a promise. “You’re connected, Kenny. It’s no longer just his brother tethering him here.”

He didn’t speak. Just nodded once, the movement small but resolute.

Lola reached for a second mug, poured out the salabat, and handed it to him.

“Go see him,” she said gently.

=====

Ken didn’t say anything when he left.

He waited until Josh was distracted — probably up in the attic again, poking through old things and making up stories about them — and then slipped out the gate.

He didn’t want Josh to follow. Or to know.
Some things had to be seen without commentary.

He took the bus. Quiet. Unassuming. Hoodie up, earbuds in — no music, just his thoughts rattling like coins in a glass jar.

The hospital was massive. State of the art. The kind of place where silence cost millions and every hallway gleamed like a showroom.
Ken had checked the visitor policy already — memorized it. No questions if you walked with purpose. No one stops someone who belongs .

And if someone did?

He had a last name that opened most doors.

He reached the ICU level, stepped out of the elevator, and blinked under fluorescent lights. Cold, bright. Like everything in the air had been bleached.

There was someone already outside the room.

A man — early twenties, though the exhaustion on his face aged him — stood rigid by the door. His hoodie was too crisp. His shoes too polished. Everything about him spoke of control, discipline, and wealth. But his eyes were red-rimmed, sharp and cautious.

Ken slowed his approach, careful.

The man looked up immediately, gaze wary. “You here for someone?”

Ken nodded once. “I’m here for Josh.”

The man’s entire body shifted — subtly, but it was there. Tension coiled like wire.

“You… knew my brother?”

Ken didn’t flinch. “I just found out where he was. I came as soon as I could.”

A beat passed.

Then, softly:
“You’re Jah.”

The man’s eyes widened.

“What did you say?”

“You’re Jah,” Ken repeated. “That’s what he calls you.”

That stopped him. For real, this time.

His face didn’t change much — years of media training, maybe — but his eyes did. Something in them fractured. Then reassembled.

“He’s the only one who ever called me that,” Justin said finally, voice low. “Not even our parents. Just him.”

His arms slowly crossed, but not defensively — more like he needed to hold himself together. He looked at Ken again, sharper now. Assessing.

“My brother… didn’t really do friends,” Justin said carefully. “He had people around him all the time. Acquaintances. Names, faces. But not trust. Not really.”

Ken didn’t try to argue.

He just stood there — still, steady — eyes on the door like gravity had started pulling him forward.

Justin noticed.

Something flickered across his face.
Suspicion. Calculation.
Then something else: recognition.

Ken finally spoke again.

“I’m Ken,” he said. “Ken Suson.”

That made Justin blink.

He straightened, visibly startled. “As in Suson Suson?”

Ken gave a small nod.

Justin studied him again, slower now.

Ken didn’t look like a tabloid leech or some clout-chaser. He wasn’t broadcasting grief for sympathy. He didn’t even look like he’d planned what to say.

But there was something in the way he looked at the door — like it hurt him not to be on the other side.

Like Josh wasn’t just a name to him.

There was yearning in it. A kind of quiet urgency that no outsider could fake.

Justin stepped aside.

“You can go in,” he said, voice softer now.

Ken nodded once — a gesture that meant thank you , and also I won’t waste this .

Then he stepped through the door.

=====

The beeping was steady.
Josh’s body looked smaller here. Fragile.
All sharp bones and slack limbs, like someone had emptied him out and left only the shell.

Ken approached slowly.
He didn’t touch anything at first. Just… looked.

Then, gently, he reached down and wrapped his fingers around Josh’s hand. Held it like he could anchor him back through sheer will.

Justin stood at the door, silent. Watching.

“You care about my brother,” he said.

Ken didn’t look up.
“I do.”

Silence settled between them. Heavy, but not uncomfortable.

Justin took a slow step closer.
“I’m glad he has someone else who wants him to stay.”

Ken finally looked at him. “Would you mind if I kept visiting?”

Justin shook his head.
“I’ll have you added to the approved visitor list.”

Ken nodded again. Still holding on.
Then, softly — not for Justin, not for the room, but for the one who floated somewhere between:

“You hear that, Kuya?”
His thumb brushed lightly over Josh’s knuckles.
“You’ve got more than one person fighting for you now. Come back.”

Chapter Text

Justin checked his watch, then looked back at Ken, who had followed him out.

“I need to head back to the office soon,” Justin said, tone reluctant. “Want to grab lunch? This would be my last chance to get a bite.”

Ken looked surprised. A flicker of hesitation crossed his face, but then he nodded once. “Alright.”

They ended up in a small diner a few blocks from the hospital. Nothing fancy. Neutral ground.

Justin ordered quickly, like he’d been there before. Ken took his time.

“You okay with this place?” Justin asked, studying him.

Ken shrugged lightly. “Food’s food.”

Justin smirked. “Josh always said that when we dragged him to corporate lunches. Except he said it like a martyr.”

That earned the faintest curve of a smile from Ken.

After the waiter left, Justin tapped a finger on the table. “So… how’d you meet him?”

Ken glanced out the window, like the memory lived somewhere past the glass. “A cafe. He was eavesdropping on a couple’s first date and making sarcastic commentary under his breath. Loud enough for me to hear.”

Justin huffed. “That sounds like him.”

“He made me laugh,” Ken added simply. “And kept making me laugh.”

Justin tilted his head, intrigued. “And you talked?”

Ken nodded. “I wasn’t planning to. But he talked like we already knew each other. Like it was normal and we had been friends for years.”

A silence fell. Comfortable. Reflective.

“Kuya’s very good with people. He always made you feel seen.”

Justin took a sip of water, then said, “But people didn’t really see him. They think he’s a beautiful mess. A screw-up. But they didn’t know him.”

Ken met his gaze. “I know him. He is not what they say.”

It wasn’t said with fanfare. Just quiet certainty. Like it was a fact he lived with every day.

Justin studied him, and something shifted behind his eyes. That wariness he wore like armor eased. Just a little.

“When you met, did he know you were… a Suson?”

“No. But even if he did, I don’t think he’d care.”

Justin  nodded. “Yeah, he wouldn’t.” A pause.

“You ever see him dance?” Justin asked, tone softening.

Ken blinked. “Once. I caught him spinning in the hallway when he thought no one was around. He was even hyping himself up.”

Justin laughed — the first real one in a while. “That’s so him. He used to practice at night when our mom wouldn’t see. Said it wasn’t dignified for a Santos to be training like some backup dancer.”

“He moved like he forgot the world was watching,” Ken said.

Justin looked down at his plate. “He was free, when no one was looking.”

Ken didn’t reply. He didn’t have to.

Because in that moment, across cheap diner napkins and lukewarm tea, Justin realized something important:

Ken had seen Josh — really seen him — the way he thought only he could.

And maybe… that meant he didn’t have to carry this alone anymore.

=====

Their food came and went in mostly silence after that —
but it wasn’t awkward.
It was the kind of silence that followed understanding,
like neither of them needed to prove how much they cared.
They just… did.

When they stood to leave, Justin pulled out his phone and unlocked it.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to Ken. “Put your number in.”

Ken hesitated only a second, then typed it in and handed it back.

“I’ll only contact you about Josh,” Justin added, catching the pause for what it was.

Ken nodded once.

Justin saved the contact, then looked up. “You can visit him anytime. I’ll make sure you’re cleared.”

Another nod.
Quiet, but certain — the kind that meant more than words.

Justin glanced at the sidewalk, then back at him. “He’d hate the hospital food, by the way. If you ever bring anything when he wakes up, maybe get those stupid chocolate wafer things he liked.”

Ken’s mouth twitched. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“He used to hoard them in his drawers,” Justin said, almost smiling. “Swore they didn’t count as junk food.”

Ken didn’t reply,
but the subtle shift in his expression said he could picture it —
Josh, dramatic and unapologetic with a stash of wafers in a drawer somewhere.

They stood in that small pause,
the city moving quietly around them,
neither of them in a rush to leave —
but knowing they had to.

Then Justin offered his hand.

Ken shook it — firm, steady.
No more suspicion.
No guarded edge.
Just something that felt a little like respect.

“I’ll see you soon, Ken.”

Ken nodded. “You will.”

And with that,
they went their separate ways —
both a little less alone than before.

Chapter Text

Josh was alone.
Not in the poetic, tragic, I-am-a-lonely-drifter kind of way.
No — literally alone.

 No hoodie-wearing introvert brooding at the drafting table. No quiet footsteps from the hallway. Just… silence.

It was deeply unsettling.

He floated into the living room. Empty.

Kitchen? No Ken. Just the faint scent of ginger tea and a drying towel hung precisely where Lola always left it.

Josh did a loop.

Then another.

Then two more for good measure, like maybe Ken had mastered invisibility out of sheer spite.

“Okay,” Josh muttered. “He’s probably… in the garden. Sketching a tree. Judging birds. Normal introvert things.”

He zoomed toward the back porch. Nothing.

His brow furrowed.

He tried upstairs. Just Lola humming softly, watering her herbs.

“Hi, ’La,” Josh said, floating in like a nervous balloon.

She smiled without turning. “Looking for someone?”

“No,” Josh said immediately, too fast. “Yes. I mean—not in a clingy way. Just in a casual ‘where’s the brooding artist I’ve imprinted on like a haunted duckling’ way.”

Lola chuckled softly. “He left early.”

Josh blinked. “Left? Left left?”

She nodded. “Said he had something to see to.”

“Said he had something to see to.”

Josh’s insides performed an elegant swan dive straight into a pit of irrational conclusions.

“What does that mean? See to what? Who does he even know besides you and me and maybe the mailman?”

Lola tilted her head. “You’re worried.”

“I’m curious,” Josh corrected, flailing slightly mid-air. “Which is different. Curiosity is scientific. Healthy.”

“You’re pacing in three dimensions, hijo.”

Josh froze. “That’s not—okay, maybe a little. But I just don’t understand where he’d go without telling me. We’re in a committed situationship of mutual glances and unsaid things.”

Lola turned to him, amused. “You’re fond of him.”

Josh scoffed. “What? No. I mean. Yes. In a respectful, non-possessive, emotionally-wrecked kind of way.”

She just smiled.

Josh drifted back down the hall, muttering to himself.

“He could’ve at least left a note. Or a sketch. A cryptic doodle on a post-it. Something.”

He paused by the drafting table — still organized, still his favorite version of chaos.

“Maybe he went to buy more markers,” Josh reasoned. “Or get a haircut. Or—wait. What if he’s seeing someone?”

The thought hit like a cymbal crash — sharp, stupid, and echoing in his ribs.

Not that he had ribs.

Not that it mattered.

Except it did .

Josh hovered midair, eyes wide.

“Okay. Okay. Deep breaths. Or not. Because I don’t breathe. Great.”

He tried to shake the thought. But it stayed.

Who was Ken seeing? Where had he gone that he didn’t want Josh to follow?

And why — why — did that ache?

=====

Josh was pacing midair, arms crossed, expression deeply unimpressed.

“You were gone for hours,” Josh snapped the moment Ken stepped inside. “Do you know how boring it is, floating around this house with no one here to ignore me? Do you understand the level of existential crisis I had to spiral through?”

Ken shut the door quietly and set his bag down. He didn’t answer.

Josh immediately appeared in front of him, hovering with narrowed eyes. “Where’d you go, mystery boy? You vanish without a word, come back all broody and unscented—were you on a date?”

Ken walked past him toward his room without a word. Josh followed like a very judgmental balloon.

“New shoelaces,” Josh sniffed. “This was a capital-E Errand .”

Ken peeled off his hoodie and opened the closet. “I visited a friend.”

Josh stalled mid-air like he’d hit a wall.

“…You have a friend ?”

Ken glanced over his shoulder, unreadable. He sat down at his desk, turning on his tablet without another word.

Josh floated above him, circling like a bored house cat.

“I’m gonna find out who it is.”

“Good luck,” Ken said, already sketching.

Josh squinted at him, then at the lines appearing on the screen. “Wait. Is that my nose?”

Ken kept drawing.

Josh drifted closer, mock-whispering, “If this friend has better hair than me, I’m gonna be really upset.”

Ken didn’t look up. “No one has worse hair than you.”

Josh scowled. “You’re deflecting.”

Ken’s silence only made Josh more suspicious.

And beneath the performance — the sarcasm, the circling — something cracked.

Not jealousy. Not anger.

Just… loneliness .

The kind that echoed, hollow and unexpected.

For the first time since they'd met, Ken had been somewhere Josh couldn’t follow.

And he hated how that felt.

It wasn’t just absence.

It was silence in a place that had only just started to feel like home .

Like something steady.

Like someone worth staying for.

He hovered a little lower, quieter now.

“You could’ve told me,” he said, almost to himself.

Ken didn’t look up, but something in his shoulders shifted — a barely-there pull, like a word almost spoken.

Josh lingered there a moment longer, watching him sketch in silence. The lines were calm. Certain. Familiar.

But the ache in his chest didn’t go away.

He’d never realized how deeply he’d come to rely on Ken’s quiet presence.

And now he had — and now he knew — that being apart?

Even for a few hours?

It felt like losing something you didn’t know you needed.

Josh drifted a little lower.
Close, but not close enough.
And this time, he wasn’t sure if he’d float back up.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was warm, full of ginger and steam and the soft hiss of boiling water.

Lola Ibang was already at the stove when Ken stepped in, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. She didn’t look up right away, but her voice came soft, knowing.

“Ah. The prodigal artist returns.”

Ken gave her a weak smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. He moved toward the clay pitcher and poured himself a glass of water, shoulders tighter than usual.

“You were gone long,” Lola said casually. “Your drifter nearly combusted with abandonment.”

Ken huffed under his breath, then leaned against the counter. “He’s fine. Just… dramatic.”

Lola finally turned, arching one brow. “And you? Are you fine?”

He didn’t answer.

She watched him closely for a beat, then gently asked, “How bad is it?”

Ken looked down at the rim of his glass, as if the words were hidden in the water.

“Bad,” he said quietly. “He’s been in a coma for almost nine months. Car accident. A really bad one.”

Lola went still.

“His name is Joshua Santos.”

The name hit like an aftershock. Not just a name — a headline. A scandal. A story already written in ink.

But none of it sounded like the boy who floated in their attic, barefoot and babbling about comic strips. Lola didn’t speak right away. Her eyes narrowed, turning inward — searching memory.

“Santos,” she repeated softly. “Santos Group of Companies.”

Ken nodded. “Brother of Justin Santos. COO of the whole conglomerate.”

Lola inhaled slowly. “Then he must be Julia’s eldest.”

Her voice had dropped, almost reverent. Or regretful.

“Those Santos boys have always been dubbed Fire and Ice,” she said. “The younger one is the Ice Prince, the perfect untouchable heir. And the older one is Fire, brilliant but also trouble.”

Ken exhaled, the tension in his chest flickering like static.

“They think he crashed drunk,” he said. “The headlines tore him apart. But the toxicology report came back clean. Justin’s been trying to clear his name, but… no one cares.”

Lola’s lips pressed into a thin line. “They wouldn’t. The world loves to watch rich boys fall.”

Ken gave a small, bitter laugh. “And Josh believes it. Whatever lie they spun… it stuck. He doesn’t even remember what happened, but he feels guilty. It’s like he’s dragging a weight he doesn’t understand.”

Lola’s eyes softened. “And now you’re dragging it too.”

He didn’t deny it.

“I saw him, ’La,” Ken said. “Hooked up to machines, buried in wires. He looked… small. Like someone had emptied him out and left just the shell.”

He looked away. “And I couldn’t do anything.”

Lola stepped closer and rested a hand on his arm, grounding.

“You did what most people wouldn’t dare,” she said gently. “You saw the truth — past the stories, past the silence. You reached for him.”

Ken’s voice was quiet. “I didn’t know I cared this much till I saw him for real.”

“It hit me the moment I touched his hand.”

His voice dipped. “I couldn’t feel him. But I couldn’t let go either.”

Lola gave a soft hum, half amusement, half knowing.

“You did,” she said. “You just didn’t have the name for it yet.”

Ken looked at her, unsure. “He might never come back.”

She didn’t flinch. “He might. You’ve seen what that would look like, haven't you? In that vision?”

“But if he does…” Ken’s voice was low. “He’ll be Joshua Santos again. He’ll go back to a world of boardrooms and camera flashes and curated legacies.”

He stared into his glass, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“I’ve seen the pictures. From before the accident. He’s charming. Charismatic. He fits in that world.”

A pause. Barely a breath.

“I walked away from that life for a reason. I didn’t want to spend my days smiling for people who only care about your last name.”

His hand tightened around the glass.

“But what if he goes back to it? What if he remembers who he’s supposed to be—and there’s no room for me in that version?”

Lola tilted her head. “He’ll still be our Josh. The boy who makes up voices for the birds in the backyard. The one who hides your markers but lines them up again when he thinks you’re sleeping.”

Ken’s breath hitched.

“He chose you ,” she said. “Before he remembered anything else, he found his way to you.”

Silence settled, warm and fragile.

Lola sipped her tea, then asked, “And the brother? This Justin you met — did he match the man on the magazine covers?”

Ken shook his head slowly. “No. People call him the Ice Prince,” Ken said quietly. “But he’s not cold. He’s… contained. Like if he let himself break, he wouldn’t be able to stop.”

She waited.

“He’s sharp, yeah. Polished. But under all that control—he’s tired. Worn thin. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from work.”

Lola nodded, unsurprised. “People see a suit and think it means certainty. But stillness doesn’t always mean peace. Sometimes it’s just… held breath. Survival.”

Ken looked down. “He loves Josh. You can tell. It’s in how he watches over him. How he holds silence like a shield.”

Lola smiled gently. “Public perception is never the full story. It’s just the version people are most comfortable believing.”

She set her cup down with quiet finality. “What do you plan to do with what you know?”

Ken stared at the steam rising between them. “I don’t know yet.”

A pause.

“But I’m going back.”

Lola tilted her head, the question already on her face.

Ken continued, “To the hospital. I want to be there. I don’t think he should be alone anymore. Not in either world.”

Something in Lola’s expression softened even more — fond, but tinged with sorrow.

“I think he stopped expecting anyone to stay,” she said. “That’s what happens when you’re called a storm too many times. You start to believe you’ll only ever break what you touch.”

Ken was quiet.

Lola leaned forward slightly, voice low. “So if you’re going to be there… mean it.”

“I do,” he said, almost without thinking.

Then, slower, steadier: “I already do.”

Outside, the wind chimes whispered.

Ken set the glass down and leaned into the counter, quiet.

Lola, as always, knew when not to push.

Then, softly, she asked, “Will you tell him?”

Ken hesitated. “Not yet.”

A beat.

“But I will, soon.”

Lola nodded, then turned back to the stove. “You should eat. You look like you’ve been arguing with fate.”

Ken gave the faintest smile. “Maybe I have.”

And somewhere in the house, the boards creaked with the quiet shift of footsteps — a reminder that Josh was still here.

Waiting.

Tethered.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: The Hours Between

Josh had noticed it days ago — the hours Ken kept disappearing.

It always happened in the late morning. Ken would finish breakfast, clear the table like clockwork, and then vanish. No word. No goodbye. Just gone. And every time, he'd return a few hours later, hoodie slung over one shoulder, the scent of the city still clinging faintly to him. Quiet and steady as ever. Straight to his drafting table like nothing happened.

At first, Josh hadn’t said anything. He floated, he paced, he made sarcastic remarks to empty rooms. But the absence — it grated. And the silence left too much space for thoughts he wasn’t ready to have.

By the third day, he cracked.

He drifted into the kitchen and found Lola by the stove, humming as she stirred a simmering pot of sinigang. She looked up when he entered, unsurprised.

“Let me guess,” she said, lips twitching. “You’re wondering where he goes.”

Josh crossed his arms, trying to look casual and failing spectacularly.
“I mean… no,” he said. “Maybe. I’m just—he’s usually here. And now he’s… not.”

Lola turned to stir the pot again. “He leaves most mornings. Hasn’t told you where?”

“No,” Josh muttered. “He just disappears. Like a very well-dressed shadow.”

She turned, eyeing him with gentle amusement. “You’ve gotten used to having him around.”

Josh hesitated, then gave a sheepish shrug. “I’m not saying I miss him when he’s gone. But I definitely spiral into a pit of existential dread and jealousy and silence, so.”

Lola chuckled. “Maybe you should ask him.”

Josh huffed. “Maybe I will.”

He floated a little lower, then leaned against the back of a chair he couldn’t touch.
“...‘La,” he said, voice softer, “do you think he’s tired of me?”

She didn’t answer immediately.

“I mean,” Josh went on, “I don’t blame him. I can’t even… I can’t even touch anything. I just float here. Like a sad helium balloon with attachment issues.”

Lola tilted her head. “You’re jealous,” she said — blunt, but not unkind.

Josh flinched. But he didn’t say no.

His voice dropped, barely audible. “I’ve never had a friend before. Just me and my brother. At least that’s what I think happened.”

Lola studied him, voice gentling. “But you don’t think of Kenny as only a friend.”

Josh didn’t reply.

He just sighed. And didn’t correct her.

====

When Ken returned later that afternoon, hoodie slung over his shoulder, face unreadable as ever, Josh didn’t ask right away.

He hovered by the drafting table as Ken settled in — stylus in hand, tablet flickering to life, movements precise. Familiar.

Josh lingered, quiet. Watching.

Ken didn’t speak until the golden hour light had all but slipped through the windows.

Then:
“Have you remembered more?”

Josh blinked. The question surprised him.
He floated lower, closer.

“Sort of,” he said. “Not anything solid. Just… feelings. Vague impressions.”

Ken waited, patient.

Josh looked toward the floor. “I think… people liked me. Or I liked being around them. I feel like I was good at that. Talking. Making people laugh. But at the same time, there’s this… heaviness. Like I was always performing something. Like the version of me people knew wasn’t really me. Just… a mirror. Reflecting what they needed. Not who I actually was.”

He swallowed. “And Justin. He’s the clearest. I feel good when I think of him. He’s always there in the memories. Even when nothing else is.”

Ken’s stylus slowed. But he said nothing.

Then, gently:
“Do you want to remember?”

Josh didn’t answer right away.
He turned toward the window instead, like the answer was somewhere out past the garden, adrift in air he couldn’t touch.

“Honestly? Yeah. I think I do.”
Then, softer:
“But I’m afraid to. I wanted to forget for a reason.”

He floated a little closer to the floor now, not quite grounded.

“I was... tired.” He paused, voice thinning.
“Not the kind you sleep off. The kind where everything’s too heavy.”

Ken listened. Still. Unmoving.

“I think I was trying to disappear,” Josh said. “On purpose.”

A long silence followed.

Then:

“I’m scared. What if I don’t like what I find?”

Ken set the stylus down.

“You’re Joshua Santos,” he said quietly.

Josh froze.
“…What?”

Ken looked up. “Your name. I know who you are now.”

Josh blinked, clearly confused. “Okay. And?”

“You’re… kind of famous,” Ken said.

Josh snorted. “Really?”

Ken didn’t smile. “Yeah. You’re part of one of the most powerful families in the country. Your brother runs half the business empire. You were in the headlines. You’re—” he hesitated, “—someone people watch.”

Josh looked stricken. “So… what? I’m a rich kid?”

“You’re a Santos,” Ken said, like that was its own entire universe.

Josh floated down until he was level with him. “That means nothing to me. I don’t remember any of that.”

“I know.”

A silence stretched between them.

“So when you said you were visiting a friend…”

Ken nodded. “I’ve been visiting you. At the hospital.”

Josh’s mouth parted slightly. “Me. My… body.”

Ken nodded again.

“You’ve been going every day?”

“I needed to see it for myself. To know you were still there.”

Josh drifted back, unsettled. “Why?”

Ken hesitated. “Because I care. Because I didn’t know how not to.”

Josh stared at him. “You didn’t even know me.”

“I know this you,” Ken said. “And it’s the same one who showed up in my life and made it weird and chaotic and better.”

Josh’s voice was small. “I thought you were seeing someone.”

Ken’s smile was faint. “I was. Just not the way you thought.”

Josh gave a shaky laugh. “I feel stupid.”

“You’re not.”

“I thought… you were choosing someone else. And the whole time, it was me,” Josh whispered. 

He then hovered there for a long moment. “So… my name. It’s important?”

Ken nodded. “To the world? Yeah. But here?” He looked at him. “Here, you’re just Josh. And that’s who I stayed for.”

Josh looked at the drafting table, at the quiet warmth of the house around them.
“So you don’t care who I was?”

“I care who you are.”

A long beat.

Then Ken added, voice steady:

“I’m going back tomorrow. To visit you. If you want to come with me… you can.”

Josh didn’t answer immediately.

But the way he turned toward Ken, the way his eyes shimmered with something between fear and hope—

It was enough.

And for the first time in days, Josh felt a little less like he was floating through someone else’s life.

And a little more like he might want to come back to his own.

Chapter Text

The city unfolded slowly outside the car window — concrete blooming from soil, steel creeping in like vines.

Josh hovered quietly in the passenger seat, half-phased into the headrest, watching the world shift around them. He didn’t speak. Not because he didn’t want to — but because something inside him had settled into a heavy, quiet awe.

They had been driving for nearly an hour.

Bahay na Bato sat on the edge of the metro — where the roads narrowed into tree-lined paths and rooftops sloped low, old and sun-warmed. But this? This was the city’s heart. Towering glass, flashing billboards, the thrum of a thousand lives happening all at once. Even invisible, Josh could feel the weight of it pressing in — too loud, too fast, too real.

He glanced at Ken.

One hand on the wheel, the other steady on the gearshift. Eyes on the road. Jaw tight. Not tense — just closed. Guarded.

Josh looked away. Then back again.

“You’ve been doing this every day,” he said quietly. “All this way.”

Ken didn’t look at him, but nodded once. “Yeah.”

“You hate driving.”

Ken shrugged. “It’s not about me.”

Josh sat back, stunned into silence.

He had thought Ken was reserved. Detached. Distant by choice. But this — this quiet, consistent effort — told a different story. Josh had been drifting through grief, uncertain of where he belonged. Meanwhile, Ken had been building something. A path. A tether. A way back. Every mile of this road, every return trip, every sketch afterward — it was part of something Josh hadn’t seen until now.

Something real.

The car turned onto a familiar avenue. The air grew heavier. More urgent.

Josh sat forward. Bracing himself.

He wasn’t ready.

But he wanted to be.

And this time, he wouldn’t let Ken walk into that hospital alone.

=====

When they pulled into the hospital parking lot, Josh didn’t speak.
Didn’t float ahead like he usually did.

Ken turned off the engine. Reached for the door handle.

Josh didn’t move.

Then, very softly:
“Am I in there?”

Ken didn’t answer right away.
Just stared straight ahead. Then — calm, steady:

“Yes.”

Josh stared at the building, wide-eyed.
“How bad is it?” he whispered.

Ken looked at him.
“ICU.”

Josh exhaled like he’d been punched.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then Ken said, voice gentler now, “You can stay in the car. If you don’t want to come up.”

Josh didn’t answer.

Didn’t know what he’d say if he tried.

The silence between them wasn’t cold.

It was honest.
And heavy.
And real.

=====

They walked the hospital corridors in silence.

Josh hovered just a little behind Ken, his usual commentary swallowed by the weight of it all. The fluorescent lights made everything too sharp — too white, too clean, too cold. Every step Ken took echoed just a little too loudly, a quiet reverberation that seemed to bounce around in Josh’s chest.

They reached the ICU wing.

Ken paused in front of a door. Took a quiet breath. Knocked once, out of habit. Then pushed it open.

Josh followed.

And froze.

There he was.

Him.

Joshua Santos.

Lying still on the hospital bed — pale, unmoving, wired to too many machines. The ventilator hissed softly in rhythm. An IV dripped in slow, patient beats. His face looked thinner than Josh remembered it — or maybe he’d never really known it like this. Not still. Not silent. Not this close to vanishing.

It was him, but… not.

He looked like a version paused mid-disappearance. Like someone who had already let go, but whose body hadn’t gotten the message.

Josh drifted closer. He reached out instinctively — and his hand passed straight through the edge of the bed.

Of course.

Ken stepped forward. Calm. Familiar.

He reached down and took the body’s hand — no hesitation, no ceremony. Like it was something he did every day.

Then he brought it to his lips.

Not a show. Not a gesture made for an audience.

Just… soft. Deliberate. A kiss to the back of the knuckles — like a promise, like a prayer, like something so intimate it made Josh’s chest ache.

Josh stared.

“You do that often?” he asked, voice rough at the edges.

Ken didn’t look away from the hand he held.

“Every time.”

Josh moved to the other side of the bed. Looked down at himself.

The version of him that was still breathing. Still fighting. Still here.

“Do I look… gone?”

Ken’s voice came low. “You look like someone who’s holding on.”

Josh watched the slow rise and fall of his chest. The monitor’s steady beeping. The faint shiver of breath pushed in and out.

And Ken — steady, unwavering — rubbing slow circles over the back of his hand with his thumb. Like it was instinct. Like this was just… what you did when someone mattered.

“You care,” Josh whispered.

Ken didn’t hesitate.

“I do.”

Josh looked at his face.

Ken wasn’t looking at him. Not the floating version.

He was looking at the body in the bed. At the Josh who still had a chance to come back.

And Josh realized — this wasn’t about obligation. Or pity. Or some tender mercy for a ghost stuck in a house.

This was love.

Not loud. Not confessed.

But present in every drive, every sketch, every silent visit, and every kiss pressed to his fingers.

Josh looked back at himself.

And for the first time… he didn’t feel like a stranger.

He felt wanted. Chosen.

And that, somehow, was even scarier than the silence.

=====

Ken didn’t let go.

He just sat there, steady and quiet, one hand holding Josh’s, the other resting loosely on his knee. There was no dramatic speech. No whispered prayers. Just presence — solid, unmoving. A tether holding something fragile to the earth.

Josh hovered in the corner of the room, cross-legged midair, watching them.

“…You just sit with me and hold my hand?” he asked softly.

Ken didn’t answer.

He just nodded once.

That single motion carried more weight than any monologue.

Josh looked down at his body again. He couldn’t feel the hand Ken held. But watching it — seeing the care in the stillness — was somehow enough.

They stayed like that for a long time. Maybe an hour. Maybe longer. Time moved differently here.

Then the door opened.

Justin stepped in, a coffee in one hand, backpack slung over one shoulder. He paused in the doorway — surprised, but not unpleasantly — to see Ken already there.

“Oh,” he said. “Hey. You beat me here.”

Ken looked up and nodded.

Josh watched Justin cross the room, set the coffee on the side table, and move to the other side of the bed — instinctively mirroring Ken’s position. It was something practiced. Familiar. Like they’d both carved out space beside him and never questioned the right to stay.

Justin’s gaze dropped to where Ken still held Josh’s hand.

“You’ve been here long?” he asked.

Ken shrugged. “Couple hours.”

Justin gave a faint smile, eyes flicking toward Josh’s face.

“He looks better today.”

Josh wanted to respond — wanted to fill the air with some dumb quip. But he stayed quiet.

Justin pulled a chair closer. Calm. Natural.

Then — without hesitation — he reached for Josh’s other hand.

Josh flinched.

Not from pain.

But from meaning.

“Hey, Kuya,” Justin said softly, voice warm and familiar — like he said it every time. “You better wake up soon.”

He glanced toward Ken, then back down at Josh’s body.

“It’s not just me holding your hand now,” he added, quieter. “It’s not just you and me anymore.”

Josh blinked.

He felt it — not the physical touch, but the weight of it. The intention. Ken on one side. Justin on the other. Both real. Both holding on.

He wasn’t just remembered.

He was held .

And that changed everything.

Ken didn’t speak. But he looked across the bed — at Justin, at the hand he held, then back at Josh. There was understanding in his eyes. Quiet. Unspoken.

Josh floated just above them, unmoving.

His breath hitched — or it would have, if he had breath at all.

No sarcasm. No jokes. Just stillness.

For the first time since waking in this in-between state, he wasn’t afraid of the stillness.

Because this time, he wasn’t alone in it.

And for the first time… being apart from his body hurt.

He looked at the two of them — Ken, steady as gravity. Justin, fierce in his quiet loyalty.

And realized:

This wasn’t just a hospital room.

It was an anchor.

And for the first time in weeks—

He wanted to come back.

Not just to remember who he was.

But to be with them.

To stay .

Chapter Text

Later that night, back at Bahay na Bato, the house had gone still.

Ken lay in bed, one arm folded under his head, staring up at the ceiling. The fan whirred above in slow circles. The windows were open just enough to let in the sound of crickets and far-off dogs.

Sleep hadn’t come yet.

It rarely did easily, not after days like this.

Josh hovered near the foot of the bed, unsure for once.

“…Can I stay beside you?”

Ken didn’t even blink.
He nodded.

Josh drifted forward, slow, almost reverent. He curled up beside Ken, mimicking a human shape — knees tucked slightly in, head near Ken’s shoulder.

He couldn’t touch. Couldn’t feel the sheets. But he wanted to be close.

That had to count for something.

Ken didn’t move. Just let him stay.

They lay there in silence. Breathing in separate rhythms — one deep and real, the other imagined. But side by side, all the same.

Josh closed his eyes.

His thoughts drifted — not sharp, not spiraling. Just soft.

He loved Ken.

There it was. Clear and quiet.

Not the kind that demanded answers or declarations.
Just a truth — simple, steady, unshakable.
The kind you recognize only when everything else has fallen away.

He didn’t say it aloud.

Didn’t need to.

Not yet.

For the first time in… he didn’t know how long, the weightlessness didn’t feel like drowning.

It felt like rest.

=====

Ken woke with a start.

The bed felt… empty.
Too empty.

He sat up, heart already pounding, eyes scanning the room.
“Josh?”

No answer.

He stood quickly — checked the corners, the drafting table, the hallway just beyond his door.
Nothing.

Kitchen?
Empty.

Garden?
Silent.

Lola was out at the market — he remembered that now, vaguely.

“Josh,” Ken said again, sharper this time. “Where are you?”

Still nothing.

The quiet in the house felt different.
Not the gentle stillness Josh filled with sarcastic remarks and curious pacing.
Not the peaceful kind they’d fallen into, side by side last night.

This was absence.
Real, terrifying absence.

Ken’s chest tightened. His hands trembled, just a little.

He reached for his phone.
No new messages. No calls.

His thumb hovered over Justin’s name — he just needed to hear a voice, any voice , that could tether him back to something solid—

His phone started ringing.
Justin.

Ken answered instantly. “Justin—”

“Ken,” Justin interrupted, breathless. “Kuya woke up.”

The world stopped .

Ken didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“He’s awake,” Justin repeated, voice cracking. “He opened his eyes. He asked for water. The nurse had to triple check. Ken—he’s really awake.”

Ken sat down slowly on the stairs.
His free hand gripped the wood, like the house itself was the only thing holding him together.

He remembered Josh curled up beside him last night — the hush between them, the closeness, the weight of something unspoken finally settling into truth.

He closed his eyes.

“…Okay,” he managed.

Not because he was okay.

But because Josh was.

=====

The last thing Josh remembered was curling up beside Ken.

Not touching — not really — but close enough that it felt like something.
Ken’s quiet presence beside him, warm in the dark, had eased something deep in Josh’s chest.

He’d closed his eyes thinking: If this is all I ever get, maybe it’s enough.

And then—
Everything changed.

A wave of gravity slammed into him.
Not metaphorical. Not poetic.
Real.

Heavy.

Like his skin was stone.
Like his lungs were filled with mud.
He was in his body again.
Trapped inside a shell that had been still for months.

Breathing hurt.
Even existing hurt.

And then —
Sound.

Beeping. Shouting. Movement.
Light flooded his eyes. Voices crashed through the quiet. Hands held him down.
There was tape on his chest. Needles in his arm. A mask pressed too tight to his mouth and nose.

He was panicking . He wanted to scream. He couldn’t even move.

And then—

“Josh?!”

A voice. Cracking. Familiar.
Justin.

“ Kuya, look at me—look at me—oh my God— ”

Josh tried .
Everything was too loud. Too sharp. Too much.

So he did the only thing his body could manage.

He blinked.

The machines screamed louder, but the panic around him shifted.
Someone shouted “He’s stabilizing!”
Someone else ran for the doctor.

Justin’s hand gripped his tightly — and this time, he felt it.

Not just the pressure of skin on skin.

But what it meant.

That he was here.
That Justin had never let go.
That someone had stayed.

He was back.
It hurt.
God, it hurt.

But for the first time in what felt like forever—
He wasn’t floating.
He wasn’t fading.
He was held .

And somewhere in that overwhelming noise, he remembered—

Ken.
His voice. His silence. The way he held his hand like it meant something.
Like Josh meant something.

Josh didn’t have the strength to say it aloud.

But even through the pain, even through the panic, a single truth cut clear:

He had come back for them.
And he wanted to stay.

====

The chaos had dulled.

Josh was awake — not fully alert, not yet. But he was stable.

The machines had calmed to a steady rhythm. The nurses moved around him still, but slower now. Softer. Justin had stepped out to call the doctors, maybe to breathe.

And that was when Ken walked in.

He paused just past the doorway, as if unsure he was allowed to be there.

Still in dark jeans and a plain shirt. Still carrying the kind of tension that came from a day interrupted mid-breath. Josh’s eyes landed on him instantly.

Ken stopped.

For a long second, he didn’t move. Just stood there. Like he wasn’t sure if he should come closer. Like he wasn’t sure if Josh would remember him.
If Josh would want him here.

Josh blinked. His throat burned, raw and unused. His muscles felt like wet sandbags. But even through the haze, even without voice—he looked at Ken, and knew him.

He shifted his fingers slightly — barely a twitch.

And that was enough.

Ken stepped forward. Slowly. Carefully. As if the distance between them was fragile glass.

He reached for Josh’s hand. And Josh squeezed back.

Clumsy. Weak. But unmistakably real.

Ken exhaled — not loudly, but like he’d been holding that breath for weeks.

He sat down beside the bed, both hands now wrapped around Josh’s.

No words.
No small talk.

Just this.

Josh stared at him. Then at their hands. Then back.

He wanted to laugh — or cry — or ask what the hell had taken so long.
He wanted to say: You came back.
But he couldn’t. Not yet.

Ken’s grip stayed steady. Thumbs brushing gently over Josh’s knuckles, like he couldn’t stop touching now that he finally can. That it was real.

Josh’s thoughts spiraled.

Friend, he reminded himself — echoing Ken’s words from before. Ken is visiting his friend.

But Ken’s eyes didn’t look at him like a friend now.

Not after everything.

Not when his hands trembled with quiet relief.

Then — slowly, like a tide pulling in — Ken leaned forward.

And instead of kissing Josh’s hand like before, he pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Not reverent. Not polite.
Intimate. Certain. Grounding.

Like he had finally stopped waiting.

Josh froze.

Eyes wide. Breath shallow. He stared at the ceiling like it had betrayed him.

Did that just happen.
Am I hallucinating.
Did he really just—

Ken pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

“I can imagine you saying a million things in your head right now.”

Josh tried to move his mouth. Tried to raise a brow. Nothing.

Ken smiled — not teasing, not smug. Just quietly relieved.

“Or not,” he added. “If I fried your brain again.”

Josh blinked once. Then again. He managed a slow-motion glare, which only made Ken chuckle softly.

The sound slid under his skin.

Ken’s hand was still holding his.

Then, almost lazily, Ken added, “Take your time, baby.”

Josh malfunctioned.

His heart monitor betrayed him instantly.

Ken looked at the screen and smirked.

Josh blinked again, this time slower. His face a picture of mute, stunned outrage.

Ken leaned back like he hadn’t just detonated a nuclear-grade term of endearment in a medical setting.

Josh, wordless and flustered beyond comprehension, lay there combusting.

Because apparently, waking up from a coma wasn’t the hardest part.

Being called “baby” by Ken Suson while completely unable to speak was.

====

The room was quiet after Ken left — too quiet.

Josh stared at the door long after it clicked shut, like he could still hear Ken’s voice echoing in the air.
Take your time, baby.

Josh mentally short-circuited all over again.
He was still rebooting. Still emotionally buffering.

Not just from the kiss to his forehead — though that had short-circuited several essential systems — but from the audacity of that word.
So soft. So sure.
Said like it belonged to them already.

Ken had known exactly what he was doing.
Which somehow made it worse.
Which somehow made it better .

Josh stared at the ceiling, dazed.
The warmth of Ken’s presence still lingered like static across his chest.

It wasn’t just the kiss. Or the hand-holding.
It was the care. The quiet, steady kind that said:
I see you. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

Josh’s thoughts finally caught up with him.
Ken was a Suson.
Not just some quiet sketch artist he’d stumbled into.
Not a soft blur of comfort in a borrowed house.

No — Ken Suson.
Of those Susons.

Josh’s eyes fluttered shut.
The pieces rearranged themselves.
He remembered press releases and business headlines, society columns and half-heard interviews.

Ken could’ve lived in that world.
Had all the name, all the weight behind it.
But he chose something else.
He chose Bahay na Bato.
He chose art.
And somehow, impossibly — he’d chosen Josh.

Long before either of them remembered who Josh really was.

Josh didn’t know what to do with that.
Except clutch it tight, quiet and sacred, somewhere just under his ribs.

The door opened again.

Justin walked in, coffee in hand and an expression that spelled chaos incoming .
He dropped into the chair Ken had just left and gave Josh one look —
And grinned.

“I like your friend,” Justin said, voice all mischief. “And a Suson, kuya. Really?”

Josh raised an eyebrow. Still couldn’t speak, but managed the classic older-sibling stare: Not today.

Justin, of course, ignored it completely.

“Although,” he added, “I don’t think he’s just a friend. Friends don’t hold your hand like that. He’s been showing up every single day. You started stabilizing after he started visiting. Coincidence?” He sipped his coffee. “I think not.”

Josh groaned. Or tried to. It came out more like a wheeze and a prayer.

Justin leaned in, conspiratorial. “You met him in a café? Since when do you hang out in cafés and pick up brooding, hot artists?”
A beat.
“He’s basically built for you. Quiet. Intense. Stares at you like he wants to draw you and punch someone for you. Very on brand.”

Josh turned his head dramatically to the side like he was regretting every life decision that had led to being Justin’s older brother.

Justin just chuckled and, finally, softened.
He reached over and touched Josh’s arm gently — careful, steady.

“He’s a Suson,” he said again, this time quieter. “Was that why you didn’t tell us?” A pause. “You know how Mother gets. She’d have weaponized it.”

Josh didn’t move. But he heard it.
Underneath the joke: I know why you hid. I don’t blame you.

“I’m just glad he found you,” Justin said simply.
“And that you’re still here to come back to him.”

Josh turned his head again — this time toward Justin.
There was something raw in his eyes.

Justin didn’t push.
Just nodded like he understood.

“He’s still here,” he added. “Looks like he plans to stay.”

Josh didn’t answer.
But something shifted in his face.
A flicker of warmth. Of wonder.
Of something real .

And the smallest, sleepiest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Because for the first time — with all the memories back, with all the names known —
Josh still believed it:

Ken had chosen him first.
Not for his name. Not for his past.
Just him .

And maybe…
Maybe Josh was ready to choose him back.