The sun was high. It was 9 a.m. now, and peace had returned to the diner. With his uncle now on shift, Ethan was finally free to leave and head back to his flat. Walking on foot, still covered in the mess from earlier, he desperately needed a shower before attending his medical school classes.
A motorcycle rumbled in the distance, gradually approaching. Jacques rolled in slowly, riding the stolen bike with ease. A plastic bag dangled from his back, looking heavy and stuffed. A wide grin stretched across his face—he knew he'd just done something cool.
"Hey, where are you headed?" Jacques asked, slowing down to ride alongside him.
"My medical school," Ethan replied, adjusting his glasses. There was no way he'd tell Jacques where his flat was.
"Looking like that? I doubt it." Jacques tilted his head, clearly amused as he eyed Ethan's disheveled appearance.
"Looking like what? I'm fine." Ethan flicked off a piece of lettuce clinging to his nurse uniform.
"You know you're not. Come on—hop on. I'll take you to your flat, and then I'll drive you to your school." Jacques picked up a little speed to match Ethan's pace. Ethan swore he could feel Jacques' eyes on him, and it tortured him.
So, Ethan suddenly stopped in front of the bike, blocking his path. "Jacques, I'm serious. Just go home and pretend we never met. Thank you for what you did earlier. It was… entertaining watching those bikers panic—especially the one with dog poop in his engine. That was the best part."
Then, his face went bitter. He has to do it. There's no other choice—it's for the best.
"But take my advice: go home. Forget everything. Forget me. Move on with your life and be happy. Farewell."
Jacques replied, "Ouch, I got amnesia… hey, four-eyes! You look cute! What's your name?"
It immediately shattered Ethan's seriousness and broke the melancholy.
Ethan, half angry, half amused, kick his motorcycle's tire, "Go away! You gremlin!"
"Ah yes!! I love my rica—spicy and nagging!"
"What are you talking abou—oh..." Ethan realized Jacques must be referring to his condition now, with sauce, vegetables, and sodas all over his body and clothes.
Ethan collapsed against the nearby wall to hide his face. "Oh God… why is it always you?" he muttered in frustration.
"It's just a ride. Why so scared?" Jacques revved the motorcycle impatiently.
"It's not like that!"
"Then what?"
"I just—" Ethan stopped himself, then shut his mouth. More like he didn't know how to say what was on his mind, because he knew it would only make things worse.
"I'm not like your ex," Jacques remember that Ethan had an ex-boyfriend. Probably the relationship doesn't end well so right now he just want to be alone.
"Huh?"
"I'm not going to hurt you," Jacques said innocently.
"Ugh… this isn't going anywhere..." Ethan combs his hair slick back with his fingers, "Alright, you want to be close to me, do you? I'll let you have your way. Let's go."
Ethan stood up and sat behind Jacques. He kept a big gap between himself and Jacques's back, because his body was filled with sauce and soda—he didn't want to ruin Jacques's bomber jacket.
But Jacques grabbed his hands and pulled him close, pressed to his back.
"That's better."
"I'm full of sauce," Ethan gave a late warning.
"That's why you smells delicious," Jacques said, revving the motorcycle and driving to Ethan's flat.
Ethan think about a lot of things while clings into Jacques torso. He can't help but rests his head on Jacques's shoulder.
It's useless. He won't leave. And even if he did, he would find his way back one day.
He always comes back.
But being together isn't possible—like a bird and a fish; there's no place for us to belong together. Maybe, he thinks to himself, I need to do it differently this time...
But if I'm allowed to be honest...
Ethan tightened his arms around Jacques, as if he didn't want to let go.
They arrived at Ethan's flat—on the first-floor unit with flowers filling the veranda. It was a studio-type apartment. As soon as Ethan opened the door, the kitchen came into view. To the right was the toilet and bathroom; to the left, a single bed. Mounted high on the left wall was a TV, and beneath it, a small cabinet for storing clothes. An air conditioner sat right above the glass door leading to the veranda.
The veranda itself was fairly spacious. He'd placed a washing machine there, allowing him to hang his clothes right beside the flower pots.
"Welcome home," Ethan said as he stepped inside, with Jacques following behind.
Jacques walked in and stopped in the middle of the room. For a moment, he just stood there, scanning the space.
Somehow, everything seemed to slow down.
Jacques grew quiet. He looked around, sinking into his own thoughts.
"Where's the table?" he asked suddenly, startling Ethan.
"Table?"
"Yeah. You used to have a table… right here. With four chairs. Even though you lived alone—" Jacques paused, as if he couldn't understand where that idea was coming from.
"Isn't this the first time you've been here?" Ethan folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe. He wasn't surprised—but he was curious just how much Jacques remembered.
"No…" Jacques paused again, his voice softening. He stepped out onto the veranda and slid the glass door wide open. A warm breeze drifted into the apartment, carrying with it a strange sense of nostalgia.
"...I've been here before."
"Are you...?" Ethan's eyes widened. He remembers?!
But Jacques quickly brushed it off. "Must be lack of sleep. Do you have coffee?"
"You're fifteen. No coffee or soda for you," Ethan said as he opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of milk, and threw it to Jacques. "Drink this instead."
"Okay, Mom," Jacques raised his eyebrows like an obedient child as he effortlessly caught the bottle and sat by the veranda door—his favorite spot. Still his favorite spot.
"Wow, you even know the brand I like," Jacques said, sounding genuinely happy. He felt understood by Ethan, and that was a good thing. It meant he didn't have to explain much—Ethan would get it.
"I'm gonna take a bath. Don't peek," Ethan said, snatching up a towel. Jacques caught a subtle flirt in his eyes as he disappeared behind the door.
Jacques waited patiently, drinking the milk, savoring every corner of the studio. It was peaceful. For a moment, he thought he saw a flash—a glimpse of white fabric clothes hanging on the veranda, drying under the sun.
His eyes grew heavy, and he drifted into the dream world.
Sunlight slipped through the leaves. Rod once again found himself following The Mentor, walking through the woods. The sound of crickets echoed faintly in the distance.
He wasn't sure where they were going. The Mentor had said it was a personal mission during regular patrol.
"Do you remember, Rod?" The Mentor's voice sounded blurry, like he was speaking underwater.
"Remember what?" Rod's voice was distant too.
"My name."
"Charl—wait... no, you're not Charles," Rod said as he walked. He glanced at The Mentor—his brown skin, his tall and broad shoulders. Familiar, but still vague. The Mentor had removed his gas mask as soon as they entered the forest, as if encouraging Rod to do the same, to prove the air wasn't as toxic as they'd been told.
Rod believed him... but he was still afraid to take off his own.
Maybe... because change is scary. It's unreasonable, but it's there.
"You said you know where Charles is," Rod said, then corrected himself. "I mean, the mentor before you."
"Yes. I know where he is."
"Where?"
They reached the end of the forest.
Rod pushed some leaves aside and revealed a beautiful beach surrounded by coral. The sound of the waves breaking peacefully told a silent story—how the yacht had gotten stranded there and remained stuck.
"What is that?" Rod asked, realizing the once-blurry dream had now become vivid—as if he were really there.
"This?" The Mentor smirked, looking at the ship with pride. "This is our wings."
On the body of the yacht, a word was painted in deep blue:
VOLARE!
"Wow..." Rod was captivated.
"You said you wanted to know where he is? Follow me," the Mentor said, walking toward the yacht. He climbed the coral near it to enter, and Rod followed.
The Mentor took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door that led to the yacht's interior.
It was a simple, neat room with a bed—or was it a sofa?—a table, and a door leading to the toilet. A small television hung on the wall across from the sofa. At the end of the sofa stood a compact, single-door fridge that looked sturdy enough to survive even a storm.
"What the...?" Rod had expected to find the First Mentor resting inside, maybe chilling—but he wasn't there.
"Where is he? Nobody's here," Rod said, looking at the New Mentor with a twinge of frustration, feeling like he'd been tricked.
But the New Mentor handed him a TV remote, and Rod understood.There was something he needed to watch.
He took the remote—and Jacques woke up from the dream, finding himself back on Ethan's veranda.
His body was covered with a blanket, and the sky had turned gray. The wind howled—it looked like a storm was on the way.
The sound of a motorcycle roaring below caught Jacques's attention. He crossed the veranda to take a peek.
It was Ethan, with a man.A handsome one.They looked... very close.
Did he already find someone? Is that why he keeps rejecting me?
Jacques left the veranda and noticed a low table placed in the middle of the room. It was the kind of table you could easily move around—no chair needed, just sit on the floor. It hadn't been there before he'd fallen asleep. Ethan must've set it up.
But what really caught his eye were the two items on the table, his wallet and his phone. The riders must've left them at the diner, and Ethan had gone to retrieve them.
Jacques checked his phone. It was still working fine. The riders hadn't reset or factory-wiped it.
He opened his messages. Two texts from Charles. Three missed calls.
First message: "Where are you? The class is about to start!"
The second message had come thirty minutes after class had started:"Sometimes I wonder why you're even here, Jacq."
And just now, a new one appeared from Charles:"Finally you read the message. Where have you been?!"
Jacques typed out a reply:"I overslept. I'll be back soon."Then hit send.
Gentle thuds echoed in the corridor outside the flat—followed by the clink of keys and the soft sound of an unlocking door. Ethan opened it, someone standing just behind him.
"Oh, you're still here," Ethan said, spotting Jacques sitting in the middle of his studio. Jacques noticed the handsome man behind Ethan didn't seem too pleased to see him.
"You brought someone here when you were supposed to be in school?" the man said, clearly displeased.
"Why? He's my cousin," Ethan snapped back, stepping into the studio. "Are you coming in or not?"
Jacques glanced over his shoulder when the man stayed at the threshold, arms folded.
The man shot Ethan a look full of quiet judgment before finally deciding to step inside.
Jacques definitely felt the awkwardness in the room. But something in him told him to stay—as if he needed to know more about their relationship.
Were they just friends… or something more?
It was strange, wasn't it?
Getting possessive over someone you'd only just met this morning.
And he could tell—the man felt the same way about him.
When the man joined Jacques at the small round table, the air shifted.
Tension wrapped around them like static.
The cold war was about to begin.