Chapter 4

- Migs' POV -

The ballroom sparkled with a fake kind of beauty. There were so many shiny, sequined dresses, perfectly styled hair that looked like it couldn't fall, and the constant, sharp sound of champagne glasses hitting each other in well-kept hands.

Tonight was a charity party for something I didn't really care about – it had to do with poor kids and art, something that would look good in pictures for someone like me. But the real, unspoken reason, like always in these fancy circles of Manila's high society, was the careful game of meeting people, keeping up appearances, and the quiet, almost greedy way people enjoyed the shallow, quick moments of social maneuvering.

I moved through the crowd easily, like I'd done it a million times, with a charming smile stuck on my face for the cameras. I exchanged polite words with important producers, ambitious directors who wanted me for their next movie, and the usual group of perfectly dressed socialites whose main job seemed to be making connections.

It was an act, just another part of the carefully made-up Miguel Montemayor image, a role I played so often that sometimes it felt more real than the actual guy underneath. And tonight, under the bright chandeliers and feeling the pressure of expectations, it felt especially empty. The applause only existed in the polite murmurs and the flashing of distant cameras.

I found myself stuck talking to a striking woman with eyes as sharp and judging as a film critic and a quick wit. Her name was Isabella, a well-respected art expert with great connections and a sophisticated, distant air. We'd been flirting in a predictable, almost routine way for most of the night, a carefully planned dance of suggestive looks across crowded tables and well-crafted compliments that didn't really mean anything.

She was definitely beautiful, definitely intelligent, and completely, maybe even on purpose, not interested in anything deeper – a seemingly perfect match for how I felt right now, a connection built on shared shallowness and the unspoken agreement not to care too much. As she told an amusing, slightly scandalous story about a recent art auction in Hong Kong, her voice a low, secret whisper, my eyes wandered almost without me wanting them to across the crowded room.

I caught a quick, slightly disturbing glimpse of my own reflection in a mirrored pillar. The practiced, charming smile looked…tired, the fake sparkle around my eyes feeling forced.

Later, while smoothly saying I needed more champagne, my phone vibrated in the inside pocket of my expensive suit.

It was Ari.

"Hey, just wanted to say thanks again for the congrats on the opening. It meant a lot."

A quick, almost unwelcome feeling of guilt, quickly pushed away, flickered inside me like a broken neon sign. I hadn't made it to his art show. Filming that silly action movie had really gone over schedule, and then there had been that boring, must-do dinner with a possible foreign investor who seemed more interested in the food than the movie itself.

Excuses.

They always seemed easy to find, perfectly made and ready to use, when it came to Ari's important moments.

I quickly typed out a casual, equally shallow reply: "No worries, man! Glad it was a huge success. We still on for that drink sometime this week?"

Easy, casual, keeping up the comfortable act of effortless friendship. No need to talk about the real reasons I wasn't there, the laziness I felt, the almost deliberate way I always seemed to avoid truly making him a priority, from acknowledging how important his achievements were in my own self-centered world.

The rest of the night went as expected, following the predictable, fancy script. More shallow but well-said conversations, more practiced, dazzling smiles aimed at the right important people, more quick, meaningless connections that disappeared as fast as the tiny bubbles in my refilled champagne glass.

By the time I finally managed to slip away from the glittering crowd, the city lights blurry through the rainy taxi window, a familiar, almost comforting feeling of emptiness settled inside me, a hollow echo that seemed to follow me from one shallow event to the next. These carefully made connections, these quick moments of fake closeness, never really felt real, never truly filled the constant, underlying emptiness.

Later that night, a restless, almost anxious energy kept me tossing and turning in my big, fancy condo. My stomach rumbled a little, a late reminder that the small snacks at the party weren't a real meal. Suddenly, almost without thinking, I pulled out my phone and texted Ari: "Still up? Random craving for some late-night siopao. You hungry?"

It wasn't a sudden, strong desire to see him, more of a convenient, almost practical thought – he was in town, probably still awake after the emotional high of his opening, and always easy to hang out with, a familiar, undemanding presence. Plus, the idea of grabbing some greasy takeout and just chilling in his hotel room was much safer for my carefully managed public image than being seen at some brightly lit, late-night diner, potentially becoming gossip news.

A few minutes later, a familiar notification popped up: "Yeah, still awake. That sounds good."

Pulling on a baseball cap low over my eyes, a weak attempt to not be recognized, and a dark-colored face mask that offered little protection against any lingering paparazzi or overly excited fans who might be around even in this quieter part of Makati, I grabbed a bag of steaming, fragrant siopao and a six-pack of local beer from a brightly lit convenience store. Within the hour, I was knocking quietly on the door of Ari's plain hotel room.

The chain rattled, and the door opened to show Ari, looking a little tired but with the same genuine, open smile that always reached his expressive eyes.

"Hey," he said softly, stepping back to let me into the small, temporary space. His hotel room, while not luxurious, had a surprising touch of his personality – a few carefully chosen art books stacked neatly on a side table, a half-finished sketchbook lying open on the messy desk, a silent sign of his constant creative urge.

"Hey," I replied, holding up the bag of still-steaming siopao and the clinking six-pack of beer.

"Dinner's here. Sorry again I completely missed the opening. Work was…insane." The excuse sounded weak and not good enough even as I said it, a line I used so often it had become a substitute for actually trying.

Ari waved his hand dismissively, his easygoing nature, as always, obvious.

"Don't worry about it, Migs. I know how it is."

His almost annoyingly easy acceptance, something that always happened between us, both relieved me of the immediate guilt and, at the same time, inexplicably made me feel… something. It wasn't annoyance, not really. It was more like a familiar comfort, one of the things I genuinely liked about him – his endless capacity for understanding. But sometimes, it also made me feel like I got away with too much, that I wasn't being held accountable in the way maybe I should be?

We sat down on the small, cramped balcony looking out at the quiet, dimly lit street below, the distant sounds of the city a soft, almost soothing hum. I opened a can of beer and handed him one, the coldness feeling good in my hand. The siopao smelled deliciously savory, the sweet and savory smell filling the humid night air.

"So," I began, taking a big bite of the soft, doughy bun filled with the sweet, seasoned pork, "the opening looked like a big success online. Lots of good buzz." It was a safe, neutral topic, focusing on his achievement without needing any real emotional involvement or admitting I wasn't there.

"Yeah, it was… overwhelming, in a good way," Ari replied, a hint of a tired but genuinely pleased smile on his lips. "A lot of people seemed to… connect with the work. They actually saw what I was trying to say."

There was a quiet pride in his voice, a subtle feeling of accomplishment that I genuinely recognized, even if I didn't fully understand how vulnerable it made him to show his deepest emotions publicly.

A comfortable, familiar silence settled between us, only broken by the occasional clink of beer cans and the distant city sounds. It was familiar, this quiet hanging out, this easy, undemanding presence. It was comfortable.

"Thanks for coming by," Ari said softly after a while, his eyes meeting mine in the dim light from the hotel room. There was a warmth in his eyes, a familiar tenderness, a silent offer of something deeper that I instinctively knew went beyond just friendship.

"No problem," I replied, maybe a little too quickly, reaching for another siopao, the act a convenient distraction. "I was starving anyway."

The quick reply was automatic, a well-used trick to avoid acknowledging the constant, unspoken emotions that always seemed to be between us, a delicate, fragile tension that I consistently chose to ignore.

The conversation went back to lighter, more shallow topics – a slightly funny story from my time on set, a brief, almost routine mention of his talks with some of the people at the art show. It was easy, comfortable, a familiar pattern we'd had for years in a friendship that had always felt one-sided.

And as the late night went on, helped by the lukewarm beer and the tired feeling from the day, that comfortable familiarity began to slowly change into something else, a barely noticeable shift in the charged air that had always been there, a constant feeling just under the calm surface of our friendly interactions. A look that lasted a little too long, a hand resting a little too heavily on an arm during a shared laugh, the familiar, almost magnetic pull of a connection that, for me, was mostly about convenience and a quick, selfish need for simple physical closeness.

For Ari, I knew, it was something much deeper, a deep well of unspoken emotion that I consistently chose to just touch the surface of. But tonight, under the hazy, orange glow of the Manila streetlights shining onto the cramped balcony, I chose, once again, to pretend not to see the true depth of his feelings.

The carefully drawn lines blurred, like they always seemed to between us in the quiet, unguarded hours, and we eventually ended up back in his hotel room. The easy comfort of our long friendship shifted, the air thick with a familiar tension that always simmered beneath the surface. Tonight, the impulse was mine. A restless energy had been building all night, a familiar craving for a specific kind of release, and Ari was… available.

I reached for him, my touch possessive, pulling him closer. His breath hitched, a soft gasp that fueled the sudden heat rising within me. There was an immediate yielding in his body, a silent acceptance that I'd come to expect, but tonight, there was also a palpable eagerness, a subtle tremor in his hands as he reached back for me.

My mouth found his, the kiss demanding, a clear statement of intent. I could taste the lingering bitterness of the beer, mixed with a deeper, more familiar flavor that always drew me in. He responded instantly, his lips parting, a low moan escaping his throat that sent a jolt of something akin to satisfaction through me.

I moved against him, a deliberate teasing in my touch, my hands roaming his body, lingering just long enough to elicit a reaction, a soft gasp, a tightening grip. There was a hunger in his eyes, a desperate need for more that I both recognized and, in a detached way, acknowledged. I knew what he wanted, the unspoken yearning that always seemed to hover between us, and there was a certain power in controlling the pace, in offering just enough to keep him wanting.

His hands clutched at my shoulders, his body pressing closer, a silent plea for deeper connection. I obliged, but there was a calculated edge to my movements, a subtle withholding that seemed to heighten the intensity for him. He was so open, so readily offering everything, and there was a certain thrill in knowing I held that power, even if I didn't intend to fully reciprocate the depth of his unspoken emotions.

He whispered my name, a breathless sound filled with a longing that I chose to interpret solely as physical desire. He moved with a frantic energy, his body mirroring my own, but there was an underlying desperation in his movements, a seeking that went beyond the immediate pleasure. I felt it, a subtle tremor in his touch, a barely contained emotion that felt like it was right on the verge of spilling over.

In the hazy darkness, I caught a glimpse of his face, his eyes locked on mine, a fierce intensity burning within them. For a fleeting moment, a breath hitched in his throat, and I could almost hear the unspoken words hovering in the air, something that felt dangerously close to a confession I wasn't ready to hear. But the moment passed, lost in the rhythm of our movements, and I didn't dwell on it, pushing forward with a detached focus on the physical release.

A while later, the comfortable silence returned, now filled with a different, heavier kind of energy. As Ari lay beside me, his breathing soft and even in the dimly lit room, a familiar restlessness, an almost trapped feeling, began to stir inside me.

This wasn't my space, this wasn't my carefully made life. The quick warmth of what had just happened had served its purpose, a temporary, easily forgotten comfort against the constant, underlying emptiness that seemed to follow me even when I was physically close to someone.

I slipped out of bed quietly, putting on my clothes in the soft light of the bedside lamp.

"Leaving already?" Ari murmured sleepily, his voice thick with tiredness, the question having a hint of something I chose not to notice, a vulnerability I always ignored.

"Yeah, early call time tomorrow," I lied smoothly, pulling my baseball cap back on and adjusting the anonymity of my dark face mask. "Congrats again on the opening. It was… really something."

The last part felt almost real, a quick moment of recognizing his talent that briefly broke through my self-absorption.

He just nodded, his eyes still half-closed, a quiet acceptance that both calmed my brief guilt and, strangely, still managed to slightly annoy me. Why was he always so understanding?

"Safe drive back."

I slipped out of the room and into the quiet, impersonal hallway, the mask and cap a welcome shield against anyone outside who might recognize me.