This was not an invitation, but a clear summons delivered in the flat imperative that Maki had inherited from their grandmother, along with her jawline and her total indifference to excuses, or tears.
“Kuya, I’m in London right now, I —”
“I know where you are, and I don’t care. Get your ass on a fucking private jet. Our lola is turning ninety. She’s been alive for ninety years, Diwa. She survived the Japanese, she survived Marcos. She’s survived our Tito Bong’s karaoke at Christmas, for decades, Diwa. Decades. And she is going to have her entire family in one room on October fourteenth or there will be consequences.”
Across the conservatory, Colin had opened one eye against the glare of the lamp. Diwa looked at him, and pressed his thumbnail into the seam of his jeans.
“I haven’t spoken to Mama since —”
“This isn’t about your mama. This isn’t about why you’re over there feeling sorry for yourself. This is about Lola Joy, who asks me every Sunday after mass whether you’ve rung, and every Sunday I have to tell her no. Then she says ‘Ay, he’s busy, that one,’ because she won’t hear a word against you even when you deserve it.” Maki paused long enough for the guilt to land where he’d aimed it. “She’s ninety, Diwa. She might not get another one of these big birthdays. Be there.”
The line went dead. Maki had never been one for goodbyes.
Diwa sat with the mobile in his lap, the screen already dimming, and stared at the conservatory floor. The lamp hummed beside Colin’s chair.
“Everything all right?” Colin asked.
“Yeah.” Diwa slid the mobile back into his pocket. “That was a family thing.”
Colin regarded him for a moment, then closed his eyes and settled back under the light. A minute passed. The lamp hummed. “Was that about your mum?” Colin asked, without opening his eyes.
“No. Well, kind of.” Diwa turned his mobile over in his hands. “My grandmother’s turning ninety in October. There’ll be a party in Manila. My cousin’s just rung to tell me I’m going whether I like it or not.”
“That’s nice. Is it gonna be a small family thing?”
Diwa laughed before he could stop himself. “There is no such thing as a small Filipino family, Colin. My grandmother has nine children, forty-something grandchildren, and a great-grandchild count that nobody’s been able to verify since 2019. The last family reunion took over an entire resort in Batangas. There was a rota for the karaoke machine.”
“A rota.”
“Alaminatedrota. My Tito Bong had it printed and colour-coded by household, because otherwise people queue-jump and he ends up not getting his slot for ‘My Way.’ Which, by the way, he performs every single time, and has done since before I was born, and nobody is allowed to comment on this because he once cried about it at Christmas.”
The corner of Colin’s mouth lifted. “Must be nice,” he said. “Growing up around that.”
His words were quiet and level, delivered in the same tone he’d use to observe that the weather had turned or the milk was nearly out. But Diwa knew what sat underneath them. Colin had raised two boys without a single relative to ring when the heating broke or the money ran short. He’d built a family out of nothing but willpower, and he’d done it without the thing Diwa had always taken for granted: the backing of a room full of people who shared your surname and who would show up for you whether you deserved it or not.
Diwa didn’t say anything. The lamp hummed on the side table, and Colin’s eyes had drifted shut once more.
“My heat’s due,” Colin said. “In a few days, I reckon. I’d like you there. If you want to be.”
Diwa drew up straighter in his seat. In all their time together, Colin had never once asked Diwa for anything. This being his first ask, this show of trust in Diwa, was everything.
“If you’d rather not, I’ll manage. I’ve managed before, and it’s a big ask when we’ve only really known each other a few months.”
Diwa set his book down on the arm of the chair. He crossed the small space between their chairs, crouched in front of Colin, and pressed his mouth to the furrow between Colin’s brows, blocking the lamp’s light with his own head.
Colin’s skin was hot under his lips. Underneath the familiar scent of soap and Colin’s own skin, the green-sap smell of him had ripened into something thicker and sweeter, closer to the split-open sweetness of overripe mango left too long on the counter.
He pulled back just enough to look at him. Colin’s eyes were open now, steady on Diwa’s face, waiting.
“Yeah,” Diwa said. “Yeah, I want to be there.”
The line between Colin’s brows eased. He held Diwa’s gaze. “Right,” Colin said. “Good.”
Diwa stayed where he was, crouched on the conservatory floor with his hands on the arms of Colin’s chair, close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin. He wanted to say more. Reassure Colin that they’d be good together. Instead he put his hand on Colin’s knee, and Colin’s free hand came down and covered it.
“So,” Diwa tipped his chin towards the lamp, still humming away on the side table. “Is it working? Do you feel amazing yet?”
Colin shook his head. “Nah. Still cranky.”
