Page 12 of Under The Twilight Rainfall
Nightmares of home after home being ripped out from under my feet.
One night, after a particularly bad one about being left out in the cold and rain, I woke up searching for Valen, and he wasn’t there. I climbed into his bed that night. Curled around him and used his presence to ward off the nightmares.
It became a thing. If he woke up, he got in bed and held me until the tears stopped. If I woke up, I stayed in his bed until morning.
I swore I’d never need someone like that again, but as we settle on the mat, Valen wrapped around me from behind, it feels like coming home.
I want to fight it, but a heaviness falls over me, and all it takes is Valen’s breathy whisper of “Good night,” and sleep takes over my overactive mind, leading me to a place where neither dreams nor nightmares exist.
It’s just emptiness and peace.
DexwantstogoAWOL so bad he’s nearly vibrating out of his seat. I see it in the clench of his fists and the little eye darts, telling me every time the Jeepney stops that he wants to bolt. I am one hundred percent not taking advantage of the fact that every time I close my hand over his, he goes stock still and misses his opportunity.
Not at all.
I know Dex’s portfolio like the back of my hand. I’ve seen every online gallery—publicandpassword protected—and I know that as much as he claims this trip is about discovering beauty and love on his own, his work shines the best when he’s focused on the camera work.
That’s not to say the teasing and erotic photos of himself he throws in aren’t absolutely breathtaking and captivating, but when he can focus on framing those same things on someone else? It’s next level.
We’re not even going to get into the camming session he does at the end of every destination.
He came to my home away from home, and I’m going to make sure he gets the most out of it—and learns to let go in the process.
The bazaar is bustling as it always is this time of day, crowds of people loitering around stalls and the aroma of fresh cooked meat permeating the air. Dex also wasn’t fond of my keeping him cooped up until almost evening for this trip, but the best of the market doesn’t show up until the sun starts going down.
Not to worry, SpecDex, I left you plenty of sunlight and sundown time for your pictures. I’m not a monster.
Dex doesn’t have a bag of equipment today, just a DSLR camera around his neck and a camera pack that I assume has extra lenses and… whatever else he might need. Not my area of expertise.
As we walk, taking in the stalls, smells, and chatter around us, the tenseness in Dex’s shoulders loosens. He’s still got a steel grip on his camera, like he needs to remind himself why he’s here, but the bazaar has effectively piqued his interest.
“Are those potato chips on a stick?”
I peek at where Dex is twisting his head trying to see through a throng of people, and then take his hand and guide him through until we’re in front of the stall.
“So, those are potato spirals,” I say, then point to where a man is shoving a stick through a potato. “That machine there will cut them into spirals, then they’ll be fried and covered in powdered flavor. This one has… cheddar, barbeque, and sour cream.”
His eyes are wide, but before I even fully get the explanation out, he pulls up his camera and starts taking pictures. He photographs the whole process, from start to finish, then he blinks as if in a daze and glances over at me.
“You want one?”
That seems to wake him up, and he frowns hard with a deep dip in his brows. “I’ve got it.”
When the man in the stall hands Dex two spirals, one decked out heavy in cheese and the other coated in sour cream powder, I can’t help but laugh as he bites into the first one while mouthing “hot, hot, hot” around it. We step aside to give other customers room, and Dex thrusts his second stick into my face—minus one bite.
“I figured I’d try,” he says with a shrug, shaking the stick until I take it from him. “Still don’t like that stuff.”
Ah, the sour cream. He’s hated it with a passion since Ma made those chicken and cabbage tacos that made Dex sick. Why, out of all the ingredients in the tacos, he latched on to the sour cream, I’ll never know. But if he even smells it, his nose scrunches and his entire face looks like he ate a lemon.
Interesting.
We eat in silence as we walk around the market, Dex stopping to take pictures as some of the stall owners prepare their food. Every once in a while, he’ll pick something else up, and often enough he’ll end up splitting it with me. I’m not sure if it’s a conscious decision or just out of politeness, but it’s the most civil we’ve been with each other since he arrived.
I’m so absorbed in Dex, in watching him interact with the world—withmyworld—that I don’t notice someone calling out to me until Dex pulls on my arm and tilts his head towards one of the stands. It’s more crowded than the others nearby, and when I see the sign I realize why.
Smoothies.
Even with the sun hanging low in the sky, June in the Philippines can still give off a pretty muggy heat, so the smoothie stands are always super popular. I figure Dex wants to try one, so I’m prepared to open my mouth before he can beat me to it, but as soon as we come to a stop in front of the stall, my brain function hits zero.
