CHAPTER 4 — BOOK IV
Thirty-Three
(21
March 2017)
Birthdays in your thirties were less about surprise and more about permission.
Permission to sleep in. Permission to not perform gratitude as theatre. Permission to be quietly glad you had made it through whatever year tried to reduce you.
Geoffrey woke to sunlight sliding across the floorboards and the distant sound of Sydney being itself—traffic, birds, a ferry horn that made the morning feel official.
He turned his head and saw Embong in the doorway, holding two coffees like he was offering tribute.
“Happy birthday,” Embong said.
Geoffrey blinked, smiled, and pushed himself upright.
“Our birthday,” Geoffrey corrected.
Embong walked in and handed him a cup.
“Our,” he agreed.
Geoffrey took a sip.
“This is dangerously decent.”
“It’s because I paid extra,” Embong said.
Geoffrey stared at him.
“You paid extra?”
Embong’s expression remained neutral.
“I’m thirty-three. I can afford dignity.”
Geoffrey laughed and leaned back against the pillows, letting the warmth of the coffee spread through him.
A second later, Embong’s phone buzzed again.
This time Embong didn’t flip it over.
He looked at it, eyes unreadable, then slid it into his pocket without answering.
Geoffrey watched him.
“Your mother?”
Embong’s mouth tightened.
“Probably.”
Geoffrey didn’t push. He never pushed when Embong went quiet like that. He’d learned the difference between walls and wounds.
Instead, Geoffrey reached out and tugged lightly at Embong’s sleeve.
“Come here.”
Embong hesitated like he had to decide whether he was allowed.
Then he sat on the edge of the bed.
Geoffrey leaned his head against Embong’s shoulder—an old gesture, familiar as breathing.
Embong stayed still at first.
Then his hand came up and rested lightly on Geoffrey’s hair, smoothing it back once, absent-minded, like he’d done in the café.
Maintenance.
Geoffrey smiled into the fabric of Embong’s shirt.
“You’re appreciating me again.”
Embong sighed.
“Don’t start.”
Geoffrey shifted just enough to look up.
“You know what I want for our birthday?”
Embong’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“No.”
“I want you to admit that you like me.”
Embong stared at him.
“I have lived with you for years.”
“That’s not an admission,” Geoffrey said. “That’s endurance.”
Embong’s lips twitched.
Geoffrey pressed.
“Say it.”
Embong’s gaze moved away, toward the window, toward the light.
His voice came out quiet.
“I like you.”
Geoffrey’s grin turned bright, almost boyish.
“I knew it.”
Embong looked down at him.
“Don’t make it weird.”
Geoffrey, still leaning on him, lifted the coffee in a solemn toast.
“To thirty-three.”
Embong lifted his own cup, resigned.
“To thirty-three.”
They clinked the cups gently—ceremony small enough to belong only to them.
Later, there would be dinner. Messages. Calls. Some family warmth, some family obligation. Somewhere in Kuala Lumpur, Delima would insist she had prayed for Embong’s guidance, and Awan would speak in that careful way he did when he wanted peace more than he wanted truth.
But in the morning, in the quiet, the world was simple:
Two boys born on the same day in 1984.
Two men, now.
Still choosing each other.
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