Chapter 2: The Architect of Solitude
The apartment was nothing and everything.
Nothing, because it was so sparse. White walls, polished concrete floors cool under David’s boots, a vast emptiness framed by enormous windows showing a grid of Los Angeles lights. It looked like a showroom, not a home. A single floor lamp with an exposed bulb cast a cold, tight circle on the floor. It was the opposite of David’s own tiny, riotously colorful apartment in Koreatown, which was crammed with wigs, costume pieces, and cheap, bright art.
Everything, because of what filled the silence. No television, just a mid-century shelf unit crammed not with decor, but with books. Not just the Absolutes. Whole universes. David’s fingers, as they slid off his denim jacket, itched to touch.
He drifted over. His gaze skipped across the spines. A thrum of recognition, a thrum of the foreign. Thus Spoke Zarathustra in a faded Arabic script. A Spanish-language Borges collection, the edges foxed with age. And there, nestled like a bomb among the philosophy, the familiar grayscale smiley face of Watchmen.
"The grand unified theory," David murmured to himself.
The smell was better here. Up close, the jasmine cologne was woven into the scent of the pages—the sweet, dusty smell of aging paper, the sharp tang of new ink. It was a library smell, but more intimate.
He heard the delicate scratch of a needle finding groove. A moment of surface noise, a crackle of anticipation, then the low, loping, strangely melancholic bassline of "Accordion" filled the cavernous space. It was music made of wrong turns and alleyways, perfect for the room.David turned.
Omar was on his knees by a vintage wooden record player, his back to David. The fabric of his jeans stretched taut across the soft, full curve of his ass and the thick muscle of his thighs. He was motionless, as if listening for a hidden frequency in the opening bars. Then he rose, his movements fluid, almost solemn.
He crossed the room, the concrete swallowing the sound of his steps. In his hand was a joint, rolled so tight and symmetrical it looked like a factory product.
"Your sacrament," Omar said, pressing it into David's palm. His fingers were warm and dry. The touch lingered a fraction longer than necessary.
David brought it to his lips. He sparked the lighter, the flame illuminating the sharp angle of his cheekbone, the focused dark of his eyes watching Omar. He inhaled deeply, holding the sweet, earthy smoke in his lungs before exhaling a slow, grey plume that snaked toward the high ceiling.
"No TV?" David asked, his voice a little rough from the hit. He offered the joint back.
Omar took it, his own inhale graceful, thoughtful. He shook his head, smoke escaping with his words. "I prefer stories that don't spoon-feed me. That you have to work for. Interact with."
"Like MF DOOM." David gestured with his chin to the player, where the villain was now mumbling about wack MCs."Exactly." Omar held his gaze, then seemed to remember he was a host. "Do you want a drink? I have whiskey. Or wine. I don't... keep much else."
"Whiskey is good." David wandered as Omar moved to a small kitchen area, all stainless steel and minimalist cabinets. He didn't watch Omar pour. He continued his tour of the shelves.
He stopped at a small, framed photograph. It was the only personal item he'd seen. A younger Omar, maybe fifteen, slimmer, with the same quiet eyes, standing between an elegant woman in a hijab and a stern-faced man in a Western suit. They were in a garden, somewhere green and not-LA. All three were smiling, but the smile didn't reach Omar's teenage eyes.
"That's them," Omar's voice came from behind him, softer. He handed David a heavy crystal tumbler with two fingers of amber liquid. "My parents. In Jeddah. The year before the car accident."
David took the glass. "I'm sorry, ha," he said, the term of empathy slipping out naturally.
Omar shrugged, a small, brittle motion. He looked at the photo, not with grief, but with a kind of analytical distance. "They left me with this." He gestured vaguely, encompassing the apartment, the inheritance. "And a lot of silence. Which is why I like the stories."
David sipped the whiskey. It was good, smoky and expensive. He felt the weed beginning to soften the edges of the room, to warm the concrete. The music wove around them.
"Come," Omar said, leading him not to the lone armchair, but to the floor by the bookshelf. He sank down with an unselfconscious ease, his back against the shelves. David followed, folding his long legs, sitting close enough that their knees almost touched in the wide, empty space.
Omar pulled a large, flat box from the bottom shelf. Building Stories by Chris Ware. He opened it like a treasure chest, carefully extracting the myriad of newspapers, pamphlets, books, and broadsheets inside. He laid a few pieces on the floor between them—a large, wordless board, a small hardcover book, a folded newspaper comic strip.
"This," Omar said, his voice gaining the same passionate, precise tone he'd used in the car, "is loneliness given architecture. It's the isolation of living in a Chicago apartment building, but it's also...this." He pointed to a tiny, detailed illustration of a woman's face on one of the boards. Her expression was vacant, adrift. "You can read these in any order. Her story is fractured. It feels... lived. Not narrated."
David looked from the intricate, heartbreaking lines of Ware's art to Omar's face, lit by the single lamp. He saw the understanding there, a deep and personal resonance. This wasn't just literary appreciation. This was a map of a familiar country.
"You see yourself in this," David stated softly. It wasn't a question.
Omar traced the edge of the board with his fingertip. "I see the silence between people. The spaces in conversations that are never filled. The way you can be in a room with someone and be in a completely different building." He looked up. "Do you ever feel that? Even when you're on stage? Being ‘Daphne’?"
The question was a scalpel, precise and unexpected. David took a long drink. The whiskey burned a path down to his gut, mixing with the weed. "Being Daphne is the opposite of that," he said. "She's a complete thought. She's loud. She fills every fucking corner. David... David gets quiet sometimes. But Daphne? She never shuts up."
"But it's still a performance," Omar insisted, not accusingly, but with that engineer's need to understand the underlying system. "It's a constructed persona.A mask."
David leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Of course it's a mask. But a mask you choose is different from a mask you're given. Or one you're born with." He gestured to the room, to the photo. "You think the quiet Saudi student isn't a mask? The orphaned heir? That's just as much a character. I just get to design my character's wardrobe. And her soundtrack."
Omar absorbed this, his eyes searching David's face. The music shifted to "Great Day," the looped sample jaunty but underpinned with a strange anxiety. The joint had made its way back to David. He took a final drag, pinching the roach, and set it in a clean glass ashtray Omar had produced.
"So what's under your mask, David?"Omar asked. His voice was barely above the murmur of the record. He was hugging his knees to his chest, making himself look softer, younger.
David didn't answer with words. He moved.
He closed the small, careful distance between them on the cool concrete. He reached out, his hand cupping Omar's jaw. His thumb brushed over the plush curve of Omar's lower lip. Omar’s breath hitched, just like it had in the library. His eyes widened, but he didn't pull away.
"Curiosity," David said finally, his own voice low, a little smoky. "A big heart, they tell me. And a really fucking big dick."
A shocked, wet laugh escaped Omar. The tension splintered. He didn't move from David’s touch.
"Is that part of the mask too?" Omar whispered.
"No, anak," David said, the Tagalog endearment slipping out. "That's all me. That's… the hardware."
That's… the hardware."
Omar’s laughter, a surprised burst of sound, seemed to unlock something in the sterile air. The charged quiet from a moment before melted into something warmer, easier. He leaned into David’s hand for just a second, then gently pulled back, his face still flushed. He didn’t move away on the floor, though. Their knees stayed almost touching.
“That’s a lot to process,” Omar said, scratching the back of his neck. He reached for his whiskey, taking a sip. “The curiosity and the heart, I mean.” A sly smile touched his lips. “The… hardware details can be verified later.”
David grinned, reclaiming his own glass. “Later is a very interesting word.”
They spent the rest of their time talking about silly things and serious things, David is really interested in Omar and wants to map the borders of this strange, quiet country. The music became their background, the shared joint a fragrant conduit. They talked about the worst tinned food they’d ever eaten—Omar confessed a strange fondness for Spam, which David, a Filipino, declared a sign of superior taste. They argued about whether the film or graphic novel of V for Vendetta was better, Omar dissecting the political metaphors with a rigor that made David’s head spin even before the weed.
David told him about his first drag show back in Manila, the terror and the exhilaration, the sound of his titas screaming his stage name. “They called me ‘Daphne’ after a soap opera villainess,” he explained, swirling his whiskey. “She was awful. Poisoned two husbands. I loved her.”
Omar listened, rapt, his eyes rarely leaving David’s face. “Is it lonely?” he asked during a lull. “Doing that here? Away from them?”
The question landed differently now, in the warmth. David considered it. “Sometimes, ha. But you build a new family. The queens at the club, they’re my sisters. We fight like cats, but we show up. It’s a different language, but it’s not silent.”
Omar nodded, seeming to file that away. He, in turn, spoke of his first year at UCLA, the crushing isolation he hadn't been prepared for despite his wealth. “I bought this apartment because the silence in the dorms was… aggressive. Full of other people’s noise. This silence is mine. I can control it.”
“Control is overrated,” David said softly. He nudged Omar’s knee with his own. “Sometimes you gotta let the noise in. The good kind.”
The Madvillainy record had long since ended, replaced by a comfortable, pure quiet. The giant windows had gone fully black, turning the apartment into a glassy capsule floating above the city’s sodium glow. David felt pleasantly untethered, the whiskey and weed humming in his veins, but his focus on Omar was needle-sharp.
He watched Omar’s hands as he carefully repacked the Building Stories box, his movements reverent. He watched the way a lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and the absent-minded way he blew it away. There was a profound, unselfconscious elegance to him, a mind constantly working behind those quiet eyes.
David wanted to trace the lines of that mind. He wanted to kiss the serious curve of his mouth until it softened into something less thoughtful. He wanted, with a sudden and vivid certainty, to be the good noise in Omar’s controlled silence.
Omar slid the box back onto the shelf and turned. He caught David looking. Something shifted in his expression, the analytical gaze softening into a question. He was close enough that David could see the faint, honey-colored flecks in his hazel irises.
“What are you thinking?” Omar whispered.
David didn’t answer with words. He leaned in slowly, giving Omar every chance to pull back. He didn’t. David closed the last inch, his lips meeting Omar’s.
The kiss was a soft press, an experiment. Omar’s lips were fuller than they looked, and they yielded under his, warm and slightly slack with surprise. David felt the sharp inhale through Omar’s nose, felt his whole body go very still.
Then, a miracle. Omar kissed him back. It was tentative, unpracticed, but deliberate. His hand came up, his fingers lightly brushing David’s jaw, mirroring David’s earlier touch. The contact was electric. A small, helpless sound escaped Omar’s throat, a vibration David felt on his own lips.
David deepened the kiss, just a little, guiding without force. His tongue traced the seam of Omar’s lips, and they parted for him, a gateway of heat and shared whiskey. The taste of him—cannabis, peat smoke, and something uniquely, softly Omar—flooded David’s senses. It was better than any stage applause.
When David finally pulled back, just enough to see his face, Omar’s eyes were closed. His breathing was shallow, quick. He slowly opened them, his gaze dazed, swimming with a kind of awestruck terror.
He slowly opened them, his gaze dazed, swimming with a kind of awestruck terror.
David held still, his own pulse kicking hard against his ribs. He didn’t smile, didn’t gloat. He just watched the emotions ripple across Omar’s face—the shock, the pleasure, the fear, the wonder. It was all there, raw and undisguised. He’d never seen anyone look so completely dismantled by a single kiss.
“Hey,” David whispered, his thumb stroking Omar’s cheek. “You okay?”
Omar blinked, as if returning from a great distance. He nodded, a quick, jerky motion. “Yes.” His voice was rough. He swallowed. “I just… I didn’t know it would feel like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like… a theory being proven true.” Omar’s hand was still on David’s jaw, his touch feather-light, as if David might break or disappear. “And false. All at once.”
David smiled then, a soft, private thing. “First kiss?”
Omar’s blush was immediate, a deep rose spreading from his neck to his temples. He looked down, then back up, meeting David’s eyes with a defiant honesty. “Yes. Was it… obvious?”
“Only in the best way.” David leaned in, brushing his lips against Omar’s once more, a brief, grounding touch. “So, Mr. First-Kiss. How was it?”
The question hung in the quiet room. Omar didn’t answer with words. He answered by pressing forward, reclaiming David’s mouth with a newfound, clumsy urgency. His kiss was all inexperienced angles and too-much pressure, but it was fervent, real. David let him lead, let him explore the shape and sensation, guiding him with tiny adjustments—a tilt of the head, a softening of the lips.
When Omar finally broke away, breathing hard, he rested his forehead against David’s. His eyes were closed.
“It was,” he murmured, “an effective data point.”
David barked a laugh, the sound echoing in the sparse space. “Data point? Anak ko, you’re killing me.”
“I need more data.” Omar’s voice was earnest, his hands coming up to frame David’s face. His thumbs traced the high arch of David’s cheekbones, the line of his eyebrows. “To establish a pattern. To understand the… the methodology.”
“The methodology?” David was grinning, utterly charmed.
“Of you.” Omar opened his eyes, and the awestruck terror had softened into a burning, focused curiosity. He studied David’s face like one of his precious graphic novels, reading the text and the subtext at once. “The confidence. The way you move. It’s not an act, is it? It’s a practiced… fluency.”
David felt seen in a way he rarely did. It was unnerving and exhilarating. “Fluency,” he repeated, liking the word. “Yeah. I practiced in front of a mirror for years. Talking. Smiling. Kissing my own arm. It looked stupid, but it worked.”
Omar’s fingers drifted down to David’s lips, tracing them. “And the other things? The… hardware you mentioned?”
A slow heat coiled in David’s stomach. He caught Omar’s wandering finger, kissed its tip. “That doesn’t require practice. Just… application.”
Omar sucked in a sharp breath. The intellectual curiosity in his eyes flickered, replaced by a darker, simpler want. He shifted, his plush body leaning into David’s leaner frame, pressing him gently back against the cool bookshelf. The hard edges of the bindings dug into David’s shoulders. He didn’t mind.
“I want to read that story,” Omar whispered against his mouth. His breath smelled of weed and expensive whiskey. “The one without words. The one you don’t perform.”
David’s hand slid from Omar’s cheek down the strong column of his neck, over the soft cotton of his shirt, coming to rest on the gentle swell of his belly. He felt Omar shiver under the touch. “That story’s pretty graphic, ha. You sure you’re ready for the adult section?”
Omar answered by kissing him again, deeper this time, losing some of his clumsiness. His hands fumbled at the hem of David’s shirt, slipping beneath to find the warm, smooth skin of his back. His touch was hesitant, then certain.
David let himself be explored. He moaned softly into Omar’s mouth, encouraging him. The city lights through the vast windows painted Omar’s face in blues and golds, making him look both ancient and brand new. David was the first to map this territory. The weight of that knowledge was a sweet, heavy pressure in his chest.
He pulled back, just enough to speak. “Your bed. Is it in another minimalist pod, or is it just a mattress on the floor?”
Omar smiled, a real, full smile that transformed his whole face. “It’s a platform. With a very expensive mattress. It’s… empirical.”
“Empirical,” David laughed, shaking his head. He stood, pulling Omar up with him. “Let’s go test your hypothesis.”