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“I find him in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of certain colours."
— Oscar Wilde,The Picture of Dorian Gray
It's the worst: having to keep to a busy schedule while indisposed. His throat denies every natural function; his nose is unhelpful for breathing; his cough sounds straight from the depths of the earth; and his voice is only capable of speech. Justin hates it more than anything, especially when it coincides with a music video shoot, with so much requiring energy and attention. It makes him testy, too, and he can't really vent all these frustrations to anyone, can he?
"Pikit, Jah," Mac says, the can of setting spray already in hand, as he tilts up his face by the chin.
Justin drops his phone to his lap before the cool mist settles on his skin. This is where he finds purchase. In the knowledge that their team is efficient, that they already have a dedicated team unlike when they were rookies, barely hanging at the outskirts of fame; in knowing that there will be little to no reason for the nonsensical, petty byproducts of his ailments to surface as the day goes on.
He keeps his eyes closed as fingers begin fussing over his fringe. The strands have gotten long and will be kept down for today's coiffure that he doesn't want to risk getting poked by fastidious hands styling them. And even when the movements dawdle, the ever-familiar baritone voice regarding Mac, and where he would’ve jumped in surprise on any other occasion, he doesn't feel the need to open his eyes as a hand rests on his shoulder, squeezing him lightly.
"Tapos ka na?" Ken asks, hand trailing to his nape, then rubbing its way down to his upper back.
Justin manages a nod. Right there and then, he's tempted to lean on Ken's forearm, indulge, albeit briefly, in the touch. But that would be too much. And a disservice to the venture of keeping his words to himself—about how this, too, gives him purchase.
"Nakita mo na 'yong necktie mo?" To the others in the room, it might've registered as monotone. Justin's ears, however, have caught the spark of animation in Ken's voice.
"Sa'yo rin ba 'yon?" Justin knows the answer. But who would tell him off for wanting to hear the story from Ken himself? Who would know of such a desire?
"Of course. Kita mo si Kuya Mav do'n?" Ken then narrates the story behind the article's design, how he thought it would complete his ensemble, how it coheres with Pablo's and Stell's plain, striped neckties, but how it is unique, too, if only in a little, eccentric way. The side of Justin's lips does this thing where it curls upward, unbidden, and only when Ken addresses the other wardrobe stylists for additional notes does Justin open his eyes.
Justin seeks Ken in the mirror. The man's already donning a leopard print shirt. Justin does not understand the propensity for the pattern; what he does understand is that Ken is obstinate about all things he likes, so he says nothing. Ken is fiddling with a rumpled tissue and then brings it up to poke into his nostril as he continues his tangent about some of the wardrobes' specifics. Justin snickers internally while he tries to ignore the way the sleeves of Ken's shirt pull taut to accommodate Ken's bulging biceps. It's criminal, honestly. And cruel. And something that Justin doesn't need now that he can barely keep up with the increasing bustle of the shooting location.
Taming the twinge of frustration, Justin raises his phone, swipes left, and snaps a well-timed photo of Ken pushing the tissue further up his nose, twisting this way and that. Justin successfully takes three shots, zooming in each time, before his eyes meet Ken's gaze in the mirror, and Ken starts.
Eyes wide, looking every bit mortified, Ken yanks the tissue out. "Sus!" he blurts, clicking his tongue, and then pouts.
That's new. Justin has always gloated over the fact that he is rarely the object of that reaction.
"Ikaw talaga"—Ken shakes his head, sighing—"hilig na hilig mo 'kong picture-an kapag mukha akong ewan." It sounds like a complex mix of complaint, reprimand, and affection altogether, something Justin doesn't have the willpower to dissect.
Besides, nothing could be further from the truth.
Hay, Ken, kung alam mo lang…
~ooOoo~
Justin slumped on the metal bench. He scooted over, dragging his ass, until his side pressed against the glass wall and Josh sat beside him.
"Pagod na pagod, a." Josh said, as if he was anything better. As if he wasn't the one with a food tray of heated sisig and a Red Bull.
Ken was peeling his Cornetto when he gave him a once-over, stifling a smile, and sat across from them. No quips, no thoughtless jests? He'd accept it. If anyone had the authority to make fun of him for being totally spent over today's hellish training, it would be this guy. And Stell, perhaps. Justin mused about how he should learn to pace himself like Ken; it's either that or magically get his hands on Stell's reserve of stamina.
"Sakit ng paa ko," Justin griped, wincing, as he inserted the straw into his sterilized milk.
"Wala naman na sigurong practice bukas?"
"Meron pa ba?" Ken added quickly, frowning.
"Wala naman na siguro, 'no? Pa-Iloilo na tayo sa susunod na araw."
Justin would tell the two off for not getting their schedule into their heads. But he reckoned it was to be expected. Their calendar was virtually packed with practices and performances here and there leading up to their debut next month.
"Wala na. Pahinga na lang daw and impake. Maaga tayo sa NAIA tapos diretso mall show agad." Maybe nearly killing themselves for these engagements was warranted.
A contemplative silence descended over them. The convenience store was devoid of other customers. Which only meant that it was still early for the lunch break of the graveyard shift patrons and late enough for the other parts of the street to dwindle into the night. Justin usually craved following them to the slumber world as soon as possible, but he'd been persuaded to accompany Josh and Ken while he waited for Diko.
"Jah, send mo na lang magkano 'to ha," Josh mumbled around the spoon, nudging him. "Bibigay ko next time."
Justin was fishing his phone from his pocket to take a photo of their receipt when Ken said, "Dagdag mo na lang din 'to sa listahan mo, Jah, para saradong five hundred na ibibigay ko sa'yo sa Friday."
He didn't retain the exact numbers, but Ken didn't seem far off. He would have to check. When he raised the receipt and snapped a photo, he wasn't thinking about framing or whatever techniques his professors talked about, and the result: Ken was captured in the shot.
Ken's head was propped on his hand as he dabbed his lips with the ice cream. He looked much younger than he was. Even though Justin had only met Ken nearly a year ago and hadn't seen any photos of the guy in his younger years, it was unmistakable. There was a childlike gleam in Ken's eyes, deadpan as they were, and something in Justin's chest fluttered.
He raised his phone again, in the guise of recapturing the receipt. But this time, as swiftly as he could, he paid attention to the framing and angles, moving the receipt so it wouldn't obstruct a portion of Ken's face and keep him in full view. It was at the exact moment that Ken jutted his tongue and licked at the melting ice cream.
Justin pressed his lips in a thin line as he brought his phone down. Should he post this, too? Like that clip when Ken had been playing with the knife and fork as they waited for their order.
Maybe he would. The flutter in his chest was wild, the one he'd get whenever he pulled a prank on his friends and brothers.
Speaking of, that was Diko pulling up at the roadside.
~~
Justin was greeted by a notification of Ken's reply to his comment when he stepped out of the shower, and only then did he realize that he'd felt truly slighted.
HAHAHAHHA medyo pasado naman na 🤪
Wow. It was one thing to say his shots were ugly, quite another when Ken had posted them anyway, garnering thousands of likes in two hours, and now— they were apparently barely adequate?
Okay. He could've done better. But it wasn't his fault that Ken had been insistent despite his protests, had thrust the phone into his hands, and had whined, "Ngayon na, please, Jah. Mabilis lang." If Ken hadn't pulled him aside from what he'd been discussing with their staff, he wouldn't have rushed through the impromptu photoshoot. And even in those circumstances, Ken had the audacity to remark that the photos turned out unflattering.
medyo pasado naman na Jah ✨ Good job HAHAHHAHA
He knew he was being unreasonable and petty. But did Ken really think a half-hearted validation and a few select emojis would assuage him? So if it was Xi-Anne who would take his photos, Ken would say nothing, and if it was him, they were just adequate? Should he tell Ken that they were both at the top of their class? What Xi-Anne could do, he could also do—with the right time and circumstance.
If Justin were to be honest, what incited all this was a tangle of reasons. Ken had looked good. Like it came to him naturally—striking those poses. Or like he'd undergone special training for it. Justin's observations had accrued since they'd gone viral last year, when their future had become less precarious, when more and more projects came their way. And amid those, Justin couldn't help but watch Ken. And admire him. Perhaps be a little jealous of him. Ken, who was good at almost everything. That even in their photoshoots, he didn't require directing, and in the few moments that he did, he delivered with ease.
Of course, Justin wanted to do well for Ken. It had been drilled into them in school that a subject's beauty would be wasted in the hands of careless artists. And, well, apologies for falling short.
Uy, Jah!! Joke lang yung panget kuha mo ha. Di ko naman ipopost kung panget
Hindi ka na nag reply sa fb
Tulog ka na ba? Goodnight 💕
Justin rolled his eyes. Maybe he was blowing this out of proportion. Ken mustn't have meant it, right?
Kaya panget kuha ko kasi panget yung model Hahaha.
~~
What? was a huge, memorable hit, and MAPA seemed to be following in its footsteps. For the previous months, they had been caught in the whirlwind of schedules, from countless filmings and successive guestings to the nitty-gritty tasks in preparation for the release of Pagsibol and concerts penciled in for the latter half of the year.
Justin wanted to say he couldn't keep up, but this recognition was what they had been aiming for. Something they'd all thought would also be nipped in the bud by the pandemic. What a relief it hadn't.
They'd been given a brief period off, two days of which Justin had dutifully spent rotting in bed. Today, he got out of his room with a bounce in his step. He'd been putting off getting a new phone, and even though his birthday was still over a month away, he'd better do it now than wait for another elusive stretch of rest.
It shouldn't require much time or energy. But given that he was shifting from an Android to an iPhone and wanted to keep some of his old files on his new device, he dedicated the night to it. He'd already copied all the data to his desktop last time; what was left was to set up his new phone and make the transfer.
He stopped browsing and selecting files when he arrived at the DCIM folder and that one album.
kenken 😼
Right. This was a thing.
He couldn't remember its exact genesis. Only that Ken had continued to ask him to take his photos, nagging him to send them thereafter. Only that he'd begun paying attention to the man more and more—to how he munched his food, how he slept with his mouth partly open; to how he got giddy and excited with news of their feats, how hyper and playful he could be when he allowed himself; to the confidence with which he carried himself, the breadth of emotion his eyes held—and, enthralled, Justin had begun longing to capture every moment.
It was a peculiar occurrence, that he had this album. At first, it had only seemed practical to compartmentalize the photos. Even Stell had a dedicated album in his phone, with more items than Ken's; fewer were candid, but the point stood. Not so long ago, however, it had been difficult to rationalize his feelings. And so he'd started to understand. And when it had been clearer, he feared, too.
This was another complicated thing he'd dreaded to process.
Would it be necessary to transfer this album to his new phone? Was there even a point? Didn't Ken share with Pablo that there was this someone he'd recently been chatting with?
Justin gritted his teeth, closing the folder in a flash. The twinge of pain and jealousy and anger was an irrational thing, he knew. He knew he had no right to feel betrayed when, some months ago, amid their preparations for What?, when it had appeared safer and more convenient to spend the week in Ken's condo than risk getting the virus going to and fro their house, when wearing the clothes he'd borrowed from Ken, when riding off what little adrenaline he had left from previewing the fruits of their hard work—his hard work—he'd leaned in and kissed Ken. On the man's sofa. Amid the dim of the living room. He'd kissed Ken, breathed him in, and pushed him away.
He didn't capture the moment, but the memory remained branded in his mind. Ken hadn't said anything. He'd been shell-shocked, it had seemed. He had covered his mouth and made a stifled noise. And when Justin had offered his apologies, Ken had only nodded. Justin had been thankful that the lights were off. He might not have been able to stand seeing Ken's discomfort, or worse, horror. That had kept things between them cordial, but Justin wasn't dumb enough not to notice the shift.
Justin ultimately skipped that album and went ahead with the file transfer. That seemed to be the smartest thing to do. Hide the photos. Pretend they never existed, and perhaps the feelings would go away.
~~
It wasn’t their first time in Palawan, nor was it the first time he brought his film camera on a trip. Since he’d received it as a present the previous year, Justin had been so fixated that he made it a point to have the film camera with him every chance possible. The mechanics of the device enamored him. More than how enrapturing the developed photos turned out, it was the challenge—the responsibility—of making every shot count. It came with denying himself innumerable gratifications, forcing his eyes toward the essential, toward those that weren't only mesmerizing but of incontestable value. Was Justin saying that his film camera contradicted the famous Little Prince quote? Well, it was a lesson he had to learn. Film rolls weren’t exactly cheap.
It taught him, too, that willing away his feelings for Ken was virtually impossible. Unless he could distance himself completely from the guy or figure out how to continue being an idol with his eyes gouged out.
He’d terribly failed at the ordeal during their Dubai Expo stint some months ago, capturing Ken using the film camera with far more thought and intent than he had given to the landscapes or the other members.
And he was bound to fail now.
Ken had fallen silent midcruise. He propped his head on his hand, relaxed and carefree. His countenance was vacant, his eyes were closed, as the seabreeze caressed his hair with the gentleness that Justin could only hope people also accorded to this man. Ken was one with nature, tranquil, calm, proffering innate tenderness, something their persona couldn't always encounter, much less pose. Justin beheld the view and then etched it scrupulously on the film. He was suddenly filled with something he only had one name for. And when Ken happened to turn in his direction—looking through his lens like he sought his attention—and then bestowed him with the dawn of his smile, Justin suffocated.
It had the effect of all the smiles Ken had directed his way combined, made more stark by the memory of last night: Ken strolling into their shared villa after an evening of playing billiards, looking around, then at Justin, and saying, "Ngayon na lang ulit tayo naging roommates, a." Justin had only nodded, on the verge of confessing that it was purposeful, that he would’ve done something about the arrangements if Acer hadn’t already set them, because he couldn’t trust himself alone with Ken, not when he had been fascinated by Ken’s successful solo ventures, not when he had been shamelessly fantasizing about Ken now that the man had begun displaying his toned body for the world to drool over.
Justin’s feelings in this shared moment, as he lowered his camera and Ken continued smiling at him, were rendered in full color by last night: Ken pausing mid-step to ask, “Kailan ba ’yong huli? No’ng hinalikan mo ’ko sa condo ko, ’di ba?” Justin had been sent off-kilter because it was the first time they would speak about it, and because Ken had all but mumbled, “Sabihan mo ’ko kung may balak kang ulitin, Jah, para pipigilan kitang kumalas,” bashful and smirking all at once. Justin could only say, “Baliw,” even though he had wanted to ask if Ken, too, couldn’t get it off his head; even though he had wanted to pry about Ken’s supposed relationship; even though he had wanted to clarify whether Ken’s every touch—every effort to go out of his way and make him feel special—meant that, even in this aspect, Justin’s dreams, just as surreal and ambitious as those conceived with SB19, could find hope. If Ken had been giving him hope.
Later, when he was planning to share his shots from the trip, he scheduled everything around a particular date, ensuring that he dedicated January 12 to one subject alone. When he was reviewing the photos, however, he knew right away he shouldn’t allow an audience into the uncandid, connected shot. It was too personal, too intimate. It revealed a lot about Ken and, even more so, a lot about himself. And Justin didn't know if he was ready for the world to see. He'd protect it for now, this burgeoning thing that stood on shaky ground.
Except, another EP release and world tour later, after Ken had released COM•PLEX and SB19 had actualized the arduous vision of having an entertainment company, Justin decided he could be brazen. Revealing a modicum of his feelings, there would be no better way to do it than through photography and art, on the birthday of the guy whom he held dearest, and with an imagination that saw him even in the faintest of suggestions.
Bonus: he managed to stake his claim—and get away with it—through whimsical wordplay that even Ken didn't decode.
~~
Justin’s feet were already moving even before the last group to take photos with them crossed the distance.
"Hello po, Tita. Kumusta po?" he said as he reached for Tita Angging's hand.
"God bless you. Justin"—Tita Angging didn't let go of him, squeezing his palm, and looked up at him—"Ang tangkad-tangkad mo talagang bata. Grabe, wala pa 'ko sa balikat mo."
He could only chuckle and squeeze Tita Angging's hand just as warmly, finding it suddenly difficult to react. It was not like he hadn't heard all those. He blamed it on concert jitters.
He ushered her toward the center, where Ken received her with a hug. Justin didn’t miss the way Ken closed his eyes, relishing the embrace, and whispered phrases that his fairly limited grasp of Bisaya couldn’t quite catch on. The soft lines of Ken's face told him, however, how content the man was. His wish for Ken's birthday six years ago still held fast.
Justin fished his phone from his pocket and opened the camera, marching toward Diko, who immediately mumbled, "Masyado ka. Nauuna ka pang bumati kaysa sa anak." Justin drew his lips tight and thrust his phone against Diko's chest before going back in line.
Was it inappropriate? Did it come off as patronizing? Justin only wanted to be polite and a little familiar. If Ken had done the same toward his mom just moments ago, with a sidelong hug and even a beso, Justin didn’t see why he couldn’t express his own appreciation to Tita Angging.
He reserved the overthinking for later, because Tita Angging and the rest of Ken's family were wishing them the best of luck, and Diko was striding to return his phone and notify them that there were thirty minutes until gates opened.
"Oy, ano 'yon?" Ken said, sidling up against him.
"Alin?"
Justin didn’t need Ken to point at the phone in his hand. What he needed was for him to walk faster; otherwise, they would get scolded before the first day of the SaW World Tour had even started.
"Ise-send ko kay Tita." Still, he had yet to learn how not to placate Ken. "Noong nakaraan kasi nanghingi siya ng copy, e, wala naman sa’kin. In case hindi nila ma-process agad 'yong official photos, may maibibigay ako kay Tita."
"Teka. Nag-uusap kayo ni Mamang?" Ken intoned in a whisper, pressing close enough that his compression shirt granted Justin a feel of those toned pecs.
Justin was getting distracted. So much so that he couldn’t quite place whether Ken's question was laden with surprise alone, or if Ken was affronted for not knowing, or if he was somehow secretly pleased, which Justin himself had been. Or if Ken actually intended for him to feel his chest. Which. It really wasn't the time for that.
There were a myriad of things Justin could say, but to shut down any distractions that might follow: "Oo, kapag sinusumbong ko 'yong bunso niyang makupad kumilos. Tapos kapag ginigitgit ako, e, ang luwag-luwag ng daan."
Ken rolled his eyes. "Ayos ka, a." And in true Ken fashion, he pressed his body closer as they paced toward the dressing room, and before they crossed the threshold: "Pa-send din ako ng picture."
~ooOoo~
Trust Ken and Stell to hold on to their jests directed at Josh and his mga asawa.
Justin is thoroughly amused. But only when the phrase live ended displays on the screen and the surroundings fall into muted chatter, does he feel the promise of rest. Of course, he’s grateful that shooting Visa has been a success, but by the end of it, his energy has plummeted to its lowest, and toward the latter half of the livestream, he has all but braced his back on Ken's raised leg.
Josh, Pablo, and Stell have long detached themselves from the couch, but Ken hasn’t moved an inch, clicking away on his phone instead. How truly considerate. And cozy, in that gray ensemble of hoodie and sweatpants. Ken may be cuddly, but Justin can only settle for plastering himself to the man. Surprise, surprise—he has a concept of propriety in him, and honestly, his limbs are currently divorced from the strength required for motion.
It hasn’t eluded Justin’s attention that Ken has been a constant presence by his side throughout the day. A loud, endearingly playful presence, if he were to be precise. It has comforted Justin and stroked his ego, too, because Ken may be one of the stylists for the music video, but toward him, he has clearly behaved in ways beyond what the role warrants.
Justin's in the middle of checking notifications that have accumulated throughout the day when Ken's fingers thread through his hair.
"Hindi ka pa pagod?"
What kind of question is that? Doesn’t it look like he will fall asleep right there and then as Ken continues to massage his scalp?
"Pagod," he says matter-of-factly. Then Ken's fingers caress his head with more pressure, and Justin comes close to moaning.
"O, e, bangon na para makauwi na." Ken cranes forward to meet his eyes. "Matulog ka na agad—"
Justin screws his eyes shut, then fake-snores.
"Galing talaga, Jasten." Ken's exasperation is punctuated with a click of his tongue.
Really, Ken should stop reacting so adorably; that's the only reason Justin finds it in himself to rile him up. No—scratch that. Justin cannot imagine Ken without his cute expressions.
"Seryoso, matulog ka na agad pag-uwi."
"Maglalaro pa 'ko…"
Ken's jaw drops just as his brows rise. There. Case in point. "Pasaway ka."
Justin quickly swipes left and captures Ken's facial expression. This will augment his personal collection of Ken memes.
"Aish! Picture na naman." Ken covers his face, pulling his hood down.
Call it being unreasonable—he's sick, that's a free pass for being a little petty—but he bristles. Is he just on the level of their vlog shooters now? Isn’t he supposed to be an exception?
"Hala, OA. Hindi ko naman ilalabas 'to." It's the second time today. Justin ought to say something.
"Kaya nga." Ken shows himself now. He's playing with his lip piercing. Huh. "Nako-conscious lang ako kasi puro maayos mga picture mo sa iba, tapos ako laging stolen na mukha 'kong ewan."
"O, pini-picture-an naman kita nang maayos, a." He will not enumerate every photo he's taken for Ken that the man posted on Instagram, but he makes the mental list anyway.
"Oo nga. Kaya gano'n na lang."
Oh, falling for an obtuse man. "Di ba obvious? Kaya kita pini-picture-an nang stolen kasi gusto ko lahat ng moment na kasama ka. Pero kung ayaw mo naman, 'kay, fine. Kukunan lang ng picture, e."
He's far from being angry; he has no energy for that. It's just uncomfortable and frustrating, having to explain. And honestly, he could go on and on about why and how he loves capturing every moment with Ken—every version of the man: from fully obscured by clothes to several levels of undress, every tiny shift in expression, every explosive reaction; when Ken is deep in thought or immersed in the blaze of the stage, when Ken is idle and Justin can zoom in to examine the details of his tattoo, when Ken is trying his best to cook so they don’t starve after making love in the wee hours of the night. Justin wants it all, always has, but if Ken doesn’t appreciate this expression of his love…
"Picture lang ba talaga ang nakuha?" Ken mumbles. He begins carding through his hair again.
Which. "Ha?"
"Hindi lang pictures, Jah. You've got a lot of me." Eyes, they say, are windows to the soul. For Ken, they are the doors to his heart.
Now, Justin feels like he's the one who's captured. Frozen in the moment. Arrested by Ken's lenses—intent and ever-earnest.
Justin swallows. "Wala sa'kin 'yong nawawala mong bag ha," he jests.
Ken chuckles. "Oo, pero ikaw kumuha ng virginity ko."
"Hoy!" Justin lurches upright. He surveys the surroundings. Thankfully, their rehearsal area is big enough that even when there are a handful of their staff at the other end, they didn't seem to hear, or they can't be bothered.
"Teka, anong ako?" he blurts, just as Ken slips his hands beneath his arms and scoops him off the floor.
"Ayan tumayo ka rin."
He's occupied with processing Ken's statement that he can't even go crazy over the fact that Ken has just picked him up effortlessly. "Hoy, ako ba? Hindi naman ako, a."
"Sus. G na g ka. Nagma-matter ba ang virginity? Di ba sabi nila social construct lang 'yan?" Ken pushes him. "Uwi na, uwi na." Then, like an afterthought, Ken pats his butt and whispers, "Pero dito ikaw ang nakauna."
Justin hisses. This is too much.
Endnotes:
-
The narrative is shaped by the thesis articulated in Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray: that a portrait reveals more of the artist than of its subject. Though Justin’s intentions and the consequences of his capturing Ken diverge markedly from Basil Hallward’s dedication to Dorian Gray, the parallels remain apparent. This is most evident in my positioning of Justin’s “CHANAKO” IG story and my invoking of the epigraph above, which delineates the artist's emotion-driven perception of their dearest subject as a perpetual suggestion informing both their artistry and their way of seeing. The “CHANAKO” incident—as with every interaction between Ken and Justin—remains a mystery to all of us. Still, I find myself thinking about it perhaps a little too much, especially when placed against Justin’s deeply imaginative nature. And so, it inevitably became the crux of this story.
-
The descriptions in the whole Palawan cruising scene where Justin supposedly took Ken's iconic photo that we all know and love were, of course, products of my delusions. Including the one where Ken apparently looked directly into Justin's camera while wearing a private, little smile. It's one of those moments I can never know for sure actually happened, but such ignorance allows my imagination to work in the gaps and create the possibilities that make my heart flutter—and make shipping much more enjoyable. I'd like to think I was successful in that regard. If I may quote Capiz's words: "i think the specific reason why i got so excited that u wrote a palawan scene was bc i truly adore how u paint each kt picture so fully that it feels so real... and so u writing ab kentin in palawan feels like the space for that moment in my head was getting adequately filled out gets ba???"