Wash 9

At a bustling street stand, Cliff leaned against the counter,

biting into a skewer of grilled chicken intestines.

The savory, charred flavor filled his mouth, smoky and rich,

the crunch of slightly burnt edges giving way to the soft, seasoned flesh.

He took his time chewing, savoring the taste as he wandered back to

the wobbly plastic table he had been occupying for some minutes now.

He inhaled deeply.

The open sky stretched above,

endless and dark, punctuated by the occasional flicker of distant city lights.

The night air carried a comforting warmth, mingled with the sharp,

mouthwatering scent of barbecue smoke curling from the grills.

Voices swelled around him—customers calling out orders,

the rhythmic clanking of metal tongs,

the occasional sizzle as fresh skewers met the flames.

And then there was TEDDY.

Cliff’s gaze flicked toward the evening stars. What a perfect night.

It felt endless, like time had slowed just for him. He wished it wouldn’t end.

He felt a JOLT. Everything came back.

Everything that happened, just minutes ago.

A sleepy weight pressed against his back.

Teddy, drunk and mumbling nonsense, had wrapped his arms around Cliff’s neck,

his legs dangling as Cliff carried him piggyback-style through

the dimly lit apartment stairway.

“Where’s your apartment?” Cliff asked, adjusting his grip.

Unconsciously he grabs Teddy by his butt for support so

he won’t slip passed his back.

DAMN. He shouldn’t be doing this.

His hand is doing the talking.

Teddy hummed lazily, resting his chin on Cliff’s shoulder.

“Just… keep climbing up.”

Cliff frowned. “What?”

Before he could ask again, Teddy bit his ear.

A shiver ran down Cliff’s spine.

Teddy’s lips, warm and damp, lingered over his earlobe before curling into a sleepy smirk.

He didn’t let go—he HELD ON with his mouth,

as if laying claim, as if telling the world this ear belongs to me.

And maybe that wasn’t a lie.

Maybe Teddy had owned him—his heart—for a while now.

But the heart is a complicated abyss, and Cliff had spent

years letting his fears dictate its course. BUT maybe not this time.

NOT tonight.

They passed through a dimly lit hallway, the walls lined with peeling wallpaper,

dust clinging to the air.

A neighbor belted heartbreak ballads into a crackling karaoke mic, her voice sharp and off-key.

Teddy, still latched onto Cliff’s ear, groggily pointed toward the rusty door

at the end of the hall.

It was OPEN.

Cliff stepped inside, the scent of detergent and bleach thick in the cramped apartment.

Piles of folded laundry filled every surface.

He carried Teddy straight to the only bed, laying him down gently.

As Cliff sat at the edge, Teddy finally—SLOWLY—released his ear.

He rolled onto his back, exhaling softly.

Cliff looked at him. Silly Teddy. Why do you make my heart flutter like this?

As he moved to stand, a lazy hand grabbed his tie, yanking him downward.

Their faces were close—lips just an inch apart.

Teddy’s half-lidded eyes fluttered open, his voice a groggy mumble.

“Where do you think you’re going? You trying to scam me?”

His fingers toyed with Cliff’s tie. “I paid for a kiss. So… kiss me, whore.”

Cliff blinked. What?

A slow smile tugged at his lips.

This was getting ridiculous. “Teddy, you’re drunk.”

Teddy ignored him. With zero warning, he pinned Cliff down,

his breath warm against his lips.

Then—HE KISSED HIM.

Messy. Greedy. Hands sliding over Cliff’s chest,

fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

One by one, Teddy popped them open, his fingers MOVING DOWNWARD.

Lower.

Lower.

He touched him.

Cliff sucked in a sharp breath.

Teddy’s fingers fumbled at his waistband,

tugging at his belt. His breath was uneven, lips parted as if—

He froze.

A second passed. Then another.

Teddy slumped forward, completely passed out.

Cliff stared at him for a long moment. Then, with a quiet smirk, he exhaled.

“Laundry Teddy… why are you such a tease?”

The older vendor shuffled back to his table, balancing a Styrofoam plate piled

with more skewers. Cliff caught sight of her hands—thin and frail,

veins pressing against her papery skin, as if ready to burst from decades of labor.

She moved with the stiffness of someone who had stood over a grill for far too many years,

her fingers permanently curled as though still gripping wooden sticks.

The smoke clung to her like a second skin, weaving into the deep lines of her face,

her weary eyes half-lidded, either from exhaustion or sheer routine.

Yet, the line at her stand never thinned.

A crowd pressed forward—young men in sweat-stained shirts,

couples sharing skewers between laughter,

a mother balancing a toddler on her hip while digging into her purse for loose change.

The heat from the coals was relentless,’

glowing orange beneath the grates, spitting grease as she flipped the skewers

with mechanical precision. She didn't stop. Couldn’t stop.

Cliff, however, had the luxury of stillness.

He lifted a skewer in the direction of his limousine driver,

who remained parked across the street, arms folded.

The driver barely spared him a glance before shaking his head.

“No,” he mouthed.

Absolutely not. He wasn’t touching any of that shit.

Cliff smirked, unbothered. He shrugged.

Suit yourself. More for me.

He took a sip of beer, relishing the cold bitterness against his tongue.

Then, suddenly, Drew sat down across from him,

grabbing a skewer of his own.

Cliff raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”

Drew chewed slowly. “Just Drew.”

Cliff scoffed. “Okay, Just Drew. Why are you here like chopping my skewer HERE?!”

Drew glared at him. “What did you do to Teddy?”

Cliff smirked. “Teddy?”

Drew’s jaw clenched. “Don’t ‘Teddy’ me. I saw you carrying him up with your

pervy hands all over his ass.”

Cliff leaned in, their faces inches apart.

“And what if I did? Why do you give a fuck?”

Drew grabbed Cliff’s tie, yanking him forward—only to accidentally

bring their lips dangerously close. Cliff smirked. “Careful, Drew.

We might start something here. You’ll get Teddy jealous”

Drew growled. “Teddy is mine.”

Cliff chuckled. “Oh yeah? Last time I checked,

your name wasn’t scratched on his… you know what

but mine is- it says CLIFF”

Drew narrowed his eyes. “Fucking CLIFF”

The calm evening air between them starts to tighten.

But the skewer shop still buzzed with drunken chatter and

the rhythmic clatter of beer cans and scent of grilled intestines

against the wobbly plastic tables.

EVERYTHING changed the moment Drew stood up,

the entire place hushed. His sharp gaze locked onto Cliff,

who tilted his bottle back, swallowing the last of his beer

without breaking eye contact.

Cliff had no idea what Drew was about to do next,

but one thing was certain—this guy was completely unpredictable.

The other customers sensed it too.

A slow wave of excitement rippled through the crowd,

and suddenly, all eyes were on Drew.

Then, in one dramatic motion,

Drew gripped the front of his shirt and tore it open.

Buttons flew in every direction, clinking against tables and landing in people’s drinks.

SHOCK in the air.

He stood there, chest gleaming under the dim makeshift string lights of the skewer stand,

Drew ran a hand down the ridges of his abs.

"These—" he said, flexing just enough to make his muscles pop,

"—are meant for Teddy."

Gasps erupted.

A few people cheered. Someone’s chopsticks slipped from their fingers.

Cliff exhaled through his nose, setting his beer down with an audible clink.

"Really?" he scoffed. "You’re gonna go that direction?"

Drew smirked. "You scared?"

Cliff rolled his shoulders back and slowly stood.

The room pulsed with anticipation. Phones were out.

Someone whispered, "Oh, it’s on."

Cliff loosened his tie with practiced ease, then in one swift movement,

he yanked his shirt apart. More buttons flew.

The fabric sailed through the air before landing squarely on

an older man about to bite into his chicken intestine skewer.

The man gasped, then clutched the shirt to his chest,

eyes shining with a kind of religious reverence.

Within seconds, others lunged for it,

an impromptu tug-of-war breaking out over Cliff’s discarded clothing.

Cliff ignored the chaos. He met Drew’s stare,

lips twitching into a smirk. One eyebrow lifted. A silent challenge.

Drew cracked his neck. "Very well."

And then—without hesitation—he hooked his thumbs

into the waistband of his pants and slid them down in one clean motion.

The crowd lost their minds.

There he stood, posing as if on a runway, wearing nothing

but tight white briefs that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

He turned slightly, as if offering different angles for the cameras,

before pointing both thumbs toward his underwear. "Your turn."

A single bead of sweat formed on Cliff’s brow.

His fingers twitched at the waistband of his own pants.

Then he stopped.

Panic flickered in his eyes as realization hit him like a truck.

He wasn’t wearing any underwear.

For the first time that night, Cliff was speechless.

His jaw tightened, his pride warring with reality.

Slowly, he exhaled, shook his head, and reached into his pocket.

He tossed a few bills onto the table and turned on his heel.

Drew grinned, victorious.

"That’s what I’m talkin’ about, Cliffy! No meat, no competition!"

He struck his hips forward, emphasizing his point.

Cliff froze mid-step.

He turned just enough to look over his shoulder.

His voice came out low and unwavering. "Leave Teddy alone. You think he’s yours?

Think again. Hate to ruin your little moment in that creepy-ass

underwear, but Teddy’s mine too."

Drew’s smirk faded for the first time that night.

"Really?" His voice dipped, almost dangerous. "I don’t think so."

Cliff held his stare for a beat longer before walking out into the night.

Drew, still standing triumphantly in his underwear,

turned back toward the roaring crowd—

their phones flashing, capturing Drew’s triumph,

and of course, social media posting everything in real time.

And that’s when he saw her.

Clarisse.

Her eyes shimmered with tears, her expression unreadable.

She had been there the whole time. Watching.

Drew’s entire demeanor shifted.

The cocky grin, the playful arrogance—it all evaporated.

His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

"Clarisse," he finally managed, stepping forward. "I—"

She raised a trembling hand and pressed a single finger against his lips,

silencing him. Then, without warning, she wrapped her arms around him.

Drew stiffened, confused. "Clarisse, I can explain—"

Her breath was warm against his ear.

"I lied," she whispered. "I’m pregnant, Drew."

The world tilted.

The cheers of the crowd, the lingering echoes of laughter,

the flashing of phone cameras—all of it melted away.

Drew stood there, holding his girlfriend in nothing

but his underwear, while outside,

Cliff disappeared inside his limousine,

into the night, carrying his own silent storm.