I Want You To Be My Last

Part 8 : Hotshot

He came home that day to find three parcels waiting for him at the reception desk.

Apparently, all three were too big to fit in his mailbox - there were two medium-sized boxes and a large-sized pouch sitting on the floor next to the water dispenser behind the receptionist's chair - finding himself amused over the fact rather than the opposite. Truth be told, he'd anticipated getting more than he'd agreed on - there was no denying he was slowly getting used to S' extravagant surprises, but this - this just didn't quite cut it.

The kind lady at the front desk didn't say anything about receiving the parcels on his behalf - he'd informed them beforehand that he was expecting something, but that he was certain that it would only have the building's address, his mailbox and apartment number on it - but she did comment on the sender's name, saying it seemed - fake.

Gulf chuckled but held back saying anything in regards to it, bowing his head and mumbling his thanks as he took the boxes first, thanking the receptionist again when she helpfully piled the plastic pouch atop the second box, and walked away.

-

The first thing he did when he got inside the apartment was to put the parcels down on the low table, retrieve his phone from his pants pocket, sit down as he checked the time - it was almost nine - and typed a message. He held the phone up to his eye level, watching the screen, wondering if S would answer right away, if he was free to talk.

He had no way of knowing if the other man was available - the last time he talked to him was yesterday evening, a day after he came back from his trip to Beijing, just a brief conversation because S was in the middle of finishing something, some work or other that he had to leave behind because of the trip. He'd received a message from him this morning informing him to expect the gift arriving at his place probably after lunch, and the only thing he had managed to reply back was a simple thank you in return.

But if S was busy, well, too bad.

He was going to try anyway.

Good evening, Mr. Lying Liar who lies. I'm home, got the parcels downstairs and almost broke my back dragging them here. Seriously, I was expecting just one small pouch, but I'm guessing your definition of 'one parcel' is different from mine. What did you put in these boxes anyway? Also, Eden Hazard? Are you kidding me?

It took minutes, maybe more, because the next thing Gulf realized was his phone vibrating against his chest as he startled - he didn't remember putting it down and closing his eyes afterward - jerking upward from the couch and groaning, watching his phone tumbling face-first into the carpeted floor.

He picked it up, mentally smacking himself upside the head for being clumsy, but completely forgetting all about it when he saw the notification on the screen.

There were two messages there.

You can think of it as a way to save on shipping fees, of course, or would you rather receive them one by one? If that's the case, well, I'm sorry. Maybe next time, then? And why are you still asking what's inside the boxes? You haven't opened them yet?

The second one read,

What about it? I remember you saying he's your favorite player, so I figured you would know the parcels are from me if I use his name. You were the one who told me not to use mine on the sender's details, don't you remember? I also had to use my co-worker's address, because you said so. I was only following instructions.

Gulf chuckled to himself as he exited the message, tapped open the camera and took two snaps of the parcels piled on the low table, and then switched apps again. He attached both on the message and typed,