The Adventures of Peter Valentine

November 14

In Valentine's Theory of an Organic Story, a character pursues an objective or goal through various conflicts, and tries to overcome opponents, until the ultimate battle called the climax, after which the character ends up with one of four possible endings:
1.) s/he gets what s/he wants and s/he is happy,
2.) s/he gets what s/he wants but s/he is unhappy,
3.) s/he doesn't get what s/he wants but s/he is happy, or
4.) s/he doesn't get what s/he wants and s/he is unhappy.
Luke's unexpected return after two weeks of being AWOL changed the ball game for Valentine. What was it that his novel is about again? What was its goal? Was it about the writing of a novel of their semi-epic love story in a 30-day challenge?
Or was it a desperate attempt to bring back Luke in his life? Or, if not Luke exactly, maybe attract a Luke substitute that he could love, and be happy with for the rest of his life?
More profoundly, he asked, "Isn't all literature ultimately a desperate human cry for connection and understanding?"
Valentine was frozen for a few days. He wasn't writing his 800 to 1,200 words a day, a goal he had set for himself in order to finish a novel in the 30 days of November. He convinced himself that he could catch up. He used to blog and write random stuff at the rate of 2,500 words a day.
But between his real life in Maryland where autumn had started to get colder, and the number of Covid cases were starting to rise again along with the flu season; and the succession of devastating typhoons Rolly and Ulysses in the Philippines that affected many of his friends and online acquaintances, he was just paralyzed; and, if he dared accept it to himself, maybe a little depressed.
And now, Luke Paclibar had come back. But singing a strange tune, offering no more than mere friendship. Is this Ending No.2 for Valentine—Luke back in his life, but not in Valentine's romantic terms?
This wasn't the same Luke who proposed a marriage to Valentine on Day 3; who promised to give up his virgin ass—if it pleased Valentine, on Day 5; who sent, and unsent, his three dick pics (four, including the one tightly packed under his grey Bench/Body hipster briefs) on Day 6; and who had a seven-minute mild phone sex with Valentine on Day 7 saying such erotic promises (or threats, if you please) as: "I will kiss you all over and everywhere so that only your eyeballs won't be touched by the wetness of my tongue!"
(Actually, Valentine's translation sucks. What Luke actually said was, "Hahalikan kita sa buo mong katawan, lahat ng parte, hangga't alikmata mo lang ang walang latay ng aking laway." Then again, Valentine would argue about the use of the word latay in the context of the tongue. Latay is more of a whipmark really, the beginning of bruising; but, ah, the clumsy metaphors of wild sex and making love!)
So, what happened?
Like a good detective (and a good writer needs to be some sort of a detective, he thought), Valentine went back recalling the events of Day 3.
After their "good morning, America; good evening, Philippines" ritual on Messenger, Valentine whined a little bit about his girl friends who seemed to have ganged up on him, and sort of humiliated him in front of Luke. He also guilt-tripped Luke for not defending him as much as he had protected and championed the so-called boyfriend from Talisay City, Cebu.
Luke reminded him that he didn't want to be in that group chat in the first place, and Valentine ranted that since he was there already, Luke should have acted and defended him as if he truly cared since he was already assumed to be Valentine's boyfriend.
The argument escalated rather quickly. Luke said, "Fuck you!" And Valentine returned the favor with a careless "Fuck you, too!" Then, Luke hung up.
Three hours later, Luke rang up Valentine who was by then half-drunk and crying while swallowing swigs of Jameson Irish whiskey from the bottle.
Valentine was getting drunk early in the day (10:30 a.m. EST) because he was completely wrecked by Luke's ignorant behavior towards him, and his mad, passionate love for the newfound boyfriend he had met online just over 72 hours ago.
It was a video call request from Luke, and Valentine always gave in to requests so that Valentine could also see his disheveled and crumpled face wet with tears, runny nose, and spilled whiskey and drool. It was a little too dramatic for Valentine, who was usually as composed a gentleman drunk as can be. But it served all his intents and purposes at that time. 
A few more banters in a blame game, and then Luke made Valentine smile again with, "Stop crying now because I really like you, too; and I don't want to ever see you cry because of me again."
Valentine was thinking, Bullshit, Luke, but he was also mildly pleased. Oh, the drama!, he was telling himself.
And they talked some more about love, about their dreams, about their future together in Valentine's hometown. And after two hours of talking of this and that, Luke said good night, and Valentine agreed to let go, since both already said that they needed to charge their phones anyway. Also, Valentine had promised to stop drinking, and to eat something for lunch.
Not fifteen minutes later, Luke's message with the icon of a diamond engagement ring pinged on Valentine's phone. It was followed by a two-second voice message of a marriage proposal.
Valentine was shocked. Struck dumb. The only other person who had proposed to him was Martin, who he had married and buried.
Every boy, man, or dude after Martin, he proposed to; and so far, no one had accepted. Even Luke didn't consider gay marriage feasible for himself in the last two days that Valentine had been dangling the idea before him.
And now, it was Valentine's turn to respond to Luke's proposal. The tables had been turned on him.
Seriously considering his answer, although he had thought of this answer for over four years now, he texted Luke, "Duh! In principle, yes. I think that we are already agreed since Day 1 that I'm going to marry you. It's just that I want to make sure that you understand and not forget my condition, my requirement really, that we spend a night of lovemaking before we tie the knot. To make sure that our saliva has chemistry and taste match. I like kissing a lot, Luke, and I don't want to marry someone I don't feel like kissing all the time. My dentist may say that I don't have halitosis, but if you think I got bad breath, why would you stay with me for the rest of your life? And you—you may have a perfectly sweet-smelling breath, but if your saliva tastes like poison to me, why would I condemn myself into an eternity of suicide-like misery?"
And in another text, "I know this sounds like I'm a satyromaniac or a crazy sexaholic, but I'm 51, and this is what I want if I'm going to invest the rest of my life in a marriage. I don't have the luxury of time and youth like you, Luke, but I can actually afford what I want in my old age, and I can demand it, so sue me!"
Luke read the message. Or at least, Valentine assumed it since the Messenger said Seen. And then, Luke was gone.
Valentine did as he promised. He screwed the cap back on his half-empty/half-full bottle of Jameson whiskey, and headed to his kitchen to heat up his two-day old chicken wings adobo.