Chapter Two: Floorboards and Fire

Yaba, Lagos – 2:17 a.m., February 21, 2026.

The mattress on Chioma’s floor reeked of damp concrete and that cheap incense she always burned to mask the smell. Chino was flat on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes like it could block out the world, the other wrapped tight around Wale’s waist. Wale’s head was on his chest, breath coming hot and ragged against skin that was still sticky from sweat, fear, and everything else they’d done earlier. The room was tiny barely enough space for the thin foam, one plastic chair, a bucket they used for bathing, and that single bulb hanging from the ceiling, flickering every time an okada roared past outside.

Chioma had brought them here after twisting through half the city: dodging Third Mainland traffic, cutting down back alleys in Surulere, parking her Lexus two streets away so nobody could trace the plates. She’d shoved a burner phone into Chino’s hand “No calls home. No W******p. Nothing traceable, you hear?” then locked the door and promised she’d be back at dawn with food and whatever news she could scrape together.

Now the silence was thick, broken only by far off okada horns and some night hawker yelling in the distance.

Wale shifted, sliding his thigh between Chino’s legs on purpose. Chino felt himself stir despite it all despite the video leak still ringing in his head, the raid sirens that hadn’t stopped echoing, the thought of his father’s catechist voice probably booming Bible verses right now back in Onitsha.

“You still hard from earlier?” Wale whispered, lips brushing Chino’s collarbone.

Chino let out a rough breath. “Always, when you dey close like this.”

Wale’s hand wandered down, cupping him through the borrowed boxers Chioma had thrown at them. Chino was already thickening, pushing against the fabric. Wale squeezed slow, firm.

“Make we forget small,” Wale said quietly. “Just for now. Before morning come scatter everything again.”

Chino rolled them over so Wale was underneath. The mattress dipped hard. Their mouths found each other less wild than on that penthouse couch, but more desperate somehow. Tongues sliding deep, tasting salt and the sharp bite of adrenaline still in their systems. Chino kissed down Wale’s throat, sucking another mark right over the fading one from hours ago. Claiming what little space they had left in a country that wanted to wipe them out.

Wale arched up, fingers digging into Chino’s shoulders. “Touch me. Please.”

Chino tugged the boxers down Wale’s hips. His cock sprang free long, dark, already leaking at the tip. Chino wrapped his hand around it, stroking slow from base to head, thumb circling the slick spot. Wale moaned low, hips bucking up into the touch.

“Quiet,” Chino warned, even though his own voice cracked. “Neighbors go hear.”

“Let dem hear,” Wale breathed. “Let dem know two men fit love like this. Fuck like this. Even when dem dey hunt us.”

Chino shut him up with another kiss, swallowing the next moan. He worked Wale faster, twisting at the head the way he’d figured out Wale liked firm, quick flicks. Wale’s legs spread wider, one foot hooking behind Chino’s calf like he was anchoring himself.

Chino broke the kiss long enough to spit into his palm, slicking them both. He reached between them, fingers finding Wale’s hole still soft and open from before, a faint trace of Chino still inside. He pushed two fingers in, curling them, stroking that spot until Wale’s back bowed off the mattress.

“Chino… fuck, right there…”

Chino added a third finger, stretching slow, scissoring. Wale’s cock throbbed in his other hand, precum dripping over his knuckles. The wet sounds filled the tiny room filthy, defiant.

Wale grabbed Chino’s wrist, guiding him faster. “I wan come on you. Mark you. So even if dem catch us tomorrow, you carry my scent.”

Those words hit Chino like a spark. He pulled his fingers out, shifted between Wale’s thighs. No condom they couldn’t risk it, but tonight need won over sense. He spat again, slicked his own cock thick, veined, head dark and flushed. Pressed against Wale’s entrance.

“Tell me stop if too much,” Chino murmured.

“Never.”

He pushed in slow. The heat wrapped around him tight, velvet, pulling him in. Wale gasped, nails raking down Chino’s back. Chino sank all the way, hips flush, balls pressed tight. They stayed like that a second foreheads touching, breathing the same air.

Then Chino started moving.

Deep, rolling thrusts. Every slide dragged right over that spot, making Wale whimper. Chino angled up, grinding harder, feeling Wale clench around him. Sweat beaded between them, slicking skin.

Wale reached down, stroking himself in time. “Harder. Make I feel you tomorrow when I dey run.”

Chino gave it snapping hips, pounding. The mattress creaked loud. Wale’s moans got louder; Chino clamped a hand over his mouth. Wale bit down on the palm sharp, possessive.

Chino kept going relentless, claiming. Every thrust felt like a fuck you to the pastors, the police, the presidents who’d banned them from the military just last December, parading arrested men on TV like trophies. That 2024 directive was still fresh Tinubu’s signature banning “LGBTQ+ activities” in the forces meaning even soldiers lived scared. And here they were, two regular guys daring to exist.

Wale came first body seizing, cock pulsing hot stripes across both their stomachs. The clench was brutal; Chino followed right after, burying deep and spilling inside, groaning into Wale’s neck.

They shook together, aftershocks running through them. Chino stayed inside until he softened, then eased out slow. Cum leaked from Wale white against dark skin. Chino scooped some with two fingers, brought them to Wale’s lips. Wale sucked them clean, eyes locked.

“Mine,” Wale whispered.

“Yours.”

They wiped up with a damp rag from the bucket. Lay tangled again. Sleep wouldn’t come.

At 4:03 a.m., the burner buzzed.

Chioma: Video don full everywhere. Instablog, Linda Ikeji, even Nairaland. Your face clear. Wale too. Police dey ask questions for VI. Pastor Victor post prayer video say ‘deliverance go happen by fire.’ Adanna message me private say your papa wan send boys come Lagos find you. She beg make you disappear small. She no fit talk more. Fear dey ground.

Chino showed Wale. Wale read it, jaw tight.

“My uncle go beat me again if him see,” Wale said quietly. “Last time, him use belt till blood come. Say na devil inside me.”

Chino pulled him closer. “We no go let dem touch you.”

Dawn came gray through the louvres. Chioma showed up at 6:45 with Agege bread, sardines, and two sachets of pure water. She looked worn outred locs tied back, eyes sharp anyway.

“Plan,” she said straight away. “You no fit stay Lagos long. Video don viral. Blogs dey tag police handle. One anonymous tip line already open people dey call name, location. Dem go raid every known spot soon.”

Chino sat up. “Where we fit go?”

“Abuja possible bigger, more anonymous. Or Port Harcourt oil money, people mind their business small. But north no. Sharia states go kill una quick. Even military ban fresh dem dey hunt anybody wey even look queer for barracks.”

Wale rubbed his face. “My design clients dey Abuja. Maybe I fit hustle remote small.”

Chioma nodded. “I get contact for safe house there. Signal group dey organize transport night bus, no checkpoint questions if you pay extra. But e go cost. And una go need new SIM, new names, new everything.”

Chino thought of Adanna. The money he used to send every month school fees, house rent. All gone now. His telecom job gone the second HR saw the video. Wale’s freelance gigs clients would vanish if his face trended as “sodomite.”

“We go run,” Chino said finally. “But no forever. We go find way back. Or way out.”

Wale looked at him eyes fierce, scared, full of love. “Together?”

“Together.”

Chioma stood. “Pack light. I go arrange ticket for tomorrow night. Till then, stay inside. No window. No call.”

She left. Door locked.

Chino and Wale sat quiet for a minute. Then Wale reached for him again slow this time. Not fucking. Just touching. Fingers tracing collarbones, ribs, the curve of hip. Memorizing every inch like it might be the last.

Outside, Lagos was waking: muezzin call mixing with church bells, hawkers shouting, traffic starting to build. A city that hated them but couldn’t stop them from loving.

Hope lived in the press of bodies, in the cum still drying on skin, in the burner phone plan ticking toward escape.

Devastation waited in viral videos, family disownment, police raids, pastors calling for fire.

Ambiguity hung over everything: Would Abuja swallow them whole? Would a tip lead to arrest? Would they ever see home again without chains?

For now, they held each other on the thin mattress.

Two men against a nation.

Still breathing. Still burning.