Male!Philippines x Male!Reader: Litrato - Part V

(A/N: Female readers may use the male version of their names, or any guy name they want. For the uninitiated, some of the dialogue is in Tagalog, one of the major languages of the Philippines; translations are provided immediately after the original wording. Bear in mind that this story contains boy x boy, so please move on if that isn’t to your liking.)

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Part V - Strawberry Fields...Forever? (third person PoV)

The silence lasted for nearly a year.

“Tita! (Auntie!) I’ve decided to go on holiday for a week there in Baguio!” You already filed for leave from your job, working even on holidays to earn double pay and leave credits.

“[y/n], napatawag ka! Kamusta ka na? (you called! How are you already?) When are you coming up and until when are you staying?”

“I’m fine, I'm fine. Taking the bus up there on Friday and I go back down Monday the week after. Around eleven days.”

After some planning and more tsismis (gossip) on the phone, you took a long shower and began packing your things for the trip even if it was a few days early.

————
Baguio swathed in the cool January air was not as crowded, bathed in some sort of calm. Most yuletide holidaymakers had already descended to the lowlands after Three Kings' Day, while revellers for the Panagbenga Festival were yet to flock to the City of Pines.

It was a little after lunch when you arrived in the city, having put on your cardigan as the coach crawled up winding Kennon Road, up to the former American hill station. Stepping out of the coach and into the midday sunlight was a relief, your last stopover having been hours before at a petrol station in Tarlac. A cool breeze blew through the depot, and you hailed a cab.

"Aurora Hill," you told the cabbie. That was the neighbourhood where your aunt ran a ladies' dormitory in the house she and her Kankanaey husband bought when they moved to the city from Manila more than twenty years ago. Even if they had no children and he was already dead, your aunt was seldom lonely as almost a dozen students from nearby universities—mostly Filipinos with a sprinkling of Koreans and Americans—kept her company.

"Some guys call this the ultimate fantasy," you mused to yourself, thinking that the prospect of being the only male in a house full of girls would have otherwise been exciting were it not for the fact that your body yearned for something else—rather, someone else in particular.

Your aunt was waving as the cabbie braked halfway up the hill, in front of the maroon and white gates of her house. After paying the fare, you exited the cab and into your aunt's welcoming embrace.

"Kaawaan ng Diyos kang bata ka! (God have mercy on you, child!),” she exclaimed as you made mano. "Have you eaten anything yet?"

"No, I'm fine, I'm still full! I had some biscuits on the road and a burger at one stopover." Despite politely declining as is proper manners, your stomach grumbled, betraying your hunger.

"Hay nako (mamma mia), I figured you hadn't eaten much. 'Di bale (Never mind), I cooked a heavy lunch for you and some of the girls here."

"Where will I be sleeping?"

"Well, you can stay in my room. I set up a mattress and a folding screen so you can have your own space. I have my own bathroom, so you don't have to worry about sharing with the girls,” your aunt reassured.

The last time you visited that house was when your were four, and memories of that Christmas you and your family spent here with your aunt, uncle, and even grandmother flooded back after seeing the halls and rooms for the first time in so long.

After a hearty lunch in the dining room, your aunt led you to her bedroom upstairs to unpack and settle down. Some of the girls roaming the halls civilly nodded and smiled as you passed by, one of them quickly re-burying her face in a ridiculously thick accounting textbook.

"I bet you're tired, so take a nice, hot shower and take your siesta (nap). I'll wake you up for dinner," you aunt said through the slightly ajar door.

"Salamat po, Tita! (Thank you, Auntie!)” you answered as she shut the door. You were seated on the mattress, covered in a comforter. The dappled afternoon sunlight streamed through the open window, a chill blowing through the mosquito screen. The folding screen stood there between your bed and hers, splitting the room into two. After taking in your surroundings, you proceeded to sort out your clothes and bathe. You slept through the rest of the day and awoke only to eat, when you and your aunt discussed plans to tour the city the following day.

A little past nine that Saturday, your aunt and you left the house in the care of her maid and housekeeper, as some of the boarders either had class, were out and about on their weekend, or sleeping in. Both of you took the jeepney down towards Session Road, getting off at the steps leading towards Baguio Cathedral.

Your aunt said it had to be your first stop in the city, to give thanks for a safe journey and to pay your respects. You vaguely recall taking a photo as a child in the square fronting the edifice, which stood like a giant, pink, strawberry cake laced in white icing. You and your aunt took selfies with the Cathedral's façade behind you, its twin steeples–both long and pointed strawberries–soaring into the blue emptiness above.

You first went to the candle hall off the Cathedral's southwest, offering a few lights as you muttered a quick prayer. Your aunt then took you by the hand into the Cathedral, and you both knelt down in some pew towards the front. Traditionally one makes a wish when visiting a church for the first time, and when you saw the statue of the Virgin of Atonement on a side altar, you made a quick plea to the Cathedral's patroness.

"Surely you can help me somehow; he is still there. Send me a sign," you told the Virgin. Silence issued forth from the Madonna's lips, her vigil over the city undisturbed by neither your prayer nor the devotees reverently wiping their handkerchiefs on her cream-coloured feet.

You and your aunt then hopped onto another jeepney bound for La Trinidad across the city border, down to the Benguet capital's strawberry fields. You and your aunt had fun picking strawberries and eating warm tahô (bean-curd pudding) bathed not in the usual ebony arnibal (molasses) but in a rich, red strawberry sauce that had pieces of the fruit in it.

You both headed back to Session Road, and your aunt suggested you visit the Philippine Military Academy next as you ate at a restaurant serving Ilocano food.

"You get to see the military museum inside, it's worth the visit!" she said excitedly as she took a bite of the dinengdeng.

Your heart ached a little at the mention of the PMA because of him.

"Erm, Tita, I remember having gone there when I was last here. I want to see other places here," you said, trying to disguise your apparent discomfort.

"We can go to Camp John Hay then, or would you prefer Burnham instead? How about the Easter Weaving Centre, or the BenCab gallery in the next town? Or maybe Mines View; it's right beside the Good Shepherd nuns and their jams!" She seemed too excited to tour you around the city that she ignored how averse you were to discussing the subject of the PMA, and of course, Emilio.

"Hinay-hinay lang po! (Easy does it!) I have a week to visit all that—any of those places are good!" you said, wringing your hands. "How about Burnham Park then? It's close by and we can go boating in the lake."

"O, sige, (Then, fine), [y/n]. There are bicycles there too, so we can ride those after going boating."

You and your aunt strolled on to Burnham Park, and along the way she ranted about how Baguio was so crowded compared to when she first moved there. "It was different, so different. You could really smell the pine in the air. Haaay (sigh), Sharon Cuneta's Baguio is long gone," she said, lost in a reverie that probably consisted of images from the Mega Star's on-location film.

Both of you then enjoyed the rest of the day at Burnham Park, where you took so many photos as she told you how she and her husband first met at the park all those years ago. 

"And you know what? He still told me he loved me kahit sinabihan ko na siyáng ayaw kong magpaligaw! (even if I had told him that I did not want to be wooed!)” she said with laugh as the jeepney rolled on the way home.

"What did you tell him, then?" you asked.

"I told him yes, because he was like a coconut."

"Huh? Tita, why a coconut?"

"You see, he wasn't my type, but he was a good man inside. Like a coconut—leaves much to be desired on the outside, but pure and white within," she smirked as both of you got off the jeepney and walked the rest of the way up.

"[y/n], let me tell you something. I never expected him to love me the way he did, and I guess he did not expect me to reciprocate. Love, you see, goes beyond so many things. Looks fade and things change with time, but the love stays on if it is true," you aunt lectured.

"Wait, how much was he not your type?"

"I stopped short of saying he was ugly!" Both of you were howling in laughter as the house was a few metres away. "But when I saw how persistent he was, I realised he was serious. In the end, he was a good man." Your aunt wiped her eyes as you both paused in front of the gate; you were not too sure if it was from laughing too hard since she was looking wistfully at the house she shared with her husband for twenty-odd years.

"Malenn! Pakibukás ang tarangkahan, o! (Please open the gate, then!)" your aunt called out to the housekeeper. "Tomorrow, hijo (sonny), we've to go to the palengke (wet market) after church to buy the dorm's food for the week."

————

As Sunday Mass at the Cathedral ended, you glanced at the Virgin–still on her perch above the bowed heads of the congregation–and wondered if she actually heard your request amongst the many thousand other prayers asking for this or that.

You and your aunt then walked the short distance westward along Session Road to the Baguio City Public Market.

"...ginger; cooking oil; sitaw (string beans); squash..." your aunt recited as she ticked off the items from the week's grocery list. 

"Tita, I want to buy pasalubong (souvenirs) for people back home."

"There are a few over in the section near Magsaysay Avenue."

"It's that way to the right, no?"

"Oo (Yes). I'll go the other way to the meat section for the chicken parts and longganisa (a local type of sausage) while you're at it."

By the time you had arrived there, the section was filled with all sorts of trinkets and treats–peanut brittle, ube (purple yam) and strawberry jams, t-shirts, refrigerator magnets, brooms, cold-weather wear. Even those knit caps emblazoned with "Baguio" and the naughty little wooden Barrel Man were on sale in a myriad of sizes. As you perused through small wooden keychains, a voice instantly caught your attention when you heard the first few words.

"Manang Joy, kalahating kilo po. (Madame Joy, half a kilo, please). May diskwento ba ang gwapong kagaya ko? (Does someone handsome like myself get a discount?)"

It couldn't be.

Your heart beat quickly, and you turned your head in the direction of the voice. Somewhere a little far off was a stall with heaps of bright red strawberries, glistening in the soft glow from the dirty, white corrugated plastic skylight above the market corridor. A man in a bright teal t-shirt blocked your view of the succulent fruits, buying some of them.

"Ikaw talagá, Emilio! Syempre may special price para sa pogi kong sukì! (Oh you, Emilio! Of course there's a special price for my handsome loyal customer!)" the old lady replied, ending with a witchy cackle when she probably meant for a schoolgirl's coy giggle.

Your hearing could have deceived you, so you squinted. "My eyes; why were they so bad?" you opined. Maybe they shared a name. Maybe they just had the same, somewhat long and tousled hair. Your heart could be playing games with your head, clouding your relatively sound judgement. You decided to follow the man as he walked briskly after finishing his transaction, a blue plastic bag of strawberries in his left hand.

He turned to a small gap in the stalls, past the fruits and vegetables. You went after him, dodging porters hauling sacks of rice with their hand lorries, and nearly hitting a pair of women bearing fresh flowers bundled up in newspapers. Your feet splashed on the pocked, wet cement as his teal shirt flickered in and out of sight amidst the throng passing. In the open alley by the meat area you almost see him, but the crowd pressed in, casuing you to drift further from him. You call out in desperation.

"EMILIO! EMILIO!"

The man paused briefly and turned to look behind him. Your heart leapt; those same, somewhat amber eyes that only lived on in your fantasies were staring in your direction. His skin was still that perfect, near-bronze colour, yet his lips were tinted with what looked to you like a small frown. His eyes widened briefly, and then he turned his head to cross Abanao Street, before disappearing in the bustle of the city.

It was at best indifference, utter disdain at worst. You remained standing there in the midst of the crowds until someone tapped your left shoulder.

"Hoy, [y/n]! What the hell are you staring into space for?" your aunt said, shaking you a bit. Coming to, you dejectedly assuaged her that it was nothing. You simply picked up the bags of vegetables and meat and led the way to the jeepney stop.

————

It was nighttime, and your aunt on the other side of the folding screen was already quiet, most likely asleep. You opened your leather satchel, and pulled out a printed copy of Emilio's graduation photograph. Tears began welling in your half-lidded eyes, and you silently kissed and lovingly fondled the photograph, laying it on your pillow as though it was his lovely head nestled beside yours. 

"Bakit? (Why?)" you whispered through half-muffled sobs. "Why do you still hate me? Was it wrong to tell you that I love you? It was okay that I spent so much time by your side, but now that I want to share my life with you, it's wrong?"

You contemplated his face and his lips, revelling in sweet pain at how they can never kiss you back, and admiring his uniform, which made your prince shine in the moonlit room.

"Sana, ako na lang ang shako na nasa kamay niya (If but I instead were the shako in his arm)," you sighed, before kissing his lips repeatedly again and crying yourself to sleep, the photograph still beside you.

As you began snoring, your aunt on the other side of the folding screen took a deep breath. She shifted her body under her blanket, looked heavenward as though in supplication, and shut her eyes, finally drifting off to sleep.