mongol no. 2

There’s something terribly wrong with him, and the sad thing is; even though we’ve spent more time together than the both of us would care to admit, I still can’t figure him out. Sure, I can tell that something’s off by the general tension in his muscles, the constant ticking of his jaw, and the vacant, glazed, yet still fierce stare. His reasons, however, are entirely unknown to me.

I can’t figure out why I’m so bothered.

Maybe it was because Placido looked so fucking hot sitting across me? Maybe it was because I can’t stop staring at the curve of his jaw, now very prominent because he wouldn’t stop gritting his god damned teeth?

Maybe it was because it was me whom he was staring at; his deep eyes even deeper with emotions I can’t put my finger on?

It’s unsettling. I’ve been trying to eat my sandwich for fifteen minutes now, but the churning in my stomach made it hard for me to swallow anything.

My food. Or my unrequited feelings. Or the fact that I’m weak as hell, and he, of all people, is the reason.

His silence is not new, but this surely is.

I take a bite casually, even though the bread felt like mushy cardboard in my mouth. “I always knew you liked me.”

The trance he was in broke. His face melts into that of pure surprise–a deer in the headlights. He blinks at me a few times as if he was struggling to comprehend what I just said. “What?”

It’s weird. He’s usually the one with the snappy comebacks that leave my insults (and insides?) a burnt pile on the floor.

I snort. “And I thought I was the dumbass in this relationship.”

That seemed to have shaken him awake. He snorted, shaking his head, putting up that stone-cold facade once again.

“You still are.”

I jab his cheek. For some reason. "Hey, I was joking. No need to get personal.”

He swats my hand away. Did I imagine it, or did his fingers linger on my hand longer than usual? “Aren’t we always, though?" 

Now something is definitely up. This is the guy who, in every opportunity he gets, denies his connection with me–which is ridiculously painful but strangely amusing on my part–and here he is, using the pronoun "we” while talking to me about us? I am a little winded–or “shook”, as most people would say nowadays–yet a small part of me seems to have ignited hearing his voice, recognizing the both of us. We. Him and I. Me and him. Placido and Juanito.

“Ha. ‘We’. I always knew you liked me, Placidobabes.”

There it is again, the deer-in-the-headlights face, the wide eyes, the ajar lips, the furrowed brows. I am as shocked as he is. Did this mean…?

His lips began moving without saying anything. I wanted, needed him to regain his composure; show me he’s numb. I cannot deal with this Placido. It’s like I don’t even know him! Who knew this asshole had feelings? Actual emotions other than pissed off, angry, and mad? It’s seriously fucking with my head. And heart.

“How did you know?” His voice is shaking. Was Placido coming undone right in front of me?

“What?” My voice came out louder than it’s supposed to. “You’re not yourself today, Placido. What is wrong with you?”

“Shit,” he whispers, breaking his stare and running his hands through his hair. Another nervous tick. After a solid five seconds of staring at the wooden tabletop, he suddenly turns to me. I am taken aback by the sheer rawness of whatever it is that lived in his eyes right now: a raging fire, burning embers, hot coal. Dark, yet light at the same time. Straddling the line between hot and cold.

Huh. Who knew Placido could make a poet out of me? Isagani would be so proud.

Next thing I knew, his fingers were clutching my wrist, and we were both rushing out of the cafe.

-

I swallow my heartbeat as Placido paces in front of me. After half-dragging me beside him, we ended up in his empty dorm room; where he proceeded to dump me on his computer chair. I didn’t dare move. He looked dangerous; the way he looked like when he walked out of Professor Millon’s class a week ago. He’s in a world of his own, totally distant and separate from ours, and it’s terrifying. What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do when he’s standing right in front of me but seems to be walking somewhere I can’t reach?

“I’m sorry.” I startle. His voice is a low rumble, rising up from the depths of his throat–his chest. “I’m sorry, I–I can’t do it.”

“Wait,” My eyes search the room for places to run to and/or hide in, just in case I witness an explosion. “Why? Why are you apologizing? Is this because you realized you’ve insulted me far too much or—”

“I’m not joking, Juanito.” He stares at me once again, his eyes dark clouds and lightning; his words electric. The air is charged with a tension that is threatening to destroy the both of us.

“Then what is it, Placido? What are you apologizing for?” I clench my fists to stop them from shaking. This is a different terrain I cannot tread, and it’s igniting a fire I doused ages ago, threatening to burn me again.

We stare at each other, completely silent for a solid minute.

“I–” Placido swallows, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he does. “I–I can’t do it.”

I look up, meeting his eyes. Vulnerable, tormented, turbulent–emotions I never thought I’d see in his eyes.

“Do what?”

Placido moves without making a single sound–at that moment, all that I heard were our bated breaths and the pounding of my heart in my chest. I notice his shoulders shift, reaching for something in his back pocket, but I keep my eyes on his face. His eyes, dark and deep with something I cannot understand. His brown skin flushed and glistening with sweat.

He averts his gaze. I follow the direction of his eyes, down to his hands.

Terror–that was the only word that could describe what I felt. In his hands was a pistol, probably locked and loaded.

“Kill you.” He stares at me, and my blood runs cold. “They want me to kill you, Juanito.”

I take a step backward, which seemed to have shaken him a bit. Placido takes a step towards me, a hand outstretched as if his unarmed hand is going to pacify me, yet I flinch.

Then I do the only reasonable thing to do for someone who’s in my position: I bolt.

“Juanito!” Placido cries. I struggle to open the door, my palms slipping off the knob. My hands shake, slick with sweat. I knew I wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but damn it, I didn’t think I’d die just because I couldn’t open a god damn door to save my life.

Placido grabs my shoulders, forcing me around to face him.

“Don’t touch me!” I cry out, shoving his hands away, pressing myself against the door. He shrinks back, regret in his face. “I knew you hated me, Placido, but kill me? How can you do this?”

“I can’t do it, Juanito!” He shouts, running his fingers through his hair. With a start, I realize he’s tossed the gun aside. He stood before me, unarmed. “And this isn’t because of hatred, this is supposed to be a warning. You have to warn your father or else you will all be killed in the crossfire.”

My head is spinning. Anger, fear, confusion, and dear god, even frustration–because he was so fucking hot when he’s angry–were the only things I could feel. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, what was going on. “My father? What does this have to do with my father?”

“He’s involved in a corruption plot that he wants to end.”

“Who’s he?” I am growing frantic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I can’t–” He pauses to take a breath. “I can’t tell you. Just–just ask your father.”

Silence reigns above us. My thoughts race at a hundred miles per hour, and I can actually feel myself going faint. Apart from that, I’m confused: I know this isn’t the time to think about such trivial things, especially when I’ve just found out that Placido holds some sort of vendetta against me and my family, but did this mean I actually meant something to him? That this friendship–relationship–that existed between us isn’t just that of two people who needed each other for practical reasons?

“I thought you hated me,” I whisper, not daring look at his face. “Why can’t you kill me?”

Placido takes a deep breath. When he speaks, his voice shakes. “Because I–”

I stare at him expectantly, watching his face, his eyes for any betrayal of the emotions he can’t bring himself to tell me. I needed answers.  

“What? I don’t have all day, Placido.”

He takes a deep breath.

Then to my surprise, he surges forward; his hands pressing my hips against the door, his lips crashing into mine. I am pinned against his body–his heart is thudding through his chest and against mine, his skin is hot where we meet, and his lips are soft and warm and so fucking good. God damn, he’s kissing me. Me! Of all people! Wasn’t he supposed to kill me just a few seconds ago?

I am weak. But my fear reigns supreme over what I’m feeling–emotions and feelings and questions I’ve harbored for the past three years–and I push him away.

The surprise, the hurt, the confusion in his eyes, meet the shock and fear in my own. If were going to be completely honest, I wanted to kiss him again, feel the words he can’t bring himself to tell me on my lips; yet I turn my back to him, finally opening the door.

“The next time you do that, make sure it isn’t just minutes after you pulled a gun out on me.”

Right now, I had to run. –

It has been fifteen minutes. I am stunned, confused, and very alarmed; albeit still a little lethargic from a short-lived nap. Standing at Mayor Tiago’s massive living room window, my books and laptop long abandoned, I watch the figure give Irene—the Mayor’s hulking Great Dane—belly rubs. God damned belly rubs. It took me months to actually get the monster dog accustomed to my presence and a year to make him love me, and this stranger does it within a night.  

I rub my eyes. If the dog trusts him, quicker than he has trusted me, is that enough of an excuse to not call the cops on him? But, he still broke into Tiago’s property: he somehow scaled the smooth and high wall, slipped through the electric fence sitting at the top, and tamed his gigantic dog without getting mauled. He trespassed. That’s enough of an excuse to call security, right?

After scrutinizing the man on the lawn once more, I notice that he’s roughly the same age as I am, dressed in the fashion of most Ateneans, and very inebriated. I heave a sigh of relief; congratulating myself for keeping my head on my neck. I wouldn’t have been able to live with the guilt of sending someone to jail based on an empty accusation (or is it not?) and a sudden impulse. Besides, if the guy wanted to rob us or assassinate the mayor, he should’ve done that by now, right?

I assess the stranger one last time; who was now lying underneath Irene, getting smothered in dog drool. I sigh.

If everything goes to shit, I hope Irene doesn’t remember the belly rubs.

-

I was wrong. He wasn’t just very inebriated; he was drunk out of his mind. Absolutely fucking smashed.

Upon closer inspection, I could see the dazed eyes, the subtle flush in his cheeks, the goofy grin on his face, the shimmer of a Great Dane’s affection on his face and neck. His dark hair stuck up in tufts along his hairline where Irene had licked him. White dog hair flecked his black pullover and jeans. He lay on the grass at my feet. Both he and the dog watched me with some kind of astute innocence; like they were waiting for me to toss them both out or screw up horribly.

I shake my head and clip Irene’s leash to his collar. I had just started to lead the dog—who didn’t look very happy and left his new friend’s arms with a whimper—to his shed at the edge of the backyard when, all of a sudden, the person sat up.

“Don’t take hiiiiim,” He drawls, wrapping his arms around the dog’s neck. Irene licked his cheek appreciatively. “Heeeee’s my frieeeeend.”

I watch incredulously as he rests his head against the dog’s back with a sigh of content. The words were out of my mouth even before I could stop it.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The stranger ignores the bite in my tone and stares back at me with dazed happiness. “Dogs are fucking great, man. I wish I had one, they are amaaaaaaaaaazing.”

I shake my head, tugging at Irene’s leash. The stranger went so far as to putting his entire weight on the dog, stopping me from locking Irene safely away. The latter didn’t seem to mind, though—he even set his head on his paws and prepared to sleep.

“So soft. And warm. And furry.”

Exasperation seeped into my bones, weighing me down. I heard drunk people were hilarious, a great source of entertainment, but this? This is ridiculous. I am mildly entertained, but frustrated nonetheless.

There is no other way out of this than to compromise. Mayor Tiago will have my head for even thinking about it, and I make a mental note to clean up before he wakes up. Kick this guy and the dog out before sunrise.

“Get up,” I nudge him with my foot, catching his attention. “We’re going inside. And yes, we’re taking the dog.”  

His eyes light up, a grin breaks out on his face. The fact that I thought that was cute stuns me a bit. “Really?”

I nod, and he pushes himself up from the ground, startling me and the dog. I take a step back as he staggers unsteadily; almost falling to his feet but catching himself just in time. He regains his footing and resumes grinning at me innocently, almost apologetically.

I cringe back.

And then, in a second of pure horror on my part; he doubles over with a retch. His heaving shatters the serenity of the backyard; I feel the contents of his stomach in between my toes; the smell crawls up my nostrils and lingers there. I turn my face towards the moonlit sky, closing my eyes.

I am a medical student, and I have handled things worse than this, I remind myself. Puke is nothing. I repeat, puke is nothing.

“Oh.” He states. He looks at Irene, who sniffs at my feet; then back at me.

I nod grimly. “Yeah, ‘oh’. Are you done?”

He closes his eyes for a moment; I watch as his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He doesn’t open his eyes for a long while.

After a solid minute of tension, his gags rip through the air again.

-

 I clean him up. Thankfully, he isn’t the touchy-feely drunk; he just sits, half-conscious, as I strip off his filthy pullover. His hand is on Irene’s head.

I set up a little bed for him on the couch, and he falls asleep within minutes. He looks peaceful, absolutely serene.

I shake my head. As interesting as he is, watching him as he sleeps feels like an invasion of privacy. Besides, I didn’t need to memorize every curve and edge of his—frustratingly gorgeous—face even before I knew his name.

-

Somebody is patting my cheek. I groan in response. When I don't stir, the gentle patting is replaced by clumsy, wet slobbering--what?

When I open my eyes, I am greeted by Irene's nose sniffing at my face, urging me to wake up. Behind him, a young man watches me.

Last night's events come back to me and I sit up so fast, I am winded.

"Hi." He says sheepishly, shooting me a small smile.

I press two fingers to my temple. "Hey."

He certainly looked better: He donned one of my shirts and his dog fur-flecked jeans from last night, his hair was neater, more or less, and he looked, well, a lot soberer.

(that did not help my case, since, consequentially, he looked cuter.)

An awkward silence hung over us like a thick blanket. Only Irene seemed immune, with his big head lying on my lap and his tail thumping on the hardwood floor.

"So," I clear my throat. "How are you feeling?"

He shrugs. "Like shit. But I'm fine, I can make it home."

"Um, I'm sorry for trespassing." He adds. I notice his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on my shirt. "And for, ah, whatever inconvenience I caused."

I think of his puke between my toes and the stench of inebriation that wafted off him a few hours ago. Pushing that away, I let a small smile tug at my lips.

"It's nothing. How did you end up here, anyway? Ateneo's pretty far from here unless you drive. You didn't seem to be in the right state of mind to be behind a wheel."

At this, he chuckles; the small laugh bringing out the light in his eyes. "Well. I think I might have walked and snuck through your back gate when the guard wasn't looking. My mistake. I thought this was my apartment complex."

"You're lucky Irene here didn't maul you. That would've been a tougher mess to clean."

"Yeah." He glances at the dog, then back at me. His eyes are a deep shade of brown. "Um, I'm Isagani."

It hits me.

Isagani.

So that's Isagani.

Wonderboy, student council president, school paper in-chief, heartthrob, walking epitome of perfection (at least they say he is). Someone who I never thought would end up sleeping on my couch and wearing one of my shirts.