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The heat seemed to press on him, wearing him down as if he’s got a heavy load on his back. On top of that, Ibarra was late. He was supposed to meet Clarita in five minutes, yet there he was, still stuck in EDSA traffic, in a cramped and smelly G-Liner, drenched not only in his sweat but also in the sweat of all the others pressing in around him.
In addition to that, he was sure he already got groped—whether accidentally or not, he didn’t know—four times since he got on the bus.
He turned his face towards the bus’s dirty ceiling, towards the dimming fluorescent light; as if praying for salvation. Dear god, if they couldn’t do anything about the traffic, they damn well should’ve gotten better buses. Ones with better air-conditioning. Ones which didn’t look as if they were one ride away from falling apart.
Ibarra sighed. He promised Clarita he’d make it up to her; since he was also late the last time they went out. She was a patient and understanding lady, but Ibarra didn’t want to push his limits by being late to their date for a second time. Still, there was no way out of the bus or the traffic. Ibarra had no choice but to keep her waiting.
He reached for his back pocket, about to pull out his phone and send his girlfriend a long and heartfelt litany of an apology; when he felt it.
No, what he was currently holding was not the hard, plastic surface of his iPhone, but a warm and twitching human hand.
It was currently situated on his back pocket (consequently, his ass). He could even feel its pulse and the slight tremble in its fingers.
It didn’t take long for him to figure out what was happening. He held on to the pickpocket’s hand as tightly as he could muster in his uncomfortable position (though he doubted whether the pickpocket could escape with the throng of people blocking the way) and slowly turned around.
The man didn’t bother obscuring his face; hence, Ibarra could see his features in full view. He was surprised to see that the man did not have the hardened look of most crooks or a façade of innocence, but seemed to be looking at him with befuddlement. His dark, brown eyes were tainted with the color of exhaustion and regret. Sweat beaded his caramel-colored skin, dripping down the sides of his head. His hair was pulled back into a man bun at the back of his head, and Ibarra, who, until then, thought long hair on men was uncouth, had to admit the man looked quite… Ruggedly gorgeous. And somehow, also achingly familiar.
Even though he tried to steal his phone.
He also realized he was still holding on to his hand.
Ibarra arched an eyebrow at him and took his phone from the man’s limp hand.
“What the hell did you think you were doing?”
At the sound of his voice, the stranger’s eyes widened with recognition. His lips parted to release a startled breath; as well as a whispered string of expletives. In shock, Ibarra could do nothing but watch as the pickpocket’s previous lethargy melted away into panic and tension as he yanked his hand out of his grasp; as he pushed past him to make his way to the front of the bus. He watched as the man practically leaped into the sidewalk, disappearing into the crowd, leaving a trail of miffed passengers behind him.
Ibarra was bothered, to say the least.
He knows he’s met that man somewhere—the way his heart sank to the bottom of his stomach when he looked into his eyes can attest to that. His eyes reminded him of sand between his toes and diving headfirst into rivers, of rallies and protests and heated arguments and leaving, only to never look back. His head hurt from the staccato burst of fragmented memories, bits and pieces that don’t fit together or make sense. His chest ached with a pang of regret that seemed to come out of thin air but shocked him senseless nonetheless. His entire being trembled with frustration from not remembering someone who made him feel so much. Hell, even the stitch that lay at his side, the one which closed a bullet wound that nearly killed him; burned. Ibarra had to check to make sure it hasn’t split open. That man tried to steal his phone, for God’s sake. He shouldn’t be making Ibarra feel… weird. Nostalgic. Frazzled. Empty.
The rest of the journey passed by in a blur, even at the pace his bus was going. Two hours later, he met Clarita, kissed her, said his apologies, got lost in her smile and all that, but nothing seemed to erase the long-haired stranger from his mind. He tried to, he really did, even if every attempt seemed horribly futile, leaving him more and more on edge.
Clara noticed, of course.
“Cris, are you okay?” She asked, squeezing his hand. He’s been staring at a photo of a male model that bore an uncanny resemblance to the man on the bus. “Did something happen?”
He opened his mouth to respond, the words “I’m fine” waiting to roll off his tongue flawlessly; when his head and side burst from a searing pain. All he could see was white, and then the chocolate brown of the stranger’s eyes.
It must have been the model’s hair or his eyes, but all Ibarra knew was that he did know the man on the bus. The realization knocked him off his feet and left him gasping for air, and when he finally opened his eyes to meet Clara’s, his name was ringing in his ears and pounding in his chest, hungry for release.
His heart was pounding. How could he have held him in the palm of his hand, and let him slip through easily again? He thought he was dead, killed by a policeman’s gun in a rally that went horribly wrong, yet there he was, on a public bus. He was alive and breathing, just like Ibarra was.
He survived the rally, just like he did, and he didn’t know.
“Elias.” He gasped. At the mention of the name, Clara looked equally stunned. “I saw Elias. He’s alive.”