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Crisostomo Ibarra is a First Class Asshole; the rich and privileged, completely oblivious, deep-in-the-closet kind of asshole.
"Ibarra... Ibarra, alam mo namang..." He grits his teeth, screws his eyes shut. He digs his nails into the palms of his hands, feels the energy build up in his fist as frustration tries to take over his bloodstream. There's an earthquake running down his spine, and it leaves him trembling against the bathroom sink. His head whirls. He shakes his head as he glances at the mirror, splashes water against his face. It doesn't wash away the purple under his eyes, but it does get rid of the blood beading on his lower lip. He takes what he can get— That's what his life, really, is: compromise, settling for less because at least it's not nothing.
Here's the thing: Elias is sick of being strung along and then cast aside.
"Ibarra, gago ka," he yells, straight from his throat. (The name scratches at his throat that way. It leaves him heaving, pathetic— sure, but he almost craves the useless feeling because it's all he knows. But he almost craves the useless feeling because he likes the way that he is able to break himself down and feel so small.) He can feel his voice reverberate in the room, echo twice and thrice over. "Ibarra, putangina mo. Gago ka, putangina mo— MAHAL KITA."
And, here's another thing: Elias would never want him to come out if it wasn't safe, but his feelings don't switch off just like that.
And, here's another thing: Crisostomo Ibarra's feelings do switch off just like that, or it certainly seems that way.
And, here's another thing: Elias doesn't think it would be so bad, if only the other boy was hurting like he was.
He chokes on a sob, lets his knuckles go white as his hands clutch at the sink like a lifeline. He feels light-headed and weak, but he can't find it in himself to be angry— even if the other boy is unable to understand how shit this all feels. "Gusto ko lang namang," his voice cracks, "maging masaya."
"Hindi ko na kaya."
The other boy has the audacity to be shocked, to not see this coming.
He takes in a deep breath. "Pagod na 'ko, Ibarra."
"Elias—"
"Sa lahat ng pinagsamahan natin, ano'ng napala ko kung 'di masaktan?" He kind of chokes in his words, the quiver in his lips getting in the way. "I'm nothing but convenient for you. I reach out for a hug, melt against you for a while, and then I pull away and your face reads the biggest no homo I've ever seen. You measure our love in kisses. I've seen what you do in the bedroom, you're— you're fucking with my emotions here. Why can't I hold your hand?"
Ibarra looks like he wants to argue, but he hesitates and grinds his bottom lip between his teeth instead.
"Pagod na 'ko," he repeats.
Nothing.
This love thing, as far as Elias is concerned, is more of a pain than anything.
"So that's it?" His eyes go slightly off focus. He laughs, a semi-hysteric edge to his tone. "Yeah, okay. Why did I think you were going to argue? Why did I think you would try to fight for this? Why did I think you were going to fight for us?"
"Elias."
He continues to laugh. That's the best Ibarra can give him, and they both know it. "Hanggang di ka apektado, wala kang pinaglalaban. Malinaw na naman sa'kin kung ano'ng tingin mo sa'tin. This is so... typical of you."
"Elias, I don't know what you want me to say."
"It's not about what I want you to say," he exasperates. "You... You are an idiot, Crisostomo Ibarra."
He finds himself staring at a mirror.
He has never noticed how dark his eyes are, and the bags under them aren't much better.
"Gusto ko lang namang maging masaya."
A hand lands on his shoulder— He sees it coming, he does, but it still makes him jolt slightly. "Ano'ng magpapasaya sa'yo?"
There's a silence that lapses over them.
He feels a twinge in his chest. "I-Ikaw," he stutters out, as arms snake around his bare waist.
"Hm?"
"Ikaw," he repeats, more definitively— but his chest still hurt. Even with the hands on his hips, and the mouth between his shoulder blades, and the hair that's tickling at the back of his neck— There's an ache under his rib cage that he can't remedy. It feels inexplicably heavy where his heart ought to be.
Is it a shot in the dark, waiting on you to open your heart to me?