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The thing is, Juanito didn't even notice it at first.
It's not something that had stuck out to him particularly, until Isagani had off-handedly commented something about how Placido would never call the violinist by anything other than Pelaez or something to deflate his ego a little bit. Now he's found himself thinking — and, wow, does it hurt to think, why do people like doing this — about every encounter he's ever had with the other boy, trying to replay them in his head to see if the writer was actually right.
Because he's sure, so sure, that it must have come up at some point. They've been in the same class since Grade 5 — except that one year that Placido had been whisked away with all the other honor students and Juanito felt his chest do this weird thing when he had noticed someone else's name after his on the class list — so surely, it's happened by now that he's been called by his first name.
But true enough, after resurfacing as many memories as his mind could muster up — well, nothing.
It's a surprisingly... sad realization. He doesn't know why he lets it get to him so much.
"I'm sure he knows my name, at least," he tells Isagani the next time that they see each other. But there's uncertainty that latches onto his words last-minute, and he doesn't have enough time to catch it.
It's lunch, and the writer doesn't even spare him a glance. He has his left hand holding a fork that's just picking at his food, swirling around aimlessly while his right hand is busy scrawling over his worn out notebook that his uncle had gotten him several years ago. "You're actually bothered by this, huh?"
"Kasalanan mo 'to," Juanito groans, deciding to face-plant into the table.
Isagani shrugs at him, waving him off and finally raising his head as he plots out a period at the end of the page he's working on. "Alam mo ba kung nasa'n si Basilio?" He's not exactly sure why he asks because he's got a good idea of where his best friend is anyway, but it does its job in filling the silence.
Juanito shrugs back. "No? Well, ewan ko. Kasama niya yata si Juli. 'Lam mo naman sila."
"Ah," is all that the other boy says for a while. It's the expected answer. Juanito tilts his head at him. "What about the others? I mean, si Tadeo may ginagawang assignment, nag-abang kasi ng suspension kagabi nung umulan sandali." Isagani rolls his eyes at the thought. "'Di ko alam yung iba. Tayo lang ba walang kailangan gawin?"
He laughs. "Speak for yourself, Gani. Did you think I came up to you to talk about Placido? I was going to convince you to proofread my essay for me."
"This is why he calls you idiot rather than your first name, Juanito."
He hums back in response, doesn't even bother to deny anything. "So," a small smirk slips its way onto his face, "Paulita Gomez, huh?" But all the writer offers is a non-committal shrug before motioning for the musician to show him his essay so they can both move on with their lives.
He pulls up Google Docs on his phone, and Isagani sighs.
Juanito, for the most part, has learned to hold back and dial down his personality. If only — and it truly is only, go ask his friends — with Placido Penitente and his reserved nature. And it's not that the aura around the other boy is having him freeze up and stunned into silence, but it's also not that he feels like he has to. He's just a lot more calm and simmered down when around the scholar.
Which is a good thing, he would think.
If only Isagani hadn't carved uncertainty into his brain, about whether or not Placido knew his name.
Because now there's this question reverberating inside him, and he can just feel his calm begin to crack.
"May gusto ka bang sabihin?" Placido asks him when he's caught staring during one of their lunches together. It's a Thursday and Friday thing that they do, a habit they had picked up back in Grade School when Juanito needed far too much help in every subject under the sun. (Except Music, and let's just say that PE isn't Placido's strong suit either.)
Juanito startles slightly. "Uhh... wala?"
Placido narrows his gaze, opening his mouth to say something more when the bell rings.
"I'll see you later, Placiding!" he yells out, rushing toward the classroom.
"We're in the same class, idiot," is what's called out after him. Which makes him falter in his step momentarily, but he quickly brushes it off because surely it would be absurd for someone he considers to be one of his closest friends — they eat together two days a week, come on — to not even know his name. Isagani is just messing with him, he's certain.
"Gani has a point, you know," Basilio says one day, when he finally joins them for lunch.
Juanito glares half-heartedly. "Tinanong ba kita? Bumalik ka na nga kay Juli."
Isagani elbows his ribcage.
"What?"
He has the audacity to act like he's not being an asshole, and the STEM student only rolls his eyes at them. "'Wag mo raw akong paalisin, miss na kasi niya 'ko," Basilio grins. Isagani scoffs but doesn't really protest, and Juanito will never not be confused as to what the two boys' friendship is. "Kumusta HUMSS-life?"
"Okay lang," the writer says. At the same time, Juanito tells him, overdramatically, "Mamamatay na yata ako."
Basilio vaguely pats Juanito on the shoulder, nods solemnly. "Okay lang 'yan."
When he brings it up to Makaraig, the other boy just shrugs at him. "What's the big deal anyway?" he says, jotting down numbers onto yellow paper as he works his calculator. "You see each other every day, and he already hates you as much as he does without even knowing your name."
Juanito shoves at him, but Makaraig just continues listing numbers that don't make much sense to him. (He's suddenly really thankful that he had managed to convince his father to let him take this strand for Senior High because while it's not Music, it's not all business and math like ABM would have been— and he's got Placido here.)
"Hate is a strong word," he mutters, glaring, "and we don't even know for sure if he doesn't know my name!"
"If you broke my shoulder," the other starts, bringing a hand up to it, "I'm suing."
He snorts. "See you in court."
He forgets about it for a while because he has other things to think about.
(Okay, that's a lie. He just got tired of thinking all the time.)
And then Isagani calls him John in front of Placido — it's during class, while they're working in triads on something that he didn't quite pay enough attention to — who doesn't seem to think there's anything wrong there. (His stomach sort of drops at that, and he's not sure if he's still looking forward to lunch.)
"John," Juanito scoffs, as though the name offends him. "What the hell, Gani?"
Isagani laughs, shoulders shaking slightly as he does so. The writer leads their way toward where Basilio is already waiting for them with flushed cheeks. (He makes a mental note to tease later, but right now he entertains himself with Juanito's little dilemma.) "He didn't even bat an eyelash," he notes. "Sigurado ka bang alam niya pangalan mo?"
"Positive," he says through grit teeth. (Though he's not too sure.)
The other boy hums back. "Sure."
Basilio looks between his friends. "I thought you guys were over this."
Isagani shrugs.
He's asked to perform in front of the entire school before they leave for Christmas Break.
They had just come back from Semester Break a couple of days ago, but the halls are already decked with Holiday Spirit — a great contrast to the sluggish teenagers roaming around — and Juanito has already seen a tree set up somewhere. He wishes that he could feel a little more festive and appreciate it, but he's too busy feeling absolute dread.
There are a number of other talents lined up for the program — skits, some songs, a few dances — so he's not quite sure why he even needs to be part of it (but he can't just say no, so he doesn't).
One good thing that comes from this, though, is that this whole first name thing disappears into the back of his mind again.
He gets a bunch of good lucks from his classmates and friends on the morning of, but he's got butterflies in his stomach and it feels like his first recital all over again. (It's far from it, actually, but he also thinks that he never got used to having so many people just... watching him, and... and wow, he kind of wants to throw up right about now. He's going to mess this up.)
Juanito is okay, maybe even a little more than that.
He has his right arm drawing out melodies with his bow, and his left hand working with strings. With his violin wedged between his jaw and his collar bone, he forgets the stage and the lights and everyone. It just feels right. The tension in his muscles dissipates until it's reduced to almost nothing.
His eyes are shut, and he doesn't even know when that happened — His vision is swirling with color, even as he's staring into his eyelids, because fuck, he doesn't remember moving halfway across the stage either but it doesn't even matter. It just doesn't, and that's the brilliance of this.
He doesn't know why he was dreading this so much, now that he's here, feeling so... alive.
It feels kind of like floating. No — Walking on air.
(Yeah, he thinks, breathing heavily, that, definitely that.)
He's barely registering sound as it escapes him, all he knows is I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay — because this is what he loves. This is who he is, and who he wants to be, and someone let him be this — just this, nothing else. This is all he needs to keep going, he is alive, and I'm okay, I'm okay—
His hands slips up — just slightly, but he feels the break in momentum. His world goes still, and cold, and—
God, he can't do anything right, can he?
He plays the rest of his piece with eyes half-open but all glazed over.
His feet shift from underneath him, and he can hear the grit of his shoes against the stage. He can feel the room again, which is all kinds of bad on its own, but it's spinning, and it's December, and everything is cold, and he can feel himself begin to choke up on nothing.
And then it's over. And dear God, he wishes it actually was sometimes.
His knees are kind of wobbly when he steps off the stage.
It takes everything in him not to just make a run for it and bolt home. Instead, he makes his way to where Isagani is quietly keeping conversation with Paulita, and they both smile and tell him that he did well up there. (Which should make his insides feel all warm, but it doesn't. He doesn't know what's wrong with him because all he can do is mumble back a thanks and it doesn't even sound sincere. They're his friends, and they're being nice, and why isn't he okay?)
Pecson and Sandoval are bickering about something from a few seats over, but he doesn't have the energy to do anything with that. Makaraig seems to be face-palming in front of them while behind them are Basilio and Juli, just sitting next to each other in silence as they watch the program. (It's kind of cute, but all he can focus on is his stomach drop, drop, dropping.)
Maria Clara is on stage now, he notes. (She's from the year above them, and she seems nice even though he doesn't understand what she's doing with a guy like Crisostomo Ibarra.) Though he can't be sure what for because his head is still impersonating a tornado, and his eyes are kind of blurry for some reason, and— and now there's a hand on his shoulder.
It's Placido, huh.
"Hey," the other boy finally says. "That was nice, back there. Uhm. You did well."
Oh.
"Oh."
"Are you okay?"
"No," he says. He swallows down the lump in his throat. "It wasn't nice, I messed up."
"Juanito." A pause. "It was nice."
It's the first time that Placido had ever said his name, and he doesn't know whether it's normal to want to break down crying after your friend does that. He doesn't think it is, but fuck. "Okay," he concedes, having no energy to argue. "Thank you."
"Alright. Don't go soft on me, Pelaez," but there is no bite to his words.
He manages out a laugh. "Of course not."