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The year was 1898.
The Spanish-American war had broken out earlier in the year.
On May 1st, the first battle had taken place in the Philippines: Two Spanish mines exploded as the U.S. squadron passed the entrance to Manila Bay, but the Olympia simply pushed on. Commodore Dewey led his forces through an unmined south channel between the El Fraile and Caballo Islands. Admiral Montojo led the unprepared Spanish fleet against the United States and called for a futile open fire. The Spanish colors were struck at 12:40 PM.
In the same month, many enlisted Filipino men had withdrawn from local Spanish army units and the Philippine Revolution against Spain resumed. Many cities, as well as entire provinces, were liberated by the Filipinos — Laguna, Batangas, Bulacan, Nueva Ecija, Bataan, Tayabas, and Camarines — and the port of Dalahican in Cavite was secured.
On June 12th, Aguinaldo declared the independence of the Philippines. He issued a decree, several days later, formally establishing a dictatorial government in the country though this was soon replaced with a revolutionary government where he gave himself the title of President.
On August 13th, the Spanish hoisted a white flag and Manila was formally surrendered to U.S. forces.
On December 10th, the United States and Spain signed the Treaty of Paris, formally ending the Spanish–American War.
The year was 1898.
Basilio had returned to Laguna two years ago, now residing in Calamba — close, but also far enough from San Diego.
He never did end up graduating, but it was often that the townspeople came to him for help which he was more than happy to give. He found himself making rounds at least twice a month, checking in on his neighbors to make sure that all was okay. Sometimes they would approach with cases more serious than others, beyond his capabilities and resources, but he would take them in stride and refer them to a friend of his from a town over.
Father Florentino had passed down the estate to Isagani — an old yet well-kept house by the sea shore — whom he was now currently living with. In gratitude and general good nature, he visited the aging priest whenever he could. He never stayed for too long, but he was always polite and well-mannered. He teased his companion often that the man was beginning to favor him more. ("Basilio, it's not a competition." "Oh, but Gani, I'm winning.")
He was a good man. Basilio hated to think that one day, he would take his leave from this life. He clung tight to his optimism for the country. He placed much of his hope in the youth the way that other people never did anymore. (Basilio did not blame them, though, because it could be so hard to look at children and picture a future with them in it — them, alive in it to make a difference.)
Isagani, Basilio thought, was most happy to be so close to the sea. The writer had always wanted to settle down in the province. Isagani used to wax poetic about this town with such enthusiasm and pride: how he loved it above all things, wandering through forests and finding rest under the shade of looming trees; a place where he could be in solitude with the mountains and feel free as the air, free as the light that traveled through space unbridled; a time when he could simply watch the clouds morph or gaze at rock formations for no reason at all.
Basilio was quite content as well. (Mostly.)
He gazed out the open window to watch the sun rise from where he could see the sea end. It was the day of Christmas Eve. He felt his happiness slip away as something more somber took its place. He breathed out a heavy sigh, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips as orange and blue hues mixed in the sky.
"You're up early," a voice broke through his thoughts.
He shrugged, not taking his eyes off the sky. "It's Christmas Eve."
"Ah," Isagani said softly. "Already?"
"Yeah," he mumbled.
"Do you mind if I join you?"
He shook his head, mouth hanging slightly open as the sun painted the bottom of the sky a vibrant orange. "Go ahead." He saw Isagani take the seat across him in his peripheral, but said nothing of it. He continued to marvel at the beauty of the coming of morning, absently noting that he should ask his companion to write about it sometime.
There was a hint of pink lining the clouds. Basilio considered breaking the silence to tell Isagani that he was right — the clouds were so breathtaking that one would have to be blind not to stare, even for a moment — but he thought better of it. The expression on his face said everything anyway, and Isagani knew plenty without Basilio having to tell him.
Isagani was the one to break the silence again, asking, "Would you like to go outside? We could go for a walk, or..."
"No, I should be fine."
"Fresh air might do you good."
He did not respond for a while, and Isagani did not try to push. "Isagani," Basilio finally said. He was unsure how exactly to articulate his feelings, thought that perhaps it was too early to get so serious. "If I go now, I will not be back until the evening falls. My feet will take me to San Diego, to where my mother rests and where I last saw my brother. If I go now, I will... I will be abandoning all of this progress that I have made with you."
Isagani shook his head. "Basilio..."
"I have spent the last twenty years of my life confronting my past," he told Isagani. "I owe it to both of us to live in the present. Every Christmas Eve since I was a child has been spent mourning and grieving. I have you now. I did not realize that in the previous years when I left you here before the sun had even risen, I am sorry."
"You have me now," Isagani echoed. He offered Basilio a smile, saying, "And I have you, so I do hope you intend to stay. Now let's go outside. We could go for a walk, and— Oh, I could hold your hand, so that you cannot go off to San Diego. I could stomp on your feet, too, if that does not work."
"Isagani!" cried Basilio indignantly, though a warm feeling spread in his chest.
"What?" Isagani laughed quietly. "I must make sure that you do not leave."
Basilio chuckled along. He got up on his feet and stretched a hand out to Isagani, who looked at him with such a fond expression before taking his hand and standing up. And though the somber feeling that commemorated the loss of his family was still present, it had settled in his stomach for the time being. He could almost feel the warmth of the smile on his own face. He was content with his life, truly.
The floorboards creaked slightly as they made their way outside. It was pretty — Basilio admitted that for all that Isagani had praised this town for, it was definitely a sight — and it was a luxury that they need not look further than right in front of their house for a magnificent view. The birds were beginning to chirp away from the trees. The wind whistled.
The sun was almost fully out now, bright as it shone in the December sky.
"Thank you," he spoke into the silence, a softer smile dangling off his lips now.
Isagani turned to arch an eyebrow at him. "Your thanks is... unnecessary—"
"Still."
"Well," Isagani conceded, "okay. You're welcome, Basilio."
Basilio hummed, staring straight ahead as their feet walked off on their own accord.
He found that he did not really mind not knowing where he was going if he had Isagani with him. It was a... nice feeling, having someone. He kicked at a stray pebble absentmindedly, stopping to watch it roll on the dirt for a moment. He felt a pull at his hand, causing him to look up at his companion.
Isagani seemed amused, if the silent laugh on his lips was anything to go by. "Did I ever tell you about how I used to stare at these gigantic rock formations when I was young? How is it that you are entertained by something so small?"
"You have told me," he nodded. Basilio snickered, "And all the time, still, you tell me."
"These pebbles cannot begin to compare—"
"Oh, hush," Basilio said. He squeezed their hands together. "I have seen your rock formations, and I agree that they were mesmerizing. Must you feel so strongly about everything, Isagani? I was simply kicking the stone because it was in my way."
Isagani squeezed back without a word, letting silence reign over them once more.
"I apologize for how everything turned out before," Basilio spoke out of nowhere. "With the lamp, and the wedding, and..."
The air was cold, as was expected at this time of year, and the trees looked to be swaying after them with every breeze that whistled by. Isagani waved him off with his free hand, grimacing slightly. "Do not worry about that anymore. I thought you had said that you would be living in the present, Basilio."
"Would you set a few of my worries at ease, at the very least?"
"Basilio..."
"Please," he pleaded. "Just a few, and then we can move on for now."
Isagani hesitated. "...Alright."
Basilio took a deep breath, and then asked, "Did you hate me?" He had, after all, ended up siding with Simoun, the man who used to be known as the honorable Crisostomo Ibarra until life had stripped away his moral compass. He had been an accomplice to the almost-bombing at the Gomez-Pelaez wedding. He would not blame Isagani if he did because he had let the bitter parts of life get the best of him.
"Of course not," came the immediate response.
"What about the academy? Do you think about it, still? Do you wish it would have succeeded?"
"At the time, all those years ago, I was certain that it was a good cause," Isagani said. He paused, trying to choose his next words carefully. "Now, I am not as sure. I think that the intention to do something, to do good... It was there, surely, but I realize that perhaps it has been for the best that it did not push through."
"And what of the Americans? "
Isagani sighed. "I do not know, Basilio. Are we done?"
"Yeah," he relented. "Shall we go back home?"
Nodding his agreement, Isagani turned them both away from where the sun now rested in the sky.
"Ako ay aalis na at malayo-layong lakad pa ang aking patutunguhan."
"Mag-ingat ka, Basilio. Siguraduhin mong ikaw ay babalik."
"Pangako, Isagani."
"Adiós, queridos seres," Basilio whispered into the wind every so often, on his way to San Diego. It was backwards from the original poem's intentions, as the writer had been the one to pass on, but the words felt right on his tongue as he recalled the memories of his family: that night, ringing church bells with his little brother who was wrongly accused of thievery; his mother being unable to recognize him in her delusional state before her spirit went on; his father, too, who died not two years after. "Morir es descansar."
It was past midnight by the time that he got back, meaning that the night had officially bled into Christmas. "Hey," Isagani greeted, tearing his gaze from the window where he watched the moon glow bright next to the stars. His eyes were wide open despite the hour, having anticipated Basilio's return. "Alam mo bang mahal kita?"
"Gising ka pa?"
Isagani laughed. "Hindi? Maligayang Pasko, Basilio."
Basilio smiled, though his eyes resembled glass. Isagani had never been particularly funny, had never been one to joke. But Basilio had never minded when his humor ran dry, had never minded when he at least seemed to try. (He got the unintentional rhyming from living with the writer for the past couple of years, and being friends with him for longer.)
"Maligayang Pasko, Isagani. Alam mo ba," he breathed, sighing softly, "na mas mahal kita?"
Isagani took a step toward Basilio. "It is not." Another step. "A competition." And another. "Basilio."
Basilio stood on the tips of his toes, pressing his forehead to Isagani's. The December cold that sunk into his bones through his journey was beginning to melt away. He laced their fingers together, just as they had been the previous morning, letting Isagani fill in the gaps of who he was. Basilio laughed, letting their breaths mingle in what little space was left between them.
"Oh?" he mumbled, lips brushing against Isagani's. "But I'm winning, Gani."