Chapter Text
The sky above looks expansive. He can feel a tiny pull in his chest, his breath catching slightly at the smell in the air. Morning dew dampens the grass around them and the loamy scent of fresh rain fills the trees. It makes Pole’s lungs hurt, just a little, but it’s exhilarating in its own way. There is nothing like this in the city, so full of noise and motion Pole can’t hear himself think.
Pole closes his eyes.
The grass makes a soft rustle next to him when Miong sits up. Pole doesn’t budge, keeping his mind carefully blank.
“Pole,” Miong says, breaking the stillness. His voice, all of a sudden, sounds like it’s coming from underwater, faraway, like the last vestiges of a dream. He starts to lean over Pole, one hand braced against the packed dirt beneath Pole’s shoulder as Pole tries very hard not to flee, fighting every instinct telling him to run, to shove Miong off or worse yet, laugh in his face. He could feel the drag of Miong’s leg over his hip, the phantom weight of his shadow as he looms over him, his sturdy knee where it presses, innocuously, against Pole’s side.
“Pole,” Miong says, voice tinged with something unnameable. “ Pole .” His thumb touches Pole’s cheek. “Open your eyes,” he says.
*
They grew up alongside each other, Miong with his myriad brothers and sisters, and Pole, too, somewhere in the picture, with his own little army of miscreants: three boys, two girls, and an older brother whom they haven’t seen neither hide nor hair of since he left home three years ago.
Pole’s parents worked for Miong’s; his dad was the family driver while his mother was the household cook, better with her spatula than with her letters. They didn’t hide who they were; they were honest, hardworking people, doing their best to provide for their family, and for that Pole would never be ashamed.
He and Miong played together as children though they went to vastly different schools: Miong went to an all boys’ school in Katipunan, famous for being equal amounts expensive and Catholic. Pole went to the nearest public school, in hand-me-downs that smelled perpetually of moth balls and damp, and shoes badly scuffed from walking the distance, a product of an unkind educational system.
Despite the odds, it had been an easy friendship, formed by a mutual affinity for Power Rangers and afternoon anime. They’d gravitated towards each other because they were closer to age than any of their siblings – and because Pole was, ultimately, the only person not to have laughed at Miong’s acquired lisp. In third grade, he’d chipped his tooth in a scuffle, whistling through all his S’s; the kids in school teased him for awhile, called him names.
Miong retaliated; he wasn’t going to stand around and let people walk all over him. It was a matter of pride, and even at an early age he knew he was an Aguinaldo, and that to him always meant something, the name as old as stone. He got an earful from his mother, every other night at the dinner table when he came home roughed up from scrapes, about what a bad example he was setting for his younger brother – so young and already a brute. He had a duty, she’d said, to upholding the family name. And honor, honor was important. Praemia virtutis honores . But honor was two faces.
*
In grade school, they’re inseparable.
Pole is older by a couple of years but they’re in the same grade largely because he started school a year late. They have a common friend – Andres – who moves one summer into the neighbourhood then moves back to the Zambales the next. They are ten, and Andres likes Pole more than he likes Miong. Something about rich people – rubs him the wrong way.
Andres comes over to Miong’s house to play videogames and they shoot hoops in the backyard while Pole serves as referee. He’s never been athletic, preferring instead to read in his spare time when he isn’t helping his dad with home repairs. Pole’s mom makes them popsicles, powdered juice with chunks of fruit left to freeze overnight which they later eat by the pool as they talk about the latest episode of Zenki, juice sliding down their chins, drenching their shirts in thick dollops. Waves of heat shimmer off the ground, even though it isn’t too hot out.
They play basketball some more, after, there under the firefly heat of April, their shirts off and sweat dripping down their eyes. This time Pole joins them, reluctant at first but building enthusiasm, clumsy with his passes. In between games they break to steal more popsicles from the fridge.
For a whole summer this is how it goes: Pole, flanked on either side by Miong and Andres, the tether that holds the three of them together.
Pole swings his legs back and forth, watches as dust fly off the point of his slipper, his toe making a soft dent in the ground. These are much simpler times. This is a good memory.
*
In high school, things change.
Pole gets a scholarship, which means a better education, which means he has to apply himself if he wants a solid future. Tuition doesn’t cover twenty peso commute back and forth, so he does odd jobs here and there for a little pocket money. It’s bad enough that his older brother has suddenly left home without preamble so he tries not to give his parents something else to worry about on top of their already very full plate.
Of course, working means he has less time on his hands, time he could’ve used to catch up on his school’s current curriculum. He has a lot of material to cover, and not only because his public school education had been sorely lacking. His weekends are swamped when he isn’t nose-deep in a book as his dad has started teaching him the tools of his trade. He has Pole look under the hood of the Aguinaldo family car whenever he drives it to the shop for repairs; has him memorize all the parts and listen, avidly, to its soft voiced whirr when he turns the ignition. Engine noise determines whether or not something is wrong under the hood. A knocking noise can mean bearing damage.
Pole spends less and less time with Miong, out of necessity more than design. He doesn’t realize how much time has passed until he’s accosted by the sight of Miong one morning, in pyjama bottoms and an oversized basketball jersey, standing barefoot in the watery light of the kitchen and drinking milk straight out of the cartoon. It’s 5:30 AM and Pole has just returned from running errands at the fish market, smelling slimy and on this side of rank. He hasn’t spoken to Miong in months, and he can’t even fault Miong if he resents him a little for it. But then, Miong smiles as he sets the carton down on the sink, back of his hand to his mouth, rubbing wet all over his lips, and it’s like no time has passed at all.
“Hey, you,” Miong says, leaning against the fridge.
Pole’s posture relaxes, and he wipes his hands across the front of his trousers, hoping to hide the smell. “Hey, yourself,” he says, feeling suddenly defensive. “What are you doing up so early?”
“I was hungry,” Miong shrugs. “Didn’t have anything for dinner last night so I thought I’d go down to check if there was something to eat.”
“And?”
“And, nothing,” Miong sighs emphatically. “I’m famished.”
“There’s a box of cereal in front of you,” Pole points out. “And there’s instant noodles in the cupboard.”
“I want real food,” Miong explains. “Not food out of a box.”
Only Miong would have this kind of problem.
“You’re out of luck, then,” Pole says, crossing his arms, raising his eyebrows skeptically.
“Quite the opposite, I should think.” Miong’s smile widens. “I mean, you’re here now, aren’t you?”
The full meaning hits Pole not a second later and he almost rolls his eyes before he remembers himself. “ Gago . I don’t cook for layabouts. And besides, you don’t pay me for that kind of service at all.”
“I thought you’d do it, anyway, out of the goodness of your heart. Besides, you’re my best friend, Pole.”
“I don’t think that means what you think it means,” Pole tells him before snorting, “Also, I’m not your indentured servant.”
Miong bats his eyes. “Yes, but,” he says. And then: “Cook for me?” He juts out his lower lip. He looks ridiculous.
“I’m not cooking for you, Miong,” Pole repeats a little more firmly but he ends up taking out the carton of eggs from the cupboard, making fried rice out of last night’s leftovers anyway.
They’re best friends after all.
*
Calculus turns out to be Pole’s worst subject. He’s a junior now and his schedule is brutal, with two other science electives, and no time for extracurricular activities. He’d staggered through freshman and sophomore year like a zombie, with no social life to speak of and a 1.5 GWA. He’s always been a good student, not because he was naturally smart but because he worked harder than anyone in his class. This year he finds himself more often camped in the library, during lunch hour and recess and right after class until closing. It’s hard to concentrate at home with all the ruckus going on so he’s only able to study when his brothers and sisters are asleep.
The problem is: weekends when he can’t avoid that kind of chaos. His brothers and sisters are all home from school, which means the TV will be on perpetually. Today, the neighbour is at it again on the videoke, belting Bed of Roses off-key for the umpteenth time. It’s enough to send Pole reaching for his headphones to muffle a barrage of ear-splitting feedback.
When Miong comes over to pester him later that afternoon, the distraction is almost a welcome a relief. Miong tugs the headphones off Pole’s head, slipping it down his neck, and then in one swift move starts to flick him behind the ear, causing Pole’s hand to jitter violently and break his pencil in half.
Miong smells of fresh sweat and has a basketball tucked under one arm, and his grin so shiteating Pole wants to wipe it off his smug face, preferably with violence. He’s always pulling shit like that. Pole waves him away until he gets the hint, stepping back but still standing well within Pole’s range to start making him feel self-conscious. Another thing about Miong: he likes to hover .
“You’re studying,” Miong observes, tapping the page Pole has been on since nine this morning. “You’re always studying.”
“Such is my lot in life,” Pole answers, erasing a mistake on his sample problem set. “What do you want?”
“The pleasure of your company,” Miong says evenly then he hums and makes himself comfortable in Pole’s bed, picking at Pole’s covers with one hand and mussing it up. The neighbour is still at it outside, inebriation slurring his words even more out of tune.
Pole catches Miong’s eye and they both burst out laughing, sobering up only after Miong nudges his basketball towards Pole’s feet. “I hardly ever see you anymore.”
“You know how it is,” Pole says, feeling suddenly guilty. “School’s been keeping my hands full.” Kicking my ass more like, he thinks.
Miong nods, but he doesn’t look like all that accepting of the answer. “Hey, you wanna go somewhere quiet?” He perks up all of a sudden.
“And miss this lovely rendition of Bed of Roses ?”
Miong laughs, and this time it looks genuine, his laugh crinkling his eyes, dimpling his cheeks. “Hey, don’t knock him down so easily. I think your neighbour could give Meatloaf a run for his money.”
Pole smiles, in spite of himself. “Where are we going, then?”
*
It’s not a Starbucks, which is a relief, but one of those local coffee chains that may as well be because it’s got the look of one down pat, from the colour scheme to the Ikean furnishings, to the seaweed green logo on the recycled paper napkins. Still, it’s quiet, which is more than what Pole can say of his home; the playlist consists solely of bossa nova and jazz, and there aren’t any rowdy college kids in sight, just a bunch of old people strewn about reading the newspaper or checking their iPads.
Miong quickly locates a table that’s near an outlet and the bathroom. He’s changed into a t-shirt and a pair of jeans with artful rips in the knees, which is more in keeping up with the atmosphere of the place than Pole’s floppy sandals and ragged jean-shorts. He hadn’t known they were going somewhere public; Miong had told him to grab his stuff and get ready in fifteen minutes and his only capitulation had been to comb his hair with his fingers and stuff his books into a canvas bag. He hasn’t ever stepped foot in a Starbucks, but has a vague idea of what the clothing etiquette is like; he isn’t a simpleton. He knows where he doesn’t belong.
“I'll have whatever you’re having,” Pole says when Miong asks him what he wants, scanning the menu written in chalk overhead. He isn’t particular about his coffee as the only he kind he drinks is the powdered instant kind: black with lots of milk and sugar, but he'll take anything as long as Miong is buying.
“Are you sure? You don't want anything specific?” Miong asks. He’s dug out his wallet, brown leather abraded and bulging with notes.
“Anything to nibble on,” Pole says. “Maybe, I don't know.” He shrugs, suddenly embarrassed. “This really isn’t my kind of place.”
“Would you prefer it if we’d have gone to Jollibee?”
“Ha, ha,” Pole snorts. “Very funny.”
“Didn’t think so,” Miong says, “Besides, I chose this place for the peace and quiet.” He grins and it’s disarming in a sense that it morphs his face into something approaching handsome. Pole must be tired, because when he blinks Miong is, well, Miong again, stupid and ridiculous with his hair all soft and peaking at the back.
“I’m buying, I know you hate it whenever I treat you to things, but let me this time, all right? You just sit there and guard our spot.” He points to the table, still grinning. “Sit.”
“I'm not a dog," Pole tells him, but he goes ahead and sits at the table anyway. He picks up a handful of paper napkins from the condiments cart and starts on his problem set as he waits for the coffee to arrive.
A couple other people enter the shop and join the queue, smartly dressed office women who take the table next to his.
“I got you chicken empanada. And a caramel latte.” Miong pulls out the cushioned seat across from him and sets down the tray. He’s bought ensaymada too and the cheese looks absolutely heavenly, sitting atop the bread. “I'll get you another drink if you don't like this one.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not all that picky,” Pole says as Miong leans towards him to hand him his drink. Pole takes a careful sip of it before putting it down, taking the lid off and breathing in its warm, sugary scent.
“How’s … studying coming along?”
Pole stares at Miong’s hands curled around the Styrofoam cup. Miong's fingers are long and tan and his nails are clipped short and clean, not raw and chewed to misery like Pole's.
“It’s… all right, I guess. How’s school?”
“We sound like a couple of old people, asking each other what school is like,” Miong laughs. “Like relatives seeing each other after so long at Christmas.”
Pole makes a face. “Those are the worst.”
“Yeah,” Miong agrees, “Asking you if you’ve decided to become a lawyer or a doctor. I’m sixteen; I’m not capable of making those kinds of choices yet. I mean, fuck that, and fuck you too.”
Pole startles at the expletive. It’s jarring to hear Miong curse, partly because he’s never done it before, at least not in Pole’s presence. And partly because there’s some strength to his words, a sharpness that takes Pole by surprise.
Pole gives him a look. It must have been a really strange one too because Miong laughs - a real laugh this time - and it takes him a minute to sober up, sipping on his coffee and shaking his head, shoulders still shaking as he paces himself.
“This place is open till two in the morning, you know, we can stay here until then if we have to,” he says, after, mopping up the mess he’s made on the tabletop with a wad of paper napkins.
“There’s not much to do for you here,” Pole points out.
“I’ll live,” Miong assures him. This time it’s his turn to roll his eyes. “Oh ye of little faith.” He raises his iPhone to eye-level.“I have a full battery and there’s a bookstore across the street if I ever get bored. I also have you.”
“Right,” Pole sighs. “Whatever.”
“You’re a lot more entertaining than you think.”
Pole picks up his pen, pretends to contemplate his homework. “And I live for your amusement, as you very well know.”
Miong laughs again but says nothing.
Later, they lapse into silence, as Pole goes over his problem set and Miong fiddles with an app on his phone, slouched so low in his seat his eyes are almost level with the table. Miong has his coffee refilled twice, without Pole even noticing it, and Pole excuses himself to the bathroom where he splashes water on his face and grabs at least five sheets of paper napkins from the dispenser. He rubs at the pain between his eyes, moaning at the sudden ache that spreads across his forehead. He’s managed to get some work done, but he’ll need more time to catch up on the syllabus. Numbers have never been his strong suit; it looks like he’ll need a tutor.
When he wanders back to the table, Miong has finally put his phone down. Will wonders never cease, Pole thinks, then starts at the worry writ in Miong’s face. He must look as exhausted as he feels: hair like crap and standing in every direction possible, bags under his eyes. He’s lost some weight, he knows that much at least.
“I think we should go home now,” Miong says. “It’s getting late.”
Pole forces a smile. “I'm fine,” he says, “But I won’t say no to that.” He stifles a yawn behind his hand, rubs his palms against the leg of his shorts, up and down until the friction burns his skin. He doesn’t remember how he gets home that morning, only that Miong had called a taxi and dropped him off at his doorstep. His shirt, Pole remembers, had smelled like limes.
*
Miong is Pole’s oldest friend, and by extension the dearest, and he’s closer enough to a brother that Pole feels tied to him by invisible strings. They have a whole history behind them, half a lifetime shared.
They’d met when they were children: Pole running around in the Aguinaldo’s vast tree-lined yard, little Miong with his face still rounded with sweetness, and his hair long and worn like a girl’s. He’d asked Pole if he were a forest sprite – how he’d moved quickly from foot to foot, his long elfin frame. His deftness at climbing trees. Every day Miong came to play with him, chasing him through the trees, triumphant each time he caught him.
Miong comes to visit him at home one day after Pole comes down with the flu. Pole remembers rain that day, falling lightly outside like lines of tinsel hitting the roof, and Miong running through their front door still in his school uniform, voice ringing through their shabby little house asking for Pole.
Pole isn’t embarrassed, not exactly, he has enough sense not to get hung up on their difference in social status, but he can’t help feeling strange when Miong starts to scrutinize his bedroom, its dingy walls, the windows that never close properly, the leaky roof.
Pole’s bed is a rickety single with covers that haven't matched since his first sister was born, and he shares the room with his four other brothers all of whom periodically leave a mountain of junk heaped everywhere on the floor.
There’s CDs and week old laundry and bookbags piled together like sleeping animals. In the midst of all this chaos, Miong starts to touch things at random, a note of curious wonder on his face as he pokes and prods at the haphazard contents of Pole's shelf, knocked about from their neat little rows by his two rowdy brothers.
Miong leaves nothing undisturbed, walking his fingers over Pole’s bath towel still slung over the back of a chair, smoothing a hand delicately over the desert tundra of Pole's bed. He rights the overturned textbook he finds on the desk, shutting it with a soft thud, before his gaze finally lands on Pole, curled up in a corner of the bed with the sheets up to his nose because he didn’t want to get Miong sick too. Miong’s mother would kill Pole.
Pole had missed school for three days already; it was that bad. His voice had sounded froggy in the last week, too, clogged with phlegm. He’s surprised Miong hadn’t caught it from him already.
Miong sits by his feet and cups his ankle briefly, eyes still roaming the room before he finally closes them and tips his head back against the wall. He has big hands, bigger than Pole’s even though Pole is older by a couple of years – soft, too, also unlike Pole whose hands have known hard work all their lives.
“You know,” Miong says conversationally, not bothering to open his eyes. “I thought forest sprites didn’t get sick.”
And because Miong has a comforting voice – Pole, he laughs and laughs.
*
When Miong returns from school at 5 PM, or 5:30 depending on the traffic, Pole is usually there in the back kitchen, already working on his Calculator homework, with half an ear attuned to the telltale putter of the Aguinaldo family car in the driveway. He can never concentrate with his mom barking orders at the younger more frazzled members of the kitchen staff, but he finds a quiet enough nook to do his homework, stealing Marie biscuits by the handful from the tin when he thinks no one is looking.
By the time Miong makes his presence known, dressed down to his khakis and white undershirt, Pole’s already halfway through his problem set.
Miong heaves himself up onto the table and snatches his pencil from him.
“Thought I’d find you here.”
Pole gives him a look, evading all of Miong’s attempts to flick him on the forehead. He manages to steal back his pencil easily enough, in part because Miong’s heart doesn’t appear to be in it anyway so he lets Pole have it back, watching Pole as he sharpens the stubby lead nub to a sharp lethal point.
Miong sighs impatiently and leaps off the table, flicks pencil shavings off his trousers before nudging Pole firmly on the shoulder.
“Let’s do something. I’ve got this new game on Xbox that I know you’d like. ” He squeezes Pole’s shoulder. “Hey, Pole. Look at me. ”
“I still have homework to finish,” Pole says evenly, shrugging his arm off. “And I promised my mom I’d help her set the table.”
When Pole looks up, he finds Miong frowning a little, an expression he wears far too well these days, lips thinned to a disapproving line. Pole flips a random textbook open, pretending to read, but steals another glance up at Miong now slouched against the far wall: arms crossed, posture entirely casual, one ankle crossed over the other – an affectation he’ll bring with him into adulthood, much like those broad shoulders.
“ Sige na ,” Miong says, his face suddenly dimpling. “We hardly ever hang out anymore. And it’s only going to be for an hour. Don’t make me beg.”
Against his better judgment, Pole shuts his book, but only because knows a losing battle when he sees one. Miong is relentless, if anything, and he’s not above begging. It’s only going to go devolve from here. Besides, Pole reasons with himself, he’s been working on his problem set for at least an hour and he probably deserves a break. He tries putting up a valiant front at least, just so he can say he’d tried.
“One hour,” he says, though the stipulation lacks any real weight.
Miong crows in triumph, slinging an arm around his shoulder. He’s tall, taller even than Pole who had grown an entire foot since freshman year. And he’s filled out too, thicker where Pole is lanky and lean. Pole has to tilt his head up a little to look him in the eyes, and something in the way Miong smiles at him is suddenly so striking: the set of his mouth, the curve of his jaw.
Miong knocks their shoulders together companionably, and Pole looks at him, really looks at him, for what feels like the first time in a long time – something about that profile seems almost new to him and it’s so unsettling he shakes the thought off, knocking back against Miong’s shoulder.
“You’re the best,” Miong says, “Ha! Knew you wouldn’t be able to resist. Don’t worry, I’ll have snacks sent to the room.”
Pole rolls his eyes. “What a charming life you lead.”
In the end, despite his protests, they finish amiably at 1 AM, and by that time Pole is too tired to even look at any of his textbooks, much less trudge back home, with his eyes blurring from sitting too close to the TV screen. They tiptoe downstairs to the kitchen where they eat leftovers from last night’s dinner straight from the foil, dripping sauce everywhere, messy with their hands.
Eventually, Pole goes home, and after receiving a quiet lecture from his mom, he heads up to the room he shares with his brothers, careful not to step over his dad sleeping on the floor. He brushes his teeth, washes his face, then trips facefirst into bed, smiling slightly when the mattress squeaks in protest.
The light outside is softened by the dew on the windows. He looks over his brothers, tucked up in their beds, their sweet trusting faces, then his dad, curled on his side on a thin piece of banig , demoted, no doubt, after another argument with Pole’s mother. Then he thinks of Miong, and his new laugh, and how the sound comes so low from his throat.
*
Pole doesn’t like people. That – that isn’t entirely true. He just can’t stand idiots. And high school is full of idiots. No matter where he goes, there they are: idiots . Sometimes he can hardly believe that Miong is one of them but then again his kind of upbringing makes it hard for him to sometimes not be an idiot.
Miong isn’t classist. He made it clear early on he didn’t care that Pole has never owned anything that wasn’t a hand me down, and he had never been the type to be hung up on whether someone was rich or poor. But his friends were an entirely different breed, prime examples of just the kind of people Pole loathed. S elf-entitle pricks.
Whenever they went over to Miong’s house, Pole made sure to steer clear of them, keeping out of sight and avoiding Miong at all costs. Miong changes when his friends are around and Pole doesn’t like the new person he suddenly becomes. It’s nothing overt but his vowels soften to the point of affectation and he asserts himself as both taller and broader. And he’s meaner, in a way, laughing at bawdy jokes that make Pole’s hairline prickle like the back of his ears.
In school, his friends call him, Emil and Miong becomes just another a nickname, something his Lola used to call him as a child – his only capitulation to his Caviteno roots.
One night when Pole is in the kitchen locking up the backdoor, he hears a clatter outside followed by the rumble of a car as it peels down the street. He’s got half the mind to chalk it off as insignificant but then he hears a familiar voice hiss out a series of expletives. When he turns the light on outside, he wishes he’s only half-surprised to see Miong there, sitting flat on his ass on the asphalt amidst the tumult of knocked-over garbage bags.
“Miong,” Pole says. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Miong laughs when Pole kneels down next to him to help him up from the ground, hefting him sideways with one arm wrapped around his waist to anchor his weight. He smells like alcohol, and even without the better lighting the kitchen affords, Pole can tell that he’s drunk. His entire face is flushed a deeper red and it’s really hard to tell with his colouring – but his ears are red too.
“You hung out with your friends again, didn’t you?” Pole doesn’t mean to sound so chiding but he can’t help himself.
“You say it like they’ve done something to offend you,” Miong says, picking up on the hostility. “You’re my friend too, you know.”
“Yeah, well, they don’t exactly bring out model behaviour,” Pole says, sitting Miong down on a chair.
“You’re right,” Miong agrees. “You’re always right. Why are you always right?” He laughs and Pole pushes him away before he does something stupid like grab him by the face. It would be just like him, completely within the realms of his newfound personality.
Miong tugs him back without warning, seating Pole on his lap, hands tight on his hips. “Come here,” he says, taking advantage of Pole’s surprise to maneuver him how he likes.
Pole is too stunned to struggle out of his arms so he lets his body relax and loosen in Miong’s clumsy grip. “You’re ridiculous,” he manages to say, in between Miong squeezing him in pulses like a little kid. He’s often heard that gin made an angry drunk, but it seemed to have had the opposite effect on Miong. If anything, he seems gentler, a docile puppy rubbing his face against Pole’s shoulder. Really, now. Ridiculous . Pole smacks him upside the head but it just makes him laugh harder.
“You smell really nice,” Miong says, like the fact astonishes him.
“Probably my new shampoo,” Pole says dryly, bus his pulse is in his mouth now, already in his ears, and everywhere in his body. Miong laughs again; his breath stirs the hair on the back of Pole’s neck, and Pole holds back a shiver, deep within his bones. There’s a clock that ticks very loudly in the room. An alleycat yowls outside and scritches at the neighbour’s door.
“I can’t go home like this,” Miong confesses, slumping forward so that his nose is pressed between Pole’s shoulder blades. Pole can feel the tender shape of it, the line of his eyebrows where his forehead brushes Pole’s spine. “My mother will kill me.”
“Your fault for getting drunk on a weekday,” Pole snorts with less menace than he feels. He feels guilty as soon as he says it; this isn’t like him. “What were you thinking anyway?”
“I was at a party,” Miong says.
“Aren’t you always?”
“ Hey ,” Miong lifts his head. “You’d be too, if you didn’t turn down every invitation.”
“I have responsibilities, Miong,” Pole tells him evenly. “We can’t all come from a rich family like you. Someone has to be left to do the heavylifting.” He pats Miong amicably on the cheek, stands to his full height. Pole goes to the sink, washes a clean rag under the tap, before wringing it out and tossing it right at Miong’s face.
Miong catches it with a wet splat. “Ow!” he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “ Thank you!”
“You can use the bathroom, if you like,” Pole tells him. “Though the water pressure’s bad at this hour.”
Miong nods and wordlessly scrubs his face with the rag. Later, in fresh clothes borrowed from Pole’s closet, and smelling like Safeguard and Palmolive shampoo, he punches a pillow into a submission before curling up on the thin banig Pole had set out for him. He’s not going to let Miong have the bed; he has his limits.
“Pole,” Miong says, shortly after he’s settled.
Pole sighs, facing the wall. “What?” he hisses, keeping his voice down out of respect for his brothers.
“Nothing,” Miong says, sounding embarrassed. “I thought you were asleep.”
“You’re a lunatic,” Pole tells him. “Good night.” He’s about to pull the sheets over his head when Miong says his name again, soft-voiced in the dark – sounding so much closer now that Pole’s neck prickles at the imagined proximity.
“I might not say this very often,” Miong says. “But I’m glad you’re my friend.”
For a long time Pole doesn’t know what to say to that but then he’s saved the embarrassment by Miong’s soft snore.
*
The problem is Pole is a hardworker. He does everything he sets his mind to, with enough fierceness to knock off a prizefighter, and is duly rewarded with disappointment when things don’t turn out his way. He tries not to put too much faith in things that can’t be measured quantitatively but at heart he’s still an old soul: there are things he wants he can’t ever put a name to, hopes and illusions that keep him awake at night and feeling untethered in his moments of solitude.
Lately, he finds himself feeling utterly lost, questioning even himself. All of this is born of stress, probably, so he tries not to put too much weight on it, and dives headfirst back to his books to keep his mind occupied.
A week before exams, Pole comes over to Miong’s house to borrow a calculator. His had broken after he’d flung it at the wall in frustration, the 1 jammed in after he’d tried to get it to start again. He knocks tentatively on Miong’s door, and lets himself inside when there’s no answer. Thankfully, Miong isn’t home, or standing around in his underwear, or any number of things he’s prone to do when in the confines of his room.
Miong hardly locks the door when he’s out, claiming he’s got nothing to hide, anyway. Pole would digress: he knows where Miong keeps his stash of porn and so does half of the household staff. He’s a lot less mysterious than he realizes, and it’s comforting to know that even after all this time, there are still facets of him that have remain unchanged and recognizable, still, to Pole.
There’s laundry heaped on every surface, and Miong’s school shirt hangs on a hook behind the door. An outdated MacBook sits at his desk, plugged into a wall socket and humming in sleep mode. Above, a wall shelf teeters with various odds and ends: model airplanes, scifi paperbacks, hardback law books – gifts from his father, surely, because Miong has never expressed a desire to join law school – and a dogeared copy of Return of the King.
Pole seats himself on Miong’s bed, running his hands through the covers. It smells just like him, a hint of limes; fresh, clean sweat. He puts his face to the pillows, breathes, and is asleep within minutes.
When he comes to, the room is shrouded in the rosy haze of pre-dusk sunlight.
He blinks a few times until his eyes adjust and sees Miong standing in front of him, his hands inside his pockets, still wearing in his school uniform. His shirt is untucked, a clear violation of the dress code policy. Pole spies the gleam of a silver cross at his throat even though he knows for a fact Miong is anything but religious.
“Hey,” Miong says softly. When Pole attempts to get up, Miong nudges him back gently, easing him onto the covers. Pole must be really exhausted because he falls asleep soon after, but when he wakes, again at some indeterminate hour later, the sky outside has shifted.
Miong is sat at his desk on a swivel chair, hunched over his homework, his back facing Pole. Pole watches him for a while, saying nothing. He listens to every creak Miong’s swivel chair makes each time he shifts his weight, and the soft white-noise of Eraserheads’ Ligaya issuing softly from Miong’s laptop.
*
Semester break is a reprieve but it comes not without a price: a week of exams and project deadlines prelude it, driving Pole quietly crazy. He spends an entire day taking tests he’d studied very hard for, and so promptly passes out as soon as his head hits the bed, sleeping hard through dinner and breakfast the next day. He never wants to go back to school again; his brain has, he’s certain, gone completely numb from learning. It shouldn’t be this tedious, but he’s starting to learn that life is not like a movie: the boring bits aren’t cut out or offset by catchy background music. Sometimes, the grunt work was grueling, and it just goes on and on.
He’s eating brunch from a bowl, a combination of cold rice and canned tuna, watching the morning news with his little sisters when Miong comes barreling through the front door, clad in board shorts and a tank top. He looks… annoyingly chipper which could only mean trouble. Also his hair looks funny: poofy like a pompadour. “I asked your mom if I could bring you with me to Batangas, and guess what she said,” he says without preamble.
“That you’re crazy?” Pole shoots back, “That should stay away from her son and stop being such a bad influence?”
“I’m wounded,” Miong replies breezily, “But that doesn’t change the face that she agreed to let me take you.”
“ What ,”
“Now go get your stuff; we’re spending a weekend at the beach.”
“I hadn’t agreed to this,” Pole protests, but Miong is already hustling him up the stairs. He starts pulling clothes out of drawers and laying them out on Pole’s bed, and before Pole can protest any further beyond initial complaints, Miong has already finished packing his bag.
“Anything else you need we can just buy on the way,” Miong says, as if that settles it.
Pole tucks a pair of flipflops into the front pocket of his backpack and takes a resigned sigh. He is sullen the whole long drive to Batangas, wedged between Miong and Felipe in the backseat of the Buencamino’s red pickup, eyes trained out the window on the wavering skyline. He’d called his mom before leaving for the trip, wanting to hear verbal confirmation of her permission and was astonished to find she’d rather much have him out of the house during break. His father had been less enthusiastic about it, but he’d squeezed Pole on the shoulder and told him he’d earned it. “Have fun, be a kid,” he’d said, then smoothed his thumb between the furrows of Pole’s forehead and warned him of becoming an old man too soon. He wonders what that even means.
Pole had planned to spend his semester break in peace, maybe accompany his uncle to pay respects to his grandparents, buried in a cemetery somewhere in Malolos, something to keep his mind occupied and ostensibly off school. He wouldn’t have minded if he’d gone on the trip with Miong, but he had to be around Pedro and Felipe too which wasn’t at all ideal.
Pole had been around them enough to know he wasn’t going to enjoy this trip.
*
After a four hour drive from the city and about half a dozen gas stations, the truck finally putters to a stop in front of a wrought iron gate. The Buencamino’s summer home is in a prosperous part of the province, rimmed on either side by bottlegreen foothills and offset by a breathtaking view of the sea. And Pole can smell it in the air, too: sand and water, the clean green scent permeating the countryside, like a faraway rainforest. It’s too late now to go swimming; the sun had set long ago, leaving only a bruise-coloured horizon. And anyway, they’re all too tired and bloated on soda and junk food to do anything but sleep.
Felipe gives the room assignments, raising his eyebrows when Miong says he prefers to room with Pole.
Miong shoulders his duffel, raises an eyebrow as if to challenge him and Felipe just laughs and pats him on the shoulder, sending Pole this inscrutable look over Miong’s shoulder.
“Come on, Pole,” Miong calls, before disappearing into the direction of the guestroom.
Pole hates being ordered around, so he waits a beat before following at Miong’s heels.
*
Then there’s the problem of having only one bed. It doesn’t hit Pole until later when he’s stepping out of the shower and finds Miong arranging pillows on the floor, fringe pulled back by an offensively colourful bandana Pole is pretty sure Miong is wearing wrong. Lately, he’s been into all sorts of crazy things: alcohol, breaking curfew, cutting his own hair, touching Pole’s elbow a beat too long, a strange intimacy Pole still allows him.
Maybe it’s because they’re teenagers, but Pole can scarcely predict what Miong will do next. He’s learned a long time ago that people are mutable, that they can change within the course of a day. Pole is set in his old ways, stubborn to the point of calcification, and Miong is childish and impractical and obstinate and terrifyingly unpredictable while being the only person Pole trusts with his life. But these days, that hardly counts for anything. He might as well be talking to a stranger.
“What are you doing?” Pole asks once he’s crossed the room.
“In case you had an aversion to sharing a bed with me,” Miong says with faint sarcasm. He raises an eyebrow.
“Miong,” Pole sighs. He’d scrub a hand through his hair if he were the type – purely out of frustration. “ Gago ka talaga, ano. Get on the bed! We’ve known each other since we were kids; you know you’re like a brother to me.” Half a lie, and a truth, but it’s too late in the evening for Pole to extrapolate further.
“I thought for a second you’re going to make me sleep on the floor,” Miong says, later, with his feet propped up on a mountain of pillows. Their shoulders are touching and that single point of contact is somehow all at once familiar and exhilarating, like touching a livewire. It makes Pole’s stomach shiver upward. He tugs the sheet up over half his face, touches his tongue to the roof of his mouth.
“It’s not as fun when you aren’t drunk off your ass,” he says, under the covers, muffled.
Miong snorts, shaking his head, then leans over Pole to turn off the lamp on the bedside table. For a moment Pole gets a whiff of his deodorant, something strong and expensive and clean-smelling, but Miong’s weight disappears just as quickly as he slumps back to his side of the bed, turning to give Pole his back. “Good night, Pole,” he says. And then, because he can’t help himself: “Try not to kill me in my sleep.”
Pole rolls his eyes. “A difficult promise to make,” he amends. “But I’ll see what I can do.”
Miong turns again to face him again and flicks him gently between the eyes without warning. Pole catches his wrist the second time, but lets go when Miong starts to look at him studiously. Even in the blue-blackness of the room, Pole can tell he’s not blinking. His breathing is even, gusting a warm veil over Pole’s face.
“Good night,” Miong says. “ Pole .”
It’s enough to make Pole shut up.
*
The sky is pink with low-hanging clouds when Pole wakes up the next day. He’s overslept, which means he’s missed both breakfast and lunch, and there’s a note taped on the dresser in Miong’s neat handwriting, informing him of his whereabouts. They’d gone to the beach without him, a ten minute hike from the main house on easily traversable terrain. Pole eats the leftovers set aside for him, fried rice and some sort of vegetable soup, before grabbing his stuff from the guestroom only to find a maid smoothing out the covers, something he’s not used to because he’s never needed Help in his life. Pole was the Help. He shakes off the weirdness and changes into a lighter t-shirt, tucking a novel he’d remembered to pack under his arm.
The walk to the beach makes him work up a slight sweat, and by the time he reaches the shore where Felipe and Pedro are thronged, along with some other girls he doesn’t recognize, his shirt and collar are visibly damp. It’s not the season for high tide so the water is still and serene. The sand is the colour of dry wheat and dented with footprints, and there, waist-deep in the water is Miong, his back against the lapping of waves. He waves at Pole which make both Felipe and Pedro take notice.
Felipe lowers his sunglasses and gives Pole a once over before settling back on his elbows and folding his hands over his stomach. There’s a cooler next to him full of soda and beer, along with a basket of sandwiches Pole is sure the help has made. Pedro has been trying to get a fire going but from the looks of things, hasn’t been entirely successful, his round face all ruddy with sweat.
Pole nods at them politely enough and settles under the shade of a beach umbrella, laying out his towel and taking out his bottle of sunscreen, which Miong had bought him when they’d stopped for gas. He’d bought him a beaded bracelet too, from one of those roadside tourist trap shops on the way, made of wooden beads held together by a flimsy elastic string. Pole hadn’t worn it, mostly because he thought any kind of jewelry was ostentatious. And partly because –
“Ah, the princess wakes,” Miong teases, kneeling next to him under the shade and grabbing the bottle of sunscreen from him. He slathers a dollop on his hands, rubbing it all over his face though he already looks a shade darker, burnt, like he’d been swimming all day long. Pole doesn’t have that kind of colouring, pale where Miong is tanned a dark treebark shade. He burns like an angry lobster when under the sun too long, and people can always easily see him blush.
“You looked so peaceful sleeping I didn’t have the heart to wake you,” Miong says, tossing the bottle back to him. Pole barely catches it, uncapping the lid and pouring a hefty amount on his hands. Then he realizes his mistake too late; he still has shirt on and he’ll be getting lotion all over himself. Nice. Typical .
Miong seems to notice his distress, and starts patting Pole’s side so he’d lift his ass off the sand where he’s sitting on the tail of his shirt. “Up, up,” he says, “Come on,” and Pole just sort of goes with it, not sure what’s happening and lifting his arms when Miong tugs his t-shirt free. A strong breeze drifts up over them from the water, making his skin pimple in goosebumps though that could be easily attributed to Miong sliding his water-wrinkled hands across Pole’s back. He can feel the rough creases in them, the motion of his hands completely at odds with the roughness of his palms.
Miong tips lotion into his hands and works the span of Pole’s shoulders. Pole slathers sunscreen all over his arms before his own hands dry just so he has something to do, and tries valiantly not to look over where Felipe and Pedro are probably watching them.
In the end, it’s Miong who pulls away first but not before Pole feels the accidental brush of his knuckles down his spine. “You’re so pale,” he says, voice tinged with something Pole can’t quite put his finger on. “I mean, look at you.” His fingernails graze Pole’s shoulder.
Pole shrugs, deciding not to say anything, letting Miong’s warm hands settle on his shoulders as he eases himself up on his feet. His hair drips wet clumps down his chest; he’s broader in the shoulders than Pole last remembers, standing with the sureness of a young man.
When he grins, his teeth flash white.
Pole watches him move across the water like a shimmering fish, a dark smudge in his eyeline swallowed by the waves.
*
It’s easy to get along with people when you’re swimming because you don't have to do or say anything. You can just swim along quietly, among everybody, and still feel like a part of things.
Pole has no social graces, largely in part because he spent so much of his time studying. Once, when Miong had expressed a slight interest in a girl his parents had been vouching for, he’d felt a slice of jealousy. Partly because he’d always wanted to know what it was like to like someone that much, and partly because –
Miong laughs, startling Pole out of his thoughts.
The girls – there are three of them – have started smoking, drinking beer with their heads tipped back and their hair spread across the sand like seaweed. They’re from the nearby town, Pole can tell, because of the slight lilt in speech. They’re also brought here for a reason. Felipe’s idea probably. They look about college-age and keep gravitating towards Felipe though he’s not much to look at.
It’s getting late, and Pole is getting hungry but it doesn’t feel right to march back to the house alone. He doesn’t want to be rude; he won’t give Felipe and Pedro another reason to complain about him. He tries not to watch where Miong is trying to fend off most of the attention but he looks like he’s basking in it too, tipping his head down bashfully and smiling too much. Pole sometimes forgets Miong goes to a boys’ school which means his interactions with girls are fairly limited. Or: perhaps he has more experience than he lets on because he lets one of the girls touch his elbow and lean casually against him.
Pole slaps at his shin, killing another mosquito. He digs his toes into the sand and leans back on his palms, tilting his head up to the night sky, trying to keep his thoughts calm and blank. The stars are out, visible because here the skies are clear. Smog tends to choke them in the city, and he’s glad, for once, that he’s agreed to go on this trip. If nothing else, he’d gotten to see the beach again after so long, a luxury his family can’t really afford.
He looks up at the sound of footsteps, and who else does he see but Miong? “Hey,” he says. “We’re going back to the house.”
“ Finally ,” Pole grumbles, gathering up all his things: his sunglasses and shirt, the novel and bottle of lotion. He gets on his knees on the sand and starts folding up his beach towel, muttering all the while about how he’s so hungry he could eat a cow. He’s expecting a smarmy response and looks up when there’s nothing, surprised to find Miong has already run back to his friends.
*
Pole’s mobile phone had broken ages ago and now it’s held together by scotchtape and sheer force of will. There aren’t any apps on this model, probably because its manufacture date preludes the advent of technology altogether. But it does what it has to and has Snake II to keep him occupied while Felipe and Pedro talk inanely about which schools they were likely to attend in college, over dinner. Ateneo comes up a lot, which makes Pole wonder about his options. He doesn’t have the money to attend the any of the finer schools in the QC Area, so he’s going to have to apply for a scholarship. He’s thinking of going to UPD, but then he’ll have to find a dorm, if he passes the UPCAT. And the living expenses… he tries not to think too far ahead into the future; he’s only on his third year; he still has a lot of time.
The girls go home early, and Pole is almost sad to see them leave. He’d never even bothered to ask what their names where and they were kin to him in a way he was only just realizing – Batangas-born just like him though his family left before the lilt had a chance to set in.
Pole is the first to retire to the guest room, claiming a headache. He waited half an hour for Miong to follow, but a half hour turned to a full hour and Pole simply gave up waiting altogether, turning the TV on to a local channel playing a rerun of some 80s soap.
At 11:11 PM, Miong pads into the room. Pole is jolted from his sleep, sitting up just as Miong picks up the remote to turn the TV off.
“Did I wake you?” Miong asks.
“No, no, I was just watching that.”
Pole smacks his lips, his mouth feeling dry. There’s something odd about Miong though Pole can’t quite put a finger on it. Then a wave of realization hits him when Miong gets close enough: Miong smells like alcohol. He’d showered it off and covered the smell liberally with soap but Pole can still tell. His skin is flushed, his fingertips twitchy, his eyes rimmed red. Pole never gets angry; he stays calm and collected, but for a split second he feels a hot slice of fury down his spine – not at Pole but at the shit he pulls; he doesn’t quite understand the hard edge in his voice.
“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Pole says, a useless announcement because Miong doesn’t seem to be listening anyway, rooting through his duffel bag for his iPod and earphones.
The door to the bathroom creaks when Pole pushes it open. The light is powdery and chips of soap have hardened to stalagmites on the sink. He runs a thumb through a soap chip, tracing the ornate flowery pattern on the porcelain underneath before scrubbing it off with a fingernail and opening the tap.
His reflection isn’t all that forgiving in the water-spotted mirror: too little sleep have given him perpetual eyebags. He’s not handsome, not in the strictest sense, but he’s not a looker either. He just… is .
This is all so depressing so he showers, because he’d forgotten to earlier, changing into a stretched out old t-shirt and sitting on his bed in cargo shorts, letting his hair drip down his shoulders. He dries it on his towel, rubbing it raw until it stands out in static clumps. It doesn’t make him feel better, but it helps. A little to thaw out his anger.
Miong’s lying on his back on the bed, earbuds on, pillow flattened over his face to hide his eyes. He’s breathing evenly though Pole knows for a fact he’s not asleep.
Pole doesn’t join him right away. It’s too dark outside to make out anything through the window but he can hear the faint drone of cicadas in the long grass outside. Sounds of the night: treefrogs calling out to each other, the soft rustle of wind in the eaves.
When Pole was four and his family still lived in Tanauan with his grandparents, he used to push his bed near the window and sleep with it open. He liked the feeling of being on the edge of the outside, like he was on the rim of the universe, half suspended over the great beyond. Every summer fireflies would come whizzing by from outside, landing on the windowsill to light up the dark.
They didn’t have a lot of those in the city. All they got by way of natural lighting were the streetlights.
Pole looks over to where Miong is still pretending to sleep and joins him though not before shucking off the towel from his shoulders. There’s an old wive’s tale, about sleeping with your hair wet, but Pole can’t be bothered remembering the details because it’s too late in the evening and he’s never really subscribed to anything not backed up by logic and reason. He gives Miong his back, curling on his side to pull the thin sheet on the shoulder.
There are cracks on the wall, lines as thin as the tip of a needle spanning the west window like a burst of intricate spider webs.
“There are cracks in the wall,” Miong says, the first to break the silence. “Like lines on a map,” he continues.
“Spiders will skitter out of them and lay eggs in our mouths and then we’ll die,” Pole says. Then adds: “ Probably .”
“Pole!” Miong’s shoulders shake violently when he laughs, tiny earthquakes that shake the bed. “Thanks, gago , now I’m not getting any sleep!”
Pole shrugs, continues staring at the wall. He won’t be able to summon sleep like this, not when he’s listening to Miong breathing not too far away, not when he can smell him, his clean mineral scent, like fresh linen.
“My feet hurt,” Miong says after a moment of protracted silence. They’re getting good at that lately, Pole notices, long stretches of uneasy silence. There are many ways to measure distance, he thinks. And this is just one in a long list of them. He sighs and ignores Miong, hoping he’ll think Pole is asleep.
“I need a massage,” Miong continues, hooking his foot around Pole’s ankle. It’s cold and jarring that Pole shrugs it off purely on impulse, smacking Miong on the chest.
“Massage your own stupid feet,” he hisses. The back of Miong’s foot brushes his shin and it makes something inside him shiver uncontrollably. He turns to face Miong with a huff. “God, you reek .”
Miong just laughs, dropping his head back on the pillows. He’s set his iPod aside on the bedside table. When he runs his hand through his hair, it stands up in uneven spikes, still damp from his shower.
“Hey,” Miong says quietly, folding his hands across his stomach, eyes trained to the ceiling.
“ What .”
The mattress squeaks when Miong turns to look at him, leaning up on his elbow. “Are you having fun?”
“What?” The question catches Pole off-guard. “What kind of question is that?”
Miong shrugs and repeats, “I just want to know if you’re having fun.”
“Sure,” Pole tells him, confused. “I’m having fun.” It’s not exactly a lie. It’s been awhile since he’d gone swimming. His shoulders feel raw with sunburn but it’s a good kind of pain.
“Felipe and Pedro got to talking today,” Miong says, while Pole tries not to snort. “ About you .”
“You know how I feel about them,” Pole says, but Miong stops him with a hand on his shoulder.
“They’re not as terrible as you think, you know.”
“Maybe,” Pole amends, not sure where the conversation is going.
“I just, I don’t know, I want you to like my friends too.”
“I… like them enough ,” Pole hesitates. “It’s me they don’t like.”
An assumption, it seems, Miong doesn’t have the energy to correct. His lips thin but he nods his head and there’s another bout of silence. “Felipe is throwing a party tomorrow,” he says after what feels like the longest pause in the world in the history of pauses, “I want you there. There’d be girls. I think it’d be good for you.”
You don’t know what’s good for me , Pole doesn’t say, and is startled when Miong suddenly sits up in bed to look into his face to make him listen. Miong studies him, his mouth, looking like he’s waiting for Pole to say no. Then his eyes flick back up to the rest of Pole’s face as he pats him on the cheek. “Party tomorrow, all right?”
Pole shrugs noncommittally. “Sure,” he says, with more conviction than he feels.
*
Pole’s never been to a party before, at least not one where people had to get dressed up and wear their Sunday best. He’s sure that isn’t the kind Miong is referring to – there will be more getting drunk later than actual dancing or whatever it was that people did at parties – but Pole’s Sunday best equivalent is pretty much what Miong wears on his days off from school so he feels like he ought to make an effort. He’d been to a party once, at this hotel in the Bay Area where Miong had celebrated his fourteenth birthday. Miong’s dad had rented out an entire lobby and the party was Casino-themed, which meant Pole had to borrow a neighbour’s ill-fitting suit and the shoes his dad wore when he used to be a limo-driver, the leather abraded and scuffed with time. In the end, he hadn’t enjoyed it, and felt immediately out of place as soon as he’d seen how inappropriately dressed he was. This wasn’t his crowd, and he didn’t know anybody anyway.
He’d left prematurely, leaving his present on the table, dwarfed by dozens of large boxes in sparkling giftwrap. His dad had picked him up as soon as he’d called home, and they rode a tricycle back, not talking about why Pole had felt so upset because they weren’t that kind of people.
It was Miong who’d sought him out, at two in the morning, calling him from the street outside, still in the dress shirt he wore the night before: creased now, beyond the point of salvaging, the sleeves pulled up to his elbows, the top button undone. His paper crown fell at a lopsided angle, and he was waving Pole’s present in the air – a mix CD Pole had made himself, that he had burned at an internet shop near school with money he could have used for baon .
Down the street a window light up at the ruckus, and Pole hurried to hustle Miong inside before he woke up any of the neighbours.
“I was looking for you,” Miong explained. “I found your present in the pile last night. You left without telling me. What a friend, Pole. What a friend.” Then he lifted the CD to eye-level and Pole’s face burned with embarrassment.
“It’s stupid,” Pole said, rolling his eyes at himself. “ Damnit , Miong. Don’t—” He waved a hand before Pole could finish, kneeling in front of the boxy sound system in Miong’s living room. That thing hadn’t been on since Pole’s little sister was born so he’d been surprised when it had come to life after Miong plugged it into an outlet, the fluorescent display lighting up after a few percussive hisses.
Miong ejected a CD from the tray – a VST & Co.’s best Hits Mix – and replaced it with the one Pole had made for him. The first track was Parokya ni Edgar’s Buloy and Pole couldn’t help smiling a little at Miong’s infectious grin. “I love it already,” he said, “Really, this is the best present anyone’s ever gotten for me.”
Pole rolled his eyes. That couldn’t be true at all. “Your parents gave you a drum kit,” he’d reminded him. That he wouldn’t have used, he didn’t add. Miong had never even played drums.
“I mean it,” Miong promised. He raised this thumb in a good job gesture, the universal sign for idiots, before joining Pole on the rattan sofa. When he started pillowing his head in Pole’s lap, Pole didn’t even protest too much. It was his birthday; he could have this in the meantime. He did, however, tug Miong’s crown off his head before it rolled off to the floor, setting it down on the coffee table, much to Miong’s annoyance if his noise of complaint was any indication.
“My crown!”
“You can have it back later, Mr President,” Pole said. And then: “Happy birthday, by the way.”
The track slid seamlessly into Ang Huling El Bimbo by Eraserheads, another song they used to listen to on the radio growing up. Pole remembered this one partly because he had a particular memory associated with it: hide and seek with Miong back when they were children, darting between washing lines heavy with linens snapping like sails. And Miong laughing, always out of reach.
“Thanks,” Miong said, eyes closed now, his chin tipped down to his chest. He was grinning, a little, to himself, and for a brief moment Pole contemplated running his fingers through his hair, longer now than how he usually kept it, violating school policy yet again. “You’re the best, Pole.”
“You’re the only one who thinks so,” Pole said, self-deprecating.
“And I’m the only one that matters,” Miong said, mouth lifting up in a small smile. “Aren’t I?”
The sad part was Pole couldn’t even refute that.
*
The night of Felipe’s big party, Pole takes a long shower, has a leisurely nap, and puts on some cologne. He styles his hair briefly, frowning when it refuses to cooperate in the mirror. He’d gotten his mother’s curly hair, but his father’s receding hairline – not a very good combination on a teenager.
It looks good enough though, he decides half an hour later, as he lets it curl wildly with a bit of product. He hopes that it doesn’t look like he's made too much of an effort because he knows for a fact he isn’t going to like this. He doesn’t even know why he’s trying so hard. He’s got no one to impress and it isn’t like he’s the type to get stupidly drunk and flirt with girls like most kids his age. But he remembers what his dad told him, right before he’d left for Batangas, about not growing up too soon and just enjoying the ride.
Pole sighs and flicks his curly fringe to submission.
Well , he thinks, here goes nothing .