Work Text:
“Juanito,” he exasperated, sighing heavily. “For the last time, Mt. Fuji is in Japan.”
Here’s the setting: Placido Penitente, at the grocery store, rolling his eyes at Juanito Pelaez — who was standing in front of dozens upon dozens of apples.
This was no place to be bickering about the location of some Japanese mountain— There was no place to be bickering about its location. The fact that Mt. Fuji was in Japan was indisputable.
Although, it would appear that Juanito hadn’t gotten the memo, with his arms flailing to point indignantly at the sign above the apples. (“It says,” he had said pointedly, “that Fuji apples come from China! Fuji apples come from Mt. Fuji! Therefore, Mt. Fuji is in China, Placi— Hoy, don’t roll your eyes at me! It’s transitive property!”)
Juanito had been to Japan — had seen the mountain from his hotel in Tokyo and sent Placido pictures.
This was what Placido had to live with — five to seven days a week, minus breaks between semesters and over the holidays. This was Placido’s life for going on three years now. (In the privacy of his thoughts, he may just admit that he would not have things any other way.)
It might be a miracle that the worst thing they had experienced living together was a leak under the kitchen sink and not, in fact, a fire. It might be a miracle that they had made it into the same university at all. (But even Juanito had his moments, Placido supposed. He had witnessed firsthand the effort that the other had gone through to make sure that they would end up the way they did; best friends, and a little bit more, in the same place breathing the same air.)
In any case, Juanito also had his moments of profound idiocy.
Here’s the setting: Juanito Pelaez, arms crossed over his chest and lips curled into a pout like the twenty-year-old that Placido wasn’t sure he was.
“You,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “are not about to throw a tantrum in the middle of the fruit and vegetable section. You are not a child and I am not your goddamn mother.”
“You were nagging me to put on a jacket before we left. And you make sure my socks match every day and write our grocery list every week,” Juanito pointed out. He paused, blinking owlishly before a grin stretched across his lips. “Oh my God. You’re totally the mom-friend, Placidete, I can’t believe none of us have realized this! You and Basilio should take turns!”
Placido rolled his eyes. “Just because you’re all problem children doesn’t mean I need to be your mother. Matuto ka kayang alagaan sarili mo.”
“Aww, but you’re so good at doing it for me,” Juanito said, a light in his eyes that Placido doesn’t have the heart to put out. He planted a quick kiss to his cheek before dashing away with their cart. “Thanks for caring, Placiding!”
Placido heaved out a sigh as Juanito hummed happily to a song he couldn’t recognize, ignoring the woman from several feet away — giving them a wary look for either their (read: Juanito’s) obnoxious behavior or their (read: Juanito’s) public display of affection. He was grateful to walk away from the produce section as Juanito pushed their cart toward the bread and eggs.
(And to think, they didn’t even buy any apples.)