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(Artwork by @amagren)
“You’re much too great a man to simply rot in this country, Ginoong Ibarra.” Elias intones; sweat dotting his forehead as he rows as quickly as he can to bring the good man to safety. “You’re meant for much greater things – in foreign lands. It is not your fate to be ostracized like a common felon and to die here in poverty.” He dimples, but his expression is heavy.
“Come with me.”
Elias’ heart skips a beat, before he is shaking his head, throwing a surreptitious glance at the darkness around them and continuing to row.
“Come with me, Elias. We can escape together. We already share the same fate – be with me.”
And, traitorously, Elias feels his chest ache, trying to hold his suddenly frantic heart inside. Be with me, the gentleman pleads, right after sharing an amorous goodbye with his nobya. Elias thinks he might cry.
“Let us live as brothers, my friend.” Ah. That makes much more sense.
Elias gives a wry grin, staring down at his whitened knuckles as he grips the oars tight. “I can’t, Ginoong Ibarra. It’s simply not my place.” Because it never was and it never will be, the beautiful Maria Clara already carved into every possible crevice in the gentleman’s heart.
They row on silently.
Nearing the palace, the commotion from a group of guardia civil catches the young men’s attention, and Elias is quick to move.
“On your back,” he hisses urgently, grabbing his companion by the shoulders and pushing him down to the floor of their small boat.
Oh, how he wishes the sight of Crisostomo laid out beneath him was under different circumstances. He presses his palm against the other’s quivering lips. “You have to keep quiet, I’ll keep you safe,” Elias swears; the urge to press his lips to the gentleman’s forehead in comfort is strong, but he gets to work. Elias covers Crisostomo in heaps of straw, praying the darkness would be enough to keep the man alive.
They reach the polvorista, and their small boat is stopped. Elias is interrogated by the men. They eye him as if he were a sewage rat. Their contempt is scarcely hidden even in the dim light of flickering embers and the faraway moon.
"What brings you here, boy?"
Quick on his feet, Elias explains he has rowed from Manila and is on his way to deliver straw to the judge and the pastor. The guards let him go with a warning not to let anyone on his boat for a convict had just escaped. However, should Elias find said prisoner, he will receive a reward.
He feels Crisostomo’s warm fingers curl around his ankle.
The guard describes Crisostomo’s clothes and his great command of Kastila.
Elias grins innocently with a guileless nod, rowing away.
They change routes, entering the river. Elias hauls the piles of straw off the boat and onto the riverbank, leaving a long bamboo and a few bayong before rowing back into the water. The young men resumed talking about little things, their pasts, the possibilities.
They move past ilog Pasig and reach Sta. Ana.
They pass the rest house of the Jesuits, the building triggering longing inside Elias; memories of happy days gone past, his parents, his twin sister, the promise of a future.
His gaze flits to the man in front of him. He observes the weariness on his handsome features, the dark circles underneath his clever gaze, his chin lined with stubble after days of this, and he feels it – feels Crisostomo’s fatigue sinking into his own bones, but he’d sooner die than not ensure this man’s safety.
They pass by a wide rock, a sleepy lookout – Ibarra’s hair is soft and tickling his shins from where he’s huddled down. Elias lets out a relieved breath as they’re allowed to row past without incident.
The sun’s risen by the time they reach the lake. In the distance, a group of guardia civil nears their tiny boat. Elias pulls Crisostomo down none too gently and his breath comes out in harsh pants, dread settling heavy in his gut. He hides the other with the bayong, wanting to laugh and cry because those are a lot of civil guards with their rifles and here they are in a small boat like sitting ducks and what may very well be his last interaction with the man he’s grown so fond of is throwing a stupid bayong to cover his stupid beautiful face.
He shakes his head clear, breathes deeply, and tries not to faint.
Elias notices the way the guards' ship block the coast. He smoothly changes directions, the air around him feeling charged. He takes comfort in the warmth of Crisostomo’s shoulder against his thigh and he rows, determined.
The civil guards change course to follow.
They call out for the boat.
Elias briefly thinks about turning back towards ilog Pasig.
He realizes they’re surrounded without a chance of defending themselves.
Their boat is fucking tiny.
Elias tugs his clothes off.
He leans down towards Crisostomo in guise of whispering his plans but really he’d like to look his fill of the man’s face before he inevitably dies.
The wind bites at his bare skin as he stares down at the man he’s going to give what’s left of him for.
“We’ll meet back tonight at your forefather’s grave.” Elias lies.
He stands tall, grits his teeth, and jumps.
He thinks about the gentleman on the boat, Crisostomo, whom he has to keep alive.
Elias surfaces, turns, and gives the boat a heavy kick. It rocks away, almost turning and he sees his salakot fall into the water; it breaks his heart, irrationally, that Crisostomo won’t even have his stupid hat to remember him by.
He wonders how quickly it would take for him to be forgotten as the first set of bullets rain down on his form. Adrenaline coursing through his body, Elias swims away triumphantly.
He successfully got their attention. Crisostomo is safe.
He feels surreal, like he’s one with the water with the bullets gliding through his skin so easily as if he was melted butter.
The water around him blooms with crimson and he watches, detached.
He thinks about Crisostomo, alone in the boat. Their tiny boat.
He wonders if Crisostomo will miss him.
The sounds of their rapid gunfire grow dull in the back of his head. He snorts, maybe they shot his ears off.
His knees hit ground and he plops uselessly against land. The rocks are painful and his brain blanks filled with pain pain pain.
It burns. Why is he still alive?
His vision is blurred and he thinks he’s crying if that’s not blood on his face. Maybe both.
He thinks about Crisostomo.
He coughs, the sound terrifying – Oh, he still has his ears, then – blood spilling past his cracked lips – how long does it take to die, dios mio.
He thinks about Crisostomo and curses because he could have at least stolen a kiss for all the trouble the man was worth.
He watches the ground below him turn red, its metallic scent heavy in his nostrils.
He thinks about Crisostomo and he has to smile because Crisostomo is a wonderful man, and he would always be worth a thousand deaths.
Elias lets his eyes fall close.
“Elias!”
Ah, he can remember his voice perfectly.
“Elias!”
Elias grumbles, blinking his eyes open with much effort because how on earth was dream-Crisostomo still annoying?
Then he feels warm fingers on his cheek. He grins up at the familiar face, even his dimples probably had heart eyes for Crisostomo, christ.
Crisostomo is saying things, a lot of things, really fast, and Elias can’t understand him anymore, really, but it’s nice, so he listens to the man’s voice.
And then Crisostomo is crying, and it’s not so nice anymore because Elias wants him to be happy and not crying, Crisostomo, stop.
“C-Cris...” He murmurs through a frown, his fingers twitching and brushing against Crisostomo’s knee. He doesn’t want his last memory to be of making Crisostomo cry.
The man actually curls around Elias’ head, careful not to jostle him. Elias would have protested if he could. He is filthy, messy with his own blood, and he doesn’t want Crisostomo to look even more suspicious – doesn’t he understand what being wanted means? Damn it, Crisostomo.
On the other hand, the man’s technically hugging him so Elias preens, even as his vision darkens and – no – he has to – he doesn’t want – “C-Crisos - !” Elias flails, trying to move his hands to pull Crisostomo up. He wants to – needs to see the other man’s face. He needs to burn Crisostomo’s features into his mind.
Wants Crisostomo to be the last thing he sees.
Then, he remembers. He’s not done yet. He hasn’t gotten Crisostomo to safety. Not yet. He still has – he still needs to give him his money – needs to take him to his friend – Oh god, how is Crisostomo going to survive? He needs Elias. He...
And Elias grows frantic, sobbing, speaking Crisostomo’s name in broken whispers, his throat tight. He manages to grab the man’s face in his shaking hands, his blood so bright against Crisostomo’s pale, clammy skin. He pushes on in determination and tells Crisostomo as much as he can; where his possessions are, how to get to his friend, all the things Elias can’t do for him now, and he wishes Crisostomo listens and listens well because this is all it comes down to.
Everything Elias has done is all dependent on Crisostomo’s survival.
A wandering thought hums innocently in Elias’s mind, sad at the prospect Crisostomo is going to remember him as an unattractive bullet-ridden corpse. Something out of a nightmare.
He regrets not stealing that kiss when he was at least the mysterious, good-looking, boatman.
Now, he’s just a nasty dying body. Gross.
Crisostomo’s growing fainter.
Elias’s chest aches.
He thinks fingers intertwine with his own, but that’s ridiculous.
His eyes land on the ground and his heart blooms, spotting his stupid salakot. Crisostomo found it! Crisostomo has it in his hand. Crisos –