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“Kumusta ka?”
When Ken had spoken those words, it took Paulo seconds to even listen. And when he listened, he allowed himself to forget the air that brushed past his fingertips. Even in the cold, cold, evening, the Legazpi Active Park welcomed his worries without remorse.
They no longer stood inside a studio. Neither of them owned part of the world, where they tugged at each other on stage, where they spoke behind their microphones and outright bled with secrets they could never dare tell anyone else.
Now, though, he and Ken were but recovering souls.
Freeman, Paulo called himself, what with his drive to move forward, his undying beliefs pulling him to his feet despite his own dreams failing the performer he had once been. Paulo listened in and repeated Ken’s question.
Kumusta ka? He let out a bitter chuckle. Even he couldn’t string up a decent response. Kumusta ka? he echoed, careful not to ponder too long on the voice that undoubtedly affected him still.
“Sej,” said Ken, as though telling him to take his time, to catch his breath in the seconds he would keep his silence if it meant evoking the answers Ken had needed all those years ago. He reached out to caress Paulo’s knee as though to anchor him down, but the older man was wise enough to consider it as anything but.
“Ikaw,” Paulo tried. “Kumusta ka?”
“Small talk?” Ken chuckled, shaking his head. His hand remained plastered to the denim over Paulo’s knee. Easy, contemplative. . . perhaps unsure whether or not to stay. “You know that doesn’t work with me, Sej. I’ve missed you, and I’ve been asking for you. Bakit ‘di ka na nagparamdam?”
Ah, typical Ken. Of course he would bring that up. It wasn't like Paulo had anything else to say, though. Their group had disbanded, spent months trying to mend the bond that had kept them together before eventually allowing their failure to consume themselves. He hadn’t had the time to hear Ken’s pleas, nor direct enough attention to the man that only wished to talk things out over the phone. Back then, however, Paulo didn’t exactly understand what there was to talk about.
Except for that one thing.
“Pinuntahan kita sa inyo,” Ken pointed out. His hand, although heavy on Paulo’s knee, shifted over the denim with enough ease. Paulo averted his gaze to the distant pavement, forced himself to follow the passersby that heard none of the dejection in Ken’s voice. “It was Saturday. I called you beforehand to tell you I'll be visiting, but you hung up.”
A child tripped over the cement, spilling her cup of coke float over her yellow sneakers. She tugged at her mother’s hand, filled the park with the growing sound of her wailing, almost loud enough to drown Ken’s obviously bitter chuckle.
“Tinext mo ako,” Ken continued. “Sabi mo ‘wag muna, kasi ‘di ka pa handa. Sabi mo respetuhin ang desisyon mong dumistansya kasi umaasa ka pang babalik yung tatlo.”
Paulo’s hand flew to his own chin. He balled his fist, pressed it against his lips if only to conceal the breaths that escaped beyond his control. He listened in, and heard the same voice calling out to him from the living room all those years ago.
Paulo, kausapin mo naman ako!
He shut his eyes.
“Sinukuan na tayo ng mundo, Sej,” Ken added, surprisingly composed even as he spoke of their bitter past. “Sinukuan ka na nito.”
Ken withdrew his hand, retreated from the little space Paulo had offered him that night. The moment stretched without either of them saying anything, but Paulo knew the younger man all-too-well.
Ken was counting the seconds, observing whether or not the former leader would speak, and because he obviously worried over Paulo’s would-be response, Ken would swallow his words entirely, and pray that no matter how rash he had been with his thoughts, Paulo would still listen to him for the second time.
“Sinukuan ka na, Sej,” repeated Ken, seemingly more careful this time. “Sinukuan ka na ng mga pangarap natin, pero nanatili ako diyan sa tabi mo, kahit pilit mo akong iniwasan.”
There it was. The truth Paulo had always dreaded hearing. The blatant acceptance that sent a pang to his chest, rendering him contemplating on the grass even as his heart begged him to turn around and simply look. He cannot look Ken in the eye. Not now, not when the younger man no longer hesitated. Not when Ken obviously teetered over the edge of a plea, where he could simply say those three damned words, and Paulo would yet again find himself quickly, quickly falling.
Sighing, he turned to Ken.
“You know I love you, right?” Paulo offered a sad smile. He watched as surprise bloomed across Ken’s face, fought the uneasy chuckle that threatened to tear from his throat. “I never fell short on showing you how much.”
There was very little he could offer. He loved Ken, always had, so it pained him very much to even catch the slightest disbelief in Ken’s eyes.
“I love you, Ken,” he tried again, determined to regain the dancer’s trust. “I loved you from the moment you wrote with me. . . to the day you secretly stashed my sheet music the night we disbanded.” Paulo hadn’t noticed it earlier, but his fingers trembled. He kept them plastered to his knee, picked at the ripped denim as he swallowed, and let the truth out. “I love you even now. . . Now where I have nothing to offer you but my dying aspirations, where I am but a wounded man that yearns for you. . . and still yearns for you.”
Ken tore his gaze away. “Shit, Paulo. . .”
“You and I had to grow apart,” he continued, far more certain with whatever he meant to say. “Simula pa lang, wala na tayong laban sa mundo. I needed the time to heal myself and start all over.”
And when Ken had met his eyes, he realized right then it was not the end.
“I wanna know,” sang Ken, easing himself into the tune of Westlife’s Swear It Again,“. . .whoever told you I was letting go.”
The melody welcomed itself, floating in from the next room inside which the old radio breathed. It was loud but muted. Subdued even, like it rang true with the stories its lyrics carried, but respected the couple whose experiences proved far too heavy to be heard as mere songs.
Still, Paulo allowed the piece into their space. He laughed softly, shifted on the couch, and basked in his boyfriend’s humming as Ken tightened his hold around the older man's waist.
“Stay with me, Sej,” whispered Ken, his words hushed, and his pauses almost measured despite no else lingering in the lounge to even listen. “I don’t care about what you don’t have and what you can’t give me. I just want you, and all the dreams you have for us both.” He loosened his hold to pull Paulo straight to his chest. “Harapin natin ang bukas nang magkasama.”
Paulo held his breath.
He held his breath, and when he did, he was reminded of how much he had to swallow his own confessions in hopes of keeping the group intact. He frowned. They had their grave losses, and there were dreams they could no longer rebuild without the other three. But he had Ken. He had him now. . . right in the flesh, real and earnest, surprisingly accepting even in his own tired arms. Not even something as cruel as the world can take Ken away from him again.
So, Paulo exhaled, offered his breaths just over Ken’s lips, and met him halfway in a sweet, sweet kiss.
Just look around
And all of the people that we used to know
Have just given up, they wanna let it go
But we're still trying