Archive of Our Own ^beta

(*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

5

The little yellow box of a karaoke room in Timezone was filled with the echo of Maldita's "Porque." Bal was wedged in with his blockmates, Sehun, Jongin, and Cho, tapping his leg to the beat. It was the first finals of his first year in med school, and there were a million things he’d rather be doing—mostly just sleeping—but Cho had managed to drag them all here. Drinking was a no-go. Not today. They hadn't slept in five days, and even a med student with half a brain knew that mixing no sleep with alcohol was a one-way ticket to disaster.

Bal looked over at his friend, Cho, who was sitting on the floor with his back pressed against Bal’s leg. They’d been glued together since the first day of class, when Cho, somehow, found him in the loneliest corner of the lecture hall. Finding out they were both from Cavite had felt like finding a rare species, an immediate kinship. Honestly, Bal had a crush on him from that very first day. Who wouldn’t? He had these wide, warm brown eyes, flushed cheeks, and a smile that hit him with a wave of unexpected tenderness. He looked so young, almost too young for med school. If he wasn't over six feet tall, Bal would have pegged him for a college kid, maybe even younger.

And that was exactly Bal’s type: those doe-eyed boys who looked like they couldn't possibly do anything wrong. It got worse, too, the more he learned about Cho. He was a full scholar, aced all their classes, and somehow charmed everyone he met, even with his lanky, clumsy arms. After finding that out, Bal had promised himself he was going to get a full scholarship after the first semester. He had barely made it out of Cavite on a partial scholarship, and his family simply couldn't afford something as prestigious as med school in Manila. But Bal couldn’t picture doing anything else. So he groveled and promised.

“Mama, promise. Gagalingan ko talaga tapos magiging full scholar ako,” he had whined, his voice thick with pleading. “Magpapart time din ako!”

“Baltazar naman,” his mother had sighed, but he knew he had won. He couldn’t let her down. Not when the only gold in their house—her wedding ring—had been sold at the pawn shop just so he could pay for the first few months of his boarding house.

Bal kept his eyes on the prize: med school. But lately, the prize was starting to look a lot like Cho. It was the way Cho would play guitar with the guards and maintenance ladies before class. The way he’d willingly teach people a lesson in the middle of a crowded hallway, leaning over their notes without a hint of annoyance. The way his voice was so deep and warm, and yet his laugh was boisterous, so careless and free. It was the way his hands, double the size of Bal's, would unconsciously grab Bal's hand when they crossed the street. He later found out Cho had a younger sister and was just used to it, but Bal's heart would still stutter every single time. Cho, who by all accounts was just a good person, was slowly filling up Bal's entire world.

“Bakit sa iyo pa nagkagusto?” Bal sang along to the song, his leg tapping a little harder against the floor. Cho didn't mind. He just bobbed his head and mumbled the lyrics, completely oblivious that this song, this moment, this ache in Bal's chest was for him and him only. The melody swirled around them, an unspoken secret in a tiny, rented room.

(*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

4

By their second year, Bal was a full scholar. That was the thing about him—there was nothing in this world Bal set his mind to that he didn’t get. He might not have been as rich or as privileged as most of his classmates, but he was persevering. He was determined. And he was incredibly, fiercely smart. 

So why, then, was he about to have a heart attack just because Cho swung a backpack on top of his own? 

Bal was in the library, checking out a few books to get them photocopied. He had placed his bag in the small space between his legs, the worn fabric of the strap digging into the side of his ankle. It was a comfortable weight, a familiar presence. Cho’s own bag was on the other side of him, and without a single word, without even looking, Cho simply picked up Bal's bag and hoisted it on top of his own, the single strap hanging from his shoulder like it was nothing. Bal pretended he hadn’t seen it, pretending to be fully engrossed in explaining to the lady at the photocopying counter which pages he needed. He pointed with a little more emphasis than was necessary, cleared his throat, and looked at the stack of books in his hands. When he was done, he glanced nonchalantly at Cho.

“Amin na,” he said, gesturing to the bag with his lips. Cho was already back to reading a handout, his long fingers tracing a line of text, the paper thin enough for Bal to see the outline of his knuckles underneath.

Cho finally looked up, his brow furrowed in concentration. It took him a second to register that Bal’s hand was hovering expectantly over the backpack. But instead of handing it over, he shook his head.

“Okay lang. Ikaw na may hawak ng books,” Cho said casually, the words muffled slightly by a tiny yawn he tried to hide behind his hand. His eyes already dropped back to the handout, dismissing the whole thing.

Bal opened his mouth to protest, to say that the books weren't that heavy, that he didn't need the help. But the words died in his throat. He just shrugged, a bit too quickly, a small, involuntary sigh escaping his lips. He tried to make it sound like it didn't matter, like the weight on Cho’s shoulder wasn’t making his chest feel strangely tight, like his heart wasn't doing a frantic little tap dance against his ribs. Fine . He let it go, the quiet hum of the library filling the space between them.

He fished his old Nokia XpressMusic from his pocket, his thumb brushing over the chipped red side button. It was a chunky, square thing, a beat-up relic stubbornly surviving. It had a scratch on the screen from when he'd dropped it in the street, and the little light on the side blinked green when he got a text. It looked almost comical now, but for him, it was enough. He plugged in his tangled earphones, not saying anything—just nudging the other bud toward Cho.

Cho took it automatically, his fingers brushing Bal’s just for a second. The contact was brief, but it sent a little shiver up Bal’s arm. It was like muscle memory, like they’d done this a thousand times before (which they have). He tucked the bud in his ear, still reading, while Bal scrolled through his song list with quick taps. He was searching for something safe—something background, something that wouldn't make his hands shake. He’d gone on a downloading binge a few days ago, the song list a mess of genres, and he just wanted some generic pop music to get lost in.

But before he could stop it, the last track he’d played earlier sprang to life, the melancholic acoustic melody filling their ears.

Porque contigo yo ya iskuji…

Bal froze. Porque. Of all songs. His stomach dropped, a cold, clenching fear squeezing his insides. He fumbled with the phone, his fingers slick with sweat, trying to switch it off before—

But Cho was already humming. Low, steady, almost absentminded, like it was a natural extension of his breathing. Like it belonged to him.

“I know this,” Cho said, his gaze still on the paper. His lips quirked into the barest hint of a smile, a tiny curve that made Bal's throat go dry. “Natutunan ko sa’yo to sa Timezone nung first year.”

Bal swallowed hard, his ears burning with a sudden, overwhelming heat. He remembered—of course he did. A cramped karaoke booth, the smell of cheap pizza and stale air, neon lights flashing, and Cho laughing so loud it was a physical thing. He had thought that moment was just for him, a silly, private memory. He hadn't thought Cho was even paying attention. He hadn't thought Cho would remember.

He tried to laugh it off, the sound too tight and unnatural. He looked down at his shoes, at the scuffed leather of his cheap school shoes. “Di naman maganda boses ko nun.”

“Hmm.” Cho didn’t look at him, but the hum continued, a warm, quiet sound threaded through the music. “Feel na feel mo nga eh. Ganda kaya.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Bal didn’t trust himself to answer. He let the song play out, his heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out. The words of the song suddenly felt too much, too loud, too close. He focused on the hum beside him, on the rise and fall of Cho’s chest, on the slight shift of his weight as he adjusted his position.

When the track finally faded, he yanked out the earphones, the sudden silence a welcome, jarring relief. The photocopying lady called his name, and he gratefully took the thick stack of notes, clutching them like a shield.

They started walking back to the library. Cho, tall and unbothered, strode easily beside him, the backpack still hanging from his shoulder like it belonged there. Bal’s shorter steps had to keep pace, and he felt the difference in every stride—the way Cho’s shadow stretched long beside his, the way his knuckles occasionally brushed against Bal’s arm as they walked.

He tried not to look, but his eyes flickered upward anyway. That ridiculous height difference. The easy slope of Cho’s shoulders. The way his hair, a little too long, fell over his forehead. The warmth that still seemed to linger in his ear from the shared bud. His own heart kept up a furious beat, a frantic rhythm against his ribs. It was a secret language only he could understand. 

Bal told himself to breathe normally. To act normally. To not let the casual contact, the small, caring gesture, the fact that Cho remembered a song he sang in a moment of pure carelessness get to him. But his pulse betrayed him, drumming wild and reckless in his chest. 

Because this was Cho.  

And even if Cho never knew—especially if Cho never knew—it was enough to walk beside him like this, carrying the same music between them. It was a fragile, private moment he could hold onto.

(*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

3

It was Jongin’s birthday, which meant only one thing: the whole barangay practically knew about it. His house in Malate was bursting at the seams—plastic monoblock chairs spilling out onto the street, a karaoke machine blasting OPM power ballads on repeat, and neighbors casually joining in as if it were their own celebration. The smell of frying food and damp earth hung thick and heavy in the humid Manila air, mingling with the sweet scent of cigarettes and cheap beer.

On the table sat the classic party spread: pancit, spaghetti with hotdogs, bottles of Red Horse sweating under the humidity. But the centerpiece—what Bal couldn’t stop grinning at—was the hotdog and marshmallow skewers stuck into a whole cabbage like some ridiculous, low-budget birthday bouquet. Perfect. A little bit goofy, a whole lot of heart.

Jongin was the bunso of his family, and it showed. Despite their cramped space and patched-up walls, he was showered with attention—an aunt kept piling food on his plate, an older brother manned the mic for his favorite songs, and cousins hovered around, all loud and affectionate. Bal found himself smiling, genuinely happy to be a part of it, to be invited into this chaos. It felt like a warm, loud hug, the kind he only got when he went home to Cavite.

Bal and Cho sat side by side on one of the plastic chairs out front, their knees brushing, just slightly, but the contact was enough to set off the now-familiar stutter in Bal’s heartbeat. He was nursing a beer, the cold bottle feeling heavy in his hand, half-watching the street karaoke, half-just being. Cho didn't move away. He never did. The small space between them always seemed to disappear on its own, a comfortable, shared silence in the middle of all the noise.

The bathroom door creaked open behind them, and Sehun stumbled out of Jongin’s house, his cheeks flushed from drink. His smile was loose and wobbly, a little bit crooked. He squinted at Bal. “Bal!” he exclaimed, like he hadn’t just seen him fifteen minutes ago. He nearly tripped on the step, catching himself against the doorframe before grinning wide, a triumphant glint in his eye.

“Nakilala ko yung pinsan ni Jongin!  Si Cholo!” Sehun announced, his voice a little too loud with the kind of excitement only alcohol and gossip could fuel. He plopped down on a spare chair, leaning in conspiratorially. “Pareho pa kayo ng pangalan, Cho! Well, halos.” He laughed at his own joke, a hiccup punctuating the sound. It was the kind of joke only a drunk person would find hilarious.

Bal blinked, his mind trying to catch up. He looked from Sehun to Cho and back again. “Ha?”

Sehun’s eyes were shining. “Cute siya. As in. Baby face tas ang amo ng mukha. Ganon mga tipo mo di ba? Mala Zac Efron, ganon.” He jabbed a finger in Bal's direction, triumphant. He leaned closer, the smell of beer and cigarettes on his breath. “Sabi ko na irereto kita. Kaya pinag palit ko muna ng tshirt para gwapo naman siya pag pinakilala ko sayo.”

Before Bal could even protest, to say that Sehun had it all wrong, Jongin overheard from where he was fixing the mic. He looked up, a cheerful grin on his face. “Oo nga,” he chimed in. “Si Cholo, single ‘yon matagal na. Third year law student pa. Full scholar. Ang talino, swear. Bagay nga kayo, Bal.”

The words landed heavier than the humid night air. Bal felt a jolt run through him, an unsettling kind of pressure. A weird, sinking feeling settled in his stomach. He suddenly felt Cho shift beside him, a small adjustment, subtle, but there. Bal’s eyes flickered to him. Cho’s face didn’t change; his eyes were still fixed on the street karaoke where someone was butchering a Rivermaya song. His lips were a flat, unreadable line.

But the familiar, comfortable weight on Bal’s lap reminded him: his backpack, as always, was resting comfortably across Cho’s knees. It had become habit by now. Sometimes Cho didn’t even bother bringing his own bag anymore—he’d just share Bal’s, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He would carry it for him, rest it on his lap, their possessions mingling together without a second thought. It was just a thing they did.

No one else noticed. No one ever did. Only Bal.

And even then, he wasn’t sure. Was that shift... because of him? Because of what Sehun and Jongin had said? Was he just reading into it? Was he imagining a response that wasn’t even there? The music swelled, a chorus of off-key voices, and Bal leaned closer, lowering his voice so it wouldn’t carry over the noise. The words felt strange, almost unnecessary, a risk he couldn't help but take. “Okay ka lang?”

Cho didn’t answer right away. His fingers, long and nimble, drummed lazily against the strap of Bal’s bag, a slow, steady rhythm. His eyes were still fixed forward, on the flickering lights of the karaoke machine, on the hazy street ahead. He just kept drumming, a tiny, quiet motion in a loud, boisterous night. It was an answer and not an answer all at once.

The karaoke machine shifted with a sharp click of the remote, and the opening chords of The Calling’s “Wherever You Will Go” rang out from the battered speakers. People on the street whistled, half in excitement, half from the alcohol warming their veins. It was one of those national anthem of drunk men on the karaoke. 

“Cholo!” Jongin bellowed from the mic stand, his cheeks pink from both beer and joy. “Ito na yung kanta mo!”

And right on cue, the front door opened again. Out stepped Jongin’s cousin.

He was tall, a little too pale under the dim streetlight, with the kind of build that looked like he used to play basketball but gave it up for books. His red polo was rumpled, its collar bent awkwardly, tucked into plain slacks that were too stiff for a birthday party where everyone else was in shorts and slippers. He looked like he’d just been yanked from a study session. His face, though—sharp yet boyish, the kind of wide-eyed innocence that made him look younger than he really was—drew attention immediately.

Bal’s breath hitched when their eyes met. Cholo’s gaze lingered for just a beat too long before dropping away, shy, almost embarrassed. Bal quickly looked down at his own beer bottle, the glass cold and wet in his palm, and felt a sudden, strange jolt of familiarity.

Sehun, predictably, lost it. “Ayan naaaa! Bal! Tingnan mo, oh!” He cupped his hands around his mouth, his voice a frantic shout loud enough for the whole barangay to hear. “Bagay na bagay sa ‘yo!”

Jongin, never one to miss the chance to amplify chaos, joined in. He looked at Cholo with a mischievous grin. “Totoo!” he declared. “Bal, eto na ang future mo! Si Cholo!” He gestured grandly like he was presenting a game show prize. Bal heard some of the older aunts giggling in the background.

Bal could feel his entire face turn crimson. His beer tasted sour in his throat, and he ducked his head, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow him whole. He felt so exposed, so seen, even though no one really saw him at all. He was just a caricature in someone else's joke.

Then he felt it—Cho’s hand resting lightly on his knee. Subtle, steady, the familiar warmth a sudden anchor in the overwhelming noise. It was enough to make him look up.

“Okay ka lang?” Cho asked, his voice low, almost drowned out by the karaoke. His eyes, dark and concerned, were only for Bal.

Bal groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Ang epal ni Sehun. Di ko nga kilala yan eh.”

Cho laughed, and the sound felt like relief. Or maybe it was just the way it softened the embarrassment clawing at Bal’s chest. For a second, Bal couldn’t tell if the laugh was for him or at him—but it didn’t matter. He still wanted to bottle it up and keep it.

“Eh type mo daw,” Cho teased, his lips quirking just slightly.

Bal huffed, glaring at the street like it had personally offended him. He watched Jongin and Sehun dramatically flank Cholo at the mic, swaying like backup singers as if the whole thing were a concert. The uncles and aunts hollered in approval, clapping and cheering at the scene. Most of them were tipsy, so Bal tried to forgive them, but the heat in his cheeks burned hotter, the shame a living, breathing thing. “Ano bang alam niyan sa type ko?” Bal whined, the words a low murmur.

“Eh ano nga bang type mo?” Cho asked suddenly, his voice back to its normal pitch. He was no longer looking at Cholo; he was watching Bal, his gaze unwavering.

But Bal didn’t hear it.  

The song was too loud, his thoughts too messy, drowning everything else out. His ears buzzed with the chorus, with his own frantic heartbeat wishing the night would just fast-forward. He was caught between a rock and a hard place, trying to ignore the awkwardness of the setup while also trying to pretend the person right beside him didn’t exist.

Cho must have sensed it. Because slowly—so slowly it might’ve looked accidental—he draped his arm across the back of Bal’s chair. Inch by inch, he tugged Bal’s seat closer, closing the space between them until their shoulders were touching. The movement was so gentle, so deliberate, it took Bal a moment to realize what had happened.

Bal stiffened, his back straight as a ruler, pretending not to notice. Pretending the gesture was nothing. But his heart gave him away, skipping and stumbling like it had forgotten its rhythm. The air between them, once so expansive, was now a small, private bubble of warmth.

The song finally wound down, but before Bal could sigh in relief, Jongin grabbed the mic again with the grin of a man who’d had one beer too many.

“This next one… para kay Bal, mula kay Cholo ulit!” he declared proudly, clicking on the next track.

And just like that, Edwin McCain’s “I’ll Be” bled out of the speakers, a song so sappy, so romantic, it felt like an indictment of Bal’s entire life. The crowd whooped, and Jongin shoved the mic back into his cousin’s hand, urging him forward like this was destiny.

Bal wanted to disappear.

But he was was thankful—so thankful—that Cholo looked just as embarrassed as he felt. The guy’s ears were practically glowing red as he tried to croon through the opening lines of “I’ll Be.” He held the mic with both hands, his knuckles white, and stumbled over the words like they were a foreign language. He was the kind of handsome that looked good on paper, but up close, under the harsh streetlight, he was just as awkward as the rest of them. Finally, when Sehun and Jongin got distracted opening fresh cans of beer, the teasing died down, and Bal let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Sana kainin na ko ng lupa,” Bal muttered under his breath, covering his face with both hands, the cool moisture of his palms a small comfort.

Cho heard him anyway. He laughed, the kind that rumbled low and unguarded, and before Bal could even look up, he felt it: a hand at the nape of his neck, warm and steady, massaging for the briefest second—then gone. Like it never happened. Like a whisper on the wind.

“Sabihan mo lang ako kapag uuwi na,” Cho said simply, his eyes still on the crowd, voice too casual for the way Bal’s blood was suddenly thrumming in his veins.

Bal’s throat went dry, but before he could answer, Sehun leaned over with that mischievous grin plastered on his face. “Nilagay ko na yung kanta mo na sunod,” he announced proudly, holding up the remote like a trophy. “Di ba favorite mo yung Porque?”

Bal sighed, long and heavy, but nodded anyway. His fate was sealed. The gods of drunken karaoke and meddling friends had spoken.

On the side, Cholo stumbled through the chorus of “I’ll Be,” his voice cracking on the high notes. From beside him, Bal heard Cho’s voice—soft, under his breath, carrying the melody with surprising smoothness. He knew the song. Of course he knew the song.

Bal turned to him with a smirk. “Dapat pala ikaw na lang kumanta eh.”

Cho made a face, wrinkling his nose in that way he did when he was being shy. “Sira,” he muttered, but his eyes were laughing.

“Alam mo yan?” Bal asked, the teasing turning to genuine curiosity.

Cho nodded. He took a sip of his beer, his gaze distant for a moment, like he was traveling back in time. “Prom song ko yan,” he said, his voice a little softer, a little more vulnerable.

Bal blinked, the words echoing in his head. “Prom song?”

“Mm.” Cho finished his sip and set the bottle on the ground. “Diyan ako sinagot ng girlfriend ko eh.” He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And just like that, Bal stiffened. The air felt thick and heavy. Girlfriend? The word hit him like a physical blow, a sudden, cold shock. His mind raced, a frantic series of questions with no answers. He felt his face go blank, a tight mask he hadn't known he'd put on. Did that mean Cho had been straight all along? That all the small things —the way he held Bal’s hand crossing streets, how he always ended up carrying his bag, the earphones they shared, that hand on his neck just now—did none of that mean anything? Was Bal just a fool, living in a fanfiction of his own making?

“Girlfriend?” Bal repeated, the word clumsy on his tongue, a fragile thing that could shatter at any moment. He looked down at his lap, at the faint glow of a streetlight reflecting on his denim shorts, anywhere but at Cho.

Cho nodded again, still calm, still unbothered. “Pero wala na kami noon.”

But Bal barely heard that last part. Because it wasn’t about whether Cho was single or not. The real question was: had Bal been imagining everything from the start? Had he been reading signals that weren’t there? He felt his stomach twist, the shame a bitter aftertaste to the beer.

Before his thoughts could spiral further, before he could drown in his own silent misery, the karaoke machine beeped, and the intro of “Porque” filled the air.

All around, the titos and titas clapped drunkenly, cheering like it was the concert of the year. Someone shouted, “O, Bal! Ikaw na yan!”

Bal stood, resigned, grabbing the mic. The cool metal felt like a grounding force, a promise that this was real, that he was here, that he could do this. If he was going to die of embarrassment tonight, he might as well sing his heart out first. He had nothing left to lose.

And so he did—closing his eyes, letting the familiar lyrics carry him, his voice breaking a little at the edges but steady enough to make the neighbors holler in approval. The first verse rolled out shaky, but Bal found his rhythm. He clutched the mic too tightly, staring at the screen like his life depended on it. The neighbors whooped, the titas swayed with their beers, and the tinny speakers crackled under his voice. He felt a weird, cathartic release. All the pent-up feelings, all the quiet yearning, all the confusion—it all bled into the song.

Cho didn’t look away from him once. He had a can of beer resting on his knee, his eyes fixed on Bal. His gaze softened, steady and almost proud, like he was watching something rare, something precious. His lips quirked into a small smile—the kind that wasn’t meant for teasing, wasn’t meant for anyone else to notice. Just for Bal. It was a private exchange in the middle of a noisy, public space.

But Sehun noticed. He’d plopped down on the pavement with his beer, grinning wide as he elbowed Jongin.

“Uy, uy, uy,” Sehun slurred, pointing with exaggerated subtlety. “Tingnan mo yung mukha ni Cho.”

Jongin followed his line of sight, then nearly spit his drink. Cho’s eyes were still locked on Bal, expression open in a way Jongin had never seen. It wasn’t loud or obvious, just quiet—like the look itself was enough of a confession. It was the kind of expression that said everything without saying a single thing.

“Putek,” Jongin whispered, smirking. “Akala ko irereto pa natin kay Cholo si Bal. But… parang iba na ata.”

Sehun snorted, nodding sagely as if he’d solved the universe’s greatest mystery. “Sabi sayo eh.”

Up front, Bal had no idea. He kept singing, his heart hammering, wishing the song would end but also pouring himself into every word.

And Cho just kept watching him, patient and unshaken, as if the noise and teasing around them didn’t exist at all. As if Bal were the only person in the world.

(*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

3.5

The jeepney sputtered off in a puff of smoke, leaving Bal and Cho standing at the corner. The air was heavy with exhaust, the lingering smell of street food wafting from a fishball cart down the block. This was their usual stop—closer to Bal’s dorm, but still just two blocks from Cho’s. The walk home had become a quiet ritual, a slow winding down of the day, a small, shared moment of peace.

Cho shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders loose and easy, and started humming. It took Bal a second to realize what it was, the melody so familiar it felt like it had been there all night.

Bakit ikaw pa ang napili?
Ngayon ang puso ko ay sawi.

Cho grinned when Bal glanced at him. “Na-LSS ako!” he said with a laugh, the kind that sounded boyish and unguarded even against the dark of the street. It was a laugh you wanted to keep in your pocket.

Bal laughed too, though it came out a little shaky. Cho’s voice was nice—surprisingly warm, textured in a way Bal hadn’t expected. But the laugh brought him back to the thing that still stuck in his chest like a splinter: the “girlfriend” talk.

So he tried to sound casual, tossing the question out like it didn’t matter, kicking a loose pebble on the pavement. “So after nung ‘I’ll Be’ na girlfriend mo, anong sunod na song sa next girlfriend?” He hoped he didn’t trip over the word girlfriend too hard. He was trying to be funny, to be light, to pretend his heart wasn't doing a frantic little tango.

Cho chuckled, shaking his head. He didn’t want to open up his past here on a dimly lit Manila street, not with the smell of gutter water and taho on the breeze, but with Bal asking, it felt impossible to dodge. He tugged Bal’s backpack, still on his shoulder, tighter against his chest, the straps crossing over him like a shield. It was a nervous habit Bal had noticed he did sometimes.

“Wala,” Cho said. “Boyfriend na after. Walang kanta ‘yon. Puro sama ng loob.”

Bal’s exhale was too fast, too relieved. He hoped Cho didn’t notice. He was a med student; he could fake a casual reaction. Okay. So he wasn’t just straight. That was something. Maybe bleak, but something. At least the crush wasn't a lost cause from the start, even if it was a mess now. 

And anyway, it wasn’t like Bal was planning on anything. It was just a crush. A long, loud, heart-racing crush that had been sitting in his chest since first year. It wasn't a plan; it was a feeling. A stupid, persistent, beautiful feeling.

“Ah,” Bal replied carefully, his voice thin. He kept his eyes on the cracked asphalt, on the flicker of a single, flickering streetlight ahead. “Nagtagal kayo?”

Cho laughed nervously, running a hand through his hair. “Three years.”

Bal stopped mid-step, his worn slippers scuffing against the pavement. He was sure he’d misheard. “Oh?”

Cho nodded, his face unreadable in the shadows, his eyes focused on something in the distance. “Nag-break kami after first sem. Nung niyaya ko kayong mag-Timezone. Karaoke na lang kesa inom.”

Bal blinked, memory tugging at him, a sudden, sharp clarity. He remembered that night—when his crush had just begun blooming, when he first realized there was something about Cho that tugged at him harder than anyone else. He had been so blind, so naive. All this time he had been thinking about his own feelings while Cho was nursing a broken heart. He was a med student who could figure out the complexities of the human body, but he hadn't seen the most obvious thing right in front of him. And maybe there were still so many things he didn’t know about Cho, things hidden under laughs and karaoke duets. But three years of being blockmates had to mean something. Friendship at the very least. Right?

“Ah,” Bal said again, voice thinner this time. “After nun?”

“Wala.” Cho exhaled sharply, almost a laugh. “Trauma inabot ko doon, eh.”

Bal’s chest tightened. He suddenly felt so small, so young. What could you even do with someone freshly out of a long relationship, dragging that kind of history behind them? Not that he wanted anything. He was too busy—being a med student, holding onto his scholarship, surviving the daily grind. His heart was just being dramatic. Overreacting. He tried to tell himself that, over and over, until the words felt like they might stick.

He hummed in response and fell into silence. He could hear the low hum of an air conditioner from a house they passed, the distant bark of a dog. He counted his steps, just to have something to focus on besides the person walking beside him.

They reached Bal’s dorm soon after, a narrow brown gate with peeling paint, rust clinging at the hinges. The streetlight above flickered weakly, buzzing against the dark. Bal dug out his keys, the metal jingling in his hand.

“Uwi ka na din!” Bal laughed as he fitted the key into the lock, half-turning to Cho. The key turned with a loud, rusty click.

That’s when they both remembered: Bal’s backpack.

It was still slung across Cho’s chest, the worn fabric a solid line against his t-shirt. For a beat, they just stared at it, then at each other, and both burst into quiet laughter. It was the kind of laugh that only happened between two people who were too tired to make a sound, a silent, shoulder-shaking thing. Cho unhooked the straps, the fabric sliding against his shirt, and dropped it into Bal’s hands with a soft thud.

“Goodnight,” Cho said simply, his smile fading a little, leaving behind the serious look Bal was used to seeing.

“Goodnight,” Bal echoed, voice softer than he meant.

He slipped through the gate, the hinges creaking shut behind him like a complaint. He didn't turn around right away. From the crack between the bars, he caught one last glimpse of Cho walking away, his back steady against the empty street. His silhouette was a long, thin shadow under the flickering light.

A few seconds later, Cho glanced over his shoulder, as if checking—just once.

But Bal was gone.

(*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

2

It was deep into their clerkship, and Jongin and Sehun were frustrated. It felt like they had front-row seats to the world's slowest chess game, watching their two friends dance around their feelings. So Jongin finally decided it was the best time to push Bal towards his cousin, Cholo.

It started small. Cholo would swing by PGH to pick Jongin up from his shift. But somehow, Sehun, Cho, and Bal ended up tagging along too. Their dorms were practically in a row—like domino pieces a street apart—so it made perfect sense. Jongin declared that since Cholo was the first in the cousins to get a car, he was obliged to drive them around every now and then. He said it with a grand, theatrical wave of his hand.

What nobody said out loud: Cholo had an actual, undeniable crush on Bal. It was written all over his stiff slacks and too-eager smile.

Eventually, Cholo began showing up at the hospital without even needing Jongin’s text. Sometimes, he came bearing 7-Eleven coffee for everyone, the kind that tasted slightly burnt but felt like heaven at 5 a.m. after a 24-hour duty. Other times, it was pandesal in a brown bag, still warm and soft, as if he sprinted from the bakery to them.

Bal didn’t put any meaning to it. He was a med student; he was too busy to think about things like that. If Cholo had pandesal, he shared it with everyone—Sehun, Cho, Jongin. All equals. Or at least, Bal told himself that, trying to ignore the way Cholo always handed him the bag first, a little extra bounce in his step.

“Parang napapadalas na yata tong pandesal ah?” Sehun grinned, already fishing one out with his still-gloved hands. His eyes sparked with the wicked delight of someone running on zero sleep. “Kayo na ba?”

Bal shot him a look sharp enough to cut paper. He kept his voice low, a low hiss that only his friends could hear. “Panong magiging kami eh magkaibigan lang naman.”

Sehun chewed slowly, dramatically, his eyes fixed on Bal, before delivering his next line. “Nasa PGH tayo tapos siya pa-San Beda pa. He’s going further and further away, just to bring pandesal?” Sehun made an exaggerated gesture of a person running a marathon.

Bal opened his mouth to retort, but Cho beat him to it. Cho, who hadn’t touched a single piece of Cholo’s bread since the very beginning, said flatly, without looking up from the chart he was writing on, “Eh kung hindi nga daw, edi hindi.”

That should’ve shut Sehun up. But Sehun was delirious from duty hours, which meant his filter was long gone, and he was fueled by nothing but spite and exhaustion. He slung an arm around Cho’s shoulder, ignoring how Cho tried to shrug it off. “Pero bagay sila no, Cho?”

Cho kept writing on the chart, his jaw tight. The pen made a harsh scratching sound on the paper, the letters coming out a little too hard.

The overhead radio crackled faintly in the ward—one of those ancient units mounted too high up, the sound fuzzy, but it was playing Rivermaya’s “You’ll Be Safe Here.” The song had been everywhere since StarStruck, and for a moment Bal thought about those late nights in high school, watching reality TV while texting under the covers with load that ran out too fast. A world ago, before clerkship, before Cho.

Sehun tapped his foot to the beat, not caring that he was being a menace. “O, pag kayo na, Bal, edi hindi ka na parating kanta ng kanta ng Porque. Para di ka na heartbroken.”

Bal made a face, groaning. “Hindi naman ako heartbroken.” He felt a pang in his chest that told him he was lying, a quiet ache that had been there for a while now. He looked at Cho, who still hadn't looked at him, and felt the words die in his throat.

“The song’s just good,” Cho muttered firmly, finally capping his pen with a sharp click. “Wag kang makulit.”

He glanced at the analog clock above the nurses’ station. Almost 6 a.m. The hands were moving so slowly. If they took the long hallway out—the one that passed by the pedia wing and the chapel—they’d reach the bundy clock at the perfect time. No early, no late. And after that, finally, a day off.

Cho stood, slipping his bag from where it was wedged under the table. Without hesitation, he picked up Bal’s bag too, the way he always did, the worn straps now familiar in his hand. He slung it onto his other shoulder before looking at him. “Tara na.”

Bal blinked, then followed. He felt a weird mix of relief and confusion. Relief that he could just leave this conversation, and confusion at the casual intimacy of the gesture—a hand on his bag, a simple command, a shared ritual no one else seemed to notice.

Sehun cackled behind them, elbowing Jongin who just smirked knowingly.

(*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

2.5

The boys had a rare break from duty, so they gathered at the PGH parking lot, their unofficial tambayan. The sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows from the worn-out cars and concrete walls. A vendor selling cigarettes and chips sat on a low stool nearby, a quiet fixture in the bustling area. The air, heavy with exhaust fumes and the faint smell of antiseptic, was slowly cooling down, a welcome change after a full day’s shift.

Cho was sitting on the pavement, a little farther away from the car, his back against a low wall, knees bent, a quiet observer. He listened to the banter but pretended not to join in. He always chose the spot that made him look detached, but still close enough to be in it—a part of the group, but not the center of it.

Cholo had shown up again after class, like clockwork. This time, he came with a tray of biko he’d bought from a classmate who was fundraising. His secondhand Corolla was parked in their usual corner, doors wide open. Jongin had claimed the back seat, sneakers up on the headrest like he owned it, while Sehun mirrored him in the front passenger seat. The radio was playing on low volume, a faint hum over the city noise.

The car had somehow become a staple in the PGH lot—its presence so steady, the boys joked they should pitch in for gas. Bal stood between the front and back doors, leaning against the car frame while munching on biko. He liked it sticky, the kind that clung to his fingers, the sweet coconut milk taste a comfort against the dullness of the hospital air. A couple of days ago, he had casually mentioned to Cholo that biko was his favorite. Cholo hadn't forgotten.

Then the radio shifted, static fading into a familiar guitar intro.

“Favorite mo,” Sehun said, his voice loud as he immediately reached out to crank up the volume. He didn’t even need to look at Bal to know what the song was.

Bal glanced up, already smiling at the opening line of “Porque.”

Cholo tried his luck at small talk. He shifted in the driver’s seat. “Yan yung kinanta mo sa birthday ni Jongin last year, di ba?”

Before Bal could answer, Jongin piped up proudly from the back. “Piyesa niya yan.”

Cholo nodded, turning his gaze to Bal, his smile a little shy. “Ang ganda ng boses mo.”

Bal rolled his eyes and stuffed more biko into his mouth to hide his smile. “Sige na nga, dahil binilhan mo kami ng biko.”

The chorus floated through the parking lot, familiar and bittersweet. They’d all heard Bal sing this countless times—it was practically burned into their memories like every overplayed Myx countdown song. Without even realizing it, they all hummed along, their voices blending with the rustle of leaves overhead.

The parking lot had that late-afternoon glow, when Manila skies turned a dusty orange, the kind of sunset you couldn’t quite see past the hospital walls but still felt in the soft warmth of the air. For a moment, even with the grime and exhaustion of duty, there was peace. Just a group of boys, tired but young, stealing breath in between rotations.

Bal’s hum carried a little louder than the rest, trailing the last lines of the song until it faded into static. The group sat in the quiet after, a shared silence that wasn’t heavy, just full.

Then Cholo mustered all his courage. He leaned slightly from the driver’s side, smiled, and said, “Ang ganda mo na, ang ganda pa ng boses mo.”

Bal burst out laughing, a half-cackle at the sheer cheesiness. Jongin slapped the car door in amusement, and Sehun doubled over, clutching his stomach, his laughter high and breathless.

Cho lifted his eyes at Bal, just for a second, waiting for him to glance back so he could roll his eyes and make a face about Cholo’s corny line. But Bal was still laughing with the others, too distracted by the joke, the compliment, the attention.

So Cho looked away first, nudging a fallen leaf with the toe of his white sneakers until it cracked. He pressed it down harder, hearing the brittle sound.

Only then did Bal glance over, watching him with a small crease in his brow. The lack of any reaction from Cho—no teasing, no smirk—made something tug uncomfortably inside him. Did Cho really not care, even as a friend? He didn’t know why that unsettled him. He looked away too, pretending to focus on wiping sticky biko from his fingers with a tissue.

When Bal turned his head again, a few seconds later, Cho was already stealing another glance at him. Their eyes caught for half a heartbeat, long enough to register, short enough to pretend it didn’t happen.

Cholo saw it. He noticed the rhythm between them, the looking and the looking away. The private, silent language that had no words but was as clear as day. And for the first time, he felt like maybe he needed to raise the white flag before things went too far.

(*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

1

At first, no one really noticed. Cho just started sitting with other clerks during breaks—sometimes sliding onto a bench with the pedia team, sometimes hanging near the residents’ table, scribbling on charts while the rest of them huddled around Cholo’s car or grabbed cheap coffee from the vending machine.

It didn’t seem deliberate in the beginning. Everyone was too sleep-deprived to read into things. One day bled into another—36-hour shifts, quick naps in call rooms, endless scutwork. A friend sitting a little farther away wasn’t exactly headline news.

But by the fifth time, Bal couldn’t ignore the quiet emptiness that followed Cho’s absence. It wasn't just a physical space; it was a different kind of quiet. He fiddled with his pen, trying to sound casual as he leaned over to Jongin during pre-rounds. The pen clicked a few times too many, a nervous little tick.

“Tanungin mo nga si Cholo kung okay lang siya,” he muttered, not meeting his eyes.

Jongin raised a brow, a knowing smirk on his lips. “Bakit di ikaw?”

“Busy,” Bal said quickly, almost defensive. He gestured vaguely at his case report. And it was true—at least partly. Clerkship left no room for self-pity. But the truth sat heavier: it had been two weeks since they’d really talked. Sure, they still went home together, but usually in packs—Sehun chattering in the background, Jongin complaining about his cases. Never just the two of them anymore.

Bal had even started carrying his own backpack again. The habit that once felt so natural—Cho casually slipping Bal’s bag on his lap during duty, as if it belonged there—was gone. Now Cho was usually stationed elsewhere, surrounded by other people, his quiet presence distant in a way Bal didn’t know how to reach.

Cho was always quiet when he wanted to be. But not like this. Not cutting, not absent. Something else entirely. It was a silence that felt like a closed door.

Bal tried not to dwell. Tried to keep busy by meticulously counting his medications or rechecking his vitals. Anything to distract himself. Until Valentine’s Day.

When his shift finally ended, he trudged out toward the bundy clock, brain buzzing with exhaustion. The humid night air felt good on his face. Jongin and Sehun were already waiting, leaning against the wall like sentries, cracking jokes over some clerk’s lopsided paper bouquet.

But Bal’s steps faltered when he saw Cholo standing there too, clutching a modest bouquet of flowers. Wrapped in flimsy cellophane, tied with red ribbon, bought probably from the vendors near Taft—but still, undeniably flowers.

“Happy Valentine’s,” Cholo said, his voice a little shaky, smiling sheepishly as he offered them. His ears were pink.

Sehun let out a low whistle. Jongin elbowed Bal with a grin. Bal wanted to melt into the floor and disappear.

“Uh,” Bal managed, throat dry. “Salamat.” He took them gingerly, as if they might combust in his hands. He felt the gazes of his friends, the silent stares of the other clerks, and the weight of a moment he never asked for.

What his friends didn’t know—what no one knew—was that Cho had been there. He’d walked past earlier, just in time to see Cholo handing Bal the flowers. Just in time to see Bal freeze, then listen as Cholo spoke earnestly. A long talk, hushed but intense, ending in a hug. Cho had turned away before it ended, heart sinking with a weight he didn’t have the words for. By the time Jongin and Sehun came out, Cho was already gone— picked up by his parents , they would say later. Something about their anniversary.

Flashback: Bal shaking his head softly, his words stumbling out. “Cholo, sorry.” Cholo’s disappointment was visible, but not bitter. 

“Si Cho, ‘no?”He nodded, accepting it. Bal, guilty but relieved, pulled him into a hug to soften the rejection. For a moment, it almost felt like a brotherly embrace—awkward, careful, final.

Back in the present, Bal clutched the bouquet tightly, the flowers heavier than they looked. Jongin and Sehun were teasing him, nudging his shoulder, asking if they should save the date for a wedding. He laughed it off, lips tight, trying not to think too hard.

Because what he wondered most wasn’t about Cholo at all. It was Cho. Where he was. Why he wasn’t there.

Still, he walked home with his friends, laughter floating around him like a buffer. Flowers crinkled under his arm, heavier with every step. The silence they used to share was a phantom limb, an ache he couldn't quite place.

(*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

1.2

The flowers never made it past Valentine’s. Bal had carried them out of the hospital once, let them sit on his desk for a night, their flimsy cellophane wrapping crinkling softly in the quiet of his room, before leaving them by the dorm’s trash bins the next morning. He told himself it was easier that way, no reminders, no extra weight. Just a fleeting, almost-awkward memory to be forgotten.

But Cho’s distance—that clung.

It was another day, another shift ending in the same haze of fatigue. They clocked out together, but the air felt different. Jongin and Sehun were unusually quiet as they trailed behind, sensing the shift but not daring to poke fun this time. Their jokes always filled silences, but this one felt brittle, like a thin sheet of glass. One crack and everything would shatter.

Cho walked ahead, fast. Too fast for someone who just came from duty. His white sneakers scuffed against the pavement, the rhythm too sharp, like he was trying to outrun something only he could see. His backpack straps, the same ones that used to hold Bal’s bag, were tight across his shoulders, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Bal felt it in his chest. Every step Cho took away from him twisted something inside, a knot tightening in his stomach, but he didn’t know if he was supposed to follow. Or if chasing would just push Cho further. He felt like he was standing on a precipice, not knowing which way to fall.

“Cho,” Bal called softly, the word almost swallowed by the roaring of jeepneys rattling down Taft Avenue, the smell of gasoline heavy in the air. The word barely made it out, a fragile sound against the city’s roar.

Cho didn’t turn around. Just adjusted his bag tighter across his chest and kept walking.

Bal slowed, unsure. He could feel Jongin’s eyes on him, could hear Sehun’s sigh. Normally, Sehun would crack some corny line, say “Oh ayan na, LQ!” or sing the first line of “Porque” just to make him squirm. But not tonight. Tonight even Sehun shut up, chewing the inside of his cheek, pretending to text on his old Nokia with the shaky backlight. The silence was a tangible presence, a third person in their group.

Bal shoved his hands into his pockets. The hum of Manila at night—the vendors calling out fishballs, the faint blasting of Rivermaya’s “You’ll Be Safe Here” from a sari-sari store radio—only made the silence between them louder. The sounds were a backdrop to his own frantic thoughts, the questions looping in his mind.

He wanted to run after Cho. He wanted to grab his shoulder, force him to stop, demand what happened? what changed? why are you running away from me?

But he didn’t.

He just walked, two steps behind, watching the back of Cho’s head under the dim streetlights. The familiar slope of his shoulders, the way his hair looked under the fluorescent glow. His heart pounded so loud it made his ears ring. He wondered if Cho could hear it too, even from a distance. He wondered if this was what heartbreak felt like, a slow bleed.

When they reached Bal’s gate, Cho didn’t wait. Didn’t linger. He just kept walking, shoulders hunched, disappearing into the dark. He didn't even say goodnight.

Bal stood frozen, keys cold in his hand, staring after him. Every nerve screamed to call his name, to run, to close the distance, but his throat locked up. The metal of the keys felt like a cage in his palm.

And Jongin, Sehun—normally loud, relentless—remained quiet. Because what could they even say?

Bal finally slipped through the gate. The metal clanged shut behind him. He leaned against it, his head bowed, the sound of his own breathing suddenly too loud.

A few seconds later, against all logic, he glanced back. He told himself it was just a habit.

Cho wasn’t there.

(*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

1.5

The last day of clerkship didn’t feel real. The PGIs and residents had pushed two duty tables together and covered them with plastic bags of chips, packs of Dewberry, and bottles of Coke sweating in the humidity. Someone had even lugged in a portable karaoke machine, the kind with the bulky silver mic and a wire so tangled it looked like it had survived a war. The wire was coiled around the base like a sleeping snake, a testament to countless shared songs and nights.

“Final duty, final kanta,” one of the residents laughed, passing the songbook around. “Babalik pa kayo dito next year for PGI, so consider this training.”

The room was cramped, half-dark, smelling of alcohol swabs and barbecue from a vendor outside the hospital gate. Everyone was buzzing, half delirious with the freedom of finishing, half sad at the weight of it all—the responsibility that waited for them on the other side.

Sehun and Jongin had deliberately left the middle seats empty between them, forcing Bal and Cho to sit apart. Their attempt at easing the tension came out too obvious, too clumsy, but they covered it with noise—slapping each other’s backs, shaking chips into their mouths, cracking jokes that barely landed. The energy was frantic, a thin cover for the quiet space that had grown between Bal and Cho.

Jongin went first. He scrolled quickly, grinning like a maniac, then selected “Stupid Love” by Andrew E. The machine’s midi intro blared, tinny and off-key. Everyone cackled as he rapped in his awkward cadence, throwing fake gang signs and dedicating the song to their sternest resident.

“’Cause baby, ikaw lang at wala nang iba!” Jongin crooned, dramatically pointing at the bewildered PGI. The room exploded in laughter.

Then Sehun surprised everyone by picking “Alipin” by Shamrock. The intro guitar strummed through the speakers, and he sang it straight, his voice earnest and a little shaky. By the chorus— “Ako’y alipin mo kahit hindi batid…” —the room had quieted, some swaying along, others laughing nervously at how serious Sehun was being.

When the mic reached Cho, he held up both hands and pulled the oldest trick in his book: the wide, doe-eyed look, his lashes batting just enough to make the others groan and relent. He quickly shoved the mic to another classmate, flashing a sheepish grin. A smooth, practiced dodge.

Then it was Bal’s turn.

He didn’t even get the chance to protest. Jongin and Sehun, without hesitation, punched in the number. The screen blinked: Porque – Maldita.

“Hoy!” Bal hissed, cheeks heating. But it was too late—the plucking intro had started, and all eyes turned toward him.

He sighed, shoulders dropping. No use fighting it. He lifted the mic. And sang.

At first, it was just muscle memory. The familiar lyrics, the melody he knew by heart. But somewhere between the first verse and the chorus, his voice cracked into something raw. Something that made people shift uncomfortably, as though they were hearing something they shouldn’t. The words, so familiar, now felt heavy, laced with two months of unspoken feelings.

By the time he reached the part—

Bakit ikaw pa ang napili (bakit ikaw pa ang napili)

Ngayon ang puso ko ay sawi (ngayon ang puso ko ay sawi)

Kay simple lang ng aking hiling (kay simple lang ng aking hiling)

Na madama mo rin ang pait at pighati (na madama mo rin ang pait at pighati)

—the room had gone still. The laughter had ebbed. The PGIs glanced at each other, eyebrows raised, as if to say: nararamdaman mo rin ba ‘yon?

Sehun, sensing it too, pressed a hand to Bal’s back, rubbing small circles like a quiet shield. Jongin sat frozen, mouth hanging open, not sure if he should laugh or intervene.

And Cho—Cho looked like he was somewhere else entirely. His eyes fixed on Bal, unblinking, expression caught between awe and ache. Like the song had pulled him under and he couldn’t fight it. He just sat there, still, while the rest of the world faded into a blur.

The last note faded, the karaoke score blinking 92 on the screen. Bal lowered the mic without a word. He stood, grabbed his bag from the floor, and muttered, “Excuse me.”

Before anyone could react, before Jongin or Sehun could crack another joke to diffuse the moment, Bal was already out the door. He didn’t run. He just walked away, a little too quickly, into the dark hallway.

The room buzzed with confusion. The mic dangled in its cradle, the screen flickering to idle.

Cho didn’t move.

(*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

+1

Bal had grown used to the rhythm of fellowship. The sharp smell of Betadine, the low hum of machines, the ritual of scrubbing his arms with practiced precision. Nights blurred into mornings now that he was an OB-GYN fellow at PGH. The faces around him were new, younger, but the exhaustion and the quiet urgency in the air were the same as when he was a clerk. The fluorescent lights of the hospital felt both harsh and comforting, a constant presence.

Beside him at the sink, a nurse was also scrubbing in, sleeves rolled up, water rushing off her elbows. “Grabe, Doc,” she said with a laugh that was more fatigue than humor, “ang bilis mag-dilate nung patient. Hindi man lang tayo nakatapos ng dinner.”

Bal smiled faintly, keeping his eyes on the foam sliding off his hands. “Sanay na tayo diyan. One of these days, baka mag-request na talaga ako ng IV para sa atin.”

They pushed through the swinging doors together and entered the delivery room. Just the mother inside—no relatives, no partners. Bal’s voice softened automatically, the way it always did. “I’m Dr. Byun, I’ll be taking care of you tonight. This is Nurse Perez, and here’s our team. Akong bahala, okay? We’ll guide you through everything.”

The woman nodded, wide-eyed, comforted by the simple introductions.

Moments later, the air shifted with the rhythm of labor—the steady encouragement, the push and release, until finally a newborn’s cry cut through the stillness. A sound so sharp and pure that it filled every corner of the room, a miracle in the midst of sterile chaos.

Later, Bal changed into a clean set of scrubs, peeling off the damp ones and tucking them into the hamper. His body ached, but the adrenaline still hummed in his veins. He was halfway buttoning his top when the nurse came in with a clipboard.

“Doc, pa-sign. Ang haba ng pangalan ng baby, grabe.”

Bal reached for the chart, still distracted. He was about to ask her to repeat it when he caught a glimpse of the name scrawled on the form. “Ano ba?” he asked, his voice a little strained.

She grinned as she read it aloud: “Charles Hector Otto Park the Third.”

His pen hovered mid-air. The Third. Something tugged in his chest, sharp and unbidden. His pulse skipped a beat. The familiar name, so intertwined with his own memories, felt like a punch to the gut. The name of the man he… 

The nurse didn’t notice. “Cute pero haba talaga,” she joked, handing him the form.

Bal signed the chart quickly, his pen dragging heavier than usual on the paper. Charles Hector Otto Park III. The name sat heavy in his chest. He didn’t know why it rattled him, but it did. He pushed the clipboard back into the nurse’s hands, muttering a quick thanks, and stayed still for a moment after she left.

He adjusted his scrub top, smoothed his damp hair back, and stepped into the hallway.

And there—just a few feet away—was Cho.

Four years had reshaped him: broader frame, sharper jawline, still those familiar eyes. The kind of presence Bal could never mistake, no matter how much time had passed. His shoulders were broader, his jawline more defined, but the way he stood—shoulders slightly hunched, hands in his pockets—was exactly the same. The same. That word felt like a lie.

But instead of the warmth that used to fill him, something heavy pressed down on Bal’s chest. He froze. His throat tightened. For one dizzy second, it felt like clerkship all over again—like everything he tried to bury had just surfaced. The awkward silences, the unanswered questions, the quiet, aching distance between them.

So he did the only thing he could think of. He looked away. Walked past. No greeting. No smile. Just the quiet weight of his silence, as if Cho were any other face in the hospital corridor. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, jaw tight, his footsteps clipped and deliberate.

Cho’s brows furrowed, confused. He turned slightly, as if expecting Bal to say something, but Bal’s gaze stayed fixed ahead. He didn't even risk a glance.

The air between them stretched taut—awkward, familiar, painful.

Inside the room, Bal went straight to the patient, his tone calm, professional, deliberate. He didn’t glance back, not once. But the thudding in his chest betrayed him, each beat reminding him that Cho was only a few steps behind, watching, trying to understand.

Bal pulled the stool closer to the patient’s bed, softening his voice into the warm cadence he’d perfected over the years. “I’m Dr. Byun,” he said, offering a reassuring smile. “Everything’s okay with your baby. She’s healthy, and you’re recovering just fine.” He made sure his tone was calm, professional, and everything he needed it to be in this moment.

He added, a little too sharply for a doctor-patient conversation, “It’s always nice when mommy and daddy are present.”

The woman blinked, then laughed, her voice light despite the sweat still drying on her temples. “Oh, no—he’s my cousin. My husband’s on a work trip. He’s trying to get back tonight, but he won’t make it in time. The rest of the family’s still coming. Cho was the nearest, so he rushed over.”

Bal’s neck flushed hot, and he could practically feel Cho standing behind him with that damn teasing smile. He didn’t dare turn around. He focused on the baby, a tiny, sleeping bundle wrapped in a blue blanket.

The new mother went on happily, “Baby wasn’t supposed to arrive until next week. We were planning to fly to the States, but she decided otherwise.”

Bal chuckled, his relief a little too stiff. “Well, okay ka, and healthy si baby. So magpahinga ta mag recover ka lang today. My residents will do their rounds and report back to me for anything.”

“Oh!” she perked up. “Doktor din yang pinsan ko, doc. A pediatrician. So he’s a little useful.”

Bal forced a laugh that came out awkward. “Of course. That’s great.” He stood, adjusting his scrub cap with a sudden, jerky movement. “Goodbye, sir ,” he added crisply, flicking a glance at Cho before heading for the door.

Cho’s eyes widened. Then he broke into a grin and jogged after him.

Bal lengthened his stride—fast, brisk, the kind of walking that was really just running in disguise. His sneakers squeaked against the hallway tiles. He kept his head down, but his peripheral vision caught Cho's shadow right behind him.

Behind him, Cho’s laughter echoed, a sound both familiar and infuriating. “Hoy, wait up!”

Bal spun around suddenly and chucked a ballpen at him. “Para namang papatayin na ko ng tingin mo kanina!” Cho wheezed, catching his breath as he stooped to grab the pen.

Bal huffed, snatching it back when Cho reached him, then stormed forward again. He felt the blush on his neck creeping up to his ears.

They took the stairs two at a time. Bal kept his chin high, greeting nurses and orderlies they passed—“Good evening po,” “Thank you, Doc”—like nothing was wrong. Cho followed close, doing the same with practiced ease. He’d hung around PGH enough times that even the residents recognized him, tossing casual hellos his way.

By the time they reached the OB lounge, Bal spun on his heel and jabbed a finger at him. “Bawal taga-ibang hospital dito.”

“Love,” Cho whined, grabbing Bal’s hands and squishing them between his palms like putty. “What did I even do?”

“Anong love?” Bal yanked his hands away, cheeks burning. “Muntik na kong mamatay na may ginawa ka nang The Third.”

Cho’s grin widened, a flash of white in the dim hallway. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “The elders wanted to continue the lineage sa name. Plus, mamemeet mo sana sila Ate sa Sabado. Dinner, remember? But this happened!”

Bal looked half-furious, half-embarrassed. “Ewan ko sayo!”

“How am I in trouble for being a good cousin?” Cho tilted his head, still laughing.

“I don’t know!” Bal barked, crossing his arms, though the edge in his voice sounded more like frustration at himself than at Cho. He couldn’t be mad at Cho when his heart was still thumping with relief.

Cho only chuckled, and before Bal could step back, he pulled him into a tight hug. Bal stiffened, his body a solid, tense line, but Cho didn’t let go. He just held on, firm and steady.

“You’re so dramatic,” Cho murmured into his shoulder, his voice suddenly low, steady, almost soothing. “Relax. Sabi mo sa’kin ayaw mo ng The Third so pinaubaya ko na sa kanila.”

Bal let out a huff, muffled against his chest. “You don’t get it. You—”

“I do,” Cho interrupted gently, rubbing his back. “I always do. You just like pretending I don’t.”

Bal squirmed, his protests turning into fragmented mutters, “…irritating… nakakainis ka… not even supposed to be here…”

Cho laughed again, the kind that cracked wide and unrestrained, and cooed softly, “Baby ko talaga. Always grumpy, always mine.”

And Bal, despite himself, couldn’t keep the corners of his mouth from twitching upward. He felt the tightness in his shoulders start to give way, a small, involuntary movement. He wanted to stay in the warmth of the hug, to breathe it in, to finally stop running. 

Until finally he pushed gently at Cho’s chest. Cho let go, slow, his hands sliding away like he didn’t want to, giving Bal space.

Bal’s arms stayed crossed, his jaw tight. He muttered, “Tawang tawa ka kanina, eg, ‘no? You really had me thinking—”

“Hey.” Cho tilted his head, stepping closer but careful. His voice softened, a low murmur only Bal could hear in the hum of the hallway. “Tumingin ka sakin. As if naman. Di ko kayang gawin sa’yo yun.”

Bal scoffed under his breath, still refusing to look up.

Cho tried again, a little firmer, his hands settling on Bal’s shoulders, not holding him, just there. “Never. Not in a million years. Not even in some weird alternate universe where I suddenly lose all my brain cells. You get that, right?”

Bal’s lips twitched, but he pressed them together stubbornly. He knew Cho was right. He knew he was being ridiculous. But the fear, the sudden, gut-wrenching fear of losing him, had been real.

Cho caught it. He grinned, then softened again. “Love, listen to me. Mahal na mahal kita. Like—capital letters, bold font, underline, highlight.” He leaned in a little, voice dropping lower. “You’re it for me. You’ve always been it.”

Bal’s shoulders sagged despite himself. His arms loosened, dropping to his sides. The tension in his body was slowly, finally, starting to give way.

Cho wasn’t done. “I mean, di ba? Do you think I’d put up with your bad habit of stealing all the pillows, or that face you make when you’re trying not to sleep on the jeep after duty, if I wasn’t crazy about you?”

Bal let out a sharp laugh, covering his mouth with his hand, shaking his head. “You’re so—”

“So in love with you,” Cho cut in, smug but soft, his eyes warm. “Yup. Guilty. No use pretending.”

That finally broke Bal’s defense. He exhaled, a full-bodied laugh spilling out, the tension slipping from his face like a physical thing. “…Fine. I’m just—” He waved vaguely toward the locker room. “I’m just gonna change out of these scrubs. Done with duty anyway.”

Cho’s smirk flickered back. “At ako naman, ay babalik sa kwarto ni ate. Ate as in yung pinsan ko,” he teased, leaning in, “not my wife, not my girlfriend.”

That finally cracked Bal completely—he laughed, head shaking, a flush creeping up his ears. He was about to retort when Cho caught him by the chin, quick and sure, and kissed him. It was a brief press of lips, nothing reckless, but enough to leave Bal blinking, dazed. He could still feel the ghost of Cho’s touch on his skin, the ghost of his lips on his.

“I love you,” Cho said again, softer this time, his gaze steady, as if it was the simplest truth in the world.

And Bal, still laughing under his breath, his heart a frantic hummingbird in his chest, didn’t deny it. He looked up at Cho, at the familiar, beloved face, and felt himself, finally, come home.

(*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

-1 

The karaoke machine was still buzzing inside when Bal grabbed his bag and slipped out, the sting of the song still in his throat. The hospital air at night was cool, carrying the faint scent of rubbing alcohol mixed with Manila’s damp asphalt. He started walking, his bag heavy on his shoulder, sneakers dragging just a little from exhaustion. He didn’t bother to look back, to see if anyone would follow. He just needed to leave.

A few minutes later, footsteps echoed behind him. Slower at first, then steady. The familiar rhythm was unmistakable. Cho’s.

Bal didn’t look back, but he could feel it—the presence that had been dodging him for weeks, now trailing him home.

“Sorry,” Cho’s voice cut through the quiet.

Bal stopped, turned around with wet eyes and a sharp edge on his face. He didn't even try to hide the hurt. “No.”

Cho jogged a bit to close the gap, hands half-raised like he didn’t know what to do with them. “Sorry kasi… umiiwas ako. May iniisip lang ako.”

Bal scoffed and spun back around, walking faster. The lie was too thin, too easy.

There was a beat of silence, just the sound of their shoes hitting cracked pavement, before Cho spoke again—hesitant, almost disbelieving. “Kanina… ako yung kinakantahan mo?”

Bal’s laugh came out jagged, a harsh sound in the night. He didn’t slow down. “Yeah. All this time.”

Cho trailed after him, unsure whether to smile or wince. He shoved his hands into his pockets, searching for words. “Bal…”

“Wag na,” Bal cut him off, voice thick with emotion.

Cho kept following anyway, keeping pace. Neither of them said anything for a while. Just the hum of the streetlamps, the distant bark of a dog, the uneven rhythm of their steps. The sounds of the city at night, usually a comfort, were just noise now, filling the silence that had grown between them.

Finally, Bal muttered under his breath, almost to himself, “Hindi mo gets.”

Cho’s reply was quiet, almost swallowed by the night. “Siguro. Pero gusto kong maintindihan.”

Bal’s shoulders tensed. He didn’t look back. He just kept walking, but not as fast as before.

Bal slowed just enough for Cho to stay a few steps behind, but his shoulders were stiff, like every word Cho said was a weight pressing down. He was tired of this dance, of this constant push and pull.

“Hindi mo gets,” Bal repeated, louder this time. “Kung gets mo, hindi ka aatras ng ganon.”

Cho let out a frustrated breath, his sneakers scuffing against the broken pavement. “Umiiwas ako kasi… ang gulo sa ulo ko. Ayokong idamay ka.”

“Idamay?” Bal almost laughed, but it came out bitter. He stopped walking just long enough to throw Cho a glare. He gestured with a hand, the one not clutching his bag. “Cho, tatlong taon na tayong magkasama sa lahat. Kung hindi ako nadamay sa lahat ng kalokohan mo noon, bakit ngayon?”

Cho winced, shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “Hindi ko alam. Natakot lang ako.”

Bal shook his head and started walking again, faster, the streetlamp shadows stretching long. “Laging natatakot. Laging may iniisip. Samantalang ako—” His voice cracked, but he caught it. “Ako, andito lang.”

Cho jogged to keep up, his tone softening, trying to bridge the gap Bal had created. “Bal… kanina nung kinanta mo yung ‘Porque’… ramdam ko. Ramdam kong ako.” He let out a small, almost helpless laugh. “All this time pala… ako.”

Bal huffed, not looking at him. “Oo nga. Ikaw. Ano ngayon?”

“Ngayon,” Cho said carefully, like he was afraid to spook him, “ngayon alam ko na. At kung totoo… ayokong sayangin.”

Bal stopped again, spinning around, eyes glassy in the dim light. “At kung hindi?”

Cho swallowed hard. His voice was quiet, but steady. “Eh di hindi. Pero at least ngayon, alam ko.”

For a moment, all they could hear was the hum of a jeep trundling by, the faint music of some late-night sari-sari store radio blasting Rivermaya.

Bal shook his head, exasperated. “Tanga ka.”

Cho smiled, a little crooked, a little sad. “Siguro. Pero tanga para sayo.”

Bal groaned and covered his face with his hand, walking ahead again, but this time his steps were slower, not running, just moving forward. Cho followed, close enough that their arms almost brushed. Neither of them said another word, but the air between them felt charged—heavy with everything unsaid, and everything that might finally be said soon.

They reached Bal’s street, the kind that felt too wide at night, littered with tricycle shadows and flickering lampposts. Bal slowed down, keys already in his hand. Cho, a few paces behind, looked like he was running out of time.

“Bal.” His voice was quiet, rough.

Bal turned, tired, defensive, but didn’t say anything.

Cho scratched the back of his neck, a nervous habit Bal remembered from years ago. He exhaled sharply, then said, “Ayoko na ng paikot-ikot. Umiiwas ako kasi—takot ako. Kasi alam kong kapag tinanggap ko na… wala nang atrasan. Pero kanina, habang kumakanta ka, habang pinapahirapan mo yung sarili mo sa harap ng lahat… naisip ko, bakit ako aatras kung ikaw mismo, ilang taon mo nang hindi umaatras?”

Bal blinked at him, caught off guard. His chest tightened, but his face stayed unreadable. The weight of Cho’s words, so raw and honest, felt heavier than any diagnosis or case report.

Cho’s voice broke just slightly. “Gusto kita. Matagal na. At kahit hindi ko maayos agad… kahit hindi ko masabi noon… ikaw yung gusto ko. Ikaw yung pinipili ko.”

The street fell still. Just the hum of a distant videoke machine carried on the wind, somebody’s neighbor belting an Aegis song off-key.

Bal didn’t answer. Not right away. He stared at Cho like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to list every way Cho had hurt him with silence, with distance. But instead, his mouth closed again.

A smile—small, hesitant, but real—tugged at his lips before he shook his head and slipped the key into the gate. The metal was cold against his fingers, a contrast to the sudden warmth spreading in his chest.

Cho let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, watching that smile like it was daylight breaking.

Bal disappeared behind the gate, and Cho stood there, grinning at nothing, knowing he had a chance.