Archive of Our Own

Junior High (7th - 10th Grade)

In the pressure-cooker environment of their Special Science Section, the rivalry between Jongseong and Sunghoon wasn’t just about grades—it was about a clash of philosophies.

Every semester, the "Two Parks" became the talk of the faculty room. Their rivalry was so established that the teachers didn’t even bother trying to separate them anymore. They were the two ends of a high-voltage wire; if they touched, the whole room lit up.

1. The “Perfect Score” Standoff (Grade 8 Algebra)

The Calculus-level Algebra quiz was returned on a Friday, just as the afternoon heat was becoming unbearable. The teacher, Mrs. Reyes, stood at the front with a sigh.

“Only two people got the bonus question right,” she announced. “And only one of them showed the ’traditional’ solution.”

She handed the papers back. Sunghoon looked at his: 50/50. His solution was a masterpiece of discipline—every theorem cited, every derivation written in neat, black ink. He felt a surge of relief, but it was short-lived. He glanced at Jongseong’s desk.

Jongseong had a 50/50 too, but his paper looked like a draft. He had bypassed three steps of long division by using a synthetic shortcut that wasn’t supposed to be taught until Grade 11.

As they walked out to the lockers, Sunghoon couldn’t keep it in. “Bakit gano’n ’yung solution mo? You skipped the derivation steps. It’s reckless, Jongseong. Paano kung hindi tinanggap ni Ma’am?”

Jongseong leaned against his locker, cleaning his glasses with a focused, methodical air. “Pero tinanggap, ’di ba? The logic is sound, Sunghoon. Bakit kailangan pang pahabain? It’s not reckless, it’s just efficient.”

“It’s arrogant,” Sunghoon hissed, his jaw tight. “You’re always trying to prove you’re smarter than the curriculum.”

Jongseong tucked his glasses back on, the frames catching the hallway light. “Hindi naman sa gano’n. I just don’t like wasting ink. If being right is arrogant, eh ’di pareho lang tayong mayabang. Pinagkaiba lang, mas marami kang sinulat.”

2. The English Elocution Contest (Grade 9)

The school auditorium was packed. This was the "Elocution Battle." They were both wearing their gala uniforms—white blazers that made them look even more like the "proper" model students the school bragged about.

Sunghoon took the stage first. His pronunciation was flawless, his pauses were exactly where the script indicated, and his posture was like a soldier’s. He was technically perfect. The judges nodded in approval at his discipline, every gesture was timed to the millisecond.

"To be, or not to be, that is the question..."

He delivered it like a brilliant, unfeeling machine. It was technically perfect.

Jongseong went next. He stood there, back straight, hands clasped behind him. He didn’t shout; he didn’t overact. But there was a cadence in his voice that felt like he was speaking directly to every person in the front row. It wasn’t just a recital; it was a conversation.

When the results were posted, Jongseong won by 0.1 points for "Emotional Resonance." Sunghoon won "Best in Technical Diction."

Later, in the empty hallway near the music room, Sunghoon stopped Jongseong. “Mas tama ’yung diction ko. I followed the phonetic transcript exactly.”

Jongseong sighed, adjusting the strap of his bag. “Alam ko. Naririnig ko ’yung effort mo sa bawat ’S’ at ’T.’ Pero Sunghoon, Shakespeare isn’t a lab report. Hindi siya kailangang maging sterile.”

“Anong sterile? I practiced that for three weeks!” Sunghoon’s voice rose, a rare crack in his composure.

“And it showed,” Jongseong said, his voice dropping to a calm, almost pitying tone. “Masyadong halatang nag-practice ka. You were so focused on being right that you forgot to be human. ’Yun ’yung lamang ko sa’yo today.”

3. The Research Defense (Grade 10)

Because of a "Random Grouping" policy, they were paired for the most important project of the year: the Research Defense. The class watched them like people watching a car crash in slow motion.

They spent three weeks in the library, sitting at the far end of a mahogany table.

“I’ll do Methodology and Data Analysis,” Sunghoon said, pulling out his laptop. “Your handwriting is too messy for the logs.”

“Fine. I’ll take the Abstract and the Theoretical Framework,” Jongseong countered. “Para naman hindi magmukhang robot ’yung intro natin.”

During the defense, a panelist—a notoriously strict Biology teacher—tried to trip Sunghoon up on a minor statistical discrepancy in their T-test. Sunghoon froze for a split second, his mind racing through his notes, his face turning a ghostly pale.

Jongseong stepped in before the silence could stretch. “Sir, if you look at the raw data on page 14, the margin of error was adjusted for the humidity of the lab. My partner’s calculation is actually more accurate than the software’s default settings.”

The panelist nodded, impressed. They got a Flat 1.0.

Outside the room, Sunghoon didn’t say thank you. He looked at Jongseong with a mixture of resentment and confusion. “Bakit mo ginawa ’yun? I could have answered that.”

“Mabagal ka, eh,” Jongseong replied, fixing his collar in the hallway mirror. “Ayokong bumaba ’yung grade ko dahil lang nag-hang ’yung utak mo for five seconds. Don’t get it twisted, Hoon. Hindi kita tinutulungan. I’m just protecting my GWA.”

“Gago,” Sunghoon muttered, walking away. “Protecting your GWA, my ass.”

4. The "No-Sleep" Library War (Finals Week)

The final week of Grade 10 was the "Final Boss." This determined the Moving-Up ranks.

The library closed at 8:00 PM. At 7:55 PM, only two students remained.

Sunghoon was surrounded by a mountain of flashcards. He looked like a ghost—pale, focused, and dangerously caffeinated. Jongseong was at the other end of the table, a single thick Physics textbook open, scribbling on a yellow pad.

The guard walked over. “O, mga bata, uuwi na. Isasara na ’yung gate.”

They both looked at each other. Neither wanted to be the first to pack up.

“Una ka na, Park,” Jongseong said, his voice raspy. “Mukhang mahihimatay ka na d’yan.”

Sunghoon gritted his teeth, forced himself to flip another page. “I’m fine. Ikaw nga, kanina pa nakatitig sa iisang page. Nahihirapan ka sa thermodynamics?”

“Nahihirapan? I finished this chapter an hour ago. Sinusulat ko lang ’yung kanta—" Jongseong caught himself. “I mean, I’m reviewing the derivations.”

“Uwi na kayo!” the guard shouted.

They walked out together in the chilly evening air of the school grounds.

“You’re a psycho, you know that?” Jongseong said as they reached the gate. “Pinipilit mo ’yung sarili mo kahit pagod ka na.”

“Kailangan,” Sunghoon replied, his voice flat. “Hindi lahat tayo ’natural talent’ lang ang kailangan para mag-top.”

Jongseong stopped in his tracks. “You think I don’t work hard? You think I just woke up and know Physics?”

“At least ikaw, may time ka pang tumugtog,” Sunghoon said, his voice bitter as he climbed into his family’s car. “See you at the Moving-Up ceremony, Park. Huwag kang iiyak pag ako ’yung nasa taas.”

5. The Moving-Up Ceremony

The air in the gym was heavy with the scent of sampaguita and floor wax. The Principal stood at the podium.

“Rank 2... Park, Jongseong.”

Jongseong stood up, buttoned his blazer, and walked to the stage. He accepted his silver medal with a polite, "proper" smile.

“Rank 1... Park, Sunghoon.”

Sunghoon walked up. The gold medal was pinned to his chest. He stood next to Jongseong for the photo.

“0.05,” Sunghoon whispered while the cameras flashed. “I beat you by point-zero-five.”

Jongseong didn’t stop smiling for the cameras, but his voice was like ice. “Congrats, Hoon. Sulit ba ’yung puyat para sa point-zero-five? Kasi sa Senior High, sisiguraduhin kong wala ka nang makukuhang decimals sa akin.”

“Subukan mo,” Sunghoon replied.

They shook hands—a perfect picture of academic excellence for the school yearbook—while their eyes promised war for the next two years.

In Senior High School (SHS), the rivalry between Jongseong and Sunghoon evolved from a classroom competition into a legendary cold war. They were both in the STEM track, and the atmosphere in 12-A was suffocating. Every student knew: you don't talk to Jongseong about Sunghoon, and you definitely don't mention Jongseong to Sunghoon.

The pressure of the Valedictorian title was no longer just a goal—it was an obsession.

1. Mock Exam

During a mock exam for Pre-Calculus, their teacher decided to put them on the spot. He wrote a complex trigonometric identity on the board and divided it into two sides.

“Jongseong, prove the left side. Sunghoon, prove the right. Whoever finishes first gets five points added to the Midterms.”

The sound of chalk hitting the board was like gunfire.

Sunghoon was clinical. His lines were straight, his substitutions followed the textbook to a T.

Jongseong was aggressive. He used Euler’s formula to bypass three lines of work.

They finished at the exact same second, slamming their chalk down.

“Done,” they both said in unison, chest heaving.

The teacher checked the board. “Parehong tama. But Jongseong's method is more... advanced. Sunghoon's is more fundamental.”

“Sir, advanced but prone to error,” Sunghoon interjected, not looking away from the board. “Fundamentals are safer.”

“Safe is boring, Sunghoon,” Jongseong retorted, wiping the chalk dust off his hands. “If you're afraid of math, just say that.”

“Hindi ako natatakot. Ayoko lang maging pabaya kagaya mo,” Sunghoon snapped, his ears turning red.

2. The Research Defense: Final Presentation

For their Capstone project, they were rivals once again. Sunghoon’s group had developed a high-tech filtration system, while Jongseong’s group focused on sustainable urban planning.

During the Q&A, Sunghoon stood up to ask Jongseong a question. It wasn't just a question; it was a trap.

“Mr. Park, how can you claim your urban plan is sustainable if your cost-benefit analysis ignores the inflation of local materials?” Sunghoon asked, his voice dripping with mock politeness.

The room went silent. Jongseong didn't blink. He leaned into the microphone, his “proper” student persona perfectly intact.

“If you read the supplementary data on page 42, Mr. Park, you’d see we used a three-year projected average. Maybe you missed it because you were too busy polishing your own filters?”

The “Oooooh” from the back of the room was deafening. Sunghoon sat down, his knuckles white as he gripped his pen.

3. The Inter-School Science Quiz Bee

It was two weeks before graduation. The Valedictorian and Salutatorian ranks were already finalized—Jongseong had secured the top spot by a hair. But the Regional Science Quiz Bee was the pride of the school, and they were the two representatives.

In the final round, it came down to a tie-breaker question.

“Identify the specific enzyme responsible for the unwinding of the DNA double helix during replication.”

Jongseong knew it. He’d known it since Grade 7. But Sunghoon’s hand was a blur.

Buzz.

“Helicase,” Sunghoon said, his voice cold and unwavering.

“Correct! The winner is Park Sunghoon!”

The school gym erupted. Sunghoon stood up, accepting the trophy with a polite nod, his face an unreadable mask of "proper" student decorum. Jongseong stood next to him, clapping, but his mind was reeling. Kahit kailan talaga, hindi mo ako tatantanan, Sunghoon.

Jongseong retreated to the school garden after the ceremony. He sat on the usual concrete bench, the humidity of a Manila April sticking his polo to his back. He was the Valedictorian, yes. He had the gold medal coming. But losing that last quiz bee to Sunghoon felt like a stain on his record.

The rhythmic click-click of leather shoes echoed on the pavement. Jongseong didn't even look up.

“Jongseong.”

“Ano na naman? What do you need? Ipagyayabang mo ba 'yung trophy mo? I know, Sunghoon. You won. Nanalo ka na, okay?” Jongseong said, his voice tight with irritation.

A shadow fell over him. A cold, sweating bottle of Iced Americano with extra shot was shoved into his field of vision.

“Here,” Sunghoon said.

Jongseong finally looked up, squinting against the afternoon sun. Sunghoon looked... different. His tie was loose, and he looked exhausted, but there was a glint in his eyes that Jongseong hadn't seen in years. He set the drink down on the bench and turned to leave.

“Ano ’to, lason?” Jongseong called out.

Sunghoon didn't stop, his back to Jongseong. “Ubusin mo na lang.”

Jongseong picked up the bottle. He felt the chill of the ice against his palm. Then he saw the yellow sticky notes.

He peeled the first one.

“You did well, Park. - The better Park.”

Jongseong’s jaw tightened. “Yabang…” He peeled the second one.

“Here’s your consolation prize.”

Then he flipped the bottle. On the back, in tiny, almost teasing script:

“But not better than me. Better luck next time, baby ;)”

Jongseong’s brain short-circuited. Baby? The term of endearment felt like a glitch in the system. He stood up, the bench screeching.

“Napaka-yabang mo talaga, Sunghoon!"” Jongseong yelled at the retreating figure. “Hoy, Sunghoon! 0.2 lang lamang mo sa'kin sa quiz bee na 'to, WHAT?! Valedictorian pa rin ako!”

Sunghoon stopped and looked back over his shoulder. The sunlight hit the sharp line of his jaw. He gave a sharp, triumphant smirk.

“First stage of grief: denial,” Sunghoon said, his voice calm.

“Gago! I'm not in grief! Ako 'yung may gold medal sa graduation!” Jongseong shouted, waving the coffee bottle like a weapon. “At bakit may 'baby'?! Kadiri ka! Are you mocking me?!”

“Masarap ba?” Sunghoon asked, completely ignoring the outburst.

“Ano?”

“Yung kape. Masarap ba?”

Jongseong looked at the bottle, then back at Sunghoon’s defiant face. “Oo, masarap. Bakit ba?”

“Good. Reward 'yan kasi pinahirapan mo ako masyado sa rankings,” Sunghoon said, his smirk softening into something almost… final. “Mag-enjoy ka sa college, Jongseong. Mabuti na 'yung malayo tayo sa isa't isa, baka sakaling humaba pa buhay ko.”

Jongseong blinked, the anger momentarily replaced by a weird hollow feeling. “Talaga. Good luck sa UP or wherever you're going. Sana hindi tayo mag-cross ng path sa kahit anong inter-school competition.”

“Trust me,” Sunghoon said, turning back to walk away. “I hope the same thing happens.”

Graduation Day

The Moving-Up ceremony was a blur of white togas and the scent of sampaguita. As Valedictorian, Jongseong gave his speech, and for the first time, he didn't feel the need to look at Sunghoon to see his reaction. He felt light. He was heading to UST for BS Bio, and as far as he knew, Sunghoon was heading to Ateneo or UP to satisfy his father’s dream of him becoming an engineer or a lawyer.

After the ceremony, they found each other near the school’s main gate. The Manila heat was brutal, but they both looked "proper" until the very end.

“So, this is it?” Jongseong asked, adjusting his medal.

“This is it.” Sunghoon replied. He held out a hand—not a challenge this time, but a formal goodbye. “No more rankings. No more decimal points.”

Jongseong shook it. “No more '0.2.' Honestly, Sunghoon, I’m glad it’s over. Good luck sa Ateneo. Have fun being their problem instead of mine.”

“Good luck sa Espanya, Jongseong. Sana hindi ka bahain doon,” Sunghoon said with a dry chuckle.

They parted ways with a mutual sense of relief. Jongseong climbed into his family’s van, and Sunghoon walked toward his car. For the first time in four years, they both felt like they could finally breathe.

Four Months Later: The Main Building, UST

The first day of college was a typical Manila morning: gray skies and the smell of wet pavement. Jongseong felt like a new man. He had his tote bag, his new iPad, and a “clean” aura that shouted New Life.

He walked into his 7:00 AM Zoology lecture in the historic Main Building. He chose a seat near the window, looking out at Benavides Park. Fresh start, he thought. No Sunghoon. No competition. Just me.

The room was filling up. He heard the sound of the heavy wooden door opening. He didn't look up—he was busy organizing his digital pens.

“Is this seat taken?”

The voice was familiar. Too familiar. It was deeper than he remembered, but the cadence—the cold, steady tone—was unmistakable.

Jongseong’s heart plummeted. He slowly turned his head.

There stood Sunghoon. He wasn't in a school uniform anymore. He was wearing a crisp white polo with the sleeves rolled up, an expensive watch on his wrist, and he looked like he’d just walked off a movie set. He was holding a car key with a luxury emblem on it.

Jongseong’s mouth hung open. “Sunghoon? What the hell? Sabi mo sa Ateneo ka!”

Sunghoon didn't look happy to see him either, but that sharp, irritating smirk slowly crawled onto his face as he sat down in the chair right behind Jongseong.

“Changed their minds. Parents wanted the best Med school path, and UST Bio is the way to go,” Sunghoon said, leaning forward until his breath hitched near Jongseong’s ear. “Looks like fate is a bitch, isn't it, baby?”

Jongseong slammed his forehead onto his desk. “Gago. Ayoko na.”

"Welcome to College, Park," Sunghoon whispered, tapping Jongseong’s shoulder with a pen. “0.2 is back on the table.”

The shock of seeing Sunghoon in Room 302 had eventually worn off, replaced by a dull, throbbing headache that Jongseong woke up with every morning. They were blockmates. Of course, fate—or perhaps Sunghoon’s competitive father—had decided that one university wasn't big enough for the both of them.

UST was a massive ecosystem, and like any ecosystem, organisms found their niche.

Jongseong claimed Dapitan. It suited him. It was bustling, filled with students walking to Angkong for dimsum or lining up at print shops for their "transes" (transcripts). Jongseong rented a studio unit in a condo near the gate. His life was curated to be "low maintenance." He walked to class with his canvas tote bag, wearing linen shirts and glasses, holding a tumbler of home-brewed coffee. He was the "Clean Boy" of Block 1-A—quiet, diligent, and approachable.

Sunghoon, on the other hand, was purely a Lacson boy. He lived in one of the high-rise luxury towers on the quieter, more expensive side of the campus. He didn't walk; he drove his white sedan from his condo to the carpark, even if it was just a five-minute walk, just to avoid the Manila heat. He wore Ralph Lauren polos, smelled like Bleu de Chanel mixed with car leather, and always had the latest iPad Pro. He was the "rich kid" who somehow still managed to top the quizzes without looking like he studied.

For the first month, they didn't speak. They just... existed in each other's periphery.

If Jongseong raised his hand in Zoology to explain the taxonomy of a sponge, he could feel Sunghoon’s eyes boring into the back of his skull. If Sunghoon recited perfectly in Chemistry, Jongseong would aggressively highlight his notes, the sound of the marker screeching against the paper.

One Tuesday lunch break, Jongseong was eating at a small carinderia in Rosarito with Jungwon, a freshman from the College of Architecture. Jungwon was Jongseong’s breathing room—someone who didn't care about mitochondria or ATP.

“Jong, ang bigat ng plates namin sa Archi,” Jungwon whined, resting his head on Jongseong’s shoulder. “Pahiram ng shoulder, saglit lang. 5 minutes nap.”

Jongseong chuckled, patting Jungwon’s head. “Sige lang. Basta huwag mo lalawayan 'yung shirt ko.”

Across the street, inside a glass-walled, air-conditioned coffee shop, Sunghoon was watching. He was sitting with Jake (a Management student from DLSU who drove over to hang out) and Heeseung (who was currently enrolled in the Conservatory of Music/AB Comm).

Sunghoon stirred his iced coffee aggressively.

“Sino ‘yon?” Sunghoon asked, nodding toward the window.

Heeseung looked up from his phone. “Sino? Ah, si Jongseong? Kasama niya si Jungwon. Archi student. Bata pa 'yan, parang kapatid na turing namin d'yan.”

“Sobrang dikit naman,” Sunghoon muttered, watching Jungwon practically embrace Jongseong’s arm. “Akala ko ba nag-aaral siya? Bakit may time mag-baby sit?”

“Selos ka?” Jake teased, stealing a fry from Sunghoon’s plate.

“Gago, hindi,” Sunghoon snapped, looking away. “Nakaka-distract lang. We have a shifting exam in Botany tomorrow. If he fails because he's playing big brother, it’s a boring win for me.”

“Sus,” Heeseung laughed. "Knowing Jongseong, he’s probably reciting the Krebs cycle in his head while Jungwon is sleeping. You should worry about yourself, Hoon."

Sunghoon glared at them, then looked back at the window just in time to see Jongseong laughing at something Jungwon said—a genuine, eye-crinkling laugh that Sunghoon realized, with a sudden jolt of annoyance, he had never been on the receiving end of.

The truce of silence broke during their Botany Laboratory class. The professor brought them to the UST Botanical Gardens to identify plant samples. The heat was suffocating, a humid blanket that made everyone’s uniform stick to their backs.

Jongseong was in his element. He was crouching near a fern, examining the spores with a hand lens. He looked calm, wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

Sunghoon was suffering. He was standing under the shade of a tree, fanning himself with his lab manual. His "cool" aura was melting.

“Park and Park,"” the professor called out. “Since you two seem to be the experts, identify this specimen for the class.”

They both walked toward a shrub with red flowers.

“Hibiscus rosa-sinensis,” Sunghoon said immediately. “Family Malvaceae.”

“Common name: Gumamela,” Jongseong added, not looking at Sunghoon. “Leaves are ovate, margins are serrate.”

“Medicinal properties?” the professor asked.

Sunghoon opened his mouth, but hesitated. He knew the chemical composition, but he didn't know the application.

Jongseong smirked. “Poultice for boils and mumps. Diuretic. It’s a common herbal remedy in the provinces.”

“Correct. Five points to Jongseong,” the professor noted.

As the class moved on, Sunghoon grabbed Jongseong’s arm.

“Bitaw,” Jongseong said, looking at Sunghoon’s hand like it was a contagion.

“Poultice for boils? Really?” Sunghoon hissed. “Saan mo naman napulot 'yun? Wala 'yun sa Campbell Biology book natin."”

Jongseong pulled his arm back, dusting off his sleeve. “Nagbabasa kasi ako ng ibang libro, Sunghoon. Hindi lang textbook ang mundo. Minsan kailangan mong lumabas sa aircon mo para matuto.”

“You think you're so deep just because you know herbal medicine?” Sunghoon scoffed, though he looked genuinely irritated that he missed the point.

“I think I'm better prepared,” Jongseong replied, fixing his glasses. “Mainit ba? Pawis na pawis ka na oh. Sayang 'yung porma mo, natutunaw.”

Sunghoon’s jaw tightened. “Masasanay din ako. And next time, I'll memorize the entire herbal dictionary if I have to.”

“Good luck,” Jongseong said, walking away to join his group. “Huwag kang hihimatayin, 'Baby'.”

He whispered the last word so softly that Sunghoon wasn't sure if he heard it or imagined it, but it made the heat in his cheeks flare up dangerously.

By the second month, the academic load became brutal. In UST, Transes (transcriptions of lectures) were the currency of survival.

Jongseong’s transes were legendary. He typed them up on his iPad with aesthetic headers, color-coded diagrams, and simplified explanations. He shared them freely with his circle—Jungwon (who didn't even need them but liked the colors), and a few blockmates who were struggling.

Sunghoon refused to use them.

He sat in the library, listening to the recording of the lecture at 2x speed, typing his own notes furiously.

“Bro, gamitin mo na 'yung transes ni Jongseong,” his lab partner, a guy named Paolo, whispered. “Nasa Google Drive ng block natin. Sobrang dali intindihin.”

“Ayoko,” Sunghoon muttered, putting his AirPods back in. “Mali-mali 'yan panigurado.”

“Perfect score siya sa last quiz, Hoon. Ikaw 48/50.”

Sunghoon slammed his laptop shut. “Shut up, Paolo.”

That night, alone in his condo, Sunghoon stared at his notes. He was confused about the pathway of blood in the fetal heart. The textbook was dense. The recording was muffled.

He hesitated. He looked at the clock. 2:00 AM.

With a heavy sigh of defeat, he opened the Block 1-A Google Drive. He found the folder: P. Jongseong - Anatomy Notes.

He clicked it.

It was beautiful. Organized. Precise. There was even a small sticky note graphic on the side that said: “Don't forget the Foramen Ovale closes to become the Fossa Ovalis! :)”

Sunghoon stared at the smiley face.

“Show off,” he whispered to the screen.

He studied from it for three hours. The next day, he got a perfect score on the shifting exam.

After the exam, Sunghoon found Jongseong at the Benavides Library, sitting in a secluded corner near the Filipiniana section. Jongseong had his headphones on, eyes closed, tapping his fingers on the table as if playing a piano.

Sunghoon sat down opposite him. He didn't say anything. He just placed a bottle of Iced Americano on the table.

Jongseong opened one eye. He saw the coffee. Then he saw Sunghoon.

“Bayad?” Sunghoon asked, keeping his voice low.

Jongseong sat up, taking off his headphones. “Para saan?”

“Sa transes. I used them,” Sunghoon admitted, looking physically pained to say the words. “They were... adequate.”

Jongseong stared at him for a second, then a slow, teasing smile spread across his face. It was the first time Sunghoon had seen him smile at him, not at Jungwon or Heeseung.

“Adequate lang?” Jongseong asked, picking up the coffee. “Eh bakit 50/50 ka kanina?”

“Because I'm smart,” Sunghoon shot back. “Your notes just... saved me time. Don't get used to it.”

“You're welcome, Hoon,” Jongseong said, taking a sip. “Next time, mag-subscribe ka na sa channel ko.”

“Whatever.” Sunghoon stood up to leave, but he paused. “And Jongseong?”

“Hmm?”

“Stop bringing Jungwon to the library. He snores. It’s distracting.”

Jongseong laughed—a soft sound that echoed slightly in the quiet stacks. “Selos ka na naman sa tulog?”

“Focus on your studies, Park,” Sunghoon said, walking away quickly to hide the fact that seeing Jongseong laugh at his expense didn't annoy him as much as it should have.

It was a Friday night. The UST campus was relatively quiet, save for the few students lingering around the Grandstand and the Carpark.

Sunghoon was walking to his car parked at the multi-deck. He had stayed late to finish a Lab Report on Cellular Respiration because he refused to submit anything less than perfect. He was tired, his shoulders aching, his "cool kid" facade slipping just a bit.

As he walked past the open field, he heard it.

An electric guitar riff. Clean, melodic, and played with a technical skill that made Sunghoon pause.

He looked toward the bleachers. Under the yellow glow of a lamp post, there were three people.

One was Heeseung, holding a bass guitar, laughing.

The other was a drummer tapping on a cajón.

And in the middle, sitting on a guitar case with an electric guitar plugged into a portable amp, was Jongseong.

Sunghoon froze behind a pillar.

Jongseong looked... different. He wasn't wearing his glasses. His linen shirt was unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was playing with his eyes closed, biting his lower lip in concentration. He looked relaxed. He looked cool.

“Nice fill, Hee!” Jongseong laughed, high-fiving Heeseung. “Pero mas okay siguro kung i-drop D natin 'yung chorus.”

“Sabi sa'yo eh,” Heeseung replied, leaning in to fix Jongseong’s guitar strap. “You have the ear for it, Seong. Sayang kung sa Bio ka lang magfo-focus.”

“Bio is for the brain, Hee. This…” Jongseong strummed a chord that resonated in the empty field. “This is for sanity. Para hindi ako mabaliw kakabasa ng Campbell.”

Sunghoon felt a hot, ugly knot twist in his stomach.

It wasn't just that Jongseong could play. It was the way Heeseung looked at him—like a proud older brother, or maybe something else? And it was the fact that Jongseong looked so happy.

In the classroom, Jongseong was the "rival." Here, he was a rockstar. And Sunghoon, watching from the shadows with his heavy backpack and perfect grades, felt strangely... excluded.

“Tss. Nagkakalat lang ng ingay,” Sunghoon muttered to himself, turning around sharply. He marched to his car, unlocked it aggressively, and revved the engine louder than necessary as he peeled out of the carpark.

Two hours later, Sunghoon was in BGC.

The bass was vibrating in his chest. The lights were blinding. He was at a VIP table in Xylo, surrounded by expensive bottles and people who didn't know what a Krebs Cycle was.

“Bro, dahan-dahan naman!” Jake yelled over the music, grabbing the tequila bottle from Sunghoon’s hand. “Kakadating lang natin, wasted ka na agad?”

Sunghoon ignored him and took a shot straight. “I need to reset my brain, Jake. Masyadong maraming... bacteria.”

“Bacteria?” Sunoo asked from the other side of the couch, sipping a cocktail with a judgmental expression. “Or baka naman virus? Specifically, the 'Park Jongseong' variant?”

Sunghoon glared at Sunoo. “Shut up, Sunoo. Hindi siya virus. He's a pest.”

Riki, the youngest of the group, was busy dancing near the edge of the table, completely unbothered. “Kuys, sayaw na lang tayo! Stop sulking about your nerd rival!”

“He's not a nerd!” Sunghoon snapped, slamming his glass down. “He plays the electric guitar! And he hangs out with Heeseung! And he looks... ugh, nakakainis!”

Jake and Sunoo exchanged a look.

“Wait,” Sunoo leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “Did you just say he plays the guitar and looks good? Hoon, are you jealous of Heeseung, or are you jealous... of Heeseung?”

“What kind of question is that?” Sunghoon groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I saw them. They were so... in sync. Nagtatawanan pa. Meanwhile, ako? I was calculating ATP yield alone in the library.”

“So, insecure ka kasi may social life siya?” Jake laughed, patting Sunghoon’s back. “Bro, you have us. We're literally in a club right now.”

“It's different,” Sunghoon muttered, pouring another drink. "He makes it look so easy. Being smart, being cool, being... soft."

“Soft?” Riki stopped dancing and looked back. “Did you just call your rival 'soft'? Yikes. Down bad.”

“I am NOT down bad!” Sunghoon stood up, swaying slightly. “I am the Valedictorian—well, Salutatorian—of a Science High School! I do not get 'down bad' for a guy who wears tote bags!”

He tried to walk to the dance floor to prove a point, but the room spun. He ended up sitting back down heavily.

Sunoo sighed, shaking his head. “Jake, kunin mo na susi niyan. He’s going to text him. I can feel it.”

“I won't text him!”Sunghoon defended, clutching his phone. But his thumb was already hovering over Instagram. He wasn't texting; he was stalking Jongseong’s dump account (@mightochondria).

Latest story: A video of Heeseung playing bass. Caption: “Jamming w/ Hee. Good vibes only.”

Sunghoon gritted his teeth. “Good vibes only? Asa ka.”

Monday, 7:00 AM. The Biochemistry Laboratory was freezing.

Jongseong walked in looking fresh. He was wearing a light blue linen button-down, his hair fluffy and clean, smelling like soap and coffee. He sat in his usual spot, arranging his pens.

Ten minutes later, Sunghoon walked in.

He was wearing oversized sunglasses. He had a hoodie over his uniform polo. He was clutching a tumbler of water like it was his life support. He walked like a zombie.

He sat behind Jongseong.

Jongseong turned around slowly, a wide, knowing grin on his face.

“Good morning, Sunshine,” Jongseong teased. “Ba't parang... amoy tequila ka pa?”

Sunghoon slowly took off his sunglasses. His eyes were puffy. “Shut up, Park. I have a migraine.”

“Nag-party ka noong weekend? With Jake and the others?” Jongseong asked, leaning his chin on his hand. “Wow. Ang wild naman ng Salutatorian namin.”

“I needed to unwind,” Sunghoon croaked. “Unlike you, I have a life outside of studying.”

“Oh, really?” Jongseong raised an eyebrow. “Kasi, I saw your friend Jake's story. You were shouting at the DJ to play 'science music'? Ano 'yun, Hoon?”

Sunghoon’s face turned a violent shade of red. “I did not.”

“You did,” Jongseong laughed. “Something about... 'I need to calculate the beat per minute'?”

Sunghoon groaned and put his head on the desk. “Kill me now.”

“Sayang naman,” Jongseong whispered, leaning closer. “We have a moving exam today on enzymes. If you pass out, automatic zero ka.”

Sunghoon shot up, adrenaline fighting the hangover. “I won't pass out. And I will still score higher than you.”

“We'll see,” Jongseong said, turning back to the front. “Baka kasi 'yung substrate mo maging alcohol bigla.”

The exam was brutal. 50 stations. 30 seconds per station. Move or die.

Jongseong moved with rhythm. He looked at the slide, wrote the answer, and moved to the next. Click. Write. Move.

Sunghoon moved with sheer willpower. He was sweating cold sweat. His head was pounding with every step. But his muscle memory was flawless. Look. Wince. Write. Move.

At Station 25, they crossed paths. They had to switch lanes.

Their shoulders bumped.

“Move, drunkard,” Jongseong whispered.

"After you, performative boy," Sunghoon shot back, trying not to vomit.

When the results were posted on the bulletin board an hour later:

1. Park, Sunghoon - 49/50
2. Park, Jongseong - 48/50

Jongseong stared at the paper. “Paano?”

Sunghoon was leaning against the wall, sipping an electrolyte drink, looking like death warmed over but wearing the smuggest smile of his life.

“I told you,” Sunghoon rasped. “I function better when I'm in pain. It keeps me focused.”

Jongseong looked at him with a mix of disbelief and grudging respect. “You're a monster. 49/50 while hungover? That’s not normal.”

“It's talent,” Sunghoon corrected. “Try mo minsan uminom, baka sakaling lumuwag 'yang turnilyo sa utak mo.”

“No thanks. I prefer remembering my weekend,” Jongseong retorted.

“Whatever,” Sunghoon pushed off the wall. “See you at the next lecture. Try not to miss me too much.”

As Sunghoon walked away, trying to walk in a straight line, Jongseong shook his head.

“He's insane,” Jongseong muttered to himself. But as he walked to the canteen to meet Jungwon, he caught himself smiling. “Gago talaga. But at least... hindi na siya boring.”

The shift from being “competitors in the same room” to “partners at the same bench” was the ultimate test for the Bio Block 1-A. The Professor, a no-nonsense doctor who smelled exclusively of formaline and menthol, had decided that the “Two Parks” were too disruptive as rivals.

“Park and Park,” the Professor announced, tapping the clipboard. “Since you both think you're better than the curriculum, you'll be lab partners for the rest of the semester. Every drawing, every dissection, every report—one grade. If one fails, you both fail.”

The collective gasp of the class was audible. Jongseong and Sunghoon looked at each other with pure, unadulterated horror.

The smell of preservatives was thick in the air. Most students were gagging, but Jongseong and Sunghoon were too busy fighting over the scalpel.

“Akin na 'yan, Jongseong. I have steadier hands. I was an athlete, remember?” Sunghoon reached for the tool, his face pale but determined.

“Steady hands? You were shaking during the shifting exam, Hoon,” Jongseong countered, pulling the tray closer to his side. “And I play guitar. My finger dexterity is literally my job. Let me do the incision.”

“Dexterity for chords is different from surgical precision! You’re going to nick the vena cava and ruin the whole specimen!”

“Oh my god, stop being so dramatic!” Jongseong hissed. “Sige, if you're so confident, ikaw na sa nerves, ako na sa muscles. Deal?”

“Deal. Pero pag nagkamali ka, ipapa-drop kita.”

“As if you can afford to lose me.”

They spent the next three hours hunched over the tray. To the surprise of the class, they were efficient. Sunghoon’s clinical obsession with detail matched Jongseong’s intuitive understanding of anatomy. They didn't talk; they just worked like a two-headed monster.

When Jongseong’s hand got tired from holding the retractor, Sunghoon silently took over, his fingers brushing against Jongseong’s. Both froze for a micro-second, the coldness of the lab contrasting with the sudden heat between their skin, before they both aggressively returned to their work.

Because they shared a grade, they were forced to study together. This meant Jongseong had to endure the “Lacson Lifestyle” and Sunghoon had to step into the “Dapitan Chaos.”

One night, they were at a 24-hour study cafe near P. Noval.

“Bakit kailangan may playlist ka pa?” Sunghoon complained, pointing at Jongseong’s noise-canceling headphones. “The sound of the aircon is enough.”

“Hindi lahat tayo robot, Sunghoon. I need tempo to process the metabolic pathways,” Jongseong said, offering one earbud. "Try it. It’s Lo-fi. Very performative, diba? sabi mo?”

Sunghoon rolled his eyes but took the earbud. The soft, jazzy beat filled his ear. He looked at Jongseong—who was wearing his "proper" glasses, an oversized sweater, and was currently chewing on a pencil while staring at a diagram of the human brain.

“It's... fine,” Sunghoon whispered.

“Sabi ko sa'yo eh. Relax ka lang kasi. You study like you're going to war.”

“Because I am,” Sunghoon said, his voice dropping. “My dad checks the portal every Friday, Jongseong. If I'm not top of the block, the weekend is a lecture.”

Jongseong stopped chewing his pencil. He looked at Sunghoon—really looked at him. Behind being hot-headed, the designer clothes, and the arrogance, there was just a tired kid trying to stay afloat.

“Then let's make sure you're top of the block,” Jongseong said, his voice unusually gentle. “Sulat ka na. I'll check your citations.”

Sunghoon didn't say thank you, but he didn't pull the earbud out either.

A few days later, Sunghoon was back at Xylo with the usual crew—Jake, Sunoo, and Riki. He was trying to be the "Pobla Blueprint" again, holding a drink and looking disinterested, but his eyes kept scanning the crowd.

“Hoon, stop looking at the door. He's not here,” Sunoo teased, sipping a neon-colored drink.

“Sino? I'm looking for the waiter.” Sunghoon lied.

Suddenly, the music changed. The DJ announced a “special guest set” from a local student band.

Sunghoon’s heart stopped. On the small stage, Heeseung was adjusting the mic, and behind the electric guitar was Jongseong.

He wasn't “Soft Boy” Jongseong tonight. He was wearing a black leather jacket, dark jeans, and his hair was slicked back. When he hit the first power chord, the crowd screamed.

“Wait, is that your lab partner?” Jake asked, leaning in. “Damn. He’s actually... hot.”

Sunghoon’s grip on his glass tightened until he thought it would shatter. He watched as girls—and guys—at the front row reached out toward Jongseong. He watched as Jongseong shared a mic with Heeseung for the backup vocals, their faces inches apart.

“I'm leaving,” Sunghoon said, standing up abruptly.

“What? Bakit? Ngayon lang gumanda 'yung tugtog!” Riki complained.

“The bass is giving me a migraine,” Sunghoon snapped.

He didn't leave, though. He stood by the bar, hidden by the shadows, watching the entire 30-minute set. He watched the way Jongseong’s fingers moved on the fretboard, the way he laughed when Heeseung messed up a lyric, and the way he looked like he belonged there more than he ever belonged in a lab.

Sunghoon felt that ugly knot in his stomach again. It wasn't a rivalry anymore. It was the terrifying realization that Jongseong had a whole world that Sunghoon wasn't a part of—and he hated how much he wanted to be.

The next morning, they met at the Main Building for their 7:00 AM class. Jongseong looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, but still smelling like that "clean" soap.

“Nice jacket last night,” Sunghoon said as they walked up the stairs.

Jongseong tripped on the step. “Ha? Paano mo…”

“Jake wanted to go to Xylo. I was there,” Sunghoon said, his voice sounding forcedly casual. “Hindi ka ba napapagod? Nag-gig ka hanggang 2 AM tapos may lab tayo ng 7?”

Jongseong recovered his balance, a smirk forming. “Bakit, worried ka sa grade natin? O worried ka sa'kin?”

“The grade, obviously,” Sunghoon snapped. “You looked... messy on stage. Very un-proper.”

Jongseong stopped in the hallway, leaning against the historic stone wall. He leaned in closer to Sunghoon, the smell of his coffee mixing with Sunghoon’s expensive cologne.

“Messy? The crowd didn't think so,” Jongseong whispered. “And besides, Hoon... even if I'm 'un-proper,' I'm still the one holding your GWA together. Admit it. You liked the set.”

“I hated it,” Sunghoon lied, his eyes dropping to Jongseong’s lips for a split second before he looked away.

“Liar,” Jongseong chuckled. “Tara na, 'Baby.' May palaka pa tayong kailangang buksan.”

Jongseong walked into the lab—laughing—leaving Sunghoon standing in the hallway, his heart beating a rhythm that sounded suspiciously like the bass line from Jongseong’s band.

The UST library was packed because of the midterm season, and every cafe along Dapitan was overflowing with students fighting over outlets. For the first time, Sunghoon allowed Jongseong into his “fortress”—his high-rise condo on the Lacson side.

Jongseong walked in and immediately felt the energy. The place was minimalist, cold, and smelled like expensive room spray.

“Grabe, Sunghoon. Condo mo ba 'to o showroom ng IKEA?” Jongseong teased, dropping his heavy tote bag on the pristine white rug.

“Don't put your bag there, the bottom is probably dirty from the street,” Sunghoon snapped, though he was already moving to hand Jongseong a pair of guest slippers.

They sat on the floor, surrounded by heavy Anatomy volumes. As the hours passed, the “proper” student facade began to crumble. Jongseong was sprawled out, his glasses sliding down his nose, while Sunghoon was hunched over his iPad, his hair a mess from running his hands through it in frustration.

“Hoon, mali 'tong correlation mo sa respiratory system,” Jongseong muttered, leaning over.

“Hindi mali 'yan. I cross-referenced it with the board exam reviewer,” Sunghoon argued, leaning back.

Their heads were inches apart. Jongseong could see the faint sprinkle of freckles on Sunghoon’s nose that only appeared when he was stressed. Sunghoon could see the ink stain on Jongseong’s thumb.

“Check it again,” Jongseong whispered.

Sunghoon didn't move. He just looked at Jongseong. The silence in the condo was heavy. This wasn't the garden in SHS anymore; they weren't kids.

“You have ink on your face,” Sunghoon said, his voice unusually low. He reached out, his thumb brushing against Jongseong’s cheekbone.

Jongseong held his breath. For a second, the rivalry felt a million miles away. Then, Sunghoon’s hand dropped.

“Ayusin mo 'yang notes mo. Nakakahiya sa block pag nag-share tayo ng maling transes,” Sunghoon said, turning back to his screen, his ears turning a bright, traitorous pink.

“Sungit,” Jongseong muttered, but his heart was doing a rhythm that no Lo-fi beat could match.

It was a typical July afternoon in Manila. One minute the sun was scorching, and the next, the sky opened up, dumping a month’s worth of rain on the UST campus. Within thirty minutes, Espanya was a literal river.

Jongseong stood under the Arch of the Centuries, looking at the waist-deep water toward Dapitan. He was wearing his favorite white linen shirt—the “performative soft boy” as per Sunghoon uniform—and his canvas tote was already damp.

“Bwisit na ulan 'to,” he hissed, checking his phone. No Grab cars. No trikes.

Splash.

A white luxury sedan waded through the flood, stopping right in front of him. The window rolled down to reveal Sunghoon, looking perfectly dry and infuriatingly comfortable in his climate-controlled bubble.

“Sakay,” Sunghoon commanded.

"Ayoko. Malapit na 'ko," Jongseong lied, clutching his bag.

“Get in. Jongseong, baha na sa tapat ng condo mo. Unless gusto mong lumangoy sa tubig-kanal, sumakay ka na. I’m not losing my lab partner to leptospirosis.”

Jongseong looked at the dark water, then at his ruined white sneakers. He groaned and climbed into the passenger seat. The car smelled like Sunghoon—rich, cold, and clean.

“You’re dripping on my leather,” Sunghoon noted, but he was already reaching into the back for a clean gym towel. He threw it at Jongseong’s head. “Punasan mo 'yan. You look like a drowned rat.”

“Salamat ha? Napaka-gentleman mo talaga,” Jongseong grumbled, rubbing his hair dry.

They were stuck in a standstill traffic jam on Lacson. The rain was drumming against the roof, creating a cocoon-like silence inside the car.

“Heeseung called me,” Sunghoon said suddenly, eyes fixed on the taillights ahead. “He asked if I knew where you were. Sabi ko nasa lab ka pa."”

Jongseong paused, the towel still over his head. “Bakit sa'yo siya nagtatanong? Close ba kayo?”

“We're friends, Jongseong. And besides…” Sunghoon gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “He knows we're always together now because of the lab. Sabi niya, ingatan daw kita kasi 'soft' ka raw.”

Jongseong laughed, a short, dry sound. “Soft? Heeseung is just being overprotective. I can handle myself. I handled you for four years in JHS, didn't I?”

“You didn't 'handle' me. We were tied,” Sunghoon corrected. He turned to look at Jongseong. The streetlights reflected in his eyes, making him look less like a rival and more like someone... lonely. “But college is different. Don't let the 'soft' thing distract you. If you get sick and I have to do the cat dissection alone, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Concerned ka lang talaga sa grade, no?”

“Lagi naman,” Sunghoon replied, but he didn't look away.

That weekend, Sunghoon was at Empty Bottle in BGC. He was surrounded by the usual crowd—Jake was hitting on someone at the bar, and Sunoo was judging everyone’s outfits.

Sunghoon was scrolling through his phone. He had a drink in his hand, but he hadn't touched it.

“Hoon, stop stalking his Instagram,” Jake said, leaning over. “You've been looking at that photo of him and the guitar for twenty minutes.”

“I'm not stalking. I'm analyzing,” Sunghoon snapped. “Look at his grip on the neck. His technique is actually flawed. I should tell him.”

“In a club? At 1 AM? On a Saturday?” Sunoo raised an eyebrow. “Hoon, honey, you’re obsessed. Just admit you hate that he’s out with Heeseung tonight and you’re here with us.”

“I don't hate it,” Sunghoon lied.

But he did. He hated that Jongseong could just turn off the “Bio student” switch and become someone else. He hated that Jongseong didn't need a car or a BGC table to be the center of attention.

He took a shot of tequila, the burn matching the irritation in his chest. He looked at his reflection in the bar mirror—the “Pobla Blueprint” in the flesh. He had everything Jongseong didn't, yet he felt like he was the one losing.

“Jake, order-an mo pa ako,” Sunghoon said, eyes hardening. “I need to forget that the Valedictorian exists for at least five hours.”

“Valedictorian and baby,” Riki piped up from behind them, laughing.

Sunghoon almost threw his lime wedge at him.

Monday morning in the Anatomy Lab.

Jongseong was already there, looking “Clean Boy” as ever, wearing a fresh white lab coat. He looked up when Sunghoon walked in—hoodie on, sunglasses on, looking like he’d been hit by a truck.

“Xylo again?” Jongseong asked, his voice full of mock pity.

“Empty Bottle,” Sunghoon rasped, sitting down heavily. “Shut up and start the labeling.”

Jongseong reached out and pulled Sunghoon’s sunglasses off his face. Sunghoon flinched, squinting at the harsh fluorescent lights.

“You have a bruise on your arm,” Jongseong noted, pointing to a small purple mark. “Saan galing 'yan? Nakipag-away ka ba sa BGC?”

“Natabig ko lang 'yung table,” Sunghoon muttered, trying to pull his sleeve down.

Jongseong didn't let go. He took a small tube of ointment from his tote bag—the “Soft Boy” always had a first-aid kit—and started applying it to the bruise.

Sunghoon froze. The lab was noisy, students were clinking glassware and laughing, but for Sunghoon, the only thing that existed was the cold sensation of the cream and the warmth of Jongseong’s fingers.

“Ayan,” Jongseong said, letting go. “Proper students don't show up with bruises, Sunghoon. It ruins your ‘cool boy’ aesthetic.”

Sunghoon looked at his arm, then at Jongseong’s back as he started the experiment.

“Thanks,” Sunghoon whispered, so quietly he was sure Jongseong didn't hear it.

But Jongseong’s ears turned pink, and he worked a little faster, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

This was the turning point of their Junior year—the year where the academic pressure of pre-med reached its absolute boiling point, and the forced proximity of being lab partners became more than just a grade requirement.

The Ecology department decided that the best way to study biodiversity was to drag the Block 1-A students to a remote coastal town in Aurora. No aircon, no Grab, and most importantly for Sunghoon—no data signal.

“Jongseong, tell me you’re joking,” Sunghoon said, staring at the rustic, open-air nipa hut they were supposed to share with four other guys. “Dito tayo matutulog? On a banig?”

Jongseong, already in his field gear—a bucket hat, cargo shorts, and a loose white shirt—was busy applying sunblock. “Science High tayo galing, Hoon. Huwag mong sabihing ngayon ka pa naging maarte? It’s just for two nights.”

“May kulambo ba?” Sunghoon asked, looking at the ceiling as if a spider would drop on him any second.

“Wala. Pero may Off! lotion ako. Halika rito,” Jongseong said, beckoning him.

For the next ten minutes, the class watched in amusement as he stood perfectly still while Jongseong meticulously applied mosquito repellent to Sunghoon’s arms and the back of his neck. Sunghoon looked like he wanted to die of embarrassment, but he didn't move an inch.

That night, the heat was oppressive. The sound of the ocean was the only thing filling the silence. Sunghoon was tossing and turning on the thin mat, his lifestyle not having prepared him for the reality of rural Philippines.

“Hoon, stop moving. Nilalamok ako lalo sa hangin mo,” Jongseong whispered in the dark.

“Mainit, Jongseong. I can't sleep without AC."”

“Imagine-in mo na lang nasa BGC ka, tapos sira 'yung aircon ng club,” Jongseong teased. He reached out and grabbed Sunghoon’s hand, pulling it toward him. “Ayan. Steady ka na d'yan. Isipin mo na lang 'yung quiz bee sa JHS para makatulog ka.”

Sunghoon’s heart did a somersault. He didn't pull away. In the dark, under a thin mosquito net, the rivalry felt like a distant memory. “Gago. Matulog ka na nga.”

But they stayed like that—hands barely touching—until the roosters crowed at 4:00 AM.

Two weeks after the field trip, the “Great Filter” arrived: The Comprehensive Finals. It was a 48-hour period where they had three back-to-back exams in Anatomy, Biochemistry, and Microbiology.

This was the "No-Sleep" war, but this time, they weren't at opposite ends of a library table. They were in Jongseong’s condo in Dapitan.

Hour 12:

The room was a mess of highlighters, half-eaten boxes of Dimsum Treats, and empty coffee cups.

“Sunghoon, if you ask me one more time about the difference between Gram-positive and Gram-negative, isasaksak ko 'to sa'yo,” Jongseong groaned, pointing to his pen.

“I'm just making sure you know it! Collaborative grade 'to, remember?” Sunghoon barked back, his eyes bloodshot behind his glasses.

Hour 26:

The “Proper” student personas were officially dead.

Jongseong was wearing a stained shirt and a headband to keep his hair back. Sunghoon had abandoned his aesthetic for a pair of loose basketball shorts and a tank top. They were sitting on the floor, backs against the bed, reciting the cranial nerves in a rhythmic, delirious chant.

“I... I think I'm seeing double,” Sunghoon muttered, rubbing his eyes.

“That's just the diplopia from the lack of sleep. Normal lang 'yan,” Jongseong replied, his head lolling onto Sunghoon’s shoulder.

Sunghoon didn't push him off. Instead, he leaned his head against Jongseong’s. “If we fail this, I'm blaming your Lo-fi playlist.”

“And if we top this, you're buying me a guitar pedal,” Jongseong whispered.

Hour 40:

They were at the UST Main Building, waiting for the doors to open for the final exam. They looked like ghosts.

Heeseung walked by, stopping in shock. “Uy, Jong? Hoon? Okay lang kayo? You guys look like you haven't bathed in three days.”

“Kami lang 'to, Hee,” Jongseong croaked, leaning heavily on Sunghoon.

“We are the blueprint of excellence,” Sunghoon added, his voice raspy. “Don't talk to us, commoner. We are busy memorizing the 20 amino acids.”

Heeseung chuckled as he backed away slowly. “Okay... good luck, I guess?”

The exams are finally over. They walked out of the building into the bright, blinding sunlight of Espanya, feeling like they had just survived a war.

“Kape?” Sunghoon asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“Tulog muna, Hoon. I can't feel my legs,” Jongseong replied.

They ended up at Jongseong’s condo again, but this time, there were no books. They both crashed on the bed, too exhausted to even take off their shoes.

“Sunghoon,” Jongseong said, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“Hmm?”

“Kahit gago ka, thanks. Hindi ko kaya 'to mag-isa.”

Sunghoon turned his head, looking at Jongseong’s sleeping face. The “Clean Boy” looked messy, human, and—for the first time—completely vulnerable.

“Same here, baby,” Sunghoon whispered, the word slipping out before he could stop it. "Same here."

He fell asleep before he could see Jongseong’s eyes fly open in shock.

The final grades were posted.

1. Park, Sunghoon & Park, Jongseong (Tied)

The block was in shambles. The “Two Parks” had finally achieved the impossible: a perfect tie.

Sunghoon found Jongseong at the Carpark, where Jongseong was loading his guitar into his car (he had finally gotten a small second-hand car of his own).

“Tied,” Sunghoon said, leaning against the car door.

“0.00 difference,” Jongseong replied, smiling. “Happy now?”

“Not yet,” Sunghoon said, his eyes glinting with that familiar competitive fire. “We still have the NMAT. And then... Med School.”

“UST Med?” Jongseong asked.

“Where else?” Sunghoon smirked. “I have to keep an eye on my lab partner. Baka mamaya, maging 'soft' ka lalo pag wala ako.”

“Asa ka,” Jongseong laughed, pulling Sunghoon into a quick, brief hug—a “proper” bro-hug that lasted a second too long to be just 'bro.' “See you in the NMAT center, Park.”

“See you, Park.”

The tension in their block had reached a fever pitch. The NMAT was only a week away. In the library of the UST Main Building, Jongseong and Sunghoon sat opposite each other. The table was a graveyard of practice booklets and empty espresso shots.

Jongseong was focused, his movements clinical. He didn't look up when Sunghoon stood up for the fifth time to head to the fire escape.

“Pangatlo mo na 'yan sa loob ng dalawang oras, Sunghoon,” Jongseong said, his voice flat, eyes still on a Physics problem. “Your lung capacity is going to be trash for the exam. Low oxygen to the brain, low score.”

Sunghoon paused, his hand gripping a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “Focus on your own percentile, Jongseong. I can do the Perceptual Acuity section with my eyes closed and a cigarette in my hand.”

“Yabang,” Jongseong muttered, finally looking up. His eyes were bloodshot. He pulled a small bottle of sanitizer from his pocket and applied it with a rhythmic, mechanical motion. “Siguraduhin mo lang. Ayokong makita 'yang pangalan mo sa baba ng listahan.”

“Hinding-hindi mangyayari 'yun,” Sunghoon replied, walking out.

The afternoon the NMAT results were released, the server was lagging. Jongseong was in his condo, refreshing the page with a damp cloth over his keyboard.

Park Jongseong: 99+

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He was safe. But his first instinct wasn't to celebrate; it was to check his phone. No messages from Sunghoon.

An hour later, the frantic knocking started.

Jongseong opened the door to find Sunghoon looking like a ghost. His eyes were wide, darting, and his hands were trembling so violently he couldn't even hold his phone straight.

“Sunghoon? Anong—”

“I... I missed it, Seong. I missed the cut-off for the scholarship. 98,” Sunghoon choked out. To anyone else, a 98 was elite. To Sunghoon’s family, it was a failure. “My dad... he told me if I didn't get a 99+, I shouldn't bother applying to the top hospitals. He said I’m wasting his time.”

Sunghoon stumbled into the room, his breathing turning into sharp, jagged gasps. He collapsed against the wall, his chest heaving. It was a full-blown anxiety attack.

Jongseong didn't hesitate. He didn't grab his sanitizer. He didn't think about the germs from the hallway. He grabbed Sunghoon’s shoulders and forced him to sit on the floor.

“Look at me, Sunghoon! 98 is enough for UST! Look at me!” Jongseong yelled, his voice echoing in the quiet condo. He grabbed Sunghoon’s hands, pinning them to the floor to stop the shaking. “Huminga ka. Isang malalim. Now.”

Sunghoon’s head fell onto Jongseong’s shoulder. He was sobbing—quiet, desperate sounds that broke the silence. Jongseong just held him, his chin resting on Sunghoon’s head, feeling the heat of the fever and the smell of tobacco smoke clinging to his shirt.

“I'm tired, Jongseong. Pagod na pagod na 'ko,” Sunghoon whispered into his neck.

“Alam ko,” Jongseong replied, his grip tightening. “Pero hindi ka titigil. Hindi ako papayag na hindi kita kasama sa Med School. Sino na lang ang tatalunin ko?”

Med School: Year 1 & 2

They both made it. UST Faculty of Medicine and Surgery. The first two years were a blur of lecture halls and sleepless nights. The rivalry was more intense than ever. If Jongseong got a 95 on a Biochemistry long quiz, Sunghoon would stay up until 4:00 AM to get a 96 on the next one.

They were forced lab partners again. During a Gross Anatomy session, they were hunched over their cadaver.

“Scale is off, Sunghoon. Your drawing of the brachial plexus is messy,” Jongseong noted, his voice muffled by two layers of surgical masks. He carefully adjusted his gloves, making sure no part of his skin was exposed.

“It's accurate, Jongseong. Baka kailangan mo lang punasan 'yung face shield mo, malabo na yata,” Sunghoon retorted, his voice raspy.

They were a study in contrast: Jongseong, the meticulously organized student who highlighted his books in four colors; and Sunghoon, who looked like he was barely holding it together, often showing up to 7:00 AM classes smelling like the BGC club he’d been at just three hours prior, yet still reciting the most complex pathways with terrifying precision.

In the very first week of Gross Anatomy, the block was introduced to their cadavers. While most students were turning green or hesitating to make the first incision, Jongseong and Sunghoon were already at the table, their scalpels prepped.

“The textbook says the superficial fascia here is thin, but this specimen has a lot of adipose tissue,” Sunghoon noted, his voice muffled by a surgical mask. He reached for the forceps, his hand steady as a rock.

Jongseong immediately stepped in, his gloved hand blocking Sunghoon’s. “Wait. You didn't check the orientation of the underlying fibers. If you cut now, you’re going to shred the cutaneous nerves.”

“I've been studying the Netter’s Atlas for three hours, Jongseong. I know where the nerves are,” Sunghoon snapped, eyes flashing.

“Studying a picture isn't the same as feeling the tissue,” Jongseong countered. He took the probe and gently separated the layer with a precision that was borderline obsessive. “See? One millimeter to the left and you would’ve botched the dissection.”

Sunghoon’s jaw tightened. For the rest of that four-hour lab, neither of them spoke. They worked in a terrifying, synchronized silence, out-dissecting every other group in the room just to prove they didn't need the other's help.

Med school at UST relied heavily on SGDs, where students were grilled by doctors on clinical cases. It was a bloodsport for the Two Parks.

During a session on Cardiovascular Physiology, the doctor presented a complex case of a patient with a heart murmur and cyanosis.

“Mr. Park Sunghoon, what’s your primary diagnosis?” the doctor asked.

Sunghoon leaned forward, looking sharp in his crisp white polo. “Tetralogy of Fallot, Doc. The symptoms align with right ventricular hypertrophy and an overriding aorta.”

The doctor nodded. “Impressive. Mr. Park Jongseong, do you agree?”

Jongseong didn't even look at Sunghoon. “I agree with the diagnosis, but Sunghoon missed the most critical part of the management. If the patient is having a 'Tet spell,' you don't just wait for surgery. You have to place them in a knee-chest position immediately to increase systemic vascular resistance.”

Sunghoon’s ears turned red. “I was getting to the management, Doc. Jongseong just likes the sound of his own voice.”

“I like the sound of a patient surviving, Sunghoon,” Jongseong retorted, his voice calm but lethal.

The doctor chuckled. “If you two spent as much time studying the heart as you do trying to break each other's spirit, you'd both be surgeons by twenty-five.”

The “Two Parks” were the last ones left in the Benavides Library during hell week.

Jongseong was at his station, his desk a fortress of sanitized surfaces. He was currently memorizing the Cranial Nerves by sketching them out in high-definition on his iPad. Sunghoon was slumped in the chair opposite him, surrounded by half-empty Red Bull cans and a stack of dog-eared reviewers.

Sunghoon started to nod off, his head lurching forward.

Jongseong reached across the table and tapped Sunghoon’s hand with a pen. “Hoon. Gising. You still have twenty pages of Neurohistology left.”

Sunghoon blinked awake, looking disoriented. “Bakit ba... bakit mo ako ginigising? This is your chance to get ahead.”

Jongseong looked down at his iPad, his fingers subconsciously tracing the edge of his screen. “Winning doesn't feel like winning if you're not at 100%. I don't want to beat a version of you that’s half-asleep.”

Sunghoon stared at him for a long beat. He reached into his bag, pulled out a spare lozenge, and tossed it at Jongseong. “Your throat sounds dry from reciting. Take it.”

“Clean hands?” Jongseong asked, eye-ing the lozenge.

“Kakahugas lang,” Sunghoon lied with a smirk.

Jongseong took it. They spent the next four hours in a silent pact, pushing each other through exhaustion, two rivals anchored to the same table by sheer spite and a weird, unspoken respect.

Even in Med School, their coping mechanisms stayed polarized.

One Friday, after a brutal exam on General Pathology, the block went to OCTUPUS, a club in Poblacion. Sunghoon was in the center of the VIP table, a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. He was the life of the party, laughing with Jake and Sunoo, but his eyes kept drifting to his phone.

He saw Jongseong’s Instagram story. A picture of a sanitized desk, a cup of herbal tea, and a textbook.

Caption: “Finally, some peace. Halfway through Renal. #MedLife”

Sunghoon scoffed, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “Napaka-boring mo talaga, Park,” he whispered to the screen.

He typed a quick reply: “Renal is easy. Try Biochemistry again if you want a challenge, baby.”

Ten minutes later, his phone buzzed.

Jongseong: “Umuwi ka na, Sunghoon. Amoy yosi ka hanggang dito sa Dapitan. We have a quiz at 8 AM.”

Sunghoon smiled, a genuine, lopsided thing. He put his phone away and ordered another round, but he found himself checking his watch every thirty minutes, subconsciously making sure he’d have enough time to shower the Pobla off before Jongseong saw him the next morning.

During the Second Year, Heeseung—who was now a rising name in the local music scene—frequently visited the UST campus to bring Jongseong lunch or "survival kits" during hell week. Because Heeseung was older and successful, he had an effortless air of maturity that drove Sunghoon insane.

One afternoon, Jongseong was at a stone bench near the Arch of the Centuries, sharing a box of fruit and healthy snacks Heeseung had brought him. Heeseung was laughing, leaning in to wipe a smudge of ink off Jongseong’s forehead with his thumb.

Sunghoon was watching from the second-floor window of the Medicine building. He was clutching a cold, bitter Iced Americano, his knuckles white.

“He's touching him,” Sunghoon muttered to himself, his breath fogging up the glass. “Doesn't Jongseong know how many people Heeseung shook hands with today? Where is his hygiene now?”

When Jongseong finally came up for their Microbiology lab, Sunghoon was waiting. He didn't say hello. He just slammed a bottle of medical-grade hand sanitizer onto their shared lab bench.

“Ano 'to?” Jongseong asked, startled.

“Use it,” Sunghoon hissed. “You were outside for forty minutes. You touched a 'civilian.' You're contaminated, Park.”

Jongseong narrowed his eyes. “Heeseung isn't 'contaminated.' He’s my friend. Why do you care anyway?”

“I care because we’re working on a culture of Staphylococcus today, and I don't need your 'friend’s' germs messing up my results,” Sunghoon lied, his voice trembling with a jealousy he couldn't name. “Stay focused. Or tell your producer to wait for you outside the gate like a normal person.”

Sunghoon wasn't the only one who could play the jealousy game. A few weeks later, Jake came over from DLSU to help Sunghoon with some “data analysis” for a research paper. Jake was charming, athletic, and had a golden-retriever energy that everyone loved.

They were sitting in the library, Sunghoon intentionally choosing the seat right across from Jongseong. Sunghoon was leaning toward Jake, whispering and laughing at a private joke, their shoulders frequently touching.

Jongseong tried to focus on his Pharmacology notes, but every time Jake laughed or patted Sunghoon’s back, Jongseong’s highlighter would bleed through the paper.

“Hoon, are you going to the party later?” Jake asked loudly enough for Jongseong to hear. “I can pick you up. I got a new car.”

“Sure, Jakey,” Sunghoon replied, using a nickname he knew would grate on Jongseong’s nerves. “I need a break from all this... clinical boredom.”

Jongseong suddenly stood up, his chair screeching against the library floor. He began aggressively packing his things, spraying his desk with a disinfectant so potent it made Jake cough.

“Everything okay, Jongseong?” Sunghoon asked, wearing a smug, razor-sharp smirk.

“The air in here is getting thin,” Jongseong snapped, refusing to look at either of them. “Some of us actually care about our board exams. Enjoy your 'break,' Sunghoon. Try not to fail the quiz tomorrow because you were too busy being a socialite.”

Jongseong marched out, his heart hammering in his chest. He hated how Sunghoon looked when he was around Jake—relaxed, unburdened, and happy. It was a side of Sunghoon that Jongseong felt he should own, a reward for surviving the trenches of Med School together.

Toward the end of their second year, the College of Medicine held a formal gala. It was “Proper” to the extreme—tuxedos, floor-length gowns, and the upper crust of Manila’s medical families.

Jongseong arrived with Heeseung as his plus-one. Jongseong looked impeccable in a slim-fit black suit, his hair pushed back, looking every bit the future doctor his parents wanted him to be.

Sunghoon was there with a beautiful girl from the College of Nursing, a family friend his parents had practically forced on him. But he wasn't looking at his date. He spent the entire night tracking Jongseong across the ballroom.

When a slow song started, Heeseung led Jongseong to the dance floor.

Sunghoon watched as Heeseung’s hand settled on Jongseong’s waist. He watched as Jongseong leaned his head closer to hear what Heeseung was saying over the music. The sight of Jongseong—usually so rigid, so focused on boundaries and cleanliness—letting someone hold him so closely was the breaking point.

Sunghoon walked to the bar and downed two shots of whiskey in thirty seconds. He then went straight to the balcony, lighting a cigarette despite the “No Smoking” signs in the luxury hotel.

Jongseong stepped out onto the balcony five minutes later, seeking fresh air. He saw the orange glow of the cigarette and sighed.

“Sinasayang mo lang 'yung tuxedo mo, Sunghoon. Amoy yosi na 'yan,” Jongseong said, leaning against the stone railing.

“Why are you here?” Sunghoon rasped, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Baka mamaya mamiss ka ng 'Date' mo. He seems very... protective.”

“Heeseung is a good guy. He’s been there for me since JHS,” Jongseong said, looking out at the city lights. “Unlike you, who only knows how to give me a headache.”

Sunghoon turned, his eyes dark and volatile. He stepped into Jongseong’s personal space, the smell of whiskey and menthol smoke filling Jongseong’s senses.

“Is that all I am to you? A headache?” Sunghoon whispered. “Then why did you look at me the whole time you were dancing with him? I saw you, Jongseong. Even when he was holding you, you were looking for me.”

Jongseong’s breath hitched. He wanted to lie. He wanted to say he was just checking if Sunghoon was making a fool of himself. But the truth was stuck in his throat.

“You're my rival, Sunghoon,” Jongseong managed to say, his voice trembling. “I have to know where you are.”

“Liar,” Sunghoon said, leaning in until their foreheads almost touched. “You're just as obsessed as I am. And it’s not about the grades anymore.”

Sunghoon pulled away before anything could happen, throwing the cigarette butt over the railing and walking back into the ballroom without another word. Jongseong stayed on the balcony for a long time, the cold night air doing nothing to cool the feverish heat Sunghoon had left behind.

For the last month of Second Year, the rivalry turned cold. No more bickering, no more teasing. Just a heavy, suffocating silence in the lab. They worked like two parts of a perfectly oiled machine, but they wouldn't look each other in the eye.

The jealousy hadn't disappeared; it had settled into a quiet, simmering resentment. Every time Jongseong saw Sunghoon’s phone light up with a text from Jake, he’d tighten his grip on his stethoscope. Every time Sunghoon saw a new “survival kit” from Heeseung on Jongseong’s desk, he’d leave the room to smoke.

They were two people drowning in a sea of academic pressure and unacknowledged feelings, both too proud to reach for the other, yet too territorial to let anyone else in.

The ceremony was held at the Quadricentennial Pavilion. This was the moment they officially became Medical Clerks. As they stood in line, the pristine white coats were draped over their shoulders.

Jongseong’s coat was starched, smelling of lavender and high-end detergent. Sunghoon’s coat was equally white, but he looked like he was wearing armor he wasn't ready for.

“Don't trip,” Sunghoon whispered as they walked toward the stage. It was the first time he had spoken to Jongseong in weeks without it being about a lab result.

“I’m more worried about you passing out,” Jongseong replied, his voice low. He noticed the way Sunghoon’s hand was subtly twitching—the nicotine withdrawal was hitting him hard in the formal setting. “You look gray, Sunghoon.”

“I'm fine. Just get the medal, Park.”

As they stood on stage, the flash of cameras blinded them. To the world, they were the "Golden Boys" of UST Med. To each other, they were the only two people who knew how close they were to breaking.

Their first rotation was Surgery, the most brutal of them all. They were assigned to the same team, meaning they were stuck in the same locker rooms, the same scrub sinks, and the same high-pressure Operating Rooms (OR).

At 4:00 AM, after a grueling appendectomy where they had to stand perfectly still for hours holding retractors, they found themselves at the scrub sink.

Jongseong was washing his hands—not his usual obsessive cleaning, but a deep, clinical scrub. He was exhausted. His back ached, and his legs felt like lead.

Sunghoon was next to him, splashing cold water on his face. He looked at Jongseong through the mirror. “You missed a spot on your left elbow.”

Jongseong didn't snap back. He just stared at the soap suds. “Salamat.”

“Heeseung was at the lobby earlier,” Sunghoon said suddenly, his voice echoing in the tiled room. “He brought coffee. For everyone.”

Jongseong sighed. “He's just being supportive, Hoon. Why does it still bother you?”

“Because he gets to leave,” Sunghoon said, turning off the faucet with a sharp flick. “He gets to go home, write songs, and be 'proper' for you. Meanwhile, I'm here seeing you covered in blood and sweat. I'm the one who knows you haven't slept in thirty hours.”

Sunghoon stepped closer, the smell of antiseptic and fatigue hanging between them. “I hate that he sees the version of you that’s easy to love. I’m stuck with the version that’s falling apart.”

Jongseong finally looked up. “Maybe I don't want to be 'easy to love' all the time, Sunghoon. Maybe I prefer the person who stays in the trenches with me.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the hum of the hospital’s ventilation system.

A week later, they were on duty in the Emergency Room on a Friday night—the "Sin City" shift. A massive multi-vehicle accident brought in five critical patients at once.

The chaos was absolute. Jongseong was at a bedside, trying to intubate a patient while blood was literally splashing onto his pristine white shoes. He was freezing up—not because of the germs, but because of the sheer volume of the tragedy. His germaphobia was being drowned out by a much larger fear: Failure.

Sunghoon saw him. He didn't mock him. He didn't use it as a chance to get ahead.

Sunghoon moved in, his hands steady as he took the laryngoscope. “Move, Jongseong. Chart the vitals. Now!”

Jongseong snapped out of it, his fingers flying across the clipboard. They worked as a singular unit for three hours. No words, just rhythm.

When the sun began to rise, they were sitting on the curb outside the ER entrance. Jongseong was staring at his ruined shoes, a smear of dried blood on his sleeve. He didn't even reach for his sanitizer.

“You okay?” Sunghoon asked, leaning back against the cold concrete. He didn't even reach for a cigarette.”

“I thought I'd be better at this,” Jongseong whispered. “I'm the Valedictorian. I'm supposed to be 'Proper' under pressure.”

“None of us are 'proper' in there, Seong,” Sunghoon said, looking at his own trembling hands. “It’s just us against the clock. And tonight, we won.”

Sunghoon reached over and, for the first time in four years, he didn't grab Jongseong to challenge him or tease him. He just rested his hand on top of Jongseong’s, grounding him.

“Go home, Jongseong. Wash your shoes. I'll take the morning endorsement for both of us.”

Jongseong looked at Sunghoon’s hand. He didn't pull away. “You're going to get a reprimand for doing a double endorsement.”

“Let them,” Sunghoon smirked. “I’m the Salutatorian. I’m used to coming in second, remember? I can handle a little heat.”

As they moved into their second month of Clerkship, the hospital staff held a small mixer. Jake was there, having driven all the way from BGC to “rescue” Sunghoon from the wards.

Jake was leaning against a car, looking like a model, handing Sunghoon a gift bag. “Hoon, you've lost weight. You need to eat something other than hospital food.”

Jongseong watched from the hospital steps. He saw Sunghoon laugh—a tired, genuine laugh. He saw Jake pull Sunghoon into a hug.

A sudden, sharp pain flared in Jongseong’s chest. It wasn't the germaphobia. It wasn't an academic rivalry. It was the realization that he didn't want Sunghoon to have a "rescue." He wanted Sunghoon to stay in the hospital, in exhaustion, with him.

When Sunghoon walked back inside, Jongseong was waiting by the elevators.

“Going out with Jake?” Jongseong asked, his voice tighter than intended.

“He's just bringing me real food, Jongseong. Jealous?” Sunghoon teased, but his eyes were searching Jongseong’s face.

“I don't get jealous of Management students, Sunghoon,” Jongseong snapped. “I just think it’s 'unprofessional' to be hugging civilians in your white coat. Think of the cross-contamination.”

Sunghoon’s smile faded. He stepped into the elevator, and Jongseong followed. As soon as the doors closed, Sunghoon grabbed the lapels of Jongseong’s coat.

“You're full of it,” Sunghoon hissed. “You don't care about the coat. You hate that he gets to see me when I'm not being a 'doctor.' Just like I hate that Heeseung gets to see you when you're not being a 'germaphobe'.”

“So what if I do?” Jongseong challenged, his face inches from Sunghoon’s. “At least I'm not the one smoking my lungs away every time things get hard!”

“I haven't touched a cigarette in three days because you said you hated the smell!” Sunghoon yelled.

The elevator stopped. Neither of them moved. The tension was so thick it was suffocating.

“Three days?” Jongseong whispered, his anger suddenly replaced by a confusing, overwhelming warmth.

“Three days,” Sunghoon confirmed, his grip on Jongseong’s coat loosening. “Para hindi ka mag-sanitize every time lumalapit ako. Happy now?”

Jongseong didn't answer. He couldn't. He just looked at Sunghoon—his tired, brilliant, irritating rival—and realized that the war they had been fighting for ten years was never actually about the grades.

It was a Tuesday in the UST Hospital Surgery Ward. A massive typhoon had paralyzed the city, and half the medical staff couldn't make it to their shifts. Jongseong and Sunghoon had been on duty for 72 hours with only four hours of collective sleep.

Jongseong was standing at a station, his hands trembling so much he had to grip the edge of the table. He hadn't sanitized his hands in an hour—not because he didn't want to, but because he literally didn't have the energy to reach for the bottle.

Sunghoon walked in, looking like a ghost in a white coat. He leaned against the doorframe, a deep, hacking cough shaking his entire frame.

“Sunghoon, uminom ka na ba ng gamot?” Jongseong asked, his voice raspy and thin.

“I'm... cough... I'm fine. Just need a break,” Sunghoon whispered. He looked at Jongseong, noticing the raw, red skin on his partner’s wrists from the constant scrubbing. “You're bleeding, Seong.”

“It's just the soap,” Jongseong said, pulling his sleeves down. “Focus. We have a gallbladder surgery in thirty minutes. The Resident told us we’re assisting.”

The Operating Room was a sensory overload of beeping monitors and the smell of cauterized flesh. The Resident Surgeon was moving fast, frustrated by the lack of staff.

“Sunghoon, hold the retractor. Jongseong, keep the field clear,” the surgeon commanded.

The room felt like it was spinning for Sunghoon. The lights were too bright. His vision blurred, and a sudden wave of dizziness hit him. As the surgeon made a critical move near the cystic duct, Sunghoon’s hand slipped.

The metal instrument nicked an artery.

Blood sprayed across the sterile field—and onto Jongseong’s face shield. The monitor began to wail a frantic, rhythmic alarm.

“What the hell, Sunghoon?!” the surgeon roared. “Clamp it! Now!”

Sunghoon froze. He was staring at the blood, his mind completely blank, his body paralyzed by a massive, silent panic attack.

Jongseong didn't think so. He didn't care about the blood on his face. He didn't care about the contamination. He moved with a speed he didn't know he possessed, grabbing the clamp and securing the bleeder before the patient’s BP could bottom out.

“Get out,” the surgeon hissed at Sunghoon. “Park Jongseong, stay. You, get the hell out of my OR.”

After the surgery was successfully finished, Jongseong found Sunghoon on their usual fire escape. It was raining—a cold, relentless downpour. Sunghoon was sitting on the wet metal stairs, his white coat discarded, a cigarette in his hand. He wasn't even smoking it; he was just watching it burn.

Jongseong marched out, still in his blood-stained scrubs. He didn't reach for a mask. He didn't sanitize.

“Anong ginagawa mo rito?” Jongseong yelled over the rain. “You could have killed that patient, Sunghoon! 0.2 gap? You’re lucky if you even graduate after this!”

Sunghoon looked up. His eyes were red, filled with a level of self-hatred that made Jongseong’s heart ache.

“I know,” Sunghoon whispered. “I'm done, Jongseong. I can't do this anymore. The pressure, the smoking, the... the fact that I'm always one step behind you. I'm a failure.”

“You're not a failure! You're exhausted!” Jongseong stepped closer, the rain soaking through his scrubs. He snatched the cigarette from Sunghoon’s hand and threw it into the night. “Stop killing yourself to prove a point to a father who isn't even here!”

“Then who am I doing it for?!” Sunghoon stood up, his face inches from Jongseong’s. “I'm doing it for you! I've been chasing you since we were twelve! I don't know how to exist without trying to beat you!”

The silence that followed was louder than the rain. Sunghoon was shaking, his breath coming in jagged hitches.

“Bakit?” Jongseong asked, his voice breaking. “Bakit kailangang ako?”

“Because you're the only thing that's real in my life,” Sunghoon choked out. “The clubs, the yosi, the grades... It's all fake. But the way I feel when I’m trying to catch up to you? That’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m actually a person.”

Jongseong looked at Sunghoon—the messy, “un-proper,” broken version of the boy he had hated and loved for a decade.

Jongseong reached out. He didn't use a wipe. He didn't use a glove. He grabbed Sunghoon’s face with his bare, soap-scalded hands and pulled him into a kiss that tasted like rain, salt, and ten years of unspoken rivalry.

It wasn't a “proper” kiss. It was desperate and messy. It was the sound of two people finally surrendering.

When they pulled apart, Sunghoon leaned his forehead against Jongseong’s. “You're going to get sick. I'm covered in hospital grime and rain.”

“Let me,” Jongseong whispered, his thumbs stroking Sunghoon’s cheekbones. ”I'll sanitize later. For now, just... just stay here.”

Six months later. The Physician Licensure Exam results were posted.

The list was long, but at the very top, two names were side-by-side.

1. Park, Jongseong - 92.50%
2. Park, Sunghoon - 92.48%

The 0.02 gap. Final. Permanent.

They were standing at the UST Grandstand, wearing their barongs for the oath-taking. Jongseong looked at the list on his phone and then at Sunghoon, who was looking healthier, his skin glowing and his cough finally gone.

“Talo ka na naman,” Jongseong teased, though his eyes were full of pride.

Sunghoon smiled—not the smirk of a rival, but the smile of a partner. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, high-end bottle of hand sanitizer.

“I know,” Sunghoon said, handing it to Jongseong. “But I think I'm okay with second place this time. As long as the one in first place is the one taking me to dinner tonight.”

Jongseong took the sanitizer, but instead of using it, he tucked it into his pocket and grabbed Sunghoon’s hand, interlacing their fingers in front of the whole medical community.

“Proper or not?” Sunghoon asked, looking at their joined hands.

“The hell with proper,” Jongseong replied. "Tara na, Doctor Park. We have a life to start."

Three years after the boards, the UST Hospital had a new set of legends. They were no longer the "Two Parks" of the student body; they were Dr. Park (Surgery) and Dr. Park (Internal Medicine).

The rivalry hadn't died; it had just evolved into something much more expensive and slightly more domestic.

The Surgery lounge was a mess of charts and stale coffee. Jongseong, now a Senior Resident in General Surgery, was standing over a sink, scrubbing his hands with a methodical, rhythmic intensity. His germaphobia had stabilized into a professional asset—his surgical suites were the cleanest in the building.

The door swung open, and Sunghoon walked in. He looked different. The arrogance had been replaced by a weary, quiet confidence. He didn't smell like cigarettes anymore; he smelled of hospital soap and the expensive espresso Jongseong made for him every morning.

“Patient in 502 is stable,” Sunghoon said, leaning against the locker. “Your appendectomy was a bit... over-cautious, don't you think? You spent an extra ten minutes on the closure.”

Jongseong didn't look up. “It’s called 'aesthetic suturing,' Sunghoon. Not all of us are satisfied with the messy scars your IM department leaves behind after a drain.”

“Messy? My drains are clinical perfection,” Sunghoon retorted, but he was already walking toward Jongseong.

He didn't stop until he was in Jongseong’s personal space. Without a word, Sunghoon reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, luxury-brand hand cream. He took Jongseong’s raw, over-scrubbed hands and began applying it, his thumbs massaging the tension out of the palms.

“Proper or not, you’re going to get dermatitis if you keep this up,” Sunghoon whispered.

Jongseong let him. “Thanks, baby.”

They no longer lived in separate worlds. They had moved into a sprawling, minimalist condo overlooking the Manila Bay—halfway between the loud energy Sunghoon loved and the quiet, sterile sanctuary Jongseong required.

One corner of the living room was dedicated to Jongseong’s guitars. Another was a walk-in closet for their white coats and Sunghoon’s designer suits.

“Hoon, bakit may balat ng chichirya rito sa coffee table?” Jongseong’s voice echoed from the living room. “I told you, no eating outside the kitchen zone. The crumbs invite microbes.”

“It's just one bag, Love! I was reading a journal article!” Sunghoon called back from the bedroom, where he was currently hanging up his freshly dry-cleaned coat.

“I'm sanitizing the table,” Jongseong warned.

“I'll buy you a new bottle of that expensive alcohol you like,” Sunghoon joked, walking out and wrapping his arms around Jongseong’s waist from behind.

Jongseong stopped scrubbing, leaning his head back against Sunghoon’s shoulder. The silence of the condo was a world away from the beeping monitors and the smell of the ER.

“Still 0.02, by the way,” Sunghoon whispered into his ear. “I checked the hospital's performance metrics for this quarter. My patient satisfaction score is 0.02 higher than yours.”

Jongseong turned around in his arms, a slow, dangerous smirk forming. “That's only because you flirt with the elderly patients, Sunghoon. It’s unprofessional.”

“It’s called bedside manner,” Sunghoon corrected, leaning in. “Maybe you should try it.”

On a rare Saturday off, they found themselves walking through the UST campus. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the Main Building and the heavy stone of the Arch. A group of freshmen Bio students passed them, arguing loudly about a Botany quiz—the same frantic energy they once had.

“Remember them?” Sunghoon asked, nodding toward the students.

“We were much more annoying,” Jongseong admitted, adjusting his glasses. “I was a germphobic mess and you were... Well, you were a nightmare.”

“It was a nightmare you couldn't stop thinking about,” Sunghoon corrected, leaning into Jongseong’s space.

They stopped right under the Arch of the Centuries. For 8 years, this place had been the backdrop of their silent wars. Sunghoon turned to face Jongseong, his expression softening in a way that their college days would never have allowed.

“You know,” Sunghoon said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. “My dad always told me that a doctor’s greatest skill is knowing exactly what to give a patient to fix them. A specific dose. A perfect cure.”

Jongseong raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing on his lips. “And?”

Sunghoon reached out, his fingers brushing against the sleeve of Jongseong’s casual linen shirt—a far cry from the stiff, blood-stained scrubs of their internship.

“And for ten years, I thought my life was just a series of symptoms I had to manage. The pressure, the smoking, the constant need to be number one... it was a sickness,” Sunghoon admitted. He looked Jongseong directly in the eyes, his gaze steady. “But I realized that no matter how much I tried to cope on my own, there was only one thing that actually kept me grounded. Only one person could handle my worst days and still demand my best.”

Sunghoon leaned in, his forehead resting against Jongseong’s.

I” guess the universe knew what it was doing back in SHS,” Sunghoon whispered. "Because through all the rivalry and the mess, I think you were the only one truly prescribed to me, and I am the only one Prescribed to You—the only remedy I ever actually needed.”

Jongseong’s breath hitched. He didn't worry about the public display of affection. He simply closed the gap, kissing Sunghoon under the Arch as the Manila sky turned a deep, bruised purple.

“That was incredibly cheesy, Doctor Park,” Jongseong whispered against his lips, though he was smiling.

“But was it accurate?” Sunghoon challenged.

“Statistically? Yes,” Jongseong replied, interlacing their fingers. “100% efficacy.”

They walked out of the campus gates together, two doctors who had finally found the cure for the rivalry that had defined their lives.