Archive of Our Own

It starts with a small itch after he leaves Robert’s room.

It is strange, and he didn’t really think much of it until he starts to clear his throat a noticeable amount of times as he’s leaving the Apostolic Palace which is a relatively short walk hence his realization that he has been doing it a lot. The first thing he thinks of is that it is just because he hasn’t really drank anything when he visited, and they’ve been talking non-stop despite the Holy Father’s condition.

So, it’s only natural for his throat to dry up.

He doesn’t think much of it as he returns to the Collegio.

∗

He leaves again when the moon is already high in the sky, finding himself at the chapel that is almost empty save for the one other young priest who seems to have the same idea as him to find solace in the quietness especially at this time of the night. Chito recognizes him as Father Daniel, but the latter seems too preoccupied in praying that he hasn’t noticed his presence. Chito leaves him be.

The beginning of a prayer comes to him easily — an intention he does not need to have thought of before he even came here, as his thoughts always lead to the concern for a dear friend.

May his burden be lifted from his chest. May he find the answers he’s looking for.

He feels something rise up his throat. A cry, a sob, worry for the Holy Father’s — no, his friend’s — fate. Two months. Two months, and he’s kept it a secret out of fear and everything else that preceded and followed that fear. Chito’s hands clasp tighter together.

The coughs follow shortly, so suddenly that he hasn’t even had the time to stand up and excuse himself so as not to ruin the silence. His grip on the kneeler tightens, finding himself too weak to try to leave, and no — no, no, no.

Something strange rises up his throat. A hand is pressed on his back but he cannot bring himself to think about that now when he feels something foreign along the lining of his throat.

It all happens too fast. A seemingly distant, “Eminence, are you okay?” reaches his ears, but he is only focused on the simultaneous thoughts on what the solid thing could be, and that he has an inkling of fear on what it exactly is.

Finally, finally, his airway clears, and something soft rests in his tongue.

He abruptly stands up, ignoring the worried calls of the unfortunate priest that had to witness that as he runs out and to the nearest bathroom he can find. He practically slams the door closed as he hunches over the toilet, spitting out the manifestation of his fear.

A single, small sampaguita flower floats on the water, staring back at him as it swirls around.

He sucks in a sharp breath.

No, no, no.

This isn’t real.

The rational part of him immediately flushes the toilet and takes several steps back. The unconscious, idiotic, foolish, unaware part of him coughs again, and the second flower comes so easily that he almost immediately spits it out. He catches it with his hand and angrily throws it in the toilet again before flushing it. There is also the slight fear it will clog up the pipes, but he thinks that those small, stupid flowers probably won’t be doing anything, anyway.

Someone knocks on the door followed by a muffled, “Eminence? Do I need to call someone or—?”

“No!” he immediately responds. He waits for a few seconds to see if the flower will rise up again on the toilet, but nothing comes. Upon being sure that his throat is clear again, he heads to and opens the door to see Father Daniel looking at him full of worry. Chito’s fist unconsciously covers his own mouth. “It’s fine, sorry.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

“Yes,” he curtly answers. He takes a deep breath before putting his hand down and excusing himself to walk past the other priest. Chito turns to him again before leaving. “I’m sorry, Father, but you don’t need to worry,” he says with a small smile. “But might I ask you to not speak of this to anyone?”

A slight look of surprise flashes across his face. “I—Well, sure…? But—”

“Thank you,” he cuts him off before he can say anything that will make Chito more guilty. Just for Father Daniel’s sake, he follows that with a little white lie, “I’ll go see a doctor if it is necessary,” he sees the priest slightly relax, and he smiles, “so don’t worry.”

“Alright, Eminence. I’ll be praying for your recovery.”

Prayers aren’t enough for his illness, not when it is for a sinner like him.

He doesn’t say that, of course, so he just puts on a smile that he hopes doesn’t look fake and once again says, “Thank you.”

The walk back to his room is quick, and the second he closes — slams — the door behind him, another cough rises up before he chokes on another flower. He spits it on his palm and angrily crushes it before throwing it in the bin. He laughs bitterly as he falls on the floor next to the bed, putting his head on his knees and feeling the tears run from his eyes despite not wanting to shed any.

Chito knows who the flowers are for, of course. He isn’t that stupid, but he is foolish enough to have them in the first place. Across Rome, the Holy Father sits in his room, coughing up an assortment of flowers for a person that isn’t him.

And here he is, getting punished for it.

∗ 𖤣 ∗

After the second he closes his eyes and lets sleep take over, he opens his eyes to find that he is in another place.

He does not — cannot move, but he hardly seems to be bothered by it. The grass beneath his feet feels soft, and at first, it is serene. But then, there is a dread that comes to him all of a sudden. He cannot understand it, he cannot even comprehend where it came from, but it remains like thorns closing in on his chest.

Two trees stand in the distance, two graves side by side. It is an ominous vision, but it is not the source of the heaviness in his chest.

He realizes now what it is — longing. Wanting to reach out but not knowing who or what to reach out for.

His feet finally walks, closer and closer towards the trees, and there he finds the small plants blooming out of the ground, from the two graves that doesn’t seem to wear out. The flowers with its small, white petals seem to be reaching out to each other — a promise, a vow, he knows without any doubt.

Two flowers touch, and he now feels a certain lightness in his chest.

He closes his eyes, and when he once again wakes, he is back in his bedroom, the longing still remaining in his chest.

∗ 𖤣 ∗

It fortunately did not take much convincing from Chito for Ambo to pick him up at the airport despite the unexpectedness. Chito even considers himself lucky that his friend is even in the area.

Unfortunately, there is still, of course, the curiosity as to why Chito even reached out in the first place. It’s been deafeningly quiet in the car, and Chito can simply let the time pass by pretending that he’s asleep, but the anxiety on whether or not Ambo will ask him the obvious questions is keeping him awake.

“So…” And there it is. “Are you gonna tell me why you suddenly decided to fly back? And why call me out of all people? Was your brother not—”

“He doesn’t know I’m here yet,” he answers, still looking outside the window. Outside, the streets are a bit more empty, the sky still deep in the night. “You were, er…” He clicks his tongue underneath his mask, “the only person who knows so far.”

“Jesus, Chito, are you a fugitive now?” He turns to Ambo in the driver’s seat with a glare. His friend only laughs at him and shakes his head. “If you’re going to confess to a crime, you know you can trust me even outside of the confessional—”

“This is serious, Ambo,” he cuts off, annoyed. Then, he turns back to looking outside the window and says in barely above a whisper, “You’re the only one I can trust with this.”

“Trust with what, exactly? How am I supposed to know what you’re talking about when you won’t tell me what’s wrong?!” He exclaims, still with a bit of mirth but Chito can hear the slight frustration and even a hint of worry.

“That’s the problem,” he unintentionally snaps back. “I don’t know how to—”

As if trying to help him finally tell his friend what his predicament actually is, a cough rises up his throat and causes that god-awful sound that makes him look like he’s about to throw up his entire lung out. He rips off his mask from his face and coughs and heaves and he cannot even hear Ambo’s worried questions as he tries to get the blockage out.

His throat clears, and he spits out a single sampaguita flower on his palm, coated in his own saliva. Utterly disgusting.

At the corner of his eye, he sees Ambo’s jaw drop. It’s a surprise to Chito how their car hasn’t crashed because of his friend’s shock, but Ambo keeps his eyes on the road and his hands on the steering wheel while Chito can clearly tell he wants nothing but to hit the brakes in the middle of the highway.

With his free hand, Chito takes the pack of tissues in his bag and wraps the flower in it, also wiping his hand with another. He takes a small plastic out, already filled with the reminder of why he flew back to his country and away from Rome, and throws the tissues in on top of the existing white pile.

They come across a red stoplight, and he sees Ambo slowly turn to him. “Can I curse?”

“Ambo—”

“What the fuck.”

Chito scoffs, keeping his eyes again outside the car windows. “I’m as surprised as you are.”

Ambo doesn’t immediately answer. After a few seconds, Chito hears another, “What?”

“What do you want me to say?” he tiredly asks back.

“Who? When?”

When he doesn’t answer, he hears Ambo sigh. The light turns green and the car moves again.

“Don’t think you can get out of this conversation, Chito.”

“I know,” he quietly says. “It’s why I called you and not anyone else.”

For the short remaining time until they reach Ambo’s place, Chito isn’t asked any more questions. Chito refuses to look at his friend every time he coughs — that damned flower always making itself known even without anything that will even prompt it.

It barely hurts. He now knows what Robert had meant by it, but it’s just very, very frequent — perhaps even more frequent than what Robert is experiencing. He doesn’t know what it means, and he doesn’t really want to know.

What he needs to know is how to get rid of it.

“If you need anything, you know where to find me,” Ambo tells him as they’ve arrived at his apartment.

Chito gives him a small smile. “I know where to find everything.”

He is answered with a genuine laugh before his friend bids him a good night. Chito feels guilty for bothering him at this time of the night, the clock reading a little bit past 2AM. He sighs and settles on the couch (another thing he insisted upon due to the guilt), letting himself doze off to sleep.

∗

“I don’t know how much longer I can take not asking,” Ambo breaks the silence again over coffee. Chito sighs into his cup. “Does anyone else know, at least?”

“Are you crazy? Why would I randomly tell people that I have this—”

“I meant about you being here.”

“Oh,” he sighs again. “Yes, I already told those that need to know. I’ll be heading home later, told them I just had some things I need to take care of here.”

Ambo stares at him for a few seconds. “Which is…?”

He purses his lips and takes another sip of his coffee.

“Talk to me, Chito!”

“I’m trying,” he blurts out, and before he can continue, the very subject of why he’s here manifests again in the form of three sampaguita flowers coughed up onto his palm. He leans back, defeated, the flowers still on his hand. He stares at them. “I’m trying.”

Ambo doesn’t answer for a minute or so. “If I asked questions, would it help?”

He shrugs like a kid.

Gently, his friend asks, “Who’s it for?” Chito doesn’t answer and practically sinks into his seat, loudly taking a sip off his cup while he sees at the corner of his eye that Ambo is fighting back a sigh or a roll of his eyes. “Since when?”

That, he answers while still refusing to look straight at his friend, “Two days ago, before I decided to fly back here.”

“Why did you come back here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he grumbles.

Across him, Ambo hums. “So you’re trying to escape?”

He finally faces him with an exasperated look. “I’m — I’m not trying to escape, I just—” Words seem to fail him, then, knowing that his friend is right. He only huffs out a frustrated breath before looking away again. “Fine, alright. I wanted to get away. Maybe it’ll help to get rid of this—” He coughs, but no flower comes out this time, “—stupid thing.”

“And how do you think you’ll do that?” Chito knows there’s another question hanging there, or a mere desire for a confirmation that the reason for his flowers is somewhere in Rome. Somewhere in the Curia.

He faces him again. “Just keep a distance and wait it out. It’ll eventually go away, anyway.”

Ambo doesn’t answer for a while. Chito thinks he’ll finally leave it at that, but he goes to ask again, “Who is it, Chito?” Again, he doesn’t answer. “Do I know who it is?”

And apparently, his silence is enough of an answer for him.

“I see.”

He remains quiet for a while, but then, “I don’t know what to do,” he finally admits. “I just… I don’t.”

“Confess your feelings.”

He glares at him. “This is serious.”

“I am serious!” Ambo exclaims. “Look, the worst case scenario is that your feelings won’t be reciprocated and then you can move on upon knowing that! You’ll be awkward for a while but,” he scrunches his nose, “that’s normal.”

“That’s—” He scoffs. “That’s ridiculous.”

Chito doesn’t say why he thinks so, because one, Robert already has a lot of guilt and his own flowers right now that he doesn’t want to add onto that stress, and two, he knows, he just knows, that it isn’t that simple.

For some fucked up reason, he knows his feelings and flowers won’t just fade that easily.

“It’s really not. I mean it happened to me, and I’m still alive, obviously, so…” He ends with a shrug, but Chito is left staring at him with his mouth almost hanging open while trying to process his friend’s words. Upon seeing Chito’s stare, Ambo asks, “What?”

“It happened to you?” he slowly repeats his words back to him. “You had Hanahaki?”

For all the things Chito would expect him to say or do, he hasn’t expected for Ambo to just freeze. His mouth opens before he closes them again and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat and is noticeably avoiding his eyes. He massages his forehead. “This is what happens when I don’t get enough sleep.”

“When was it?”

“It was years ago. Probably more than a decade already,” he dismissively answers. “Anyway—”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Chito shakes his head, suddenly finding himself literally at the edge of his seat wanting to get answers out of his friend. Of all the years of their friendship, this is the first time he’s ever heard of this. “How did you get rid of it?”

“Well, I guess it helped that we were both — no, wait—”

“Both? Both what? Were you both priests, too?”

“Chito! That’s not—” he exclaims before huffing out a frustrated breath, panic evident in his voice. Then, he turns to him with his eyebrows scrunched. “Wait, too?”

It’s now his turn to shut up, his mouth now actually hanging open before he shuts it as he leans back on his chair.

“Chito.”

“Alright, yes, fine. He’s…” he shifts uncomfortably in his seat before he sighs. “So you understand now? Why I had to leave?”

“I — I mean I kind of figured… I just didn’t expect for you to actually say it.”

Chito scoffs and crosses his arms while looking away. He mumbles, “Next thing I know you’re gonna tell me you have suspicions on who it is.”

Obviously, Ambo hears it. “I do. If I guessed right, would you confirm it?”

“No.”

Ambo rolls his eyes. “Why even come here and enlist my help if you won’t tell me the details?”

“Because it is not something I can just share,” he huffs out. “This goes beyond everything I have worked for and everything I have… learned,” he continues, his voice getting quieter at the end. “I cannot compromise him.”

He doesn’t elaborate on it. Only he shall ever know the true reason — if news of his illness gets out, if they somehow figure out that it is for the Holy Father, and if they, in turn, also find out about the latter’s flowers, there will be speculations upon speculations. He understands now why Robert cannot make decisions as easily as a normal person could. There is so much to risk, and Chito cannot risk him.

Mockingly, the flower rises up from his lungs before he can even process it. A couple of coughs expel it from his throat with his friend quick on his feet firmly tapping his back as Chito spits it all out on the table he’s hunched over. It’s a small bundle this time. He doesn’t even want to count it.

Ambo thankfully doesn’t say anything. Chito wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and mumbles, “I’ll clean it up.”

He goes to stand and walks past him, avoiding looking at him again, but what Ambo says makes him stop in his tracks. “It’s the Holy Father, isn’t it?”

Chito turns back in surprise. “What?”

His heart almost pops out of his chest. He doesn’t know how he looks to Ambo now, perhaps a deer caught in the headlights or something worse. The fear rises up to his chest, then, because he knows that his reaction and the time it took to answer has already confirmed what his friend has asked. Ambo’s face softens. “Oh, Chito…”

“Wh — that’s n — I don’t—” he stutters out and fails to form any coherent words. He can feel his own hands grow cold, his body unable to move. Something heavy once again forms in his chest, the illness threatening once again to suffocate him for a short while as a reminder that this is a punishment but only long enough for him to eventually expel it but not without struggle. He coughs and his hand automatically goes to his throat. He coughs again and almost stumbles back without even realizing that Ambo has already made his way to his side to assist him in sitting down. His words do not register in his ears.

It is only his own coughs that he hears.

The cluster of sampaguita that exits his mouth is a bit bigger than what he’d just coughed out not even five minutes ago. There are evidently more flowers and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

It has only been three days.

Chito pants and catches his breath while Ambo’s hand is still resting on his back. Softly, he says, “I’m sorry, Chito. I had a hunch, but…”

He bitterly laughs, looking up at his friend. “How?”

A small, sympathetic smile appears on Ambo’s face. “Whenever I see you two in the same room, it’s like no one else exists.”

“What?”

“I’ve only witnessed it a couple of times, of course, but you’ve only ever looked at him like that.” Chito doesn’t ask what ‘like that’ means, afraid of what he’ll hear. “You’ve been my friend for so long. I guess it helped in making me notice a difference. But I’m surprised, that you only started coughing up flowers now.”

He scoffs, looking down on his palm where the cluster is sitting. “I’m surprised too,” he quietly says.

“Chito,” he calls, but Chito doesn’t look at him again. When he doesn’t answer, Ambo continues, “I know what I see. What if it is worth the risk to tell him—”

“No,” he firmly says. Even the word tastes bitter in his mouth. He sighs and stands up, taking both of the clusters in his hand before facing his friend again and hoping that his face doesn’t betray him. “There is not a chance I will place this burden on him.”

Not when I already have my answer on the subject of his affections. It cannot possibly be me.

“Chito…”

“Ambo, he is the Pope,” he stiffly says. “I cannot just…” A frustrated breath escapes his lips. “He doesn’t fall in love.”

It is a little white lie he can allow himself to say just for the sake of his safety. It’ll always be him above all else, after all.

Ambo looks like he wants to say more, but Chito only shakes his head and walks past him, the sampaguitas in his hand crushed by his fist. Behind him, Ambo calls out, “So you’re really just going to wait it out?”

“This is nothing. I’ll heal.”

“Suppressing your feelings won’t do you any good, you know that, right?”

No, he wants to answer. No, I don’t know that. But there’s nothing else I can do.

He doesn’t answer him and just heads to the bathroom, throwing the flowers in the bin before washing himself up.

∗ 𖤣 ∗

(Chito once vowed to never love anyone to the point of pain.

He listens to the talk of both men and women around him, but most especially the former with his friends, and ultimately decides he wants no part of it. He knows that there may be something wrong with him as soon as he’s thought to himself that he cannot be with a woman the same way the men around him say they would.

But then he finds himself in the seminary and thinks: perhaps it is because this is the path he’s meant to be in.

So he continues walking through and following that path, a part of him fulfilled that he eventually forgets the things he thought have been missing from him.

There is only one point of devotion he finds himself worthy in.

Chito knows that no flowers come due to this very reason, and it is what he’ll continue to believe. He’ll never cough up flowers, and he finds peace in that.)

∗ 𖤣 ∗

People, of course, when they start to notice that a certain well-known and beloved public figure has changed in any way… they begin to notice. It doesn’t take long for the media to get a hold of Chito’s return to the country and how he’s supposedly ill.

Stubborn as he is, though, and also rather prideful, he continues to hold a few masses — something he’s already decided upon during his flight back to the country. A few coughs here and there followed by turning away for brief periods of time in the middle of ceremonies have been enough for people to start talking.

“You really should stay away from the public for a while,” Ambo comments as he enters the room, settling on the chair across where he’s seated. “What if you accidentally cough out a flower in front of people, or worse, cameras?”

Chito annoyedly brings his newspaper down to glare at his friend. “I won’t,” he insists. It hasn’t happened yet, and he’s making sure that it never shall. “And I can’t just stop either. It’s the only way I—” He stops himself, remembering that these thoughts are merely for himself. It is the only way he can feel closer to God again, to be reminded of his devotion after straying for such a sin. Perhaps it is there he can find forgiveness that he cannot allow himself to have. He shakes his head and returns to his paper. “Never mind.”

“Well,” his friend starts again. “You’re not getting any better.”

“It has only been a week,” he unhelpfully answers.

“Exactly. It’s already been a week.”

“There is nothing else I can do,” he snaps back, but Ambo doesn’t look fazed. He seems to have grown used to the unruly behavior he’s been displaying the past week.

“Waiting doesn’t seem to help. It seems to be getting worse,” he repeats. “You do know there are other options, right?”

Chito rolls his eyes and leans back onto his chair, throwing the newspaper on the coffee table before massaging his forehead. “I will not tell him in hopes of speeding this all up.”

For a moment, Ambo doesn’t speak. He seems to be weighing in on the words he’ll be saying which frightens Chito ever so slightly. Finally, slowly, he says, “I normally wouldn’t suggest this, but have you considered… getting them removed. Medically. If you’re really set on getting rid of them.”

Chito stares at him for a few seconds. To be honest, even he himself does not know how to exactly react to that. “Are you serious?” he asks, a bit of surprise but also a bit of disbelief.

“I know someone. She can be discreet—”

“Is this how you got rid of your flowers?”

“What? No. I just got over—”

“And is this even legal?”

“Jesus, Chito. What do you take me for? She’s a doctor — surgeon, obviously. A family friend. I can talk to her,” he pauses, “if that is what you want, of course.”

He stays quiet for a while again. This is something not completely out of the question, of course. This is naturally something that has already popped into his head as soon as he coughed out the first flower back in Rome. But this — he is reminded of the Holy Father’s reasons, to have them removed would mean someone would know — is too risky. Even with his friend’s reassurance, he knows that there will be a lot at stake.

One of which concerns his feelings, and the thought bothers him that he feels another itch rise up his throat.

It is not only risky, but it also doesn’t feel right. Not due to its nature, nor what other people say about the disease, but because for the first time in a week, after hearing the suggestion that would guarantee the removal of his flowers — his feelings — the thought that he doesn’t really want to get rid of them crosses his mind.

He almost chokes on another flower. Ambo shoves a glass of water in his hand which he downs in one sip.

“I will consider it,” Chito lies between his teeth, and it seems that his friend who he’s known and has also known him for decades also does not buy the lie.

Still, he only nods and does not say anything more. They continue to sit in silence for a while, and Chito has thought they’ll continue to do so. It is only until Chito sees Ambo’s phone light up from the desk whom the latter immediately takes.

Chito sees the way he stands up straighter and the way his gaze immediately goes to him. “What?” he asks.

“The Holy Father just messaged me.”

He almost falls off his seat. “What?”

“Yeah? He asked—”

“He has your number?”

“What? No. He emailed me. I have my important notifications on.”

“Ah.”

“Well, he asked, er… are you avoiding him?”

“What?” he asks for possibly already the third time in the past ten seconds. “He asked you if I was avoiding him—?”

“Oh, no,” he quickly dismisses with a wave of his hand before putting his attention onto his phone and starts to type, “that was my question. Because why on earth would he reach out to me knowing you probably have each other’s numbers saved? Probably more.”

Ambo whispers that last part, but Chito decides to ignore it with a mere roll of his eyes. “What did he say?”

“He asked how you were doing.”

“Oh, I—” He doesn’t get to finish whatever it is he’s going to say when another one of those stupid flowers rises up his throat — another small cluster of three.

“I replied,” he says in a matter-of-factly voice, not even giving the chance for Chito to process that Robert has asked about him. “Told him you were doing okay, said you probably caught a cold back there. I made something up for you seeing as you’ve been ignoring him, you’re welcome.”

Chito has had his phone on silent for the past few days, and he does see Robert’s concerned messages, but seeing them only makes the flowers worse — what more if he holds another conversation?

He cannot have that, so he tells another lie. “I am not ignoring him.”

“Right, and you’re not in love with the Holy Father.”

“Keep your voice down!”

“It’s literally only us in this apartment!”

“I don’t c—” He groans in frustration. “Can we just… leave it?”

“No. We’re going to talk about this—” Chito covers his face with his palms, sighing deeply, “—whether you like it or not. And let’s start with — oh, he replied.”

He looks up. “What did he say?”

Ambo raises an eyebrow at him. “You would’ve known first hand if you weren’t ignoring him.”

“I’m—” He groans again, sinking back into his chair while glaring at the person across from him. “Fine! Whatever! I don’t care what he says.”

“You’re lucky Hanahaki doesn’t make you cough out flowers every time you lie.”

He stands up. “I’m leaving.”

“He said, ‘Kindly send my regards, and tell him I will be praying for his recovery’,” he tells him in a monotone voice, reading off his phone. He then looks up at Chito who stands there, frozen. It seems that his lungs finally took pity on him and did not make him cough out flowers which he fully expected given what Ambo had told him. Slowly, he asks, “Is there anything you want to say?”

“No,” he immediately answers, though both of them know that he’s lying. Ambo only continues to stare at him with his phone still in his hand. It doesn’t even take a minute for Chito to answer. Avoiding Ambo’s eyes and sitting back on his chair, he quietly says, “Tell him thank you and that I’m wishing for his recovery as well.”

“Alright.”

The flowers don’t come. Across him, Chito hears the sound of the phone being placed on the table. “Why are you ignoring him?”

Chito sighs, knowing his friend is already set on what he believes in — which, in every way, is correct, but to admit it is to also admit his mistake. But what else can he do? “I think it’s obvious,” he mumbles.

His friend hums, and after a minute or two of silence, he seems to finally decide to ask the question that he’s been trying to keep to himself as a respect for Chito. But he’ll always be Chito’s friend first than anything else, and it is in him to be curious. “Why him?”

A scoff leaves his mouth. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do know.”

“What do you know about what I think?”

“I’m only trying to help,” he says, evidently annoyed, “but you’re being difficult. You’re trying to get rid of the flowers but you won’t even admit to yourself that you’re in love with him — no, don’t deny that. All I’m saying is that maybe it’ll help if you just calm down even for just a moment. Clear your head, Chito, because it’s obvious that you’re panicking about this whole situation — throwing yourself left and right at any and all responsibilities that you can do just to get your mind off of it.”

Chito almost gapes at him. It seems that Ambo has been keeping these thoughts to himself for the past week, and it is obvious that Chito isn’t the only one that is burdened here. Without asking, Chito had given his friend the responsibility that comes with the knowledge of his condition. He realizes then that it had been selfish of him to do so, but he’d also been desperate.

The flowers are going to kill him and he would let it. That is the thought he’d been running away from, and he doesn’t want it to be his case. Maybe it is why he’d run away. Maybe it is why he immediately went to seek out for his friend, because he knows that he would continue to be rational despite Chito’s foolishness.

“I’m sorry,” he quietly says, and he sees Ambo’s face soften into something more sympathetic. Chito hates it — hates the way the guilt claws itself away in his chest again and scratches its way on his lungs. He does not deserve any sympathy, that is reserved for those who feel remorse.

Perhaps one of the reasons why he wants to get rid of the flowers in this way is that by then, it will happen naturally, because he knows there is not a decision he will do to consciously and willingly remove those flowers.

That is the worst part of it all.

Contradictions upon contradictions. Foolishness upon foolishness. This is the price to pay for falling in love knowing who he is, and knowing who his affections are for.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “You’re right. I was not thinking clearly. This whole… thing had just been—” A bitter laugh escapes his mouth. “Upsetting, to say the least. I never thought I would ever experience this, and now I have. And for someone who cannot, under any circumstances, reciprocate.”

It is a bit hypocritical to be saying these things knowing that Robert has flowers of his own. Ambo doesn’t have to know that, and Chito knows, anyway, that he is right.

“You were wondering why I’m only coughing up flowers now, and, well, to be completely honest, I also don’t know,” he forcibly laughs, the half-lie rolling easily in his tongue. “Falling in love has always been out of the question for me, especially given my vocation.”

He doesn’t say that one of the many reasons that he entered the seminary had been to run away from the foolish emotion.

“And now… I am of this age and is experiencing it for the first time this extreme that it physically manifests. There are all these talks about love that I follow to heart, but to be in love…?” He shakes his head. “It’s stupid. I’m stupid.”

“It’s not like it’s anything you could’ve controlled,” his friend softly says, but it did not help in the slightest. “I know you said you also don’t know why, but I know you may have a slight guess as to why this is happening now. Maybe it can help.”

Of course he has a good guess on why he’s suddenly experiencing it, but he cannot say that. The sudden realization that the Holy Father is capable of amorous love is what makes him realize his own capability for it. Perhaps a part of him has already realized long before that he may be a little bit in love with Robert, but there was nothing that could ever come out of it, so he masks the emotion into something that is mere admiration.

The flowers were always meant to come. It had only been a matter of when.

“We grew closer over the past few years,” he starts, carefully weaving a story that is still true but not in its entirety. “I knew him for a long time but we’ve only worked together more recently. I’ve come to know more about him in the past few years before the world knew him as the Holy Father.” He cannot stop his mouth nor his mind now, so he just lets himself speak.

Maybe it’ll help, maybe it’ll make it worse.

“Not a lot of people know that he’s more than what he puts on in front of the entire world. He may look calm and composed and calculated but he can also be impulsive and reckless.” But only to me, he doesn’t add. “He has a nice and loud laugh I hear a lot,” one of which had only been last week in his bedroom. “He’s nice, saintly even, but sometimes too much that it’s becoming a flaw. He’s selfless,” with how he doesn’t want me to be involved in his condition, “and caring,” with how he reaches out every time we are separated, “and—”

Now his lungs decide to add insult to injury, making it known that what all he’s saying are nothing but what is true. Those flowers are what remains unsaid — or it is perhaps the plain and simple truth of how he does love Robert.

Chito loves him. There cannot be any other outcome to this.

The coughs come out strained and he’s having more difficulty now in trying to get rid of the flower in his throat. He heaves, tries not to choke on the uncomfortable feeling lining his throat, and gags before the cluster is finally expelled. He spits it out on his hand, only then realizing that Ambo has already made his way to him and is now rubbing his back up and down with one hand on his shoulder.

Above him, Ambo gently says, “You really do love him, huh?”

He bitterly laughs. “I wish I didn’t.” But, he knows it’s a lie. Loving Robert has always been easy. Perhaps that is the reason why it is sampaguitas he’s coughing out. No blood, the white of the petals continue to remain untainted despite already having them for a week straight. It is a burden and not all the same.

He doesn’t want to get rid of it, and he wants it gone.

Contradictions, contradictions.

“You’re hopeless, Chito.”

He glares up at him, but he knows that Ambo didn’t really mean anything by it. “Thanks a lot for the help.”

“I cannot help you apart from giving you support and I know you know this too.” He removes his hand from his back and goes back to sit on his chair. “What else can I do? Only you have control over your own feelings. And it doesn’t seem like you would want to get surgery as well.”

Chito doesn’t say anything which practically confirms it for Ambo.

“What do you want, Chito?” he slowly, softly asks, and for the first time he’d actually been asked that question, he realized he doesn’t really have an answer to it. He wants to get rid of the flowers, but for the sole purpose of not having any physical manifestation, and by extension, risks that it will bring. A priest cannot just go and cough up flowers, but they, just like any other human being, cannot control their heart.

He wishes to get rid of the flowers, but not his feelings, because for the first time in his life, he feels as if this is the one thing he’s allowed himself to have — for himself and not for anyone else. It is selfish, it may even be blasphemous, and it goes against his very nature, but this may be the reason why he’s coughing out only sampaguitas.

It is something God allowed himself to have. It is in his will that this happened.

“I don’t know,” he lies, fully aware that it is one. He knows there is no getting rid of his flowers now with his newfound realizations, so that is a new problem he has to solve.

“You’ll only make it worse by ignoring it.” I know, he doesn’t answer. “Trust me, I’ve been there.”

“Still won’t tell me who it was?” he slightly smiles, hoping to shift the conversation onto something else.

“No,” Ambo shakes his head, mirroring his smile. “That was a time already long past me. No one knew who it was and I would very much prefer for it to stay that way.” He pauses for a while, but continues, “If you really want to get rid of it — naturally, I mean — I think you still can. I still keep… that person in my life, but there are also no flowers anymore. I got over it and carried on with my life.”

It is not that simple, he wants to say, not with this condition. Not with these feelings.

Instead of saying that, though, he only smiles and does not say anything more.

∗ 𖤣 ∗

“Manny,” Chito starts, though his brother only coughs as a response. Both of his brother’s hands are now over his mouth as he coughs some more, strained and struggling to expel the flowers from his lungs. He’s finally able to do so. Chito sees the bud of a rose in his hand. He clicks his tongue. “You’ve had that for a week now.”

“Thanks for stating the obvious, kuya.”

“For God’s sake, and also mine,” he whispers that last part, though by the way Manny kicks him sideways as they’re seated on a bench outside of the church, he’s sure to have heard, “please just tell her.”

“Are you insane?”

“What’s the worse that could happen! This is embarrassing. Stop acting like you’re back in high school experiencing your first unrequited love,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “The earlier you do something, maybe the quicker it’ll go away.”

He knows that Manny does not really take his words nor his tone to heart. Just last night, Chito had gone out of his way to try and make sleep more comfortable for his brother while disguising it as an attempt to silence the coughs. He knows that Manny knows he means well, anyway.

“I’m not gonna do that,” he firmly says.

“You’re embarrassing.”

Manny only sticks his tongue out. Chito elbows him rather forcefully.

“Alright. How ‘bout surgery, then?”

“Hmm. I don’t know,” he says with a shrug. “Haven’t really thought that far yet.”

“Excuse me.” Chito almost jumps when a voice suddenly speaks behind him. He turns to see an elderly man perhaps around the age of their parents, making his way to stand in front of them.

Chito almost stands to make way for the man to sit, but the latter gestures for him that it is alright. So, he asks instead, “Can we help you?”

“Ah, apologies for just joining the conversation,” he starts with a small laugh, “but I just can’t help but overhear. You have the illness, yes?”

Chito glances at his brother and their eyes briefly meet. Manny’s cheeks burn up a little with the question as he mumbles, “Yes.”

“Well, see, I just do not think it is appropriate to get surgery for it.”

That catches both of them off guard. “Excuse me?” Chito asks before thinking, his tone already on defense.

“Kuya,” Manny whispers, warns, beside him.

The man shrugs.

“It’s just…” he sighs. “Well, the Lord has given you the illness. You just have to live with it.”

Chito stares at him in disbelief and doesn’t know how he would even react. Before he can even start to form his own thoughts, the stranger continues.

“I just don’t think it is appropriate for a God-given miracle—” It is not a miracle, Chito bites back the urge to answer. “—to be removed by mere… science,” he finishes with a wave of his hand. “It would go against the will of the Lord, you know?”

I am a seminary student, he resists retorting. What do you know about what is appropriate?

Manny is already glancing at him in panic, knowing how his elder brother’s mind works — always so protective to the people he loves with a sharp tongue that sometimes gets him in trouble.

“With all due respect, this can kill him.”

“I’m sure it won’t reach that p—” Manny immediately and hurriedly cuts in in an attempt to stop his brother, but the man speaks again.

“Well, then, it must’ve been bound to happen.”

“What did you s—”

Manny’s grip on his arm as he keeps him sitting down is so tight that Chito can feel his nails digging into his skin, and a hurried and awkward laugh comes out of his mouth. “Haha, yes, we’ll keep that in mind, thank you.”

“Mann—”

“Well, I would just suggest praying for clearer guidance. You have been very understanding, that is good. But I shall be off now.”

Chito’s brother manages to keep him in place with his mouth shut until the man is out of earshot. As soon as he feels the grip on his arm loosen, he immediately blurts out, “Who does he think he is?!”

Beside him, Manny sighs. “He’s just one of those overly-religious ones. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it? He just said that he doesn’t care if you die!”

“He also doesn’t know me, so I don’t really care about that, either. Just let it go.”

Chito huffs out a breath. “That’s just ridiculous logic. Does he not take medicine when he’s sick?”

“Kuya.”

“Alright, alright,” he resigns, leaning back on the bench. The stranger’s words echo in his head. If God allowed it to happen, then you cannot change it. He scoffs, shaking his head. Then, after a while, more quietly this time, he asks, “Are you considering it, though?”

Manny laughs. “If it gets worse, then probably. There’s a lot to consider, though. So…” He ends with a shrug.

“Well… whatever it is, I’ll be here.”

“Wow, that’s so sweet.”

Chito elbows him again, but this time, his brother avoids it easily, standing up while laughing at Chito’s frowning face. He remains quiet the rest of the afternoon. He knows he shouldn’t let a stranger’s words linger — there are a lot of people and it is nearly impossible to find someone that shares your same exact views.

But still…

There is a bit of hurt and heaviness now sitting in his chest with the notion that some would just let an illness take its course if they deem it holy, and Hanahaki has always been holy to some.

He’s already vowed to himself to never allow himself to go through this. He’s more sure now that he never shall.

∗ 𖤣 ∗

Chito makes sure to be discreet, especially given who he is. He goes to a small parish on a weekday and at a time where there are only a few people praying. The only risk now is his voice being recognized, but it is too late now to back out.

The confessional suddenly feels all too suffocating when he steps in, the cushion and the wood of the kneeler feeling cold. The small space is suddenly closing in on him.

But he does not falter for a second.

He needs to do this.

“Good afternoon,” the priest on the other side softly greets, but Chito immediately starts.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he slowly starts in a low voice, hoping he wouldn’t get recognized though that is nothing but a mere hope. “My last confession was last week.” It was before he even got the illness. “I—”

As if mocking him, a cough rises up his throat and makes him choke. His grip on the armrest of the wooden kneeler tightens for support until one of his hands repeatedly and forcefully hits his own chest as if it will even do anything. It still hasn’t become easier despite the mere size of it, despite the Holy Father briefly telling him a week ago that it will.

When his throat finally eases up, the flower gets stuck on his tongue, and he knows he cannot just spit it out in this confessional. So, he takes the stupid flower — surprisingly only one — from his tongue with his own hand, and a mocking scoff comes out of his mouth before he admits, “I am coughing up flowers for a man whom I am unworthy of.”

Silence fills the confessional for a short while. Chito made sure to make it clear that it is a man he is speaking about, the gravity of the situation not completely downplayed, but still some details left out. The priest does not need to know it is for the Holy Father.

Chito finishes, “That is all, Father.”

The silence stretches out for a few more seconds. Softly, the voice asks, “Why do you feel as if this is something to be confessed?”

He needs to make himself clearer, then. “I am a man already devoted to God,” he admits. “And I am in love with another man who is also…” he trails off, shaking his head even though he cannot be seen. “It is not right.”

He hears the man on the other side hum in understanding. “You are merely human, my child. Entering in a vocation such as yours does not stop your heart from wanting. You would be surprised at how many people like you struggle through the same predicament,” oh, he knows that, of course, “but it is beyond their control. What they do after is what will make the difference.”

“I do not want to get rid of it,” he impulsively admits, shutting his eyes tight as soon as the words leave his mouth. His first tightens up into a ball that he feels his nails dig into his skin and the flower inside being crushed.

“Do you think that it is wrong if you do not?”

“Have you not been hearing what I’ve said?” he says in disbelief before he can even think about it, a bit of venom already in his voice. He shakes his head and tries to calm himself down, relieving the pressure in his hands. More calmly, he continues, “The very nature of my flowers are wrong.”

“But is it what you believe?”

“You need to tell me whether or not it is!”

“I am also just a man, my child. I am still human. Despite my vows and my vocation, I believe myself unworthy of ever dictating another one’s views. It is only God and yourself who can reveal the truth to you.”

Chito feels the tears pricking in his eyes. This is not what he came here for.

“But if you wish for penance, you merely need to pray. Perhaps you might get the answers you seek if you reflect on the why. You came here looking for answers, I can tell that, and I know that you’d be able to get them if you take even just a moment with God.”

Chito stares at the confessional in disbelief, but a part of him also knows that the priest is telling him what he needs to hear. He did come here for answers, a hope to have a clearer mind.

And he cannot have it now.

“I absolve you of your sins. Go in peace, my child.”

He exits the confessional still feeling heavy and wonders if he should’ve even gone at all. He wonders which he would’ve preferred — someone telling him that he is right and that he is a mistake, or this. He heads to a kneeler without anyone nearby and drops to his knees.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

Sa ngalan ng Ama, ng Anak, at ng Espiritu Santo.

Amen.

But the prayer doesn’t come. It is only silence, a moment of clearness amidst his ever so messy mind. He thinks of Robert, but there are no flowers that come up.

He inhales, and exhales, and finally stands up.

As he exits the church, a teen runs up to him and he panics, wondering if he’ll be recognized despite the mask.

Instead, though, the girl only holds up her hand, holding strings of sampaguita. “Hi! Would you like to buy one?”

He almost tells her off, almost snaps at her to be left alone, but he remembers that she does not know him nor his situation. She is merely someone who is selling sampaguita. So, he forces himself to smile and find his wallet out of his pocket. “Three, please,” he says.

The crucifix in his room needs a fresh change of sampaguitas. It’s always been tradition, a routine, to change them every week, but he hasn’t had the chance to continue that routine given his responsibilities that require him to always be on the move.

Now, it seems that God is giving him a sign when the sampaguitas follow him, instead.

He thinks of his feelings towards the Holy Father — towards Robert. Something that he knows has been there for a while, something that has bloomed unexpectedly into something that he cannot hide anymore. Yet, it is not much of a burden. The petals remain untainted, and there is more the feeling of discomfort than pain.

Sampaguitas are a sign of devotion, of care, of a routine that he’s gotten used to. He’s slowly coming to realize that, now.

The girl happily obliges with his request, placing the three strings of sampaguita in a plastic bag before handing it out to him. He gives his payment and does not take the change. She thanks him profusely before running away.

He’s left there with the sampaguitas in his hand not from his lungs this time, and somehow, he feels just a little bit lighter.

∗

Chito’s return to the Vatican almost slips his mind. It has already been scheduled even before he flew back to his home country, so he has no choice but to attend.

It’ll only be for a couple of hours, he tries to convince himself. This will be the first time Robert will see him after his illness; this will be the first time he’ll see the Holy Father after learning of his.

From the occasional clearing of his throat, Chito knows he still hasn’t recovered. He wonders how Robert does it — hiding his condition in plain sight, keeping it unknown for months.

He seems to have an easier time hiding it despite being the one with five flowers as compared to his one measly blossom. Chito feels a bit of envy at that, but he knows envy will bring him nowhere. Yet another sin he will have to confess.

(He starts to not see the flowers as a sin anymore.)

Chito can feel Robert’s eyes following him across the room after the cold shoulder he’s given him, but he doesn’t dare to look again for the fear of revealing what he’s desperately trying to keep hidden.

Not now. Courtesy be damned, but he would very much like to not suddenly cough up flowers in the middle of the room with the most important people of the Curia.

The Holy Father starts a while later, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”

In your name, your word, and your soul that has touched thee — let this be the one to save me.

Chito looks at him and feels the itch clawing up in his throat, the threat of a scandal blooming from a forbidden affection that should never have seen the light. But isn’t it what flowers do? Seek the light in which it shall continue to grow, blossom in the gentle hands of the one that brought it life.

I am not worthy, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.

The meeting commences and Chito’s mind is elsewhere. He knows he’s already disassociating just to keep his mind off the flowers, of Robert being in the same room, of not wanting to reveal either of them.

It is the coughs reaching his ears that pull him back to reality.

His eyes immediately dart on the other side of the room where Robert is seated at the head of the table who is now covering his mouth while repeatedly coughing. Panic immediately rises up to Chito’s chest as Robert stands up in an attempt to excuse himself, but his feet probably get caught on the legs of the chair that he falls down and disappears behind the table.

Chito stands up, and so does everyone else. His eyes immediately catch Edgard’s, already on his feet to attend to Robert, his face mirroring his own panic and fear. It doesn’t even take Chito a second to immediately run towards where Robert is, placing himself in between him and everyone else, and at the same time, he yells out: “Everyone leave, now!”

He surprises even himself with the volume of his voice, how he manages to say it clearly despite the mask on his face. He removes it, looks at the other people in the room and repeats, more calmly but still with a sense of urgency, “I need you all to leave, please.”

“Excuse me, what is going o—”

“Cardinal Tagle,” Edgard urgently calls out from behind him. He turns to see Edgard with his body also shielding Robert who is hunched over and his hands still covering his mouth. Chito already knows what Edgard is going to say, so he faces the crowd once again.

“All of you,” he looks at the press with their cameras and microphones ready with the hope that it is not too late, “you need to leave.”

“Eminence, can we know what—”

“Eminence! Is the Holy Father alright—”

Eminence, Eminence, Eminence!

He doesn’t know how he managed to do it, and he has also seen Edgard briefly leave Robert’s side to help him before returning, but by the time he’s heard whispers and gasps from the rest of the Curia members present in that room, the press are already gone. But Robert’s coughs do not stop, and as he turns to him, flowers are already spilling out of his mouth.

The other people in the room stand around him like he’s an exotic display, and perhaps it is not too far off — it is, after all, a strange sight to see the Holy Father cough out an assortment of flowers thus revealing a forbidden love that is now punishing him.

Chito thinks of the words said to him during his short time in his home country — the illness is not something anyone can control. It is ugly, it is painful, it is raw and real and all things that are enough to convince someone to not love at all, and yet, yet, people choose to keep doing it, anyway.

Foolish, foolish people.

He is decidedly one of those.

To love is to be human; to be human is to love.

Perhaps the Holy Father held onto that last piece of humanity he can choose to give and keep to himself, and now, he is suffering the consequences of it.

He doesn’t hear his own words as he makes his way towards Robert, doesn’t hear the way he’s yelling at everyone to move away and make space as he kneels before him. Robert coughs out one final chrysanthemum stained with blood before his eyes shut and collapses sideways on the floor, caught by his secretary who is now looking up at Chito with tears in his eyes and panic radiating across his body.

At the corner of his eye, he sees Sister Raffaella — ever the angel that she is — talking to the crowd, the other cardinals who wish for answers even though what they’re seeking for is already as clear as day.

“Eminence!” the voice cuts through in the middle of the noise, grounding him back to reality. He turns to Edgard. “We need to get him to the hospital.”

“Yes,” he quickly says and immediately gets to work, calling those that needed to be called to prepare for travel in what seems like less than a minute while simultaneously trying to explain the situation to everyone, though he knows he’s done a horrible job with the latter. There is a continuous ringing in his ears that block out the noise. It is only the adrenaline now that keeps him moving and talking, and perhaps also forgetting about his own condition that he hasn’t had the urge to cough up his own burdens.

God may be hearing his prayers now, but he does not need for him to be the priority of those prayers. He looks at Robert, now beeing wheeled across the hospital floors with an oxygen mask over his mouth, and thinks — God, please, save him.

It is the only prayer he can utter now. Again and again and again.

“Your Eminence,” a doctor calls out to him in a hurry. “Roots have attached themselves to his lungs and the flowers are still continuing to grow from his throat. We need to make a decision now. Would you be the one to make them for the Holy Father?”

When Chito doesn’t answer for three seconds, Edgard cuts in. “What decision, exactly?”

“It’s either we will be allowed to perform emergency surgery, or he will…” The doctor hesitates, but Chito knows what she is going to say. “I am sorry, but there is no other considerable option. There is no time.”

“Do it,” Chito says without hesitation, determined though still with doubts. But there is no room for his doubts now. “I’ll accomplish any paperwork or whatever you need of me but I need you to do it now.”

The doctor seems slightly taken aback with how quickly he’s answered. “Of course, Eminence, but you also need to know that—”

“I’m sorry,” Edgard cuts in before turning to Chito, “but can I speak to you for a while, please?”

Chito looks at him in surprise. “There is no time—”

“It’ll just take a minute. Probably less. I promise.”

The doctor nor Chito doesn’t get the chance to answer when Edgard pulls him aside. At the corner of his eye, the doctor remains where she is standing, restless and fidgety as she’s looking at them.

“Edgard, whatever this is, I’m sure it can wait until after—”

“He doesn’t want to get surgery,” Edgard quickly says, which surprises Chito once more.

“It doesn’t matter what he wants now! This is his life—”

“I know, but there is a reason for that. I agree that he can take it now, but you also need to know that, well, he doesn’t want you knowing this and I would be going against him but—”

“Edgard, please, we need to hur—”

“His flowers are for you.”

That completely shuts him up. His eyes widen, looking at Edgard who is now fidgeting with his hands and whose eyes are tearing up again. He opens his mouth but no words come out.

And suddenly, suddenly, he coughs. What he’s been trying to keep for the past God-knows-how-many minutes — or has it already been an hour? — rises up his throat so easily that he thought he was going to throw up. But as he holds out his palm and spits out what had risen up to his mouth, he and Edgard sees the singular, still untainted, sampaguita in his hand.

His chest feels lighter now, his lungs feeling like they are finally free of any blockage that had been wearing him down for the past few weeks. He inhales one, long breath and finds that he can do so again without discomfort.

He breathes out, and knows what he must do.

Edgard continues to stare at him with wide eyes without saying a word, but it seems that the idea comes to him as quickly as it did to Chito. They both return to talk to the doctor.

“Have you—”

“Where is he? Can we see him?” Edgard cuts her off. “Please.”

She looks surprised again. “I don’t think—”

“Just for a minute. A minute. You can time us and ask us to leave after a minute, but please,” Edgard continues to argue.

“We are in a very delicate situation, Father. His Holiness needs to be—”

“Doctor,” Chito cuts in. “I assure you this will probably even take less than the time he’s offered.”

There is still hesitation written across his face, but the longer they argue here, the more time is taken away from them. His prayers get answered in the form of the doctor motioning for them to follow.

They enter a room with a few other healthcare workers preparing for what Chito thinks is obviously the surgery, and Robert lies unconscious in the middle of it all.

“Empty the room for a while,” the doctor says loudly enough for everyone to hear, and Chito sees them exchange confused glances but follow anyway, muttering amongst themselves the very same sentiments they’ve already been told.

His mind starts counting down as soon as he takes long strides to get to Robert’s bed. He takes Robert’s hands in his. “Why didn’t you tell me that it was me?”

(57, 56, 55.)

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

Sa ngalan ng Ama, ng Anak, at ng Espiritu Santo.

In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.

“Well, of course you wouldn’t, because you really are stubborn, you know that?”

(49, 48, 47.)

God, I do not know if you would still hear me after all those I have said. After succumbing to the sin of the belief that what I am feeling is something that you have given me.

“You’ve kept this for months and nobody knew. How long before the illness manifested that you’ve started to hide what is already in your heart?”

(38, 37, 36.)

You have given us the capability to love and none of us are the exception to it.

“You’re really stupid, Bob,” he says with a slight laugh. “Why did you have to love me too much that you would rather choose death than lose me?”

(28, 27, 26.)

But if you were to punish me just to save another soul, then save his own.

“But I guess I cannot blame you when I’m being hypocritical now. You’ve had your flowers for, what? Two months? And I’ve had mine for two weeks. I’ve ran away because I can and left you here when you couldn’t. And yet, my heart still reaches out to you during that time even though I didn’t want to.”

(17, 16, 15.)

If this means that he will not look at me the same way for the rest of our lives, if this means that I will be condemned both by you and your beloved shepherd on Earth, then I will gladly accept.

“But that’s the thing with loving someone, right? There is no getting around it, no hiding it, no getting rid of it especially when every piece of your soul is reaching out to the other that it may either be your destruction or your salvation.”

(9, 8, 7.)

There is no other prayer I shall ask of this desperately.

“So, now, please,” he hears his own voice crack. “I’m meeting you halfway now. Please, please, hold on. I am here. I won’t let go of you again. Just… please. I can’t lose you.”

(3, 2, 1.)

Save him, save him, save him, even at the cost of myself as long as he shall continue to live.

“I love you.”

Amen.

The doors open once more and he turns to see the previous group enter once more, the doctor leading as she says, “Your Eminence, we really need to—”

She stops himself, her eyes darting onto the unconscious body behind Chito. Without saying anything more to him, she starts commanding every other person in the room to prepare countless machines and tools that Chito cannot fully comprehend.

A machine is placed above his chest, and they are throwing words around that does not quite reach Chito’s ears already as he stands there frozen in the middle of the room.

He’s only pulled back again when the doctor walks up to him with wide eyes. “What did you do?” she asks, almost breathless.

“Wh — What?”

“You—” She shakes his head. “The flowers subsided. They’re almost gone now—” Chito turns to Edgard in surprise who mirrors his expression, “—but there are still roots. Like I have said, they’ve already attached themselves to the tissues of his lungs.”

Behind her, he watches as one of them inserts a pair of forceps in Robert’s open mouth, the mask now temporarily removed, and she is careful as she pulls out a flower that seems to be blocking his throat. It is a lily, he recognizes.

“So, we still need to proceed with surgery should you allow for it to—”

“Yes,” he answers, once again without hesitation. “Do it, please.”

If it’ll be the only way to save him, then let it happen.

A flash of sympathy flashes across the doctor’s face, but Chito thinks he might’ve just been imagining it. Still, she nods. “I’ll have someone attend to you. And… Your Eminence,” she slowly starts, “rest assured that we will be doing everything we can to minimize the damages. You…” she slowly breathes out. “You have helped.” Another pause. “And I can also assure you that nothing in this room will ever get out.”

Chito cannot bring himself to sigh out in relief, so he only nods as someone — perhaps it had been Edgard — guides him to exit the room.

He collapses into the nearest chair he finds and buries his face in his hands, and for the first time this entire afternoon, he finally allows himself to cry.

Save him please. Save him.

∗ 𖤣 ∗

“Good afternoon, Father,” Chito greets with a smile, almost surprising the Superior General of the Augustinians who seems to be fixated on staring at the church in front of them.

“Hi,” he greets back with a small smile. “Your Eminence, thank you for having us here.”

A slight laugh comes out of his mouth. “It would be strange not to,” he teases, in which he is answered with a sheepish smile. “And please, I’ve had enough of hearing formalities for the day. It gets kind of repetitive and tiring once it’s all you hear, don’t you think?”

Robert answers with a small hum.

“I like to be called Chito. Don’t ask. The nickname just stuck, I guess.”

It seems that the Superior General is still a bit hesitant, but he breathes out a sigh and smiles, anyway. “Well, then, some people call me Bob. The nickname just stuck, too, I guess.” Chito smiles in return, and Robert returns his gaze up at the church of San Agustin. “It is a beautiful church and a beautiful place. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of it.”

“I am glad you think so.”

Before Robert can answer, a woman only a bit younger than them approaches, holding sampaguita garlands in her hand. “Hello po,” she greets, holding up what she’s selling.

As Chito, without hesitation, fishes his wallet out of his pocket, he asks, “Have you ever bought one of these before?”

“I don’t believe I have,” Robert answers.

He finds his wallet and pulls out a bill. “Two fours, please. Separate the plastics,” he tells the lady who nods and immediately moves to fulfil his request. He turns to Robert and says, “They’re sold a lot outside churches. They can be hung on images, saints, crosses, or anything and anywhere you wish to put it. I even see some people hang it on their vehicles.”

Robert smiles at him, and at the same time, the lady gives them their sampaguitas. Chito gives one plastic to Robert, and the lady thanks them before leaving.

“Here. Maybe you’ll have somewhere to hang them in.”

Robert looks a bit surprised, but accepts it nonetheless. “Thank you, Chito,” he softly says, and they both turn back again to the church, only looking at it side by side, letting themselves take it all in in a comfortable, oddly familiar silence.

Chito feels a certain lightness in his chest, finding a different kind of peace of something he cannot understand just yet.

Perhaps it is the sampaguitas — a routine, a familiarity. A physical manifestation of peace and purity, something he would want to hold onto for as long as he can.