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1976
“I don’t like what you’re doing,” Alfred greets as he enters the meeting room. He vaguely registers Yao rolling his eyes, Francis sighing into his glass, and Arthur pinching the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t care too much about them. His marches in long, fast strides toward the large, bulking nation seated near the head of the table, who regards him with that constant, off-putting smile.
“It is good to see you are well,” Ivan says pleasantly. “May I ask what I did that set you off this time?”
“This!” Alfred slams a slim folder on the table in a manner so furious that the smack echoes throughout the room. It opens on a clipping of Ivan and Isabelo shaking hands at Malacañang, with the headline announcing the start of diplomatic relations between the Soviet Union and the Philippines. “What the fuck is this, Ivan? I’ve warned you countless times not to get involved with him!”
Ivan blinks. “They can certainly be counted. You told me not to punch him, once, at a UN conference around twenty years ago.”
“Yeah, well now I’m gonna say it twice! You touch him and I’ll have your head!”
“Gentlemen, please,” Francis soothes. “I fail to see the issue here. In fact, we should raise a toast to celebrate a step forward in globalization! There is no need to kick up all this fuss over nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” Alfred insists. He continues glaring at Ivan. “You’ve messed around in Southeast Asia enough as it is. I won’t let you corrupt Isabelo like you have the others — not if I have anything to say about it.”
“Which you do not,” Ivan points out. “Because he is a sovereign nation that is not under your rule, and he can do whatever he pleases. He is more agreeable when he is not simply copying you. He should have the freedom to do what he feels is best for him.”
Alfred glowers. “You don’t get to speak to me about freedom.”
“Every nation is free to make the correct choice of joining me,” Ivan says. “I am sure I can treat him better than you did.”
“Oh, just get over it, Alfred!” Yao exclaims, annoyed, right as Alfred is about to throw up his fists and shut the other nation up for good. “It’s not a union or an alliance or a trade deal. It’s setting up an office. Nobody needs your permission for something as small as that.”
But it’s Isabelo, Alfred wants to argue.
Arthur, who was being uncharacteristically quiet throughout the whole affair, must have decided it was time to speak up. He sets a hand on Alfred’s shoulder; warm, sympathetic, and just the slightest bit restraining.
“Let it go,” Arthur says.
It’s a struggle, but Alfred somehow gets through the rest of the day without his possessiveness flaring up again. He reminds himself of the facts: Isabelo isn’t his, Isabelo doesn’t want to be his, and Isabelo is far from the only thing in his life that matters anymore. He’s the goddamned United States of America. The world needs him to keep turning.
And in that sense, Alfred’s feelings don’t need to matter at all.
1951
Contrary to popular belief, Isabelo doesn’t hate Kiku all that much.
He’s never been one to care too much about war. He grew up under Antonio, and Antonio used to have wars all the time, and so Isabelo just accepts war as one of those things nations do to pass the years by. He certainly doesn’t like it, not one bit, but grudges over who fought who feel so meaningless when they live for so long. Antonio had a really bad fight with Gilbert and Francis once and they still ended up getting together for drinks shortly after the dust was settled. Fun doesn’t happen unless everyone knows how to be in one room without killing each other too much, and Isabelo — who often feels like he never had much of it while he was younger — has quickly discovered in his independence that he’s all about fun.
So, no, the distaste that crawls up his throat at the sight of Kiku’s picture in the latest foreign affairs newsletter has nothing to do with the war. It doesn’t explain the way it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. It doesn’t explain the way his heart burns.
Isabelo lets his thumb touch over the slightly blurred print of Alfred’s happy grin, familiarly bright and defiant in contrast to Kiku’s hesitant expression next to it.
He’s glad they’re getting along. Really, he is. The short article says that their bosses have reached a new agreement to promote more cooperation between their countries in the future. That’s nice. Isabelo has to swallow a burst of acid when he reads a line of text about the millions of dollars that Alfred had already sent on Kiku’s way for rebuilding and post-war support. It’s gigantically large compared to what Isabelo got, and Isabelo was American territory for the whole stretch of the war. Come to think of it, more than half the world had received some sort of support, whether in money or veteran benefits — he can only imagine what that must feel. Does Alfred truly not care about him anymore?
Happy thoughts, Isabelo reminds himself. It’s a mantra that got him through those long, lonely nights when he pretended not to hear his neighbors fervently praying for everything to be over. But soppy, sepia-toned memories of movie dates and midnight conversation are only making him feel worse.
Before even processing the thought, Isabelo reaches for a cigarette.
It’s fine. He’s fine.
His hands are shaking too much for the flame to take.
1971
Even on his off-days, Alfred finds himself wandering into his office.
It’s an anxious habit he developed a few years ago that he can’t seem to shake. Somewhere during the paranoia of the 50s and the cutthroat competition of the 60s, he had gotten it in his head that the only place in the world where he was safe was the quaint and lifeless space that he calls his main seat of operations. He has a writing desk, several drawers filled with classified documents, a lumpy sofa, and a small window where light could illuminate the dusty corners; he is happy with it, he swears he is. He has assurance from his security that no spy equipment would ever enter his room. That is all he needs to declare that his office is comfortable.
There are no hiding places for secret cigarettes, envelopes to hold movie tickets for the night, nor empty closets for a discreet mid-afternoon kiss that quickly tumbles into something more. Alfred hasn’t needed such things in decades. Alfred doesn’t have time to mourn the loss.
Still, his fingers absentmindedly course through files of Manila, and his heart pangs painfully at the ghost memory of laughter in his ear. Bird-like Isabelo, who chirped and sang and preened like he had feathers of his own to fluff — quick on his feet, with a deep longing to soar. It is easier for Alfred to think of Isabelo like this: mindless chatter instead of clever eyes, with the affection for a pet rather than anything deeper, anything real. What was the early century like for the world’s top superpower? Certainly no dalliances and youthful mistakes, only the forward march of the new future.
He glances briefly at the text. A report from his ambassador that the current president was hoping Washington would support some sort of decree.
Suddenly, Alfred wants a smoke. Really? All these years and Malacañang still wants to play suck-up? He can’t quite complain. Lord knows he tried to get back in Arthur’s good graces after he got his own independence, and it’s not like further assurance that he still has allies in the East is a problem. But he wonders what Isabelo is thinking. They had shared too many jokes in the smoke-filled rooms of Manila’s young Congress for this dogged, erstwhile chase for approval to ring sincere. He imagines the curve of Isabelo’s smile, a sharp quip at the ready, and he aches.
Within the cold, empty walls of his office is the only place where Alfred allows himself to feel. For a moment, he can forget who he is and remember who he used to be.
Then he recalls the bright glint of the sun in Isabelo’s eyes when he was finally proclaimed free.
Alfred takes a deep breath.
He puts the files back in the drawer.
1955
A loud knock on the door and Isabelo nearly trips over himself in his excitement to get it.
“Coming! You’re lucky I’m energetic today, I spent hours getting this place all tidied up for—” He falters when he sees exactly who he’s welcoming. “You. Hi.”
Arthur shifts uneasily. “Hello, Isabelo. May I come in?”
A grin blooms on his face as his instincts take over. Isabelo is proud of his gracious and hospitable manners, well-trained from all the times he was the only one available to receive guests at the Carriedo villa, and so it’s easy to fall into familiar routines of coat-taking, seat-gesturing, small-talking and all the other petty what-have-yous of an exceptional host. He even serves tea earlier than he planned to account for what he remembers of Arthur’s preferences: less strong, a little sweet, and a temperature close to scalding. By the soft expression on Arthur’s face as he takes the cup, Isabelo knows his effort is appreciated. No unsuspecting onlooker would ever guess that he would rather kick Arthur out of his house and vomit.
“Sorry to catch you off-guard,” Arthur says. “I should have sent word that Alisdair couldn’t make it.”
Isabelo tries not to retort — You should’ve, because seeing you makes me want to die — but what comes out of his mouth is no less revealing.
“Oh, it’s alright,” he says. “How’s Alfred?”
Fifty years ago, Arthur would have known to brush off the overstep and smoothly direct them back to official concerns. Today, Arthur is crumbling bit by bit, and the expression he wears is wide-eyed, vulnerable. There’s a faint blush on his cheeks. Isabelo is torn between lighthearted teasing and complete self-destruction.
“Er, well,” Arthur fumbles, “Doing alright, outwardly, though you know how that boy is. Not often you get an honest smile out of that one. I almost long for the days where I could trust you to ease him up a bit. Which might seem odd, coming from me, who is—”
“As I hear, you’re doing my job just fine,” Isabelo chirps. “It’s clear that my services are no longer needed. To be honest, it’s silly of me to even ask, so let’s forget about it. Anyway! So we’re supposed to discuss air control over my country, yes?”
“Isabelo, I’m sor—”
“Air control,” Isabelo repeats, and he smiles so wide his face feels like breaking.
1966
Despite the hustle and bustle of a crowded UN meeting, Alfred only has eyes for one man.
“That’s Indonesia, right?” Alfred asks.
Beside him, Arthur lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Sometimes, it feels like you’re deliberately trying to test me. But yes, that’s the one who’s been kicking up a ridiculous fuss with my boys. It looks like he’s come to his senses, though Ivan certainly still has his claws in him; you should really be more aware of these things, Alfred.”
He is. He’s read through enough reports from his men in the region to know that the tall, broad-shouldered nation is a problem, but didn’t care to look any closer. These days, Alfred’s concerns in Southeast Asia are solely focused on Vietnam, and if he’s deliberately avoiding the nations further down — well, he trusts his people to keep everything handled on that front. Alfred is stretched thin enough as it is already. If it’s not the Pentagon knocking on his door, it’s the FBI, and if it’s not the FBI, it’s the police complaining about all the civilian protests. The only break that Alfred’s gotten since Nuremberg has been checking in on NASA, which doesn’t even count as a break at all.
And seeing somebody else being embraced by a delighted, cheerful Isabelo is not helping.
They look friendly, Alfred notes. Indonesia — or Dirga rather, as Isabelo’s exclamation helpfully informs — is stiff and shy as the smaller nation practically dances around him. The others around them chide and smile good-naturedly, apparently used to this kind of behavior from the two, and Isabelo says a joke that has them all roaring in laughter. Alfred hadn’t been so sure about the association when he’d heard about it. But Isabelo is, evidently, right at home.
Which is good. Alfred tries to convince himself that this is good. Something inside him is breaking at the sight of Isabelo aiming a wide, teasing, hauntingly familiar smile at a blushing Dirga, but this is good. It’s the kind of easy connection that Isabelo had always wanted. It’s the kind of easy connection that he could never have had with Alfred around.
So, undoubtedly, this is an improvement. Dirga has resolved his fight with his siblings and returned back to the UN, and Isabelo is happy. Alfred should be happy too.
“Alfred,” Arthur warns, and only then does Alfred realize that he’s crushed a pen in his hands.
He unfurls his fist: no bleeding, but he’s made a mess. He thinks he can feel a heavy gaze on him, but when he looks up, Isabelo has turned his back. Arthur raises an inquiring eyebrow at him, and Alfred is reminded that he can’t afford to look weak.
Alfred smiles reassuringly. “Takes a lot more than this to hurt me.”
Well, all that matters is that everyone else believes it.
1983
Malacañang is quiet tonight, and so Isabelo makes his great escape.
It will be a quick one. He knows that the guards are prowling more than ever, that the staff are keeping their eyes peeled on his every move. There are growing whispers of dissent among the ranks. He can feel his people with every thrum that rushes through his blood. Something is brewing in the streets, and even though he is caged alone in the palace, it claws at him. Isabelo chases for freedom under the stars. It is all he can do to soothe his restless heart.
Based on previous attempts, he has twenty minutes before he is found and dragged back to his quarters. That’s fine. Isabelo has done more with less.
Tonight is a special night, and all Isabelo wants to do is visit the balete tree.
Once upon a time, the gardens had been a haven of sorts. For Alfred and him, two peas in a pod, both too impatiently rowdy for stuffy political posturing and stiff societal customs, it was the palace gardens that granted a gentle reprieve away from the demands of their people. Sure, yes, there was the occasional hasty romp in the bushes. Yet the memories that cling to Isabelo are quiet and cloying, of Alfred teaching him the constellations while he retold half-remembered myths of moon-eating serpents. It was here that Alfred opened up about his lonely childhood as a boy, longing for British ships that only seldom visited, and Isabelo contributed with his own stories of shadows that lurked in the Spanish villa. If Isabelo really put his head to it, he would recall that it was while the narra blooms were falling when he first realized how handsome Alfred looked in his sunlight. It was the first photograph he had ever taken, fifty years ago, when Alfred promised that he would someday set him free.
Alfred must be involved with this somehow. If not him, then his men, who have never truly let go of Manila since they first declared it was theirs. The shameful despair that consumed him so strongly just a few years ago has left him, and he is left with an everlasting hollowness in his heart. Isabelo thinks he’s gotten so used to the ache that it feels more like comfort now. Of course, everything feels like a picked scab refusing to heal, these days — it’s what the times are. He will survive it. He has to. Otherwise, he will truly have lost all his pride as a nation, and he’ll be damned if he becomes nothing more than the pain.
Isabelo finds the old friend he was looking for, tall and giant and foreboding as always. The breeze whistles, the stars brighten. He takes a deep breath, gathering courage, and he sets a hefty cigar at the root. An offering to those that had stood by him for far longer than the Christian God.
Give me strength, Isabelo prays. Such that I will never again have to wait for anyone else to save me.
A bird call echoes through the cold, unfeeling dark.
It’s answer enough.
1945
“Mind if I keep you company?”
Alfred grunts in response. Francis happily takes this as acquiescence, and even though he’s certainly worse for wear — eyebags, sling, bruises, and all — he is radiating the sort of positive energy that Alfred can’t stand at the moment. It is too similar to the anticipation of a predator who has just found new prey.
He can see the intrigue. Despite the celebratory mood that Alfred opened the victory party with, he gave up on doing his hosting duties with any measure of actual joy and is instead sulking alone at one of the back tables. Arthur passed by him earlier with a scoff, and had seemingly taken the role of entertaining all of the guests without a comment, while Matthew sent him worried looks when he wasn’t stuck in conversation with the other British colonies. Only Francis has the gall to look at the thunderous expression on Alfred’s face and sit beside him with a carefree smile.
Well. Alfred can think of somebody else who could do it, but that somebody is too busy hogging the floor with a partner who can’t keep his hands to himself.
“This is nostalgic,” Francis says, as Isabelo and Alejandro transition from their lively jota to a tender waltz. “We used to have several balls like this, a century ago. It was where we caught up with each other: who is forming a union, who is at war, who is your ally, and who is not. Antonio liked to bring his plentiful charges along sometimes. The spectacle served a welcome reprieve to everybody.”
“Arthur never took me to any.”
Francis chuckles. “Why would he? You forget how insistent you were about staying with your people. No, it was less trouble for all parties if we kept our invites for those already in Europe.”
Alfred huffs. “Right, because the rest of us didn’t matter.”
“You have since proved us plenty wrong about that, cher.” Francis opens a wine bottle and pours out a glass for the both of them. He sets the heavy-bottomed one in front of Alfred, who ignores it. “The world is changing. Rather, it has already changed, and we are still in the process of unraveling what this new tomorrow has to offer. I think your path from hereon forward is clear. I simply assumed you would be happier about it.”
“’Course I’m happy. I’ve wanted this my whole life,” Alfred mumbles. Glumly, he watches Isabelo laugh into a dramatic spin, and he thinks that Isabelo had never danced with him like this in public. “But what a fat load of nothing it’s doing for me right now. Why can’t I just have everything I want?”
He still remembers the day he reunited with Isabelo. He was fresh off the plane from getting an official surrender at Japan, expecting a congratulatory kiss and a happy homecoming, only for Isabelo to glare at him with a haunted, haunting look in his eyes as he pounded furiously on his chest.
You killed me, Isabelo raged. The Manila I love is gone.
As if it was his fault that Kiku had ravaged his city so much that he needed a few bombs to weed all the enemy soldiers out. Alfred may not have been there himself, but he trusted his men, and he trusted Isabelo to understand. Thankfully, they’ve since moved past the issue to focus on bigger things, yet Alfred still feels a sting of hurt at the memory. The world needed him. Was it truly so bad to lend his aid?
“Let me offer you some insights, from one old empire to the new.” Francis must have noticed the way Alfred bristles, and he quickly corrects himself. “To an emerging superpower then, if you prefer.
“You think that you deserve everything. You think that you can take everything. One might say that it is greed that fells us all, and yet it all comes back to pride. You might be tempted to sacrifice everything you are to have a chance of grasping everything you can become. You must resist it, Alfred, if you are to survive. Impatience is the enemy. Power comes with time.”
Alfred’s heart aches. It’s the least he can do to keep his promise of freedom to Isabelo — he needs to make up for what he did. For everything. “And if my time is running out?”
Francis raises a hapless toast. “Then you must learn to let some things go.”
Isabelo looks back at him with a dazzling grin, the invitation muffled in the crowd’s noise yet unfailingly clear to Alfred’s ears anyway, and he thinks of warm sunsets, soft snow, and a purple gaze blazing through the smoke. He thinks of artillery shells, bloodied hands, and anguished shouts cutting through the quiet air. He thinks, he knows that he has to choose. And deep down, Alfred always knew which path he would take.
He shakes his head in answer, his smile bittersweet.
“Letting go, huh?” Alfred says. “Yeah. I think I can do that.”
1989
It’s past two in the morning when Isabelo gets to return to his quaint little bungalow, only recently purchased and already more of a home than anywhere else he’s ever stayed in his long life as a nation. He’s tired, he’s hungry, and he’s had such a long day that he almost wishes he could go back to being ruled over by someone else, which is how he knows it’s bad. The phone rings just as he closes the fridge, and so it’s with a bottle in his hand and a yawn in his throat that Isabelo answers.
“Hello?”
“Mijo, are you alright?”
Antonio’s voice hits him like a lightning strike. They aren’t exactly on bad terms, but it’s the first time that the other nation has ever reached out — and if there’s any nation that would call him tonight, Isabelo would have expected it to be the one whose army was called for some last minute back-up. He lets the sting of disappointment run through him for only a second before he clears his throat.
“Um, yes? Sorry, is there anything I can do for you, or…”
“Nothing! I just, ah, wanted to check in.” A nervous chuckle crackles in Isabelo’s ear. “I saw the news. So. You know, I was just going to ask if you were doing okay. I suppose you are. I’m glad to hear it, Isabelo. I really am. That’s good to know.”
This is one of the most confusing conversations of Isabelo’s life. “Are you drunk?”
“Is it really such a surprise that I’d want to call? No, don’t say anything. I guess it is. I guess I don’t blame you for thinking it. I shouldn’t, anyway.”
Oh. Isabelo laughs — there are only a precious few times in his life when he had the Spanish Empire on the backfoot. “If this is you trying to apologize, then you’re doing a horrible job. Can I tell you that? Enough time has passed, yeah? I can’t believe you seriously waited until I almost had my government overthrown to do this. I’m telling Alejandro. You suck.”
“That isn’t what I—”
“So you’re never going to say it? You know that’s worse?”
“Please,” Antonio says, and he says it with such desperation that it genuinely takes Isabelo aback. The bottle threatens to slip from his hands. “I care about you. That’s always been true; no matter how you feel about it or how badly I showed it, I have never lied to you about this.”
“Liar,” Isabelo says. “Lying is all you’ve ever done to me, like you did in Cebu, like you did in Madrid, like you did in Manila and Bohol and Corregidor—”
“That wasn’t me,” Antonio says gently.
And he’s correct, Isabelo realizes, slow and solemn as a sinking stone. For all his feelings that he had been unfairly neglected in his youth, it wasn’t Antonio that broke a promise to come back home.
I’ll be back before you know it. Those were the words he held onto while he was caked in mud and dried blood, marching to the brink of starvation, until it became his solace during the cold nights on a tatami mat and a threadbare blanket. But it was Alejandro that greeted him when he finally managed to escape to his homeland — so restless over Isabelo that he joined the one of the only overseas squadrons that he had to find him — and it was American generals that welcomed his return, given his own president had died in exile. The single good thing that came out from the war was his stilted reintroduction to Dirga, Malik, and the others. Otherwise, he had been painfully alone, and he had only truly realized it when everything was long over.
What good had waiting ever done for him? The best things Isabelo had ever accomplished as a nation came from action, not the lack of it. Yet the reality was he had grown too used to doing nothing, treading water, just trying to keep his head above all the things that could drag him down. He didn’t like looking forward nor looking back. All Isabelo wanted to do was live for himself. So he accepted the ache that came with every reminder of what he used to have and who he used to be, because letting it fester and shadow his every waking moment was undoubtedly worse than learning how to shrug it off.
Except sometimes, on particularly hellish days like today, the past came rearing its aggravating, unruly head in ugly ways. Not that Isabelo was telling Antonio any of that. He brushed off the tense silence with a brusque, “Whatever.”
“Lovino’s rubbing off on you,” Antonio says, warm and cheery. His words are less of an attack than they used to be: the Antonio in Isabelo’s memories is harsh and severe, forbidding contact between his dearest cariño and the rest of his wayward charges, but the way he treated them was always honest, if extreme. Isabelo remembers that Antonio had gone through a civil war himself, long after he left, and the sudden camaraderie makes a bit more sense. “It’s nearing Christmas, so I just want to remind you that you’re always welcome for a visit. We can have a chat. Nation to nation.”
“Sure,” Isabelo says, before he can catch himself. “Um. Not this December.”
“Whenever you’re free,” Antonio says, a smile in his voice.
It’s not really the words he wants to hear, and it’s not really who he wants to hear the words from, but somehow it’s a soothing balm over old wounds anyway. There is a relief in recognizing the lightness of his heart. No longer is he helplessly desperate for scraps of recognition nor blindingly consumed by fury; and even though true reconciliation once felt impossible, the path toward it had suddenly, easily shown itself to him. If he took it…
After all this time, here is a surrender Isabelo can make peace with: the certainty that, one day, he can move on from what was done to him. From everything.
“I’ll be there.”
And even though Antonio can’t see it, Isabelo is smiling back.