Chapter Text
Juanito stares at him like he's alien, and he might as well be. (Who speaks Latin fluently in the 21st century anyway? Answer: Placido Penitente, former bane of his existence, current unrequited love of his life; his best friend, if you will.)
His head spins (and spins, and spins, and spins,) for more reason than one. "Wait," and his eyes widen as he says this, "explain this to me again." (He makes it a point to gesture at the entire textbook, flail his arms a little bit. His cheeks are flushed, half-embarrassed, mostly frustrated. Why are you this hard? he thinks incredulously at the thing.)
Placido blinks at him, straight-faced. The scholar shakes his head and sighs. He backtracks over the last ten minutes of his little spiel; resets. He clasps his hands together, and Juanito startles at the sound. "Dare."
(The Batangueno looks at him, all hopeful and please tell me you know this. He hates to disappoint. Though, he's not sure he knows how not to.) "And," Juanito drags out the vowel, "you've lost me." (He hates himself for not knowing what it means, but the only consolation he can give is an apologetic smile. He really doesn't mean to be such a fucking idiot all the time.)
Placido stares at him for forty-six seconds straight as he attempts to deduce whether or not the boy is actually serious. Another sigh heaves itself out of his lungs.
Juanito takes this as cue to divert the conversation. "What time is it?" he questions.
Placido doesn't look away from him, doesn't even miss a beat, "A quarter to two, roughly."
"How do you know everything?"
"It's just time, Juanito." Placido cocks an eyebrow at him. "There's a thousand four hundred forty minutes in a day, all you have to do is choose one."
"I lose track of time all the time."
"Well," Placido smiles, "what time is it now?"
Juanito draws his eyebrows together. "Quarter to two."
Placido nods, shifting in the other boy's bed. (There's a look in his eyes Juanito can't decipher.) "Here's what I know: I don't know everything, and neither do you. But time, quarter to two; here's to something we both know to be true."
"Whatever," he rolls his eyes. (But he finds that his heart beats a little bit faster anyway.)
"We should work on your vocabulary when we're done with grammar," Placido remarks. He breathes. (No, Juanito wants to tell him, the air isn't what you think it is. And still, the boy breathes, so oblivious to the air.) "Give. Dare. That's what it means."
"I," Juanito starts, "am an idiot."
Placido looks at him, down at the textbook, back at him. (Juanito looks at him, half-expectant.) "What?" he scoffs. "I'm not about to argue."
"I'm hopeless," he says. The other just shrugs half-heartedly, shows no other sign of acknowledgement, and continues to spew Latin into his ear.
"Do you get it?" Placido is exasperated, but he holds onto his name and tries to stay leveled and calm. "Do you get anything at all?" (Tries.)
He blinks twice, shrugs. "I definitely maybe do."
"Alright, dare."
Placido is mocking him; his certainty for this fact grows as the scholar talks at him slowly. But then, he finds he doesn't mind all that much. (The air needs to get its shit together, he thinks, as he takes in as much of it as he can. His lungs are on the brink of imploding. He can feel an infection beginning to build, ready to spread, violate his heart. He lets it contaminate nonetheless.) He eyes Placido, in search of moral support, assurance, something. "Dare. Do, das, damus, dant. I, you, we, they. Give."
The scholar rubs at his temple, but manages to crack him a smile. "I'm really not sure you're worth the headache." And still, Placido seems rather pleased (so he'll take it as consolation).
"You love me." (I wish.)
Silence floats around them for a while. (The quiet finds its place between them easily. Placido fills his head with anything and everything he can, attempts to drain out the Latin with English and Filipino. Juanito lets his head spin.) But soon, the toxicity in the air and the silence are oil and water. The air stays.
"So..." Placido clears his throat. "Sentence structure—"
"No," Juanito shakes his head vigorously.
The reaction pulls Placido's mouth into a smirk (and Juanito's not sure if he wants to slap that smirk right off his face or kiss him). He's all smug. "Did I ask?"
"How are you passing every class but this one?"
"I have you." He coughs. "You know, to give me the answers." (That, and my dad is rich, is what he doesn't say. Money doesn't buy happiness, I would know. But I suppose not everyone does. It only takes so many zeroes to cheat through life. I don't want this. I don't want this. I don't want this. I want to be me. I want you.)
Placido shakes his head. "You're smarter than anyone is willing to give you credit for, Pelaez."
Juanito stares at him. "Stop trying to sway me with your words, Penitente."
The boy in question lets his lips curve upwards. "Why?" he teases. "Is it working?"
"Stop smiling that stupid smile of yours."
"Sentence—"
"Do cor meum."
Placido looks at him, down at the textbook, back at him. (Juanito looks at him, half-expectant.) "I'm not sure that's a very well-constructed sentence."
I saw it burst into flames twenty seconds before it actually burst into flames.