When his son sees him, he breaks out into a run.
“Goyong.” Miong breathes, falling to his knees with arms open wide. His baby boy crashes into him, knocks them both to the ground. “Oh, Goyong.”
There’s a wet patch now, on the shoulder of his shirt, but Miong elects to ignore it and instead buries his nose in his son’s thick hair.
“You’re so big, na…” he says, breathing in the scent of lemons and soil and sweet santan flowers that always seem to stick to his little boy’s skin. “How old are you?”
Goyong pulls away, grinning. “I’m ten, Itay!”
“Ten?” Miong laughs, trying to cover up the way his sternum implodes and his heart seizes, just a bit. “You’re ten years old and your Papa still leaves clothes?”
Goyong laughs, rough and sweet, and embraces him again, grip so tight Miong finds it difficult to breathe.
“I’ve missed you so much, Itay…” Goyong whispers. “I’ve missed you so so much.”
Miong doesn’t reply, doesn’t react, doesn’t acknowledge the way his bones crack under the weight of his son’s words or the way his heart crawls into the back of his throat. He doesn’t do anything.
But he hugs Goyong just a tad bit tighter and, already, that feels more than enough.
“Tell me how you and Papa met.” Goyong asks as they make their way back to the house.
“He does. All the time. But not like you do.”
Miong laughs, steps over a pile of leaves haphazardly raked. “Well,” he began, stopping for a moment to gather his thoughts. “It was right here. In this backyard.
Your Papa was just a tiny little thing– his hair was still so curly then– and he steps out one afternoon to go and read in that place right there, just by the santan bushes.
Then suddenly, out of no where, comes a man–”
“With no clothes on!” Goyong finishes for him, grinning.
Miong smiles, ruffles his son’s hair. “Not a stitch on him.
And, after your Papa gives him the banig he just happens to be carrying, the man explains to him that he’s a time traveler.
And for some bizarre reason I still can’t understand–”
Miong pauses, looks at his little boy, takes in his cheeky grin, his awed gaze and he wonders whether or not it’s possible to feel so lucky even after all this time.
“That’s right.” Miong says, sweetly pinching a round cheek. “He believes him.”
Goyong grins. “Because it’s true.”
Miong falls to his knees and into his arms and Pole kisses his cheeks first, his hairline, his eye lids and his eye lashes, dragging lips across a face he had missed for so long.
“Mahal,” Pole breathes, cupping his hands around smiling cheeks. “Miong–”
His husband kisses him, seals their mouths together the same way he did when Pole was 18 and flying, when Pole was 32 and broken, when Pole was 27 and marrying the man he had been in love with for so long–
“Where are you from?” he asks when Miong pulls away. Pole clutches him closer, one hand on the nape of his neck, the other still on his cheek.
“I’m 33.” Miong replies, chocolate brown eyes shining. “Goyong’s still a baby. We’re in the house, we’re happy.”
Pole swallows, presses their foreheads together. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispers, breathing him in, hanging on to him like he can keep him here on sheer will alone. “I could’ve been here waiting–”
“I didn’t want you to wait.” Miong replies, pulling away, shaking his head. “I don’t want you to spend your life waiting.”
Pole smiles. Pulls him back in.
“Mahal kita.” Pole says. And it sounds like a promise.
Miong closes his eyes, savors the words. “I can’t stay.” And it sounds like a goodbye.
Pole laughs, hears his heart crack but not shatter like it did all those years back, when Miong had been sprawled across his lap, leaking blood from his mouth and his chest.
“I know.” Because he does. He knows it all too well, what it’s like to come home to a bed too big, to wake up to a morning too cold, and to move around a house too lonely.
But he promised. And he has no intention of ever breaking it.
Miong holds his face, softly, like he’s precious, and Pole grins. Looks into eyes so tender and brown, moves his thumbs back and forth over dimples so deep, and he continues to do so until the warmth enveloping him is gone and only Miong’s clothes are left.
Pole folds the shirt almost precisely, movements rigid and automatic from years of repetition and looks up at his son.
Goyong just looks at him, eyes wide and glossy, speaking of unbelievable sadness, and they stare at each other, anchoring themselves against the sudden tide of emotion that comes with being the freshly left behind.
Then, his little boy smiles. And Pole finds the strength to return it.
“Help me.” he says. Goyong obeys and picks up his Itay’s slacks, folds them just as nicely before picking up his Itay’s shoes, holding them close to his chest in a careful embrace.
“You know, Papa.” Goyong says as he runs behind Pole’s wheelchair to help him back into the house. “I always think that he’s hiding there, just behind the Santan bushes, waiting to jump out and surprise me.”
Pole chuckles, reaches over his shoulder to hold his son’s hand.
“That’s what I used to think, too. When I was little.” he says, smiling. “That he was always here, even when he wasn’t.”
They enter the house and Goyong brakes Pole’s wheelchair, comes around, earnest eyes looking up at Pole’s face, a small smile spread across cherub cheeks.
Pole smiles back. Pulls his son into an embrace.
“Yes, Goyong.” he says. “He always is.”
A/N: para kay @p-diyos kasi siya po ang may pakana nito
discoholicmusic
kianamaiart
2087
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
