Divertissement

You have always been a dreamer right from the get-go. If I had to single out what I love about you the most, among everything that I do, is this: you have dreamed all there is to dream of, but through some magic of yours, you have always managed to find more.

In kindergarten, you wanted to be the first Southeast Asian astronaut (of course, the discovery that someone had beaten you to it decades ago completely crushed you, but onto the next dream you went.) Elementary school saw you jump from doctor to scientist, from a principal dancer at New York City Ballet to a Palanca Award winner for your short stories, and from a full-time traveler to a househusband with two children. At high school, you realized you had a knack for painting. Now here we are, you with a Dance major and me taking my master’s in Psychology.

I had always assumed that in some way, I was part of your dreams. Maybe as an audience in your performance of Swan Lake or The Nutcracker, tearing up as you dance through your pas de deux; or maybe I would be a patient you’ll treat for some minor hiccup.

Or maybe, just maybe, you see yourself building that family with me.

*

“Good morning, everyone. My name is Nathan Acosta. I came from Quezon City Science High School, and one interesting thing about me is that I’m a company scholar of the Philippine Ballet Theatre.”

Everyone asked for a sample. After all, it wasn’t every day you’d have a dancer in your class, much less ballet. Seeing you standing in front unsure made me worry. I knew you usually don’t warm up until much later in the day, just in time for your lessons, but there you were, picking which among the choreographies you’ve learned throughout the years to perform for the class.

You looked at me, and I instantly knew you chose Don Quixote.

I remembered the sheer excitement you had when you were cast as the Lead Gypsy, even more after your first dress rehearsal. It was 9th grade, and everyone was fawning over you because you were the youngest in the company back then. You came over to my house and showed me all the leaps and fouetté turns, just as you would show the class for an introduction two years later. You broke one of our tables then, and my mother got so mad she almost didn’t serve us brunch. I wondered what you would be breaking now.

The class erupted in applause, if not because of your incredible flexibility and rhythm, then because of how durable your pants had been. Several more students got their turn before it reached me.

“Hello. My name is Jericho Galvez, but you can call me Echo. I also studied at Quezon City Science High School. One interesting thing about me is,” I trailed off, not knowing if I had anything worth sharing, “I can speak four languages: English, Filipino, Japanese, and Korean, and a little bit of Mandarin too.” Then I was asked to introduce myself in the languages I mentioned, to which I was glad to comply.

“So you and Nathan have been classmates before?” The teacher asked. We smiled at each other.

“Since kindergarten.”

*

Our first term in senior high school was a period of adjustments and rediscoveries. I knew how much you hated unfamiliarity, which is why I understood how you’d always cling to me wherever I went. Not a single day passed without us eating lunch together, going to the restrooms together, sleeping on the 12th floor of the library together, and more. Pretty much everything we did, we did together.

“Aren’t you guys tired of each other yet?” Gio, one of our friends in our small circle, asked. All of us laughed at the question. I looked at you and watched you laugh with your head thrown back for a moment.

“Not yet, I think,” I said, grinning as I took a sip of my coke zero. Just as how it usually went, the conversation drifted into another topic.

At the back of my head, I wondered what your answer would have been if you weren’t cut off by the segue into a new subject. And then it persisted overnight. And then weeks. Who wouldn’t grow tired after more than 10 years of seeing the same face, celebrating the same birthdays, and playing the same games?

Not me, that’s for sure. But the possibility of you getting tired of me kept me up at night for days on end.

*

“Where is it this time?” I asked mindlessly, my face buried in my newly bought book.

“Australia!” You exclaimed, “I’ll be performing Sleeping Beauty.”

“As Princess Aurora?” I giggled, barely escaping a punch on my arm. You went to your computer to play the music from the ballet, and a part of myself wished it was me you’d be dancing with all the way in Australia.

Your mother called us downstairs for lunch, having promised your favorite meal the day before: carbonara. This was a tradition. Every time you’d leave for guest performances overseas, your mother— or as you would call her, mommy— would prepare a meal of your choice before your departure. Before Malaysia last 2017, it was Sinigang with Shrimp, and as we found out the hard way minutes later, I was allergic to shrimp. Before your competition in China the year after, it was homemade pizza and Aglio e Olio pasta.

I didn’t know why then, but I was already thinking of what I would make you in the following years.

You left for Australia the next day while I was in class learning about analytical geometry. I was diligent in taking lecture notes and listing all our requirements, mostly for personal benefit, but part of me was doing it for you. It never ceased to amaze me how you would be gone for weeks but still manage to catch up with schoolwork. Hell, you graduated with five medals while I barely managed to snatch one— all this, while I was the one with perfect attendance.

In exchange for this, you would always send me postcards from the countries you were visiting at the time. Some had diary entries written at the back, while some just had scribbles of a smiley face or an attempt to use a foreign language.

That time around, in a postcard with a picture of the Sydney Opera House, the words “Can’t wait to come back here with you!” were written with a black sharpie.

Until now, I have all of the postcards you mailed neatly tucked away in a small box. And until now, those words ring in my head.

*

The first time we kissed was at a party in 11th grade at one of our friend’s condominiums. It was just a small get-together, but the amount of alcohol we consumed would say otherwise.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor in a circle, one of the girls placed a bottle in the middle. A game of 5 Seconds Walang Malisya (5 Seconds No Malice), so they said. By that point, I was five bottles of Smirnoff down, and you probably three. Your mestizo features made your onsetting Asian flush a hundred times more visible, and in my drunken state, I couldn’t help but find you adorable.

As I was handed my sixth bottle of the night, this time a Heineken, Gio, and a girl from STEM were picked. The supportive and boisterous noise that came out of it would’ve annoyed me if I weren’t contributing myself. In the surprise of everyone in the room, the girl, whose name I learned was Kim, straddled my friend. One hand on a bottle of beer, the other on Gio’s face. What then ensued was the longest five seconds of my life (or maybe it was the alcohol speaking, I wasn’t really keeping track.)

The next pairs were decided through the classic spin-the-bottle technique. Things got even more heated when two girls were chosen, and with no hesitation, they made out as well. Gio and Kim were still at it, too, and two other couples.

Of course, as my luck had it, the bottle landed on me. You were too busy making fun of me to see that the next spin stopped in your direction. There was a silence that settled within the crowd— that, or my brain just decided to block everything out— and before I even registered what we had to do, your lips were already on mine.

In what felt like too short but also too long of a moment, you were back to where you were sitting. Your kiss intoxicated me more than the eight— nine?— bottles I emptied before then.

The days that followed went exactly like the days that preceded them went. We ate together, commuted home together, did homework together. The lack of awkwardness made me feel uncomfortable, but I didn’t want to acknowledge it either. Maybe I should give it no malice, as the name of the game dictated. Despite that, I couldn’t silence the thoughts in my head.

I wanted to kiss you again.

*

The second time we kissed was in my condo unit, with much less alcohol and much fewer clothes. The flush on your cheeks wasn’t from beer, but I hoped I was making you just as dizzy because of how much you wanted me.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” You asked, your hands on my shoulders while mine were on your hips. I came to find out how easy it was to leave marks on your skin; a gentle press of my fingers would already imprint it on your body. This turned me on to a great deal.

“Uy,” I snapped back to reality, looking up to see your ever inquisitive eyes staring at mine. I shook my head, nothing.

The years of ballet training paid off: your torso was sculpted, toned, and a sight to behold. It was something you’d see in Greek and Roman statues or immortalized in Renaissance portraits. You were my very own Adonis, and I wanted to make sure you knew I worshipped you with every graze of my tongue against the contours of your body. I wanted to make sure you knew I would make love to you a million times over with no hesitations.

“Are you sure?” I asked out of the blue.

“Sure where?” You tilted your head to the side ever so slightly.

“That you want this.”

“I’ve wanted this since the night we first kissed.”

And then it started: my ascent into heaven. Or my descent into madness. I wasn’t sure.

I worked my way down from your lips to your neck, indulging in the way you moaned out my name. Like an adagio. Like the strings of Tchaikovsky’s pieces humming low. Like the build-up of an aria. It was more than music to my ears, more than art to my eyes; with the conducting of your voice, I left marks on the smooth expanse of your collar and upper chest in between every eighth and sixteenth note.

I laid you down on my bed. Every accidental touch of my fingers against your nipples brought a reaction that was more than erotic. When I decided to focus on playing with them, you were arching your back away from the mattress, whining and begging for more. This was how I liked you best: eyes closed in pleasure, chin tilted upward with your lips open as if gasping for air, and your entire being under the command of my fingertips. If I so much as wish to change your whims, I can do so with one single touch, and you would yield with no second thought.

“I guess you’re liking it, huh,” I teased, my hand now wrapped around your dick. Throbbing and dripping as if my touch had just invalidated every other touch before mine.

“Fuck you.”

I only chuckled in response, giving it a few firm strokes before positioning myself to wrap my lips around it instead. The moment I did, you let out the smoothest moan I’ve ever heard. And with every inch, the grasp you had on my hair became tighter.

“Fuck me,” You whispered, and I barely caught it the first time around. I was painfully hard at this point and more than happy to comply with your demands.

“Say please.”

“What?”

“Say please and I’ll fuck you.”

“Please fuck me. Please.”

I needed nothing else. I speedily put the condom on and lathered a generous amount of lube on my dick and your hole. Sensitive as you were, every touch probably felt like electricity— by the time I pushed the head in, your thighs were shaking.

“Finger me first, please.”

“Fuck, sorry. And I thought I wasn’t big?”

“Shut up.”

With that, I slid my index finger in. Gentle and delicate like you were an instrument and I was playing in the orchestra for a run of Swan Lake. To ease your pain, I went and kissed you again, and again, and again. The second finger went in unnoticed, and I could feel how you were starting to warm up to it. Like a performer adjusting to his stage fright. Like the end of an adagio into the first variation.

Deeming you ready, I rubbed the tip against your hole. Your grip on my arms tightened as I went farther, with every inch your moans growing in pitch. To have seen you like that, all bare and no holds barred, was like nothing I’ve ever had. I stayed put for a moment, giving you time to adjust. I kissed you again. Kissing you felt like a discovery each time I did it, circumnavigating untraveled seas to find new land.

The second variation started, music change and all that, marked by the first thrust of my hip. From slow and shallow strokes to fast and deep pounds, I made sure I had the right angles so that you were in ecstasy. With your back arched and arms thrown back as if in cambré position, I couldn’t help but relish at the sight.

By now, Tchaikovsky was in full swing. My head was filled with all kinds of music: a cacophony of your moans and mine, of the humming that had always been there, and the crescendo of the orchestra as we reached our coda. I pushed even deeper, leaning forward so our faces were centimeters apart. As your breaths grew shorter and more frantic, I placed my hands on your chest, twisting and rubbing your nipples.

“Shit, I’m close,” You said, and I felt it in the way your nails dug deeper into the skin of my back, and your walls getting tighter around me. While panting to catch my breath, I began to feel my own orgasm approach.

“Fuck, me too,” I whispered.

“Can I cum?” You asked, and I swear to every god out there, it took me everything not to release right then and there, “Please let me cum.”

I could only nod in response, opting to make out with you instead. Your whimpers mixed well with mine in a harmony all the composers could only wish they themselves transcribed.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” And the moans that followed barely allowed me seconds to pull out and remove the condom.

As you lie there, passion all used up and burned out, I was finally able to take a good look on you. The disheveled hair and swollen lips would have made for a good portrait, one that I would have gladly framed and kept in my head, lest I wanted all the connoisseurs to try and steal it away from me.

“Time to clean up,” You beamed up at me, hand cupped just beneath your belly button as you stood up.

From then on, I knew I wanted you to be mine.

*

The third, fourth, fifth, nth time we kissed was all adventures in and of themselves. Just as much as you loved to dream, you loved to plan things out. You get uneasy whenever you start a project and not have even the most specific detail planned out. That was why our dates always went smoothly.

Our first date was at Intramuros. We didn’t care about anything else besides ourselves that night as we walked hand in hand. Under the golden cast of street lamps with the stars above keeping us company, the romances from past decades and centuries fell short to what we were having. A week later, we watched a movie at Cinema ‘76 in Anonas, then went thrift shopping right after. Our first month was celebrated at the Starbucks in Torre Lorenzo, buried in readings and reviewers because of midterms. Sometimes, I would pick you up from rehearsals and grab brunch with you before you had to return.

You were always really goal-driven. That was what got you a scholarship in Benilde, solo and eventually principal roles in your company, and being a constant Dean’s Lister.

I had loved supporting you, whether it be at the front row of a theater or by your side at a McDonald’s booth. I had loved watching you grow as a student, as a dancer, and as a person, and was absolutely honored to be by your side as you did.

But when exactly I started drifting behind, from a sidekick to your shadow, I don’t know.

*

Our first anniversary had to be celebrated almost two months late because of an overseas competition you had. I was taking my majors that term so I couldn’t come to support you, but we called as often as we could.

“I miss mommy’s Caldereta,” You told me one night. You had a bowl in your hand, eating what I had assumed to be Caesar salad.

“When did you last have it?” I asked. It was almost time to sleep for me, so I was already doing my skincare routine. You, on the other side of the globe, were just having breakfast.

“It’s what mommy cooked before I left.”

“I’ll ask your mom to teach me so I can cook it for you once you’re back.”

“Happy anniversary.”

“Happy anniversary. I miss you so much,” Then we proceeded to talk about our day.

The calls became less frequent, and then it became shorter. I was too busy to give it much meaning; I had my finals, and your performances were nearing so practice became more intensive. We would go days without video calling sometimes, but I was comfortable and secure enough in our relationship that it didn’t bother me.

*

When you got back from New York, there was a spring in your step that I never saw before. You had a habit of skipping when you were elated. And seeing you like this, I couldn’t stop my smile.

“How was the trip?” I asked, putting a bowl of Caldereta onto the table. You helped set the plates and cutlery, and I grabbed some drinks for us.

“Well,” You sat down. The smile on your face only grew at the sight of the meal, “It was good! The performances were a success.”

You then proceeded to tell me all about the cafes, the bars, the restaurants you tried during his stay; how the Raindrop cake didn’t really live up to its hype; and how New York audiences were vastly different from the audiences here.

“Different as in better?”

“The best.”

You finished a whole serving of rice, and then another. I guess I perfected the recipe since you liked it so much.

“I have something to tell you,” You said once we were cuddling on the sofa. I hummed a soft hmm as I absentmindedly played with your hair.

“What is it?” I prompted when you didn’t speak up seconds later.

“I was cast by a company in Chicago.”

“Congrats, baby!” I ruffled your hair with a laugh, but it faded quickly, “Why don’t you seem happy about it? What’s the matter?”

Silence hung above us like lightless halos. I could hear the gears turning in your head, scouring through all your prepared plans. By then I knew you already had the words you needed to say, maybe it was just a matter of prosody or timing.

“Bummed it isn’t New York City Ballet, huh? Maybe you just need to get more experience before they cast you.”

“They’re asking me to live there, Echo.”

“Oh.”

I didn’t mean to sound as defeated or helpless as I did, but what else was I supposed to feel? To do? To say? I didn’t want to be the one holding you back from your dream, inasmuch as I wanted you to dream of me being there with you.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, tears welling up in your eyes.

“Hey, don’t be,” I smiled, trying to stop myself from tearing up as well. As much as I wanted to, you needed this reassurance. “So, what’s your plan?”

“Rehearsals for Don Quixote start in a couple of months. They want me there by early next month for some classes. My flight is already booked and I just have a few more things to take care of before then,” You said, to which I just nodded.

“Don Quixote, huh?”

“Your favorite.”

“Yup.”

Silence ensues for a couple of moments. Or a couple of hours. I couldn’t tell.

“What about us?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

That told me everything I needed to know.

*

Once you walked out of my condominium that night, you walked out of my life too. It was only after a few days that I found out you left one last postcard by my desk. A postcard with the David H. Koch Theater, the words “One day” written on the back.

We didn’t completely cut ties, but we didn’t really stay as friends, too. Our interactions have only been through Facebook comments of me congratulating you for partaking in a new show, for a feature in a magazine or a newspaper, or for winning an award. And then you’d respond by thanking me, just as you do with the dozens of other comments.

I wanted our pas de deux to never end; for Stravinsky, Debussy, and Prokofiev to play in an endless loop until they close the curtains on us. But still, we would dance. That no matter how many chaîné turns and chassé en tournants we do, we’d always end up in each other’s arms. We’d hold an elegant pose for as long as we were able to.

But you needed the curtains closed so you can exit the stage after basking in the standing ovation for a beautiful run. You had other plans, you had higher goals, you had different dreams to chase and realize.

Until today, I’ve always wanted to know: where did I stand in your plans A to Z? I had always thought that every plan you would come up with, I’d be a part of it. I had always thought you would make room for me in your carry-on luggage when you travel the world as you’ve always dreamed of. I had always thought I would take your pictures and we would be hand in hand while we walked through the streets of whichever country your itinerary told us to be in.

You have always been a dreamer right from the get-go. If I had to single out another thing I love most about you, it would be this: even if that dream of yours was halfway across the world, far from the people and places you hold close to your heart, you have the drive to chase it no matter what it takes. Even if that dream meant I’d be out of the picture, out of the contingencies. Even then, I’ll be right where you left me, waiting for another postcard.