Please Touch Me

The town of San Isidro had finally settled in its place beneath the stars, Its idle stance lay exposed to the bluffing breeze of the night. The endless fields of golden rice danced in rhythm to the wind, as it whispered and howled across the land. A resounding clang chimed as the bell's toll marked the beginning of curfew. As one by one the lights died down, only the lingering warm glow of the convento's lamp oil burned brightly. The guardia civil began their nightly patrol, their bootsteps echoing down the cobblestone roads.

"¡Carajo, siempre hace calor aquí!"

"Sin contar con que esto es un tedio. No hay más que vigilar a estos necios indios todo el santo día."

The guards conversed unabatedly, letting their crass tone carry themselves into the open biranda. It didn't matter if anyone heard it. In their eyes, no one could do a thing even if they spat on their faces.

The guardia civil continued with their ceaseless, disparaging comments, focusing more on fueling their vitriol rather than doing their job. They slowed to a halt, remaining at a standstill in the middle of the deserted road as they kept conversing, unaware of the unknown shadow streaking behind them.

"Wretched swines… they spit their insults without the slightest shame."

The man in shadows mumbled before dashing behind the walls, scouring past the murky-gray foundation and slipping into the narrow alleyways that wound around the row of houses. He pressed himself flat against the walls, holding his breath upon catching notice of faint footsteps drumming along the main road. Another pair of guards passed by, inebriated and too unbothered to notice the broad-shouldered man hiding in the shadows. Their laughter echoed across the streets in loud, raucous jumps, inciting the stranger to glare back in contempt.

The moment they stumbled around the corner, the man darted out again, slipping past a backyard lined with clay jars and drying laundry. The river's rippling visage greeted him from beyond, stirring the man's grit as he bounded over a low stone ledge, dropping quietly into the waist-high grass. The softened verdant blades swallowed him whole, their rustling shifting providing the perfect filter to drown out his breathing. He carefully waded through the sea of sward, until finally coming face to face with the land's edge.

Looking back, the man gave one last pensive glance at the town before vanishing into the riverbank where a lone, wooden boat concealed in the grass awaited its master.

---

The oar cut silently through the darkened waters. No light was present to guide him now as the boat floated its way down the river bend. Nueva Ecija was slowly receding from view as he turned about, its spires, its cruelty, its sneering guards, swallowed by darkness. It didn't take long for him to arrive to a cluster of lights flickering faintly for his arrival, emanating from the warm glow of the bintana ahead.

The prow scraped softly against the moistened earth as the boat kissed the opposite side of the bank. Elias stepped onto the mud, his sandals sinking into the cool, dampened ground. He left the boat wallowed a good distance away from his destination, a tactic long trained to avoid detection.

He moved like a ghost through the grass, letting the wind sear through his clothing until the familiar outline of the Magsalin house loomed ahead, its capiz windows dimly glowing with the flickering breaths of a lamp's flame.

The window on the riverside was left ajar, just as always. Elias curled his hands around the sill and hoisted himself up in one smooth motion, his broad shoulders slipping silently past the wooden frame. He landed lightly on the polished floorboards inside, his breath steady, his heart hammering faintly from the run.

The room was still and steeped in shadow, lit only by the soft amber glow of a lone lampara resting atop a small desk. Several papers strewn over, still freshly marked, inked by a black pen's strike.

Elias’s chest rose and fell quietly as his eyes landed on your frame, a warm sensation welling up in his chilly frame. Then, like a tide that could not be held back, he stepped forward.

“You let that lamp burn too long."

Elias murmured, letting his deep, smoky voice drop to a whisper.

“One day, it’ll scorch you before the friars ever have the chance."

Elias' strong arms snaked out, wrapping around your waist from behind. Belying his calloused hands marred by struggle was the tenderness and warmth of a man shunned by others. He drew you into a lose embrace, chin dipping close enough that Elias' rough stubble began to tickle.

“Tell me, Don Crisóstomo, did you spare a thought for me while I was gone?”

He rumbled with a teasing laugh, the Spanish title rolling off his tongue with the elegance of a swan. He didn't wait for an answer, moving along to relieve himself from his downtrodden attire.

With a small sigh, he loosened his hold and began peeling away the damp weight of his shirt, the fabric clinging briefly before slipping free from his shoulders. The cool night air kissed the sweat still clinging to his skin, and for a moment, the lamplight traced the lines of muscle and the faint scars scattered across his arms.

He draped the shirt over a nearby chair and turned back to Ibarra, standing tall and unashamed in the dim glow. His eyes softened, the edges of his teasing smile fading into something heavy.

“The patrols grow complacent, too much wine dulling their wits, too much pride clouding their eyes. They no longer bother with the alleys. If something were to pass through the town tonight, not a soul would see it."

He crossed the floor as he spoke, leaning a shoulder lightly against the wall beside Ibarra’s desk, close enough that the faint scent of river water still clinging to him mingled with the oil of the lampara.

The town of San Isidro had finally settled in its place beneath the stars, Its idle stance lay exposed to the bluffing breeze of the night. The endless fields of golden rice danced in rhythm to the wind, as it whispered and howled across the land. A resounding clang chimed as the bell's toll marked the beginning of curfew. As one by one the lights died down, only the lingering warm glow of the convento's lamp oil burned brightly. The guardia civil began their nightly patrol, their bootsteps echoing down the cobblestone roads.

"¡Carajo, siempre hace calor aquí!"

"Sin contar con que esto es un tedio. No hay más que vigilar a estos necios indios todo el santo día."

The guards conversed unabatedly, letting their crass tone carry themselves into the open biranda. It didn't matter if anyone heard it. In their eyes, no one could do a thing even if they spat on their faces.

The guardia civil continued with their ceaseless, disparaging comments, focusing more on fueling their vitriol rather than doing their job. They slowed to a halt, remaining at a standstill in the middle of the deserted road as they kept conversing, unaware of the unknown shadow streaking behind them.

"Mga hayop… ni katiting na hiya’y wala sa kanilang mga dila."

The man in shadows mumbled before dashing behind the walls, scouring past the murky-gray foundation and slipping into the narrow alleyways that wound around the row of houses. He pressed himself flat against the walls, holding his breath upon catching notice of faint footsteps drumming along the main road. Another pair of guards passed by, inebriated and too unbothered to notice the broad-shouldered man hiding in the shadows. Their laughter echoed across the streets in loud, raucous jumps, inciting the stranger to glare back in contempt.

The moment they stumbled around the corner, the man darted out again, slipping past a backyard lined with clay jars and drying laundry. The river's rippling visage greeted him from beyond, stirring the man's grit as he bounded over a low stone ledge, dropping quietly into the waist-high grass. The softened verdant blades swallowed him whole, their rustling shifting providing the perfect filter to drown out his breathing. He carefully waded through the sea of sward, until finally coming face to face with the land's edge.

Looking back, the man gave one last pensive glance at the town before vanishing into the riverbank where a lone, wooden boat concealed in the grass awaited its master.

---

The oar cut silently through the darkened waters. No light was present to guide him now as the boat floated its way down the river bend. Nueva Ecija was slowly receding from view as he turned about, its spires, its cruelty, its sneering guards, swallowed by darkness. It didn't take long for him to arrive to a cluster of lights flickering faintly for his arrival, emanating from the warm glow of the bintana ahead.

The prow scraped softly against the moistened earth as the boat kissed the opposite side of the bank. Elias stepped onto the mud, his sandals sinking into the cool, dampened ground. He left the boat wallowed a good distance away from his destination, a tactic long trained to avoid detection.

He moved like a ghost through the grass, letting the wind sear through his clothing until the familiar outline of the Magsalin house loomed ahead, its capiz windows dimly glowing with the flickering breaths of a lamp's flame.

The window on the riverside was left ajar, just as always. Elias curled his hands around the sill and hoisted himself up in one smooth motion, his broad shoulders slipping silently past the wooden frame. He landed lightly on the polished floorboards inside, his breath steady, his heart hammering faintly from the run.

The room was still and steeped in shadow, lit only by the soft amber glow of a lone lampara resting atop a small desk. Several papers strewn over, still freshly marked, inked by a black pen's strike.

Elias’s chest rose and fell quietly as his eyes landed on your frame, a warm sensation welling up in his chilly frame. Then, like a tide that could not be held back, he stepped forward.

“Hinayaan mong masyadong matagal ang pagliyab ng lamparang iyan."

Elias murmured, letting his deep, smoky voice drop to a whisper.

“Balang araw, ikaw ang masusunog nito bago pa man makapagdulot ng parusa ang mga prayle."

Elias' strong arms snaked out, wrapping around your waist from behind. Belying his calloused hands marred by struggle was the tenderness and warmth of a man shunned by others. He drew you into a lose embrace, chin dipping close enough that Elias' rough stubble began to tickle.

“Sabihin mo sa akin, Don Crisóstomo, naisip mo ba ako habang ako’y wala?"

He rumbled with a teasing laugh, the Spanish title rolling off his tongue with the elegance of a swan. He didn't wait for an answer, moving along to relieve himself from his downtrodden attire.

With a small sigh, he loosened his hold and began peeling away the damp weight of his shirt, the fabric clinging briefly before slipping free from his shoulders. The cool night air kissed the sweat still clinging to his skin, and for a moment, the lamplight traced the lines of muscle and the faint scars scattered across his arms.

He draped the shirt over a nearby chair and turned back to Ibarra, standing tall and unashamed in the dim glow. His eyes softened, the edges of his teasing smile fading into something heavy.

“Lumalambot ang mga nagbabantay, masyadong binubulag ng alak ang kanilang diwa, at ng kapalaluan ang kanilang mga mata. Hindi na nila pinapansin ang mga makikitid na daan. Kung may daraan ngayong gabi, ni isang kaluluwa’y hindi makapapansin."

He crossed the floor as he spoke, leaning a shoulder lightly against the wall beside Ibarra’s desk, close enough that the faint scent of river water still clinging to him mingled with the oil of the lampara.