#that jose rizal ass language

[kavalyera]

trying to imagine my filipino vtm ocs interacting with eachother but rosemary is filipino and grew up in san francisco, ophelia is a 1800’s central manila high society lady, florante is cebuano-tagalog, and milena is a pre-colonial creature who speaks in early kapampangan

[almightytrashcan]

saudade (part 3) (final)

>>>Portuguese // the feeling of intense longing for a person or place you love but is now lost; a haunting desire for what is gone

warning: angst. flower language. pairing: penilaez disclaimer: noli me tangere and el filibusterismo belong to dr. jose rizal

here’s the final instalment of the angsty v-day series!

thanks for reading, as i will taking a writing hiatus for now ^_^;;

ao3

striped carnation ::: No // Refusal // Sorry I Can't Be with You // Wish I Could Be with You

The rain came down lightly, in soft drops of pitter-patter, plinking off of the roofs and the sidewalk.

Placido found it odd that it was showering in February. Usually the rain would start off towards late July and continue until mid-September. There would be occasional May showers too, but rain wasn’t this long in the month of February.

“Odd weather don’t you think, Placiding?”

Placido froze in his seat, before grudgingly turning around to face the bane of his existence, the love of his life, and the light of his world.

“What the fuck do you want, Juanito?” Placido asked rigidly, narrowing his eyes at the haughty looking hunchback, and suddenly feeling immense regret the moment he took in the other’s countenance.

Juanito smirked, and Placido could feel heat rising to the tips of his ears (since when did the asshole ever make him flustered? Was that even the proper term? Oh god…). “Oh, I wonder,” he said, in a half-assed attempt to be vague and mysterious—the kind of tactic he uses on girls who try playing hard to get. “Everyone else is looking for you.”

Placido furrowed his brows in confusion. He stood up from his chair. “Why?”

“Didn’t you hear? Makaraig’s treating us for lunch at the panciteria. And I assume you haven’t eaten anything yet, right?” Juanito replied simply. The entire time he spoke, he kept his hands behind his back (not that Placido was suspicious or anything, but it was odd that Juanito would be so…chill when talking to him. Usually he’d be working on Placido’s strings the whole hour, the whole day even if Juanito wanted to).

“Ah…okay. Let’s go.”

Juanito, being a courteous gentleman, let Placido head out the room first, gripping the carnation stem behind his back even tighter, and closing the door of the classroom behind them quietly.

.

.

.

“Okay, but are you sure Makaraig’s actually going to treat us out for lunch? Or are you just making things up so you could disturb me?”

Juanito waved his free hand around nonchalantly. “Of course not, Placiding! Why would I ever lie to you?”

“You do that all the time to piss me off. And stop calling me ‘Placiding’!”

Juanito pouted, then burst into fits of laughter when Placido’s face turned a visible shade of pink.

“Oi, do you want to get wet or something?!”

.

.

.

“Ah.”

Placido is what most people would call ‘smart’. No, not ‘intelligent’, because the two words, though similar in thought, are widely different in application.

Being ‘intelligent’ refers to being well versed in the academics or in the field of study in which one person is accustomed to.

Being ‘smart’ means that you know how to fucking act when your crush gives you a carnation in the middle of the university campus under a light shower, on what you realize is Valentine’s Day.

“Well?” Juanito urged, holding out the carnation and urging Placido to take it. The flower had started collecting raindrops in its petals. “It won’t bite, you know.”

“I know it won’t bite!” Placido replied irritably, reaching out for the flower.

Then, he faltered.

“Something called ‘flower language’ exists.”

“Yeah.”

Placido swallowed hard, his stomach churning into a pit of despair. “Well then, what does a carnation mean?”

Juanito cocked his head to the side. “Pardon?”

“You got this for a reason, Juanito. Don’t be stupid.” Placido crossed his arms in an attempt to look bored, but he only hid the fact that his stomach was swarming with a multitude of butterflies, that any word from Juanito could make him vomit.

Juanito smiled his trademark crooked smile. “You’re being too broad, Placiding. A carnation of a specific color or pattern could tell a different thing altogether.”

“Then what the hell does that…striped carnation mean?!”

“I wonder…”

A few seconds had passed until the realization hit Placido in the face.

Placido’s heart got caught in his throat, making it harder and harder to breathe. Juanito’s smile only grew wider, but deep within his eyes it was a much darker place, an irony to the grin plastered on his face.

Placido’s eyes welled up with tears as Juanito shoved the carnation right at his chest.

“Come on, or Makaraig will make us pay the bill.”

.

.

.

(“What’s with Placido today?”

“Yeah, he seems to be really out of it right now.”

“…I’d rather that you guys don’t ask.)

.

.

.

Placido dashed all the way to what was once recognized as Kapitan Tiyago’s house, now converted into a reception area for the most popular newlywed.

He waited in anticipation, trying to catch his breath as he clutched a striped carnation in his hand. He waited for the groom to come out, so he could give the damned flower and be gone with it.

He even waited when the shadowed figure snatched the lamp from the table and threw it into the river (it cost him a sense of grief, realizing that Simoun’s plan had failed again).

Juanito ran out the gazebo, and spotted Placido, looking forlorn with a carnation in his hand.

His mouth formed a small ‘o’ at the realization.

Placido smiled sadly, attempting to mimic Juanito’s smile earlier that year.

“Wish I could be with you, but the girl beat me to it.”

No one could stop the tears flowing down their faces.