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countryshitposts · 4 years

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may god forgive us all

Happy Independence Day Philip :D have a smol fanfic i speedily wrote in two days

(also btw this 5k words of plotless stuff... i don’t even have a plot when i started and finished writing this fic-)

and this ended in gay

Trigger Warnings (not much but): mentions of child abuse, subtle racism, internalised homophobia, murder and violence

Philip is on this paradisiacal beach again; the salty sea breeze softly blowing on his - chocolate tinted - skin, the sounds of birds cawing as they pass him, their wings open, flying so high, so free with the winds, no fear evident in their faces. He watches them as they soar higher and higher into the sky, and he wishes that he could be free as them.

He usually wakes up to this, whenever he finds solace in his bedroom, and then bed; he’d usually sleep right away, since sleep is kinder than his father ever is with his frigid and degrading words. He would smell warm air, and the next thing he is hearing the sounds of waves and the chirping of birds.

(It was rather puzzling at first, but he liked the sensation and scenery so he stopped complaining, since this was a gift from heaven.)

He looks down on his dainty feet as he feels something grainy yet warm sticking on the soles of his bare feet; golden sand, unlike any other fertile soil he has ever seen. He smiles at how slippery they seem to be, even kneeling down to cup a few of the sand into his hands. He simply smiles as its golden colours result back to the beach once again; it was different from the soil he’s played at in Papa’s gardens.

(Because Papa ordered him not to play with garden soil but he was never around so Philip could do as he pleased.)

The thing with this golden sand was that it was always dry, like it has no room for water to help quench their eternal thirst, unlike those dark brown (as dark as his skin, much to his irritation and chagrin) yet rich soil that is almost always scattered around in Papa’s gardens.

The blue waves roll and collide onto the shore, the watery hands even tickling his bare feet (he tries not looking at them as he watches the water absorb into the sand). The birds frolic around the air even more, their wings open and so full on display that he thinks they’re all laughing at him, because he cannot join such avian creatures.

Lucky birds, he thinks, just when another wave comes in to disrupt thoughts on how birds have the liberty to fly around the world.

(Papa boasts about sailing around the world, but Philip is not sure if he has seen the oceans he’s boasted of navigating in such an abstract view as the birds.)

He smiles, as he dips his hands into the water; he feels a hard surface touch onto his soft and small hands. Amazed and curious, he pulls it out to find a shiny pearl- something he’s never truly seen (despite the fact that Papa loved calling his island a ‘pearl’, but it isn’t meant for him but for the minerals and riches hidden deep inside the land he will supposedly inherit) before, underneath his hands it was smooth yet hard; its colours were white with a pink tint to it, but when shone under the sun it produces an entire prism of colours- a rainbow in one sphere.

His smile seems to have caused a disruption in nature, since the dark blue waves he’d seen roll in the distance crash back on shore, harder, faster, spreading its talon-like-fingers as the colossal wave makes its way towards his direction. The waves’ shadow blocks out the sun like a monster finally cornering its prey- or scaring the common sense out of the natives.

(He’s seen Papa become scared at the sheer mentions of ‘rebels’ and ‘Muslims’ from an island near them; he’s been kept oblivious to such matters, to the point that he doesn’t even know what the definitions of those words mean- but that doesn’t mean he can’t read the expressions or look of horror on Papa’s face, that usually turns to anger at the mere second.)

Philip raises his eyes to greet the oncoming wave, just a mere meter away from him, its dark blue blocking out the golden and glorious yellow sun that he had felt on his hair and back all day long, the wave creating an enormous shadow that seems to engulf everything it touches.

Waves are a powerful thing, he realises; far from shore said tides were low, small, not even looking as if it can cause harm’s way- but waves are underestimated. It runs towards the shore like it has a score to settle with the golden sand, to engage in battle, even though such waves know that they can never truly see victory once they collide onto the shore. After all, it seems that water is just seeped into the sand; they dissolve into thin air, like how the sand does not get any nutrients from such waves, while still maintaining their dry exterior.

He stares at the wave seemingly trying to come down him, trying to deprive him of all his air, undaunted.

(The only thing that scares him is his Papa’s cold and frosty glare; he can make ice just from his dark red eyes.)

Thus, the wave seems to have dove straight for him, trying to claim its price; he closes his eyes, thinking that this was the last image he would see - a giant blue wave crashing down and depriving him with air - the entire shore smelling like salt and sand and seeds.

Then he wakes up with the smell of fresh air- but not that fresh, since his father had polluted such marvelous and natural air before he had even been born, contaminating it with his orders and general - fear - attitude.

(He fears his hands and he fears his voice most of all- it was as if the entire heaven and earth shook and decided to merge out of fear.)

He looks down towards his hands- he sees no such evidence of grains of sand collecting into his hands; like he was never in a Garden of Eden after all- it was just a dream of hope and desire, into thinking that God would actually let him into the place where Adam and Eve were banished from due to listening to a snake’s whisper and letting such animal convert them to their indulgences rather than the promises of God fulfilled.

He swears at himself, feeling angry at the fact that he had just woken himself up from a dream that was meant to be forever, meant to be eternal… but then again, a dream is a shallow construct of the mind, reflecting on what he truly wants rather than what is given to him by his father- like the ungrateful little child he is.

He can already hear his Papa’s voice now, a growl and a roll of thunder, lightning igniting the entire skies. He can already feel the cold - how is skin supposed to be cold - hand on his shoulder, already anticipating his father’s disappointed look, that made his insides churn and his hands shake; even his confidence is no match for his father’s glare.

(Bonus points if he makes an ill comment about Philip’s skin tone being darker than his pale-snow-touched skin, and also - rarely - about his ‘whore’ mother.)

He sighs as he hears a couple of - rather pretty - maids asking if he was already awake (sometimes he wonders if his father would like it if he’d invite one - or two - of the maids in the house to lay with him) just beyond the doors; he gets up and starts fixing his bed (he wonders what the hell he even does in his sleep), still thinking of when he will wake up in the evening and if the shores of the beach has changed.

Then he turns his head towards the shrine of Jesus he’s had since he was an infant- a gift from Papa, to keep him faithful to the Lord above, the Creator of the Earth and the Ruler of Heavens that only allow those who had done good - and ardently believe in him - to enter into his domain of Good. with a monotone expression (he does not understand why he has to pray to a God who has yet to arrive and even grant his wishes and prayers), he approaches the shrine.

Philip touches Jesus’ bound feet, smooth yet cold to the point he’d shiver (Papa says it was made out of porcelain, so he must treat it carefully), his hands moving up to the nailed hands at the top of the cross, reminding himself that Jesus had died for all the sins of the world- and rose again. His dark brown eyes lie on Jesus’ look of pleading, his eyes giving him a look which seems as if he has experienced all kinds of torture.

Well- he was crucified, he states the obvious fact to himself, before taking the rosary he always has with him from his pockets (he has them everyday in his pockets, since Papa would sometimes show up unexpectedly and make him show that he was - indeed - praying to God at any given hour).

Philip then kneels, his knees coming to contact with the hard floors; this has always been an uncomfortable task, even if he’s been doing this since childhood- Papa tells him Jesus Christ suffered for his sins, so now he must endure such uncomfortable means to pray. He closes his eyes (what he always does to have peace of mind and also get into contact with divinity), his hands closing together on the rosary, and he opens his mouth to start the prayer.

His morning prayer (and lunch, and evening) was usually the same, only with additional words or different phrases to substitute ones that he had forgotten. He thanks God first for giving him another chance to live, another day for him to live life the best he can (which he doesn’t), then asking for God to bless him and his family and friends with longevity (which sounds so generic now that he keeps repeating those words over and over again), then asking to grant him riches unimaginable so that he can be happy (God doesn’t even respond to those wishes), and last - but not least - he asks God to change his - abominable - skin colour; to make it look like his Papa’s (The Almighty doesn’t even respond to that, no matter how many flattering comments he’s given).

After he was done praying, he stood - stumbling a little due to his knees - before staring at the shrine of Jesus, then leaving; he can’t really stand looking at a dead man’s statute. As he opens the doors to his bedroom, he greets the maids and servants courteously (giving the maids an eye of flattery and charm as he passes them as well), as he makes his way towards the farms his father has given to him to tend.

Then again, even if beaches or shores of a beautiful island are in his dreams, farms and the sheer view of mountains flourishing underneath his hands are visible in real life, and not those obsolete and destructive accounts of dreams.

Why would you try dreaming of something paradisiacal when you are already living - and slaving - in your own soil?

He’s back at the sandy shoals of the beach again; but this time it was different. It was a kind of difference that somewhat pulls on his shoulder, usually demanding him if he spots the unlike elements the night before and the night now. By a far - and disproportionate - glance, nothing on the shores were different, nothing was unusual. But if you were Philip - which you are - you’d easily notice that the reason why the shores were all so wrong and feeling different was due to the sun.

Philip, before being sent here, had - unintentionally - slept against the light of a candle wick (despite the fact Andres told him not to, but he’s not really the type to listen), while he was busily signing off letters to the other rebel groups. He’d been so deprived of sleep and wishing to actually rest that his body gave in to his desires and forced him to sleep.

Now he was here, back at these sickening shores that had haunted him since he was a child; but now with a melting sun to add insult to injury.

(He didn’t know when he started hating these shores- one day he’s decided to hate them since it’s become so mundane compared to the other sites he has seen in his long - yet laborious - life.)

His lips curl at the sight of it; its usual golden colour gives off a sickly-energy, the yellow seemingly spilling off of the golden disk that was meant to be the solar sun, which was supposed to be forever shining in times like this. But like a melting candle that gives off too much light, said sun is supposedly melting on its candle.

Philip wonders if there was any explanation to his dreams; he recalls the various education and courses he’s learned in Europe (he persuaded his Father to let him study in Europe- it’s become one of his Father’s biggest mistakes in his life), trying to make sense of his subtle dreams. He recalls that all of his dreams have some sort of symbolism tied to them.

“But what could a nonsensical shore with a dying sun represent?” he asks himself- since he is the only one present in this damned realm. “What could this possibly mean?” He swears to himself - a daily occurrence now that he’s being hunted down by his own Father - as he kicks the golden sand he’s come to know since childhood with his dark - and polished - shoe (no more of him being barefoot and running around like there’s no time in the world).

The dark-haired man sighs, before looking back at the ocean and its waves, seemingly serene- more serene than he’s ever seen it in his entire life. His dark eyes shine with fascination and a strange - yet familiar - pulling in his chest. He takes off his shoes, feeling the grains of sand on the soles of his feet for the first time since stepping onto the shore.

He smiles at the sensation; like the sand notices how distressed he is now so they try keeping him happy and smiling, his lips curving up in delight. He hears an onslaught of waves crashing back to the shore, and he turns to the blue horizon, running towards it like he was greeting an old friend he’s only seen again now. The waves seem to embody his happiness, as they dissolve back into tame waters, landing on his feet. He sighs at the sensation, sighs at becoming a child again.

Once he sees something shiny in the waters, he immediately scoops it up, and - much to his delight - he finds another pearl, its colors just like the pearls he’s seen on display, but for some reason, catching and seeing it for the first time seems to make the pearl more beautiful than it really is.

He cranes his neck to look up at the sun- but it is still giving off that dying light, but this time the entire beach was growing darker by the minute. His smile fades at seeing such a worrisome state; he doesn’t realise that the waters he had thought of as friends receded back to the seas, like he was someone unfamiliar. He glares at the sun, thinking that this would make it glow brighter, but the entire world flickers.

(“How come candles melt easily when in contact with fire?” Philip asks his friend as he writes a few more letters to their society members.

“Because they have a life-span too; just like us”, Andres - Katipunan - replies simply, yet in an absent sort of way; as if he was not as interested in this conversation as Philip is. “The wax melts due to the fire- the fire dies because it cannot be sustained by the candle any longer. They have a life-span, even if they are not living things. They can live and die as they please.”

Philip smirks into the letter - while eyeing the candle that’s been grievously lighting up the room - before turning to face him, “I got to be honest with you- perhaps you shouldn’t have studied all by yourself at all, if you’re going to declare such eccentric ideals.”

Andres scowls, but doesn’t look back at him, “You asked me why candles melt easily.”

“And your answer was about how long we live.”)

Philip wakes up with a horrible pain on the nape of his neck- he now regrets sleeping on his desk like it was the best idea he has ever thought of (to be honest, he’s not much of an ideas-master; that goes to Andres himself- but now they are not talking to each other anymore). He groans as he sits up, also realising his back hurts and that it was still evening, just by the sheer darkness of the room.

He then turns to look at his candle- the flame was extinguished, and the wax has melted to a pathetic little puddle of white mess on his table. Such a shame; he was going to pray to God Almighty for making him sleep early.

(He was also going to pray that he and Andres would be friends again- after that silly and ludicrous little spat his friend had after he was elected as President.)

He grips his rosary (that he wears proudly on his suit), muttering a few prayers towards the Lord, before getting up- he feels his head and neck throb in pain as a result of sleeping like that but he can tolerate it. After all, if Jesus can tolerate pains of being crucified, then he can tolerate having blistering pains on his body for as long as he’d like. He sighs- maybe he can spend the entire night just planning away his rather uneventful plans.

It’s why he needs Andres back- they can plan and make several attempts to drive out the Spanish once and for all. But to make him see that they deserve to be friends, one of them has to swallow their damn pride- and Philip is not good at apologising before making things even worse. Father is right; hubris truly is a man’s downfall, the path to evil and everything in-between.

He rubs the back of his neck, trying to sooth himself- before remembering that Andres used to do this with him so that the both of them can feel no stress. He feels an undermining anger; how Andres keeps climbing back to his memories like a moth to a lamp and why such memories were veiled under a fondness and a sadness; but a different kind of fondness and sadness.

The dream really did a number on him, and he didn’t like the sensation.

He steps on moist soil- an effect of the storm that had rumbled on last night, turning such a beautiful and eye-catching sight, deprived from reality, to a gloomy and dark bleak sight, as if the rain has devastated such land so much to the point it refuses to be happy anymore- like it was a wasteland and void where all of children’s happiness are sent and forgotten.

He stares at the sky- dead, the clouds as grey as the drab shade of night whenever She passes by, no sight of the sun that turns the entire world into light with just one peak of it; like it never existed before.

Like it doesn’t want to be witness to the occasion today; Philip also does not want to be witness to this as well, but it’s his job to do some justice- even if it means executing someone publicly (in the witness of all their friends). He feels another headache come in, and his hands subconsciously trace up towards the bullet wound his - old - friend had shot at.

It was still painful (but not as much as the pain he felt inside when he saw Andres aiming his gun at him), but in a sort of pinch of pain that would go away at any given time- the pinch of pain just usually reminds him that he was ambushed by his friend because he ‘took’ the goddamn position he’s always wanted his entire life.

(What if Philip never wanted that position? What if he didn’t rig the votes or confuse such voters? Will they still be friends - with false pretenses - or will their roles be reversed?)

Nevertheless, someone will still die today and such weather was suitable for this event.

His eyes avert their gaze from the sky towards his old friend- held up by two of their colleagues (he wonders what emotions those two were feeling, since before they were Philip’s friends they were Andres’). His dark eyes stare at Andres’ messy and disturbed dark hair (he’s combed it to the point Philip thinks the most monstrous of winds wouldn’t try tearing it down), his skin layered with a few mounds of dirt (Andres is conscious about filth- he hates it despite the fact he was raised in poverty), his chocolate brown eyes drooping like he was already dead, with evident dark circles on it (Andres’ eyes were almost always full of spirit and power, ambition and desire) and the only thing he was wearing is a filthy white shirt and pants (the Andres that he met ten years ago wouldn’t wear such a thing).

Philip, for his part, has to stand steadily and finally get him to talk to him- one last conversation, before his dear friend - or enemy, he doesn’t know anymore - dies. He musters the most stoic expression (which was easy, but it would perhaps be impossible to make the same face throughout the entire execution), before facing the young man once again (it was funny he looked up to Andres as a father-figure despite the both being aware that Philip was about a hundred or two years older than him).

His friend meets his eyes- then a spark reignited, but this time he looks at Philip the same way he looks at the many pictures of Spain or hearing about the ludicrous and impossible stories he’d usually tell him.

(Andres is a very reactive man- Philip was telling him of the story where his Papa had commented degradingly about his skin colour, and he gasps in shock like it was the worst crime he has ever heard in his entire life- even worse than all the murders his father has - ‘righteously’ - done in his lifetime. His reaction was so severe to the point Philip sees it as entertaining and starts venting about his life with that ‘No Good Man’.)

Andres spits on the ground - he knows he was supposed to aim at him - and the two men hold him even tighter than they did before; he glares at Philip, and he matches his glare as well, hoping his face was undecipherable enough.

“How dare you”, Andres says through gritted teeth, his eyes trying to conceal the hidden grief within but betraying him ever so slightly, “so this is how you repay a friend?”

“You’re not my friend”, Philip drawls, feeling a satisfaction on seeing Andres look so weak and pitiful, unlike the calm and composed man that had thought he’d get some price on holding him hostage. “You tried to murder me because I won the entire elections.”

“That was supposed to be my place”, he seethes, “then you came and took it away from me.”

He tilts his head in a manner that would seemingly look innocent- but Andres knows who he really is. “I don’t think they’d listen to a commoner anyway-” He smirks as Andres tries to lunge at him, completely vulnerable from the jab, “so you can say this is a blessing; I’m more well-versed in politics and leadership than you will ever be.”

(A complete lie- he knows Andres knows he was completely indecisive and forgetful, almost always latching onto elder and ill officials until Andres sees how much he is struggling and just tries helping him with these confusing times.)

“Fuck you. I should never have let you out alive if you’re going to turn out like this.”

His face contorts to anger- he was the more passionate of the two and Andres knows how to offend him, “Excuse me? I’m the rightful heir to this stupid and cursed island- it’s my birthright by now-”

“Would the people listen to a son of Spain?” he raises a brow, almost amusedly, and it made Philip’s blood boil- to think he’d let him go free and exiled from this damned place-

“I’ve heard that you’d rather spend your time with those pretty women down the streets and make bastard children with them than actually doing the so-called ‘duties’ your father had told you to do-”

“You know nothing-” He was dreadfully angry at this point; he can already feel the entirety of his body growing as hot as summer’s heat.

“You said yourself that you wanted to waste away into nothing rather than become Spain’s little minion”, Andres shrugs like he’s not spilling his various insecurities that Philip had trusted he’d keep them to the end of his grave.

He scowls, before deciding to take another jab at the man, “Your parents would be disappointed to see you in such a state; even they know that they’re not that desperate enough for this.”

Much to his satisfaction, Andres’ eyes shine with murder, finally freeing himself from the grip of the two men, before throwing himself onto Philip, surprising his old friend with his hilarious strength and willpower to make him take back what he just said.

(Philip had a sturdy build from working in the fields his Father had cultivated; Andres meanwhile, seemed to have gained his physique perhaps a time before something had planted the idea that maybe, just maybe, he can overthrow Spain. Much to his embarrassment - which happens often - Andres usually wins all of those physical - but also playful - fights they’d do.

Which made him envy the man.)

God, Andres was heavy- especially so if he was on a rage after he had deliberately insulted his parents (and his dreadful fashion sense right now), but he ends up finding his voice and rather than shouting at him to stop damn it Andres you’re really heavy (in a playful manner but he knows they’re not being playful right now) instead he just smirks - painfully, when Andres’ arm locates itself on his thigh - and says,

“Maybe this is really the reason why your parents let themselves die from disease”, his voice is left with a tone of smugness because he can and will; he finally gets the upper hand as his hands roam around Andres’ back (he was the more ‘hand-abled’ between them), locking him in a position in which he won’t be able to get up. Andres squirms underneath him but he has an iron grip; he will not be escaping from this any time soon, since he has all the time to hurt him. He presses his lips against his ear, a warm sensation, yet cold words are soon to be said. “Because they’d know how much of a failure you are-”

He feels a sudden pain on his jaw- like the few hits he’d endured from his father (he did not endure a few of his father’s hits as well, sometimes even collapsing after enduring a beating), but this one less painful than those his father had surprised him with; but he evidently loses his firm grip on Andres, resulting on him becoming free.

Philip was always slow to recover from an assault, and it shows when he was just about to rub the forming bruise on his jaw before Andres decides to give him another punch on his right eye- now that was something comparable and akin to the punishments his father has for him (which he talks about to Andres, who usually reacts explosively and seems to hate his father even more). He gasps from the pain erupting through his skull, combined by that damn pain in his jaw.

A horrible mix of pain- one trying to conquer its way through his skull to become the only possible feeling he could feel now. His other hand - which was pressed against his back - struggles to reach the dagger he’s hidden since the very morning.

Then Andres stops struggling; like he was in no state to fight anymore, despite the influx of strength he had just experienced. Philip hesitantly meets his gaze- and to his shock he is not met by the crimson red eyes of a former friend wanting to shed blood, he was looking at the dark brown eyes of a young man who had seemingly lost something important to him.

“I want to confess something to you”, his voice was as soft as that stupid voice he keeps hearing inside of his head whenever he is alone- a voice of nurturing and care. “I let you go not only because I thought you were useful for our cause- I also let you go because, frankly, I thought you were pretty.”

Philip did not have time to realise if he meant it in a rather abstract or sinful way before he feels lips crash into his- but unlike the few kisses he’s entertained in his life, this one was driven more by the sanity - or rather, insanity - of love and desire, as he helplessly watches himself be given into the sinful ways of Lucifer or Satan or Hell, as Andres tries to deepen their immoral kiss.

And there was something inside of him- like a rose finally blooming after a torrent of rain showers and gloomy weather, following the sun and its rays wherever it goes. It was a fire in the fireplace, reigniting and warming the deepest and coldest abyss inside of him. He feels as though he was being kissed by God himself, in the most naked of aspects and ways.

He widens his eyes in the kiss (why is he still kissing him?), finally realising what the feeling he is feeling inside, especially when Andres’ hand roams around his back, soothing him along the way.

He likes - no, loves - the feeling of Andres kissing him.

Like lightning shaping up the entire storm so thunder can walk and rumble freely, he takes out the dagger he’s been wanting to use since this entire thing started; he now has the excuse to actually kill Andres, as he was partaking in a wicked activity- something against God.

(I thought you were better than this.)

With a swift raise of his hand holding the dagger, he brings it towards Andres’ stomach- he feels the (warm, soft, and comforting) lips part away from him, choking like he was dying from some sort of disease (which he was, kissing someone of the same gender- he should be thankful Philip had murdered him before giving him away to conversion), the hands that had held Philip in place go limp and slack; his eyes which were full of a blazing fire is turning dull.

To think that he was so full of strength and determination when he had done such an immoral thing (he knows Philip knows that the Bible forbids this), only to be turned to a shallow husk of his former self after just a mortal wound to the stomach.

And then he’s dead- just another body in an ocean - world - full of one; each with a story to tell but they do not have the life nor mortality to tell their tales; thus, they are lost to a world where only the dead can go.

Philip then realised he had an audience- who were all either eager or grimacing at the concept of the Father of Revolution dying. They were staring at the body- perhaps in a new perspective: a perspective where Andres truly isn’t a god or divine being.

Philip shrugs- he was shocked as well, but he decides it was up to him to defuse the rather awkward and revealing situation they’ve just bore witness to.

“He was a horrible kisser.”

(He was an impressive kisser.)

That night - and the nights after that - he dreamt of the shores of the beach; but instead of giving off the familiar and relieving light the sun had given him the past hundreds of years, the entire sky was grey- as if the sun had somehow vanished from the sky, seemingly devoured by the ash-coloured clouds. Even the waves were still, its colours dull and with hints of grey like the night’s sky.

The sand seemed to be grey from underneath the clouds, like it was a mirror to see what was happening in the skies.

For the first time in his life, Philip can finally feel what it is like to be lonely.

#mine #writing #long time no one-shot #countryhumans #countryhumans philippines #countryhumans katipunan #countryhumans spain #countryhumans spanish empire #i'm regretting this now #modern au where phil and andres live happily WHEN-

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