Chapter 26 #2
One of the kids, undeterred by Robby’s half-hearted scolding, swiped a spare brush from the paint tray and added a wobbly blue loop of her own next to the mountain, right in the one patch of bare wall Allan had left unfinished without quite admitting why.
Robby opened his mouth to make her stop.
Allan caught his eye and shook his head, just once, and didn’t paint over it.
“You’re actually doing it,” Robby said.
“Your tone implies you doubted me.”
“Not doubt,” Robby said. “Just concern for your sanity.”
“Valid,” Allan admitted, stepping back to look at the letters. They weren’t perfect: some strokes wobbled, the S leaned a little drunk, but they were his. Not his father’s. Not his lolo’s.
His.
Halfway through setup, one of the old wooden seats gave way completely under Jake’s weight, sending him sprawling into the aisle with a crash loud enough to startle a whole roost of swallows out of the rafters.
“I’m okay!” Jake called out, from the floor, before anyone had even finished turning to look. “Structural integrity of the cinema, not me. Noted for the report.”
“I told the engineer, replace all the seats,” Robby said, hauling him up by one arm, more amused than concerned. “But it’s expensive. Still need the grant.”
“Put it in the proposal,” Jake said, brushing off decades of dust. “‘Incident: cinema partner, fell over, pride injured only.’ That’ll get approved instantly, guaranteed, the municipality always takes pity on me.”
Allan, laughing too hard to help properly, eventually dragged over a sturdier bench from the lobby as a replacement, and the work continued, punctuated for the rest of the afternoon by Jake’s aggrieved commentary on the structural failings of 1970s carpentry.
Later, when people started trickling in, curious neighbors, teens who’d never seen the inside of the “old cinema,” titas who remembered watching Nora and Vilma here decades ago, Allan stood by the door with Cora and Jake, watching the crowd fill in.
“This isn’t a business,” Cora said, for what had to be the twentieth time that week. “It’s just public service.”
“Service sometimes turns into business,” Jake argued. “We’ll see once the popcorn machine’s back.”
“Don’t push it,” Cora said, but there was no real heat in it, just the low, fond exasperation she reserved for people she’d already decided to keep.
Inside, they played a slideshow of scanned photos before the film started: old posters, opening night crowds, Allan’s lolo on a ladder, Allan’s dad with paint-streaked cheeks; and, new, and Allan’s favorite, a handful of the kids’ storm drawings, both from San Andres and from his Manila workshop, side by side.
Water. Houses. Dogs. Small figures, laughing anyway.
The little gasps when someone recognized a younger version of themselves in the old photos. The soft, delighted murmurs. The low hum when the kids’ drawings came up on screen, familiar rooftops and unfamiliar streets carrying the exact same weather.
Then the lights dimmed further, the ancient DVD player fed its disc, and the studio logo flashed, grainy and a little too bright.
“Diyos ko, Claudine!” a tita exclaimed from off in the dark.
“Rico, ay,” another sighed. “Kabataan ko ’to.”
Allan felt someone slide into the seat beside him: Robby, smelling faintly of paint and bar soap, knee brushing his in the shared row.
“Crime scene, this,” Allan whispered, staring at the opening bus-stop scene.
Robby huffed a laugh. “Emotional evidence, Exhibit A.”
Around them, people settled, titas clutching their bags like popcorn tubs, teens pretending they weren’t into an old movie, Jake near the back with his arms crossed and his eyes suspiciously bright.
In the shadowed row, Allan became hyper-aware of every shared inch of space. In high school, those inches had been dangerous, a wrong look, a wrong sound, and someone could rip a secret open like paper. Now, nobody cared how close he and Robby sat.
Robby leaned over, his breath ghosting Allan’s ear. “Remember, at the library?” he murmured. “We treated every footstep outside like a police raid.”
“You almost broke my thumb hitting pause,” Allan whispered back. “That was trauma.”
“Worth it,” Robby said quietly.
Onscreen, the famous makeover scene started: the swelling music, the confession that had launched a thousand old Multiply blog posts back in the day.
In the back of Allan’s mind, the library afternoon flickered again: the plastic chair digging into his spine, his own pulse louder than the dialogue, and how he’d wanted to turn his head and check Robby’s face but never dared.
This time, he turned.
Robby was already looking at him. No flinching. No pretending to be interested in anything else. Just that same open, unguarded expression, older now, finally not running.
“Full circle,” Allan whispered.
“Better circle,” Robby said, voice unsteady in a way he clearly wasn’t bothering to hide anymore. “We’re not the only ones in this room holding our breath.”
Allan glanced around. Titas fanning themselves. A kid mouthing along to lines he probably shouldn’t know yet. Cora near the aisle, hands folded, jaw set in that particular way that meant she was pretending very hard not to feel anything.
A teenager a few seats down twisted around, spotted their joined hands on the shared armrest, and stage-whispered to her friend, “Kuya, they’re holding hands.”
Her friend shrugged, unfazed. “So what. They look better together than Claudine and Rico anyway.”
No one laughed at them. No one looked away. The girl giggled once and turned back to the screen, and that, that specific, ordinary lack of drama, hit Allan harder than any grand declaration could have.
“You picked this movie on purpose,” Allan whispered.
“Jake picked it,” Robby said. “But I didn’t stop him either.”
“You’re sappy.”
“You watched this with me twice in the library,” Robby countered. “You’re a co-conspirator.”
“Fine,” Allan muttered. “We’re both sappy.”
He curled his fingers up, twining them properly with Robby’s, not under a table, not behind a shelf, right there in the armrest light, in a room his father had once painted heroes in.
When the credits rolled, a few people clapped. Someone whistled. A tita announced, “This is still better than the new ones,” and everyone laughed.
Robby didn’t let go of Allan’s hand until the very last note of the theme song faded.
Later, after most people had gone home and they’d stacked the chairs and covered the projector, Allan and Robby stepped out into the cool night air.
The new plywood sign loomed above the door, gleaming faintly under the streetlight.
“Looks good,” Robby said.
“Too late to change it now. If it’s ugly, we’ll just call it an experiment.”
“That’s what you said about your emo haircut in high school,” Robby said.
“That was an experiment too. Failed.”
They stood there a while, both looking up, the plaza behind them humming faintly with people lingering over fishballs and gossip, the noise soft and distant out by the cinema wall, like the sea under a calm sky.
“Thank you,” Allan said, surprised by how much weight sat on the small word. “For everything. For waiting. For deciding to stay.”
“Me too,” Robby said. “Thank you for agreeing to try again.”
Allan glanced at the dark window of his own house, two streets over, and back at Robby, and found the question arriving easier than he expected.
“Want to come over?” he asked. “To the house. Just for, coffee. Water. Or to check the structural integrity of my bed frame.”
Robby’s brows shot up. “Subtle.”
“I’m very smooth. It’s on my CV.”
“Your mom?”
“Asleep,” Allan said. “She’ll be dreaming about incident reports and honoraria.”
Silence hovered a second too long to be casual.
“If you’re tired—” Allan started, giving him the exit, the way he always tried to now.
“Tired, yes,” Robby said. “But not of you.”
The simple honesty of it punched the air clean out of Allan’s lungs, more than any storm ever had.
He opened the door.
“Then come in,” he said.