Artificial Horizon - A César Fernando Basa x Reader story

L - Acknowledge

A standard radio phraseology that means "Let me know that you have received and understood this message."

* * *

I don't measure my tears, but I know that this is the second hardest cry I did. I am fully aware that nothing beats that of the first—that moment that I first found César being cradled in Victor's arms that way, visibly dead and gone; but this is definitely up next. Probably because all the times that I've been here to meet his parents, it had been always with him. This is the first time that I did come alone, and is in need to make some sort of finality with everything. I am aware that too many loved César, but in the presence of those who love him first... it is just too cruel for my heart to take all of it.

By the time I somehow calmed down, hating the fact that I am the one crying the most to be comforted by them when it should be the other way around... I almost think that coming here had been a wrong idea. But the way that they consider me, definitely accepting me, like their own daughter, I know that I should be guilty even doubting me being here. And so, when I gain my own voice, I apologize to them for heading off in such a way a few days back and then for what happened and later on address the issue of why I am actually here, producing then the bag that I've recovered to be personally delivered to them.

Fernando Basa is a stern and almost unreadable man. It is not evident in his face that he is in pain; he is very much so composed that all once more reminds me of César. But then, like that of his son, the emotions in his eyes are visibly that of agony. Compared to that of his wife, Rosario, like any mother, has the marks of lamentation. Both of them know that they are in need of one another with what happened, and after just a day of losing their son, I know that neither from the three of us are yet to fully accept it.

They just first stare at the packaging, unsure of who to move it as the older woman chokes in a sob another time at the sight of the recovered items. There are definitely more that belongs to César that will be coming from the airfields in a few days; but for now, these are what they've recovered from his body before being set for a proper burial. Until the man himself dares to take it and slowly pulls each item out of the bag, then to be laid on the table.

The blood-smeared folded papers are actually of navigation logs visibly written by his own hand, notes coated in red could be found on the edges of reminders, emergency procedures, computations, waypoints, landmarks, minutes and headings. Lost from those papers had been that portrait of me he carried; the one that we've taken together during that supposed-to-be movie date before we came here to have dinner with his parents and inform them of our engagement. Even that had been marked with blood; just like every item has specks of it or been bathed on it. His wallet filled with bills and a family portrait that they seemed to have taken about the time of César's college days; his identification cards; the pearl rosary that he had always carried with him, too; the necklace medallion of Saint Ignatius de Loyola that his mother gave; and that bracelet that he received from me.

Seeing these items now right here is quite painful. I am so used in seeing these being always a part of César. Will it be possible to return such items to him before being buried somewhere? I don't know. That decision is not mine to choose; his parents will decide about it.

"(Y/N)," his mother calls for me, almost so small as she seems to to be unsure whether to continue or not. She bites her lower lip, definitely trying to suppress her tears. "N-Nakita mo... Nakita mo na ba si César?"

I swallow hard and nod slowly.

Every time I close my eyes, wielding myself to leave this place, I can't help but to continue seeing him. It will be easy if the image of him that I'll be seeing is one where he is very much alive; however, it is cruel that the image of him cold and motionless overlaps that of anything else. And I am starting to fear that it will be how I'll remember him; and even if I say that I'll never forget him, I am starting to feel guilty that I am losing the memory of everything else of him—his touch, his smell, his taste and his voice.