Paint Me, Jonathan (BXB)

010- The Last Painting Begins

|010|The Last Painting Begins

After getting the text from Master Huang last night, I agreed to meet him pero binigyan ko siya ng kondisyon. I wouldn’t let my illness be the focus of the series he wanted us to create. He accepted, and with that, I made my decision. I’d take his offer, but I’d paint something else—something that wasn’t defined by my pain.

Nakatayo lang ako sa harap ng blank canvas, na tila ba tinutukso ako no'n dahil hindi ako makasimula-simula na pinatahan ito. It was strange, staring at this empty space, knowing it held the weight of all my hopes, fears, and frustrations.

Nanginginig ang mga kamay ko, hindi dahil sa sakit ko, kundi dahil sa katotohanan na hindi ko na makontrol ang mga 'yon. Sobrang dami nang nakuha ng sakit ko sa akin—ang kalayaan ko, ang lakas ko— at ngayon, pati ba naman ang kakayahan kong gumawa.

Nakatayo lang si Azrael sa tabi ko. His presence was both comforting and oppressive. He had been my anchor through this storm, but now, as I prepared to paint this last masterpiece, the one piece that might save his gallery and define my legacy, his closeness was a reminder of my dependence.

I hated it. I hated needing him, relying on him to do what I should be able to do myself. Pero wala akong ibang choice. My hands were nearly useless now, fingers curling in ways they shouldn’t, muscles weak and uncooperative. Ang bawat pag-lapat ng paint brush sa canvas ay tila isang digmaan, kung saan ang bawat pag-galaw ng kamay ko ay isang paalala na wala na akong kontrol sa kanila.

"Ready?" Azrael asked, his voice gentle but steady.

He always knew how to approach me when I was teetering on the edge. Hindi ko siya sinagot agad. Nakatitig lang ako sa canvas habang maraming pumapasok sa isip ko.

Kaya ko ba talaga 'to? Could I paint one final masterpiece that would not only save his gallery but also define my legacy?

“Hindi ko yata kaya,” I admitted, my voice low. “I don’t even know if I can hold the brush long enough to make a decent stroke.”

Azrael shifted beside me, moving slightly closer, his warmth pressing against me. “Hindi ka naman mag-isa, Tan-tan. Naandito ako, remember?.”

Pero 'yun nga 'yung problema ko eh. Ayaw ko na naandito siya. Hindi para rito.

Painting was supposed to be mine—my escape, my expression. It wasn’t meant to be shared in this way, with him guiding my hand like a puppet master. Pero, as usual, wala nanaman akong choice. His gallery was on the verge of collapse, at itong piece na 'to—itong kaisa-isang painting na gagawin namin—could change everything.

“Alam ko,” I whispered. “Pero hindi talaga ako mapalagay. Parang may mali.”

He didn’t respond immediately, and I could feel his eyes on me, studying my face, trying to read the emotions I kept buried deep.

“Walang mali, Jonathan,” he finally said, his voice soft but firm. “It’s just different. And different doesn’t mean bad. We’re doing this together, okay?"

Together. Ang salitang 'yon ay tila isang pabigat na dumadagan sa akin. I had never been good at letting people in, at relying on others. Azrael knew that. And yet, here we were—me, broken and dependent, and him, patient and willing to be my hands. Hindi ko alam kung kinasusuklaman ko siya dahil doon o mas minahal siya na hindi ko ma-amin-amin sa sarili ko.

I took a deep breath and nodded. "Mag-simula na tayo.”

Azrael moved behind me, his hands hovering over mine as I tried to grip the brush. It took a few seconds longer than it should have, my fingers struggling to close around the handle, but eventually, I managed. My hand shook, but he was there, steadying me, his fingers lightly guiding mine to the canvas.