only fools fall (for you) | elias/ibarra

chapter six

Next day, Crisostomo has been thrilled to go to school, more so than often. He even waited for a couple minute (fine, he was waiting longer than that) for a familiar, black motorbike (maybe he was waiting more for its rider) to park in the school lot. But alas, nothing. But Crisostomo was not disappointed, not at all.

Except for the fact that he was.

It feels like his entire universe has been flipped, like the answers he's been desperately seeking was shoved upon him. A small, insignificant part of him is panicking, toxic guilt fills his stomach like bitter bile. However, for the most part he feels like he's been starved. Starved for Elias' fleeting touches, and firm, rousing kisses.

Alright, maybe, he had come to... reluctantly accept the possibility that Elias may had been his soulmate. The kiss had really been something else, and he cannot get it out of his mind. He hadn't even gotten a wink of sleep, the damn kiss had been replaying on his mind in an endless loop.

It feels like that kiss awoken some kind of... hunger from him. Now, Crisostomo cannot stop thinking about the stupid, long-haired, irresistible idiot. He taps his foot, jittery and remembers the reverent look on Elias' face when he broke away.

He blinks blearily, and was in mid-yawn when his professor suddenly spoke, 'Alright, class, for my requirements for your composition-'

Groans and quick protests erupted in the classroom, and Crisostomo had to fight off a sigh himself. So many deadlines and the stress for the preparations for the graduation and prom is really coming down on him. The major exams, fortunately, were over. Mr. Sevilla fights off a grin and shushes everyone. 'Settle down!'

The noise eventually simmers down, but there are still some quiet murmurs heard. If Mr. Seville heard them, he certainly ignored them. 'As I was saying, your next written work is an original short story or a poem.'

Crisostomo stop, he sat upright, fully awake. 'Oh no.'

'They have to be your own story, because I will know if copy-paste lang 'yan sa iba.'

The class laughs while Crisostomo palms his face, already worrying of what he's going to write.

'OK, that's all. You're all dismissed except for the cleaners. Stay and clean your classrooms. 'With that his classmate bursts with noisy chatter and brazen roughhousing. Crisostomo, being one of the cleaners, is already up on his feet on the way to the brooms.

Damn, he's going to screw this up, he can tell.

-

Crisostomo groans for the umpteenth time, staring at the blank document on his screen dejectedly. He has been here since free period, deciding to start early on his English work requirement, which unfortunately is to write your own story or poem.

You see, he was bad at writing stories or poems and proses. He was good- proficient, even at essay writing and theses but certainly not at poetic writing. He is unable to project his thoughts and feelings into paper. Now, analysing and theorising them might be easy, but not actually writing them.

Even music hasn't helped.

Crisostomo has been playing his beloved OPM playlist and so far, it hasn't sparked any inspiration to write something with actual depth.

Miserable, he takes a bite out of his tuna and mayo sandwich, munching unhappily as he slumps on his seat. He swallowed his food, deciding that eating suddenly feels uninteresting now and shoves it inside his lunch bag. Sighing, he rubs his tired eyes.

He would have never noticed that someone sat across if a hand hadn't poked him on his arm. Startled, Crisostomo takes his earphones off and looks at his unexpected companions.