[Fanfiction] Enlightened

[wayward_and_me]

Title: Enlightened
Characters:  M!Piri, Crispin Salvador
Warning:  Unbeta'd. Use of character from a book that you have probably never heard of.
Summary: Juan sets out on yet another international flight and finds himself seated next to an expatriate.

Preview:

From the night sky, he could not see the slum areas. He couldn’t see hijackings and vicious arguments between drivers in EDSA. He couldn’t see a man discreetly take a woman’s cellphone from her bag on the street. Up in the stars, Juan could look down and believe that there was nothing wrong with him - that he was at his best.

“Would you read it?”

The question, had it come from anyone else, would have seemed childish, or perhaps wistful. From Crispin, it was simple honesty.


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He travelled alone. There was no entourage, nor a bodyguard - perhaps there was one hiding behind a seat, but he just couldn’t see one - Juan was alone on an airplane once again, travelling Business Class.

For God’s sake, he wasn’t going to go in First Class - especially not to New York (how would he be able to appreciate it anyway? The plane would stop over three places before finally arriving to his destination). The price gave him nightmares, let alone the prospect of visiting a country where everything was so damn expensive. His eye twitched. What would he get his boss? Surely there had to be something interesting enough to give… but not so costly that he would have to cut the meeting short on count of the fact he would probably have to borrow some money from America again.

How fortunate that Alfred was a fast-food nation; at least he wouldn’t have to spend so much on food.

He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, waiting for the flight to take off. It was quiet in this part of the plane, but he could vaguely hear suitcases shuffling and parents trying desperately to calm a wailing child from Economy - or rather, Fiesta Class. Much more appealing; less revealing of the passengers who took their tiny seats.

Juan winced. He had done it again.

It always happened just when he was alone with his own people. His being who he was, Juan always knew their stories.

It was different from the other nations. Juan always knew - he would always know. He watched a stewardess smile and chat with a man in a dark suit; her son was at home, wondering where his mother was as he read an American novel. The businessman was going to work in New York for the next two years, leaving behind his wife and two children, both blessed with his dark brown eyes. The woman sitting across the aisle was a mail-order bride, nervously leaving the country for the first time.

It was the same stories, over and over. But each time, there was a different turning point. The characters were simply unaware that they could steal the writer’s pen.

He loved his people - that was certain, as certain as the sun rose to the East and set in the West - and they loved him, regardless of his faults, regardless of the fact that he simply wasn’t good enough for them. It was his duty to remain strong for them, yet they were the ones who stayed strong for him.

They worked, they loved, they cared, and they laughed. They laughed until there was nothing left to chortle at but themselves. And then another round would begin, echoing until they choked and breathed their last.

Of that, he was proud.

Someone landed heavily on the seat beside him.

Juan opened his eyes.

His new seatmate was a stocky middle-aged man. His face shone with oil and sweat and he wore a barong ruined by the rain that had just descended.

A supertyphoon was going to pass very soon - unusual, considering it was only February. As much as he didn’t want to bother her as she held back tears, Juan would have to ask the stewardess if they had any pain-relievers. Combined with the lengthy trip ahead, it was probably going end nastily.

The pain-relievers never actually worked. But sometimes, if he tried hard enough, he could imagine that they did. He could imagine that he didn’t feel death hack away at him.

His seatmate coughed and leaned back.

Juan glanced at him before closing his eyes again. The man definitely belonged to him, but at the same time, didn’t. A citizen who was not a citizen?

Ah, an expatriate.

And upon more recollection, Juan remembered who this was.

It was the writer, Crispin Salvador.

Juan wasn’t sure whether he liked him or not - too many mixed feelings from his people. There was definitely some water under the bridge for stunts he pulled before he finally left the Philippines in the 90’s. But what no one could deny that the man was talented.

He particularly enjoyed Manila Noir.

Talented but shameless, he decided. My Philippine Islands had left him undecided on whether he wanted to burst into laughter or weep in shame. And that essay on the feminists, dear Lord. Was that necessary?

And when was it coming out? When was he finally going to put out what everyone in the archipelago had been waiting decades for?

The Bridges Ablaze. The book that was supposed to change everything. The book that would reveal the corrupt roots of the almost aristocratic families of Metro Manila. The book that would put Salvador back on the pantheon, catapult him back to the top.

Juan opened his eyes, and something glinted in Crispin’s hands.

It was a medal; one he recognized. It had an obscenely long name that he couldn’t quite remember each time he tried to do so. But he remembered what it was; an ‘honor’ given to those at the end of their prolific writing careers.

And just one look at the sterling silver told him all he needed before Juan really knew what had happened.

“Rough night, Crispin?” He asked curiously. “Honestly. What happened this time?”

Salvador looked up from the medal. He stared at Juan for a few seconds before recognition lit his face and a small smile - not even considered a smile, seeing as his lip had twitched. His body relaxed and he seemed to be at ease. “As I was giving the speech for my award, they gave me the thumbs down and the microphone was disconnected. I walked out of there just more than an hour ago.”

Juan narrowed his eyes. How typical. When the foreigners were out, the thick-faced would put on masks to hide the blubber. Otherwise, anyone was fair game.

It was a sport passed down for centuries, first played when one Spanish man had called the Filipino an indio. The rules were simple, easy; speak badly of someone, and don’t get caught. Of course, variations had emerged sooner or later when the Philippines began to play against its former colonizers.

[Juan had liked one tactic used by the El Nueva Dia, back when Sergio Osmeña’s old newspaper was still in business. Whenever news of insurrection reached the El Nueva Dia, the story would be censored. However, instead of the story’s space taken up by another, the text would be covered with blocks of dark black ink. Little black boxes had become what everyone wanted to see on a newspaper.

Eventually, El Nueva Dia was put to an end.]

“And now?”

“And now I’ll be finishing my book,” Crispin said simply.

A pause - tight. It might have been the cabin pressure.

They were silent behind the roars of the airplane as it taxied down the runway and with one lurch - two - took off into the starless sky.

Juan did not close his eyes and rest his head back like the other passengers. There was not much to see but grey cloud and the glamour of Metro Manila. He recognized several of the buildings as they glided over them.

From the night sky, he could not see the slum areas. He couldn’t see hijackings and vicious arguments between drivers in EDSA. He couldn’t see a man discreetly take a woman’s cellphone from her bag on the street. Up in the stars, Juan could look down and believe that there was nothing wrong with him - that he was at his best.

“Would you read it?”

The question, had it come from anyone else, would have seemed childish, or perhaps wistful. From Crispin, it was simple honesty.

“Yes,” he said it without even thinking. Of course he was. There was no doubt that everyone in the country would probably end up reading it anyway; it was difficult to believe that he would be able to avoid reading the book regardless of how much he tried. In fact, his boss probably would make time for it as well.

An exposition - God knows Juan’s hidden and been hidden too many times. There was always one more to watch, read, or listen to. The atrocities of greed, the desperation of the common man. There was never going to be enough documentaries or exposés to slide every single issue off his plate. Corruption, human rights violations, police brutality, dynamite fishing, and child labor - he’s had it all.

But the Changcos, the Marcoses, the Ayalas… Crispin had mentioned the names in an old interview. He had probably learned more than enough from his father, former politician Narciso Salvador, Jr. What had they to hide? What secrets had they been trying to keep from even Juan?

However, with revelations, there would always be uproar. What would happen after that? Yet another EDSA Revolution? Rallies outside those families’ homes? It was hard enough keeping himself together, let alone with the problems yet to come.

When it happened, would he be prepared to take on being torn apart? It was inevitable, bound to happen if he continued on this direction.

“I would read it,” Juan said gently, “but I don’t think I’m ready to. Not yet.”

Juan and Crispin did not speak again for the rest of the flight. When the plane finally landed, they went their separate ways; one man and one nation, stories unspoken, but understood.

Crispin’s story was that of a man who had fallen from grace - there had been a time he was so high up that he actually had to fall, such was the law of life. His family’s disappointment, a daughter who did not remember him, unbearable distance from his fatherland he wished to close forever; there wasn’t much left for him to lose.

Juan’s story was that of a phoenix - one must remember that before the sunbird had ever set out to the sky, wings ablaze, it had risen from the ashes. But most tend to forget that it did not simply come forth an adult; it needed time to grow, to rid its feathers of grime.

But how long? How long before he could leave the dust behind? How long before the crimson plumes of his feathers flickered and burned anew?

There was no blood on his hands - none that wasn’t his own, anyway - but only ash, as sticky and as filthy as those of Pinatubo when it finally erupted.

The next morning, the Philippine Sun released Crispin Salvador’s obituary.

Oh no, he wasn’t dead. Not yet.

Their website claimed that a trainee had accidentally slipped one of their prepared obituaries into the press, and it was too late before they realized their mistake. Anyone who had read the notice on the website could have sworn that they heard dark chuckles in the corners of their minds.

In retaliation, Crispin worked away at his typewriter, the keys not unlike the sounds of gunfire. Each word and each letter brought his masterpiece closer to completion.

A week later, Crispin Salvador’s body was found floating down the Hudson River, arms spread-eagled. The manuscript of The Bridges Ablaze was never found. His student, Miguel Syjuco, set out to search for it and returned, announcing his quest fruitless.

Did he commit suicide? Was there foul play? Where was The Bridges Ablaze now?

These were questions no one could answer.

As critics and writers continued to praise and ruin Salvador’s memory, Juan merely sat in his room, reading Autoplagiarist, Crispin's autobiography. When the last pages were turned and the covers were reunited, he put it down and turned off the television.

This time, Juan just didn’t know.

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Hi, I'm Fresh Meat wayward_and_me, but you can just call me Wayward. This marks many firsts for me; first post in a community, first Hetalia fanfic, first time writing for an OC of a fandom, first time using LJ cut... I've been stalking this community for a while, but I never gathered the guts to write or post anything. Erm. Yeah.

Anyway, Crispin Salvador is a character from my favorite book, Ilustrado, by Miguel Syjuco. It's definitely one of the best books I've ever read, and it really changed my life. I mean, it was so good, that the frigging manuscript won the Man Asian Literary Award, practically the highest honor in Asia, two years before it was even published. It had a total Sixth Sense ending, though