THE FALL OF ICARUS

before you can kill the monster,
you must say its name.

It starts with silence.Not the quiet kind. Not the peaceful kind.The kind that settles between two people like a knife turned sideways, pressing, not yet piercing. The kind that comes after too many sleepless nights and not enough words. A silence that knows. A silence that’s been waiting.A silence that could only ever end in one way, leaving.Ares stands there, heart pounding against bone, searching Saint’s face for something — anything — that will make this easier. A look, a reach, a reason. But all he sees is Saint, frozen, wide-eyed, looking at him like a man watching a car crash in slow motion. Like he’s already halfway through grieving something that hasn’t yet happened.Like love is dying right here in this room.Like this is it. This is where it ends.Where everything they have come to build, has come to crumble, come to fall.“Ano?” Ares' voice is sharp, cutting through the weight in the room. “Hindi mo ako kayang ipaglaban?”Saint flinches, as if the words have struck him. “Baby… please, let me explain…” His voice is unsteady, thick with something fragile, something desperate.But what is he to say? There’s no explanation big enough to hold this kind of betrayal. How do you rationalize letting someone drown when you promised to be their air?How does he explain what it feels like to grow up in a house where love was a currency, and silence was safety? To be raised by a mother slowly unraveling, and a father who held everyone’s futures like matches between his fingers?He can’t.Saint has known this for a long time—carried it in the pit of his stomach like lead. Some truths calcify before they’re ever spoken and this one has sat there, quietly waiting, like a ticking bomb with no promise of mercy. Every day has felt like another second shaved off the timer, bringing him here. To this. To now.“Saint magsalita ka naman...Magtititigan nalang ba tayo dito?” Ares’ voice cuts through the silence like a blade dulled by wear—sharp, but exhausted. Saint breathes.This is hard.God, it’s so hard.It had taken him years to tell Nikolai. Nikolai, who has known him since before his voice cracked and his spine grew tall and rigid. Nikolai, who loved him through awkward phases and bloody knuckles and the years Saint forgot how to smile. It had taken Jinx accident—pure, chaotic coincidence—to find out. Even then, Saint hadn't said it. He had just stood there and let Jinx know.So how is he supposed to say it now?Where does he even begin?How do you hand someone your heart when you don’t even know what shape it’s in?The words twist in his throat. Heavy. Wet. They don’t come out clean. They sit there like swallowed stones, pressing against his windpipe, demanding to be spat out but too dangerous to name.He needs to speak.He needs to.He’s sure that if he doesn’t, Ares will turn and walk and this will be it, this will be the moment he loses the only thing that’s ever made him feel like he wasn’t born entirely wrong.Please say something.Just one word. A syllable. A breath.Anything to stop this from ending.He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again. His jaw locks.I’m sorry, he wants to say.But for what? What is he apologizing for? The silence? The fear? The years of pretending? Or the part of him that still isn't brave enough to throw it all away, even now?“Ares…” Saint whispers and it hurts. The words shiver as they leave him. “You’re so…” He stops. Starts again. His hands won’t stop trembling. He digs his nails into his palms to ground himself, but it’s no use. He’s unraveling. “God, I love you. I love you so much. I can’t even—” His voice cracks, splinters. “I can’t even put it into words.”Ares stares.There’s something wild in his eyes — not rage, not quite. Something sharper. Something worse. It's disappointment, cracked open and bleeding down the middle. His chest rises and falls like a man struggling not to drown in everything he already knows.“Ano nga, Saint? Ano? Magsabi ka naman.” His voice is harsh. It’s angry and disappointed. The edge in Ares’ voice curls around Saint’s throat and he can’t breathe.Saint, who stands with his back against the wall like a man awaiting judgment. Saint, whose mouth opens and closes like he’s still searching for a version of the truth that won’t burn the world down.He breathes in. Slow. Trembling. “It… it was a deal.”And Ares almost drops to his knees.The word—deal—lands with the kind of weight that doesn’t just knock the breath out of you. It flattens you. Cracks your ribs open and plants something rotten in your lungs. That word doesn't hang, it festers. Like smoke in a sealed room. Like poison you didn't know you were drinking until your vision blurred and you couldn’t remember how to breathe right.Deal.Like his love was a line in a contract.Like their story had footnotes and expiration dates and Saint had known the ending before Ares had even gotten to speak his part.“Ten months ago,” Saint begins, like he’s narrating a story that isn’t his to grieve, “there was this issue, and the board was panicking. The Zobels had been offering the merger for years, but my dad never needed it. Not until then. Not until things got... ugly.”Ugly.What an easy word for it. What a clean little box to stuff agony into. Ares’ jaw clenches so tightly it’s a wonder he doesn’t grind his teeth into powder. He doesn’t speak. Can’t. If he opens his mouth now, he will scream.And Saint keeps going. Softer now, like quiet will make it hurt less. “Ares… he told me it would only be six months. After that, he said he’d leave me alone. Said he’d leave my mom alone. That I could go back to my life.”His life. Go back to his life.What the fuck does that even mean?Ares doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He wants to punch something. Or run. Or fold into himself and disappear into the floor. His chest is too tight, too full. There’s grief in him—grief, and what a strange thing it is to mourn someone still standing in front of you. Someone you kept alive with your love. And now he doesn’t know where to bury it. There is no grave for what they almost were.“Why did you do this to me?”The words fall out of him like a child’s question—small, cracked, shivering. Not because he doesn’t know the answer. But because he can’t believe he’s hearing it out loud.“I was selfish,” Saint says.And that does it.“You are.” The words tear out of Ares' throat, raw and bitter. “You’re so fucking selfish.”His voice is louder now. Shaking. Bleeding. His anger doesn’t have a proper shape—it’s leaking from him, wild and directionless, crashing into everything. He doesn’t know where to put it. On Saint’s chest? On his name? On the seven months of loving someone who was already halfway out the door?“Wala kang plano na sabihin sakin, ‘no?”Saint’s voice wavers, cracks like a body on the verge of collapse. “I did. The dinner. I was going to tell you then.”“Then what?” Ares snaps, heat blistering in his tone. “Expect me to be okay with it?”“No...” Saint breathes. It’s barely there. “But I wanted it to come from me.”“Tangina, Saint.” Ares laughs, and it’s the ugliest sound he’s ever made. Hollow. Shaky. A laugh with nothing behind it. “’Yan na pinakamalaki mong problema? Na hindi ko nalaman galing sayo?”He wants to break something. Anything. Saint’s excuses. His calm. Himself. He wants to break the past seven months into tiny, bite-sized pieces so he can spit them out, finally get the taste of betrayal off his tongue. Because it’s there, stuck, festering. Everything they shared—every soft moment—now wrapped in this sick, slick layer of rot. He can’t look at Saint without seeing manipulation dressed up as some sort of sacrifice he has to praise.Should he thank him? Congratulate him? Tell him he's proud of him?Ares doesn't know anymore. He never knew anything to begin with.Saint just stands there, drenched, fragile, breathing like every word takes a year off his life.'Yan na pinakamalaki mong problema? Na hindi nanggaling sayo?Because no, Ace.No, Ares.This—this fight, this moment, this storm-slick stage where they’re both bleeding out in their own ways—is not his biggest problem.If Ares could see inside his chest, if he could just look for five fucking seconds past the anger, past the betrayal, past the way Saint always seems to choose silence until it’s too late—he would see it. The truth of it. The grief Saint carries like bone marrow. The weight of everything he was too scared to say.His biggest problem lives at home in the shape of a mother with hospital skin and a father who weaponizes her medication. His biggest problem has his father’s voice, his father's shadow, his father's legacy that says: You belong to this family. Not to yourself. His biggest problem is the way his sister flinches at raised voices and still refuses cling to him as if he is something unstable.His biggest problem is that his whole life is already decided, and he has spent every year since he was eight learning how to nod at the fire and call it inheritance.Saint’s biggest problem is survival.The slow, dragging, unglamorous act of staying upright when he could barely hold himself together. He wants to scream it.This isn’t about choosing you over nothing, Ares. It’s about choosing you over everything I was born to serve.And that’s not easy. Not even romantic. That’s fucking hard.So no. This isn’t his biggest problem.But God, it’s the one that hurts the most.It’s the one that makes his hands shake when he reaches for Ares and knows he’ll be slapped away.
It’s the one that makes him cry alone in parking lots at midnight, head against the wheel, thinking: If I just didn’t love him this much, I could do the right thing.But I wanted it to come from me, Ares.He wanted that much.*
Just that one scrap of dignity.* That one ounce of agency. To look Ares in the eye and say yes, it’s true. But I chose you anyway. I still do.He wanted to be brave. Just once.But timing is a weapon in the hands of the heartbroken, and Saint Dmitri Sy is out of ammunition.His eyes sting. His throat tightens. He knows he should say more, should scream it if he has to, should fall to his knees again if it means staying, but his body won’t move. It’s like something in him has frozen, paralyzed by the shape of the goodbye forming on Ares’ face.Because as horrible as he is—As selfish. As late. As cowardly—He does love him.“I’ve never been able to hold onto anything,” he says. “Not joy. Not peace. Not my sister or my mother. Not my fucking self. So when I had you—”He breaks. Mid-sentence. Because there’s no way to finish it without falling apart.And Ares is still staring. Still stuck. Still standing in the wreckage of a love that was never allowed to be whole. The kind of love that asked too much of one person, and made the other carry its corpse.And all Ares can think—all he feels—is: What the fuck was I supposed to do with that? With you offering me your love like a burning house and asking me to live in it anyway?He doesn’t say it. But God, he feels it.And it hurts.It hurts in every place Saint ever touched.Saint falters. “When I had you, I don’t know why I thought I could keep you.”His hands twitch, as if reaching for something not physical. As if reaching for the version of Ares that still loved him without pause. “Because the truth is, Ares… I’m selfish. I’m greedy. I want to keep you all to myself, and it terrifies me what I would do for you. All my life, I’ve lived for a purpose. Win. Make my father proud. Keep my mother breathing. That was it. That was all I was taught to want. But then you came along—”Saint’s voice shatters, no longer steady. His eyes glass over. “You came along and I just couldn’t stop thinking about you. You made me think I could want something just for myself.”His head tilts back. A confession slipping from his throat like prayer. “I know I am imperfect. I am greedy and I’ve hurt you. But I will humble myself before you, over and over again, because I genuinely—Ares, I genuinely cannot exist in a world where I pretend to not love you. You’re all I think about. The only one I ever consider. You’ve been the god in every room I’ve ever entered since the day I met you.”A beat.“So ano si Zobel sayo?” Ares’ voice barely rises, but it cuts so cleanly Saint almost doesn’t feel the blood at first.Saint looks up. Doesn’t look away.He can’t. God, he can’t.His heart is somewhere near his throat, crawling its way up like it wants to throw itself out of his mouth. He can hear it pounding—really hear it, in his ears, behind his eyes. There is no room for thought, just noise. Panic. He’s fumbling through a script he never got to write. He doesn’t know if anything he says will matter. Doesn’t know if he’s already lost.“A deal I will stomach,” Saint says, voice barely tethered to his body, “just for a chance to actually be with you.”Ares doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t dare move.“And you must know,” Saint continues, every word costing him something, “I never touched her, Ace. I never even looked at her. There is no version of my life where I could ever love her. Only you.”Only you.Two words that should feel like balm. They don’t.They feel like a knife apologizing as it slips into the skin.Ares blinks. Once. Twice.Maybe if he blinks hard enough, the tears won’t fall.Maybe if he stands still, the grief will forget to find him.But it does. It always does.Inside him, everything is breaking. Not how it did when he first found out. Not like glass shattering. But like a thread pulled so tight for so long it just snaps. And there’s no sound. Just the ache that follows. The silence of something that can’t be put back.Because what is he supposed to say to that?He wants to scream. Wants to throw something. Wants to press his fists into his eyes until the pain becomes something simpler, something cleaner. What does that even mean, Saint? A deal? You sold yourself and called it sacrifice? You loved me and didn’t trust me enough to tell me?But he steadies himself. Like a dam. Like something built to withstand storms.“Tapusin na natin ’to.”And Saint breaks.

“No.” The word is gasped, like it’s been punched out of his lungs. Like saying it hurts more than silence. “Ace naman, please? Konti pa. Konting hintay pa—”He reaches out. His hand is shaking like it’s made of paper.“Please. I’m trying. I’ll find a way.”And Ares wants—God, he wants—to believe him. Just for a moment. Just for one second of imagined peace. To take the hand. To step back into the lie and pretend it didn’t rip him open from the inside out.“Saint.”The name tastes like a warning. Like goodbye.“I can give up so much for you, Ares.” Saint is trembling now. His voice—thin, breathless, earnest—barely makes it through the air. “So much of me. Everything. My name. My future. Lahat ng ’yon ibibigay ko sayo. Please. Intindihin mo ako. You know how my dad is—”“No.” Ares says.And it crushes him. He says it like it’s the last breath he’ll ever take.“I don’t.” He steps back. Just one step. But it feels like miles. Because this is the thing that has always, always hurt the most. “You never told me anything.”Ares says it flatly. Without heat. But inside, he is screaming.Because for all the ways he’s loved Saint—for all the nights he kept his hands steady when Saint shook too hard to stand, for all the things he gave up to make space for someone who could never fully let him in—he never got to know him. Not really.He was the person Saint came to after the decisions were made. After the damage. After the silence.
Never during.And now standing here, with Saint spilling apologies like open wounds, Ares realizes something brutal,Love isn't always enough when you're the last to know the truth. When you're the afterthought. The consequence. The one kept in the dark for your own good.So he takes another step back. Not because he wants to.But because if he stays, if he reaches out one more time, he’s going to forget every reason he has to leave.And God help him, he needs to leave. Because Saint was never going to say it in time.And some loves don’t get to live off almosts.“I—I tried. I swear I tried, pero…”Saint swallows hard. It’s not just nerves. It’s the feeling of a thousand unsaid things clumping in his throat like cement. He wants to speak, wants to spit the truth out before it dies in his mouth, but the words tremble like they’re afraid of what they’ll land on.He wants to say you were always angry. He wants to say you never wanted to hear it. He wants to scream I didn’t keep this from you because I didn’t love you—I kept it because I loved you too much to risk what your anger would do to us.But he doesn’t. Because it sounds so small now. So pathetic.And maybe it’s foolish, maybe it’s fucking ridiculous but it’s true.Because he was scared.Not of Ares, not exactly. Ares wasn’t violent. He wasn’t cruel. But his anger—his disappointment—had a way of swallowing the room whole. Of reducing Saint into something small, something shameful. Saint knew what that kind of rage looked like. He grew up inside it. Rooms that went quiet before the shouting started. Chairs that never got pulled out again. A man’s voice thundering through a house like a war drum.Ares would never raise a hand. But sometimes his words hit like Saint’s father used to.So Saint learned to avoid it. To bend instead of break. To hold the truth in his mouth like a secret he wasn’t strong enough to carry. And every time he did try to say something, to explain, to hand Ares even a piece of the burden—he was met with heat, with fire, with fury that didn’t mean to burn but did anyway.So he stopped. And Ares took that silence as distance. As betrayal. And neither of them ever said the right thing at the right time.But how can he blame Ares for being human, when this love was asking him to be a saint?How can he hold that anger against him when Saint kept him in the dark? It’s not Ares’ fault and to some degree, Saint does not think it is his fault, and that’s the worst part. Because blame would be easy. Blame would be sharp, clean, easy to wash off. But this… this is slow death. This is love held too tightly until it suffocates.So Saint stands there. Speechless.Because he has nothing to say. Because like always, the truth when spoken aloud would sound like an excuse.And Ares is already walking away.Ares' voice is barely above a whisper. “Hindi ko na kaya… You know what happened between my parents. Ganyan rin sila nagsimula eh, pero ending minahal rin nila isa’t isa." He exhales sharply, voice thick. "Saint, I can’t stomach you telling me I’m everything, then see you with someone else.”Saint's grip tightens, fingers digging into Ares' skin. "I’m going to end it. We just need to wait a little more."“Ayoko na.”"A–Ares, please?"Saint is crying.And Ares—Ares has never seen him cry before.Saint buries his face into Ares' shoulder, sobbing, trembling."Baby… Wag muna…" His voice is raw, broken apart by the weight of his grief. His hands cling to Ares like he’s afraid he’ll disappear the moment he lets go. “Don’t give up on me, please…”Tangina, Ares.Ares exhales, shaky and unsteady. He should stand up for himself. He should walk away. He should do something—anything—other than stand here, drowning in the storm between them.But he doesn’t know how.Because it hurts.It hurts.Saint is still clinging to him, hands trembling. And when Ares steps back, he expects Saint to let go.But he doesn’t.Because to Ares’ horror, Saint fell to his knees.Right there, in front of him.The heir to the Sy family, the future of the country’s wealth, the untouchable golden boy, Saint Dmitri Sy—was kneeling before him. Begging. Hands outstretched, shaking, reaching for him as if Ares was the only thing keeping him breathing.Tears carved rivers down his face, his fingers clutching at Ares’ calves, desperate, trembling. He looked up, and it was not akin to pleading, but with worship. As if Ares was something more than mortal. As if he was salvation itself. On his knees, praying, revering.Dmitri. A name that meant devotion. Follower. How fitting. How ironic. That the heir of an empire, a man born to be served, to be obeyed, was here—the one kneeling, the one worshiping. That the boy raised to be untouchable had been reduced to trembling hands, shattered pleas, worship carved into every breath.And Ares, son of the weaker Echeverri empire, stood above him—looming, unmoved. A god before a disciple. A king before a subject. Watching as Saint reached for him, hands outstretched in devotion. A prayer without words. A surrender without sound.It felt insane.It felt wrong.It felt like something that shouldn’t be happening, something neither of them could come back from.“Sain—” Ares' chokes on it, barely shaped, like the word is fighting its way through his chest. His heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to climb out of his body. It shouldn’t be this loud. Nothing should be this loud in a moment this quiet.Saint doesn’t speak. Not at first.He looks up, and it’s awful.His face is ruined—tear-streaked, red, open in a way it never is. Eyes bloodshot, lips shaking. And for a second, Ares thinks: he's a stranger. Because Saint doesn’t cry. Saint never cries. Saint grits his teeth and keeps walking. Saint makes grief look like sculpture.But not now. Not here.Here, he is human.And it makes it worse.“Just a little more, baby.”The words fall from his mouth like something surrendered. Like he had to give up his pride just to speak. His hand reaches out, finds Ares’. His fingers fumble for a grip, like he doesn’t know how to hold anything without breaking it. And his voice—God, his voice—is raw. Like it’s never had to beg before.“Konti pa. Please? Don’t leave me. I can lose everything else, just not you.”Ares doesn’t speak.He doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know where to put the feeling in his chest. Doesn’t know how to translate this grief into anything useful. He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to throw something at the wall or pull Saint into him so hard the world disappears. But he does none of it.
He stands there and drowns in the sound of Saint coming apart.“I will always choose you,” Saint gasps, as if the words are tearing his throat on the way out. “I will always be yours. Alam mo naman ‘yun, di ba? You can hurt me, devastate me—but please, Ace, don’t leave me.”And Ares thinks: This is hell.This is really hell.Because he loves him. He loves him so much it feels like every moment not touching him is a punishment. He wants to believe every word. He wants to believe Saint will burn the world to stay with him. But he knows—deep in the pit of his stomach, where fear turns into instinct—that it’s not true. Not all the way. Not enough.Because Ares knows how this ends.
He’s known it since the first time Saint told him he’d “figure it out.” Since the first time he said just wait a little longer. Since the first time Ares kissed him in the dark and Saint flinched when someone knocked.Ares knows now that Joaquin Sy is the kind of man who builds futures out of the bones of his sons. And he knows Saint—Saint who was raised on obedience, on silence, on "don't make a scene"—will bow before he runs. He will call it love, but it will be fear. It always is.And one day, Saint will look at Wynona Aria Zobel the same way he once looked at Ares not because he loves her, (although he might) but because he's learned to endure what’s expected of him. And Ares cannot, will not, stand there and watch it happen.He won’t watch Saint rot from the inside and call it duty. He won’t spend the rest of his life loving someone who’s always going to choose survival over truth.
So he does what he has to do.He prepares to cut it. To sever the last thread keeping them bound. To bleed, if it means Saint finally gets to choose.Saint’s voice shakes. “I haven’t been able to love you properly yet.” His whole body is trembling. “I’ll fix this… I haven’t… I need to… I need to love you.”Ares feels it. Right down the middle. A violent, silent crack.But he doesn’t let it show.He swallows it down like he always does. The tears. The pleading. The part of him that wants to say okay. I’ll wait. I’ll wait forever.“No.” Ares shakes his head as he swallows the lump in his throat. "No, Saint. Tama na."The word is soft. Almost nothing. But it ends everything.He shakes his head, and the rest of his body follows. He stands too quickly, too suddenly, like if he moves fast enough he won’t fall apart.Saint doesn’t react at first.Just stares. Like this isn’t happening. Like this isn’t real.And for a moment, the room holds its breath.Then Ares turns.And that’s what kills it.He’s leaving.He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. 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He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving.

Saint blinked slowly, his voice slurring with the softness that only came when he let his guard down completely.“Baby…” he mumbled, almost to himself. “What if… magsawa ka sakin one day?”Ares didn’t even hesitate. He scoffed, right into Saint’s hair. “As if, Sdsy.”Saint shifted slightly, trying to look up at him.“I’m serious,” he said, a little more awake now. “What if you wake up and realize you don’t want this anymore?”Ares turned to face him then, brow furrowed, expression unreadable in the dark but his hand found Saint’s, thumb brushing across his knuckles like punctuation.“I won’t,” he said. Quiet, but sure.“You say that now—”“I say that always.” A pause. Then, softer: “You’re it for me, Saint.”Saint didn’t reply. He just buried his face deeper into Ares’ shoulder, a small smile tugging at his lips, equal parts terrified and full.The episode kept playing.They missed the ending.

Saint barely processes it before his feet move on instinct. “Ares!” His voice cracks, but Ares doesn't stop.The front door slams open so hard it echoes down the hollow of the house, like a gunshot through ribs. The night greets him not with mercy but with punishment—a monsoon in full fury, the sky sobbing like it, too, has something to mourn. Rain crashes down in violent sheets, soaking Saint in seconds, cutting across his cheeks like glass, like grief. His clothes cling to his skin. His skin clings to his bones. The cold claws at him, but he doesn’t feel it.There is only one thing he sees: Ace.Ares, walking away.Ares, whose silhouette is lit up in the lightning like something mythic. Like the last god abandoning Olympus.Saint doesn’t think. He runs.He runs like something inside him is trying to escape his body, like if he doesn’t move fast enough, his heart might rip itself out and go after Ares on its own. He runs like a ghost chasing the last boy who remembered his name. The gravel scrapes beneath his feet, water swallowing his footsteps, thunder exploding overhead like the universe is trying to warn him: don’t.But how can he not? This is Ares.His Ares. The cruelest miracle he was ever given. The one thing he never knew how to hold without crushing it in his hands.His legs burn. His lungs scream. His breath is a fist he can’t unclench, clutched too tight around a name that tastes like blood in his mouth. His whole body aches in places he didn’t know could ache, but still—he runs. Because what’s a little pain compared to losing him?“Ace!” he chokes, but the rain eats the sound before it can carry. “Ace, usap tayo, please!”It’s barely human. His voice collapses halfway out, warped and wild. It splits down the middle like glass under a hammer. He doesn’t know what he’s begging for—conversation, forgiveness, mercy, time—but he knows he doesn’t care how pathetic it sounds. He'd kneel in the street. He’d crawl.Anything, if it meant Ares would stop.The car door swings open like a casket lid, black and waiting. Ares moves toward it and something in Saint snaps. He slips, barely catches himself, gravel scraping his palms, knees stinging, but he keeps going and launches himself toward the car like it’s the only thing left alive in a world already ending.His hands hit the window.Bang. Bang. Bang.The sound is dull, ugly, swallowed by the storm. His fists are red, rain-slicked, shaking so hard he can barely aim. But he keeps hitting. He doesn’t know how not to.His heartbeat is somewhere in his throat, somewhere in his skull, somewhere beneath his skin screaming stop him, stop him, stop him.“Ace, please—” he gasps. The words are shredded now, ripped apart by the wind and the rain and the breaking of him. “Don’t leave me. Don’t do this. Don’t go. Don’t go. Please.”He drags his palms down the window, slick and trembling, leaving streaks of water and salt. He bangs again. Louder. His whole body is begging. His soul is on its knees.And still, nothing.He feels the car start up and his feet are slipping, shoes soaked, panting like he’s about to throw up. It’s undignified. It’s messy. He doesn’t care. He’d throw himself in front of it if it meant Ares would roll the window down.He is not a boy anymore. He is want in its rawest form. He is ruin dressed in gifted clothes, soaked and shaking. Every part of him is please don’t leave me.And then—Ares looks at him.Through the rain. Through the glass. Through the years of wanting, the months of almosts and never enoughs. Their eyes lock and Saint freezes. For a second, nothing moves. Nothing breathes.He swears he sees it: The flicker. The hesitation. Ares' hand, hovering midair. His mouth parted like he’s trying to speak but choking on whatever’s caught there—guilt, regret, love, maybe. The ghost of it.For one heartbeat, Saint believes he’ll stop. That this isn’t goodbye, not really. That Ares will open the door, pull him into his arms, say you idiot, I was never going anywhere. That it’s not too late.But Ares blinks.And just like that—it's gone. The hesitation. The flicker. The ache in his eyes that looked like maybe, maybe, he would stay.It disappears like mist under headlights. Like mercy that never meant to land.Saint doesn’t move at first. Can’t. His brain stalls, muscles frozen in some cruel stillness while his heart starts screaming. Because he sees it. Ares lifting his hand and tapping the driver’s shoulder.And then the car lurches forward.Saint moves.He slams his fists against the window so hard it jars his shoulders. “Ace—” he chokes, but the storm eats it whole. “Please—”The car inches toward the gates, and Saint stumbles to keep up, feet sliding in the slick gravel. His steps are uneven, frantic. Every muscle in his legs is already screaming but he forces them to move, jogging at first, then faster, faster, a half-sprint on feet that no longer feel like his own.His knuckles beat against the glass in a panicked rhythm. Bang. Bang. Bang. Again. Again. Like his love can still get through. Like if he just hits the right tempo, Ares will open the door. Will take him back. Will un-choose the pain.The rain pours sideways now, cutting into his skin like teeth, soaking him through until his shirt clings to his chest and his breath comes in wild, gasping sobs. His hair is plastered to his forehead. Water drips down his jaw. But he doesn’t stop. He can’t.“Please, usap tayo?” he begs, the words raw, misshapen, almost unrecognizable through the rain and the way his voice breaks around them. He slams his hand against the window again, palm open now, not to hurt—to be held.But Ares is silent inside the car. Still. A shadow in the blur. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t come back.The car speeds up.Faster.And faster.And faster.Saint runs.He runs with every terrible part of him—every cracked rib, every prayer curdled in the throat, every promise that never made it past his teeth. He runs like something feral, like grief has unstitched his bones and all that’s left is velocity. His lungs convulse around the shape of Ares’ name, his feet slap the earth like it owes him answers, and the storm doesn’t part for him, it swallows.The car speeds ahead. Unmoving. Unfeeling. A future sealed shut by glass and decision.And still, Saint chases it.Not like a madman. No. That word is too kind, too soft. He is something ancient, something undone. He is what remains when devotion becomes disfigured. When worship becomes humiliation. When love outlives the body it was meant for and begins to rot.His muscles scream. His body folds in places it was trained not to. All those years of medals, of crowds, of gold-wrapped victories—they meant nothing. Not here. Not when the race is against the thing that loved you once and is now pretending it never happened.His palms slap the glass like an exorcism. His voice (if you can call it that anymore) is hoarse and shattering, splintered beyond repair. “Please—” he chokes, and it barely sounds like him. “Please, Ace, don’t do this—”But the car doesn’t stop.The car doesn’t even slow.And somewhere in the blur of headlights and exhaust and thunder, Saint finally understands,He’s being left behind.He’s being let go.He keeps running anyway, because that’s what he does. Because when you’re raised in a house that only ever taught you how to survive, you mistake collapse for resolve. You think if you just try harder, love won’t leave. You think if you burn hotter, it’ll turn around.But it won’t.And it doesn’t.His limbs forget how to hold him. His weight becomes an argument with the earth. His body folds forward, forced to its knees, hands scraping wet asphalt like he’s trying to hold the world in place with his bare palms. He doesn't fall dramatically. There's no divine wind, no cinematic thunderclap.He just drops.And the sound that leaves him isn’t human. It’s not even grief. It’s the echo of a wish denied at creation.This isn’t a boy undone by love. This is a boy who built himself on wanting.Who spent his whole life flinging himself at the sky with nothing but bone and belief and the stupid, holy certainty that maybe—maybe this time—he’d get to fly. That maybe if he wanted it enough, it wouldn’t melt.It wouldn’t leave.He called it love. Everyone else called it foolish.But it didn’t matter. He was never trying to be wise. Only close.And now?Now he kneels in the middle of the road, soaked through, head bowed under a storm that seems determined to finish what his heart started.There are no feathers here. No wings. No wax.Only muscle spasms. Raw palms. A throat rubbed raw by the inside of his own name.But if you looked close—close enough to see past the shaking, the silence, the shame—you’d still find that same yearning there. Curled in the base of his spine. Lit like a match under his skin.One day, he thinks. Not today. Not now.But one day, he will build something better than wings.Not out of feathers or wax that melts under the sun. Not out of borrowed light. Out of himself.Out of all the parts that were too soft to survive this love, and all the ones that refused to stop trying anyway.And when he flies again—because he will—he won’t fly to be caught. He’ll fly because the sky never deserved to be safe from him.But tonight—tonight, he stays on his knees.And the gods, cruel in their stillness, do not answer.

Ace, did I hurt you?Did I sink my claws too deep, tear through flesh I never meant to wound?There is a holiness in repetition. The name spoken three times, they say, becomes sacred. The temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord. And when Ares says his name—Saint—it is not a word anymore. It is a curse. A prayer. A last breath. It stumbles out of his mouth like broken glass. Saint. Saint. Saint. And the boy it belongs to comes running.No—crawling.Crawling like a stray thing that’s gone too long without warmth, like a lion defanged and desperate, like a man stripped of god and begging to be held.Saint Dmitri Sy is a monster.That’s the truth of it.An angry, cornered creature, a cowardly lion carved from the sharpest parts of his father’s fury and his mother’s sorrow. He is not soft. He is not safe. He was not taught to hold anything without crushing it first.And Ares—Ares is anything but.He has always belonged to something bigger than this—to books and oceans and open skies and future. Ares is not built for men like Saint, for the ghosts of dynasties and power that clings like rot. He is built for open fields, for cities that never sleep, for stories that end in wonder. His future gleams and it blinds Saint. Saint, who could only ruint altars, who has always been thirsty, who was born with hunger stitched into his blood, reaches anyway.To love Ares is to stand at the edge of something holy and tear the prayer in half. To want him is to bleed and call it worship.Saint repeats his name into the silence. Ace. Ace. Ace. As if saying it enough times might dull the ache. As if it might make the meaning fade, like a spell worn thin. He was never one for superstition. But still, he will whisper it into pillows, into phone screens, into the dark, again and again and again—hoping that if he said it enough, it would start to mean nothing.But it never did. It never will.Because some part of him—some small, secret, screaming part—knew.He knew how this would end.Knew that you can’t cradle something radiant without eventually blackening it in your hands.But desire is a beast.It does not knock. It devours.So, Saint Dmitri Sy’s desiccated remains, relinquished of every drop stay emptied and parched. Love would course through him like a rabid hound, teeth bared. It oozes from him like decay, festering in the hollow spaces of his ribs, clinging to him like something rotting.To love as a grotesque entity, unworthy of reciprocation, as if his affection is as fleeting as teeth falling from diseased gums.But you must know, his rotten heart will stay. Even now, in the ruins of it, in the stink of it, he would reach for you again. Even now, when everything he ever touched turned to ash, he would call your name again.It will roar, it will ruin, and it will still reach for you.And you too, must tell him, Ace—when is a monster not a monster?When you love it.

• Return

AN HOUR AFTER THE FALL
Mirabella's Residence

The hallway feels longer than it should.Saint’s hand hovers over Mira’s door for a moment before he knocks.One. Two. Three.His pulse pounds in his ears.
Silence. Soft footsteps. The door creaks open.“Ate…”His voice is barely there. A crack in the quiet. A boy-sized wound trying to sound like a person.Mirabella turns toward it, and gasps like she’s been hit.“Saint.”He’s standing in the doorway, drenched to the bone. His shirt clings to him like it’s trying to hold him together. Water drips from the ends of his hair, from his sleeves, from his lashes. There’s mud on his shoes, his jeans, his hands like he clawed his way here. His face is pale, but his eyes are red, raw, half-swollen. And his chest rises and falls with the kind of uneven rhythm that speaks of running. Of chasing something he didn’t catch.He looks like a boy who just got left behind in the middle of the world ending.Saint takes one shaky step inside.He’s never looked like this.Not even when he broke his arm at nine and couldn’t stop shaking from the pain. Not when he locked himself in the bathroom at thirteen because their father had slammed a door too hard. Not when he lost his first race and refused to eat for two days.But now, Saint looks like the world ended ten minutes ago, and no one had the courtesy to tell him gently.
Rain clings to him in thick sheets. His hair is matted to his forehead, his shirt soaked through to the skin, and his shoes leave puddles on the tile just by existing. He’s not a boy anymore, but he stands in the doorway like one. Wide-eyed. Emptied. All the light gone from him, like it was sucked out mid-step.Then, before she can reach him, he collapses.He drops hard. Knees hit tile with a slap that echoes through the hall. Palms splayed forward, shoulders curling inward, as if the weight of being loved wrong finally broke something in his spine. His whole frame starts to tremble, not from the cold, but from something far worse. And Mira—who had only seconds ago braced herself for anger, for argument, for stubborn silence—moves without thinking.“Saint—what—anong nangyari?”But all he can manage is a sound. And then another. “Ate—” The word spills out broken. It catches, trips over a sob, and dissolves into air. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he repeats, like a wound on loop. Over and over again, like maybe if he says it fast enough, hard enough, it’ll undo the last two hours. The last eight months. His voice shakes like glass rattling inside his chest. “I’m sorry. Ate, I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”And Mira kneels. No hesitation. No questions. Her knees kiss the tile beside his, her hands reaching out to anchor his face between them.“What happened?” she whispers.But she already knows. She knows about the boy who slammed the door on Saint’s silence. The boy Saint would have given the world to, if he knew how to wrap it properly. She knows about Ares, and what Saint did, and how it would never be enough no matter how sorry he was. She knows because she saw this coming before he did. Because sisters always know.But Saint is not some national icon right now. Not the golden son of the Sy legacy. Not a medal-winner or a prodigy or the last hope of a dying family line.Right now, he’s her brother.The one whose fever she broke at 2 a.m. The one she used to share crackers with when they only had one packet left. The one who, despite all his cold edges, still curled into her like a child when no one else was looking.And it doesn’t matter who he hurt.Not to her. Not now.“He doesn’t…” Saint chokes, and it cracks something open in his chest. “He…”Mira stays still, her thumbs stroking beneath his eyes, catching salt that isn’t rain. She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t tell him that’s not true. She just listens. Because sometimes the hardest part of heartbreak is admitting you tried at all.“I’ll… I’m sorry… Ate, I won’t—” Saint’s breath catches again. He’s gasping. “I won’t allow it.”“Allow what?” Mira asks, voice barely above the storm.“I’ll marry her,” he blurts. “I’ll do it. I’ll marry her, I’ll tell Dad today, I’ll—after graduation, we can make it public—I’ll do it all.”Mira blinks. “Saint, ano? What are you—”“I don’t want to hurt you too.” he says.And then he looks at her.Really looks.His face is pale beneath the flush of crying. Eyes red and raw, like he’s been trying to scrub the pain out from behind them. His lips tremble with every word. And Mira sees it—the part of him that still wants to be the hero. That still thinks he can fix this by offering himself up like a sacrificial limb. If he marries Wynona, she won’t have to. If he ruins himself, she can be spared.
It is, somehow, the cruelest and kindest thing he’s ever offered.And Mira’s heart breaks with a new kind of sound.Because she knows what that marriage would cost. She knows what it means to be tied to a man you do not love, in the name of saving someone else. She’s already agreed to it. She already made peace with it. But seeing Saint now, on his knees, soaked through with the weight of everything he lost, she can't let him do it.Her hand clamps down on his shoulder. Firm.“No.” Her voice is iron. “No, Saint.”“Ate—”“Ako na.” Mira says. She squeezes his arms, leans close. “I will marry.”Saint’s mouth parts. A tear slips down her cheek.Her voice softens, but doesn’t break. “Because you don’t deserve to survive this just to hate yourself.”She knows. She knows exactly what it means. What kind of quiet death she’s walking into. But she can’t let him be the one who goes. She won't. Because even if this family eats her alive, even if she has to disappear into a role that was never meant for her—she’ll be damned if it’s Saint who does it first.“I’ll do it,” she says again, and it’s a vow, not a concession. “Because I can. Because I’m not in love with someone who won’t wait. Because I can take it.”“No—I’ll talk to Dad—” Saint says, suddenly too fast, pushing himself up from the floor like the idea might hold if he says it quickly enough. “Sabihin ko sa kanya ako na lang. Ako magpapakasal kay Wynona. Hindi na kailangan—”But Mira lets out a breath like she’s been holding it for hours. A small, broken laugh slips out, sharp and dry.“Ano ba, Saint?” she says. Her voice is tight, worn raw at the edges. “I’m not doing this for you. This is what I want."Saint’s jaw clenches. She's lying. His hands curl into fists at his sides, knuckles white.“Ate—”“Tama na.” Her voice cracks. She doesn’t raise it. Doesn’t yell. It just falls, soft and sudden, like something heavy sliding off a table. She still doesn’t look away. “I can only do so much for you.”He flinches like he’s been struck. His spine straightens. His face twists and there’s grief in it, yes, but also something jagged, something unfamiliar.“What about you, then?” Saint says, louder now, taking a shaky step back. “Bakit ikaw? Why the fuck are you doing this? For me? For Dad? What—what’s the point?”Mira exhales sharply, shoulders stiffening. “Because I’m your sister.”“Ate naman,” Saint breathes, voice cracking, nearly pleading.“And even though we only share a dad—” Her voice catches, a laugh that sounds like it’s choking. Her eyes are glassy. “You’re still my baby brother.”Saint doesn’t move. His arms hang limp at his sides, chest heaving like every word she says presses harder against the bruise forming under his ribs.“I love you, Saint. I really, really do,” Mira whispers. She lifts a hand to her chest like she’s steadying something—like the confession is too heavy not to hold. “Natatawa nga ako minsan, kasi what if nagka-anak na ako? Pero ikaw pa rin talaga ‘yung first baby ko. Ikaw pa rin ‘yung una kong inalagaan.”Her voice is shaking now, frayed at the ends. “Ang dami kong natutunan dahil sa’yo. About myself. About love. About fighting for someone. I think... I think that’s why I’m not scared.”Saint’s breathing gets louder. Ragged. He’s trying not to sob. Failing.“Because in someway, somehow, I raised you. And you turned out just fine.” Mira says, smiling through it, soft and unbearably sad.He doesn’t know what to do with that kind of love. Doesn’t know how to hold it without shattering more. He feels the guilt choking him, his tongue pressed hard to the roof of his mouth to stop the sound that’s building in his throat.“S-sorry… Ate…” he stammers, and he hates how his voice sounds, childish, small.Mira cups his face in her hands. Her touch is warm. Gentle. She tilts his face toward her, wipes the wetness off his cheeks even as her own tears fall.“Pinili ko ’to.” she says.
And Saint breaks.“No,” he whispers, shaking his head, pulling back like he can undo it. “No, I’ll do it. Ako na lang. I’ll marry her. I’ll talk to Dad tonight, we can set it after college, or sooner, whatever he wants—basta please—”Mira’s face doesn’t move. She just watches him spiral, and when she speaks again, her voice is quiet—too quiet.“Paano si Ares?”Everything stops.Saint freezes. His lips part, but nothing comes out.“H-huh?” he stammers, as if he didn’t hear her, as if repeating the question will soften the answer.Mira tilts her head slightly. She’s not angry. Just tired. Tired of watching him pretend he can love everyone by tearing himself apart.“Sasaktan mo pa siya?”He doesn’t answer.She leans forward slightly, still holding his face. Her voice lowers.“Kaya mo pa bang saktan si Ares, Saint? Kaya mo ba siyang talikuran para sa akin?”Saint’s mouth opens, then shuts again. His throat bobs. His eyes well up fast, too fast, and he can’t stop it. He feels his stomach twist into knots, his lungs shrinking in on themselves.“Ate…” he whispers.And Mira finally understands.“Please… don’t make me choose between you and him,” he says, voice splintering. His knees threaten to buckle again. “Please. Don’t.” She leans her forehead against his, and it’s almost enough to hold them both up.“You don’t have to,” she murmurs. “I’m choosing you.”Saint’s fingers dig into his palms, nails biting skin, trying to keep himself tethered to the room. To the moment. To her. His jaw is locked so tight it aches, and his voice—when it comes—is hoarse, hollowed out from crying.“He doesn’t want me anymore.” The words feel like glass sliding from his throat. “This is good. It’ll help the company. It’ll help everyone.” Mira stares at him, something shattering in her expression.“Saint,” she sighs, stepping back like she’s trying to hold herself steady. “First year ka palang. Naririnig mo ba sarili mo? Kasal? At what—twenty-one?”Her voice slices him open, and something sharp rises in his chest—anger, shame, something between a scream and surrender.“I’m the heir, ‘di ba?” Saint snaps. “Ako ‘yung gusto ng Zobel. Ako magmamana. Ako dapat gagawa niyan, ate. Not you.”It’s too loud. Too fast. He doesn’t mean for it to come out like that, but it does, and the air between them turns electric.Mira’s eyes flash. Then narrow. Her voice drops low and cold.“Umuwi ka na.”“No.” His voice hardens. He steps forward. “I’ll do this.”“Ano ba—”Her tone rises with disbelief because she knows what he’s about to say and still hopes, hopes, he won’t.“I’ll marry her,” he says. Like a threat. Like a confession. Like a bullet he’s forcing down his own throat. “I’ll finish school. I’ll go to dinners. I’ll do everything they want.”Mira stares at him like she’s seeing a stranger. “And what happens to you? Huh? Anong mangyayari sa’yo? Matutulad ka rin sa kanila? Sa lahat ng lalaki sa pamilya natin na piniling manahimik at lumubog?”Saint swallows hard. His throat burns. His entire body feels too tight, like it’s trying to hold in an explosion that’s already started.“I’ll learn,” he says, and it sounds too young. Too small. “I can… I’ll try… to love her.”“Bullshit.” Mira laughs—sharp, bitter, disbelieving. “Nagpapatawa ka ba? Kaya ka basang-basa ngayon kasi hinabol mo si Ares sa ulan ‘di ba? Dahil nalaman niya. Dahil iniwan ka niya.”She steps closer, eyes cutting through him. “Paano mo mamahalin si Wynona kung siya mismo dahilan kung bakit ka nagkakaganto ngayon? When she’s the reason Ares left you?”Saint flinches like he’s been slapped. The truth sits in his chest like a knife—familiar, precise. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Nothing he says will undo it.“Ate…”“Makinig ka, please.” Mira’s voice breaks now, not into softness, but something close. The exhaustion of a sister who has watched him bend in every direction except the one that points to himself. “Kaya mo? Kayo mo mahalin?”Saint’s legs feel like they might give out again. He doesn’t know what to do with her questions. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s drowning in all the things he couldn’t say to Ares, all the things he never said to Mira, all the lives he’s trying to live at once.“Para sa’yo,” he whispers.It’s pathetic. And it’s the truest thing he’s ever said.“Para kay Mommy.”And Mira stills.The air between them shifts.
Not in anger. Not in blame. Like something unspoken has slipped between them and taken root, heavy and real. Saint watches her carefully, and for the first time in years, Mira doesn’t have words ready. Her mouth opens. Closes. Her gaze falls, then returns.She doesn't have a mother. She never really did. Not in the way Saint remembers. She doesn’t know what it feels like to be held, to be tucked in, to be shielded by something bigger than herself. She became the shield. She became the arms.And Saint sees that. Sees her standing in this room, holding up the weight of everything neither of them could fix. He watches her search for something: reason, relief, a solution that won’t rip them both apart and find nothing.Mirabella steps forward. Takes his face in her hands again. Not gently this time, firm, anchoring, like she’s afraid he might drift off into whatever version of martyrdom he’s written for himself next.“Don’t do this,” she says, voice thick. “Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t do this to me. You think this is what I want? To watch you disappear into a life you’ll hate for my sake? Ako pa talaga, Saint? I won’t be the reason that you lose yourself.”Tears are sliding down her face, but she doesn’t wipe them. She doesn’t move. She just holds his cheeks, like she’s begging him to stay inside the body he’s trying so hard to abandon.“You think this is love?” she says. “You think this is what it means to love? Kasi hindi. This is stupidity. And it’s not what I want. Not from you.” Saint doesn’t answer. His hands fall limp at his sides. His eyes sting.He doesn’t even know anymore.Finally, Mira exhales, voice barely steady. “Mag-Olympics ka, ‘di ba? You’ll take over the company. Hindi mo na kailangan magpakasal, Saint.”His chest tightens. He looks down. His fingers twitch, curl into fists.“He won’t let me.”Mira blinks. “Ha?”Saint lifts his eyes, and the hollowness in them is a storm all its own.“Ares,” he says. “He won’t let me love him. There’s no point.”Mira doesn’t speak. She doesn’t move. The silence stretches. The room shrinks around them. The storm outside fades, and for a moment, the whole world is just a boy trying to understand why he wasn’t enough.“So you’ll leave him too?”Her voice is soft. But not weak. There’s weight in it. Like she’s asking a question she already knows the answer to and hoping she’s wrong.
Saint opens his mouth. But nothing comes. No answer. No justification. Only the sound of someone trying to breathe through a grief that’s still too new to name.Mira watches him. Waits. But he doesn’t say it.And that, maybe, is worse than anything he could have said.She steps back slowly, like something inside her has come undone.

“Uwi ka na, Saint,” she murmurs.“Kaya na ni Ate ’to.”His body clenches like something is trying to claw its way out of his chest. His mouth trembles.“Ate…”She smiles. Soft. Real. Tired.“Uwi ka na, okay?” Her voice cracks at the end, but she doesn’t let it show. “Kaya ko. Okay lang.”Saint wants to say something.Anything. But everything feels wrong in his mouth. Nothing fits. Nothing sounds like love without turning into some sort of apology.So he turns. He steps toward the door like he’s sleepwalking. Like he’s leaving something important behind just because he doesn’t know what to do with it.And then, she calls for him.“Saint.”He stops. Turns back, like he always does.Mirabella’s eyes meet his.“Do you want to come with me?”
He stares. Doesn’t understand at first.“Where?”“America.”The word hangs between them.Heavy. Final. A door that neither of them had opened until now. And in that moment—drenched, broken, emptied of everything he thought he was—Saint says nothing.But something in him shifts.Something in him chooses.

• an ode to a heart

• Return