Work Text:
A boy, not so old pouted angrily at his father after reading a book that he was told to read.
"Papa, I don't really like this book at all! Why does he have to marry the Princess? Did he even care about the princess outside the marriage proposal? If he didn't, then he is no prince at all!"
"That is the natural course of how Princesses and Princeses are in this world, My child. It matters not, if the Prince truly wanted the Princess for herself. What matters is that he, despite everything, must become a prince."
"So, my child, be the prince that this world needs."
…
At the beach, a young boy stood, his gaze far, far away from the reverie, not one he chose, but one he was born in. Friendly faces that hid predatory schemes and beliefs of one another, the dredges of society wrought into higher echelons of the system, all of them undeserving of such.
Yet here he was, quiet at the dead of night, that odd surge of emotion that makes him realize the sheer scale of the world, and the miniscularity of his being is as a simple dot in this large canvas. The waves crash on his feet, the cold saltwater briskly hitting his shins, splashes of it reaching some parts of his torso. All of it scaring, thrilling him as if the world a large large painting, and the freshest stroke of ink, himself, was at the precise center of that masterpiece
His head moved slightly, the view of the eternal sea-scape that appeared to stretch until the ends of the earth now slightly cropped away to put fourth the view of the resort the Del Los Santos rented for this entire gathering. All of the facilities, that pan an entire resort to house many peoples from all walks of life, was theirs for a couple days.
Crisostomo felt another unexplainable lurch of emotion that slithered a dull heaviness in the back of his eyeballs that once setteled under the pit of his belly as an even more odder, subtle stirring revulsion. The thought of having something this big all for a couple of people…
He forgot the thought as from that rotational view from the sea to the land, he saw Maria Clara, his childhood sweetheart, or as they say. Walking towards his direction, following the path he treaded to reach that point in the fridgid waters. Following his footsteps. Following right behind him. Unconditionally. Despite the waters that separate the two. Despite the dead corals, shells, and sand that dig in their youthful skin. Despite Crisostomo's frozen self midway from a deeper ocean to safe, conforming, land.
In every life, Maria Clara was always there. She was his guiding light, in mornings hazy or harsh. Yet, when the sun has set and the night has returned, What is Ibarra without the performance? Without the mask borne obligation or conformity?Or when the path downtrodden was no longer his, who was he? Who is anyone?
These thoughts buzzed in his head like flies to a dead rat. It was rancid to him. Even more Rancid, even more terrifying, was Ibarra's final thoughts before the touch of another snapped him out of it.
What if he didn't love Maria Clara at all?
When the sea has washed up all traces of the path of predetermined fate, one from family, religion, social status, society, when the night comes and the blaring lights that watch his every move dimmed and slept, What remained of him was simply exhaustion that fell over all of his existence. The exhaustion of feeling.
"Hey." Her voice was filled with worry. Something Crisostomo understood and instinctually knew. A worry, a care, that made every neuron that fired bursts of anxiety and ceaseless thought spirals instead fire shots the other way, to be present and to care. To return to form.
"You're writing again,' answered Maria Clara, hissing under her breath as she briged the gap betweeen them. trodding the dead, coral-ridden, sandy beach on the way to where her boy was standing. Standing closer more, as she needlessly tightens her grip.
"Indeed I am, Maria." On cue, he turned off his phone, that premeditated, polite smile returning, without the usual pleasantries or the youthful mischief that bore behind his goodness as did, with people his age.
Crisostomo is… a bit peculiar, Maria thinks. He is a good person, of course, but sometimes, he appears.. off. She cannot explain it. T'was a new development, she wanted to know what was up with him.
"Are you, alright, Crisostomo? Ever since you returned to the Phillippines after… what? two years, you have this… distant look in your eyes." Maria, now as close as she can be without it appearing intimate, held his hand, as both theirs tickled bye the churning tide below them that swayed them gently to return to land.
Crisostomo softly gazed back at the beautiful soul, looking at those beautiful black eyes of hers that shined like the night, yet her presence always brought the sun he needed to see himself clearly in what he wants. Or maybe, he just grew to confuse the blinding light as presence.
"Do you ever… crave for things to be different?" Asked Ibarra. His choice was to remain as concise and as cautious as ever, Maria thought. He had always been like that despite their closeness.
He either had a performative gait that felt too… dramaticized, or when the lights of the stage has turned off, and she sees a more hunched over, sleepless Ibarra who only does what a vulnerable dog would— keep his distance in silence and bark if would necesary. The genuineness of negative feelings being more soulful and on the right place than any jargon of pleasantry he has learned to adapt to.
But alas, obligations were simply not obligations, too. It was the path of least resistance, so why would he complain?
She wondered for a little bit, trying to meet him midway. He knows that he has been in the wringer lately. A couple relatives, distant from him yet enough to warrant them to be overly picky, judgemental, and outright insulting to him as a means of ''obligations''as blood relatives. In regards to blood, the only closest thing of a bond he has to them are but an arbitrary irritation, or in other terms, they only serve to make his and his father's blood boil. Like many families do.
Poor Crisostomo, she thought, being the only son of his father, Rafael Ibarra. It must be an incredible pressure not to give into them, that temptation of just letting some nosy assholes who only waits for Don Rafael's death to suck his riches dry, get to him.
But it is only through the sting of rejecting such a temptation that makes Ibarra and, by extent, the teacher of these virtues, his father, slightly more pure and all the admirable to Clarita.
"Mhm. You'd wish to not be here, right? To be… somewhere else. Far from this beautiful cage of noble sacrifice and obligation." Ibarra's eyes widened and he came closer to the girl, smiling, gleeful, elated at the mere fact that Clarita, his dearest friend and maybe crush, gets him like nobody does. "Yeah! You understand! Of course my dearest Clarita, of course you would, i'm so glad…" He paused midway, freezing in place with that sudden feeling of guilt and shame rising up, but luckily for him, the biting cold helped alleviate… well, distract him from that feeling.
Other than that, he does understand. He sees her, and sees the life she has to live by. it is not as intense as he knows— but the more silent these things are, the deadlier they become to escape from. Simply put, it is but of her role as a woman; in this day and age where those old bygone expectations have fizzled out into obscurity, its claws remain taut in society. He feels bad for Clarita. He would probably have to conform with the expectations met with her. To be prim, elegant, proper… submissive, to thrice the strictness and lesser the payoff.
Unlike him who will be met with a strict lecture here or there, She'll most likely be treated worse. Not just by her own family and friends, but even with strangers, with society as a whole if she dares move the cage slightly.
That tug of ''should'' comes again, that uncomfortable urge making him kiss Clarita's cheek as the boy felt the girl's face warm from the action, that pit of discomfort worsening, making him flinch a little bit, thinking, deluding himself that it's right.
That awful feeling dissipated as he felt joyful seeing Maria Clara giggle and smile with such an unadulterated glimmer, far from the synthetic light bulbs thats pollute the natural ecosystem of the beach. He smiled too, for despite that, he was happy for Clarita, he was happy for his Clarita. He did not care much for himself in the first place as long as the people he loves is happy, then he was happy too. But is it really all that he wants?
After a couple of unremarkable conversations that left him grounded for a bit, Ibarra returned to that depressive state again, that hole in his chest growing wide, perverting his joy into yearning. The sweetness he was granted was lovely, but he felt guilty, wrong. For not wanting it, for having aversion to it despite how much joy it brings to see ''his'' girl happy and elated. But in this beach, of all lifetimes, he stares at the moon, for the sunlight proves to be too warm for him to hold, yet he feels its intensity as he does anyways. As even as the sea reminds him of his potental, its dead corals continue to scratch and make him bleed as he walked the hard way out of the path.
…
The child looked at the picturebook, of a Prince atop a white horse carrying a Princess on his arms, smiling at the fact that she was freed from the shackles of the evil red dragon that stuck her in its lair. It was a simple childlike happiness, The princess not having to worry on the fact that she has to live her life in fear of being kidnapped. His smile faded as he flicked the thick cardboard page onto the next— The last page of the storybook.
It depicted the Prince, and the Princess. Whom barely know eachother, kissing infront of a large floral archway as the entire kingdom cheered down below, petals of red and white pouring from the sky like confetti. The boy stare down at the prince, that same dread bubbling up once more as we've mentioned before. Rising up. This time, he looked angry, closed the book and ran away to mingle with his other classmates.
"I am a prince." He murmered sadly, as he ignored himself and went to frolick with his friends, acting out that role and pretended to be happy. Despite the loneliness that exists in his heart. For that is what a Prince does, Become one despite everything. Despite knowing, in deep denial, that he was no prince.