when they act tough, you call their bluff

If Aguinaldo falls, another will rise.

in case i don’t know you: gago ka.

in case i DO know you: putang ina mo.

anyway. @floundering-ssdlt suggested that pole be right next to him ala-Jackie Kennedy because of course they would so…

Ok. So they’re on the campaign trail. Nag-away sila before this. Idk kung ano. Alam ko lang na it has been building up for months and Pole is Tired and maybe Miong is just too good at making decisions for everybody else. Maybe, Miong, your children and your husband didn’t want you to run for Senate. Maybe they thought your job as a congressman was enough. Maybe they thought that the power was starting to get to your head.

Anyway. Nasa kotse sila. Nasa kabilang kotse sina Nonong at Goyong (kasi putcha FAMYlia feels na naman tayo tang ina). They’re driving pretty slow, because it’s the Philippines of course they would, and Miong and Pole aren’t talking. They aren’t looking at each other. Nagta-tampo. Alam mo na.

And then the car stops.

The head body guard steps out of the passenger seat.

Miong rolls down the window.

And the head body guard, without preamble, shoots him in the head.

The rest of security takes the assassin down with a single bullet to the back before he can fire any more.

That’s essentially how it goes down. 

Or at least. That’s what they tell the reporters.

But everybody knows that killing Miong wouldn’t have changed the game. Everybody knows that Miong was as expendable as Paterno was to Otis. Everybody knows that Miong winning wouldn’t have made a difference. That he could only influence so little. That this was murder, senseless and random. That if possible, it was the dumbest assassination anybody could’ve ever made.

But Pole knows the truth.

Pole knows the gun wasn’t aimed at Miong.

Pole knows who that bullet was for.

When he closes his eyes, he can still hear it, the aborted “No–” escaping Miong’s lips.

Feel the hot, sticky blood and brain matter that splashed across his face. His lap.

See the eyes of their attacker, locked on him.

Never on Miong.

The bullet was never for Miong.

An investigation is held and certain people go on trial. Technically, Pole shouldn’t be allowed to fight for his husband’s corpse, but there’s a fire in his veins and a pulse in his broken heart. He’s angry and grieving and nobody dares get in his way.

He wears Miong’s blood on the day of the final hearing, broadcasted across the nation. Mud brown, once crimson red, sharp against stark white. It’s a mess and the reaction is visceral. In the crowd, Nonong, their youngest, begins to sob.

“Atty. Mabini, sir.” his PA whispers to him, voice shaking. “Sir, madumi po americana ninyo. Ito po, magpalit po ka–”

“Hindi.” Pole says. “I want them to see.”

“I want them to see what they did to my husband.”

TUMABI KA, GREG.

When his son sees him, he breaks out into a run.

“Goyong.” Miong breathes, falling to his knees with arms open wide. His baby boy crashes into him, knocks them both to the ground. “Oh, Goyong.”

There’s a wet patch now, on the shoulder of his shirt, but Miong elects to ignore it and instead buries his nose in his son’s thick hair.

“You’re so big, na…” he says, breathing in the scent of lemons and soil and sweet santan flowers that always seem to stick to his little boy’s skin. “How old are you?”

Goyong pulls away, grinning. “I’m ten, Itay!”

“Ten?” Miong laughs, trying to cover up the way his sternum implodes and his heart seizes, just a bit. “You’re ten years old and your Papa still leaves clothes?”

Goyong laughs, rough and sweet, and embraces him again, grip so tight Miong finds it difficult to breathe.

“I’ve missed you so much, Itay…” Goyong whispers. “I’ve missed you so so much.”

Miong doesn’t reply, doesn’t react, doesn’t acknowledge the way his bones crack under the weight of his son’s words or the way his heart crawls into the back of his throat. He doesn’t do anything.

But he hugs Goyong just a tad bit tighter and, already, that feels more than enough.

“Tell me how you and Papa met.” Goyong asks as they make their way back to the house.

“Doesn’t he tell you?”

“He does. All the time. But not like you do.”

Miong laughs, steps over a pile of leaves haphazardly raked. “Well,” he began, stopping for a moment to gather his thoughts. “It was right here. In this backyard.

Your Papa was just a tiny little thing– his hair was still so curly then– and he steps out one afternoon to go and read in that place right there, just by the santan bushes.

Then suddenly, out of no where, comes a man–”

“With no clothes on!” Goyong finishes for him, grinning.

Miong smiles, ruffles his son’s hair. “Not a stitch on him.

And, after your Papa gives him the banig he just happens to be carrying, the man explains to him that he’s a time traveler.

And for some bizarre reason I still can’t understand–”

“He believes him.”

Miong pauses, looks at his little boy, takes in his cheeky grin, his awed gaze and he wonders whether or not it’s possible to feel so lucky even after all this time.

“That’s right.” Miong says, sweetly pinching a round cheek. “He believes him.”

Goyong grins. “Because it’s true.”

“… Miong?”

Miong falls to his knees and into his arms and Pole kisses his cheeks first, his hairline, his eye lids and his eye lashes, dragging lips across a face he had missed for so long.

“Mahal,” Pole breathes, cupping his hands around smiling cheeks. “Miong–”

His husband kisses him, seals their mouths together the same way he did when Pole was 18 and flying, when Pole was 32 and broken, when Pole was 27 and marrying the man he had been in love with for so long–

“Where are you from?” he asks when Miong pulls away. Pole clutches him closer, one hand on the nape of his neck, the other still on his cheek.

“I’m 33.” Miong replies, chocolate brown eyes shining. “Goyong’s still a baby. We’re in the house, we’re happy.”

Pole swallows, presses their foreheads together. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispers, breathing him in, hanging on to him like he can keep him here on sheer will alone. “I could’ve been here waiting–”

“I didn’t want you to wait.” Miong replies, pulling away, shaking his head. “I don’t want you to spend your life waiting.”

Pole smiles. Pulls him back in.

“Mahal kita.” Pole says. And it sounds like a promise.

Miong closes his eyes, savors the words. “I can’t stay.” And it sounds like a goodbye.

Pole laughs, hears his heart crack but not shatter like it did all those years back, when Miong had been sprawled across his lap, leaking blood from his mouth and his chest.

“I know.” Because he does. He knows it all too well, what it’s like to come home to a bed too big, to wake up to a morning too cold, and to move around a house too lonely.

He knows.

But he promised. And he has no intention of ever breaking it.

Miong holds his face, softly, like he’s precious, and Pole grins. Looks into eyes so tender and brown, moves his thumbs back and forth over dimples so deep, and he continues to do so until the warmth enveloping him is gone and only Miong’s clothes are left.

Pole folds the shirt almost precisely, movements rigid and automatic from years of repetition and looks up at his son.

Goyong just looks at him, eyes wide and glossy, speaking of unbelievable sadness, and they stare at each other, anchoring themselves against the sudden tide of emotion that comes with being the freshly left behind.

Then, his little boy smiles. And Pole finds the strength to return it.

“Help me.” he says. Goyong obeys and picks up his Itay’s slacks, folds them just as nicely before picking up his Itay’s shoes, holding them close to his chest in a careful embrace.

“You know, Papa.” Goyong says as he runs behind Pole’s wheelchair to help him back into the house. “I always think that he’s hiding there, just behind the Santan bushes, waiting to jump out and surprise me.”

Pole chuckles, reaches over his shoulder to hold his son’s hand.

“That’s what I used to think, too. When I was little.” he says, smiling. “That he was always here, even when he wasn’t.”

They enter the house and Goyong brakes Pole’s wheelchair, comes around, earnest eyes looking up at Pole’s face, a small smile spread across cherub cheeks.

“He is, isn’t he?”

Pole smiles back. Pulls his son into an embrace.

“Yes, Goyong.” he says. “He always is.”

I imagine that Pole would concentrate even more on his studies, doing anything just to keep Miong out of his mind. He wouldn’t be that affected on the emotional level, but he still doesn’t want to think about it.

Miong, on the other hand, would probably be devastated. He’d be punching walls out of anger. He’d listen to breakup songs for hours on end, to ease the pain just a bit. He’d also probably post song lyrics on Twitter and retweet hugot posts.

i tweaked this a bit but this AU is growing on me so u gais might see more lol

He hears the splash first before the low moaning of alanguage both familiar and unknown.

Miong smiles, continues on with the last bits of his work,tying his net together in knots strong enough to handle the rough waves,keeping one eye on his handiwork, and another on the gathering restlessness onthe horizon of the sea. Once he is done with his net, made sure it was nice andtight, he looks up.

And promptly gets a splash of cold, salt water in the face.

“That wasn’t very nice.” He says, laughing as he wipes awaythe water with the sleeve of his jacket. “It’s cold out, you know? I’m going toget sick.”

But his laughter is not returned, and over the edge of hislittle bangka where his merman ishanging on, he receives instead a glare and the agitated tick of a scaly greentail.

Miong puts his net down. “I’m sorry, Pole.” He says,crouching up to make his way to that end of the boat, just to be closer to hisfriend. “I didn’t mean to make you angry. Forgive me.”

Pole continues to scowl anyway, his pale, near translucentskin red with an anger that probably ran deeper than the ocean. Miong sighs,can’t truly understand why his merman is so furious at him due to the languagebarrier, but he bends over the edge so that they are closer, so that they canboth see each other’s eyes better.

“Knngh.” Hisfriend hisses, large brown eyes narrowing in a chastising manner. “Knngh snngh tungh.”

“I didn’t mean to ignore you like that.” Miong replies,smiling apologetically. “I was nearly done, I got lost in my work.”

His friend’s tail twitches in time with the violent shakingof his head.

“Knngh.” He saysagain, pointing at the horizon. “Knngh!”

“The storm?” Miong blinks, turning to see rough grey cloudsbrewing against subdued blue. “It’s not that bad.”

Pole’s tail twitches again, this time in a high arch, and thewide flat of his fin hits the water in an indignant gesture. His face hadgotten redder, too, and his eyes shine with a malice every seasoned sailor associatedwith his kind. But Miong is not a seasoned sailor—he knew Pole well and thoughhe can’t quite understand the merman’s odd devotion to him (since being stuckin his fresh water well for a duration of an awful storm surge only to bemanhandled as gently as possible back into the sea was probably not an idealsituation for a good first impression), he understands this.

If Pole were to ever do something stupid too, Miong wouldprobably react the same way.

“I’m sorry.” Miong says, chastised. “I know it’s not ideal,but I need to eat.”

Pole raises a brow, but lets loose a mischievous smile. “Nnngh?”

“No, Paterno isnot for eating.” Miong laughs, referring to his fat tabby cat back home thatPole seems to share a mutual animosity with. “He wouldn’t taste good anyway.”

As if on cue, his stomach growls, and Miong looks down at itin surprise.

When he looks back up, Pole is gone, head disappearing underrings of ripples with an audible little plop.

“Pole?” Miong calls, looking over the side of his bangka and searching the murky waters,bemused. “Where’d you—“

“Pssst.”

The sound came from behind him, and Miong turns to find Poleon the other side, loading two fat tuna fish on to the small bucket he usesregularly to separate his personal catch for the day. The fish flop from sideto side a bit, clearly panicked, before settling at the bottom of the barrel,trapped.

Pole smiles and Miong flushes. “You,” he starts, making hisway to the other side of the bangkaright in front of his friend, who was looking at him happily, like taking careof Miong was his life’s greatest achievement. “You really didn’t have to dothat.”

“Miong.” Polesays, warbled in his language– awkward, but clear nonetheless, the namesitting at home on his lips.

“Pole.” Miong replies, laughing. “Thank you.”

His merman laughs, too, a soundless laugh but a laugh,nonetheless, that makes his whole face light up with a sweet, contagious sortof joy. It makes Miong stare, and for a split second he thinks, so this is where the stories of old got itfrom. Mermen aren’t sirens, but they were enchanting. Especially Pole.

The thunder rolls in soon, and Miong starts the engine ofhis bangka, looking back a few timesto see if Pole was following. When he was sure that he was (he always is), he rides toward the shoreand beaches his boat against the golden sand.

But before he hops out he peers over the side once more andsmiles at his merman who he finds there, sat amongst the foaming waves.

“Thank you.” He says, leaning over as far as he dared,getting close enough to see the corners of Pole’s eyes crinkle in delight. “I’llsee you tomorrow?”

Pole smiles, nods, and does a very odd thing.

He reaches out, and cups Miong’s cheek.

“Miong.” He saysagain, frowning a bit in concentration. Miong focuses on his touch and findsthat, despite being slimy, Pole’s fingers are still very warm.

“Angh—“ Polebegins, the crease on his forehead deepening as he tries to form words not of his own tongue. “Angh—Ah”

Miong’s breath hitches. “Yes?”

“Ah—“ his mermanswallows. Then looks him in the eye. “Always.”

Miong kisses him. And it doesn’t surprise him, when Polekisses back.

He tastes sweet.