The entire week had been a slog through thick, wet concrete. Practice was a grueling, frustrating, and joyless affair. The gaping, Aiden-shaped hole in their lineup was a constant, painful reminder of their new reality. They were a team of grinders now, and the grind was unforgiving. The atmosphere in the gym was a toxic brew of exhaustion, short tempers, and the suffocating pressure of the impending Palarong Pambansa.
Friday, however, felt different. It was a day of truce. Coach Gutierrez, in a rare display of mercy that acknowledged their fractured morale, had canceled practice. The school was buzzing with a different, lighter energy. It was the night of the Senior Prom.
For Tristan Herrera, the impending evening was a separate and more terrifying kind of pressure. He had faced down 6'5" centers and hit buzzer-beating shots in front of thousands, but the thought of a cravat versus a necktie was enough to make his palms sweat.
He stood in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom, tugging at the collar of his new, crisp white shirt. The charcoal gray suit he and his friends had acquired in their 'Operation Cinderfella' commando mission hung perfectly on his frame. It was a strange, foreign armor. The fabric felt light and unfamiliar, a stark contrast to the heavy mesh of a practice jersey or the familiar cotton of a t-shirt. He looked… different. Not like a basketball player. Not just a student. He looked like a young man.
He checked his reflection, his hair meticulously styled for once. He thought of the "prom" basketball sitting on his desk, Claire's "Yes" a permanent, joyful mark on the white panel. This was it. The game was on.
An hour later, he stood on the front porch of Claire's house, his heart doing a frantic, arrhythmic dribble against his ribs. He had checked his tie in the car's window three times. He raised a slightly clammy hand and knocked.
The door swung open. And Tristan's carefully prepared greeting—a mix of "Hi" and "You look nice"—died in his throat.
It was Claire. But it wasn't. It was as if she had dialed up her own innate brightness to a level he hadn't known was possible. She was wearing a simple, floor-length gown of deep midnight blue. It was elegant, off-the-shoulder, and it made her look like she was carved from moonlight. Her hair, usually in a practical ponytail, was down, styled in soft waves that framed her face. Her smile, the one he saw every day, seemed to glow, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of excitement and her own nervous anticipation.
"Tris," she breathed, her eyes doing their own appreciative scan of him in his suit. "You... you clean up really well."
Tristan, for the first time in his life, was completely speechless. He just stared.
"Wow," he finally managed, the word feeling small and stupid. "Claire... you're... I mean, you look..." He fumbled, a rare turnover. "Wow."
She laughed, a clear, silvery sound that settled his nerves. "You too, Captain. Shall we?"
They walked into the most surreal location on earth: the Dasmariñas National High School gymnasium, utterly and magically transformed. The place where they had run suicides until they thought they'd collapse, where they'd waged war in scrimmages, where the ghost of Aiden's injury still lingered, was gone.
In its place was a starlit wonderland. Strings of glittering fairy lights draped from the basketball hoops. The unforgiving concrete floor was awash in soft blue and purple uplighting. The bleachers were hidden by flowing white fabric. A massive, glittering "2015" hung above the stage where a DJ was already spinning a high-energy pop track. The air, usually thick with the scent of sweat and rubber, was now filled with perfume and the thumping, synthetic bass of the music.
"This," Tristan said, his eyes wide as he took in the bizarre spectacle of a glitter-covered backboard, "is the weirdest thing I have ever seen."
"It's magical," Claire corrected him, squeezing his hand. "Tonight, it's not a gym. It's just... a place to dance."
"Speaking of which... the W-Team has arrived!" a familiar, booming voice cut through the music.
They turned to see the rest of their squad. Marco was a vision in a perfectly tailored, slim-fit black suit. He was wearing patent leather shoes that shone like obsidian, and he had a red rose in his lapel. He was with his date, Andrea from the Science Club, who looked both amused and slightly terrified by his boundless energy.
And then there was Gab.
Gab was wearing the slate-gray suit that he and Marco had fought over. It fit him perfectly, making him look less like a high school student and more like a high-level security detail for a visiting diplomat. He was standing stiffly, his massive shoulders looking unnatural in the formal wear, his eyes scanning the exits as if assessing potential threats. His date, a sweet, quiet girl named Sarah, was watching him with an expression of pure, unadulterated amusement.
"Behold!" Marco announced, striking a pose. "The Royal Couple has graced us with their presence! Tristan! Claire! You two look... acceptable. Almost as good as me, in fact."
"You look good, Marco," Tristan said, smiling.
"Good?" Marco scoffed, adjusting his cuffs. "Tristan, a meteor striking the earth is 'good' because it's a spectacle. I am magnificent. And look at this guy!" He gestured to Gab, who was standing like a statue. "Our own personal mountain! I told him to smile, but I think he's worried it might crack his face."
"The punch is too sweet," Gab rumbled, his first and only observation of the night so far. He'd already made a trip to the refreshment table. "And the music is giving me a headache."
"You're a party animal, Gab," Claire laughed.
"I am a sentinel," Gab corrected her, his expression deadpan. "I am guarding the drinks. It is my solemn duty."
The four of them—Tristan and Claire, Gab and Sarah—migrated to a table, a small island of relative calm in the sea of noise.
Marco, predictably, was already on the dance floor, pulling Andrea with him, his movements a chaotic, joyous, and rhythmically-challenged display of flailing limbs.
For a while, they just sat and watched. They saw other members of the team. Ian and Cedrick were there, both looking impossibly large in their own suits, awkwardly making conversation in a small group. They saw Daewoo, looking nervous, talking to a girl from the cheer squad. The mood was light, a bubble of forced, desperate normalcy.
But the shadow was still there.
"It's weird, isn't it?" Claire said softly, her voice just for Tristan.
"What is?"
"Everyone's here... except the one person who would have loved this the most."
Tristan knew who she meant. He pictured Aiden, his easy charm, his perfect fadeaway, his infectious, movie-star smile. He would have been the life of this party.
"Yeah," Tristan said, his own smile faltering. "He would have."
He looked at his team, all dressed up, trying to be normal teenagers, and he felt a sharp pang of responsibility. "This is for him, too, you know. This night. We're supposed to be living it for him."
"Then let's do that," Claire said, standing up and pulling on his hand. "Let's live it."
The DJ, as if on cue, shifted the energy. The pounding, high-tempo beat faded, replaced by the soft, introductory chords of a slow song. The lights dimmed further, the purples and blues softening. A classic, soaring ballad filled the transformed gym.
"Oh," Claire said, her breath catching. "Okay. This is... this is the part."
"I, uh..." Tristan started, his mouth suddenly dry. "I should warn you. I'm a much, much better basketball player than I am a dancer. My footwork is... questionable."
"That's okay," she said, her smile soft and reassuring as she led him onto the floor. "I'm a cheerleader. I'm good at finding my balance. Just... don't step on my toes."
He took her in his arms. One hand went to her waist, the other finding hers. She rested her head on his shoulder. And they began to move.
At first, it was the classic, awkward, middle-school shuffle. Two athletes, so used to precise, explosive, functional movements, suddenly fumbling with a simple, slow rhythm.
"See?" he whispered, his voice rumbling in her ear. "I told you. I'm terrible at this."
"You're not terrible," she whispered back. "You're just... stiff. You're thinking about it like it's a defensive slide. Just... stop thinking. Feel the music."
He closed his eyes. He stopped analyzing, stopped thinking about his feet. He just focused on the feel of her in his arms, the scent of her hair, the light pressure of her hand in his. His body relaxed. Their shuffling slowly found a groove, a simple, shared sway that was perfectly in time. The outside world—the DJ, the crowd, the glitter on the backboards—began to melt away, the focus pulling in until it was just the two of them, alone at center court.
"I was more nervous about tonight than I was for the regional finals," he confessed, his voice a low murmur.
She lifted her head, her eyes finding his. "Really? Even after you won? Even after your basketball proposal?"
"Especially after that," he said. "That was on my home court. This... this is a whole new arena. And I was pretty sure I was going to trip and fall, or spill drinks on you, or something."
"You're doing great so far," she smiled. "No major penalties. And... for the record, the suit is a definite upgrade from the sweaty jersey. Though you look good in that, too."
"And you..." he said, his voice dropping. "You look... perfect. I've been trying to think of a better word all night, but that's the only one that fits."
He pulled her a little closer. The song soared.
"I'm so glad we're doing this," he said, his voice thick with an emotion that surprised him. "This week... it's been... hell. With Aiden. With practice. I've just been so angry. So... lost."
"I know," she said, her hand coming up to rest on his chest, right over his heart. "I've seen it in your face all week. You've been carrying all of it."
"But tonight," he said, looking at her, "tonight I'm not the captain. I'm not the guy who has to have all the answers. I'm just... here. With you. And it's the first time I've been able to breathe in a week."
"Then just breathe," she whispered.
And he did. He stopped swaying, and she raised her head. In the middle of the dance floor, in the middle of their transformed gymnasium, he leaned in and kissed her.
It wasn't a rushed, nervous kiss. It was a slow, deep, and meaningful one. It was a kiss of shared relief, of unspoken promises, of finding a single, perfect moment of peace in the middle of a war. It was the echo of her "Yes" on the basketball, and the promise of a thousand moments to come. The world dissolved. There was no music, no crowd.
There was just her.
The song faded out. They stood there for a beat, foreheads resting together, lost in the moment.
"AHEM."
The sound was like a foghorn. They broke apart, blinking, the harsh, real world rushing back in.
Marco was standing five feet away, his phone held up, a blinding flash illuminating them.
"GOT IT!" he yelled, triumphant. "That's the one! That's the poster! The prom-night kiss that will echo through the halls of DNHS for generations! My man, Tristan! My girl, Claire! You two have chemistry that science classes can only dream of!"
"Marco, you're a menace," Claire said, laughing and hiding her face, her cheeks flushed.
"I'm a documentarian!" he declared. "A historian! This is a legendary night, and I am its humble scribe!"
Just then, Gab materialized at his side, holding two empty cups.
"I'm parched," Gab said, his voice a deadpan rumble. He shoved the cups into Marco's chest. "My date is also parched. You're yelling. Go be useful and refill these."
Marco, for once, looked offended. "Do I look like a waiter? I am the life of this party!"
"You look like a loud person holding a camera," Gab countered. "Go. And get the one with the pineapple chunks this time."
Grumbling about a lack of respect for his art, Marco trotted off towards the bowl.
Gab turned to Tristan and Claire. He gave them his signature, one-shouldered shrug. "You two are... loud, in a different way. But," he said, and a look of genuine, almost imperceptible softness came over his face, "it's good you're happy. This is... a good night."
He turned and walked back to his table, a silent mountain of approval.
Tristan and Claire just looked at each other and laughed.
Later, as the night wound down, they stood outside the gym doors, the cool night air a welcome relief. The music was a muffled, rhythmic thump from inside.
"So," she said, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Was it a good normal night?"
He thought about the chaotic sprint for a suit, the brutal practices, the ghost of his friend in the hospital, and the one perfect, stolen night in the middle of it all.
"It was the best," he said, slipping his arm around her waist.
"Good," she said, her voice quiet. "Because tomorrow, it's back to work."
"I know," Tristan said, his own voice firming, the captain returning. "Tomorrow, we get back to work."
They had their night. They had their one, perfect, normal memory. The bubble was about to burst, but it had served its purpose. It had given them something to fight for, beyond just a trophy. It had given them a moment of 'us' to carry into the battle to come.