Chapter Text
Pran stays in bed pretty much the entire weekend. He was supposed to go home, but he manages to appease his mother with some carefully placed lies about a group project he has to take over because his classmates are slacking off.
The walls of his apartment are thin enough that being in bed doesn’t keep him from hearing the knocks on his door that come periodically throughout Saturday, nor the call of “Pran?” that follows each times. Swaddling himself in his blankets does help him resist the temptation to go look through his viewfinder, though, to try and see what Pat’s face looks like when he’s left unanswered.
By Sunday, Pat has given up on the knocking, but when Pran trudges out to the kitchen for a green tea drink at one point, he sees that Pat has slipped a note under the door. All it says is “can we talk? please?” with Pat’s LINE ID scrawled on it in his familiar, messy script. Pran can’t even conjure up any amusement about his childish username. But neither can he convince himself to throw the scrap of paper away.
Pran strongly considers skipping class on Monday, the day of their shared lecture, but so far he’s gotten by without drawing any unnecessary attention from his friends, who had left him alone all weekend because they expected him to be at his parents’ place. If he tells them he’s sick, they’re sure to drop by and ask questions that he is absolutely not ready to answer. So he gathers himself together and makes it to class with barely a minute to spare, ignoring Wai’s raised eyebrows as he takes a seat next to him.
It's a mistake, because even being in the same lecture hall as Pat is enough to drive Pran to distraction. Somehow he can feel Pat’s eyes on him throughout the excruciating hour and a half. And when the class finally, finally ends, Pran can’t help but glance over at the other side of the hall, where Pat has scrambled to his feet with a determined look on his face.
Shit. Pran weighs the two dreadful options: exit the hall with his friends – who’ll provide a buffer, but then will be there to witness whatever confrontation Pat is planning – or deal with it on his own?
He chooses the latter. He’s going to have to face Pat at some point anyway.
Pran makes an excuse to his friends and heads downstairs. He can hear Pat following him, just out of sight, and he tucks himself away in a little alcove to hide.
When Pat arrives, Pran reaches out to grab him by the collar and drag him in. He realizes his mistake as soon as he touches Pat. He meant it to be a little rough, to catch Pat off guard and show his annoyance, but having Pat so near instead makes the air thick with tension, Pat staring at him. Pran drops his hands from Pat’s shirt like they’ve been burned, and he backs up against the other wall, as far as he can.
Pat is still gaping at him, so Pran crosses his arms over his chest and tries to regain some control over the situation. “Why are you following me?”
Pat blinks at him, his brow furrowing. “We need to talk.”
“What’s there to talk about?”
“About Friday night –”
Pran clenches his jaw. “I’ve said everything I need to say about that night.”
“But I haven’t,” says Pat, looking frustrated. “Pran, come on. This doesn’t have to be so serious.”
A different fear spikes through Pran, sharp and sudden. Had he – had he misunderstood what Pat was saying that night? He can’t have, can he? It had felt like they were entirely on the same page. And Pat’s voice saying why can’t I tell you how much I like you? has been echoing in his head over and over again. But still…
“I can’t do a fling with you, Pat,” he says, trying to make his voice hard, but it just comes out choked instead. Fuck.
Pat, though, looks startled. “No, that’s not what I – I didn’t mean I’m not serious about you,” he says, and it should not send a shiver of happiness through Pran, it shouldn’t, because it still doesn’t change anything. “I just meant that we don’t have to have everything with our parents figured out right now. We can take it slow. Tackle them when we have to.”
Pran barks out a laugh. “Take it slow? Our parents have hated each other for our entire lives. If they ever wanted to change their minds, they’ve already had two decades to do it.”
“But they didn’t have a reason,” Pat persists. “We’ve never tried to make them stop before, we always just went along with it. Maybe we could convince them. You never know.”
Pran shakes his head. Pat is a stubborn and incurable optimist, he’s always known that, but he’s never had to push up against it quite so hard. “I do know, Pat. You know too. You’re just not admitting it.”
Pat’s lips tighten at that, and he doesn’t respond, forcing Pran to just look at him for a moment, at the unhappiness in his face.
Pran’s stomach feels heavy. Maybe he’s been going about this the wrong way. It’s not Pat’s fault that they’re here, after all, not any more than it is Pran’s.
“Pat,” he says quietly, wanting Pat to hear the pain in his own voice now, because maybe it’ll help. “I’m not trying to hurt you. But let’s not make this more complicated than it already is, okay? It’s only going to end in more misery for us both.”
“Complicated?” says Pat, sounding bitter. “It’s been complicated since we were born. The only thing uncomplicated about this is how we are together.”
“Pat…”
The corners of Pat’s mouth turn up, but it’s not a happy look. “You know that too,” he imitates. “You’re just not admitting it.”
And the fucked up part is, Pat’s not wrong. Pran felt it on Friday night, that moment when everything fell away and it was just them.
He wishes he never had, because it only makes things harder.
“Please just leave me alone,” Pran says before he leaves Pat behind in the alcove. “It’s for the best.”
*
Pat doesn’t exactly leave him alone. But neither does he keep confronting Pran. Instead, he proves he has unlimited tools in his “bother Pran” arsenal, because now he’s just kind of…hovering around Pran’s life. Not pranking and teasing him, not even approaching him directly. But he’s somehow always in Pran’s peripheral vision: studying in the courtyard of the architecture department, watching Premier League matches with his friends at the bar where Wai works, talking on the phone in the lobby of their dorm building when Pran gets back from class.
He’s not openly flirting with Pran either, just giving him long, intense looks, as if trying to prove how serious he is. It’s horrible. Pran tries his best not to meet his gaze, but he’s only human. He can’t help but look back sometimes.
By the next Friday, Pran is a ball of nerves, the quiet attention from Pat little better than any of his previous schemes. He’s going home the next day, but he desperately needs a distraction first, so he pulls Safe aside after their last seminar and says he wants to go out clubbing that night.
Safe grins agreeably. “Sweet! Louis has been wanting to go to this new place –”
“No,” says Pran, shifting uncomfortably. “To a gay club. Just us.”
Safe looks surprised. Their friends all know that Safe is bi and he’s gay, none of it is a secret, and Wai and Louis have been out to gay bars with them once or twice before, but it’s always been a pretty tame experience, the four of them hanging out together more than trying to dance with anyone else. It’s different, taking straight friends out with them, even when Pran knows that they want to be supportive. Pran doesn’t hook up a ton anyway, but when he does, he’s always avoided letting Wai or Louis see it, no matter how many times he’s had to witness them making out or dancing hot and heavy with girls.
Safe seems to understand what Pran’s not saying. “Yeah, okay,” he says carefully. “Where were you thinking?”
Well, that’s easy. “Anywhere but DJ Station.”
*
Safe insists that if they’re going to have a “queer buddies’ night”, they have to go all out, so he comes over to help Pran pick out an outfit. Pran’s look for clubbing is usually simple: tight jeans, an oversized top with the first few buttons undone, maybe some light eyeliner. But Safe is having none of it.
He rummages through Pran’s closet until he makes a pleased noise. “Now this is what I’m talking about,” he says, and comes up with a black mesh crop-top that Pran had bought once on a whim and never worn.
Pran sighs. “Really?”
“Really,” Safe confirms, making him pair it with cutoff denim shorts that he says makes Pran’s ass look great. He does Pran’s make-up too, giving him a full winged eye – black eyeliner with a layer of glitter on top of it – and a light lipstick. And he finishes up the look by tousling Pran’s hair artfully and then securing it with a fuckton of product.
“Hmmm,” says Safe, scrutinizing him when he’s done, “we’ve really gotta get your ears pierced, but otherwise, perfect.”
Pran looks in the mirror. Well, he definitely looks good. And he does have a goal for the night.
They end up at G Bangkok. It’s much as he remembers from previous times he’s been there: dark and glitzy, air thick with electronic house beats, shirtless people everywhere. He and Safe take shots to start off the night, the alcohol still burning in Pran’s belly as Safe pulls him onto the dance floor.
He and Safe dance together for a little while, and it’s fun, Pran getting to let loose in a way he hasn’t been able to in ages. Safe looks really good too, even more made up than Pran is, wearing a cute t-shirt dress and boots, and his laughter is infectious.
It’s not long, though, before Pran feels hands at his waist that aren’t just accidental touches from the crowd around them. He turns his head to see a guy with a round face and spiky hair, a little shorter than him, smiling at him encouragingly. He’s very attractive. He looks nothing like Pat.
Perfect.
Pran returns the smile and presses back against his chest, guiding the guy’s hands to wrap around him more firmly. They dance like that for a while, Pran tilting his head back onto the guy’s shoulder as he lets the music and atmosphere and his tipsiness drift him away a little. The guy’s hands roam up and down Pran’s chest, catching his nipples occasionally through the mesh. He can feel the guy getting hard, his crotch grinding into Pran’s ass, and when Pran turns his head again the guy kisses him, his mouth tasting of beer.
The club is full of dark corners, and Pran wastes no time finding them one. He pushes the guy up against the wall and they make out sloppily, Pran cupping the guy’s dick through his pants and rubbing at it. The guy groans into his mouth and grabs Pran’s ass, pulling them even closer together, his hands hot and greedy. It’s exactly the distraction Pran wants, to lose himself in someone else, just their bodies doing what they want, nothing more complicated than that.
Then the guy whispers, “Let me suck you,” into Pran’s ear, and suddenly Pran feels like he’s about to throw up.
He freezes, and he’s pressed up so closely against the guy’s body that the guy notices instantly. “Uh,” he says, sounding confused, “or not?”
Pran exhales hard and then disentangles himself from the guy, stepping away. “I’m sorry,” he says, his mouth thick. “You’re really hot. I just…can’t do this.”
The guy frowns, looking Pran up and down, then shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says. “Too bad though. You’re pretty hot too.”
“…thanks?” Pran manages, and then he flees.
Safe finds him half an hour later at the rooftop bar, nursing a cocktail and looking out over Silom. “Pran, Pran, Pran,” he says with a sigh, taking the empty seat next to him. “You were the one who wanted to come out, you know.”
“I know,” says Pran with a grimace. He glances over at Safe. “You can still go have fun. You don’t have to look after me.”
“What kind of queer buddies’ night would that be?” Safe says, nudging Pran’s shoulder with his own and smiling. “C’mon, buy me a drink.”
*
They stay out for another couple hours, but they don’t return to the dancefloor, remaining on the rooftop to get progressively drunker and play “fuck, marry, kill” about the attractive people they see. By the time Pran returns to his dorm, he’s pretty wasted, feeling off-kilter enough that he fumbles with his keys when he gets to his door. His apartment key and the key to his parents’ house look almost identical, except that his dorm key has numbers etched into it – or no, wait, is it the house key that has numbers?
While he’s trying to puzzle that out, fiddling with them, he drops the keys and looks down, annoyed. “Fuck!” he says, and immediately winces, his voice coming out louder than he’d expected.
He manages to pick the keys up without falling over, which he is definitely going to count as a success, but when he straightens up, swaying a little, he hears the sound of a door opening behind him. And then, there it is: Pat’s too-familiar, too-beloved voice saying, “Pran? Are you okay?”
Pran turns around before he can help himself. It’s a mistake. Pat is blinking at him drowsily from his doorway, his hair sticking up everywhere, and Pran wants to touch him so badly that he has to clench his hands into fists to keep himself from reaching out.
Pat’s eyes widen at the sight of him, his mouth going slack. “Pran,” he breathes, “you…” and Pran suddenly remembers what he looks like right now, mesh top, eyeliner, lipstick and all.
“Pat,” he croaks, his heart racing at the burn of Pat’s gaze.
They stand like that for a moment, staring at each other. There’s a flame lit in Pran’s belly as well, nothing like the sick sensation he’d had before with the other guy. Just the bright, incendiary feeling of having Pat this close and looking at him like that, and Pran knows he’s not supposed to want him, he knows, but in this moment he can’t remember why it matters.
Then Pat says, “You’re drunk,” sounding choked, and it’s not the main reason this is off-limits, but it’s enough of one to bring Pran back to his senses, at least a little.
“Yeah,” he says heavily, the fire inside him burning down to bitter ash. Suddenly he can’t stand looking at Pat. He turns around, clumsily trying different keys until he finds the right one.
It feels like minutes later, but Pran’s never been so relieved to get his door open. He doesn’t look back, but neither does he hear Pat’s door click shut behind him, not before he’s back in his room and alone again.
*
If Pran can’t distract himself with casual hook-ups, he’ll just have to turn his attention away from romance and sex entirely. He throws himself into all the things in his life that are less complicated – school, his friends, rehearsing for the Freshy Day concert, and rugby.
The last one is the most successful. Pran’s always been athletic, but after leaving Prasertsilp, he mostly played sports for fun, had never felt the need to push his body beyond what he needed to be a good team player. There just hadn’t been that much incentive at boarding school, without a rival to beat.
Now, he throws himself into it with a rigor that surprises all his teammates, hoping to exhaust himself out of anxiety. Even the extra drills and strength training he does aren’t quite enough to crowd out his thoughts and unhappiness, though, especially since he’s started having trouble with insomnia, so he takes to going on long runs in the evening, draining himself so much that sometimes he even collapses into bed without a shower. It’s worth it for the sleep it affords him and the way it quiets his brain.
Pran’s workouts also pay off on the field. They handily win their next couple games, against the political science and business faculties respectively. But the real challenge is a few weeks later, and the one Pran is dreading the most: the game against engineering, of course, whom the architecture department has a friendly but storied rivalry with when it comes to extracurriculars.
His coach starts getting a little concerned at Pran’s enthusiasm, though. “I don’t want you to injure yourself,” he tells Pran, so on the nights Pran has rugby practice, he starts going to Wai’s bar afterwards instead of jogging so that he can avoid bumping into Pat at the dorm.
Just his luck that tonight, Pat has decided to come out there himself.
Pran is chatting idly with Wai about music when he notices Pat sitting down at a table with a girl. Pat’s still been very around these past few weeks, but they haven’t spoken since the night Pran went clubbing.
He has a roiling feeling in his stomach at the sight of Pat now. “Hey, man, I think I’m going to call it a night,” he says to Wai, who gives him a nod. This doesn’t appear to be part of Pat’s efforts to always be near Pran; Pat seems to be entirely unaware that Pran is here. Maybe if Pran sneaks around the edges of the room, he can escape without being seen.
Except when he gets closer to the table, it’s not Pat who spots him. “Pran? Pran, is that you?”
Pran looks over unwillingly and oh, fuck. It’s Ink. The girl Pat’s sitting with is Ink.
Pat’s turned around to look at him as well now, wide-eyed, and Pran almost wants to laugh. He didn’t even know Ink went to South Tech. Of course this would happen. Of course this is his life.
“Hi, Ink,” he says, giving a half-hearted wave. Even he knows it’s pathetic, but his feels too jittery for anything else.
Ink pouts at him. “Is that really all I get, after not having seen you for years? Come join us, I want to catch up!”
“Um, I was just here to see my friend who works here, I really have to –”
“No, come join us,” Pat agrees. His eyes are very dark. “Please.”
And what the fuck can Pran say to that?
He waffles when he gets to the table – sit next to Ink and have to look Pat in the eye more often, or sit next to Pat and have to feel his presence there? But Pat pulls out the chair next to him in a clear invitation, and Pran can’t think of an excuse not to sit there that wouldn’t make Ink realize something was up, so he reluctantly takes it.
“You know, Pat told me you were at uni with us, but I don’t think I really believed it until I saw you with my own eyes!” says Ink. It sets so many things running through Pran’s brain. Pat and Ink clearly hang out enough for him to have talked about Pran. Are they close? Did they ever end up dating while Pran was away? Does Pat still have any feelings for her? Even with Pat’s soft, sad gaze on him right now, Pran can’t help but remember what it felt like, in mattayom, to watch Pat and Ink laughing together and flirting, to see the gleam in Pat’s eye when he talked about Ink, just like he’d talked about Mai and Nan and all the others.
Maybe there’s a safety in remembering that. Maybe jealousy is easier to handle than knowing you’re denying yourself something that is just within your reach.
“How have you been?” Ink continues, unaware of Pran’s inner turmoil. She looks at his jersey quizzically. “Still playing football?”
“Ah, no, rugby now,” Pran says, because that’s easy enough to answer.
“Oh, you too, right, Pat?”
Pat gives a little laugh. “Yeah. Actually, we have a game against architecture soon.”
“Oooh, a chance to rekindle your rivalry,” Ink teases. “So who should I root for? Pat, or Pran?”
Pran tries to think what he would say, if this was an alternate universe where he hadn’t been completely head over heels for Pat since he was a kid, and where Pat wasn’t – wasn’t also – but his mind goes completely blank. He gives Ink a tight smile instead and hopes it doesn’t look too much like a grimace.
Pat doesn’t say anything either, and after a moment he passes the menu over to Pran. Pran is about to mumble a thank you when Ink leans forward and grabs Pat’s wrist. “Oh, you’re wearing it!”
And he is, in fact, wearing a braided bracelet with a P charm hanging off it.
“Took you long enough to notice,” Pat snarks at her, but Pran barely hears it, frozen, as two different memories swirl in his mind. One, of watching Ink gift Pat this very bracelet in mattayom, and feeling like his heart was splintering into a thousand pieces; but the other, unexpectedly, of what once adorned Pran’s own wrist, the not-so-broken watch that still sits in a box in Pran’s closet, along with a dozen other keepsakes of his love for Pat that Pran tried so hard to exile from his mind.
No such luck there.
“Sorry, I have to go,” he hears himself say, his own voice sounding far away as his heartbeat throbs in his chest. “I just remembered I have a paper to finish.”
“Aw, we’ve barely had a chance to talk!” Ink complains.
Pran smiles tightly at her. “Another time, I promise.” He doesn’t look at Pat before he leaves.
*
After that, Pran decides to take the coward’s way out of the upcoming rugby match. He had jammed his shoulder a bit at practice, and he exaggerates it the next day to tell their coach that he thinks he’s too injured to play. Normally Coach Kai would probably not be so gullible, but Pran’s been pushing himself so hard that Coach almost seems relieved to have a reason to bench him.
He still makes himself go to watch, though – he owes his teammates that much. His throat goes tight when both teams make their way out onto the field and he notices Pat frowning at their lineup, clearly expecting to see Pran. Then he starts scanning the bleachers, and the smart thing for Pran to do would be to look away, but he fails to do so before Pat catches sight of him, their eyes meeting.
Pat’s lips press together at the sight of Pran on the bench, and Pran knows that Pat can see right through him, can tell exactly why Pran isn’t playing. Then his shoulders slump a little, and he turns away, looking defeated.
It makes Pran feel hollow inside, especially when Pat’s dejection continues while the match starts. It’s been years since he’s watched Pat play, and never rugby – they’d both been into football when Pran was still at Prasertsilp – but even so, he can tell that Pat isn’t giving it his all the way he usually does.
The rest of his team seems to be thrown off as well, clearly impacted by their captain’s mood – Pran knows that engineering has been beating their opponents handily up until now, which is part of why this match has been so highly anticipated. But in the end it’s a rout for architecture, the engineering team badly uncoordinated and making a lot of unforced errors that Pran’s team exploits mercilessly.
Pran’s friends stream onto the bleachers jubilantly, both Wai and Safe throwing their arms around Pran. He tries to smile, tries to pretend to be happy for them, but all he feels is empty at the sight of Pat and his team trudging to their own bench and packing their things up.
“You’ll come out with us to celebrate, won’t you, Pran?” Louis asks hopefully.
“Yeah, of course,” he says. “You all go wash up, I’ll meet you at the bar.”
As Pran’s friends leave, Pran realizes with a jolt that Pat is standing with his duffle bag, looking at Pran, clearly wanting to talk to him. Shit. How the fuck is Pran supposed to avoid him now?
“Pran!”
Pran turns to find relief arriving in the form of Ink, who is walking towards him, waving brightly.
“Ink, I didn’t know you were here,” he says.
“Oh, I was on the job,” she says, patting the camera bag that she’s holding. “I was hoping to catch you in action! Why didn’t you play?”
“Ah, I hurt my shoulder at practice,” Pran says, scratching his ear awkwardly.
“That’s rough,” Ink says sympathetically. “Hey, do you have a minute? There’s something I wanted to give you.”
Pran can’t help it – his eyes go back to where Pat had been standing. But Pat is gone. It doesn’t ease the lump in Pran’s throat at all.
“Sure,” he tells Ink.
Ink digs in her bag and triumphantly produces a woven bracelet. From what Pran can tell, it’s identical to the one that Pat has, right down to the P charm hanging off it.
“I wanted to give this to you back in school, but then you transferred,” she tells him. “Do you like it?”
“It’s really cute,” he says honestly, giving her a small smile.
“Here, let me put it on you,” she says, taking his wrist and easing the bracelet on. Pran watches her, conflicted – feeling both touched by the gesture, and a little guilty. Ink’s never been anything but nice to him, and he’s always been polite back, but never properly friendly.
It’s not that he’s ever disliked Ink, even when he was jealous about Pat’s feelings for her. But no one else who knew him and Pat had ever attempted to be friends with them both, having grown up with their feud. Ink was a breath of fresh air when she moved to Krungthep and joined their school, and that included her easy dismissal of Pat and Pran’s rivalry, but back then, Pran found her attitude about it just as scary as it was exciting.
Now…
“Hey, Ink?” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Did…did you and Pat ever date after I transferred?”
Ink stares at him. “Me? And Pat?” she says, and the incredulity in her voice makes Pran feel simultaneously relieved and dismayed. Shit.
“I just – I think he had a crush on you, in mattayom,” Pran says, a little pathetically, as Ink continues gaping at him. “So I wondered.”
Ink laughs, still sounding surprised. “Well, that’s news to me! I mean, I was pretty hot stuff in school, I know.” She’s clearly inviting Pran to joke with her, but he can barely manage a smile, and after a moment, Ink’s mirth fades. “But, no. Pat’s a friend, just like you.”
Pran persists. “Friendship can turn into more, sometimes, can’t it? Maybe you should give him a chance.” He doesn’t even really know what he’s doing – it’s not like he has any control over Pat’s feelings. But a person Pat’s already liked in the past seems like a better shot for turning Pat’s affections away from him than trying to direct him to someone new.
Ink is studying him now, realizing he’s serious, and Pran fears she might see more than he wants her to. If she does, though, she’s too kind to call him out on it, and instead she says, after a moment, “Pat’s great, but there’s someone else I like already.”
“Oh,” says Pran, heavily.
“You weren’t that far off, though,” Ink says lightly. “You just got the wrong sibling.”
That takes Pran a moment to parse, but when he does, it’s his turn to be astonished. “Wait – the person you like is Pa?”
Ink smiles. “I’ve always had eyes for her. I’m just waiting for her to notice.”
Pran turns that over in his mind. “If she’s anything like her brother, you might be waiting a long time,” he says, before he realizes just how revealing a statement that could be on his part.
But Ink lets that go unremarked upon as well. “That’s okay. I can be patient.”
*
When Pran gets back to his apartment that evening, his heart flips over in his chest when he sees that there’s a bag hanging on his door.
Inside is a tube of bruise remedy, some over-the-counter painkillers, and a bottle of the same brand of green tea drink that Pran had left on his door, so many weeks ago. The gifts are accompanied by a note in Pat’s messy scrawl that says, “For your shoulder, so that you don’t have to skip out on the Freshy Day Concert as well.”
Shit. Ink may be a patient person, but Pat certainly is not. He gave up on his attempt to say anything to Pran at the rugby game, but that’s not going to last. And now Pran knows exactly where the next confrontation is going to be.
*
Of course, there’s no way Pran can get out of the Freshy Day Concert now; Wai and Safe are already so disappointed that he gave up on writing an original song for them. They’re still convinced that they can win the contest, though. Pran honestly couldn’t care about the competition element of it anymore, or even about playing terribly well. He just wants to get through it all without mishap.
On Friday morning, the day of the concert, Pran wakes up in a cold sweat with a single thought: what if Pat is planning some kind of public confession to catch Pran off guard? What if he’s convinced his friends to choose a song that has some similarities to their situation, and is going to sing it to Pran in front of everyone? Or, even worse, what if his band is going to be playing the song Pat and Pran wrote together in school? The idea of Pat serenading him with his own words makes Pran feel sick. Pran’s never seen Pat act as lead singer while drumming, but if anything were going to motivate him to do so, Pran fears it could be this.
He's a bundle of nerves by the time they get to the venue. His friends think it’s stage fright, and Pran sees no reason to disabuse them of the notion, accepting their friendly pats on the shoulder with a grimace.
Safe goes to get their badges, returning with the lineup as well. “Looks like we’re right after our old friends from engineering,” he says, and Pran stifles a groan. Of course. Of fucking course.
“Hey, we beat them at rugby, surely you all can beat them at this as well!” Louis says, grinning, and the others laugh. Pran can’t even muster up a smile.
There are ten bands competing, and Pat’s is up third. By the time they begin, Pran’s stomach is roiling. He could just leave, could tell his friends he needs a short walk before they’re up. They would buy the excuse. But he’s also riveted, unable to take his eyes of Pat, who is in fact micced up, along with his friend Korn on lead guitar.
Pran doesn’t recognize the song – it has a long instrumental intro, and then Korn starts singing the first verse. Pran’s still tense, even as he sees Pat barely singing, only chiming in on back-up occasionally as they make it through the chorus.
It’s only when the bridge arrives, Korn singing through it in his slightly rough but pleasant voice, that Pran realizes: Pat’s not going to have a vocal solo. Pat’s not even looking at Pran as he plays.
It hits Pran like a truck: nothing that he’d been fearing is going to happen. Pat’s not dedicating this song to him at all.
And somehow, that’s even worse.
Pran can’t breathe. His feet are moving before he even thinks about it, because he needs to get away, he needs to get as far as possible from this horrible atrium and this horrible concert and his horrible, horrible brain. He hears Wai calling after him, but he ignores it.
Somehow he finds a bathroom, which is mercifully empty, and he grips a sink with both hands, breathing so harshly that he’s almost hyperventilating. Fuck. Fuck.
If Pran had been thinking clearly, he would have known that Pat would never do something like that to him, wouldn’t put him on the spot like that – especially not at a concert, not after the disastrous ending the last time Pran was on stage. Pat would know not to make those anxieties even worse.
But Pran hadn’t been thinking clearly, because some part of him wanted Pat to put him on the spot. Wanted Pat to push and push at him, so that Pran could pretend it wasn’t his fault if he gave in.
It would be his fault, though. And he can’t give in. It’s still impossible for them to be together.
Pran hears the door open, and he tenses reflexively, because if it’s Pat looking for him –
“Pran?” he hears, and it’s Wai. Of course it’s Wai.
Part of Pran wants to laugh. Even now, he’s imagining Pat coming after him. Pat probably hadn’t noticed he’d gone, hadn’t even been thinking of Pran as he performed. The humiliation churns within Pran, the fact that he’d come up with every part of this absurd scenario. It was all in his head.
“Pran!” Wai says again, and Pran meets his eyes in the mirror. Wai looks alarmed. “If I’d known your stage fright was this bad, I’d never have suggested we perform!”
Pran tries to inhale deeply, one breath after another. “It’s not stage fright,” he finally chokes out. “I think I have a stomach bug or something.”
“Shit, okay,” says Wai. “What do you need? Do you want to go to the health clinic?”
“No,” Pran whispers, misery settling deep within him. “I want to go home.”
*
Pran must look pretty bad, because when they arrive at his house, Pran’s parents easily buy the excuse that he’s sick. They thank Wai profusely for escorting him, sending him home with some of Pran’s mother’s cooking, and then fuss over Pran, bringing him carbonated drinks and simple foods to settle his stomach, even as he insists that he’s not hungry.
He stays in bed that evening and the next morning. But in the early afternoon, he hears a loud clunk and looks down in surprise at the floor under his open window where a tin can now lies, the string that’s tied to it stretching out the window his mother had insisted on opening for fresh air.
Well. There goes the idea that Pat hadn’t noticed him running away from the concert. He can’t believe Pat even kept the cans they used to use as kids.
Pran gets out of bed then, stumbling over so he can grab the tin can and throw it back out before closing the window tightly. He manages to resist the urge to look out towards Pat’s balcony before he draws the curtains.
After that, Pran can’t stand to be in his room, so he heads downstairs, where Pat won’t dare to try and disturb him. Pran’s parents are delighted to see him out of bed, but simultaneously regretful, because they are about to head out to an industry expo. “I can stay back with you,” his mother suggests, but he insists that he’ll be fine. She settles for making him tea and cutting him some fruit before they leave.
Chai has arrived to accompany his parents to the expo, so Pran sits at the dining table with him while his parents flit around, getting ready to leave. It’s always comforting to be in Chai’s presence – he’s unfailingly kind, and seems to understand Pran in a way that he is always grateful for. It doesn’t hurt that he’s somehow a neutral party in the family enmity, even though he was directly involved; even Pat’s dad doesn’t seem to hate Chai, despite no longer being his employer.
It's a testament to how miserable Pran is that he asks Chai something he’s never asked before.
“Hia,” he says quietly, when his parents are out of earshot. “What was it like before my parents and the family next door hated each other? Were they ever friendly?”
Chai doesn’t seem at all fazed by the question, but he shakes his head. “That would be before my time, unfortunately.”
“But weren’t you working for Pat’s dad when his family first moved to this neighborhood?” says Pran, surprised. “Before my parents opened up their shop?”
“Yes, but they already disliked each other at that point,” Chai explains. “I’ve never seen them even be polite to each other.”
Now Pran is even more confused. “But I thought their fight was all about the business. About my parents poaching you…and Pat’s dad’s bid-rigging…” He trails off at the look on Chai’s face.
“Poaching me? What are you talking about?” says Chai, baffled. “I quit working for Khun Ming for my own reasons. Your parents only hired me after that, to help me out.”
Pran is gaping at him. “And the bid-rigging?”
“Wait…you mean because Khun Ming made a good deal with a supplier in China? There was nothing unethical about that. I know, because I handled that account for him,” Chai says. “Where did you even get this from?”
“From…my parents,” says Pran, head spinning.
Chai sighs. “I don’t know why they told you all that, but it’s not true, and they know it,” he says. “I don’t think the bad blood between your families even has to do with business. But I have no idea what the real reason is either.”
“Chai, let’s go,” Pran’s dad calls from the front door, and Chai gives Pran a sympathetic look before they depart, leaving Pran’s mind in utter pandemonium.
*
Pran is shaking as he opens his bedroom window and clambers out, but he makes the jump over to Pat’s roof safely. He sidles along the wall and then climbs over the railing to Pat’s balcony, peering through the glass door into Pat’s room. He’s not there, but Pran can’t leave now, he can’t, so he paces back and forth instead, trying to make sense of his swirling thoughts.
It’s probably only ten minutes, but it feels like an eternity before Pat’s bedroom door opens. Pran ducks out of instinct, in case it’s his parents, but it’s not. It’s Pat. Pran’s heart thrums at the sight of him, his nerves and desperation and longing all roiling inside him.
He raps on the glass, and Pat looks up, startled. He shoots a look over to his bedroom door and back at Pran, then goes to shut it before coming over and slipping out onto the balcony with Pran.
“What are you doing here?” Pat says warily. “Are you here to tell me to leave you alone? I will, I just wanted to check you were okay –”
“No,” Pran interrupts, “that’s not why I’m here.”
“Okay…” says Pat, crossing his arms over his chest.
Pran hates that he’s put Pat on his guard like this. Pran had just been trying to protect them. To protect them both.
But he’d been so wrong.
“Why, then?” says Pat.
Pran takes a deep breath. He practiced what he wanted to say while he was waiting. Now he just needs to get it out, and see how Pat reacts.
“My parents always told me that the bad blood between our families was because of business rivalry,” he starts.
“My dad’s bid-rigging and your dad stealing away his employees,” Pat says slowly, frowning at this shift in conversation.
“Yeah. But I talked to Hia Chai and apparently none of that is true. He doesn’t know the real reason why they hate each other, but it has nothing to do with what they’ve told us.”
Pat’s still looking puzzled, but he doesn’t interrupt, letting Pran speak.
“I was so worried about the idea of lying to them. But they’ve been lying to us the whole time.” Pran looks down at his hands. “If the feud – and everything we’ve grown up with – is based on something our parents won’t even bother to tell us about, then what the fuck are we doing, going along with it?”
He’s shaking again with the weight of it all – the anger, the regret, the uncertainty – and when he looks back up, it’s almost too hard to look at the same kind of expression on Pat’s face, the way his eyes have widened.
“Pran,” says Pat unsteadily. “Are you saying…”
“I’m sorry,” Pran confesses. “I’m sorry for pushing you away.” He takes a step closer to Pat. He wants to touch him so badly. “I don’t want to do that anymore. If you – if you still want this –”
“Of course I do,” Pat says, his voice hoarse, “Pran, of course I do,” and fuck, Pran is going to cry, even as his heart feels like it’s going to swell right out of his chest.
Pran steps in again, right into Pat’s space, and Pat’s eyes are shining as he looks at Pran, a smile growing on his face. That just makes Pran’s eyes sting even more, so instead he leans in to nudge his nose against Pat’s, feeling Pat exhale against his mouth, and waits for Pat’s lips to part slightly before he kisses him, deep and slow. It’s as good as Pran remembered. He presses into Pat further, sucking gently on his lower lip. Pat clenches his hands into Pran’s shirt and pulls him even closer, until they are both wrapped around each other.
It’s almost too much for Pran, and he breaks the kiss after a moment, pressing his face into the side of Pat’s neck, trying to control his rabbiting heartbeat. Pat’s embrace is warm and solid, but Pran can tell how wet his face is as he buries it in Pran’s shoulder, can feel the giant shuddering breaths he’s taking. “I’m sorry too,” Pat mumbles.
“What on earth are you sorry about?” Pran sniffs.
“I didn’t understand how much I was freaking you out until the rugby game,” Pat says, sounding regretful. “I really did try to stay out of your way after that. But I couldn’t drop out of the Freshy Day concert – my friends would have been so upset. Then, when I saw you run off…”
So Pat’s note hadn’t been a challenge at all. “That’s not what I was upset about during the concert,” Pran admits.
“Oh,” says Pat. “Really? Then…”
“I’ll tell you about it,” Pran promises. “There’s a lot we should talk through. But…can we just stay like this for a minute first?”
“Yeah,” says Pat. Pran can hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah, of course.”
*
After they’ve been together for about a month, Pran suggests a night out at DJ Station.
Pat’s clearly surprised – most of their dates so far have been pretty private, or mediated by the cover of going out with their friends, for fear of their parents discovering their relationship – but hopefully a gay club will still be fairly low-risk for that. “Are you gonna dress up like that night again?” he asks eagerly, and Pran suppresses a smile.
Pran does, in fact, wear the exact same outfit and make-up, and it’s worth it for the way Pat’s eyes go a little glazed over when he sees him. “You know, we could just stay here for the night…” Pat suggests, and Pran laughs, bright and happy, but shakes his head. He’s on a mission tonight.
Pat has no idea, thinking that Pran just wants to dance. And he does want that too, of course; it’s a heady feeling, getting to pull his boyfriend – boyfriend, Pat is his boyfriend now – out onto the floor, to sling his arms around Pat’s neck and sway in time with the beat as Pat’s hands settle on his waist. Pat has a thing about grabbing Pran’s waist. Pran is…really not mad about it.
“You look so good, baby,” Pat murmurs, his eyes raking up and down Pran’s body, and it makes Pran’s insides go hot and liquid. It only took Pat a week into their relationship to figure out that calling Pran “baby” makes him putty in Pat’s hands, and he’s been using it mercilessly on Pran ever since. Right now, though, he doesn’t seem to have an agenda, just looking equal parts turned on and starry-eyed.
“So do you, fuck,” Pran returns, keeping one hand tangled in the hair at the nape of Pat’s neck but letting the other stroke down his chest. Pat’s shirt is more than half open – no surprise there – but Pran takes the opportunity to pop the remaining cursory buttons open and palm Pat’s abs appreciatively before he pulls him even closer.
Maybe the music is good, or maybe Pran is just in love, because dancing with Pat feels better than dancing at a club has ever felt before. Pran can’t help but kiss him, his arms tightening around Pat’s neck. Pat kisses back just as fervently, making pleased noises into Pran’s mouth, and Pran shivers as Pat’s hands drift down to squeeze his ass while they grind against each other.
Pran breaks away to kiss down Pat’s neck, sucking at his favorite spot, where he’s kept a hickey mostly alive since they got together. Pat’s breathing is choppy in his ear, and he can hear it speed up even more when he presses his thigh even more firmly between Pat’s legs, feeling Pat’s cock half-hard through his tight jeans.
“Pran,” Pat says unsteadily, barely audible over the music. “Maybe we should find somewhere more private?”
Pran scrapes his teeth over the hickey, and Pat makes a strangled noise high in his throat. “Why?”
“Uh. Because…people can see us?”
“Good,” says Pran, tilting up to put his lips right against Pat’s ear. “Then they’ll see that you’re off-limits. That you’ll never be kissing anyone else in this club again. Just me.”
Pat’s entire body shudders. “Fuck, is that why we’re here? So you can – ah – claim me?”
“I’ve thought about it since the night you told me you came here,” Pran says, low, his fingers clenching in Pat’s hair. “How jealous I was. How lucky all those other people were, to get to kiss you before I did.”
It feels important for Pran to say. They’re together now, but Pran still wants Pat to know how he felt then, how he never wanted to reject Pat in the first place. Wanted the complete opposite, and felt a burning, irrational hatred for anyone who’d gotten even the barest hint of what Pran thought he couldn’t have.
Pat exhales shakily, and then his hands are lifting Pran’s face so he can look at him. “I told you,” Pat says, smiling crookedly at him. That look in his eyes is always going to make Pran’s heart pound, no matter how many times he sees it, for the rest of his life. “All I wanted was for it to be you.”
Pran surges up to kiss Pat again, hard, pressing his body against Pat’s so that he can feel just how affected Pran is too.
“Pran,” Pat says a while later, a plaintive note to his voice now, “is claiming me also going to involve making me come in my pants? In the middle of a club?”
Pran pretends to think. “And what if I said yes?”
“Praaaaan,” Pat whines, burying his face in the space where Pran’s neck meets his shoulder, hugging Pran tighter, making Pran laugh breathlessly. “Please, baby. Everyone else has seen enough. Take me home.”
So Pran does.