Chapter Text
Despite the two of them arriving early, the path leading up to the temple is cluttered with islanders. Middle-aged women drag their children to and fro, hissing at them to behave; closer to the steps are men of varying ages made equal by the scent of fish and brine. Instead of their usual fawning hellos towards Mut, which Rak has come to expect whenever they go anywhere on the island, this time people seem to be trying very hard not to notice them. Other than the occasional awkward bob of the head (that could be for anyone, really), they make it to the temple door without any conversation at all.
Stomach roiling as if they’re back on the boat, Rak glances at Mut out of the corner of his eye. For the third day in a row, he’d woken to find the other side of the bed empty and the shower running. Because Mut went out, most likely at dawn, to dive. Again.
And once again, Rak pretended to sleep for another twenty minutes, trying to decide whether to lean into hope or pessimism. Positive: Mut loves the ocean, and probably knows better than the fish how to keep himself safe underwater. Negative: Mut almost drowned in said ocean as a child thanks to his monstrous father, whose cremation ceremony they’ve decided to attend today. Positive: Mut is going swimming for his own sake instead of taking back-breaking jobs from random islanders. Negative: Rak hasn’t seen Mut break down since he cried himself to sleep that night back in the city, and if he’s running away to unleash his pain where Rak can’t see, well…
Then Rak’s done a bad job at comforting him, and Mut’s decided he’s better off dealing with it alone.
“Is Palm coming?” the writer says finally, letting the back of his hand brush against Mut’s side.
“I don’t know. The hotel’s pretty busy these days,” Mut replies. His jaw is tense; the serious, stone-faced expression is as foreboding as storm clouds on the horizon. As if sensing Rak’s concern, his face stretches into a hollow imitation of his usual smile. “Khun Tongrak, let’s stick to the back. It won’t be as stuffy if we’re by the door.”
“But - ” Relatives are supposed to be in the front. But then, relatives would have been at the bathing ceremony, and would have arrived at lunchtime instead of later in the afternoon with the rest of the island. So Rak swallows the rest of the words and reaches out to take Mut’s hand. A couple of the men standing nearby huff and look away; but he can’t find a care to give when his island boy twists their fingers together and squeezes.
Casket-bearers arrive with the coffin. By the time the procession has circled the temple three times, Palm still hasn’t shown up. Mut looks more and more tired with every step, and Rak’s sweating through his black silk shirt.
The temple is tidy, clean, and absolutely packed once everyone has entered; Rak feels uncharitably irritated that someone who would treat his family so shoddily has such a large crowd of mourners. They snag a pair of chairs in the furthest row, offering wais to the elders around them. One particularly old woman responds with a nod and a sad smile; as it is at least kind, Rak feels grateful to her for it.
Hushed murmurs erupt as Mut’s mother Phueak, along with a similarly-aged woman and an older man (Aunt Anong and his father’s best friend Ram, Mut whispers in Rak’s ear), move to stand by the casket. Each carries a flower in their hand. Mut squeezes Rak’s hand harder while they speak - stories about Mut’s father and his sailing prowess; his shrewd manner with business, especially with tourists; and the delicious dishes Phueak would cook with the fish he caught.
Time slows, swirling about like a fairy tale curse, with the dissonance of it. Because the stories are true - yet, not the whole truth at all. The pieces that are missing feel huge. Ridiculous, in their erasure. Sudden as a slap, Jak’s voice erupts in Rak’s head: “The stories people choose not to tell - those are more interesting than whatever gets written down. Right, son?”
He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek until the echoes of mocking laughter disappear. The last thing Mut needs right now is for him to have a panic attack in the temple, and make all this about himself…
Three flowers are placed by the casket. A few other people - coworkers, a neighbor - stand to tell their own stories, too. Polite, short eulogies. Each one ends with comforting words to the family.
Maybe it’s rude to feel this way about a man he’s never met, on his cremation day, but with every sideways look at Mut’s devastated expression, Rak just wants to say fuck this. Fuck all of this.
He places a hand on the diver’s knee and whispers, “Do you want to leave?”
Mut presses his lips together and shakes his head. There’s so much tension in his clenched fists, the hunch of his shoulders; Rak swallows the enormous lump in his own throat and murmurs, “I won’t make you. But if there’s something you want, then you can say so.”
Mut exhales slowly, shifting in his chair. Then, to Rak’s mild surprise, he stands. Quick as a flash, Aunt Anong appears at the end of the aisle of chairs. Her hand lands firmly against Mut’s shoulder and pushes.
“Ai, Mahasamut, don’t cause a scene.” Her hushed tone doesn’t prevent a few of the nearby funeral-goers from looking over their shoulders at them. “Your mother’s upset enough.”
“I want to say something,” Mut replies, voice low but not as deliberately quiet as hers.
“Everything that needed to be said between you and your father was spoken years ago,” Anong says, as if brushing off a child asking for candy before dinner. “Now isn’t the time to bring up the arguments of the past.”
The clear current of dismissal in her tone sparks Rak’s irritation. More so, when he hears the gentle huff of disbelief Mut gives in response. Fuck. This.
Leaping to his feet, he grabs Mut’s other hand. With apologies to the people they step over, Rak pulls his island boy down the opposite end of the aisle. Anong hisses at them to come back right now; but Rak doesn’t stop until they’re at the front of the temple. Several islanders in the crowd shift uncomfortably in their chairs and drop their eyes to the ground. The only ones who look directly at them are the kind old woman from before, sitting back with her hands resting on her cane; and Mut’s mother staring at them from the front row.
Rak can feel Mut’s pulse rocketing through the grip he has on his wrist; he looks guilty, ashamed, and the lump in Rak’s throat is back with no chance of being pushed away now. Has he made a mistake? Embarrassed him in front of his community? But when he glances back towards their seats, Mut grips his arm tight.
“Can I say goodbye?” he asks, and it feels like that night before they left the island; lying together in Mut’s bed, while he pulled his heart apart for Rak to see all of the wishes hiding inside. “Even though he wouldn’t care?”
With Phueak’s tearful stare burning a hole in the side of his head, Rak takes one of the remaining blossoms and places it gently in Mut’s palm. “Of course. Take your time.”
They walk the remaining steps to the casket side-by-side. Rak ignores the rest of the people who are holding their breath, probably expecting a damning diatribe against the dead man in the box. If that was what Mut wanted, then he would stay by his side for that too. But his island boy just places the flower with the others and presses his forehead to the edge of the casket, murmuring something under his breath.
After what feels like hours later, Mut stands up straight again. The back of Rak's neck is damp with sweat; he startles at the powerful arm that encircles his shoulders. “Mahasamut?”
Wordlessly, Mut pushes him forward. Rak stumbles over his own feet as they rush down the aisle and out the temple door. Palm jumps aside as they pass, wearing a shirt that’s more blue than black.
“Oi! Am I that late? Did I miss it?”
They end up outside of the restaurant from before. Despite the persistant ache in his stomach, Rak doesn’t suggest they order anything. Mut sits on the dock, staring at the crowd of fishing boats, while Rak leans back on his heels and tries to catch his breath. The few islanders who didn’t attend the funeral mill about, giving them a wide berth.
“Are you okay?” It feels like a stupid question, but at least it’s appropriate for this particular situation.
Mut tilts his head to one side, brow furrowed. Finally, he speaks. “I told you that after my parents kicked me out, I stayed with an aunt for a while.”
Rak nods, shifting to try and get more comfortable. He wore a nice pair of pants for the funeral, that are decidedly not built for sitting on the ground. He’ll have to send them for dry-cleaning when they’re back in the city.
“Aunt Anong let me sleep there. But only sometimes.” Mut runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. “She had a husband back then, and he didn’t like me much. The way I lived my life.”
Rak has been out long enough to read between those particular lines. “So where did you stay the rest of the time?”
“On the beach.” A breeze sweeps over them, whisking some of the heat away for a brief reprieve. In an automatic movement, Mut reaches over to fix Rak’s collar as it flutters. “The shed behind Kom’s house. If I helped out the night shifters at the hotel, they’d let me sleep a few hours in the break room where the guests wouldn’t see.”
Rak feels his face fall. “You were fifteen.”
“I was poor,” Mut replies matter-of-factly, grazing his fingertips over Rak’s cheek. “I didn’t have anyone looking out for me. People only gave me what I needed when I gave them something, first.”
Rak’s hands shake. The contract…the contract is different. It’s what they both want, the only way they can be together. He’d never betray him - use him - like that.
“It’s okay, Khun Tongrak,” Mut says, and Rak realizes he may have said the last bit out loud. “I’m not talking about us. I just have a lot on my mind. Is it okay if I tell you?”
Selfishly, Rak wants to say no. To push away all of the pain that comes with hearing how the world has treated this beautiful person. But he’s here to help, not to be weak; and so he steels himself against the hurt and nods.
“I should have said this back there, but I was a coward in the end.” Mut stands to stretch both arms over his head with a sigh. “Palm said they were trying to help, by leaving me out of it. If it were anyone else - ” Rak hears the unspoken if it were you clear as day, “ - I would say the same. Hell, if they’d asked me to come back to plan everything just because we’re blood, I would’ve been so pissed.” Hands on his hips, Mut paces back and forth. His voice breaks into something unrecognizably ragged. “But it hurts like this, too.”
Rak digs his nails into his thighs. It’s a terrible thing to understand; he only ever talked about it once, with Doctor ( don’t think about him it was your fault don’t don’t don’t). The contradiction. Keeping someone tied to you even if it’s just through fearing them or regretting them.
“ Sometimes I feel like it’s worse when Pa doesn’t yell. Isn’t that dumb? When he just acts like I’m not there, that’s when he’s the scariest. Because I don’t know what will happen next. But not just scary, it…hurts, too.
Like he wouldn’t have to hate me, if I just didn’t exist.”
He’s never grown out of that, has he? Cut contact with Jak, sure, but still keep that phone in the safe. Not just because Rak needs a way to send money in case his father threatens Kwan and Meena - that is the primary reason, certainly. But also because he’s already tainted. Jak invades his life whenever he pleases, destroys anything Rak loves, and disappears as it suits him. A cord around his neck, choking him constantly.
But Mut severed that tie himself. Walking away from someone whose love could only hurt; it’s so brave, it’s amazing, and yet Rak knows how brutally lonely that makes a person. He’s severed plenty of ties of his own, even if the most violent one remains.
So he stands and wraps both arms around Mut, chest pressed firmly against his back. He allows himself to speak the advice that Doctor told him back then, when he thought there was still a chance that he could be okay: “If it hurts, then cry. Scream. Act like a baby; I don’t care. You don’t have to hold it in anymore.”
Mut softens against him. But before he can respond, a shout reaches their ears.
They both turn to see Mut’s mother coming towards them at a rapid pace, bare feet slapping the dock; her hands swing at her sides in tight fists. Aunt Anong trails behind her, holding a pair of shoes in one hand and grasping fruitlessly with the other for the woman’s shirt.
“Ai’Phueak, wait - “
“ Mahasamut! ” She shouts, the syllables shifting his name into something ugly. “What’s going on? You run away from home, then you act like you miss him! What do you want ?”
“Ma,” Mut sighs with genuine frustration. “Can’t we just let each other be?”
“I don’t understand - ”
“Ai’Phueak, let me handle it!” Anong snaps, shoving the shoes into the other woman’s trembling arms. Then, quick as anything, she rushes forward and the palm of her hand hits Mut’s chest with a thud. “Mahasamut, you selfish child! Your mother and P’Ram worked hard to put together a beautiful service, just for you and that man to embarrass all of us!”
The thing is, Rak’s been surrounded by women since he was a child. He’s dealt with his aunt’s biting comments and Prin’s gossiping, his mother’s sharpness and Kwan’s panic, Vi’s wildness and Mook’s anxiety. The best of them all is Meena, and even she’s far too cheeky for her own good. Thus, he’s learned to hold his own in a way he thinks he’ll never be able to with men.
And now, he’s officially run out of patience to hold his tongue.
Shoving his way in front of Mut, he snaps in his iciest tone. “You disowned him years ago; who are you to try and discipline him now?”
Aunt Anong glares and twists her wrist back and forth, like she’s gearing up for another hit (like there’s any chance in hell Rak will let her.) “Sir, this is a family discussion. We will have our say, whether you like it or not.”
“I don’t see a family here,” he replies, glaring back at her in full force. “And if you touch him again, I’ll do the same thing to you twice over.”
“Khun Tongrak!” Mut hisses, grabbing his arm. “There’s no need for that! I’m fine - ”
“You’re not!” Rak erupts, over Aunt Anong and Phueak’s scandalized gasps. “They should have defended you, or apologized, but instead they came here to scold you!” He twists back around to address both women; they stare at him like he’s sprouted claws and horns. “If this is a family discussion, bring the whole island here! See what they say about Mahasamut and all he’s done for all of you!”
“You’re not from here,” Phueak says, though her voice wobbles, “you don’t know - ”
“Stop!” Rak shouts, shaking off Mut’s second attempt to grab his arm. “Even if they said he was selfish, and disobedient, and everything you and his father believe about him, it wouldn’t matter!”
“Khun Tongrak!” Mut’s hands on his shoulders physically twist him around.
Rak takes a breath that fails to calm the anger lighting a fire on his tongue. But he works hard to be gentle when he frames Mut’s face in his hands and repeats, “It wouldn’t matter. No one should treat you like this. I - I don’t like it.”
His voice breaks on the last few words. Mut’s eyes widen, and immediately Rak is horrified; he’s supposed to be protecting him , so why is he the one on the verge of tears?
“Okay, Khun Tongrak,” Mut says, voice soft, and that makes Rak feel even worse. “I understand.”
“Good,” he says back, so desperate to regain his composure that it comes out much harsher than he intended. Turning back to the two women standing on the dock, he snaps, “The funeral’s over, so you have nothing to do with him anymore. Leave Mahasamut alone.”
Anong mutters sharp words he doesn’t understand under her breath. Mut’s mother opens her mouth, but falls back into exhausted, disappointed silence.
“Come on,” Rak murmurs, releasing Mut’s face to tug on his shirt. “I’m hungry.”
Mut follows him towards the restaurant, passing a trio of wide-eyed young girls who do a very poor job pretending like they didn’t watch the entire exchange. Doubts start to claw their way up Rak’s windpipe, even more so as he feels the burn of Mut’s brown-eyed gaze on him.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” Mut tilts his head to one side. “I’ve just never seen a dog’s owner bite, before.”
“Shut up,” Rak snaps, feeling the back of his ears burn. “You turn everything into a joke.”
“Didn’t you say it didn’t matter if I was selfish or disobedient?”
“Didn’t I say that you should stop holding back if you were feeling hurt?” He tosses Mut’s hand down as they reach the table. “Why did you let them talk to you like that?”
“Because I don’t care if she and my Ma look down on me.” Mut says evenly. “It only matters if the people I like pity me.”
“I don’t pity you,” Rak blurts, and immediately hates himself for being caught in such a trap. Mut smiles, bright and lovely, and pulls his chair out for him. It only lessens the sting a little. With an exhausted sigh, Rak flounces down into the seat and mutters, “I’m worried about you.”
“You should worry about yourself,” Mut points out, as if he’s not deflecting again and thus is reinforcing exactly why Rak should be concerned. “Were you really going to hit an old lady?”
“So what if I would? If she’d hit me instead, would you just have stood by?”
Mut’s eyes squeeze shut briefly, as though the very idea of someone physically hurting Rak is unbearable for him to even think about. They lapse into an uneasy silence as the cook comes over, offering loud chatter along with steaming plates of food that seem even larger than the meal they shared on their previous visit. Over Mut’s shoulder, the trio of girls from earlier stare at them with obvious curiosity. Rak looks away to send a hateful look to the boats across the way. If only he could remember which was the one…
“Thank you,” Mut says suddenly. “For going with me today. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, until you said I could.”
Warm relief pools in Rak’s stomach; swallowing a mouthful of rice, he says, “Don’t thank me. If it helps you, then that’s what matters.”
Mut licks his lips and shuffles forward, voice lowering. “Then, if I want something else from you, Khun Tongrak, can I ask for it?”
Once again, he thinks of that time in Mut’s room; the bravery of this other man that he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to match. Somehow, Rak manages to sound steady when he answers, “Yes. You can.”
Carefully, Mut reaches across the table and places a warm palm over Rak’s hand. “Even if it’s something only a selfish, disobedient person would want? I could be asking you to do something really bad, you know.”
Rak snorts. “Everything I thought was bad on this island the first time, you managed to change my mind about."
A sharp, disbelieving laugh breaks from Mut’s lips. Before Rak can wonder if that was too honest, the diver is drawing his knuckles to his lips and planting a kiss on them. “How can someone like you really exist, Khun Tongrak…”
Rak tugs against the grip, face flushing. “Oi, I need my hand to eat. Finish yours, too, and then tell me.”
Whatever it is (and truly, frighteningly, despite the fact it could be anything ) Rak knows he will give in. If only because Mut's smile seems more real, now, than it has in days.