Archive of Our Own ^beta

Pran doesn’t blame Pat for how he feels about Ink.

Ink is beautiful. She’s friendly, and she’s kind, not to mention talented— she radiates these sparks of creative energy everytime she talks about a project. It’s admirable, really.

She’s a good person, and when she slips the handmade bracelet over Pran’s hand and onto his wrist after the rugby match, Pran looks at her and wonders if he would be in love with her too, if he liked girls.

He doesn’t mean to ask her about Pat at that moment, but the question forms on his tongue before he can really think about the consequences of asking such a loaded question out loud. No one asks a friend if they like someone else unless they have a motive and Ink isn’t stupid, so when she jokes about it, he almost goes along with her theory that he wants to hit on her. But what’s the point? Ink must know he doesn’t like her in that way. He never did back in high school, never liked any of her friends either. It was Pat who paid her most attention back then, while he watched on and wondered, and pretended he didn’t care in the way he did. The way he cares, even now.

Anyway, Ink doesn’t like Pat, at least that’s what she claims, but Pran doesn’t tell Pat about their conversation even when Pat admits he likes her later that night, even after they lie next to each other in Pran’s room and count to three, and Pat says, confident and eager, “yes”. He likes Ink, and Pran can’t find it in his heart to say, “well, she told me she only likes you as a friend,” even if there’s a part of him, a petulant and jealous part that he’s ashamed of, who wants to.

He can’t break Pat’s heart like that, even if Pat just broke his. Plus, Pran can’t be certain that Ink meant what she said, anyway. It’s not that he thinks she would lie— he doesn’t think badly of her, god it would be a lot easier if he did— but maybe she doesn’t even realise it yet. Maybe there is a chance for Ink and Pat. And even if she was lying, Pran can’t exactly call her out about it. He lies about his feelings for Pat every single day. He lies to his friends, his parents, to Pat’s face. He used to lie to himself, too, but he gave up on that a long time ago.

Pran doesn’t cry himself to sleep that night, but he’s pretty damn close to it.

It’s lucky, really, that Pat is right there, on the floor next to his bed, or maybe he’d have let himself be taken by the sorrow. Maybe, if he’d been alone, if Pat had waxed lyrical about why Ink should love him back and then had left the room, Pran would have allowed himself to cry harder, louder, until his shoulders had started to shake and his head had started to pound. As it is, Pat has nowhere else to go, and when he finishes listing all of the things that makes him a good person (the sort of person that Ink should want to date, because that’s what matters to him) he just lies down on the make-shift bed that Pran has made him, and closes his eyes.

So, Pran isn’t alone and he can’t lie awake crying until his chest hurts, and that’s for the best. Instead, he wipes the tears that have silently slipped from his eyes with the back of his hand, gives Pat one last glance, and then he turns over in the bed, yanking the duvet back from Pat’s grip as he does.

Pran can’t deny his feelings any longer, it’s pointless trying to do so now. But he can bury them deep inside and cry silently, listening to Pat mumble something in his sleep as he does.

He’s probably dreaming about Ink, Pran thinks.

The first ever kind thing that Pran remembers Pat doing for him was retrieving his watch from the bank of the lake where Paa had almost drowned. It was the first, but certainly not the last.

Pat is kind and he’s thoughtful, even if he tries his hardest to hide it behind jokes and smirks and his incessant noisiness. He’s intuitive, and he’s caring, and he likes giving gifts, even if his idea of a gift is a piece of his student ID card cut into the shape of a guitar pick.

Pran still has the pick, and when Pat gives him his guitar back, the one he’d been keeping safe all these years, he uses it to play with that night, alone in his room.

Pat is kind, and he’s thoughtful and it’s a problem, because Pran takes every kind thing that Pat has ever done and stores them in his heart, along with Pat’s smile and Pat’s laugh, and he’s screwed, he’s so screwed because he’s been in love with Pat since he was fifteen, and despite what he’d hoped, their three years spent apart haven’t dulled the feeling at all.

It’s worse, now, if anything, because he’s older and he’s wiser, and he knows himself.

Back in school, when they were still technically kids, he wasn't sure about who he was, but now Pran is sure that he’s exclusively into guys, and he’s happy with who he is. He’s comfortable in himself, confident even, so he knows for certain that what he feels when Pat teases him, cocks an eyebrow and gives him a flirty smile, is love, or at least something very close to it.

Pran takes out the watch that Pat rescued for him after he’d rescued Paa, and looks at it under the light of his desk-lamp. He keeps it in his closet, the irony of which isn’t lost on him, tucked away from view.

When his parent’s transferred him to a new school after that fateful evening with the band and the love song (and the way his mother saw him look at Pat), he’d been taken away in such a rush that he’d not even gone back to the music room to collect his guitar. He’d barely packed anything but his clothes and books and his carefully looked after set of professional sketching pencils, because he wanted to study architecture even then, but he had packed his watch.

The watch was something tangible, something that tied him to who he left behind without his parents knowing what it represented, and on nights when he felt down or frustrated, or angry— at his parents, at himself for being so damn transparent, at the whole situation— he’d take it out of its box in his closet and hold it in his hand, and he’d write new love songs in his mind.

It had been a source of comfort for a while, but three years is a long time, and three years of constant reminders from his parents about how terrible the family next door continued to be in his absence made it feel even longer. He’d stopped getting out the watch, and by the time he moved into his new dorm at his new university, more than three years after seeing Pat, it had been sitting, untouched, in a box for over a year. I don’t like him anymore, Pran had told himself. I don’t care about him. I don’t need him, so I don’t need it.

But then they’d met in an alleyway outside the university, surrounded by their bruised and bleeding friends, and Pran’s throat had squeezed up tight like he was choking, and his heart had dropped into his stomach, and he’d thought, this can’t be happening.

The very first thing that Pran had thought after the fight, when he and his friends had ran away from the security guard and were catching their breath, was, damn he looks amazing. He wasn’t thinking about the fight, he wasn’t even thinking about Wai’s cut lip, which he felt guilty about afterwards. He was thinking about that face: Pat’s face.

Pat had become more handsome, if that was possible. He'd filled out in his shoulders, his arms, and his jaw had become strong and chiselled, and— well, it was safe to say that Pran couldn’t rely on him becoming ugly.

Pat could never be ugly, so Pran hoped that maybe his personality might have changed for the worse. Maybe he was the person Pran’s parents painted him out to be. Maybe they could be enemies after all, just like his father had said they were.

He’d hoped that Pat had developed a mean streak. That he’d changed from the silly, headstrong boy he used to be as a kid into a cold hearted, idiotic bully. That even though he was so hot it almost hurt to look at him, he couldn’t be loveable. But, it hadn’t been long before Pran could confirm that, no, he was the same person he always had been.

Silly, headstrong and kind. And hot, so hot.

Pran takes the watch out and stares at the face more and more often again now, and sometimes he writes love songs in his head, too. Sometimes, he writes heartbreak songs instead, especially now he knows about Pat’s feelings for Ink.

It would help if Pat would just stop coming to Pran’s room when he’s trying to contemplate the best way to get over his friend-turned-enemy-turned-friend who he’s also in love with. It’s a complicated situation that requires a lot of feeling shitty alone and playing guitar about, but even playing guitar reminds Pran of Pat. He can’t avoid it, though, because Wai is refusing to let him pull out of the Freshy music fest, and he knows Pat wouldn’t let it happen either, so he has to write a song that could win the competition.

“I heard you playing guitar last night.” Pat tells him one afternoon. They’re signing off on final arrangements for the final touches on the bus-stop, or at least they’re using that as an excuse to be seen together at university.

“You did?” Pran feels his cheeks heating up. He’d been up late, working on a song, or at least the opening of one.

Pat nods. “I was coming back from uni and I heard you when I was in the hallway. It sounded good.” He looks so earnest when he says it. Pran could cry right now if he wasn’t working so hard to look like he wants to punch Pat in his face.

“I've always been good,” he says, to deflect from his vulnerability. “It shouldn’t be a surprise.”

“I didn’t say it was.” Pat leans in closer to him. “But don’t think that means we won’t beat you in the Freshy competition.”

Pran rolls his eyes. “I doubt that. Your friends can barely stop trying to fight mine for long enough to pick up an instrument.”

Pat looks back at their friends, keeping a close eye on each other’s work and bickering over whose is neater, and shakes his head with a smile. “I’ll come in and watch you play next time.”

Pran’s heart lurches at the thought. It’s hard enough just thinking about Pat while he plays, nevermind having Pat watching him, seeing him raw and vulnerable in the way he strums at the strings and feels the vibrations of the music in his fingertips. He thinks about the night Pat brought him the guitar back and they’d sat in the corridor together. It felt like time almost stopped for them. He pushes the horrible feeling of hope that tries to escape from his chest and reminds himself that Pat likes Ink. “I won’t let you,” he says.

Pat pouts but he doesn’t push the subject, which Pran is grateful for, except every night when Pran thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can think about something else for long enough to put down some more chords, Pat turns up at his door with food or beers or a bruise he needs to borrow medicine for. Sometimes he turns up with all three, and he never allows Pran to claim to be busy.

“I listened at the door and you weren’t playing guitar, so I guessed it would be okay to disturb you.” It's a few nights later, and Pat is in Pran's doorway, hair a little sweaty as he pushes it off his forehead. He peers over Pran’s shoulder for signs that he was in the middle of doing something. “You aren’t busy.”

“You can’t tell if I’m busy.” Pran sighs. “And I am, by the way. I’m busy!”

“Too busy to spend time with your favourite person?” Pat smiles, puppy-dog eyes directed (aim, shoot, fire) at Pran.

“My favorite person isn’t here,” Pran says back, and Pat just laughs and walks in, kicking off his shoes and making his way over to the sofa, where he slumps down to settle in for the evening and starts pulling dishes of take-out from his bag.

“Korn asked me why I was ordering so much food tonight,” Pat tells him through a full mouth of rice, five minutes later. “He thinks I’m seeing Ink.”

“Oh?” Pran’s heart drops heavily into his stomach. Of course Pat would rather be seeing Ink. Of course.

“He told me to take a shower before I saw her.” He grins.

“I wish you had.” Pran grimaces, but he’s used to it, the slightly sweaty way Pat rocks up after sports practise. He likes it, even. Always has, really.

“Nah, I smell good.” Pat grins. “Not as good as you, obviously. Still wish you’d do my laundry.”

Pran scoffs. He pushes his pork dish around his plate. “Why aren’t you seeing her?” He asks, trying to make it sound like a casual question.

“Huh?”

“What Korn said. Why aren’t you eating with Ink?” He looks up from his plate and is met with Pat’s confused expression. “Isn’t that what you’d prefer to be doing?”

“She was busy.” Pat shrugs. “I guess. I mean, I didn’t ask her.”

Pran can’t help but smile to himself at this revelation.

“Sounds like I’m actually your favourite person.” He raises an eyebrow. He hopes it doesn’t come out as a desperate plea. His heart is beating loudly in his ears. He keeps eating, but he can’t swallow, his mouth is so dry.

“Shut up.” Pat retorts, but he doesn’t technically deny anything. “I just knew you wouldn’t have eaten yet, so I thought I’d bring you dinner.” He looks down at his meal, slightly dejected. “I thought you wouldn’t mind.”

“Well. Thank you,” Pran says. “Do you want to stay while I play?” He nods to his guitar, at its stand near the window.

Pat’s eyes widen. “Really?”

Pran nods. “But if you get annoying, you leave.”

“You like it when I’m annoying,” Pat points out, but he looks so happy to be getting to stay that Pran can’t be bothered arguing with him.

Pran can’t look Pat in the eyes while he plays. He knows if he does he’ll only fall more in love, and he can’t bear to fall even more in love with someone who doesn’t love him back. So, he plays for ten minutes, eyes closed as he sings, and when he finally opens his eyes again, his fingers still on the strings at the end of the song, Pat is looking at him so fondly, Pran thinks he might be dreaming.

“It’s funny, isn’t it,” Pat says one day, out of the blue. “How our bracelets are exactly the same.”

“What do you mean?” Pran looks at him.

“The other ones Ink makes, the ones she sells on her Instagram, they’re different. Different colours, different charms.” Pat holds his wrist next to Pran’s, comparing their gifted jewellery. “Ours are the same.”

Pran glances at Pat, who is still looking down at their wrists. “Maybe she made them at the same time,” he says. “Maybe she ran out of other colours of rope.”

“Or maybe they’re meant to be a set.” Pat looks up at him. “Like, they’re meant to be worn together.”

“By one person?” Pran suggests. Could Ink have meant for them both to be given to Pat? Is he wearing a pity gift? He frowns.

“Or by a couple.” Pat is still looking at him.

“Don’t be stupid,” Pran says, pulls his wrist back like he’s been burned. His heart is in his throat, panic rising in his chest. He knows he’s blushing at the thought. “They’re not couple bracelets, because we aren’t a couple.”

“No, I guess not.” Pat smiles, and maybe it’s Pran’s imagination, but he almost looks sad.

Pran can’t believe they’re back here again.

“You really should leave a key for your room with me,” Pran tells him, snippy and tired. “So when you lock your keys inside it again I don’t have to look after you.”

“Don't be mad at me.” Pat whines. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you though?” Pran mumbles. He doesn't really need an answer. He would let Pat sleep in his room every night if he needed to. Pat is kind to him, after all. The least he can do is return the favour as a friend, or an enemy, or whatever they are now.

He sets Pat up a pillow and a blanket on the floor, and Pat makes a show of trying to get comfortable. “I pulled a muscle in my back playing rugby last week,” he complains. “Can I sleep in the bed with you? I promise I won’t take up much space.”

“No.”

“Please?” Pat is peering up at him with the most beautiful pleading eyes and it’s unfair, because it’s almost impossible to say no to him.

Pran manages to. “No.”

“Please?” Pat has his hands clasped together in a pleading gesture, now. “Pretty please?”

Pran sits up with a huff. “Fine, get in. But stay on that side of the bed.”

Pat cheers happily. “Yay! You know, sometimes,” he says, getting under the duvet and rolling just that little bit too close to Pran for him to stay calm, “you really are my favourite person.”

“Shut up,” he mumbles.

In the dim light of his room, Pat smiles at him, and Pran feels himself softening, melting at the edges. He’s so fucking in love, he has no idea how he’s keeping it together right now.

“I mean it,” Pat says. “Hey, smile at me, I wanna see your dimples.”

Pran blinks in shock. “No,” he blurts out. “You don’t get to see them on demand.”

This makes Pat laugh. “Maybe tomorrow,” he says, sleepily, and they settle down to sleep.

That night Pran can’t be certain any longer that Pat is dreaming about Ink. He doesn’t feel like crying himself to sleep that night, and when they wake up the next morning, they’re spooning, Pat’s warm breath tickling the back of his neck and Pat’s bracelet-clad arm at his waist.

Maybe Pat was never dreaming about Ink at all.

Ink grins happily behind the camera. “See, this is how they’re meant to be worn!” She exclaims, stepping back to admire the photo she’s just taken. It’s a photo of two bracelets on two wrists, side by side. The bracelets are neatly arranged so their matching charms are facing the camera, and the bracelets sit neatly above clasped hands.

“How much longer do we have to hold hands?” Pran asks. It’s not like he doesn’t enjoy holding Pat’s hand, it’s just— well, if he gets too used to it, it might stop feeling so special.

“You don’t have to do anything. I only suggested that the photo would look good if you held hands. You chose to do it.” She laughs. “And you’re still doing it now that I’ve stopped snapping pictures.”

Pat laughs. “I told you they were couple bracelets,” he tells Pran and squeezes his hand. “Hey, Ink, how many pairs have you sold now?”

“Enough to have made enough money to treat Paa somewhere really nice for dinner.” Ink smiles shyly, and walks over to them to show off the previews on her camera. “And once this shoot goes live on Instagram, the orders are sure to sky-rocket. As long as you’re both still okay with me using these?”

Pran nods. “We can just say we were forced to work together,” he says. It’s the sort of lie they’re used to now.

“Or we could tell the truth,” Pat suggests, glancing at him. They’re still holding hands. “If we wanted to?”

Pran doesn’t know what to say to that— he isn’t sure what the truth is, not fully, not yet. They haven’t put a label on what they are, but they spoon a lot and make out in dark corners when their friends definitely aren’t around, so they’re… They’re definitely not enemies. They’re something good. Still, it’s going to be a difficult conversation with their parents.

“Um,” he starts, but then Ink swoops in and saves him from having to make a decision, by saying, “Whichever you decide, I’m here to support you.” She makes a cheering motion with her free hand and then gestures to the bracelets. “In fact I think I was your first supporter,” she says.

“Paa might want to fight you for that title,” Pat tells her. Paa has been calling them soulmates since she knew what the word meant, Pat admitted it to Pran not long ago.

Pran thinks soulmates is a strong word, but he’s happy to wait and see if Paa turns out to be right.

(She usually is.)