Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Pran hates change.

He hates how it creeps up on him, like how the rain seeps through thick cotton, until it’s so fucking cold you feel it in your bones.

He wakes up one day, looks in the mirror and doesn’t recognize himself anymore. In hindsight it probably had been long time coming. He’s smart, and should've recognized the signs; the boys locker room, the green tea ad with the male model that Pran can’t look away from; all signs that flashed neon in the periphery of his vision.

But, anyway, dramatics aside, Pran is thirteen when he realizes he’s gay. His parents are good people, they’d be okay with it — probably.

So, it’s fine. He’s got it under control. He avoids looking anywhere but the floor when him and his friends change after football practice, and when a gay couple shows up on screen when he’s watching movies with his family he studiously stares at the screen wishing it would be over.

Then there’s the only constant in Pran’s life: Pat from next door. Arch-nemesis and the bane of his existence.

It’s nothing too personal. Pran’s just sick of having to compare report cards every semester, and seeing looks of disapproval on his mother’s face when he places second. So, okay, maybe it’s a little personal.

And then that changes too.

Pran’s in 10th grade when he realizes that he wants Pat. Want, as in, he likes this boy that licks his fingers after eating snacks and doesn’t even use a wet wipe to clean his hands; likes him so much so that Pran had found himself watching Pat shovel a cupcake into his mouth with all the grace of an ape and thought: ‘that’s cute.’

It’s so fucking stupid that Pran goes to bed mad about it that night.

Pat Napat and Pran Parakul.

What a joke.

His mother might have an aneurysm. He shudders just thinking about it.

Pat is oblivious to Pran’s suffering. And Pran suffers, trust, because Pat has the disposition of a golden retriever. He tries to fit himself into places he’s too big for. Like, when they’re in the practice room, composing, and Pat wedges himself between the wall and Pran’s body just so he can peek into Pran’s notebook.

Or, right now, when one of their friends takes a selfie so he ropes an arm around Pran’s neck and pulls him under his armpit. Pran fits perfectly, because Pat’s hit a growth spurt during semester break, and towers over Pran with 3 whole inches. He smells like a teenage boy; grass, cheap deodorant and fabric softener.

It’s a heady and deadly combination. Pran feels his skin shrink, the world narrowing down to a single point, focused on where his bare skin is touching Pat’s. All the worst things about being fifteen years old crashes through his system, hormones going into overdrive and Pran has to push himself away from a confused Pat and stalk down to the boy’s restroom with his guitar case pressed to his chest.

Pran wants to give in — just bridge that final sliver of space that holds them apart — their lives were already so intertwined, as classmates, bandmates and that one afternoon when Pran had pulled Paa out of a murky lake — but, it scares him too much, so Pran keeps Pat at arms length, letting Pat prod, and poke and push against his walls.

It’s like a game. Eventually, Pat catches on, and then it’s a mutual competition to see how far Pat can push Pran.

Sometimes Pat does these acts of kindness that makes Pran want to cave, so tender and earnest like the time he had cut his student ID card into a guitar pick so Pran wouldn’t hurt his fingers. It had made warmth bloom in Pran’s chest, like a small sun burning at his core the entire day.

Or the one time Pran had sprained his ankle on the field because of a risky move, and Pat had gotten himself benched on purpose — Pran knows it’s on purpose because Pat’s their best player — and he keeps Pran company, and had touched Pran’s swelling ankle with a touch gentler than Pran had ever imagined Pat would be capable of him.

Pran had watched the way his long fingers drew a hesitant line over the reddened skin, and when Pat had looked up at him, those big eyes shiny and fully of worry, something had twisted in Pran’s chest. So painfully, that it hadn’t subsided until Pran had torn his gaze away.

And then, after each of these incidents he had gone back home, looked at the pink painted boundary that divided their house and the sun sunk into the cold depths of the ocean in him.

It’s a stark reminder that everytime Pat scores higher than him in Math class, Pran’s mother clicks her tongue, and pinches her mouth in a way that makes Pran’s eyes sting. Or when Pat wins the school marathon, and his mother signs him up for personal training, even though Pran’s barely coping with his school work and his extra curriculars.

He loves his mother, and he hates her. In equal measure — sometimes it all feels the same.

It all comes back to Pat, and Pran only feels guilty when he thinks about the fact that the only person he’s actually supposed to hate is Pat, and not his own mother. It would be so easy to hate Pat the way the entire world wants Pran to. If only Pat didn’t make it so painfully clear that he ached to be Pran’s friend.

—————

Pat sneaks into his room for the first time in a long time the night before the Christmas talent show.

“I’m too excited, I can’t fall asleep,” he explains, right knee bouncing up and down like a jackhammer when he perches at the edge of Pran’s bed.

Pran’s own heart jackhammers a beat against his ribs at the proximity — how Pat looks, softer in the moonlight that drips all over him from the open window — his pajama shorts with cute little bears on it.

But, Pran understands. He’s excited too, but equally nervous. He’s got more to lose tomorrow — when he strums his guitar and sings those first few lines: ‘Are we just friends or are we more?’ into the microphone, he’d be cracking himself open, and laying himself bare. It’s unnerving, even though Pat will never know what the song means. What it means for Pran to be able to play it with him.

—————

The talent show goes great — for fifteen whole minutes. Until his mother had parted the crowd, her silent fury tangible all the way up on stage.

Pran’s veins turn to ice, words dying on his lips. Pat’s snare drums pitter patters down into a confused beat until he spots Pran’s mother and shoots up to his feet.

What happens next is a whirlwind. Pran feels his mother’s grip on his forearm like a vice when she leads him into the principal's office.

It’s fucking absurd — the fact that he’s being transferred because of some stupid business feud, and he says as much, but his mother’s word is final.

“Be quiet, Pran! Your mother knows what’s best for you,” she snaps, pinning him down with a glare.

“This is for your own good,” she tells him on their way home, tone softer, eyes boring into him from the rearview mirror’s reflection.

Pran sits in the backseat, silent fury eating away at him, barely able to breathe. He blinks his tears away; memories of the practice room, the football field, the milk tea stall, their performance, Pat; they come back to him like snapshots.

Pran leans his head against the cold window and tries to swallow down his despair.

Chapter Text

Pat had felt like someone had taken a bat to the side of his head, as he stumbled out of the music shop.

Pran’s eyes are seared into his memory. He feels his phantom touch on the back of his hand still — scorching — eating his skin layer by layer, threatening to seep into his veins.

Just a few hours ago he had all but been throwing himself at Ink over pretty little confectionaries and embarrassing himself, fishing for something that clearly wasn’t there — or something Ink wasn’t being forthcoming with.

It confuses Pat, because in his mind it had made sense. Things would fall into place the way they were supposed to, if Ink liked him, and he liked Ink, and then Pat would introduce her to his parents as the coolest girl, no, the coolest person he knows.

Except, his world has started to rotate off kilter.

“The eyes always tell,” Paa echoes in his memory.

Pat’s heart races just thinking about the prolonged eye contact he had held with Pran. He wonders if Paa can hear it from a few feet away as they lay in silence. He presses his nose into Nong Nao and inhales its scent, trying to calm himself down.

But, all Pat can think of is how much better Pran smells — that clean smell of his sheets, and the heavy earthy perfume with an undercurrent of amber that always clung to Pran, and never failed to permeate Pat’s senses.

Fuck.

—————

“If you’re jealous, then you definitely like them.”

Korn just says anything -- it's a well known fact. Most of the time the dude’s full of shit, and Pat loves him for it, but Pat also knows better than to take love advice from him.

Except, Pat is already here in front of Pran’s door, knocking, trying to prove something -- no, anything to himself.

He looks through the board propped up on Pran’s desk, photographs nestled amongst neatly arranged sticky notes.

Pran’s got quite a few female friends — he’s tactile with them too, always having a hand around them or a head leaning against a shoulder, just the usual stuff.

Pat scoffs to himself. Of course Korn was full of shit. He resumes “trying to find his earpods.”

Pran’s phone rings shrilly, making Pat halt his half-hearted rummaging on Pran’s desk.

It’s Wai, and listening to Pran’s side of the conversation makes Pat’s skin crawl. He bounces on the balls of his toes, to resist the urge to say anything he’d regret.

Pran’s side profile almost distracts him. Pat tries not to get too hung up on the way he can see how Pran’s long lashes curl up, like a doll; Pat can’t help but think: he’s so goddamn pretty.

“You two are really close, huh?” Pat asks finally.

“Of course,” Pran says. It drives a blade between Pat’s ribs, how easy it is for Pran to admit their friendship.

“My mother loves wai,” he adds.

The blad twists, and Pat presses the earpods on the table before walking away.

Pat knows how to scale their adjoining balconies in the dead of the night with his eyes closed. He knows how to wiggle the windowpane of Pran’s room just right so that the lock comes loose. He knows how to avoid all the stationary on Pran’s desk when he jumps down onto the floor.

Wai knows Pran’s mother. Wai gets to walk in through the front door and occupy a space in Pran’s life proudly — he gets to be so fucking loud with it, the way he calls Pran’s name across campus. How he’s always getting Pran roped into the messes Wai creates. And Pran lets him, and Pat doesn’t know which part of that hurts worse.

The fact that he has to whisper Pran’s name, and hide behind pillars and bookshelves when someone might see them together had pulls him taught, until it feels like he’s fraying at the edges.

Then finally, the Freshy contest is happening. Something about the day sets Pat on edge. It feels as though something’s about to break. But Pat pushes it deep down, and blames it on nerves. It’s been a long time since he played in front of a big audience.

He had managed to avoid Pran for the past few days — something he’s a little proud of because that’s nearly impossible when their living situations were so on top of each other — and it hadn’t helped in the slightest.

Pat’s heart squeezes in on itself when he spots Pran backstage. He’s wearing a long blue coat, and a pastel pink t-shirt, and he looks soft. Pat has to ball his hands into fists to stop himself from reaching out.

The starting notes of the song — their song — sets Pat on fire. He feels feverish, watching Pran watch him as he sings.

Pat knows this song, every chord and nuance, and yet, it feels like he’s listening to it for the first time. He’s so close to getting it, and Pran’s eyes are depthless, pinning Pat down in the middle of the crowd.

Don’t act that way if you don’t mean it.”

It’s like pulling teeth, having to watch Pran saunter over to Wai, push down into his personal orbit, smile at him as he mouths the words, the way Pran had done with Pat all those years ago.

Pat’s walking away before the music fades. He tries to shake off the way Pran’s stare clings to his shoulders.

And then he does something stupid.

“I think I’ve liked you for a really long time,” he says.

Ink, thankfully, is kind enough to not laugh right in Pat’s face, for being a clueless dumbass, and not taking a hint.

But, Pat had known, deep down, that Ink doesn’t see him in a romantic light. He was just being selfish — it wasn’t fair to anyone.

Below them, Pran’s celebrating. He looks ecstatic, and his smile is blinding; Pat finds himself mesmerized by it. If he ignores everything else, then he can allow himself to bask in the warmth that Pran’s grin radiates.

Wai’s hands curl around Pran’s forearm and pulls him into a tight hug, and that’s when Pat finally looks away.

—————

Pat thumbs at the tube of condensed milk in his hands. He measures the weight of it in his palm — it’s an olive branch — an apology — something tangible from back when things didn’t feel so tense between him and Pran.

The past week had been hell. Every time he had thought of Pran he felt something insatiable flaring up inside him. It made him feel like he was putting an act the whole time; he just couldn’t be himself around Pran.

And Pat can’t help but feel like he has fucked something up. Ever since the concert. He had seen the look of confusion on Pran’s eyes when he had walked out of the bar without even acknowledging Pran, and maybe, there was hurt mixed in there somewhere too. But perhaps that was wishful thinking on Pat’s end.

So, that’s why he’s here. To fix everything. With some fucking condensed milk. It’s laughable. Pat sighs, and washes his face with some water, hoping that it’ll make the alcohol in his system dissipate even if only a little.

Then, Pran arrives. With wai.

“Come here,” Pat tells Pran.

He wants Pran to cross that invisible line between them; ‘Come to me. Be with me. Let me take care of you’, he thinks.

Pran sways on his feet, gets pulled towards Pat, but then he pulls back; always, always pulling away from Pat.

The cheap fluorescent lighting bouncing off the side of Pran’s face highlights the dark flush that sits high up on his cheekbones. Pran blinks slowly, and shifts his eyes towards Wai, gauging his reaction.

“Now’s not the time to act crazy, Pat,” Pran grits out, fingers curling in the collar of Pat’s shirt.

He’s finally in Pat’s personal orbit, but this was not what Pat had wanted; there’s barely restrained violence in the way Pran handles him now.

It’s maddening. It hurts. It’s a lethal combination when he can’t even think straight except have his entire body sing: Pran, Pran, Pran, even when Pran’s trying to shake some sense into and shut him up.

Wai puts himself bodily between them, and that’s the final straw. Pat’s sick and tired of having barriers that kept him away from Pran. Like he would ruin him if he was allowed any closer.

He barely feels the punch that lands on his face. The adrenaline and the rage almost blinds him, and he could kill Wai. He really could.

Except, Pran pulls him back, with sturdy hands wrapped around his waist. Pran shoves him away, and Pat lets the momentum carry him back; he doesn’t want to fight Pran, even in this. Pat lets himself crumple to the floor.

Pran looks murderous, but his face is also pinched that way that lets Pat know that he wants to cry. The tension swells, and as Wai drives away, Pran finally turns his back on him.

—————

He finds Pran on the rooftop.

What happened earlier wasn’t about Wai, as much as it was.

“I hate to see you play our song with someone else,” Pat says, and hopes that Pran understands.

He sees something sharp flash in Pran’s eyes, like he’s angry, and he’s hurt. Pat can see it in the way his features soften out. Pran’s edges always look blurry when he’s on the verge of tears. Pat knows this because ever since he could remember, he had been cataloging small details about Pran.

It’s like something wired in him to be attuned to every single thing Pran does. Pat didn't have a name for it back then, but he knows now.

“We are not a thing,” Pran tells him. “We’re not even friends.”

Pat tightens his grip on the metal railing. The coldness barely manages to ground him.

“You’re right, how can we be friends when our families hate each other, when we live right next door and we can’t even talk to each other.”

The cut of Pran’s eyes are sharp in the moonlight. Pat sees how they shine with unshed tears. Pat wonders if it’s because they’re reflecting himself.

“This thing between us, what should we call it?” Pat asks. He can’t help but laugh at the incredulity of it all — of how much easier things would be if both of them weren’t burdened with trauma and guilt that had been unloaded on them by the very people that were supposed to support them.

“Why, do you want us to be friends?” Pran whispers.

In the distance the skyline blinks, winding down each second. The moment stretches thin, and breaks when Pat manages to breathe out: “No.”

Pran meets him halfway.

It’s a chaste press of the lips. The blood rushes in Pat’s ears. The air stills around them, and when Pran doesn’t move, Pat tenses, before pulling away.

And then, Pran’s wrapping a hand around his neck and pulling him in, kissing him again.

Pran’s everywhere: on his lips, behind his teeth, his fingers tightening over Pat’s neck.

There’s no way for them to be even closer, but Pat wants him closer; he holds Pran’s face and tries to meld them together. Their mouths move hungrily, and yet, it’s so easy for them to find the same rhythm.

Pat knows he must be grinning like a fool when they finally break apart. His heart is jackhammering inside his ribs. The kiss felt like coming home.

But, Pran’s still crying. He lets out a small whimper before he untangles himself from Pat.

Then, reality becomes tangible, and Pat’s left where he’s standing, feeling something get knocked loose inside of him, having to watch Pran walk away from him again.

Chapter Text

Pran had perfected the art of self control throughout the years. It had been mostly out of self-preservation.

But ever since they had officially become boyfriends, Pran had felt himself slipping. God knows Pat isn’t making this any easier. Then again, Pran thinks he’s been patient long enough.

It’s why when Pat shows up in the library when Pran’s studying, and occupies the table right opposite to theirs, refusing to stop looking over at Pran, he follows Pat into the farthest section of the library and presses him up against the dusty bookshelf and kisses him until Pat squirms underneath him, making tiny little whimpers as Pran pushes a thigh between his legs.

Pran wonders if Pat feels the same way. If he has any idea of how long Pran waited for this. Had to convince himself that staying away from Pat was the only option because being close but never being allowed to hold was too painful.

He can’t believe he gets to have Pat this way — in every way. When he wakes up in the morning, ruffled up from sleep features even softer, and warmer. Or when Pat wins a game and he runs to Pran, to crush him in a hug, lifting him off of his feet, in front of everyone.

When Pran holds him down, and makes Pat tremble under his touch. The way his voice breaks when he says Pran’s name. Sometimes, he sobs, like it gets torn out of him when Pran takes him into his mouth, or Pran moves inside him. And he begs. It’s driving Pran crazy.

There’s a part of him that wants to sink his claws into Pat, and feel his blood and bone underneath his fingernails.

“I used to think about you like this, all the time,” he tells Pat in a moment of weakness, stroking him firmly and slowly. They’re in Pran’s apartment, and Pat’s got his back pressed up against the door. They hadn’t even made it onto the living room couch.

“Define all the time,” Pat manages to grit out, eyes still squeezed shut.

“All the time, Pat,” Pran tells him, twisting his hand, tightening his fingers around the head of Pat’s dick. “I’ve always wanted this.”

Pran nips at Pat’s collarbones, and soon, Pat comes, deflating against Pran’s body so that he has to hold Pat up against the door.

—————

Turns out, Pat’s got one hell of a one track mind.

“What did you mean earlier?” he asks, sprawled across Pran’s bed, with his homework spread out in front of him.

“I say a lot of things, Pat,” Pran reminds him.

“The other day. You know, when we were—” Pat makes a crude gesture with his hands. “You said you’ve always thought of me.”

Oh.

That had just been something Pran had said in the heat of the moment. Pran feels a flush creep up behind his neck.

“So you’ve liked me for longer than we’ve been in college?” Pat shoots up into a seated position like a dog with a bone.

Pran would rather die than admit it when Pat looks so smug, so he doesn’t tell him about being fourteen and falling deeper in love watching Pat fall asleep during class, or watching him dance on top of a table in the most ridiculous way, or the box full of memories he keeps in a corner of his bedroom cupboard — the photos, the make-shift guitar pick and Pat’s handkerchief he had wrapped around Pran’s bloody knee on their highschool football field. Maybe — one day, he would tell Pat.

—————

Pat climbs in through his window the night before Pran’s flight. There’s a dull ache in Pran’s chest at the knowledge that they won’t be able to do that anymore. It’s one of the many things that settles heavily in him.

Pat burrows his face into the crook of Pran’s neck, peppering him with kisses and unashamedly, and loudly inhaling Pran’s scent as Pran checks his luggage one last time. He’s got everything with him.

Well, almost everything.

He drops a soft kiss on Pat’s lips before untangling himself from Pat’s arms. He walks over to the cupboard in the corner to pull out the old, and dusty shoebox in the corner.

The box feels impossibly heavy in his hands. A part of him wants to wait for Pat to leave so he can stuff it in his luggage and take to Singapore. It’s become an extension of him over the years, and the thought of parting with it gives him mixed emotions. But that’s all the more reason for him to leave it behind. Because Pat’s big doe eyes have been dewy and sorrowful all week.

Sometimes, Pat had let tiny little insecurities slip like: ‘what if you find someone smarter and better than me?’ and then he would laugh, because it was meant to be funny, except the laughter never reached his eyes. He was trying to be strong for Pran, but of course Pran had noticed. He’s got almost a decade worth of practice cataloguing every single detail about Pat.

So, Pran knows that his boyfriend needs this more than he does. Because now more than ever Pat needs to know the full weight of Pran’s devotion to him.

Pran sets the box down on a surprised Pat’s lap like an offering, as if to say: ‘this is everything about us that I held onto, even when I didn’t have a right to.’

And Pran hopes that Pat will understand that now, after they’ve defeated all odds stacked against them, and made it on the other side together — intact, and their lives intertwined, there’s no way Pran’s letting go of him.

“Keep it safe for me, will you? Until I come back home,” Pran tells Pat, with a soft smile when Pat looks up at him in awe, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Pat replies by leaning over the box between them and tenderly kissing Pran on the mouth.