Archive of Our Own ^beta

Krailert wanted to go out that evening. He said he knew a place, and Naran didn’t question it; he didn’t care where they went, as long as they were together. So together they spilled out from the shadowy warmth of Kitakarn into Krailert’s car and onto the quiet streets of Bangkok, speeding past shuttered storefronts and late-night stalls that blinked like fireflies laying low on a mangrove tree at twilight. Higher above hung the smiling moon, the winking stars, illuminated by the inked expanse of the sky, beautiful enough to be written into song: fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars…

Sky and stars and song guided them on. Somewhere along the way Naran felt himself reach for Krailert’s arm—an impulse that he did not register until he felt Krailert’s right hand catch his wrist, and then a kiss pressed right to the inside of it. In a conspiratorial voice, he asked: “Do you want to know a secret?” 

Naran laughed. The English gave away his purpose; he knew from heart what song Krailert was trying to quote. “You know that song?”

“Come closer; I’ll whisper it in your ear.” 

He did not say the line that Naran wanted to hear, but that didn’t matter at the moment — he was warm and sated. Krailert was holding his hand. It made Naran feel like a man possessed, and as the drive stretched on he found himself talking endlessly, wanting to give everything to preserve this warmth: did Krailert see that tarpan under the intersection between Sukhumvit and Thonglor Road? A stabbing happened there, once, and Naran ran to cover the story only to be witness to another stabbing as he arrived. There was Naran’s favourite noodle soup stall in town, had Krailert heard of them before? That was a contentious new statue being built, that the road housing the camera shop that Naran frequented, and if you turned the corner you would see a house by the river that was dwarfed by a drooping banyan tree; did Krailert know it once housed three members of the Sarasin family? He did not know how much Krailert was listening to, or if he was listening at all, but that didn’t matter; what mattered was the soft smile he saw on Krailert’s face, the gentle acquiescence in his eyes. The warmth of his hand in Naran’s. 

They approached Patpong. It was lively that evening, at no surprise to Naran: earlier that year, a former American G.I had decided not to go home and opened a new sort of bar, the sort that combined foreign music and scantily-clad women dancing to it for men to openly leer at in public. Of course, it had been a hit, and despite the constant police raids, he had somehow gotten away with it; within a few months similar establishments were popping up on the same street, each seedier than the next. Naran frequently received tips about the conduct of high-ranking politicians in these places, but every time he tried to follow it up, he was met with informants who suddenly knew nothing and his boss shouting at him for stirring up trouble for an issue that wasn’t worth the hassle of investigating. 

Still, familiar as the place was to Naran, it didn’t seem like Krailert’s scene. Or Naran’s either, outside of work. Yet before Naran could question him he turned right onto a minor soi that Naran had never walked down. It was dotted with trees and a lone, solitary shophouse—one that Krailert stopped right outside of.

TWILIGHT, read the red sign perched atop a sliding metal gate.

Naran whistled. “Should I be scared?”

Krailert gave him a mysterious smile. “On the contrary,” he said. He moved to open the large wooden door, which protested at the force with a whining creak that made the insides of Naran’s ears ring. “After you.”

“Very scary,” quipped Naran, but he strode in anyways. 

Inside was—a bar. At first glance, it looked just like any western-style bar; there was the customary long wooden bar-top lined with neatly arranged stools, as well as the confusing rustic decorations that farangs seemed to think defined Thailand: these days, it seemed that they were obsessed with finding an abstract purpose in the contours of every tree in the country. The floors were made from a bamboo mat woven into a sleek geometric pattern, the chromatic-coloured high tables individually housed miniature thatched roofs, and the walls were panelled with intricate wooden carvings that were brushed over with art deco-style accents of black and gold. 

On their right stood a weathered bronze statue of a Prince Aphai Mani, holding what looked to be an actual Sueng; Naran noted with amusement that someone had painted over his decaying face with makeup, giving him a shimmering-lip and dark-eyed look that rivalled even the transmutation of Nang Phisuea Samut into a beautiful maiden. On their left was a jukebox playing a last-decade jazz standard, one of those pieces that Naran only recognized by virtue of having to listen to the King and his band play mediocre jazz on the radio every Friday night growing up. But it was being well-received by the crowd, many of whom were nodding their heads in appreciation, and as Naran surveyed the crowd he realised that there was one thing that stood out: they were all men. 

Thai and farang businessmen, G.I soldiers, kathoey individuals masculine and feminine — all dressed impeccably, like they were trying to impress someone. Boys who were likely no older than twenty-one, with their shaggy hair and American-style t-shirts, shooting surreptitious glances at each other—and as they walked in, at Naran too, sizing him up, seeing if he was a friend or a friend. 

“Is this a…?” Naran trailed off. He didn’t really know what to call it either. 

Instead of answering Krailert pulled Naran closer to him and lightly gripped his forearm. Naran immediately tensed—what if people saw? Even if this was a place where two men could touch each other like that, Colonel Krailert Suwannapas and Naran Pitayatorn, Siam Daily Mail journalist, were not just any two men. He moved to extract himself from Krailert's grip, but Krailert only held on to him tighter. “Don't worry,” he said. 

“Don’t worry? Have you forgotten who you are?” 

“Not since the other day at the military bureau.” 

Naran glared at him. “I'm not the one who jumped at you like a dog in heat!” 

“I couldn't help it. I wanted you that much.”

“Stop it,” said Naran, but he could feel himself relenting already; Krailert just had that effect on him. Being around him was like being consumed by the tide of a great wave: to survive, you just had to let yourself be washed along with it.

“Well, if it isn’t the most dashing military man in the whole of Bangkok,” said a voice to their right. 

Naran turned, startled. A handsome man stood perched against a column with a cigarette in one hand and a cocktail glass in the other. He couldn't have been much older than Naran, but he carried himself with the air of someone much older and wiser, wearing a checkered suit that was perfectly tailored to fit his sturdy figure. He glanced briefly at Naran, assessing, before shooting a blinding smile at Krailert. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

A small curl was forming on Krailert’s lips. “Phan.”

“P’Lert,” replied Phan. His voice was smooth, mellifluous; a cadence displayed only by sons who had been given the richest education money could buy in this country. But it was not the smoothness of his accent that gave Naran pause; no, instead it was the familiar way Phan’s voice curled around the phi, like he had known Krailert for a very long time. 

It made Naran wonder just how long that was. How long had Krailert known to come to places like this, to meet people like Phan, to desire and be desired by men? They never talked about those things, these secrets that were buried beyond the shadowy alcove of Kitakarn. And Naran himself had never called Krailert phi. Not because Krailert hadn’t given him leave to, because he would have done so regardless, but that somehow he felt that it did not work to encompass what Krailert was to him, or what Klai Rung was to Sarasawadee either. There was no way to fit the phi in that. 

“And this nong is?”

Krailert gently pressed at the side of Naran’s waist. The intent was clear; he wanted to give Naran the choice of giving himself a fake name if he wanted. That made Naran almost want to snap at him, for a second—why lead him to a place where he had to make that choice in the first place? Why complicate his life even more? Krailert seemed to operate here with an impunity that was only granted to men of his position, without realising that Naran could not afford the same privileges that he had. 

“It’s okay,” said Phan. His voice was kind, verging on pity. “I understand.”

Naran hated that even more. There was nothing worse than receiving the kind of condescending pity that people like Phan liked to dole out. He got enough of that from Dao’s family, on the rare occasion that they took a break from reminding him that he was the rangy temple dog to the heavenly flower that was their daughter. “It’s fine,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “I’m Naran.”

“Naran,” repeated Phan slowly, though he seemed more interested in glancing down at the imprint of Krailert’s hand on Naran’s waist than he was on his name. He was looking in a way that seemed almost confused, like he was searching for an answer that he couldn’t quite grasp, and if it were in any other place than this bar Naran would have taken it as a warning sign to scramble and leave. “And what do you do?”

Naran shot a glance at Krailert, hoping to convey the fact that every single journalistic bone in his body was telling him to disengage and leave the conversation. But Krailert only shook his head and smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said dryly. “I doubt he's in the country for long enough these days to know what's going on. And even if he did, he won't tell.”

“Excuse me,” said Phan, looking offended. “I do still keep up through the papers; I have them sent to me. Even all the way in New York. Though we have our own problems there right now… you might have seen it in the Washington Post just recently… do you read the American papers too, nong?” 

Naran was starting to hate the way Phan kept emphasising the nong, like Naran was some kind of starry-eyed junior that he needed to take under his wing and teach. “Yes. I’m a journalist.”

Phan's eyes widened. Naran saw him glance at Krailert, surprised, but Krailert was frowning, clearly still fixated on Phan's earlier words. “Did you mean the article about the raid?” 

Phan inclined his head. “Yes.”

There was no need for him to elaborate on which article it was. They all knew. July 1, 1969—N.Y Homosexuals Protest Raids. It’d been less than a hundred words, hidden towards the back of the paper, the kind of article Naran would have skipped over just a few months ago. He remembered, that day, how his eyes had snapped toward the word homosexual like a moth being drawn to a flame. He’d known that was what it was called in English, of course, but he hadn’t expected it to be printed so explicitly on that page, to see those letters inked out like it was just any word. 

H-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l. Naran still didn't know what to make of the word; it was foreign in feeling and language. In Thai they never talked about these things—with Krailert he never talked about this. He’d spared a brief moment then to wonder what Krailert would think, if he’d brought it up, and hadn’t thought he’d cared: after all, how could a word encompass the enormity of the way their bodies talked to each other? There was no time to discuss semantics in the brief moments of time they stole away to be together. 

Yet from this conversation it seemed he did care. Somehow Krailert had found some kind of way to care, sounding somber as he pressed Phan for more information: “Were you there? Was it as violent as described?”

“Oh, yes. Even more… I got lucky, I'd managed to slip away with the help of a friend. By the time I turned around again it had escalated into full-blown violence.”

There was a brief, grave moment of silence, before Phan shook his head and smiled. “Enough of that. Let's talk about something more fun. Nong Kam asked after you the other day, you know. Or really, it was more like he was asking if…” Phan raised his eyebrows, letting his eyes trail down Krailert’s body. “Well, you know.”

“Don’t,” said Krailert, but he was relaxing, smiling; there was no threat in his voice, merely an exasperated fondness that Naran had never heard before. 

“Don’t?”

“Yes. It’s not happening.”

“Very interesting,” said Phan, with an expression on his face that was almost gleeful. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll tell him that you’ve certainly got your hands full,” he said, shooting another pointed glance down at Naran’s waist. “It is a pity, though.”

“Phan.”

“Okay, okay! Don’t shoot me, Colonel,” said Phan, affecting an air of chastisement. He closed his eyes, raising the cocktail glass to his lips and gulped down the rest of the drink. Then he sighed, opening them and letting the glint in his eyes come out again. “Or, I mean…”

Krailert shook his head, but he was still smiling. “Enough.” He gestured down at Phan’s now-empty glass. “Do you want another one of those?”

“Well, if the Colonel insists on getting me one…”

Krailert turned to Naran. “And you?”

Naran nodded. He definitely needed one to make sense of this situation. Krailert and Phan seemed to be constantly talking in some kind of code that even Saraswadee would find hard to decipher.  Naran didn’t know how to feel about it. Was it good that there was a community hidden away here, so confident in their ability to understand each other implicitly, when he himself would never have been able to understand this had Krailert not confronted him that one day at Kitakarn?

“I must say,” said Phan, as they both watched Krailert stride towards the bar, “that I’m surprised to see him here.”

“Why?”

“I was just catching up with the owner of the bar, Khun Yosawadee. She said that he only comes when he really needs to, these days. The nature of his job, I guess.” 

The question was on the tip of his tongue: what do you mean, when he really needs to? But he was a journalist by training, and he knew instinctively that it wasn’t an essential question. Better to ask a question that he did not know the answer to. “So everybody here… knows?”

Phan raised an eyebrow. “Know about what?”

“Well, you know. About him.”

Phan laughed. “Sure,” he said. “But does that matter?”

“How could it not?”

“Look around us,” said Phan, waving his arms. “Do you see that man over there?” he pointed at a tall farang man, likely American, with the way he was jokingly shaking his head to the English hook of the Suraphon Sombatcharoen song that was now playing—farang same same—no have money, go home. “Do you recognize him?”

He did look very familiar. Naran searched his mind for the many faces he’d seen when covering diplomatic visits and state events—in particular, U.S President Nixon’s recent visit, as there had been many big names there—and realised with a sudden jolt that it was the U.S Ambassador, Mr. Unger, the one who he always heard people warning him to be mindful of because he spoke fluent Thai. 

Phan smiled. “Surprised?”

“That’s the U.S Ambassador!”

“And that’s Colonel Krailert Suwannapas, the army’s top dog,” said Phan, lips curling, pointing to Krailert at the bar, who was whispering to the bartender. Even hunched down and half-obscured by the shadow of the bartender he was strikingly handsome—so much so that Naran could see other people shoot him glances not out of recognition, but of deep appreciation. “Which of course, you know more intimately than anyone. But my point is—we keep each other’s secrets.” There was something conclusive in the way he said it too, like Naran was now in on this secret—and not just in, but part of it, bonded together by a silent promise to never speak this newfound knowledge aloud. “Water depends on a boat. A tiger depends on the forest. As long as you’re discreet enough, of course. Which your colonel usually is, and so the question is: why did he bring you here?”

Naran swallowed. It was a question he did not know the answer to. “I don’t know,” he allowed himself to admit aloud to Phan. “He just said he knew a place.”

Phan hummed. “You know, this is the first time he's introduced me to anyone. Well, at least since…” he trailed off, looking wistful. “Nevermind. He’s never been a man of many words, is he?”

He can be, thought Naran, but he didn’t want to say it to Phan. He didn’t want Phan to know about the beautiful words that Krailert wrote him as Klai Rung in the newspaper, the acerbic wit of his language, the beautiful meditative nature of his critiques. They were for Sarasawadee in a way they could never be Phan’s, or anybody else’s, for that matter. 

So instead of replying, he drew his cigarette case out. “Want one?”

Phan shook his head. “Those will kill you, you know.”

“Who said?”

“I was talking to a doctor back in New York the other day. There was some report a few years back; they’re still trying to figure out what their strategy is to get this information out.”

“Well, fuck them for taking this long,” said Naran, already halfway to lighting up his own cigarette. He took his first drag, sighing contentedly as the first rush of smoke hit his lungs. It was just what he needed.

Phan laughed. “I can see why P’Lert likes you.”

Again with the P’Lert. Naran took a sideways glance at him, trying not to look too conspicuous. He couldn’t help but notice just how good-looking he was, as handsome as the movie stars that graced the front pages of the entertainment papers, and wondered if Krailert thought so too. “Have you known him for long?”

“Oh, it’s been quite a while.”

“Did you ever…?”

Phan smiled. “I knew you’d ask.” 

“I'm a journalist,” said Naran, trying not to bristle. “It's in my nature to ask questions.”

Phan gave Naran a knowing look. “That’s not why you’re asking.”

“I'm just curious.”

“Oh, let me try and remember when I first met him. Must have been 58’ or 59’, when this place had just opened—in 56’, can you imagine!—when it was so different then, much more hidden, no flashy Twilight sign or open bar or anything… that reminds me, have you met Khun Yosawadee yet? She could tell you more; she's known him for ages…!”

“Not yet. But I was asking…”

“Oh, nong.” That pitying look was back on Phan's face. “You're in love with him, aren't you.”

“I—” said Naran, then stopped. There was no point in trying to deny it; he’d always been told that he could be read like an open book. Dao had always told him that it was obvious that he didn’t care about her in the way that he should, and Naran had objected then, but these few months, he’d been realising that she was right. It was obvious his heart lay somewhere else. 

With someone else.

Phan sighed. He looked contemplatively at Naran, before opening his mouth again, as if to say something, but was cut off by Krailert reappearing with two drinks in his hands, striding towards them in his brisk, military-trained way, like he had important business he needed to conduct with them. He handed the tall cocktail glass to Phan and the small glass of whisky to Naran, which Naran took gratefully, gulping it down in one go.

Krailert raised an eyebrow at him. “Needed it that much?”

“What do you think?”

“Oh, spare him, P’Lert,” interjected Phan. “It’s his first time here. I needed much more the first time I came. Especially after downstairs,” he added to Naran.

“Downstairs?”

“P’Lert hasn’t taken you yet?”

Phan shared an amused look with Krailert. Naran tried not to think about the implications hidden within the look; there was no point, really. 

“It’s not for the faint of heart,” Krailert said to him. 

Phan waved his hand. “Oh, please. He’s strong, he can take it. In multiple ways, probably…” he trailed off when Krailert glared at him. “Yes, I know you aren’t sharing. But you should see tonight’s set downstairs anyways — it’s quite magical — P’Det brought back some fancy new equipment from his recent trip to Germany, very shiny looking microphones — shiny in sound too! — and there’s a visiting musician from Udon Thani, playing his… uh, I can’t remember what it’s called… I know you don’t normally stay for these things, but you should check it out!”

“We’ll go, we’ll go,” said Krailert, smiling indulgently; he clearly saw that Naran’s ears had perked up at the mention of music. 

“Well, nong,” Phan said, patting Naran on the shoulder. “First times are always the best times. Or the craziest times. Have fun.”

They exchanged wais in goodbye. Krailert gently took Naran’s whisky glass from him, setting it down on an empty ledge, then held out his hand. At least that was something that Naran could decipher. He took Krailert’s hand, and together they descended: past the back-doors of the dimly lit bar into a stairwell that led down a surprisingly deep flight of stairs (“This was to be a bomb shelter.” “Built by the Americans? What the hell are they expecting out of their war?” “No—by the Japanese, during the second world war.” “And what were they expecting?”). Finally, at the bottom of the stairs, there was a bored-looking attendant perched at the side of a large black door with a book in his hand. “Membership?”

Krailert flashed a sleek black card. Naran tried not to ogle at it. He was new to this world, sure, but what the hell was all of this? Did the homosexuals have their own Patpong? And how had they managed to keep it so quiet that he had never heard a single whisper of it throughout his entire career? 

“As Phan said, it’s always crazy the first time,” said Krailert, clearly having read his mind. “But—don’t worry. There’s definitely something from our world in there.”

“Our world?”

“Music,” said Krailert, and pushed open the doors. 

In one sense, Krailert was right: there was music. But in every other sense he couldn’t have been more wrong: it was music from another world. Like something Neil Armstrong would have heard on the moon, or the soundtrack out of that space movie that came out last year, the one that he’d been so engrossed in that he’d only realised after the second viewing that the film projectionists had shown the last two reels in the wrong order. The room was small, but just like Dave’s bedroom, it seemed to stretch out endlessly: white tiles illuminated the entire floor, and from the ceiling hung chrome-coated bulbs that gave the room an otherworldly, alien glow. In the middle of the room was a tall black platform where the music was coming from; around it, a teeming crowd of revellers, arms outstretched towards the music like worshippers offering alms to gain merit. 

And it was music more than worthy of merit. More odd than Space Oddity, further away than 2000 Light Years From Home, glittering bold and bright like Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds. He could hear the electric twang of the guitar, the unmistakable shudder of the bass, a mid-tempo rhythm being drummed, and most fascinatingly, an echo that he had never heard before in his life. Naran located it as coming from a khaen—which he had heard often in festivals growing up back home—but not with this kind of sound, like its bright chords were crackling and fizzling with a new kind of life. With a jolt, Naran realised that— “It's being amplified,” he shouted to Krailert amidst the hollers and cheers in the crowd: someone was running two floating microphones up and down both directions of its pipes.

“This is fucking amazing!” Naran shouted over the din of the crowd. “You don’t usually stay for this? How?”

Krailert smiled faintly. “I would come here with one purpose only,” he admitted. “A necessary one. There was no time for other things. Especially if I…didn't need it.”

“You didn't need music? What are you talking about, Khun Klai Rung?”

“Klai Rung is left for Sarasawadee,” said Krailert, squeezing his hand. 

A kathoey singer took to the stage, dressed resplendently in a shimmering golden gown. Another microphone suddenly appeared. The tempo shifted, quickened; the bass deepened, the khaen cycled through a shimmering arpeggiated motif. It was a spirit wanting, waiting for human life, and so when a soulful voice rang out it made the crowd respond in ecstasy. Sublime release. They drew closer, pressed up against each other. Krailert followed in turn, pulling Naran’s body flush to his. Connected again, blissful relief. Connected yet—how many other men had Krailert done this with? He always touched Naran with the confidence of a man who had done it often, who knew every desirous part of the male body and was unafraid to draw pleasure from it. It made him completely unabashed about sex—he liked it, he was good at it, and he wanted to make Naran feel good as well. 

He had understood earlier, what Krailert was saying, that it was an unavoidable need that had to be addressed. But now in this crowd of men, Naran couldn’t help but think: did he do similarly with Phan? Or Kam? Or the countless other boys who were spilling out onto the dance floor, red-cheeked and loose-limbed from the neverending flow of alcohol at the bar? Did he fuck them like he fucked Naran, opening him up tenderly with spit and slick from a fragrant bottle of oil, before pushing in and maintaining a punishing pace that left Naran a whimpering, drooling mess? Or did they fuck him too, the way he liked, bent over and braced against the nearest available surface? With a face like Krailert’s he could have any man he wanted in the world, in any way he wanted. 

He didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to be the only one for Krailert in the way that Krailert was for him. The way Naran had known from that first moment at Kitakarn. He knew it was impossible, yet he wanted it, in a way that he didn’t know how to explain. Maybe it really was possession—how else could he explain it? How else could he explain the gluttony of this unstoppable desire? The kind of desire that you were taught as a child was excessive in nature. That you should let go of. As Buppah Saichol sang: why wallow in misery? He thought suddenly, hysterically, about their music column, about Sarasawadee penning a letter starting with: Dear readers, Percy Sledge sang that he knew exactly what it felt like when a man loves a woman. I do too—even if I, Sarasawadee, might not love a woman, I love, I love— 

Krailert’s hands were now hot on his bare skin, his fingers snaking up Naran’s untucked shirt. He couldn't remember untucking it, but did it matter? He wanted it. So surely it didn’t matter too when Krailert tilted Naran’s chin up and looked at him like he knew. “Are you jealous?” asked Krailert.

He had not yet learned to deal with the intensity of Krailert’s gaze, which had not dimmed in the few months since this all started. “No.” 

“Don’t be,” said Krailert. “It’s all in the past. I’m not interested in them anymore.”

Anymore. “I said I wasn’t jealous.”

Krailert pressed a kiss to Naran’s throat. “Let me show you.” He smiled the same terrifying smile he first gave Naran in the dark shadows of Kitakarn, where sunlight had spilled through the shutters and illuminated the glint of it. When Naran had dared to look in his eyes that day he remembered a bottomless well of hunger—the same well that he was seeing now, as Krailert framed his face in his hands and looked at him, waiting, wanting. Pausing for Naran in that still-electric flux.

Naran kissed him. He couldn't help it. He was hungrier. That all-consuming desire of his. He kissed him so that Krailert’s mouth opened willingly, easily, allowing Naran to taste him once again. They kissed to the electric swell of the music, mouths moving in and out a rhythm of their own making. The music grew slower, sultrier; the kiss deepened. Krailert slid his hands down Naran’s waist to grab hold of his ass, before sliding a dry finger into the back of his pants to press heavy against his hole. It was enough pressure to make Naran let out a whimper: Krailert had fucked him there at Kitakarn earlier. Not inside, but rutting up against his thighs, a spit-slicked finger circling around his rim, just enough pressure and resistance to make Naran come. He wanted more, this time. He could already feel his cock start to fill up, hardening uncomfortably in his pants, a sensation that only continued to amplify as Krailert probed deeper. 

Everything was pulsing. There was the pulse from the music reverberating against the dance floor, the pulsing gasp of air as they surfaced between kisses; the pulse of his hole clenching tight around Krailert’s finger, on just the right edge of pain and pleasure; the pulse of their heartbeats in sync, pulsing, pulsing, pulsing… then stuttering to an aortic stop as Krailert wrenched himself back from Naran.

“Not here,” he said. His eyes were wild. He grabbed Naran’s hand and squeezed them through the still-pulsing crowd, now cheering as the singer had launched into a very flamboyant rendition of a famous song sung by a left-behind mia chao to her American G.I lover. I want to die, they were singing, but that was the last thing on Naran’s mind: he was alive, with this music, these familial strangers, Krailert’s hand in his. 

He was led down a dark narrowed corridor lined with multiple stalls — they looked to be bathroom stalls, but from the gasps and groans that Naran could hear coming from a few unlocked doors, it was obvious what their actual purpose was. This must have been what Phan was hinting about, earlier. There was an open one on the far left, and Naran felt himself being pushed into it, before the door slammed shut and Krailert pounced. Clothes came off, shoes were thrown somewhere across the stall, and soon Naran was greeted with the full sight of Krailert’s erect cock, the beautiful full length of it, flushed with blood and straining proud. Straining for him. It was all for him. Naran’s mouth watered. He reached out to stroke it, and was rewarded with a low growl that travelled straight to his own cock. But before he could do anything Krailert dropped to his knees and instructed: “Pull my hair,” before sinking his mouth onto Naran’s cock in one fluid, practiced motion.

Naran whimpered. It felt so good. It always did, whenever Krailert did this to him. He loved the wet warmth of Krailert’s mouth on his cock, the tangle of Krailert’s softly gelled hair in his fingers, and the way he looked, the army’s most loved colonel, on his knees as a cocksucker and looking like he enjoyed every last bit of it. Was even going back for seconds, thirds, more, bobbing his head up and down in a steady four-four rhythm, urging Naran with a low hum to keep pressure on his scalp. It wasn’t long before Naran felt his climax draw near, and he tried amidst the pleasure to warn Krailert, “Stop—stop, I’m going to come,” he said, no, choked out as a whimper. “Oh, fuck, I’m—”

In a shout he came, trying to move himself away from Krailert so as to not make him swallow, but Krailert held tightly on to him, and forced him to spill it down his throat. Without even a wince or a grimace he swallowed it all, every last drop of it, and when he finally looked up at Naran again it was with an air of deep satisfaction. “Was it good?” he asked hoarsely, licking his lips. 

Naran almost laughed. Instead he drew Krailert up and kissed him, deep and filthy, tasting the saltiness of himself in Krailert’s mouth. He palmed at Krailert’s cock, which had not flagged at all, making him whine into Naran’s mouth—a sound he did not often hear coming from Krailert, no matter how wrung out or overstimulated he was. He liked it. He wanted to hear it again. “What do you want?”

“Just—touch me.”

“Or you can fuck me.”

Krailert looked at him. His eyes were dark. “Can you come again if I do?” But he was already looking around for some slick anyways—in a stall like this, there was bound to be some—and when he found it in the form of a bottle of oil he triumphantly brandished it to Naran and said, “No matter, I’ll make sure it happens.” 

He turned Naran around and pressed a kiss to his back, before slicking two fingers up and tracing it around Naran’s rim. It made Naran moan: even wrung out from his orgasm, he felt his spent cock start to twitch in interest again, and he pressed himself back against it until his fingers were inside, rubbing against a part of himself that he hadn’t known existed until he met Krailert. It wasn’t enough, but it never was; since the first time he had taken Krailert’s cock he had known that nothing else could be enough. “Enough,” he said, feeling delirious; he wanted that cock now. “I want you now.”

He had expected Krailert to tease him slightly, as he liked to do, but it seemed that he was desperate enough tonight that he did exactly as Naran bid. In one smooth motion he bent Naran over, pressing a heavy hand over the small of his back. There was the sound of the bottle screwing open as Krailert slicked himself up. 

Then he was in. 

“Fuck,” Naran couldn’t help but swear. It was overwhelming, this feeling of being split open. Krailert was so big. It made him feel so full, so sweet. Nobody ever taught you that being fucked could be this sweet. It was all instinctive, the way his body opened for Krailert — was opening for Krailert now, letting him inside in one smooth slide, pushing so deep inside that Naran felt it in his stomach. He pressed a hand there, wondering if it was deep enough to be an imprint. Wondering if Krailert’s cock had gone deep enough to be branded into his skin, if he would feel the burn again afterwards, lingering sore and just as sweet.

The first time, Krailert had used nothing but spit. He apologised, later, for how harsh he’d been, but Naran had no regrets. He’d wanted it so much that it didn't matter. In the deep recesses of Kitakarn he wanted Krailert even deeper. He wanted Krailert to keep pushing, pushing inside, to fill him as deep as a roaring river filled the ocean, emptying itself within, ceasing from one body of water to another; for that was true liberation, was it not? No regrets. He’d wanted it then, he wanted it now, and as Krailert started fucking him in earnest, Naran couldn’t help but cry out in half-pain, half-pleasure. 

Krailert was a master at this. He might have preached drab musicality as Klai Rung in the newspapers, but his understanding of body rhythm was like no other; he knew how to control the tempo of his pace to almost metronomic perfection, building, accelerating, pushing to a beat per minute that seemed almost inhuman to maintain. He fucked Naran with that effortless rhythm, not pausing, using stamina that was as impressive as it was was militant and overwhelming, and Naran could do nothing but let himself be lost in it, in the physical sensation of being fucked beyond oblivion. His cock was starting to fill again, and when Krailert took it in his hand the sensation made his knees give way, but Krailert held him up with one hand braced around his waist, and kept fucking him with that same punishing rhythm, that same inexorable slide in and out. “You feel so good,” he kept chanting, like it was some kind of mantra, “so good. You feel…” 

Naran could tell he was getting close. He was groaning loudly, his rhythm slowing down: still steady, but more muted, forgiving. This change of rhythm made it easier for Krailert’s cock to drag against the inside of his hole in a way that made pleasure shoot through him like a firework. That sensation, coupled with Krailert’s tight grip on his cock, made Naran realise that he was getting close again. And of course Krailert noticed too, because he adjusted to slow down even more, drawing Naran up and panting in his ear: “Are you close?” 

Naran could only nod. When he opened his mouth only gasps and whimpers came out. He reached around to grip Krailert’s ass and push him closer, deeper, urging him to move faster again. And because Krailert was good to him, he did, adjusting their positions with a breathless laugh and speeding up, back to that relentless tempo that Naran wanted. 

It wasn’t enough. It was too much. Naran felt beads of water drip down from skin to the ground; whether it was sweat or tears or drool he didn’t know. All he knew was the feeling of Krailert’s cock in him, splitting him open, Krailert’s hand jerking him off, Krailert’s body pressed hard and flush to him, Krailert, Krailert, Krailert… “I’m going to come,” he managed to gasp out, before he did, spilling weakly into Krailert’s grip. It rendered him nearly unconscious for a second, but when he felt Krailert move to pull out, he used his last bit of energy to stop him. “No, don’t stop, don’t stop,” he chanted deliriously, “inside, I want it, don’t stop—”

With a low growl Krailert came. It was the only time his rhythm stuttered, as his cock pulsed uncontrollably in Naran, shooting inside, filling him up. He gripped so tightly onto Naran’s waist that it would undoubtedly bruise the next day, resting his forehead in between Naran’s shoulderblades as he rode out the aftershocks of his orgasm. 

“Fuck,” he said, panting heavily. 

“Fuck,” agreed Naran. There was nothing else to say. No regrets. He was sated. 

For a while they stood there, holding onto each other, before a twitch in Krailert’s cock made Naran shudder: it really was too much, now. Pressing apologetic kisses into Naran’s shoulderblades, Krailert withdrew, leaving Naran’s hole empty and dripping with his come. He pressed a rogue finger to Naran’s puffy rim and scooped some of it back in, making Naran whine. “Stop, stop. I can’t anymore.”

“Hmm,” said Krailert contemplatively, like he was considering setting out a good argument to debate that. His fingers were still probing at Naran’s hole, petting, stroking, making Naran shiver with overstimulation.

“I’m serious,” said Naran, swatting Krailert’s hand away. It was starting to really be too much, even if he was orgasm-drunk and giddy from the warmth of Krailert’s ministrations. “I'm not that young anymore.”

“Hmm,” said Krailert again, but he relented and withdrew his fingers. 

With a tenderness that almost made Naran feel more embarrassed than he did when he had begged Krailert to come in him mere minutes ago, he eased Naran back up, wiping a wet washcloth between his legs and pressing kisses to every part of his body as he did so. He kept looking at Naran, really looking at him, with those dark inquisitive eyes of his, like he was waiting for Naran to say something that he already knew, because he had reached so deep inside him that he knew all of his secrets, even if they had never been said aloud.  

He felt different about it now that they were not having sex. It was hard to want that depth when he was the one being reflected in the bottomless well of Krailert’s eyes. All he saw in them was himself asking the question: why?

It was a question that followed him as they headed back upstairs. Krailert led them out of the stall they had inhabited, and Naran wondered: did Krailert bring him here to fuck? But why, when they had Kitakarn? There was no reason to bring him to a place so dangerous to do that. In the shudder of the metal stairs Naran heard incessant English chatter that bounced off the stone walls; did Krailert think that Naran would find journalistic interest in Twilight’s farang patrons? Or maybe it was music that Krailert wanted to show, the glittering, shining, music that they heard, still audible as a faint echo as they left the stairwell for the back-door of the bar.

“Wait,” said Naran, stopping Krailert before he could open the door. He was suddenly itching for a cigarette, for that familiar drag of smoke in the fresh night air. Something to settle his wandering mind. “I want a smoke.”

“Inside?”

“No—here.”

“I’ll join you.”

Together they made their way towards the still pavement of this minor soi at night. Even with the revelry happening within Twilight, the pavement outside was quiet: almost eerily so, like a ghost had swept the wind away, leaving only the streetlamps to flicker in silence. 

In this quiet dark Krailert took his hand. “Thank you,” he said. 

His gaze was warm. Naran couldn’t help but shrink away from it, though it didn’t matter; Krailert’s hand in his was warmer. “What for?”

“For coming.”

Naran laughed lightly. “I don’t think you gave me much of a choice, really.”

“You could have left at any time. I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

“I didn’t want to leave. I—liked it. I just wish…” he paused, feeling a strange swell of emotion rise up in him. “I wish I’d known earlier.”

“About this place?”

“About all of it.”

Krailert squeezed his hand. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here now. You know now.”

“But why now?”

Krailert paused. For the first time that night, a look of indecision passed over his familiar, handsome face. He turned to look back at the solitary shophouse. There, under the glow of the overhanging trees tumbling over the red-lit shopfront, he cast a shadow that felt both intimate and alien, like a mirage of light that belonged not to the sky or the sea, but to that indefinite space between it. “I wanted you to,” he said simply. 

From inside came the sound of a well-played song wafting through one open window: Dusty Springfield’s The Look of Love. Krailert loved her, Naran knew; Klai Rung had written many columns about the quiet power in her plaintive lyrics, his enjoyment of the simple, sensual physicality of her bossa nova rhythms. Sarasawadee found her slightly boring. How frustrating it is, to listen to a musician who spends a whole side of an album telling us nothing at all! he'd written once, in response to Krailert's effusive praise. But now, outside, he found himself listening attentively to the straightforwardness of her lyrics, the predictable nature of the saxophone solo, the steadiness of her rhythms—those nothing-things that he had scorned Krailert for liking. He was realising that those things were not nothing. Klai Rung had written them on purpose for Sarasawadee. Krailert had wanted Naran to know those things about him. How could that be nothing? 

And now, seeing the strangely vulnerable smile on Krailert’s face, he finally understood what Krailert was trying to say to him, as simply as the song was suggesting: that it didn’t matter, all the archival gaps in the earlier conversations, the scrambling to decipher the code of Krailert’s past. The life he had before Naran. Krailert wanted Naran to know him now. What mattered was the look in his eyes now. He was here now, and he knew now. 

The look of love
Is in your eyes
The look your heart
Can't disguise
The look of love
Is saying so much more
than just words could ever say…