Chapter Text
“Pran, I need your advice.”
Pran never likes it when sentences start with that.
Not because Pran was inherently averse to helping others, or sharing his opinion. In fact, he was happy to do so, if he was prompted to. He wasn’t one to get into people’s personal business, but when it was invited, he wouldn’t turn it down.
The problem is that the “advice” was never something normal. Or practical. Or something he thought he could actually give genuine guidance on.
Never “Pran, I’m not sure what credits I should take this semester, could you help me?” or “Pran, I’m looking for some good drawing tool recommendations, what’re your favorites?” No, never any questions he felt qualified to answer.
It was always something ridiculous. Like this.
“I’m really at a loss here,” Louis is saying, sounding emotionally perturbed in a way Pran really didn’t think he could handle right now, but alas, Louis continues speaking, “I just don’t know what I could’ve done to make May upset with me? What should I do?”
May, Louis’s current object of affection. Pran likes her, she seems like an easy-going girl, and that might’ve been the problem. Louis tended to overcomplicate, always seeing things for what they could be rather than what they actually were. He’d bet 3000 baht that May hadn’t actually indicated she was upset at all, and everything was in Louis’s head.
He decides to entertain him, though, for not much more reason than he’s tired of looking at his current assignment. “Why do you think she’s upset?”
Louis lays his hands flat on the table, “Look Pran, I know girls aren’t your thing,” —Pran sighs— “But I understand the ladies, and I’m telling you, she’s upset about something.”
“You understand women so well that you’re asking someone who’s not attracted to them to help you with one?” Pran raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, I can tell you’re a real Casanova, Louis.”
Louis frowns dismally. “Okay. Point taken. But you’re smart and observant, or whatever. And you’re one of my best friends. Can’t you try to help me out here?”
Pran sighs, pretending to give in when he’d already planned on reluctantly listening anyway. “Fine. How did all of this start?”
“She’s been saying she wants to hang out just the two of us, right? All I did was recommend that we go hit the library together! I thought she would think I’m studious or something.” Louis explains, “And she just didn’t seem enthusiastic after that, saying she actually has other plans that day, and maybe some other time. What’s that?” Louis sounds incredulous, and Pran has his face under his palm and spread fingers.
“You’re kidding,” Pran murmurs.
“What? What did I do wrong?” Louis cries unhappily.
“Louis, what kind of first date suggestion is the library? You wouldn’t even be able to talk to her properly,” Pran shakes his head, “Do you want her to think you don’t want to talk?”
“No?” Louis responds like a question. He’s doomed. “What should I do then? How can I save this?”
“Tell her you’re sorry for being an idiot and suggesting a library for a date,” Pran starts, “And then suggest somewhere more romantic. Like… a cat cafe. Or a beach pier. Something like that, where you can walk around and do something but still spend time together.”
“I’m allergic to cats,” Louis says distantly.
Pran clicks his tongue, tossing his head in irritation, “It doesn’t have to be the cat cafe! It was an example! Something like that. And get her something nice, like a cute snack. Not an actual gift though, like jewelry, because that’s way too much for a first date.”
Louis has taken to typing this out on his notes app, nodding as he does so. “Thanks, Pran. I’m going to try this. How do you know so much, anyway? You’ve never even dated anybody.”
And like it had been for this entire thing, his mind screams why are you even bothering to ask me then?
Pran huffs, eyes going back to his work, effectively checking out of the conversation now that his counseling session was over. “You can learn a whole lot without experience if you pay attention.”
Louis purses his lip, “I’m second-guessing your advice right now. But I’ve got nothing else to lose. Wish me luck.”
Louis leaves for his mission, and Pran lets out one long breath before popping his headphones back in and getting to work. If he never gave advice again, it’d be too soon.
—
The universe is against Pran. Of that much, he is sure.
It was the only logical explanation— some chaotic, unexplainable whim of the universe decided he needed to suffer.
This whim, of sorts, was responsible for the unfortunate placement of two houses next to one another whose occupants couldn’t get along any worse if there was money on it. Pran doesn’t know when it started—before he was born, probably, he doesn’t care to ask. Business rivals and never appeased, Pran watched the back and forth of it since he was old enough to know their tone wasn’t friendly. Since he was old enough to be sat down and told with loving immobility: you can have any friend you like, but not him.
The same whim was a fan of horrendous, sick irony. Because that untouchable boy that his mother warned about was a firecracker and held Pran’s undivided attention whenever he entered a room. He was energy, energy, energy, and Pran wanted to know where it all came from, wanted to tap into it, wanted to know if he could touch it if he got close enough (which he was afraid to do, always lingering.)
It was cruel, really. Pran could like any boy in the world. He could find any boy in the world agonizingly beautiful. But his eyes only land on one.
Pat, burning hot, like that universe whim was trying to recreate the story of Icarus and make Pran the utter fool.
Pran wouldn’t be the fool. Instead, he combats. He overcompensates. A rivalry is what the families wanted, so a rivalry they would receive.
A lousy one, maybe, if you looked at it from the outside. Always a little half-hearted, a little struggling in being completely rooted in something real and disdainful. But it’s what kept him safe, so it’s what Pran did.
That’s just what it’s been since he can remember, since he was old enough for the fruits of competition to make any difference to him. Gold stars for good behavior—who earned more? (It was always Pran.) High school yearbook superlatives— who’s the most likely to be friends with everybody? (It was always Pat.)
Pran had believed at one point that maybe, just maybe, he’d be released from the cosmic curse that had been put on him. He was really tired of this double life—what kind of loser smack-talks a boy in the locker room during 5th period and draws heart doodles around the same boy’s class photo while he locked himself in a study room during 6th?
That was just it, though. He’d been so naive. Because graduation came and went, and Pran would soon discover that of all the universities in Thailand, he and Pat choose to attend the same one. And of all the faculties in the university they could join, they choose the ones with a rivalry that long preceded them and would long succeed them after. And who were they if not upholders of tradition? They’d been doing it their whole lives.
That’s why, right now, Pran knows that whim in the universe that really doesn’t like him at all is having its fun, because he stares Pat in the eyes as Pat scores the winning goal against his team. Past Pran’s legs, his attempt at playing defense. Right through him, like Pran’s body had become a hologram.
And so Architecture loses. By one point. The point that Pat just scored, because Pran was tired , and Pat’s forehead was sheen with sweat and his uniform clung to him for dear life, which had nothing to do with Pran’s inability to tackle Pat to the ground remorselessly and end the game right there. It didn’t.
“There’s that face,” Pat says to him as they pass each other to huddle to their respective teams, voice low and out of breath.
The face that would go red, if it wasn’t already flushed from a non-stop game of rugby. “What face?“ Pran asks, casually.
“The one where you lose to me,” Pat clamps his teeth down on his lip, smiling, “The best kind, obviously.”
Pran wanted to kick his shin, and then he wanted to kiss him. He really didn’t understand it. He wishes his heart would just settle on something so he didn’t have to keep feeling guilty about one or the other, but it seemed impossible, and so he carried the burden accordingly.
In lieu of all his other options, Pran ignores him, rolling his eyes as he goes to consolidate his teammates.
“What was that, man?” Wai berates him immediately. Expected, and not particularly unwelcome or undeserved. “You’re always so foggy when we play Engineering. That’s, like, the one time you need to be on your A-game, dude. They’re gonna get such big heads about it.”
“I know,” Pran says, distractedly. He’s downing his water bottle and he’s watching Pat across the field. He watches him push back his hair, damp and not falling into place quite the same because of it. He wonders what they feel like. Pat’s hands. When he does that. Not that Pran wants to feel it. That’s disgusting. Sweaty and not appealing in the slightest. He looks away.
“Pat was wide open! You said you’d be on him. It’s like you froze.” Another teammate comments, and Pran tries not to reveal how intensely the critique hits him because he knows the reality even if he doesn’t want to admit it to himself. Yeah, sorry everyone, I threw the game against our faculty nemesis because the guy I’ve been secretly in love with since middle school was in front of me and I panicked. Who wants dinner?
“I know .” He repeats, pointedly. “I’m just… stressed. I’m sorry. We’ll beat them the next time we play. I’ll make sure of it.”
“By staying on the bench,” Another one comments, earning him snickers.
“We aren’t benching Pran,” Wai says with an eye roll, ever Pran’s knight in shining armor, or maybe that’s what he thought he sounded like. “You guys should’ve backed him better. How come no one was guarding the goal? That’s what I thought.”
“Thanks, man,” Pran says when the rest of the team falls into a mumbled agreement.
“Seriously, though, keep your eyes on Pat. He’s totally trying to get at you specifically.” Wai says, eyeballing the boy in question.
Oh, but why would he ever do such a thing? Pran thinks dryly. Pran joins Wai’s gaze. Pat’s shirt had been abandoned since he last looked. For fuck’s sake.
—
At their usual meeting place for lunch, Louis arrives like he’s on a lightning bolt, jittery with excitement.
“Pran, you beautiful genius!” He declares before grabbing Pran’s face and planting one kiss on his cheek. Pran is appalled, but he has no time to say so. “Your advice totally worked!”
“My what?” Pran asks, feeling his eyebrows bunch.
“Your love advice about what I should do with May!” Louis clarifies, and Pran had totally forgotten about that whole thing until this exact moment. “Guys, Pran told me exactly how I could fix my flub with May and take her on a first date, and it worked.”
Wai looks at Pran, frowning. “You’re single and gay.”
Pran throws his hands in the air. “Why does everyone feel the need to remind me?“
“Doesn’t matter, Pran’s a love wizard,” Louis says happily as he sits down, stealing a bite of Safe’s food, who doesn’t match his glee. “I did what he said, took her out to somewhere romantic, got her candy, and she asked me for a second date. It’s really incredible stuff.”
“That doesn’t seem very complex,” Wai says.
“Yeah, isn’t that just normal expectations for a date?” Wai asks in confusion.
Pran takes an uninterested bite of his rice. “Well, Louis’s original idea was to take her to the library, so.”
Wai hisses. “I see the problem. He’d be leading her to believe he knew how to read.”
It earns a hearty laugh out of Pran, and a stormy expression from Louis.
“Though you make fun of me,” Louis starts, almost poetically, “I still think it’s worth saying there are other poor souls out there like me, if not horribly worse, who could use such guidance.”
“God forbid,” Pran muses, “And anyway, it wasn’t really advice. It was common sense. But I’m glad it worked out. When’s your next date?”
Louis sits back proudly. “Friday night. Which is why I need your help again.”
Pran blinks up to Louis slowly. You are a good friend, he reminds himself, like an affirmation, this is what good friends do. “With what?”
“With the date, obviously,” Louis says like Pran’s a total blockhead, making it even harder for Pran to convince himself to continue to entertain this in the name of friendship. “I was wondering if you thought it was too soon to go in for the kiss? I’ve read online that the second date is pushy, but I’m thinking, if it feels right it feels right, you know?”
Pran can’t imagine his face is letting on to Louis that he thinks this is something he should be legitimately worrying about, let alone asking about, but it doesn’t deter him. “Second date seems a bit too soon for a kiss. Maybe let her initiate it. If she doesn’t, I would wait.”
Louis nods slowly with squinty eyes like he’s thinking on it. “What about the cheek?”
Pran huffs. “Again. It depends. Don’t make it feel forced. Don’t go into it with a plan to kiss her. It just needs to happen naturally.”
“Wow. Amazing stuff.” Louis says with a starry expression, and Wai snorts shortly, and Safe shakes his head. Louis points at both of them with either hand. “You guys should be writing this down. You aren’t even getting any dates, last time I checked.”
“You don’t know anything.” Safe grumbles. “And neither does Pran.”
“Hey!” Pran readies to defend himself. The problem was, Safe was completely right. He really didn’t have a clue.
—
“Are you Pran?”
Pran looks over slowly, hearing the voice over the soft thrumming of the music playing in his ears, eyes tearing away from his sketch as he feels a presence loom over him. He’d been trying to get some work done in the Architecture building common room since his latest class had just ended and people started to fizzle out around this time of day, leaving him with quiet. Instead, he finds himself facing a guy with an awkward haircut and large eyes, uncomfortably close to him and for some reason aware of his name.
“Yes?” Pran answers, cautiously, taking one earbud out.
The guy nods intently at this answer. Pran is unnerved. “My girlfriend says she doesn’t like it when I answer my mom’s calls when we’re out on dates. What should I do?”
Pran stares at him for what must be a long time, at least it feels like it in his own mind. “What?”
“I’m asking for your love advice,” the guy says with conviction, like Pran had forgotten how old he was or some other discernible fact. “Didn’t you say you were Pran?”
“I am Pran,” Pran responds, slowly, so lost in all of this he was almost reminding himself. “Who are you ?”
The guy shifts uncomfortably, standing straighter and looking around. “My identity isn’t important nor necessary for your service.”
His service? What the hell was this guy talking about? Pran used one hand to methodically start placing his drawing tools back into their box, hoping this guy wouldn’t notice before Pran made a run for it. “Yeah, listen—“
“She says that I’m still too dependent on her,” The guy sits down next to him, plopping his backpack down with a thump that contained his apparent frustration, and folded his hands on the table with a sigh. Pran adjusts so they weren’t sitting so close, making note of his closest exits. “Which is probably true. But how is it my fault my mom always calls when we happen to be out together? Am I just supposed to let it ring? Then my mom will think I’m dead, and that wouldn’t be good for anybody.”
Pran is still trying to decide if he could get his pencils organized fast enough to take the west corridor stairs and escape, only half listening as the guy taps the table.
“What should I do? I don’t want her to break up with me, you know? She’s the best—“
“Did someone tell you my name?“ Pran interrupts, unable to listen to anything else when the question itches in his brain.
“Yeah,” The guy pauses to say, eyebrows creased. “A friend of a friend told me you could help me out. I just need you to tell me what I should do. I can pay you.”
The guy goes to get out his wallet and Pran panics, flailing his arms to get him to stop. “No, that’s not necessary, I don’t—” Deep breaths. Maybe he should just hear this guy out. He seemed harmless, and it might get him to leave quicker. What could go wrong? “I don’t want your money. Just– start from the beginning. What’s the issue?“
The guy and his choppy bangs explain once more, and Pran finds himself listening intently. He can’t help but feel like he’s been in the other boy’s shoes, wondering if he was still too dependent on his mother. Not dependent, maybe, but inclined on pleasing her, on doing what he knows would put her at ease, even if it sometimes meant that he wasn’t. If it sometimes meant that he looked at the window across the street and the boy playing drums under its dim glow in a shirt that didn’t cover enough of his arms and felt a hollowness form in his chest.
He shakes the thoughts away, readjusting himself, and faces the guy in front of him. “I think it’s okay to exert some boundaries. You need to make sure that both your girlfriend and your mom know that you care about them. You shouldn’t have to choose. Try setting up specific blocks of times that your mom can call and don’t schedule any dates with your girlfriend during that time. Or at least bring it up to your girlfriend so she knows you care enough to try.” Pran explains, lost in his own head now, “But let your girlfriend know that it’s okay to have a close relationship with your mom, too, and it doesn’t mean you’re trying to purposefully ignore her.”
The guy looks like he considers Pran’s words, then nods, a small smile on his face. “That’s a good idea. Hey, they’re right about you, Pran! Thanks!” Almost as quickly as he’d shown up, the guy leaves, hauling his backpack on and racing for the double doors.
Pran sits back, puzzled beyond belief. He picks up the rest of his supplies, placing them in his bag, because there is no way he can focus here now.
Bizarre, but a one-off, he’s sure.
—
Except, that was only the beginning.
“My boyfriend told me my teeth are too crooked! I can’t afford adult braces, Pran. What should I do?”
He didn’t receive a greeting or even confirmation; the girl just began speaking to him, right there in the dining hall, desperation and angst all over her features. He set down his utensils. He doesn’t have the energy to interrogate it, and besides, what the hell? “Break up with him. Definitely.”
The girl looks surprised at his answer, eyes going spherical as she meets his. “Are you sure?”
“Yep. One hundred percent dump him,” Pran confirms, annoyed that someone would even say that to the poor girl. “And your teeth are just fine, by the way.”
She beamed at him. “You’re right. I should’ve done it a long time ago. Thanks, Pran, you’re a lifesaver.”
“It’s nothing,” He mumbles to no one as the girl has already trailed away, leaving him to his lunch.
—
He’s in the bathroom.
The boy next to him keeps watching him while they wash their hands. Pran’s too afraid to stop the water, but the guy just watches him and keeps his own water on, blinking back and forth.
Pran looks at himself in the mirror; did he have something on his face? Nothing out of the ordinary, from what he can tell.
Finally, he’s had enough, stopping the faucet abruptly and facing the boy in front of the sink next to him. He freezes, tap still running until the automatic timer turns off.
“Can I help you?” Pran asks. His hands are still damp, which is bothering him like all hell, but he doesn’t want to break his sort-of confrontation by turning around and getting a paper towel.
“Yes, actually,” The boy answers. “Fah told me about you. How do you feel about love poems? Is that coming on too strong?”
Pran heaves out a sigh, right, he should’ve known, and he didn’t even know a Fah, spinning on his heels to finally grab a towel and dry off his hands.
“Only do it if you’re any good at poetry,” Pran answers, leaving the bathroom without another word.
—
In class, Pran receives a note.
Dear Mr. Pran:
should i confess to my best friend who i’ve had since i was 7? i have been hopelessly in love to the point of 3 am crying sessions. Please circle
yes
no
Pran swallows back the feeling that clampers up into his throat. A bitter little twinge of irony, as if Pran had any room to tell anybody who they should confess their feelings to and after how long, as if Pran hadn’t become acquainted with his own ceiling on nights where thoughts wouldn’t let him sleep.
He circles yes and passes back along the trail of hands it came to him on. He can only hope the author of the note was a braver soul than he.
—
It takes about a week. That’s when it dawns on Pran that he’s been completely duped.
It should’ve been obvious from the start. Maybe Louis had genuinely needed some help with May at the beginning, sure, but maybe after he thought it might be funny to turn people to Pran and see how he would react. Well played, but unappreciated.
“Louis,” He starts immediately as his friends join him at the table outside their faculty building. “What have you done?”
Louis looks around, a finger to his own chest and a frown on his lips. “Me? I didn’t do anything!”
“Bullshit,” Pran responds, arms across his chest. “Did you tell people to start messing with me about the love advice thing? Because it’s not really funny anymore.”
Louis looks confused, moving his chin lightly in denial. “I didn’t tell anyone to mess with you. I was telling that one guy Tun from my design class about my date with May and I mentioned how you helped me out. That’s all!”
Pran’s put-upon expression falls, Louis’s story seeming genuine. “So it’s not a prank or something?”
Louis shakes his head, “Not one that I know about.”
Wai turns over to Pran, “What’s this about?”
Pran is quiet for a second, biting at his lip. “I think everyone thinks I’m a relationship counselor.”
—
Pran’s friends get more and more delighted with the situation as the days go on. Pran gets more and more jaded.
“We should set up a booth,” Safe explains, drawing a haphazard red box shape on a piece of paper. He draws a stick figure inside, which Pran dejectedly supposes is meant to be him. “We can call it Pran’s Love Station.”
“That sounds like he’s giving out sexual favors,” Wai points out, and Pran swallows air. “You have to put the advice part in there somewhere.”
“Okay, Wai, Pran’s Love Advice Station,” Safe concedes, writing the letters above Pran’s stick-figure head. “Happy now?“
“There’s no way in hell I’m doing that,” Pran gets tired of letting them think they were actually onto something, “You guys know that I would literally never do that. A booth ?”
Safe draws one big ‘X’ through his drawing. “Worth a shot.”
“I’ve got an idea!” Louis pipes up then, plucking Safe’s marker and starting his own drawing below the scraped one. Another box, off to a great start. This time Louis draws stick-figure-Pran on top of the box, and then he draws him holding a guitar with little music notes flying above his head. “We should profit on Pran’s musical talent. He still gives out his love advice, but this time he sings it.”
Pran wants the ground under his chair to swallow him.
“Or! He writes romantic songs for people!” Safe says excitedly, and Louis and him share a high-five.
“No,” Pran says, hand shielding his eyes. “None of this is happening. I don’t even want to do this. You guys should be thinking of ways we can tell people I’m not some campus love whisperer.”
“People will believe what they want,” Louis shrugs, “Might as well get something out of it.”
“That’s the other thing,” Pran says, pointing at him, “I’m not gonna ask anybody for money . I’m not some creepy knock-off fortune teller in a van. That’s immoral.”
Louis flattens his mouth down as if to say, whatever . “To each their own.”
Pran groans, rubbing his face.
“Hey, man, it’s not all bad,” Wai shakes his shoulder. “Just deal with it for a bit, or ignore it. Either way, people will forget about it eventually. Don’t worry too much.”
Pran wishes it were that easy, except that’s all he ever did.
—
“Remember what I said,” Wai says to him, firm grip on either of Pran’s shoulders. “Head in the game. And stay on Pat’s ass. We can’t throw this one.”
Pran nods. It‘s their rematch against Engineering. In all honesty, Pran hadn’t had much time to think about this. Between school and suddenly being mistaken for the campus’s love mentor, his mind’s been pretty preoccupied. He hadn’t even thought that much about Pat (just dreamed, maybe, but that wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t control his dreams.)
He tries not to look at Pat too much as the game starts. Not his confident smile or his hands on his knees in starting position, or the way their eyes meet for a fleeting second that Pran purposefully breaks. Focus.
For the good first half, Architecture is up by three. Pran is feeling good; maybe he won’t even have to worry about Pat this time. He seemed to be exerting his efforts elsewhere this game, going after Pran’s teammates more than him.
That is, until Pran catches the pass.
Shit. He had to run .
He’s blazing on the field, effectively dodging Engineering players who are diving for the ball. He’s almost there— and then, suddenly, Pat’s in front of him, boxing him in.
Pran hugs the ball, trying to find his best way out before he looks straight ahead at Pat ( mistake! mistake! mistake! ) who’s looking back, a grin spreading on his face.
He’s looking at Pran like they aren’t in the middle of a field, like they aren’t both strategizing how to knock the other one on their ass and keep the game going. And for a fraction of a moment, he looks back the same.
“You have nice eyes,” Pat says to him, and Pran freezes, gargoyles , and Pat is the worst person he’s ever known in his life, because that split second of hesitation those four words stick Pran in is enough for Pat the get the ball loose from Pran’s grasp and start his race to the opposite end of the field. He even stands there in the same position for a moment while everyone else starts running, like a complete idiot , before he straightens up and joins them.
“That’s the opposite of head in the game,” Wai tells him with a thump to the back of the aforementioned body part when Pat makes the play.
And even then, Pran watches Pat, almost smiling at Pat’s small victory dance. He catches himself before he does. You have nice eyes. What a dickhead.
—
Somehow, Pran finds that he’s kind of good at this.
Reluctantly, perhaps. But it wasn’t all bad— most of the time, people just wanted reassurance or someone who wasn’t the voice in their own head or their best friend to tell them like it is. Pran could do that. He could manage it.
An expert of love. Pran was light-years from it. His love had only ever been protracted and unrequited and silent. They didn’t need to know that, though; they just needed someone to listen. That, Pran could do.
After class, the student center, the music practice rooms. Somebody somewhere with a broken heart, a partner scorned, a crush from afar.
Pran carried so much love inside of him, and so he gave little pieces of it away to people who needed it more than he did. Perhaps they could put it to better use.
—
“Pran, I like a girl.”
After what felt like forever of a lot of stuff that Pran filtered out as general college relationship hodgepodge, this makes him pause. One, because for once, he actually feels qualified to give his two cents. Two, because the person in front of him who says it, shifting in her chair with intense eyes that must be an inheritance, is Pa.
It’s not like he’s surprised, so to speak, that it’s Pa in front of him and telling him this. Not in principle. More so he’s just embarrassed that this is how they’re reuniting— under the pretenses of Pran being able to guide her in something he really might not be able to at all. He hasn’t seen or spoken to Pa for quite a long time, though he’d always liked her as a person, and she was always a bit more accessible than Pat ever was.
Now she’s across from him and his sketchbook, handing him her heart on her sleeve because that’s what she’s been told he’s here to do.
She looks tense in the shoulders. She doesn’t wear glasses anymore. She has her hands folded in front of her and Pran like she’s initiating a business meeting.
Pran can’t help it. He lets out a quick laugh. “Hi, Pa.”
Pa allows her shoulders to slump, the tension dispersing immediately as she gives him a small smile. “Hi, Pran.”
“Long time no see,” Pran remarks, not unaware of the divergence from the topic Pa had clearly come to him with. They’d circle back to it.
“I know,” Pa says, wistfully, brushing hair back behind her ear. “I’ve been meaning to catch up with you, but it just never seemed like the right time.”
“I understand,” Pran consolidates, because he does. “Not always easy checking in on your brother’s ultimate rival.”
Pa puffs an amused breath of air, “You guys still act like you’re rivals?”
Pran is about to ask what she means by that, but she doesn’t give him the time to.
“I know this is kind of out of nowhere,” she says, plucking her sweater sleeves over the palms of her hands, clearly nervous. “I’ve been dealing with this for a while. And then I heard people talking about you, like ‘oh, yeah, Pran, he helped my friend and now she’s getting engaged next week, ’ or something absurd like that. And I thought to myself, they can’t possibly be talking about the same Pran? The awkward boy who lives next door, the one who couldn’t even look people in the eyes when they gave him Valentine’s cards in middle school? Surely he’s not the new go-to for love advice.” She’s smiling now.
Pran tuts at her. “I see how it is.” He pretends to be hurt, but her confusion was valid.
“But then I thought, ‘well, if it is actually Pran, I really think I could trust him with this,’” Pa explains, “So can I? Trust you with this?”
Pran nods at her sincerely, “Of course.”
Pa smiles lightly and lets out one long breath, probably one that’s been holding still in her lungs since the conversation started. “So like I said. I like a girl.”
“Okay,” Pran starts evenly, testing the waters, “Is it a problem for you that you like a girl?”
“No,” Pa says quickly, quicker than Pran had actually expected.
“Is this the first girl you’ve liked?” He follows up.
Pa hesitates, eyes landing on different parts of their surroundings. “I don’t know? I think so. At least, this is the first time I’ve ever really felt it, and one-hundred-percent, without a doubt knew that I liked her and wanted to be with her. It’s kind of also the first time I’ve liked anybody, though. This much.”
Pran can’t help the small smile that touches his lips; he knew the feeling. “I get that. So the issue isn’t so much that you like a girl. May I ask what she’s like? I mean, what do you like about her?”
Pa bites her lip, and then she leans in, voice lowering secretively. “You know her.”
Pran’s eyebrows raise, another thing he hadn’t quite expected. “Really?”
Pa nods, frowning. “It’s… Ink.”
Ink . Of course, he remembers Ink. She was always so nice to him, nice to everybody. She was quick to defend people who needed it and everybody respected her. He remembers the way Pat looked at her. (And he remembers the way Ink had told Pran solemnly and in camaraderie their senior year that she knew all too well, and that she loved Pat dearly, but he didn’t stand a chance.)
“Ink?” Pran echoes, “For real?”
Pa nods.
“She goes here?” Pran asks, off-topic, but he’s just a little surprised he didn't know that.
Pa nods again. “She does. We’re in the same faculty and in the photography club together. That’s how we got reunited. At first, I thought it was just admiration, you know? She’s a year ahead of me and she’s such a talented photographer. But then I realized that it was more than just admiration to like when she touched me and to feel like I needed to drink three gallons of water when she smiled.” Pa clamps her mouth, embarrassed.
“When I liked a guy for the first time,” Pran starts, partially to level their playing field, though he assumes Pa had caught on at some point in their growing up together, some amalgamation of Pran always gently rejecting the girls who asked him out and never changing the pronouns when he covered songs for the school talent show, “It was really similar. Thinking I wanted to be like him. Or that I respected him. Or that he intimidated me, maybe. It starts like that a lot before you realize the other stuff that comes with it isn’t just… it isn’t just .”
Pa nods, a smile on her face, and the look in her eyes is far away. She blinks and it’s gone, though. “Exactly. That’s why I need your help. I don’t know how to show her that I’m interested in her as more than a friend. I’ve never done this before. Plus, I’m just naturally more affectionate with girls, all of my signs would just seem like normal girl stuff.”
“That is a predicament,” Pran admits, hands to his chin. “You could suggest doing something inherently romantic with her?”
“What would be inherently romantic?” Pa asks, deflated.
And Pran…isn’t sure, now that he thinks about it. Movies, malls, cafés…nothing screamed romance about them unless it was pre-established. “Maybe try suggesting something you know that she likes? A photography art gallery? It’s something you both enjoy, you could bond over it.”
Pa looks like she considers, lip tucked under the other. “That’s actually a pretty good idea. I’ve been trying to get excuses for us to hang out alone.”
“We could come up with a list,” Pran suggests with a jutted lip of thought, “Of future excuses.”
Pa smiles, getting out her phone. “Deal. What’s your next excuse idea, Mr. Love Expert?”
—
Pa becomes a regular, so to speak.
‘Excuse #2 was a semi-success. We shared the cake like you suggested. She even gave me a bite (!!!) and asked me if it was good. Except I choked on the cake. Which was embarrassing’
‘Excuse #7: FAILURE! Going to the park means seeing a lot of people we know, which means alone time = ruined.’
‘Excuse #11: Favorite excuse so far. Turns out asking Ink to go with you to buy groceries actually means you will be stocking up on every possible ingredient to make green curry for the next month. And a lot of heart-shaped stickers?’
One afternoon, Pran asks her, “How come you’ve never asked Pat about this stuff? I mean, he is your big brother.”
Pa scowls at him, “Pat? Yeah, right. He’s all talk. Talk, talk, talk, but never do .”
—
Pran just wants peace and quiet.
No questions. No requests. No need for self-explanatory answers to the queries of human attraction. In fact, no more talking from anyone, ever. Not when he had this exam to study for.
His friends had suggested they all work on it together, but Pran knew that that was a bad idea and that approximately forty-five percent of the work he could get done actually got done when they were involved. So he opts for solo studying, which they reluctantly respect.
For a while, it seems like Pran finally gets what he wanted. He’s been sitting unbothered at the same table for almost two hours now, headphones in and world tuned out. He was practically becoming one with this textbook, he could just feel it.
Except, suddenly, what he can also feel is that he’s being watched.
Unfortunately he’s accustomed enough to the feeling to know he’s not just making it up, or losing his senses from prolonged face-to-textbook contact. Something was definitely going on.
He surveys his surroundings, but he can’t find anybody or anything out of the ordinary. He shrugs it off; maybe all this studying was driving him insane.
It comes back. There is a pair of eyes on him, no doubt.
He turns around quicker this time, thinking he’ll catch them in the act. Again, there’s nothing, save for the people who glance up at him for making such a sudden jerk of movement, before going back to their own books, uninterested.
He blinks. He really can’t be this jumpy from a couple hours, can he? He’s done worse.
He turns around, ready to dive back into his book, before realizing he’s no longer alone at his table. The seat across from him is now occupied, and Pran nearly jumps out of his own skin.
“Hey, Pran,” Pat says to him. “Did I scare you?”
Pran quickly lowers the hand that had flown up to his chest, evidence of the scaring that definitely didn’t occur. “Only because you’re scary-looking. What do you want?”
Pat winces. “Ouch.”
“Pat,” Pran says, and he realizes he hasn’t said the name out loud to the man himself in quite some time. “I’m studying. Why are you here?“
“It’s a public space,” Pat says coolly, using his finger to mess with the dog-eared corner of Pran’s book, which he yanks back out of his reach.
“And there’s plenty of other places for you to go,” Pran counters, “But you sat here.”
“Astute observation,” Pat smiles, handsomely. Pran’s hands go all clammy, because he’s weak. “I see why they recommend you.”
Pran’s getting tired of Pat’s ambiguity, shutting the book forcefully. “What the hell are you talking about, Pat?”
Pat leans in a little, eyes wide and excited, and Pran is back in his sixteen-year-old body, never wanting those eyes to look away from him.
“I’ve heard through the grapevine that you’ve been providing the campus with love expertise,” Pat explains. “Care to take on a new client?”