Archive of Our Own ^omega

Pran recognizes the palpable twinge in his chest almost as quickly as Pat's immediate instinct to usher Ink away from their friends at the bus stop.

“Pat is at it again,” Korn says blissfully.

The swiftness in the way the Engineering gang coos together towards Pat and Ink’s general direction makes Pran’s insides swoop with uneasiness. It’s here again, the familiar tight squeeze in Pran's heart that makes his face contort in disdain. A feeling that he hasn’t had in a while, at least not since he’d seen Pat again after all these years. It takes root and makes a home in his head, in his heart, like an unwanted parasite that feeds off of his well-being but is sadly no stranger to Pran.

Jealousy is a feeling that Pran is so well-versed in from years and years of loving Pat and yet Pran still can't seem to control.

Pran knows why Pat acted hastily and took matters into his own hands; their friends would be suspicious if Ink greeted both of them with such familiarity that reminds Pran of feelings he’d pondered over and over again for a long time.

Of why no matter how jealous he’d been over Ink during their brief overlap in high school, Pran could never harbor anger towards her.

Because it’s Ink. Ink had a way of making Pran feel like an open book when it came to his feelings for Pat.

Ink, who by far had been more perceptive of Pran’s feelings than Pat ever did, but chose to not say anything to Pran.

Pran never got a verbal confirmation that she knew, but Pran always had a feeling that she did, in some way, perceive the reason why he constantly avoided being in the same room as her and Pat.

Ink often seemed to have the perfect timing of letting Pran do his thing. Orbit around Pat like he was just one of the many planets that was pulled to circle around the sun. The closest one in proximity to Pat, but that was fine, because Pran was never afraid to get too close to get burned by the perfect sunshine beam of Pat’s smile anyway.

The burning jealousy, however, still seeps through Pran so easily just like how it always has. It’s one thing Pran can’t seem to control no matter how much he tries. An immeasurable envy that he’s somehow managed to decouple from irrational animosity against the girls Pat likes.

It’s one that eats Pran up from the inside because he can’t do anything but wallow in the insecurities that jealousy brings along.

Like that moment from high school when Pran had finally gotten the courage to pay back Pat for helping Pran master the guitar chords needed for his song (our song, Pat would cheekily correct), only to be crushed with the memory of seeing Ink and Pat flirting in the music room where he’d spent the entire semester falling even deeper in love with Pat.

That was his safe space—a secret hideaway where Pran can spend his lunch break and after-school hours in the company of Pat. Just the two of them, detached from the world where they were expected to not be falling into a cacophony of laughter and endless banter when one of them makes a small mistake in the rearrangement of the song Pran wrote for Pat.

The one that he sang over and over again in Pat’s company, besotted eyes peering up at Pat drumming a matching rhythm to his heartbeat, and yet Pat never seemed to get.

“My boy’s really got good taste,” Korn adds in, finally putting a stop to Pran’s thoughts.

Korn almost sounds proud that it makes the lodge in Pran’s throat even harder to swallow as he turns towards Korn, especially because he’s right. Ink is a very attractive lady even in Pran’s eyes, but her kindness shines through even more. Ink may be an eyeful, but her personality is a whole spectacle to witness, one that Pran knows can capture people easily around her.

Maybe this is the problem with Pran—he always sees the best in the ones Pat gravitates to.

Pran’s heart deflates in his chest, like there's an imminent hole where the green-eyed monster is starting to claw its way out. Pran shouldn't be thinking of how Pat's friends may not like him as much as they would Ink, how they might not approve of him for Pat. After all, the incongruity between their group of friends is crystal clear. Their friends would never get along; Pat's friends would not even for a second consider Pran to be a contender for Pat.

They don't even know about Pran like that, and maybe they never will.

Mo claps a hand over Korn’s shoulder before whistling towards Ink. “She’s hot. She looks like Pat’s type. He won't mind if I hit on her too though, right?”

Pran watches Chang’s lips turn downwards before smacking the back of Mo’s head, to which the latter responds by yelping really loudly. “What!”

Chang clicks his tongue at Mo. “Stop ogling at her. That’s rude and disrespectful.”

“And Pat calling dibs on her isn’t?” Mo whines at him, and as per usual, starts going off with his quote of the day: “Like what they say, ‘All is fair in love and war!’”

Chang grimaces. “He shouldn’t be calling dibs on her in the first place.”

Being the most perceptive of the trio regarding Pat, Korn just hums towards Ink and Pat’s direction. “Actually, it seems like they know each other. Look, she’s touching Pat’s arm.”

Pran stiffens at that, head promptly moving to see Pat smiling widely, the slit of his cheek dimple on full display. Ink is grinning up mischievously at Pat. It’s a familiar sight to see—a picturesque image of how Pat is with a girl he used to like. 

He still likes? Pran wonders, letting his heart sink further in dejection.

From their friends’ perspective, it does seem like Pat is already flirting it up with Ink, even though Pran is very much aware that’s just how they act around each other. Playful and cheeky in a way that Pran has occasionally imagined to be in her spot.

Pat’s friends burst into another round of hollers. Korn whoops and says, “Or my boy is really back in his A-game again this semester.”

Pran’s face must be so visibly exasperated, unknowingly glaring at Korn who wiggles his eyebrows at him challengingly in return.

“What? She's not from architecture,” Korn says defensively before taking a few steps away from Pran who's clearly emanating annoyance.

Wai, quickly noticing the flip in Pran’s expression, just turns to him with a miffed grunt. “They’re annoying, aren’t they? Especially Pat and his eyebrows friend.”

When Pran doesn’t say anything, just continuously flaring his nose towards the direction Pat had disappeared to behind a tree, Wai grumbles, “We could have finished the photoshoot by now.”

“Yeah, we could have,” Pran says with a sigh, finally breaking his gaze away.

When Ink and Pat get back and they go through a round of photos, it’s evident to Pran the skittish way Pat keeps staring at him, a clear we gotta get out of here and talk emitting in his body language. He arches an eyebrow towards Pran’s direction, which Pran evades in hopes that he can just get out of this space as soon as he can so he doesn’t have to hear Pat talk about Ink.

Not right now, not when Pran’s hopes had been blooming in the last few weeks they’d been spending time together. Pran knows it would break his heart a little too quickly. He needs some time to process this, again.

Because maybe deep down inside Pran, he expected something different this time around.

Pat and him were just falling into the same old patterns they used to have, except with the sheer freedom that Pran never had growing up. They're away from the constant gazes of their family, Pat only a few feet away from him just like he's always been growing up, but this time Pran can easily cross the hall and knock on his door without his heart leaping out of his chest with worries that one of these days, his mother will walk in with Pat having sneaked into his bedroom.

They have been acting a lot as friends lately. They may not be spending time together in every class like they did growing up, but Pran knows Pat's schedule as well as his own. Like what Pat said, it's like having a boyfriend on standby—one that Pran can tell his plans to, to divulge how his day is going about (even though Pat is an over-sharer who texts the most minuscule things in his day like a photo of a dog he sees on his way to the gym, but Pran can't really complain when he loves it, right?); one that Pran can text as the silence engulfs him in his room, the quietness reminding him of the loneliness and not having Pat just a balcony away in boarding school.

Now, he knows he can cross the hallway and knock on Pat's door and be met with that silly smile he's missed over the years as Pat would often say, “missed me already?” Pran wants to say yes, yes, yes, but all he does is scoff and tells Pat to shut it with a dimpling smile.

So maybe they are acting a little bit more than friends do. That maybe Pran is indulging more than he should be with Pat’s jokes of being faens and the way Pat’s eyes had twinkled in delight when he gave Pran back his guitar.

The one that Pat kept after all these years as if it mattered to him as much as it did to Pran.

It’s the little flickers of hope sprinkled here and there that make the inexplicable desire grow even bigger inside Pran.

Surely Pran didn't just imagine all that, even letting himself take the leap of courage to make snide comments in an attempt to flirt with Pat. Not that Pat would ever know, not really, because Pat has always been dense when it comes to Pran's advances and his own oblivious reciprocity. But is it really Pran’s fault to even have the audacity to think Pat had been flirting back, even though it may come unconsciously to him? Is Pran to blame for thinking that their constant banter is charged with something more than just the usual competition? A more that Pran's heart longs for, the one that expands and bubbles in his chest cavity with more time spent with Pat.

But of course, the universe truly must have something against him—against the idea of them that Pran likes to entertain in the hours he spends thinking of Pat—so he lets his heart lodged in his throat be swallowed down harshly as he tries not to think of Pat and Ink's retreating figures and the smiles they shared in that short moment Pran could see.

“You with the cyan jacket! You should look at me instead,” Ink says charmingly, making Pran jerk his head towards her.

Pran quickly realizes he’d glanced up at Pat while getting lost in his thoughts, which makes Pat laugh and nod in his direction, eyes glimmering with delight knowing that Pran spaced out staring at him.

“Sorry,” Pran says with a wince, looking away.

Ink has a knowing glint in her eyes as she shoots a smirk towards Pran, then back to Pat again. “You should relax your forehead. You're looking a little tense.”

It takes a moment before Pran gives her a soft smile, one that’s awkward and makes Ink’s smile fonder, like she can see through Pran again despite the years stretched in between.

Pran scurries as soon as the Architecture gang’s turn is over, slinging an arm over Wai and dragging him away with an excuse for a must needed snack before the next class.

“Pran!” Pat calls after him frantically. Pat catches up onto them with a little jog. He grabs Pran's forearm. Pran shrugs it off in alarm, like he's been burned by the touch despite his arm wrapped around Wai's shoulder. It surprises Pat who looks ineptly where his fingers have slipped away from Pran's skin.

It takes Wai approximately two seconds to chase a step towards Pat with his chest popping out arrogantly. “What's your problem?”

“Pran and I just need to discuss things about the bus stop,” Pat says, his forehead creasing as Pran holds Wai off with an outstretched arm. “What is your problem?” Pat adds, the tone of his voice thoroughly annoyed as he props his arms on his hips and looks at Wai with a developing scowl.

“My problem is that you could have talked to Pran instead of wasting time chasing after Ink earlier," Wai snaps back.

Pran clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Come on, we’ll be late to class,” Pran says, ushering Wai back with an arm around him. Wai glowers at Pat one last time and finally looks away, but Pran knows that Pat can see through him very easily as his gaze lingers a little longer on Pat—don't engage; we'll talk later, so Pat just nods at him, like he understands the secret codes of years and years of practice between the two of them.

From behind them, Pran sees Ink wave her hand as she tries to get their attention back. “Pat! We need you here.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Pat hollers at her.

Pran watches him turn swiftly to see Ink with her arms now crossed, an apologetic nose scrunch coming up Pat’s face.

Pran swallows, his lips coming into a straight line as he watches Pat make his way back to Ink. Pran’s about to turn around but then Pat looks back at him and gives him that look—confusion, then a soft tilt of his head; his face molds into a visage that Pran recognizes as Pat's brain trying to decipher the obvious uncomfortableness in his expression. It's the one where Pat's eyes squint just a little bit coupled with a crease in between his eyebrows and the barely noticeable way his jaw hardens.

Pat's trying to read him, but it’s the face of Pran’s heartbreak that Pat probably does not recognize.

Pran avoids it by shifting his gaze and turning to leave, afraid that one good look will give him away this time.

Now, everything feels like déjà vu as Pran recounts high school all over again: him and Pat getting intimately closer for a few weeks during that semester they spent preparing for the Christmas concert, Ink coming into the picture, followed by Pat spending more of his time not thinking about Pran and their stupid little competitions that Pran loves so much because it means getting Pat’s undivided attention.

Except everything goes by quicker than how it had been before.

Pran still tries, texts Pat like normal.

You made it to class just in time, Pran messages him.

On a good day, Pat would chide back, maybe we should head to class together if you're so worried about me ;) But there's no witty remark from Pat today; instead, he watches Pat slither away from his seat after setting his homework in his desk and leaving Pran on read right in front of him. Pat doesn't do that. Not when Pran texts first, because it makes Pat inexplicably excited for some reason with a myriad of emojis, but then Pran sees Pat and Ink in the coffee shop right by their previous class with milk teas on their table and Pran feels himself shatter, the will to not remind himself of that moment in the music room faltering.

Pat texts him even less the next day. There's no good morning selfie from Pat and his friends stopping by the kai jiew food stall outside of school for breakfast and the usual offer to pick up some for Pran. For you to snack on so you don't get hungry and be grumpy, Pat would add. There's no random gym selfie in Pat's green WELLNESS tee that Pran knows is unnecessarily sent because Wai goes during the dead of the night. Instead, Pran has to pry a lie out of Mo and Korn, and tries not to let the jealousy eat him up again when he sees Ink's story with multiple snapshots of Pat.

And just like that, when Pran thinks he's got Pat again, he slips right out of Pran's fingers just as easily as he always does.

It feels like a punch in the gut that this is happening for a second time around. The worst part is that Pran just watches it happen passively, paralyzed by the fear that if he does remotely anything that can make Pat find out about his feelings, it's going to be all over. That Pat wouldn't look at him with those fiery eyes fueled by competition and the innate desire to be equals with Pran, but rather replaced with pity that he cannot return Pran's feelings.

Pran just wants to lay low tonight, to distract himself from wallowing over another heartbreak from Pat. He decides to spend time at the bar Wai works at in hopes that he doesn't run into Pat in the hallway, because they know each other's schedule of going home now as they continue to upkeep the separation of their friends.

But then Pat walks in with Ink at just the perfect timing that Pran starts strumming the chords to Insecure, and because the universe likes to make Pran suffer, Ink sees him try to make his escape.

“Pran! What brings you here?”

Ink is very hard to say no to, so Pran drags his feet towards them when she asks for him to join; he sits next to Ink and across from Pat who's sporting an uneasy look towards him. Pran tries his best to not let his feelings get the best of him, especially not when Pat's looking at him with a soft, concerned gaze.

So Pran tells himself it's okay as he watches Pat slide the menu across the table for him, inevitably showing off the bracelet he'd been wearing all day for Ink. He tells himself it's okay when his head is barraged with a distant memory of watching from the balcony as Ink gave it to Pat, and now he's here, reliving it again because of sheer luck that he'd run into them in the least place he wanted to. He tells himself it's okay when he hears their laughter sync together, and that the quirk at the corner of his own mouth isn't just sheer bitterness regarding the situation fate has put him into.

He tells himself that he should be happy for them.

That this is what a normal day would be like from now, and that he should get used to it.

Because if not Ink, he'd inescapably go through this with another girl that Pat is going to take a liking to.

Pran can lean into a dramatic flair sometimes with his pessimism, but honestly, who can blame him? He looks up at them and thinks the universe is just mocking him now.

“You really don’t think it’s nice?” Ink says, a small pout in her lips after Pat has told them both that only Ink can make awry bracelets just like his.

“Fine, fine,” Pat says with a huff, eyes tenderly peering down at the silver P in it. “I kept it, didn’t I? It’s cute.”

Pran wants to vomit his non-existent dinner.

“Just like me?” Ink says cheerfully, tilting her head down to meet Pat’s eyes that are fixated on the P.

Pat leans forward and flicks Ink’s chin softly. “Yeah, just like you,” Pat says teasingly and Pran’s stare must burn so fiery as he looks down at the menu, away from Ink and Pat as Ink mocks Pat’s compliment next to him.

Maybe Pran doesn't need to be here. To be suffering watching this unfold. So Pran gets up to leave. He bids them goodbye and tells Ink he has something to do tonight.

“We can head home together if you want,” Pat suddenly offers.

Pran looks at him, hopeful, but Pat’s looking at him again with concern splayed out in the way his mouth quirks into a little frown. That's Pat's thing—he may be dense about Pran's feelings, but he always knows when something's off.

“It’s okay,” Pran says, “I shouldn’t disturb your date anyway.”

Before they can both protest, Pran starts to walk away. He feels Pat's gaze bore a hole in his back as he slings the strap of his bag over his injured shoulder, wondering if the physical pain can mask the throbbing ache in his heart.

Despite Pran's best efforts to tame his feelings down, it really isn’t easy in the face of Pat constantly in his presence.

Pran's too sad to mask his feelings, especially tonight. So when Pat knocks on his door with concern written all over his face and a bagful of fried chicken that Pran didn't even order in the first place but Pat knows he likes, Pran's guard comes crumbling down.

Pran says, “You can have it,” but his voice is not in its usual antagonistic tone.

Unprompted, Pat just says, “It wasn’t a date.”

Well. Pran didn’t expect that. He looks up at Pat curiously, and Pat takes it as a cue to keep talking. “I was just helping Ink out with a photoshoot. A favor because I asked her to keep our secret.”

An excuse, Pran thinks pessimistically, one that Pat doesn't need to make just to appease Pran. “Pat, you don't have to explain it to me. Your dating life is none of my business.”

“But I want you to know," Pat insists. “And I told you, it's not a date. I just don't want you to think that I ditched today's bus stop work for nothing and be upset over it.”

That ticks Pran off immediately. Upset over it, Pat said, because of course he could easily see through Pran just like that.

“It's not nothing,” Pran suddenly says heatedly, unable to control his frustration. “It's Ink.”

Pran may not have said it, but from the way Pat’s face shifts, he knows what Pran means. You used to like her, as if it echoes loud and clear in the space between them.

For the first time, Pat’s face is unreadable. Pran doesn’t let the words be held back this time.

“It's really none of my business, Pat. You can do whatever you want.” Pran exhales loudly, visibly dejected. Maybe he doesn’t care anymore. He spent the whole evening staring at his composition notebook, at the new song he started to write for Pat again. And when no new words filled the page, he strummed his guitar to the tune of the first one he wrote for Pat as memories of their time together working on Insecure kept replaying in his mind.

Pran is tired of pretending he’s okay, at least for now. Pat continues to keep their gazes interlocked.

“This isn't like our friends—you don't need to think about me. Whatever I do outside of that is none of your business either. Just like how you're not obligated to tell me what you're doing with her.”

I don't need to hear it.

For a moment, Pran wonders if he’s said too much. If Pat is slowly piecing things in his head as Pran watches his face contort into a myriad of subtle expressions. Confusion. Confliction. A flash of worry, a hint of anger, and then—

“But it's you,” Pat says slowly, and Pran looks up at him with an equal amount of puzzlement with the misery in Pat’s voice. “Why would I not think about you?”

That makes Pran’s breath hitch in his throat. A jumpstart of hope. One that crackles and lights up a fire in Pran. A glimmer of anticipation sprouting with the way Pat's brows continuously furrow.

“Why would your business not be mine?” Pat says quietly, sounding upset. “And since when was mine not yours?”

Pran’s heart stutters against his ribcage, butterflies fluttering in his stomach with every word rolling out of Pat’s mouth.

“We’re not like this because of our friends,” Pat reminds him. “We’ve always been like this even with just us.”

Just us, just us, us.

It’s moments like this when Pran feels tormented. It’s when Pat says more than what he should. When he acts as if Pran has a chance at calling him mine, when Pran can see snapshots of a future together where it’s just him and Pat against the world. It’s when Pat crawls right back into Pran’s heart and plants the little things he says and does that grow and bloom into a lush garden full of hope and promises.

Pran feels helpless because he can’t help but revel in it.

But no, Pran needs to shut his hopes down before greediness for Pat leaves him in flames. “You should go, Pat.”

Pran turns to close the door on Pran, but then Pat hastily grabs his arm in alarm and Pran winces, the pain from his shoulder reverberating with the way Pat has tugged on it. Pat immediately steps into his space, crowding him by the door.

“What happened to you?”

Pran doesn’t meet his worried gaze. “I told you, it’s none of your business.”

“Pran, I’m asking nicely,” Pat says sternly. “And if you haven’t already gotten it, I care about you.”

Pran can’t help but let words sink in. That Pat cares about him. He’d known; of course he knows, but it’s different when Pat utters it with such conviction that it makes the ache in Pran’s chest be soothed away.

Softly, Pran murmurs in surrender, “I injured it from rugby.”

“Did you apply some remedy on it?”

Frankly, Pran’s been too busy wallowing in his own heartbreak to think about it. “I didn’t.”

Pat clicks his tongue and shifts himself so he’s a step further inside Pran’s apartment. “Let me help.”

Pran panics as Pat starts walking backwards, like he’s not planning to go anywhere regardless of what Pran says. “Pat, you really don't need to. We don't need to—”

“I can’t compete with you if you’re injured,” Pat says, which makes Pran’s stomach drop with agony, even when he can tell that deep down, Pat just cares. Pat’s just using it as an excuse. He’s not sure what’s worse. Pat puts his arms on either side of his waist, clearly not about to back down if Pran tells him to leave again. “How about you help me take my makeup off in exchange?”

“I don’t have—”

Pat laughs softly. “Of course you do.”

And because Pran is a sucker for Pat, Pat manages to wheedle Pran into busting out the makeup remover that’s stashed underneath his bathroom sink. Pat settles on his couch comfortably and pats the space next to him expectantly.

Pran hesitates, standing across him with the Nivea micellar water in his hand and cotton pads on the other, but then Pat juts his chin out smugly and looks up at Pran with a silly smile.

“My face is ready, Pran.”

Pran uses the excuse of his aching shoulder and a broken heart as he makes a bad decision and finally lets a small smile slip out. He shakes his head and Pat looks triumphant as Pran settles next to him.

“I thought you wanted to help me put on the remedy cream,” Pran says with a loud and obnoxious sigh, holding out the things in his hands. “Do it yourself.”

“Nope,” Pat says, emphasizing the P harshly. He blinks at Pran like a giant, obnoxious puppy. He props his palms onto his thighs and leans forward. “I know you’re going to ask me to leave after I help you, so at least this way, I get to have my makeup off,” Pat says cutely. “Now help me clean this handsome face.”

“Fine, put your hair up,” Pran says, and Pat does excitedly. He exposes his heart-shaped forehead that Pran has never trailed his fingers on. One that he gets to do so now, even with the cotton pad in between. For a moment, Pran just stares, basking in the opportunity, and Pat leans even closer and makes his heart skip a beat. Pat is being insufferable right now. Pran's heart might not be handle it. “You’re too close,” he says grumpily, but Pat barely moves away with a little laugh.

“How else would you reach me with an injured arm?” Pat says teasingly.

“You do know I have two hands, right?” Pran says, but Pat only shifts an inch nearer to him. Pran tries not to let it get to him, but it’s hard. Pran pours the micellar water onto the cotton pad and swipes it on Pat’s cheek harshly, making Pat pout at him. Pran feels hopelessly besotted, so to hide the bursting fondness in him, he just chides, “If you’re so handsome, you won’t need heavy makeup like this.”

After the arguments of Pat insisting he’s hot and finding themselves falling into a series of banter and back and forth laughter that stretch their cheeks, Pran finally realizes the vulnerable situation he’s put himself into. Pat lets out a giggle that makes his eyes crinkle into half crescent moons, staring up at Pran as if he’s love-drunk and just as equally enthralled with Pran's smile.

As if Pran's heart already isn't trembling, Pat ever so casually says, “Cute dimples you have there,” catching Pran off-guard with how earnest and enamored his tone is.

Pran’s too stunned to do anything but let his smile linger as his heart drums wildly into a symphony in his chest. Pat reaches his palm out, eyes still trained on Pran’s face with that stupidly handsome face that makes Pran’s heart ache, slotting his thumb on Pran’s dimple and cradling his cheek.

Pran holds his breath, eyes going wide as Pat’s touch sends his heart into overdrive, his body thrumming with a sudden influx of anticipation.

“If I have these dimples, will I be as cute as you?”

Pran swallows, afraid that a confession will slip out if he's not careful. He tries to let his voice drip with sarcasm, but instead it falls into a soft whisper. “Only I can have these super-cute dimples.”

“I know,” comes Pat’s swift and resolute reply, and then Pat swipes at his dimple again with his thumb. Pran almost lets himself sag against Pat’s touch, leaning into it as Pat starts moving his finger like a soft caress against Pran’s cheek.

“Yeah?” is all Pran could utter.

“Whoever you end up dating would be so lucky,” Pat says out of the blue, still stroking Pran’s cheek, like the motion of the pad of his fingertip is lulling him into continuously staring into the depths of Pran’s eyes. “They'd get to poke your dimple just like this,” Pat says, dipping his thumb into it with a soft sigh. Pran briefly closes his eyes at the sensation of Pat’s touch on his skin, but when he opens his eyes, Pat’s expression has suddenly shifted into one full of unsettledness. “Did anybody ever get to?”

“Get to what?”

“Get to kiss it,” Pat says disconcertedly. Once again, Pat's managed to steal Pran's breath away, and yet here he is, suddenly looking startled, like he's having a realization. Pran’s cheeks flush with embarrassment as Pat pulls his hand out and jerks away from Pran like he’s been burned.

“I… should get my bruising cream,” Pat suddenly says. “It's in my room. Across. Yeah, I should go and get it.”

Pran clears his throat, eyes wide as saucers, looking anywhere but Pat. “Yeah, you should,” he says, and then Pat’s out the door and Pran starts shaking his hands out of nervousness.

It’s fine, it’s fine, everything is fine. No, shit. What the fuck was that?

Did Pat just... What the fuck is Pat thinking?

And to make matters worse between the two of them, Pat seems to be extra comical with the way he waltzes back into Pran’s apartment, and Pran knows that Pat knows that whatever that was… is questionable.

“You don’t have to,” Pran says as soon as Pat sits next to him. The air between them has become thick, enveloping them into a weird bubble of pretension that they both don’t seem to want to address. “You can just leave the remedy cream with me,” Pran says, praying that Pat will get the hint and just leave.

Pat shifts and faces him, but they both don’t meet each other’s stare. “Let me see,” Pat says softly. “Roll up your sleeve.”

Hesitantly, Pran rolls it up all the way to the top of his shoulder. Pat exhales softly as he looks at Pran’s giant bruise disappointedly.

"You need to be more careful,” Pat says gently, starting to rub bruise cream with his fingers. Pran finally looks up at Pat, the need to read him imminent. Pat trails his fingers too delicately against Pran’s skin, like he’s afraid to press on the bruise. “Who’s going to take care of you when I'm not around?” Pat makes a half-hearted attempt at a joke, just to see if it will lift the burdensome uncomfortableness between them.

It's like a stab to Pran's heart, especially after today. Instead of retorting with something witty, Pran says quietly, “I'm used to it.” Pat looks up to meet Pran's vulnerable gaze, his eyes softening with the implication of Pran’s words. “I’ve been gone, remember? I took care of this alone in boarding school.”

Pat goes silent. He looks away from Pran, adding more cream into his fingers, then he’s back to rubbing on the bruise with a gentle touch.

Pran wonders if his honesty was too much. The quietude makes the ringing of Pran’s heartbeat in his ears more deafening.

Finally, Pat says softly, “Did it hurt a lot?” He continues to rub the bruise, but Pran knows that's not what Pat is asking for.

Pran looks up to see Pat’s probing gaze, the one that’s relentlessly filled with woe and guilt.

“Yeah,” Pran says delicately, looking ahead, because he can feel Pat’s stare burn on his face. “It did.”

Pat stops touching Pran’s skin. Pran can feel trepidation seep in his veins, into his stomach where the butterflies that have been fluttering all night are replaced with dread. He shuts his eyes, taking a deep breath to calm his raging heart. This is all too much for one night. He’s starting to feel overwhelmed, a storm of feelings brewing inside him with Pat right at the center of it, orchestrating a giant whirlwind that may lead to Pran’s eventual demise.

And yet Pran wants to comfort those eyes, to tell him it’s not your fault, Pat, but then Pran feels a feathery press against his bruise that steals the air out of his lungs once more tonight.

Pat… Pat is kissing his bruise. Pat kisses it again, so tender as if he's going to break Pran, and then another just slightly above it, right at the top of Pran’s shoulder.

Stillness overtakes Pran’s body, unable to process what’s going on.

“I'm sorry,” Pat murmurs against Pran’s skin. The way Pat lets his mouth linger makes Pran’s heart somersault in his ribcage and leaves shivers run down his spine. Pat lifts his touch, still close enough for Pran to feel the warmth of his sigh but far enough that Pran wants to shift closer just to have the electrifying feeling back on his skin.

“Pat,” Pran whispers like a plea. A plea for what exactly, Pran’s not sure. A plea not to feel bad, a beg for Pat to keep his mouth on his skin, or for Pat not to keep setting his heart ablaze with the tenderness he's choosing to give out to Pran.

It's hard, because then Pran keeps wanting more.

Another deep breath, and then Pat turns his cheek to lay it gingerly against Pran’s shoulder. “We shouldn't have done the Christmas concert.”

Pran's heart breaks with the thought of Pat regretting all the things that led up to it. A semester that he treasured so much because his heart expanded—still does—with his growing love for Pat.

“Oh,” Pran answers coherently, which makes Pat turn and tuck his chin softly against his shoulder, avoiding the bruising.

Pat’s face is so close now that if Pran leans in, he could capture his lips and kiss him senselessly. Instead, Pran stares down at him, clearly anguished as Pat looks at him with regret in his eyes.

“I shouldn’t have asked our teacher to let us work together,” Pat confesses worriedly, watching the way Pran's face process it. Oh? “I thought that it would be good for us, you know? Get to spend time together where we could just be. A safe space where we don’t have to pretend to hate each other. I got greedy, thinking we could be friends.”

A safe space, just like what Pran had always thought of the music room as, not knowing Pat had always been on the same page about it, to the point that he felt greedy keeping Pran that close. That he did it so they can get closer, like... friends.

“But we shouldn't have gotten caught. We should've been careful. We wasted so much time being away from each other.”

And those words are enough for Pran to let himself be washed away by the wave that is Pat's deep gaze and drown in it. Pran surges forward and leans his forehead tenderly against Pat’s. He lets their noses touch, just very barely. Pat turns ever so slightly, nuzzling his nose against Pran’s as they both close their eyes.

Momentarily, they just sit there, Pran’s cheeks basking in the warmth of Pat’s bated breath before Pat murmurs, “Don't say that again.”

Breathlessly, Pran says, “Say what?”

“That my business is not yours. Like you don't care about me. Like we're not... friends.”

Maybe even just once, he can try to steal Pat’s breath away for a change. Pran breaks their touch, which makes Pat flutter his eyes open, staring apprehensively at him. And then, Pran presses his lips ever so lightly against the tip of Pat’s nose like an answer. Pran hears a soft gasp escape Pat's lips. Pat seems to have shut his eyes close again, like he's savoring Pran's touch against his skin, so Pran turns his head and kisses Pat's cheek, letting his mouth linger as he murmurs, “If that's what you want.”

It's as if Pran has tossed the ball into Pat's court. Pran isn't sure if Pat can truly read between the lines, to fully understand what Pran means by that. When Pran pulls away, Pat’s eyes are hooded and glistening with something unfamiliar to Pran, a gaze of desire that burns his insides into a fiery warmth. Pat doesn't say anything back, looking stunned, but maybe that’s enough of an answer for now.

"You should go,” Pran whispers softly.

And when Pat responds with, “Yeah, I should,” Pran doesn’t hold him back and watches him leave.

Yearning for Pat has been inevitable since the moment Pran dropped a kick in his chest and locked his gaze with Pat once again.

In that moment, confusion and surprise painted Pat’s fierce eyes that he missed over the years, but Pran was drenched entirely in a different sentiment. The throb in his chest was molded by fear and an inexorable anticipation—a mixture of feelings he’s gotten used to over the years—but for the most part, it had been just that: a simple unearthing of Pran’s yearning that unraveled too quickly but expectedly because it’s Pat.

Because no matter how Pran saw Pat again, whether it’s a millisecond glance on a random street in Bangkok or a sliver of Pat by his childhood bedroom window or in the middle of a fist-fight against his friends, he always knew that his buried feelings will always resurface from the depths of his being like he’s submerged underwater and needs to rise up to breathe. Take Pat in for a moment, because he needs him like air to survive, but duck back down to the water so his feelings don’t get perceived.

This is the logical thing Pran should do with it: settle his feelings quietly like he always does, to make a home in his yearning once more, in the small ways he gets to have Pat. In the back and forth ribbing and the easy way they fall into a routine of being entangled in each other’s lives again. Pran should compartmentalize his feelings into a compact box just like the memories tucked in his childhood bedroom closet. Pran should hide his feelings again and have everything go back to normal.

Pran wants and wants and wants, except now he’s not sure if Pat likes him back. If whatever happened between the two of them means something more, if he and Pat could be more.

How can Pran pretend everything's normal after that? So even if Pran wants all these things—the logical option to keep Pat in his life!—his heart says no, his love trying to bolt out of his chest, desperately wanting to be seen and known.

Pat acts like nothing has happened after that night. Or maybe he is not trying to, because he actually listens to Pran this time for the next two days. Pat doesn’t send unsolicited text messages of his whereabouts and what he’s up to. He messages only about the bus stop, and Pran doesn’t run into him even once in the hallway despite Pran actively trying his best to do so.

It frustrates Pran to no end. But then when they see each other for the first time outside of class, Pat has an air of clarity in his stead. He jokes about people thinking he’s flirting with Pran by the bleachers. He looks at Pran with such pride when he gets a goal during their rugby game despite them playing on opposing teams. He tells Korn to fuck off after Pran tumbles on the ground on his bad shoulder. It makes Pran feel insane because he wants to know what’s going through Pat’s mind.

It doesn’t help either that now he knows that Ink doesn't like Pat. That the bracelet he’d been grieving over for years has an identical one made just for him, even dating back to their high school days.

Like a constant loop, it keeps ringing in Pran’s head like a mantra throughout the day: Ink doesn't like Pat. Ink doesn't like Pat. Ink does not want Pat in that way—

It's a dangerous knowledge that holds Pran hostage, one that makes him smile despite it all along with the image of Pat looking at him from across the field with his sunshine smile. One that lets Pat slither into his space because he's forgotten his apartment key again, the one that lets Pat wear his FRIEND shirt and lay a futon down the floor. One that watches fondly as Pat sniffs his shirt and blanket like a weirdo, who lets jokes slip between them as if there’s no impending conversation that needs to be talked about.

It’s one that tells Pran to let his guard down and makes courage and anticipation thrum in his veins when Pat asks apprehensively, “Do you like Ink?”

“No,” they say at the same time. In the short moment of silence that stretches between them, Pran lets his heart soar hopefully, only to be crushed with Pat's immediate addendum of, “I like someone else.”

Pat doesn’t like Ink, but it’s not an I like you either. This isn't what Pran expected at all. Sure, he let himself hope that even for just a tiny fraction, maybe Pat likes him back. But Pran’s not stupid; of course he’s pondered over and over the idea that even after whatever happened to them, Pat could still like Ink. He's set himself up for heartbreak over Pat liking Ink, ingrained the idea in his head so well that he didn't even consider that Pat might like someone else.

“Huh,” Pran says, confused, because if it's not Ink, then who would it be?

Pran's stomach hurts a little bit more coupled with the expeditious way his brain is conjuring up thoughts of whether Pat has met someone else, someone that's completely out of Pran's orbit in such a short span of time. Pran's heart squeezes in his chest from thinking of who could have slipped past his radar that Pat suddenly likes more than Ink.

The pessimist in Pran wonders ferociously if there really is someone else.

Pat exhales so loudly as if he's been holding his breath this whole time. “That's a relief, Pran!” Pat says for some reason, but Pran is too distracted thinking of who it could be, too pained to take note of the way Pat lights up excitedly next to him.

“I thought you liked Ink,” Pran says pointedly, furrowing his eyebrows. “Why would you not like Ink?” Better yet, Pran wants to say, if not Ink, then why not me? but manages to bite back his tongue.

Pat sighs. “I thought so too. But then I thought about it—I could have pursued her when I was in high school, but I didn’t. We became close friends, but I didn’t want more, so after thinking about it again, I realized I really don’t like her that way.”

Pran wants to be washed with relief, but there is still a clear elephant in the room needing to be addressed. Pran shifts and turns on his side, looking down at Pat. Pat looks at Pran like he's trying to decipher what's going through his head. “Well, have you confessed your feelings yet to the person you like?” Pran says instead.

“Not yet,” Pat says. He laughs a little, his face filled with affection, as if just the thought of whoever Pat likes makes him uncontrollably gleeful. The sound makes Pran's heart crackle like fireworks aimed to burn him up. “I want to tell them, though.”

Pran feels the bitterness in his tongue. “You should,” Pran says dispiritedly. It’s Pran who asked in the first place because deep down, the desire to know outweighs the pain it brings. But now, Pran wishes Pat would stop sharing, to stop hurting him, because if he doesn’t like neither him nor Ink, then Pran doesn’t really want to know anymore. Pran exhales, pulling the blanket over him as he fixes his gaze onto the ceiling. “We should go to sleep, Pat.”

“No, wait!” Pat tugs on the blanket abruptly, jerking it off Pran. He sits up, shoving Pran’s arm lightly. “I want to know what you think of it.”

“Of what?”

Pat grins at Pran earnestly, hopefully, his eyes twinkling. Then, he says ever so casually, “Well, if it were you, would you like me?”

Pran blinks at him, thinking it's crazy how much he wants that smile for himself, for Pat to be his, even just for tonight.

He tries to drown the thoughts away.

“Someone like you, what's there to like?” Pran says wretchedly.

“Many things,” Pat says with a confident, wistful smile towards him, then Pat lists a few of them, specific only to Pran. His drummer in the band. Giving Pran the world's most handsome pick. Protecting Pran from his friends, the sponsorship, the guitar kept just in case he met Pran again—all the things that tug on Pran's little heartstrings as his head continues to supply more on top of the list.

Pran likes everything about Pat. It’s like second nature to him at this point.

When Pran turns towards him, Pat is looking at him with wide, curious eyes. Expectantly, as he mumbles a soft murmur of, “So? Would you like me?” 

Pat purses his lips lightly, one Pran recognizes when Pat is unsure, when Pat is... nervous.

Pran can't help himself.

“Maybe,” he says, trying to mask his nervousness into playfulness. There's an unmistakable shift in Pat's face, his mouth tugging upwards. “In the next lifetime.”

“Ai Pran! I’m being serious.” Pat chuckles lightly, but the decisiveness in his gaze is hypnotizing. Pran looks away, his heart racing in his chest, too afraid to get lulled back into the depth of Pat's eyes. “Well then, I guess I just have to be your rival again in the next life.”

The squeeze in Pran's chest is unstoppable with the thought that even in the next life, Pat wants him to be around. “I don’t want to be that unlucky,” Pran chides back, the confidence slowly coming back to him piece by piece, brick by brick just like the anticipation of where this conversation is starting to head to.

“Unlucky, huh?”

“Yeah, why would I want to have you as my rival again for my next lifetime?”

“I guess we don't have to be rivals.” The way Pat phrases his next sentence makes Pran's stomach twist. Maybe Pat has managed to read between the lines of his poorly constructed facade. “Maybe we could like each other in the next lifetime instead.”

Pran's breath catches in his throat. Trepidation pools in his gut, uncertainty of what Pat is going to say next blanketing over him along with a clear wonder of whether—

“I think I'm likable,” Pat says. “In fact, I think the person I like also likes me back. Wait, I think I know,” he adds confidently.

“What makes you say that?” comes Pran's nimble reply, his heart soaring.

“I thought they liked someone else,” Pat says smugly, peering up at Pran with a little smirk. “But they told me they didn't.”

Pran... Pran just told Pat he didn't like Ink.

“They also told me they'd be unlucky to have me, but I know it's a lie.”

Is Pran dreaming right now? Could it really be...

“Pat, this person that you like,” Pran starts carefully, his heartbeat drumming in his ears as he stares up at the ceiling. “What are they like?”

“He’s a lot to handle,” Pat says without a doubt in his tone, which makes Pran shift uncomfortably but in anticipation as he waits. “He’s very picky. He always gets annoyed by me. We keep competing with each other, but we’re also always willing to lose to the other. He looks at things between us always so pessimistically, as if something is always bound to go wrong.” Pran swallows the lump in his throat, trying not to let the tears in his eyes fall. His eyes are stinging and his cheeks are burning up. Pran tries his best not to blink the waterworks away as the implication of Pat’s words start wrapping around in his head. “We’ve been through so much together. Both good and bad, but I think sometimes he forgets all the good, and the ones that can keep coming from now on. I want to keep reminding him of that.”

Pran couldn't help but let the words slip out breathlessly. “It sounds like me.”

Pat perches his face onto the edge of Pran’s bed. If Pran turns just ever so slightly to look at Pat now, he'd see Pat resting his chin on his palms planted on the mattress, peering up at him with a besotted look and armed with a small smile. “It does, doesn't it?” Pat lets out a small laugh, like a siren's call that tugs on Pran's heartstrings.

Before Pran can say anything else, Pat wonders gently, “Have you ever confessed to anyone before?”

Pran thinks of picking up an extra milk tea and writing a love song and the late night laughters in the music room, the way he'd let Pat sneak into his window to copy his homework in school when he's too busy with sports or how Pran, young and heartbroken, had willed himself to walk away after seeing Ink and Pat in that music room, shutting his own feelings down and hoping for the best for Pat.

He thinks about the instantaneous way he started wearing his childhood watch again, how he picked up his pen and drew doodles of things that reminded him of Pat along with scattered lyrics all over his notebook asking himself, if our story was written out to sing along, what kind of song do you think our love would be? despite willing himself to think that Pat's actions may not mean what he thinks they do.

Maybe, wordlessly, Pran has been confessing all along all his life.

And maybe Pat's actions in the last few weeks are a silent ode for him.

“Yeah, I have,” Pran finally says.

Pat tilts his head, catching Pran’s attention. His eyes are twinkling when Pran gazes back. “How did you do it?”

“I wrote them a song,” Pran says, and he can see the bob in Pat's throat go down as the realization hits. “But I don't think they knew it was for them at the time.”

Pat softens his gaze at him. He’s not afraid that Pat will see through him—in fact, maybe he wants him to. “Well, do they know now?” Pat asks cheekily. Pat seems to be luring him in to the right conclusion, his actions hinting Pran exactly that.

“Yeah,” Pran whispers softly, because he’s positive now that this is where the conversation is falling into.

“Well, if you were to be confessed to,” Pat starts slowly this time, “How would you want it to be?”

Pran almost laughs, as if his mind has jumped back to the high school concert, of the way he let himself be courageous and look at Pat when he sung you make me feel butterflies to my core, a deafening confession in front of Pat and everyone in the room before his parents abruptly stopped his magical moment and inevitably threw his life upside-down.

It may have been years, but the ache in his chest has remained the same.

“I'd want them to be proud of it,” Pran says. He thinks of the way he had to hide his love, from his parents to his friends all the way to Pat in high school, oblivious and free of the burden of his longing. He thinks about the way Pat often wore his heart on his sleeve, constant declarations of love and courtship to girls he liked while growing up. The beam of Pat’s smile as he did so, even if it wasn’t for Pran. He’d always been on the sidelines, watching Pat’s affection be directed for someone else, and yet even with his own ideal way of being confessed to, he still thinks of it in the way Pat would do it. “I want them to scream how much they love me in front of everyone. To let everyone know I'm theirs.”

The hollowness in Pran’s chest starts filling up again with his love for Pat as the words tumble out of his mouth. It’s bottomless and never-ending, one that he can’t seem to get rid of. One that he doesn't want to let go of.

There’s a curt laugh from Pat followed by a melancholic sigh. One that sounds a little too fond, like a heavy weight being lifted off Pat’s shoulder. “That sounds like something I'd do,” Pat whispers under his breath.

Of course, because it's you, dumbass. “Yeah,” Pran says wistfully, looking at him now with a besotted gaze. The storm in his chest is calming down. His voice is enveloped with warmth as he says, “I know you would.”

“The person you like," Pat says, pausing, and Pran’s deeply enthralled with the way Pat’s mouth moves. “Would you still want them even if they're not supposed to be with you?” Pat’s eyes splay out his insecurities, his fears as he peers up at Pran. Pran knows that look, one that he gazes at in the mirror every time he finds himself wondering what could be if Pat ever liked him back. “If they’re not allowed to shout it to the world no matter how much they want to?”

Pran chuckles, reminded of the way Pat had automatically said, this is exactly like our houses' situation! we should turn it into a song! after Pran treaded around his words and wanted to hint at his own confession to Pat back then. Pat mirrors that same seemingly fearful expression now, except Pran can see through him as the pieces of the puzzle of Pat’s confession seem to come together.

“I would,” Pran says with bated breath. “Everyone else doesn’t matter as long as we both know.”

“Maybe they can just profess their love for you in front of everyone anyway,” Pat says insistently, like it's just fair. “Just like how you did for them too.”

The butterflies in Pran’s stomach are fluttering wildly along with the sudden bloom of courage flowering in his ribcage. Love. Pat said love. “Yeah, I guess they just have to sing me a confession then. See how well they do,” Pran says with a suddenly content laugh.

He feels his bed dip a little lower. Pat's weight goes on the bed, the same one that has been lifted off of his chest. Warmth hovers over Pran. When Pran turns his face, Pat's face is so, so close.

“Pran,” he says gently, almost reverently. He brushes Pran's hair away from his forehead with a fond smile. “Not everyone's as talented as you.”

“I guess you lose this competition, Napat,” Pran says courageously, willing his voice to not shake with the vulnerability he's choosing to splay out in the open, and yet it trembles under Pat's hold.

Pat's laughter rings wonderfully in his ears like a song filled with Pran's most favorite notes. A confirmation. One that opens Pran's heart up eagerly. “Is that a challenge, Parakul?”

“Isn’t that what we do best? Compete with each other?”

The silence is deafening as soon as Pran's words roll out. Pat's face suddenly shifts into dejection.

“Pat?” Pran says uncertainly. “Is everything okay?”

Pat responds with a sigh instead, turning his back onto Pran.

Shit, shit, shit.

For a moment, Pran’s afraid he said the wrong thing during this hopeful dance of words between each other. Pat makes it seem as if he’s indirectly confessing to Pran, but has Pran just been misunderstanding it this entire time? Pran shuts his eyes close as he hears shuffling, Pat's weight on his bed disappearing all of a sudden. Light footsteps, his bedroom door creaking softly, and Pran thinks this is it. That maybe Pat is choosing to leave the conversation.

Maybe Pat has finally realized that Pran is a little too in love with him, appalled by the overwhelming thought of it and maybe, maybe Pat is even willing to sleep outside of his locked out apartment—what has Pran done? Panic seeps through and Pran holds his breath, readying himself to bolt and run after Pat, but then his bed dips again, feeling the familiar warmth against his feet.

When Pran sits up, his heart races crazily at the sight beneath his feet: Pat, armed with a sheepish smile and his face bursting with that dimpled cheek Pran had always wanted to trace a finger on with Pran's guitar nestled on his lap as he sits at the edge of the bed.

Oh, oh... oh?

Pat steals the air out of Pran's lungs once more. 

This is dangerous for Pran's heart, but he'll gladly take more of it.

“I can't write you love songs,” Pat starts and his voice is trembling just like the way Pran's body is shaking, breathless and so overwhelmed with love, his heart bursting with so much glee. “Maybe not yet, but I'll get there.” Pat laughs. “And you know I can't sing, but I will try my best as long as you're willing to listen.”

“Pat,” Pran whispers, reaching out to touch Pat by the arm, almost afraid that this isn't real. But Pat is here, tangible and warm, and Pran can't help but let his touch linger on Pat's skin. He squeezes it and Pat gravitates closer to him as if telling Pran I’m not going anywhere.

“Remember that song I wanted to play for our Christmas concert?”

Pran nods, remembering the way he'd kept it on repeat for days and days the moment Pat introduced him to that song* one day on the bus to school, Pat just casually sliding an earbud in his ear. Pran remembers the lyrics, the way it made his heart ache with longing while he was in boarding school. How Pran had missed Pat and being in his orbit and revolving around Pat's smile. How Pran listened to it for hours on end, the lyrics repeatedly going I never knew how torturous missing someone was, never, never, never as he cried himself to sleep.

But then Pat says, “I didn't know why I liked it so much until you were already gone,” and as if that isn't enough to make Pran want to fall apart in his arms, Pat's smile is replaced with anguish, a longing Pran never thought he'd see. “You know, when you left, it was so depressingly lonely for me.”

Pat strums a familiar opening chord. Pran hasn't seen him play since high school, when he hovered over Pran, an arm slung over Pran’s shoulder as Pat corrected his fingers on the fretboard. Pat had learned the guitar first before falling in love with the drums—it's what made Pran learn in the first place. Pat watched Pran practice for hours in the music room, away from the eyes of their parents, from everyone, just the two of them, Pat carefully breaking down the walls Pran built. Pat always told Pran he glowed when he played, but that was just the love glimmering in his face.

Pat starts singing. “I never knew how much value that important person had. I never knew how great the time we had together was.” His voice cracks just a little bit, but Pran can't break his gaze even when he laughs and shakes his head, eyes full of fondness and adoration. Pat looks embarrassed, but he goes on, his confidence over his confession unfaltering. “I’ll miss the time we had together when you have to go. And right now, do you know just how much I miss you?”

When he's done singing, Pat confesses gently, “I didn't realize how much I normally miss you when we're not together, because whenever I felt it back then, I always knew I could find you. I could just climb over to your room and bother you for the rest of the night. I didn't realize just how stupid that was, to not know why, until I got you here again next to me and then the emptiness I felt just filled back with just knowing you're here by my side.”

“You're so fucking sappy,” is all Pran says, because that's all he can utter out without words of reverence spilling out of him. Pat lets himself be smothered into a hug, Pran's grip tight on his neck and the guitar sitting uncomfortably in between.

A small chuckle reverberates out of Pat's throat. “Yeah, and I missed you so fucking much,” Pat mumbles against the crook of Pran's neck, his breath so warm and real, unlike the dreams Pran’s had over the years. Pat is here. Pat hasn't said it yet, but he knows. Pat loves him. “I'm sorry it took me this long to realize it.” Pran just holds him tighter, not wanting to let go. Never, never, never. “But I—”

“Shut up, I know,” Pran says instead, and then Pat's being pulled into a kiss, the wetness of Pran’s tears touching his cheeks.

Their first kiss is gentle, only a soft press against each other’s lips, but it's everything to Pran. It’s as if air has been put back into Pran’s lungs as their mouths meet. When they flutter their lids open, Pran is tear-stricken but so is Pat, both of them overwhelmed with love, smiles stretching their cheeks until they hurt.

“Pran,” Pat says his name breathlessly, leaning his forehead against Pran's.

Pran says it first, because of course it's Pran—Pran doesn't like to lose, not when he's got the winning streak in this battle of love against Pat. Besides, Pat is looking at him as if he wants Pran to, because he's always been good with conceding to Pran.

“I love you, you dumbass,” Pran says reverently, his eyes glossy and his face lighting up as the words he'd been meaning to say make Pat's face break into an equally bright one. “I've always loved you. I'll always do.”

Pran reels Pat back in before he can say it back.

A kiss, then there's two, then Pran kisses him like Pat has all the air he can breathe in the world, his lips aching for more of Pat. Pran lifts himself up, pressing his knees onto the mattress. As if they've been doing this already for so long, Pat takes it as a cue to move the guitar out of the way without breaking their connected lips, pushing it to the edge of the bed. Pat's hands immediately find themselves on the softness of Pran's waist and Pat lets himself be pulled by his neck, Pran's fingers tangling into his hair.

Kissing Pat is addicting; his mouth is like a drug Pran can't get enough of, so he licks the seam of Pat's lower lip, prying it open so Pran can slide his tongue in and taste more of Pat. Pat responds happily, deepening the kiss and smooshing Pran's nose along with it. They're practically breathing each other in, and yet Pran thinks they're so far away, still not close enough to feel all of Pat's warmth against his body. Because he can do that now, apparently, touch Pat like this. Experimentally, Pran leans his chest against Pat's strong ones. Pat reacts by pulling away very briefly, startling Pran momentarily, but then he shifts himself so that he's now leaning against the headboard, a hand reaching out for Pran.

Pran follows suit, eyes wide and his mouth hungry, and then he's climbing onto Pat's lap—Pat's fucking lap—his knees settling on either side of Pat's thighs and Pat's warm hands holding him again. Pran feels like he's in a fever dream, his body burning up, unable to stop kissing Pat. And yet everything is still too real, like the delicious ache in his lower lip as Pat tugs on it with his teeth experimentally, following it up by a soothing flicker of tongue. It feels too real when Pat slips his palms under Pran's pink cotton tee and runs them all over the smoothness of Pran's back, then back down where he can push Pran down, making his knees give out so he's fully straddling Pat now. Pran breaks their kiss in exchange for a very breathy noise as he feels the hardness growing between them, Pat's and his own colliding with only their pants in between and holy shit, Pran lets another moan roll out of his lips.

It makes Pat smile so deviously, so disrespectful of Pran's stupid respect t-shirt. He looks so cocky being able to make Pran sound like that, then proceeds to respond by capturing Pran's lips again and pulling him closer by the hips in hopes he can get more of it out of Pran.

It works wonderfully well, Pran orchestrating their rhythm as he cants his hips against Pat's. Their kisses turn into sloppy ones, a slick of spit stringing between the two of them, but Pran pays no heed to it, just grinds his clothed cock harder against Pat's and moans wantonly, which seems to egg Pat off to hold him tighter, making Pran feel every touch that sizzles against his skin like it's going to leave marks in the morning. Pran likes that—likes the thought of waking up in the morning with Pat next to him, the idea of being marked by Pat, so Pran tips his head backwards like an invitation. Pat, ever so perceptive, indulges him by dipping his face onto the smoothness of Pran's neck and sucking on it. Pran holds him tighter, fingers locking around Pat's hair, desperately sinking him even deeper as Pat maps a constellation on his skin.

Fuck. How did Pran ever convince himself that he can never have this? 

And then, as if Pran's heart isn't already exploding, he hears the three words he'd been wanting to hear all his life. “I love you, Pran,” Pat says breathlessly against his cheek, sounding so magical against Pran's ear.

Pran turns and catches his mouth. Pran kisses Pat softly, gently this time, even with their hips still rocking together into a matching tempo, a dance to the melody of their ragged breaths. The stutter of their hips picks up as Pat continues to whisper I love yous in between their breaths, along the kisses he trails over the softness of Pran's chin down to the bob in his throat. Pran revels in all of it, wants to do nothing else but have Pat fall apart in his arms, the whines and I love yous eliciting out of his throat increasing in frequency, his pitch going higher and higher, the way he's rubbing off against Pran more frantic and desperate for release.

“Fuck, I'm so close,” Pat says, his palms moving down to grab Pran's ass to hold him close and keep up with Pat's pace. Pran follows willingly, holding onto Pat so tightly as he feels closer and closer to his own climax. Pran slots his mouth over Pat's, kissing him as they both chase their orgasms. When Pran mumbles a hitched, “I love you,” is when Pat falls apart at the seam, spilling over his shorts and Pran coming immediately afterwards into his own pajama pants.

Pran feels the wetness pooling between them as they catch their breaths, and when he looks up, Pat's got that silly grin while looking so fucked out. Pat starts breaking into a fit of giggles, which makes Pran follow, because what just happened? Did they just—?

“Look at you making such a big mess,” Pat says teasingly, but Pran's so in love with him, so he kisses Pat again until the two of them become a tangle of limbs as they fall into a breathless mess on the bed with lips still entwined.

When they finally break away, it's Pat who says with a menacing grin, “I might have won this competition.”

“What? I confessed first,” is all Pran says, knitting his eyebrows at Pat.

“Yeah, but I came first,” Pat manages to say, making Pran's laughter ring melodiously in his bedroom where he's somehow snuggled with Pat.

"You're an idiot," Pran says fondly. Before Pat can retort something that will kick his heart rate up another notch like yeah, but I'm your idiot, Pran shuts Pat up again by kissing him senselessly.

Later, when Korn sings the song during the Freshy Day Concert with Pat behind the drums cheekily mouthing to the same lines, Pran’s face is the first to break into a knowing, dimpled smile as they meet each other's eyes.

Their love might be too big to be encompassed into one love song, but for now, they can start with this one and the next that Pat now knows is Pran's confession of a lifetime.