Chapter Text
Fang has had this saying for a long time, since before he presented. This warning.
“You don’t play with Alphas, Phum,” he would mutter, always low, always with his lips set in a tense line. “Alphas can be vicious pieces of shit.”
Before, when their voices would merely crack and their bodies were lanky, still awkward in their growth after Phum had just come back from hell abroad, he thinks that Fang’s eyes lingered on their father’s figure as he told Phum such things. Now, Phum believes Fang is often thinking about himself as he says it.
One thing has always been set in stone for Phum, though – Fang’s words are law.
Usually.
Usually, Phum would not think twice about following advice or heading a warning. His brother knows best, he trusts his brother with his life, and the next one thousand after that.
But this. This he can’t contain. He can almost say he can’t help it. And it’s not because he thinks Fang is lying. His brother never offered him such a trivial thing as a lie. He never made Phum believe he would, either.
It’s just that Phum fears people are too unpredictable. Always had. People are not made of the same cloth, some come from ferocious places, others are a complete mystery. No matter the status. You can never know what a person would throw at you, what newfound viciousness they could teach you in a second. Fang believes Alphas are the most brutal of the bunch, and Phum certainly has no grounds to invalidate that.
But Phum still plays with them every now and then, even as his brother’s warning echoes in his head in all the different stages of his voice throughout his life. Because while people are unpredictable, most reactions he gets out of an Alpha are commonplace, they’re safe and alike. He knows the fire he’s playing with. Has been familiar with it all his life. While people morph, hide much beneath their skin, Phum thinks a status doesn’t hold much aside from what it has always given.
So he plays. Not as in flirting. Not as in fucking around. It’s even simpler than that. He just loves to nag. To tease. Because he knows he’ll get a growl, a show of teeth. A haughty tilt of a chin, a clenched fist. Alphas love to posture, to try and keep their shallow sense of control even as someone like Phum needles their patience out of boredom. He’s tried it with Betas and some Omegas, but Phum likes it best when an Alpha’s countenance cracks in the face of his smirks, his goading.
It’s somewhat addicting. It’s become a habit.
Nothing really happens anymore, not since high school. In high school hormones would run rampant, and he would find himself fighting off people because his mouth got the better of him once again. Fang never truly scolded him properly about it, even if he would get caught in it as well. He can’t really, Phum thinks, not when most of the fights Phum got into back then were to save Fang from that viciousness he too possesses.
That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t give Phum an exasperated glance, a shake of his head. He’d add, softly but with conviction: “You’re going to get much more than you are expecting at one point, little bro.”
Phum once again believes him, but he also thinks there’s a one-in-a-million chance it’ll happen.
Because ever since he entered college, people seem to be more in tune with their restraint. They don’t dare make more than one step in his direction if he gets a little too mouthy. He doesn’t know if they don’t because they don’t find it worth it, or because of Fang. Truth be told, that almost goads Phum to do even more. Not good, he realizes it as well. It’s perhaps why he never gives in to it.
Even so, it took just one year for most of the faculties to get word of him. Grow aware of his attitude. Whispers are floating abound, all too similar and amusing.
“No one knows his status.”
“Khaofang’s little brother. That Khaofang.”
“Top brat. Never met someone more infuriating.”
“Thinks he can do whatever he wants because he has money, the little shit.”
“Of course he does whatever the fuck he wants. Fang from Architecture has his back.”
“No one, really? No one knows his status? He’s Alpha like his brother. I bet on it.”
He’s even had some people throw such words in his face. That he’s a privileged prick, that he’s hiding behind his brother’s back, that he’s a conceited little shit. Some would demand he stop hiding behind expensive scent blockers, because nothing is more maddening than fighting a wall while your own scent is going wild. They would snarl, and Phum’s satisfaction would pulse in his chest.
It just goes to prove that he’s right. A status really doesn’t have much to offer than what it has always given him in all his twenty-something years. He’s found it within the walls of his home, on his father’s creased expression, he’s found it in the explosive instability of his highschool years, and now he finds it in college as well. All rehearsed, a reiteration of the same stale thing.
Alphas are vicious, but Phum made that viciousness battered, made himself immune to it.
Until a few days back, that is. Until Tan’s friend. Tan’s Fine Arts Alpha friend.
Tan has many of them. Friends. Phum knows he goes around every faculty possible and collects them like Pokemon. He’s been one of them a few years back. The guy is a ball of energy, and he makes you hold onto him until you grow accustomed to his presence. Most of the time, it’s entertaining to hear just who he befriended while they eat lunch between their classes – sometimes he slurs the stories through his hangovers, sometimes he shows them pictures from whatever random hangouts he’s had.
But there’s a bunch that came with him as a package. Four of them, if Phum remembers correctly. They’ve been with Tan since before high school, and Phum believes they will be for a long while after college as well. They are all over Tan’s Instagram, from his first-ever post to the last, and they occupy most of his close friends' Instagram stories. Strangely, he doesn’t really talk much about them with Phum, Beer and Mick. They’re vaguely mentioned, as if Tan keeps them close to his chest, cupped safely in the warmth of his palm.
Such blatant protectiveness always makes something in Phum twinge. And for Tan’s sake, he resolved to never cross paths with these guys in a callous manner. He has enough people to tease, really.
What Phum didn’t plan for was accidentally doing it.
You see, once you wear a mask for the most part of your years, you become too attached and familiar with it to easily take it off. He thinks that’s what happened. He wants to think that’s what happened.
Because his ball flew right into Tan’s friend's painting. Tan’s Fine Arts Alpha friend, and instead of Phum apologizing like he should, instead of offering a bow and going back to his business-
Phum goaded. He goaded hard.
He recognized him. Of course he did. He watches all of Tan’s stories. And it’s not like it’s hard to recognize such a person.
Such an Alpha. Pretty, abnormally pretty even with that ridiculous pineapple ponytail. Casually dressed, as if he’s going to the beach instead of walking the hallways of well-known faculties. No scent-suppressing patches on his neck. Lean built. Piercing, black eyes. And most of all, anger.
Phum is used to anger from Alphas, but not the anger of Tan’s close friend. He made himself swear he wouldn’t get to know it. Yet here he is, shoving his own foot in his mouth as he gets a sandal thrown at him, and continuing to do it even after the fact. He can’t stop. He can’t help it.
Because Tan’s friend– He doesn’t hesitate to take more than one step in Phum’s direction. In fact, he comes like a storm towards him, one foot bare on the grass and lovely lips twisted with undiluted fury. There’s no puff of his chest, no show of his teeth. His scent doesn’t spread to overwhelm, it does to show hurt.
Phum is enchanted, he’s irritated with how enchanted he is. His breath seizes in his throat because for the first time in years, he’s yanked by the shirt and an Alpha is breathing harshly in his space, and Phum doesn’t recognize viciousness. Not really.
“Say sorry,” Tan’s friend grinds out. “Say it.”
They’re almost the same height, but that isn’t the requirement to hover over someone. Even so, Tan’s Alpha friend doesn’t do such a thing. He doesn’t tilt his chin up, he just looks Phum dead in the eye. Demands what is rightfully his. An apology.
And Phum, who’s always played with Alphas to get the same out of every one of them, who’s thrived on knowing and being able to combat it, who values Tan’s companionship and thinks he should also respect Tan’s affection for his own friends, doesn’t give an apology. Not even when Tan comes in panicked, trying to stop them. Not even when he recognizes how much of shit he’s being.
He curls his mouth in a half-baked smirk, lips parted, heart drumming crazy in his chest, and he breathes out a bratty little no.
And he’s kicked between the legs for it. Hard.
Tan’s friend – Peem. Peem leaves right after without a word and without his sandal, and Phum thinks he’s left gasping for air for more than one reason. More than pain.
“He hurt you.”
But not with words. Not with a stifling show of intimidation. Not with biting harshness. His scent – Phum hadn’t even been able to properly take his scent in, he doesn’t think. It all went too fast, he focused on too much.
“Phum,” Fang says once more, sitting down with a glass of juice. He looks at him with a mix of concern and amusement. “I’ve never seen you more spaced out.”
“Fang,” Phum starts, tightening his hold on his doll. Fang lifts a patient eyebrow. “I got kicked in the balls.”
Fang’s full lips tremble, but his hum is composed, low. He leans in closer, voice slow. “And what do we think about that?”
What do we think about that? Phum would rather question why he’s not upset by the fact that everything below the belt is still aching. Why his mind is stuck replaying Peem’s leisured acknowledgment that Phum won’t give him what he wants, the calm manner in which he faked a turn-around and sent his leg flying right between Phum’s legs.
Why he’s so achingly elated that he got such a reaction, why he’s so aware that there was no distinguishable viciousness. The one Fang reminded Phum of all their lives, the one that Phum has fished out of every Alpha he encountered.
Peem showed him many things in a few minutes, and had made it hurt at the end. But he didn’t make it vicious. Phum is- He’s-
“Phum,” Fang repeats, this time with a sigh. A resigned smile. “Your face is spelling trouble.”
“I want something back,” Phum says nonsensically, voice subdued. He looks at his brother head-on, swallowing hard.
And Fang stares right back silently. “Do you want me to handle him?”
Of course he asks. And he wouldn’t hesitate to do it. Even if it’s about Tan’s friend. Even if Phum is totally in the wrong, even if Phum is the one who showed Peem vicious that whole altercation.
Fang’s eyes are calm, his hands are relaxed between his parted legs, but his shoulders are as straight and ready as ever. He hasn’t seen his brother cower for a long while now. Not since their childhood days.
But something doesn’t feel right. Because he’s not upset. He’s-
Phum shakes his head. “No.”
“Then?” Fang prompts, cocking his head. “He hurt you.”
“I know,” Phum mumbles, fixing his stare on the condensed glass of juice. “But… I don’t care about that.”
Something on Fang’s face flickers bright. A spark Phum has never seen before. “Oh? Then what has you so distracted? I thought you’d want some kind of retaliation, asking me to come here.”
Phum can’t really find words to answer. They haven’t formed properly even for him. He only has a smile to give his brother, and Fang watches him with entertained eyes, lips parted with disbelief as he shakes his head.
He doesn’t warn Phum of anything that evening, and several plans form in Phum’s raving thoughts once his head hits the pillows.
He settles on one with finality, after a bit of consideration.
Many people have heard of what has transpired at the soccer match between Engineering and Dentistry. Or more likely, what happened between the infamous Phum and an Alpha from Fine Arts. Many have lots to say. Many are glad Phum finally received some sort of karma for his endless mischief.
But the only thing Phum is interested in is Tan, and he’s grateful that his friend is not angry in any way. He truly is. That is why, when he approaches his friend, he does it calmly. None of the anger or quickness Tan is probably expecting from him.
Surely expecting, actually. Because as soon as Tan spots him, the Omega does a big bow and rushes out, “Please don’t hurt him, buddy. It wasn’t Peem brightest moment, I swear. He’s usually more – well, he sometimes just-”
“Tan,” Phum interrupts, huffing a little when Tan opens an eye to take a peek at him. “I don’t want to hurt him.”
“Au? You don’t?” Slowly, Tan’s hands lower from their pleading stance. Hesitance is still written all over his face. “But Mick and Beer said-”
Phum clicks his tongue, waves a hand in the air. “No. I don’t. I just want a word with him.”
That uncertainty melts instantly into an ill-hidden suspicion. Not unexpected. Tan is more than aware of the shit Phum pulls, even if he never showed any specific reaction to it in all the years they’ve known each other.
“Phum,” Tan starts, voice a little more somber, a little more like the old days in high school, when his friend’s cynicism wasn’t so hidden behind cute sounds and a well-crafted exterior. “I really don’t want you hurting Peem. You hear me?”
“I don’t want that either,” Phum tells him with all the softness he can muster, watching Tan’s expression lose the edges that were starting to appear. “Just to talk. I swear. Tell him to meet me at one of the tables next to the Faculty of Commerce and Accountancy.”
Finally, Tan sighs loudly, eyes creasing regretfully. “I won’t guarantee he’ll agree to come, but I can try?”
“Tell him I went to the hospital because of his kick,” Phum says, crossing his arms. Tan’s wince is sympathetic enough to make the corners of his lips twitch up. “He could at least give me a conversation.”
“Sure, friend,” Tan says, voice meek. He pats Phum on the shoulder a few times. “This one will try, but he’s still pretty upset. Peem isn’t really one to cross when he’s upset. You kind of really fucked up. Should’ve told him sorry when he asked you to.”
He acknowledges that with a hum, letting his smile spread out fully. A bit sardonic. “Who said I’m going to apologize?”
Tan stares at him like he’s losing it right in front of him, and Phum lifts his eyebrows a few times, unaffected.
His friend snorts loudly, putting his hands on his hips like he can’t believe what he’s about to do. “You’ll owe me for this one, Phum. Big time.”
His flowery scent hasn’t spiked with anxiety like it was when Phum walked up to him, though, so Phum takes it as a victory.
“Sure.” Phum blinks down at him, tone casual. “Just tell me whatever you want.”
The smile that overtakes Tan’s shiny lips looks a lot like the slyness Phum uses so often. Phum is sure that both their scents would have mingled something wicked, if he wasn’t wearing scent suppressants.
Peem comes to meet him. Phum spots him from afar, and his eyes don’t stray from his rigid figure as Peem inches closer with the vigilance of a man approaching a gallow. He doesn’t look like he did yesterday – ready for confrontation in the rawest of ways.
His hair is not in a ponytail, just parted softly over his forehead, but he is as casual as he always presents himself in Tan’s Instagram stories. It seems like he found his blue sandal after all.
“I don’t owe you anything,” it’s what Peem mutters as soon as they are in talking range, stopping in front of the table. His hand is tight around the strap of his artsy bag, navy blue shirt splattered with a bit of paint here and there.
“Are you sure?” Phum doesn’t lift his head from where he’s resting it on his hand, fingers drumming gently against his jawline despite the thunder of his heart. He’s nervous, but he’s also determined. “You made me lose a night in the ER.”
“You ruined my painting.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Phum fires right back, but he keeps his voice leveled, eyeing the Alpha in front of him with unveiled wonder. Peem’s voice is biting, yet there is no growl reverberating in his tone. “I admit, I was an asshole afterwards. But the ball wasn’t sent your way intentionally. Did I really deserve to be kicked for a few harsh words?”
“You got kicked because you’re a snobbish asshole who doesn’t own up to his mistakes,” Peem says with finality. “Intentional or not, you kicked my painting to shit. A very important painting. And you refused to apologize.”
“And you kicked my balls in.” Phum tongues the inside of his cheek, internally searching for words, for something enough persuasive to push them forward. Peem's stubbornness is steely. “I think you could have found other ways to make me pay for what I’ve done without putting me in agony. The scales aren’t balanced enough for me to let it go.”
Impatience makes itself known on those pretty features, and yet Peem’s lips press harder into a line. No bared teeth. “Alright. Give me the hospital bill. I’ll pay, and you can leave me the fuck alone.”
“You can’t afford it.”
Peem’s eyebrows lift, offense smearing his face harder than any paint could, and Phum recognizes how snotty that sounded. He makes a grimace that he fails to hide behind a hasty palm, but before Peem can rush to spit something equally as deserving as all the other things he said, he exhales and unfolds the piece of paper from one of his pockets.
“It was stupidly expensive,” he adds as he sets it on the table, watching with subtle levity as Peem’s eyebrows go even higher as he peers at the price. “I don’t want you covering it.”
“Then what do you want?” Peem asks curtly, eyes sliding off the bill like he also decides it’ll be too big a pain in the ass to pursue it. “Tan said you want to talk. I don’t think that’s all you want from me, not with how this is going.”
“It’s true. In a way.” Words aren’t always friendly with him. They’re harder the closer they get to Phum’s emotions as a whole. To what he truly wants from life. But today, as he eyes the Alpha in front of him and the unimpressed flicker of his gaze, words jump off his tongue easier than any desire Phum has ever felt. “I want you to take me out a few times.”
“Take you out?” Peem scoffs, smile wry. He appears like he can’t believe a single syllable out of Phum’s pursed mouth. “You expect me to believe you have an– an interest in me? No other hidden agenda? Just a few dates with me? And why would I want to go on dates with you?”
“Who said dates?” Phum offers him a similar expression of perplexity. “I just want you to buy me a few drinks, hang out a few times. I don’t want to date you.”
“Right, buy you a few drinks.” Peem takes a step closer, resting his palms on top of the stone table so he can lean in, and peer down at him with narrowed eyes. “For one, you’re richer than I’ll probably ever be. You can buy ten drinks a day by yourself, I’m sure. Secondly, why would you hang out with the person who put you in the hospital if not because you’re interested in me?”
“Why not?” Phum doesn’t cave in. There’s nothing to cave to, actually. Because Peem’s disposition is not pressing down on his shoulders. His slightly mocking tone doesn’t give him unpleasant tingles. His posture is not a frightening shadow. Putting his chin back in his palm, Phum blinks up at the Alpha, wonder still very much buzzing in his mind. “I’m bored. I want to talk to someone new-”
“You mean you want to annoy someone new,” Peem cuts in dryly.
That would be delightful, if it were the truth. But Peem doesn’t need to know that right now. So Phum merely shrugs, and lets him think wanting to annoy is at the core of Phum’s motivations.
Peem puffs once again, shaking his head. His hair sits over his dark eyes. “You’re actually insane. You’re really going to put us through a few hours of agony because you want to get on my nerves?”
“Would it really be that much agony?” He’s not hurt by the words. Not spoken out like that. Phum musters a smirk, a cock of his head. “Maybe you’ll enjoy it.”
“When pigs start to fly,” Peem responds immediately, appearing as ironic as his voice. But. No ounce of provocation. Wonder morphs into fascination. Phum can’t help but stare at him instead of replying. Peem stares back, a bit confused, before he exhales and stands straighter. “Whatever. I’ll get you some drinks. Don’t expect the hangouts to be long, I have a lot on my plate as it is.”
He hums, satisfied, and his fingers start their little drum against his jaw again. “Friday, same time, same place? I don’t like bubbly stuff, and I take my coffee without sugar.”
For some reason, that prompts another stare from Peem, this time less confused and more assessing. Phum has been on the receiving end of many, but it’s been a while since a pair of dark, impassive eyes made him want to squirm a little.
He keeps himself as lax as possible, until Peem offers one last huff and nods, before making his departure. Interestingly, Phum doesn’t see any tension in the line of his shoulders.
The only thing left behind is the remnants of his scent. Phum sits a bit longer with himself, only to take it in a bit more, and starts to wonder when the next rain will fall over them again.
Then, stupidly, if the petrichor that follows it will even compare anymore, with Peem’s scent fluttering about so unabashedly.
That thought haunts him throughout the week.
Peem brings two pale purple boba drinks at their first hangout. He does so casually – just puts them in the middle of the table as he sits on the opposite side of Phum. Dark eyes already set on him, careful, and demeanor calm. No paint on him today, no bitterness etched on his fine features either.
“What’s it going to be today?” He begins slowly when Phum lifts the drink to sniff it a little. “Should I expect some nastiness? Or are you going to act like a normal human being?”
“Hello to you too,” Phum huffs, not unkind. He rattles the drink a little, ice cubes clicking together. “What’s this?”
“Taro.” Peem shrugs. “That’s the option that appealed to me most today. It’s not that sweet.”
Phum ventures to take a sip, chewing a second on the tapioca balls before he offers one more hum, considering the taste. “Okay.”
Peem’s eyes have a peculiar sharpness. “You’re weird.”
Phum almost chokes on his next swallow. His face twists a little bit, “Because I said okay? The drink is alright.”
“Because you’re here,” Peem says with a slight frown, tone puzzled. “Because I’m here. Because you want me here. Why do you want me here?”
He puts the drink down, fingers digging into the coldness of the plastic. “I thought we established it already. To talk.”
“To talk,” Peem repeats, throat bobbing. His pretty mouth does a little pinch. “Us. Talking. Right. You said you’re bored, if I remember correctly.”
Phum honestly doesn’t know what to do aside from nodding slowly. He watches with round eyes as Peem nods as well and leans back a bit, crossing his arms across his chest as if he’s preparing for something. There is sweat peppered across his bared collarbones, his throat. His scent is affected by it, by the heat.
“Alright then,” he says, eyes flickering suspiciously all over Phum’s face. “Entertain yourself. I’m giving you the freeway.”
“To what?” He’s genuinely lost. Just a bit. Peem is a mixture of tense nonchalance and Phum has never been privy to such a thing.
“To annoy me for a few.” Peem gives a jerky nod, and ah, the pinched quality of his expression loses a few edges, gains new others. More stable. More assured. “Know that I have my limits, though. Don’t take my tolerance for granted.”
“I’m not taking it at all,” Phum tells him quietly, not knowing if the drop of amusement he allows in his voice is welcome or not. Peem seems to be too into his head to observe it. “I don’t want to annoy you.”
More skepticism. Suspicion. “You don’t?”
“Maybe I’m not in the mood,” Phum says, mirth growing bit by bit as Peem’s expression twitches, then smooths out, then twitches again. “Maybe I don’t want you annoyed.”
“Then what do you want?” Peem’s question is subdued. “I can’t figure it out. Couldn’t before either. You’re hard to decipher.”
He would have asked why, because that’s one hell of a statement, but then Peem’s eyes lower for a long second towards Phum’s neck, his patched neck, and Phum’s question becomes meaningless. His curiosity overall wanes.
“It’s annoying, right?” Phum gives him a droll look. “Talking to someone without a scent. I’ve been told before.”
Peem doesn’t respond right away, not without narrowing his eyes. “It certainly makes conversation more difficult when you don’t know someone well enough to guess their motives. Doesn’t help that you’re a shifty person.”
“I am?” Tilting his head, Phum mutters. “You say you don’t know me, and then you claim I’m false in the same breath.”
For the first time, Peem’s eyes slide off him. They fix on the untouched drink in front of him, and he begins fiddling with the black straw. “I’ve heard of you.”
“Rumors will get you far,” he says sardonically, resting his cheek on a loose fist. “Say, which do you believe? The ones where I bother Alphas until they take me home and we fuck? Or the ones where I’m actually an undercover drug dealer who sells knot enhancing-”
“Some also say you hate Alphas to hell and back,” Peem drawls over him, and Phum’s lips twitch to match that lazy, entertained glimmer in the Alpha’s gaze. “That you’re a frustrated Beta who loves to make us squirm just because you have an inferiority complex. That you’re a conceited Alpha who hides his status just because you love to make people question you, think about you. Who knows, right? I don’t really care what your deal is. Or your status.”
Phum makes a throaty sound, indulging in one more sip of his drink. He speaks around the straw. “You don’t?”
“Why would I? That’s your business.” Peem rests his elbows on the table, cracking his knuckles with a detached look around the campus. “It just makes it more difficult for me to figure out if you’re fucking with me in some way. I don’t like to get fucked with.”
“Your scent is difficult to read as well,” Phum says instead of a clear answer to all that. Peem’s eyes clear up again. They flicker towards him, curious. “It doesn’t really change much.”
It’s not a brand, not like many wear it. Peem’s scent just sits, just exists. It comes along with him, like a snake after the enchanting sound of a pied piper. You could breathe it in like air and you wouldn’t feel so crassly invaded. Imposed on. Perhaps that’s what makes Phum want these hangouts. Perhaps. Or the curls of Peem’s mouth, never too severe as to morph into a proper snarl. Or his uninhibited self, always picture perfect and far away in Tan’s life and nowhere near Phum.
He wants it near. He wants rain to surround him without the sound, without the sticky sensation of sitting underneath it. Without the discomfort of getting wet. Peem’s rain.
For Peem’s rain is calm, even when he’s angry. Peem’s storms are soothing. That’s why Phum couldn’t make it out during their altercation.
“You’re staring at me,” Peem says softly, almost a hush, but he’d have to stare right back to know that. And he is. Curious. Unsure. But curious. His mouth opens again, then it closes quickly back. Endless black continues to clash with deep brown.
Phum’s soul trembles, just a little bit. The only one caught by surprise by this rain. He wonders if he’ll ever make it stop, make it stable enough to put a mask on. Phum wonders if he’ll ever get the urge to simply nag, to annoy instead of this flood of questions he wants to unleash at this man. This Alpha.
I want to get to know you a little more, he realizes, and resists the instinct to cover his face with a hand lest it shows too much, crumbles too fast. I want it to rain a little harder.
He stands up abruptly, making Peem jolt out of their bizarre staring contest. The Alpha blinks up at him, brows furrowed, and Phum can only clear his throat loudly with a silly gesture of his hand.
“Good talk,” he blurts, getting hold of his half-finished drink with tense, clumsy fingers. “Hope to repeat it next Friday. Let’s find a more shaded table. Uh, see you then.”
He rushes to his car faster than he ever did, only to sit in it with his forehead pressed to the wheel and a quiver in his lungs for what feels like hours.
“What kind of Alpha is Peem?”
Fang’s expression shows exactly what it usually does, earnest intrigue. It doesn’t shift even when Phum elbows him in the ribs. Tan, however, looks like a deer caught in the headlights, and Phum has to look away with a soft grimace because he knows he’s going to get whiny complaints from his friend afterward.
After all, Phum bought Fang to lunch with Tan because Tan wants to woo the Alpha, not talk about others.
“You–” Tan does a double take, pouty lips tugging even harder forward. “You’re talking to me? Asking me?”
“I’m looking at you, aren’t I? He’s your friend.” One corner of Fang’s mouth quirks up a little, and Tan watches it with glitter swimming in his eyes.
“He is,” comes Tan’s dazzled response as he lowers his face into a palm, expression totally distracted. Fang, of course, holds his gaze with endeared amusement, and Phum doesn’t know what he’s doing here. “A very good friend, that one. What did’ya wanna know?”
“Alpha. What kind of Alpha he is.”
“Fang,” Phum tries again, partially exasperated, then a bit more so scared. His brother only gives him another calm glance and squeezes his wrist for only a second.
“Ah,” Tan lets out through his teeth, shaking his head dramatically. “Look, I know you guys only got to see that– well, the rash side of him. But really, Peem is a great Alpha. He’s– He’s the most caring Alpha I’ve ever met.”
“And as a person?” Fang asks, silver quick, and this time he doesn’t even acknowledge Phum’s pointed look.
It seems to take Tan aback as well, for he looks down at the table for a second, mulling over something so clearly that his eyes harden even if only slightly. When he returns Fang’s unwavering stare, cheer doesn’t color his face so vibrantly anymore.
“As a person, Peem takes on too much,” Tan admits quietly, lips doing a regretful little motion. “His gentleness knows no bounds more often than not, and that’s more dangerous than any of us expected. But as an Alpha, it’s that same gentleness that– well, it makes him so cherished.”
Something heavy pushes down on Phum. The implication of those words, how they make him feel. He just knows it’s a weight he hasn’t felt for a long time, one he could buckle under very easily. Phum squares his shoulders out of instinct, boring holes into his plate of food when he feels Tan’s expressive eyes on him.
Fang’s lips part in understanding, and he makes a tender sound as he leans closer to Phum and whispers playfully, “Yet you made him resort to violence in a few minutes.”
Instead of a response from Phum, Fang receives a full-fledged splutter from Tan. The Omega puffs his cheeks full of defensive air, arms already crossing. “That’s because– Well, Phum managed to get the worst out of him! Dunno how, but he did.”
The brothers exchange a look – Phum with a sourness that’s surely twisting his features just so, but Fang’s is rich with that exasperated fondness of his that never fails to make Phum feel young, reckless.
You have that effect on people, Fang’s eyes express silently, and Phum– Young, reckless Phum offers his brother a resigned exhale, head bowing.
“I feel like you guys are having a weird, brotherly conversation with your faces or something,” Tan mumbles, but when Phum risks a glance at him, his friend’s attention is only on Fang.
Typical. Phum exhales harder once more and shoves some chicken in his mouth.
So, it all boiled down to a few things.
Phum should have been an Alpha.
Not his words. Not what he wants. But Phum should have been an Alpha.
Why? Because both his mom and dad are Alphas. Because his older brother is an Alpha. Because his grandparents are Alphas. Because the business executives are all Alphas. Because Alphas are capable, Alphas are at the root of society. Alphas were put there at the beginning, and they cling to that place to this day. Because Phum should have been an Alpha.
Because his dad’s eyes gloss over when he spots him, as if he only sees Phum should have been an Alpha instead of seeing Phum.
Phum, who presented as an Omega and since then has worn scent blockers. Phum, who’s only had his brother to clumsily tell him what he should do during a heat instead of their mother. Phum, who’s been surrounded by them– by Alphas all his life, and sees the same pattern again and again.
By all means, maybe Peem is right. Maybe Phum hates Alphas. Maybe there’s a seed of truth in those rumors that the students cling to. Because he can’t help it. Can’t stop himself from proving that majority of Alphas are exactly like the bitterness etched in his father’s expression every time Phum stands in his way. The detachment in his mother’s eyes. The cold, biting ruthlessness of their expectations rotted on his shoulders.
Maybe. Maybe.
But then, there is Fang. His Fang. And Fang is an Alpha, Fang presented right and father was glad he kept him close, kept him home. And Fang– Fang is gentle, Fang is there and his grip is a security in Phum’s life. He is the one who cried and yelled until their parents put him on phone with old little Phum, the only one Phum talked to and understood from age four to eight.
It doesn’t mean Fang doesn’t represent everything Phum is seeking so mercilessly. It just means Fang is the only one Phum accepts it from. Because Khaofang doesn’t stray from his own moments of ruthless. Fang shows his teeth, he lounges with fierce eyes and fiercer fists. He’s not ashamed of it. He doesn’t hide it, even if he’s never going to direct it at Phum. Never.
But he lets Phum know. Alphas are vicious pieces of shit. He lets Phum see. And perhaps it’s a consequence of their childhood, perhaps their parents made Fang grow so jaded, grow so in tune with his wolf. Perhaps it’s a tragedy, because Fang’s lovely face was made to be tender. His eyes curve with sweetness. His lips know how to smile, even if it’s often a show of fangs.
Or perhaps it’s like Phum loves to tell himself – Alphas are all the same. They can’t help it, also.
Then. Then comes Peem.
Phum is lost. The rain starts, and Phum is truly, truly lost. He sees no dark clouds, he hears no thunder. It just starts and he finds himself in the middle of it, seeking. Desperately trying to make sense of it.
Then comes Peem. And it doesn’t boil down to only a few things anymore.
“I bought you coffee this time. I don’t think you liked Taro that much.” Peem sits down, same spot but different table, and looks up at the big tree hovering over them, appearing content with the shadows of the leaves darkening the entire area. “You know, with the way you bailed on me in less than ten minutes.”
“It wasn’t the Taro,” Phum swallows. It was you. It’s you. It’s raining again. “I just had a few things to do. I always forget I have assignments.”
“Right.” There’s a lovely curve to Peem’s eyes as well. It seems perpetual. It seems like sharpness couldn’t taint it. Phum’s hands tighten on the icy cup of coffee. He takes a breath. Two. “I’ll let it slide this time. Just try not to run out on me again. You’re the one who wants this.”
“You really don’t care?” Phum finds himself blurting, and when Peem’s eyebrows cave in with bewilderment, more words rush out. “My status. You really don’t care about it?”
Peem studies him, gripping onto a matcha drink with the same intensity with which Phum is holding onto his. “Does that bother you? That I don’t care?”
“Everyone is curious,” Phum says, and when Peem offers him a dry expression, he adds with a shake of head. “Not like that. Not because it’s me. Just curious. Nosy. You’re the first who– Just, the first one who doesn’t seem to care.”
They sit in a stilted silence for a few moments, and Phum starts to regret kickstarting this conversation. He’s lamenting his lack of tact, his inability to read a fucking room when he desolately needs to.
“Maybe I’m curious,” Peem admits all of a sudden, voice tentative. His body doesn’t shift much when he’s with Phum, and he wonders if that’s how he is, or he’s extra mindful because it’s Phum. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s my business.”
Phum once again finds himself staring. That makes Peem shift in place a little bit. “You’re weird.”
A smile. Incredulous smile. Treacherously, Phum believes smiles could be enamored with Peem’s mouth. Stupid belief. “Oh, I’m the weird one today? Because I’m not asking you a stupid question?”
“Yes,” Phum assents, simple, and Peem’s face gets even prettier as it twists a little, truly puzzled. “Alphas are nosy like that. You’re not, so you’re weird.”
“Are they?” Peem asks, the shadow of a laugh making it sound louder. He leans over the table a bit. “Speaking from experience? Hm? Or are you just judgy like that?”
He knows he’s frowning, he knows it’s ridiculous, but Phum doesn’t answer, he doesn’t move his accusing eyes off Peem’s bemused figure. The Alpha presses his lips together, appearing to find the situation equally as absurd, and leans back in his seat.
“People aren’t their status only, don’t you think?” He watches Phum through his parted bangs, through half-lidded eyes. It’s pointed. It’s a whole different message. “My best friend wears patches just like you. They’re not that good, though. They don’t hide his scent properly sometimes. It drives him nuts, because he has a way of presenting himself, and he likes it. He likes it more than people being mind-boggled when they realize he’s an Omega, and they think it doesn’t fit that image.”
Phum swallows hard, “So you learned not to ask.”
“I saw why I shouldn’t ask,” Peem corrects, but it’s soft. He’s not looking at Phum like he’s trying to teach him a lesson, nor like he’s explaining himself. And Phum doesn’t know what to feel, because it’s like Peem is just letting him know. Just talking with him. “And it just doesn’t feel right to hold someone’s status over their heads. Q is more than that. You’re more than that, I’m sure. Isn’t that why you hide it? To show more than that?”
Phum does it because he’s a hypocrite. Because he can’t bear the thought of showing a pattern, even if he loves yanking it out of others. But he also does it because his scent– it only formed with dismay surrounding it. As sweet as Fang says it is, Phum can only smell the disappointment it created.
He’d rather it doesn’t at all.
“I guess,” he still says, and prays that his throat doesn’t close in as tightly around the words as he feels it. “Your friend– Q, I think I’ve heard of him.”
Peem’s snort is endeared, just like Fang’s whenever Phum’s whatever is talked about. “Yea, well. He’s a talented piece of shit. First in five years to have a clear strike of A’s in our faculty. People gush. They buy art from him.”
Phum lifts an impressed eyebrow. “Sounds familiar. That talented, eh?”
“It’s maddening,” Peem mutters, but his face doesn’t reflect it. Again, what a stupid belief, to think a smile could fall in love with someone. Even if it’s right there, on Peem’s face.
But. Someone could surely fall in love with a smile. Phum feels it in his bones; how love settles. For a smile. For–
Possessed by it, he reaches for his bag in a rush and starts rummaging through it.
He hears a careful, “You bailing on me again?”
With a breath, and more courage than he thought he had, Phum lifts his gaze. He knows they’re abnormally round, a bit scared, and Peem looks at him like he sees it as well, for his whole body leans forward as if he’d reach towards Phum, as if–
“Here,” Phum gets out, and slides a timid hand across the table. And yea, his throat is certainly closing up. He swallows all his nerves down. “Give these to your– Your friend, Q.”
The scent blockers sit between them like a statement, one that Peem regards with overflowing, dark eyes. Not tears. Not shock. Well, maybe a bit of shock. But it’s mostly rushing understanding, it’s raw gratitude. Phum doesn’t need it. He doesn’t know what to do with it, but Peem’s eyes have a lovely curve to them and he can’t deny them for even a second. Deny looking at them.
“Are you– are you sure?” Peem doesn’t touch the patches, even if his fingers twitch atop the table. Long, nimble fingers. He has white paint smeared under his nails. “Look, you don’t really need to, Phum. I didn’t tell you all that to make you–”
“Just take them,” Phum cuts in, thinking that Peem needs to take them right now. Right now. Before his whole face bursts with a flame he’s not used to. Before his scent undermines all reason and possibility and starts flaring around them. “Don’t worry, okay? I have a lot at home. I’m not doing it because I think you gaslighted me into it, Peem. Or because I pity your friend. I just– My blockers work well. They’re the best out there. He’ll get some peace for a few weeks.”
Because Phum has heard of Q. Of his talent, sure. But he’s also heard of his status. Something Q doesn’t want to be heard, apparently. But Phum did, and others more so, for sure. They heard of the successful Omega at Fine Arts, one that cuts with his looks, that speaks with his hands more than anything. Intimidating, defying, and most of all unapproachable save for a pretty Alpha that always strolls by his side.
He’s looking at that Alpha right now. The humble quiver of his mouth, the unstable quickness of his bow as he takes the scent blockers and shoves them in his bag.
And he thinks Q is lucky. Because he doesn’t have to accept any merciless gesture from Peem for the simple fact that he’s an Alpha, and Alphas are vicious pieces of shit. He doesn’t have to value a gentleness that doesn’t simply exist, but is given for the sake of something.
Because Fang is gentle, but he’s gentle because Phum is his brother. Beer is nice, but he’s nice because he’s seen Phum cry in his room more times than he’s heard him laugh.
And Peem just is. He just is, when no one else seems to be.
So Q is lucky, and Phum’s soul continues to tremble without a chance of stopping.
The next Friday, Peem brings him a piece of cake as well. And he sits right next to Phum. On the same bench, under the shadows of the same leaves. He has light blue paint along his jaw, just a smudge, and his eyes are a liquid pool of open greetings.
“Here,” he starts, and gets something out of his artsy bag. A paper gets pressed against his chest. “I told him you most likely won’t care for such a thing, but he insisted. It’s just his way of saying thanks.”
Phum finds himself staring at an elaborate doodle of a brown puppy. It has glittery, round eyes, and it’s holding a scent-blocking patch in his mouth, one floppy ear lifted in the air.
“He said–” Peem clears his throat, tone still sheepish. “He said it’s you? I don’t know. I just described you a little bit. That’s what he got from it.”
He still can’t take his eyes off it. “You described me like… A dog?”
“I just–” Peem makes a muffled sound, and that gets Phum’s attention enough to look. See him press his hands over his face. “I just told him a bit about you. Don’t blame it on me. Q has a way of interpreting stuff however he likes.”
He’s flustered. Peem is flustered. The small dip of his eyebrows, the tug of his mouth – it’s written all over it. And he’s sitting next to Phum, bringing the rain closer, bringing himself to the possibility of them knocking shoulders from time to time.
So Phum curls his mouth a little, folds the paper carefully until it’s safely tucked in the pocket of his faculty uniform. “It’s cute. Thank you.”
Peem seems to forget himself for a moment, because the surprise overtakes everything, especially the confident quirk of his lips. He puts an elbow on the table, rests on it as he regards Phum. “Ah, so you can say things like thank you. How about a sorry as well?”
Phum holds his stare, the playful quality of it making it easier. So much easier. For Phum has never felt like words were on his side. They hardly did anything to help him.
But this time, he lets words lead. He lets his body follow. He leans closer, so indulgent when he’s surrounded by Peem’s scent, and he murmurs, “I’m sorry.”
It hits Peem’s jaw, the smallest sorry Phum ever said. One of the few. And it’s not a cry, it’s not deplorable, not grasping for something either. It’s just sincere.
Peem takes it like a blow. At least that’s what his face shows. And it should be amusing, but Phum feels somewhat bashful – enough that he ducks his head and focuses on the light green piece of cake in front of him. His fingers feel clumsy around the small spoon.
“It’s–” A heavy swallow. Peem’s voice still cracks, in all its smoothness, and it resonates with Phum’s unstable heartbeat. “It’s Matcha Strawberry. My favorite.”
Phum gives a jerk of his head and shoves the spoon in his mouth. His mind doesn’t register Matcha, or Strawberry. Just Peem’s favorite. Just that Peem brought it here, a single piece of cake, and put it in front of Phum without a word.
He chews, nods a few more times. “Okay. Okay.”
“Okay,” Peem repeats, voice still mangled, still turned towards Phum. “Okay.”
He eats it all, and Peem watches every second of it.
Phum learns something in the next few weeks. Something monumental.
Peem folds, cracks, melts at words like thank you, words like please.
He falls apart when Phum lets them out like a whisper, like a tentative gesture. A proper plead. And Phum doesn’t do it like that because he discovers this. He does it because that’s the only way he knows how to do it. He never had much experience. Fang doesn’t need a please from him to do stuff. His parents don’t tolerate it. His friends probably think he doesn’t have it in his vocabulary.
But Peem learns it quite well – that Phum has it in him. And Phum learns how fast it undoes Peem, undeniably.
The first time he did it, they were bickering. They often are. It’s a safety net for their conversations, one that doesn’t take much to give, to unfurl under them if they dare to shift the tone a little bit.
Peem refused to search something online, refused to be proved wrong, and Phum didn’t think much. He didn’t think at all. He just let his mouth curve around a little please, eyes keen, and Peem’s entire demeanor shifted. His face shattered, stubbornness collapsing.
He gave in faster than a blink. Just like Phum’s heart did for this steady, gentle man weeks ago. This Alpha.
It’s easy to fall under the trap of indulgence. Easy to teach his face pliability when it comes to Peem and his sweet weakness for a polite hush. Phum’s eyes flutter, his face tilts a bit, and his mouth falls open softly just for Peem.
“You’re wicked,” Peem comments one Friday. One out of endless. How many weeks have passed? Close to two months? “Wicked creature.”
Phum peers at him through his brown strands, mouth still around the straw. Mango milk is not so bad. He wonders if Peem will ever bring him a Matcha drink like he keeps bringing for himself. Or if he’ll let Phum taste from his cup.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbles, feigning casualness.
“Right.” The Alpha huffs, voice low. “Sure you don’t.”
“It’s just a movie. C’mon.”
“A horror movie.” Peem gives him an unimpressed look. “No chance in hell, Phum. Take Tan with you. He likes screaming.”
Phum contemplates for a second, just for the fun of it, before his face falls into a simple, earnest expression, and his lips part with–
Peem’s thumb presses gently but firmly on them, stopping him altogether. Him, the beat of his heart. His lips quiver slightly against the warm pad of his finger, and Peem’s dark eyes linger at the sight.
The Alpha huffs a small chuckle, idle, and shakes his head at him. “Nope. Not letting you do it, Phum.”
His face is probably confused, probably. Eyes owlish, lips frozen. But Phum knows exactly what Peem is stopping. What he doesn’t want to hear, to give in to. He could very well do it right against his finger, let him feel the word into his skin. Please.
But instead, overwhelmed, caught under that dark stare – Phum only makes a sound. A soft, pitiful little sound that has Peem shattering nevertheless. The Alpha swallows, eyes filling, shuttering, breath escaping in a rush. His thumb pushes against Phum’s mouth for a second more, harder, before it’s yanked back.
“I’m– You–” Peem rubs a hasty hand across his face, fist curling in front of his mouth. “Just. Just tell me the hour and place.”
Wicked, Phum thinks to himself, winded. He nods, mouth dry, parched as he takes his phone out and texts Peem the details. You’re wicked.
He doesn’t dare think it. He shouldn’t dare to think about it. That Peem might not fold for a please, that he might do it for Phum.
For Phum. Just Phum.
He doesn’t. Because that won’t be monumental anymore.
It’ll be devastating.
“You’re not like the others.”
He doesn’t know why he admits it now. After so much time. Maybe because it’s a never-changing fact, no matter how many hours they spend together. There’s no edge for Phum to hold onto, besides his own. And Peem succeeds in dulling those as well for the most part.
Peem hums, extremely nonchalant as he chews on a piece of cookie, moves his pencil across the sketch. “Others?”
“Like other Alphas,” Phum goes on, only after a moment of hesitation. “Nothing like them.”
They’re doing assignments together today. But Phum can’t hold numbers in his mind for long, not with Peem humming ever so often at his drawing, tilting his head in consideration, looking down at it like it’s his to make or unmake. And what a gaze that is.
Phum wants it on himself.
“I’m sure I share some similarities with others,” Peem says after a pause, still not looking up from his work. “I’m quite irritable. Prideful, sometimes. I don’t like my neck touched. I-”
“No,” Phum shakes his head, certain. “Not where it matters.”
That makes Peem shift his focus. His pencil stops, falls atop the paper as he turns fully towards Phum with a tilt of his head and a visibly fond sigh.
“Phum,” Peem calls, smile serene, dulcet. “Some instincts are universal. I’m just saying—“
“You don’t like your neck touched?”
The redirect is desperate, too on the face, and Peem is taken aback by it, face questioning. But Phum needs it like he needs air. Because Peem doesn’t get it. Not yet. And Phum is not about to let him debunk something that doesn’t matter much to Phum. Something that isn’t it.
“Uh.” With a bob of his throat, Peem’s fingers dance across his own jaw with sheepish nature. “Yeah, not really. I’m quite ticklish. I guess it’s not even a status thing, right? The neck is just a vulnerable place.”
“I don’t mind it.”
“You don’t—“ Peem stills, wide eyes sliding down slowly, before he regains his voice. “Your neck? You don’t mind being—“
Phum sips his Americano, nods a few times. And Peem stares. Shamelessly peers into Phum’s soul, as if searching for some logic in that.
“I guess the patches help,” the Alpha mutters under his breath, and Phum doesn’t think it was for him to hear necessarily. “Have you— Were you ever scented?”
This time, Phum merely shakes his head. Just as quietly. He doesn’t know why, but he feels something fragile between right now, something that’s climbing towards a precarious place, that could fall at any moment. And he doesn’t want it to.
He doesn’t know what it is, but he doesn’t want it to.
Peem’s shoulders unclench the tiniest bit, strangely, and he breathes out. “Figures. Scenting is… That’s intense, you know? You’ll get it when— When you’ll let someone do it. To you.”
They’re back up. The shoulders are back to being tense. Phum peers at Peem’s elusiveness, the avoidance of his gaze that’s usually so set on Phum, and makes a confused sound that has the Alpha jolting. Scrambling for his pencil.
“Yeah,” Peem says, rather loudly. “Don’t worry too much about it. I guess it won’t happen soon. Because of your patches. Uh.”
“Would you ever let someone scent you?” Phum asks, just to get Peem out of his own head. And for his own sake, for the curiosity nibbling at him. “Even if you don’t like your neck touched?”
Peem seems to contemplate it, to mellow his breathing into something that resembles normality. He hums, a bit throaty, then gives a stilted shrug.
“If I want it at that moment,” he says, as if the words are pushing against his teeth more than anything. Some sort of restraint was put on them. His eyes aren’t on Phum anymore. An unpleasant development. “I guess.”
“Alright.” Phum’s lips thin, hesitance pulsing through him, before he bites the bullet. “I hope you’ll want that, then. One day.”
Peem startles from where he was boring a rather large hole into his own sketch, whipping his head towards Phum, who is curling into himself over his own forgotten homework. But he meets his gaze, as shocked and enigmatic as it is, because really, Phum can never deny Peem’s eyes.
He spots Peem’s long fingers curling, clawing at his sketch. They’ll surely smudge the pencil work, get smeared in dark hues. Phum oh so adores to look for the smeared hues all over Peem’s pretty hands.
“One day,” Peem echoes suddenly, tone heavy with something that makes Phum’s stomach flutter dangerously, unexpectedly.
When Phum swallows in response, Peem’s takes it in like he did his sketch before. With a control to mold, to undo. It makes desire pool in Phum, bright and surging. Consuming. Unfamliar. Wanted. So very wanted.
It truly is devastating.