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The clock struck at midnight, another end of another day. Pran and Pat had dinner with their friends at the bar. Korn and Wai suggested that stupid game of truth or dare, and Pat thought it was a great idea. Screw him. Pran wanted to run away before things went ugly, but the smile on Pat's face glued him to his seat. Pran had no choice but to stay.
And Pran chose truth more than dare, which led to questions related to Pat and their relationship. Not because he was a coward, but he would preferably not ask a stranger for a kiss or twerk in the middle of the dance floor. Truth seemed more applicable, and Pran has always been cautious, no spontaneous acts whatsoever.
And Pat chose dare more than truth, which led them to kiss in front of their friends. A French kiss. With tongues and everything. It was hot. It was intense. It was hazy. And they were not even drunk. But as they parted, Pran could not feel his lips, and Pat could not even stand straight. They were sober enough to smile and laugh as Mo and Safe dared Wai to kiss Korn. They did. And it was crazy. They continued like it was never a dare in the first place.
As their friends spiralled into a drunken, misty haze, the music-heavy in their eardrums, Pat and Pran sneaked out from the get-together. It was the way Pat's eyes shone amid the crowd, amid the blaring lights that allured Pran to obey, inviting him to a place where they could be themselves. Pran and Pat. To shed the suffocating layers blanketing them, not stopping once it began.
Every logical explanation clouds into obscurity whenever Pat touches him.
Maybe Pran has wanted this for a long time.
Lips on lips, moist and hot against his own. Heavy breathing along his skin, tracing his veins and arteries with a gentle touch, an electrifying zap that spikes his pleasure meter into a million watt. His toes curl as Pat pushes him to the bed, just enough to make him fall and never wake up again. Just enough to make his sanity wander to somewhere unknown. Warm pleasure coils in the deepest part of his stomach, and expectation blooms in his chest as Pat winks at him. The giggle that follows makes his heart stutter, beating in rapid staccatos.
His body disintegrated further into the sheets, becoming one, to the point that Pran can no longer differentiate the coarseness of the bedding with his skins and bones. Everything transcends into a cohesive force, a gentle nudge of the sharp kneecap in between his legs, and Pran moans. A sound that awakens the beast in Pat, enticing him into a dimension where skin meets skin is the only way to go. The twinkle of mischief in Pat's eyes shifts into colours of desire and love. Dilated, desperate, but still patient.
"Pran," Pat whispers above his collarbone, loitering there, heavy and welcoming. A soft kiss. His lips gnaw his skin the slightest. A fleeting touch that blazes Pran into crackling embers, losing his fulcra to the tender grip around his waist and everything in between. Pat is everywhere, anywhere, but Pran wants more of him, wants more of this.
Lights out, the world around them is in a tranquil lull, muting other sounds that do not matter at the moment. Because right now, only Pat matters, only Pran matters, only them. Pran can only hear the sound of their hearts- pulsing in tandem.
"Hm?" he hums, allowing his fingers to rake Pat's muscular back, built with muscles and protruding veins and specks of red spheroids. Pat is perfect like this, wearing Pran's t-shirt again, his scent mingling with Pran's own. Baby powder and a dash of cologne. Pat says it smells like mint, but Pran thinks it is applewood. Regardless, Pat submerges himself into the nooks and crannies of Pran's neck, letting the butterflies kiss him down to the end of his fingers. Touch him everywhere, all over, more and more. Pran sees Pat's brain working in full force, figuring out more ways to pleasure him. But with Pat in his arms, in his room, their room, it is already too much to take.
Pat catches his eyes and holds his gaze with his own. He licks his lips once, twice, and it drives Pran crazy.
"I have so much to say," his fingers pause on Pran's chest, sensing his thudding heartbeat against his white dress shirt. It is hot there, wherever Pat touches, and Pran accedes himself into that sense of wholeness and belonging.
Pran pulls Pat closer, close enough for the tip of their nose to bump. To behold the stars in Pat's eyes, calling out for him, reaching out to him, breathing heavily, gasping. His fingers dance along the bridge of Pat's nose, poking fun at his cheeks, and twirls along his luscious lips in a tango. The more he looks at it, the more he wants to kiss it.
Wrapping his legs around Pat's waist, straddling him into his territory, Pran mutters, their breaths colliding. "If you have so much to say..."
Pat gulps, his adam's apple bobbing back and forth, enticed by the power and dominance Pran exudes, the growing bulge in between them.
"...then say it," Pran presses a chaste kiss on his lips. Just enough to make Pat lose his centre.
"I do not know how," Pat confesses. His palms are on the sides of his face, stroking his cheeks with so much adoration and love. And other emotions that Pran fails to decipher.
"But I am feeling so many things right now. And you are the reason behind it."
Pride sprouts in his chest as realization hits. Pat is speechless. Because of him, because of Pran. He laughs at this. He laughs at Pat and himself, and the position they are in, and everything that they went through before. It is exhilarating- to be with Pat, to have their family's blessings, to get their friends' support, to love without fears. No more painful yesterdays. Only beautiful, exciting tomorrow. And Pat will be there with him. They can hug. They can kiss. They can love and fight and cry together- nothing is stopping them from reaching the once elusive sky. How wonderful is that?
"Stupid," he remarks, fond. Too fond. And in love.
"Shut up, dimples," he laughs. Bubbly. Vibrant. A piece of music to his ears.
"I know you love it," Pat retorts, a challenge, his way of driving Pran in shambles.
And Pran kisses him again. He tastes the salty nuts from the bar snack and the beer from Pat's lips. And there is more to Pat's lips that Pran has yet to explore, to savour. He smiles into the kiss, clutching the back of Pat's head, sucking him into his world again.
Pat pants to their connected lips, hot and rough and mind-boggling. Pran sees red and only red. Everywhere, to the point that it blinds him. He feels, hears, tastes, only Pat. Pat in his every exhale, Pat in his every thought, Pat in his every move. Pat and Pat and Pat and God- Pran's body vibrates in golden delight.
Seconds, minutes, hours, forever. Kissing Pat has always felt more than forever. Because time stood still when their lips met, and time stops when Pat pushes him away, pupils enlarged, swollen pilgrims, crimson cheeks. He teases the hem of Pran's shirt, only to play with the buttons at the seam, eight of them in total, nibbling his lips whenever their eyes meet.
Hesitancy. It does not suit Pat's unruly hair, wild eyes, trembling hands. But it is there, and Pran has never seen Pat this confined before.
Leading the way, Pran takes Pat's hands and guides them to his chest. He urges Pat to unbutton his t-shirt, one at a time, just because Pran knows how to be patient, and Pat needs time to compose himself. With every button, his skin glistens under Pat's touches. Pat watches him in complete amazement, his eyes never leaving the buttons, never straying away from his smouldering gaze.
Pran discards the dress shirt from his body, and Pat catches him in his arms again, kissing and licking every inch of his skin, mapping his name everywhere. Everywhere belongs to Pat now, his body, his heart, his everything.
He helps Pat to undress, pulling the shirt away, and it pools on the floor. They laugh at the sight for unknown reasons. Knees on the bed, holding onto each other, shoulders bumping, giggling, chuckling, losing their breath once gravity ties them into a knot anew. And it is quiet. But they are breathing hard, fast. More, more, more.
Pat is needy, and Pran is equally desperate. But they have all the time in the world now. They can take things slow.
And they do. And it is perfect.
Palm to palm, a holy palmer's kiss. Skin to skin, a canvas full of promises. Pat touches him, teases him, devours him, enters him. In one sharp thrust, Pran's lips hang open, air no longer circulating his lungs. But Pat kisses him again, breathing in the oxygen into his hollowed soul. His toes curl again. His body convulses as his back hits the headboard, his hands above his head as Pat continues to move, reeling him closer to the edge.
The world is no longer bleak. Red, red, red, blue, purple, red, red, red, the colour of Pran's skin. The marks under his ears, along his collarbones, Pat's back, lines upon lines of desire, lust and love. Red, red, red. So much red. They are nothing but a sea of red in between desperate gasp, thousands of please, I love you, you are perfect, kiss me, Pat, touch me here, Pran.
Pat calls him teerak between sneaky touches and surprise kisses, biting his earlobe as he drives them both to ecstasy. Pat whispers those sweet promises, waan jai, as they ride away from the remnants of desire. Pran dissolves into his embrace as they collapse to the bed, spent, tired, content, full of love.
It is beautiful. It is perfect. They are perfect. Pran and Pat.