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Pran is half asleep when the doorbell rings. It takes him a second to realise that the ringing sound is the doorbell, and then he lies in the darkness for a minute wondering who could possibly be at the door at this hour and whether it’s worth the trouble to go check. He’s about to turn over and go back to sleep when it rings again, and this time the door immediately rattles like something heavy hit it before the night is once again quiet.
He cycles through the possibilities in his head; burglars, homeless people, kids with too much time and too little discipline. It could be Wai, drunk and lost, the only one of his friends who knows where his parent’s live. The doorbell doesn’t ring again, and he hears no other noises. In the end, he decides that whatever is outside probably won’t kill him, so he pads down to the front door in the darkness, and opens it.
Outside, there are no burglars. There’s nothing but the humming of bugs around the porch lamp, and the slumped form of a person, collapsed against the door. Pran barely recognises him at first. He registers the swollen face, the dirt and blood that seems to cover every inch of him, and then his breath catches in his throat when he recognises the jaunty pink flowers of the shirt beneath the mess.
“Pat?!”
It’s a stupid question, he knows that it’s him, and he gets nothing but a soft groan in response. Pran drops to his knees, his hands shaking when he brings them forward to hover over Pat’s slumped form, unsure where to touch, worried about causing him more pain.
One of his hands lands above Pat’s heart, the steady beat of it just about the only thing tethering Pran to his sanity. He places the other on Pat’s neck, tilting his head up. Pat’s right eye is rapidly swelling shut, and his left eye is glassy and unfocused, but he seems to recognise Pran, a quiet noise escaping from his lips and one of his hands coming up to rest against Pran’s cheek.
“Pat, can you stand?”
“Mmmmph,” is all the reply he gets, but Pat bends a knee with a groan, his hand sliding to the back of Pran’s neck for a heroic attempt at lifting himself up. Pran nearly topples over, saved only by the hand still braced on Pat’s chest, their foreheads knocking together and Pat collapsing back to the ground with another pained groan.
“Hey, hey, hey, calm down, here,” Pran says, and slides his hand around Pat’s back. “Ready? Three, two, one.”
He grits his teeth and hoists them up, ignoring the way his stomach clenches at the way Pat sucks in a breath through his teeth, the low noise a more telling sign of Pat’s pain in his attempt to conceal it. Without preamble, Pran drags him through the door and into the house, ignoring the groans, ignoring the near dead weight against his side, ignoring the blood soaking into his t-shirt, ignoring the panic clawing its way up his throat at every step.
He sits Pat down on one of the dining chairs, and the sight of him dirty and bloody against his mother’s clean, muted decor twists his emotions like a knife inside him. It is like a mirror version of all his dreams, Pat in his mother’s house, Pat at their dinner table, except Pat’s face is unrecognisable beneath the bruises and swelling, and darkness clings to the corners of Pran’s vision, rendering the image before him smudgy and abstract.
He hits the lightswitch, and the ceiling lights bathe the room in such ordinary glow that it lends the scene another layer of unreality, like his mother might actually come around the corner with a plate of fruit any second. Pat hisses at the light, head tipping down towards his chest, and Pran clenches his fists to not give in to the urge to turn the lights back off immediately. He takes a deep breath, mentally calculating the steps needed to get to the first aid kit in the hall cupboard, and how long that would leave Pat without supervision.
“I’m getting disinfectant. Don’t pass out on me.” It comes out sharper than he intends, but Pat only huffs out what sounds like a laugh, so Pran darts into the hall and fetches the first aid kit with still shaking hands.
When he sits down to assess the damage, he pulls up a chair in front of Pat and gets close enough to slot their legs together like jigsaw pieces. Reality slips again, dream, undream, Pat’s leg between his, Pat’s hands on his face, Pat’s lips on his. Except Pat’s face doesn’t move, and the hand he braces on Pran’s leg for balance has split knuckles, and his lips are purple with bruises.
“What happened?”
“Bar. Asshole. Asshole with friends,” Pat mutters, and shrugs.
“Are you drunk?”
Pat’s free hand comes up in the universal sign for a little bit, and Pran sighs.
“What did you say to them to get beat up this badly?”
Pat shrugs again, and he looks so tired that Pran figures they can save the explanation for later.
“Idiot,” Pran whispers without heat, and touches the cotton pad to Pat’s forehead. Pat tenses, but doesn’t otherwise complain, and Pran resists the urge to say sorry fifty times over as he wipes the blood off Pat’s face. Most of it appears to have come from a small gash on his forehead, an angry red line that has Pat’s fingers tightening around Pran’s knee as Pran wipes it.
“Seems like it’s mostly just bruises, you lucky bastard.”
“Yay,” he breathes, more sigh than word, but the left corner of Pat’s mouth quirks up, and he reaches up to poke Pran between the eyes. “Stop frowning, I’ll be fine.”
Pran just barely resists the urge to wipe his split lip with disinfectant again, and when he finds his voice again it comes out soft, too soft, too revealing.
“But one day you might not be.”
Pat reaches up to press a finger between his eyes again, and this time he lets it trail down to the tip of Pran’s nose.
“I will be, if you’re there to save me,” he says, like it’s nothing, and taps his finger just once.
Pran is frozen in place, worried that Pat is reading him like an open book, worried that he can’t read Pat when he’s like this, worried about what he might say if Pat continues to touch him, so he pushes Pat’s hand away and gets up.
“I’m getting some ice.”
He wraps a pack of frozen peas in a soft towel, and they thankfully occupy Pat’s wandering hand and obscures half his face, a small mercy as Pran stares down the buttons of Pat’s shirt. He knows it has to come off. He needs to make sure he’s not badly hurt, and he doesn’t want Pat on any more furniture with the dirty clothes still on. With a slow intake of breath through his nose, he holds out both hands towards Pat.
“C’mon, let’s get the dirt off.” Pat just blinks up at him.
“Huh?”
“You’re filthy, you’re not going in my bed like this,” Pran says with what he hopes is nonchalance, but even through the haze of pain and alcohol, Pat’s visible eye lights up, and Pran’s stomach drops.
“I’m going in your bed?”
“Your big, dumb head is probably at least a little concussed, I’m not leaving you alone,” Pran tries to explain, but Pat is already doing his damndest to smirk with half a face, and only the wince and grimace it results in prevents Pran from whacking him in the head. Pran unclenches his jaw, and barrels forward. “I’m not getting dirt all over the dining room, c’mon.”
He shakes his hands where they’re still hanging between them, and Pat reaches forward to grab them. Another dream, Pat’s long fingers slotted in place between his, except his hands circle Pran’s wrists for leverage, and Pat sways like he might drop to the ground any second once he’s back on his feet, so Pran drags his arm back around his shoulder and starts towards the bathroom.
Pat stays silent as he focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, leaving Pran to guide them into the master bathroom, larger than the one upstairs and with a bathtub. It’s spotless, of course, and Pran remembers himself as a child, scared to splash in the bathtub in case he gets soap on his mother’s pristine tiles. It almost makes him laugh when Pat sits down on the bathtub edge, his hands leaving muddy trails on the white coating.
“Shirt and pants off, I’m getting the ice,” Pran says, and escapes before Pat has a chance to react.
“Forward,” he hears him mutter anyway, and the smile Pran can feel tugging at his lips is nobody’s business but his.
When he returns, Pat has managed to get his shirt off, and is struggling with his pants, face scrunched up like it’s taking every bit of his concentration to not make a noise.
“Hey, stop, let me,” Pran says without thinking, but Pat doesn’t rise to the not-bait this time, just rests his fingers back on the tub edge and cants his hips forward to make it easier to get the jeans off.
Out of all the times Pran had imagined himself on his knees in front of Pat, none of them involved him gently pulling his jeans and socks off bruised legs. It feels oddly intimate, to reveal every inch of him like this. Pran’s eyes catch on his scraped up knees, his bony ankles, the arches of his feet, and he wants to lean down to kiss them all, like a dream, Pat’s skin against his lips, Pat’s hands in his hair. Except that’s not what they’re doing, and Pat’s body is rigid with pain, and Pran dumps his clothes unceremoniously in a heap to speed things along.
He looks up, and Pat is already looking back, his visible eye inscrutable. He seems to have met his limit for teasing, jaw clenched and brow furrowed, and he watches silently as Pran sets the bathtub tap running, gets a washcloth, takes a deep breath, and sets about cleaning the dirt off. He approaches it the only way he knows how—methodical and thorough. Rinse the cloth, hand against Pat’s skin where it doesn’t hurt, wash until there’s nothing left but golden-brown skin and the sickly yellow colour of developing bruises, let go. Disinfectant on any scrapes, bruise cream, bandaids, tuned into every minute twitch of Pat’s body so that he doesn’t hurt him too much.
He moves up to the torso last, and as he gently rubs bruise cream into an already nasty-looking splotch along Pat’s ribs, he feels Pat’s hand come up to trace a finger along his brows, down his temple and cheek, pausing for a second in the spot where he’s undoubtedly sporting a concentrated dimple.
Pran freezes, but Pat seems undeterred, trailing his finger down to Pran’s lips and along the top of them before pressing the pad of it into his bottom lip. Pran can feel his heartbeat in his ears, beating along with the now-familiar sensation of Pat in his space, Pat’s hands on his skin, Pat’s voice saying his name, all painfully real in the days since they were reunited.
“Pat,” he says, voice almost a whisper no matter how stern he wants to be, stupid heart on his stupid sleeve.
Pat only hums, moving his finger up to trace along the shell of Pran’s ear before carding his fingers into Pran’s hair.
“Soft,” he murmurs.
It is easy to blame it on the alcohol, on the head injury, on the fact that Pat must be barely clinging to lucidity, but as Pran moves on to the last bruise, Pat’s hand stays in his hair, his heart keeps hammering, and the stubborn spark of hope in his chest catches fire and burns.
When he finally finishes and looks up, Pat’s eyes are closed, and he looks close to passing out.
“Pat,” he says again, firmer this time, and shakes him a little where he’s still holding onto his chest. Pat’s good eye cracks open with a groan, and Pran gets his aching legs underneath him to push himself off the floor.
“Just throw the ice pack in the tub, I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
Pat blinks at him before lowering the hand still holding the bag of peas, and he stares at it for a beat like he’d forgotten he was holding it before doing as Pran says. The eye it was covering is still sporting an impressive array of bruises, but Pran hopes it won’t be too swollen in the morning, at least.
Pran looks down at his soiled shirt, and makes a split-second decision to take it off and throw it in the heap with Pat’s clothes. He regrets it instantly when Pat reaches forward to poke him in the tummy.
“Soft,” he mumbles again, and Pran resists the urge to slap his hand away, grabs his wrist instead and gets him on his feet for the third time tonight. This time, Pat does knock into him, his legs all but giving out beneath him. Pran’s hands circle his waist instinctively, and for a few seconds they just stand there, wrapped in an almost-embrace as Pat gets his bearings. It’s a dream, it isn’t a dream, Pat’s head on his shoulder, Pat’s breath warm on his neck, Pat’s naked chest pressed against his. Except Pran has to get them to a bed before Pat falls asleep standing up, and so he shakes him again and gets them into the hall.
Pran considers his parents’ bedroom in the next room for all of a second, until anxiety threatens to liquify his legs, until he realises that he’d rather climb the stairs to Wat Saket fifty times over before letting Pat anywhere near his mother’s neatly made bed. They make it up the stairs in the end, Pat heavy against his side, and then finally into Pran’s bedroom.
He sits Pat down on the edge of the bed before digging out a t-shirt for himself and a soft, short-sleeved button-up for Pat. He makes a pile of pillows near the head of the bed so Pat’s head will be lifted above his heart, and then he tries to make quick work of doing up Pat’s buttons and getting him under the covers so he can escape for a second and think. He only pauses for a second, on the edge of the bed, to let his eyes trail over the image of Pat in his bed, but as he moves to get up, anxious to clean the worst of the blood off everything before it stains, Pat reaches out to grab his hand.
“Stay,” he whispers. His eyes are still closed when Pran looks at his face, but his fingers are firm where they grab Pran’s, and when he adds “please,” Pran’s resolve crumples like a house of cards, and he settles down next to him. Pran vaguely remembers something about not letting people with concussions sleep as he watches Pat’s breath even out, and he resolves to watch him through the night, but exhaustion drags him under before he can even finish the line of thought.
Pat never lets go of his hand.
—
Pat wakes up feeling a number of things. First of all, he feels like he’s been hit by a bus, at best, every inch of his body aching and sore. Secondly, his head feels like it has been, and continues to be, struck by lightning, waves of pain rolling into the deepest recesses of his skull. Thirdly, his eyes don’t seem to work properly, the world before him hazy and watery when he manages to pry one of them open.
He must make a noise, because a blurry face appears in his field of vision and a hand lands on his chest when he tries to get up.
“Careful,” a voice says. It’s a nice voice, and he tries to say so, but all that comes out of his mouth is a sad croak. “Shh, here, I got some painkillers.”
He opens his mouth for the pills and the water, clenches his teeth against the pain of swallowing them, and reaches out blindly for the person next to him. His hand flails for a second before the other person catches it and holds it in both of theirs, and he realises at once where he is.
“Pran,” he whispers.
“Yeah, Pat, I’m here,” Pran whispers back, and it’s the last thing he hears before sleep drags him under again.
The second time he wakes up, the headache is marginally better, but his body still protests when he pushes himself up. Pran is asleep next to him, mouth slack and and head slumped over to the side, and Pat takes a moment to just look at him, at the soft lines of his face, no worried furrow between his brows, no dimples, no mocking twist of his mouth. There’s a whisper of a memory, Pat’s finger tracing down his nose, across his soft lips, but it’s blurry and distorted, clouded in pain and alcohol, yet the urge remains. He’s not sure what it means, his nerves rubbed raw along with his body, but he feels strangely tethered to this version of Pran, careful and caring, soft in the morning light. He resists the urge for now and reaches over to gently shake Pran’s shoulder instead.
“Pran.”
“Mmmph?”
Pran’s eyes open, and for a second, they’re soft as they meet Pat’s. Pat feels that urge again, like a hook in his sternum, pulling him forward, but then Pran blinks and frowns, and the spell is broken.
“Get up, I need to pee,” Pat says with another shove.
“Can you even get out of bed without help?” Pran asks, and rolls out of bed to look down at Pat with his arms crossed.
Pat grits his teeth and moves his body before it has time to protest. Somehow, he gets out of bed without making a sound even if it feels like getting run over by a truck. He heaves himself upright, and stays there, trying and failing to raise an eyebrow at Pran, the pain quickly reminding him that he probably looks like his face has been run over.
“See, I’m perfectly fine.” He spreads his arms as if to punctuate the statement with an example, but his right shoulder twinges, and it must be obvious, because Pran narrows his eyes at him.
“Okay, but don’t come downstairs. Straight back to bed after,” he says, face stern, and Pat barely resists the urge to poke his pouty lips, settling for tapping him once on the underside of the chin.
“Yes, mom,” he replies with fake exasperation, and shuffles out to the bathroom.
Moving his body is as much of an exercise in cataloguing the damage as it is about pissing, and every aching step tells him that this one is bad. His legs and arms seem mostly unscathed, but his torso feels like one big bruise, and his head still aches like it’s been trampled by a herd of buffalo, his thoughts sluggish, the world fuzzy around the edges. When he wraps his hand around the door handle of the bathroom, it takes a second for the pain to register, and he looks dumbly down at the wrapped knuckles as a thousand little pinpricks of pain race up his arms.
Despite all the aggression that he fronts to the world—the head of engineering, don’t mess with him, there’s no telling what he’ll do if he loses control—he doesn’t actually want to fight. He should want to fight, he knows, his father’s words ringing in his ears. Don’t let them mess with you. Don’t show weakness. Show them who’s in charge. They live inside him, and for the longest time, they were his escape. Take all the feelings, pack them into a punch, don’t stop to think, wear the bruises with pride, his friends hands clapping him on the shoulder, his father’s words again. I hope you won.
The face in the mirror is grotesque and foreign, and he tries not to look at it as he does his best to wash his hands. He doesn’t want to be this person anymore. He’d raised his fist to Pran, on instinct, but it never landed, and then Pran was back in his life, all hissed insults and stubborn looks and competition, and it made him feel alive, the way that fights had done all those years.
Maybe that’s why he’d lost so badly, all the fight sucked out of him, more willing to roll over and take it because at least then he’s not the one causing pain. He remembers his fist connecting with someone’s cheek, the sickening crunch of it, the way the body had crumpled to the ground, and feels sick to his stomach.
He takes a deep breath, swallows the feeling down, and makes his slow way back to the bed. It’s strange, he thinks, the effect that Pran has on him. Even when he’s not there, the comforting smell of the duvet and the smiley faces on the wall warms Pat from the inside out, and he gives in to the impulse to pull the covers up to his nose, inhaling deeply.
Pran comes upstairs a little while later, and the rattle of the serving tray being put down on the bed shakes Pat out of his half-sleep.
“Aw, breakfast in bed? You really know how to make a girl feel special,” Pat coos, and Pran rolls his eyes, but Pat sees the dimple forming on his cheek before he shakes his head to hide both it and the smile it belongs to.
“Eat,” he says with a carefully constructed scowl, and points at the food.
Pat looks down. It’s simple food, a bowl of what looks like broth and a glass of orange juice.
“Didn’t think you’d wanna chew too much,” he adds. “There are some vegetables in there, but they should be mushy enough. I’m gonna go clean up, shout if you need me.”
He turns on his heel, and just like that he’s gone, and Pat shouldn’t feel his absence like a punch to the gut, but he does. It makes sense, he supposes, to not want to be alone in a state like this, but there’s no way Pran would choose him over cleaning at this point even if he did shout, so he busies himself with the food and tries not to think.
It’s good broth, almost certainly homemade, and Pat pictures Pran in the kitchen, digging out his mother’s cooking from the freezer, and the thought of that warms him almost as much as the soup. If only his father could see him now, deep in enemy territory, eating the dreaded Dissaya’s food. He remembers the smell of their dinners drifting up through the house and out through Pran’s window. It had always been bittersweet to watch Pran leave his room to go downstairs, if only because it seemed so unfair that other kids should be allowed to eat at their friends house, but they weren’t. He revels in it now, finally being able to cross the boundaries, despite the circumstances, and he tips the bowl into his mouth to get every last drop.
He must doze off again, because the next thing he registers is Pran gently shaking his shoulder, his face swimming into view when Pat opens his eyes.
“You should take some more painkillers before the others wear off.” His voice is soft, and the little furrow between his brows is back.
“Stop,” Pat says before his mind has a chance to catch up with his mouth, reaching forward to run his thumb over the space between Pran’s brows. Pran pulls his face back like he’s been burnt, but his lips turn down comically and he bats Pat’s hand away. He’s certainly not frowning anymore, which Pat considers a win.
“Stop what?” Pran asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Worrying.”
Pran huffs out a humourless laugh.
“Stop getting beat up within an inch of your life.” It is a fair point, but it teeters right on the edge of what is allowed to admit in their precariously balanced not-quite-friendship, and Pat hears his mouth run away from him once more.
“Aww, so you are worried about me.” Pat tries to poke him again, but Pran dodges out of the way, successfully this time, his face doing another complicated dance through a smile and a frown as he leans over to pick up the medicine.
“Do you want painkillers or not?”
Pat almost wants to keep pushing, mostly because Pran looks adorable when he’s trying and failing to look angry, but he can feel the headache pushing at his temples and just nods instead. Pran watches as he downs the pills, takes the glass when he’s done, and is halfway out the door before Pat’s brain catches up.
“Pran, wait,” he starts, and Pran freezes, half turning around to raise an eyebrow at Pat. He scrambles for something to say that will make Pran stay, not sure why it suddenly feels so urgent. “Can’t we do something?”
Pran snorts.
“Do something? Last time I checked you were literally bedridden.”
“I don’t know, like, read me something or whatever,” Pat says with a wave of his hand, and Pran’s eyebrow shoots up again.
“Read? To you?”
“Yeah. You must have books.”
“I have books, I just didn’t think you’d want anything to do with them.” Pat is pretty sure he’s being mocked, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. What matters right now is that Pran doesn’t escape from him again, so he pats the bed next to him for good measure.
“Please.” He doesn’t try to sound pitiful, but the word seems to do the trick, Pran’s shoulders and face crumpling instantly. He pads over to his bag, pulling out a book before sitting down next to Pat on the bed.
“No complaining that it’s boring,” he says with an accusing finger aimed directly at Pat’s nose, and Pat snorts. He lifts three fingers to his forehead.
“Scouts honour,” he says, just to watch Pran hold back a laugh, a dimple etched into his cheek in a way that makes Pat want to poke him again, the urge simmering under his skin like a current. He tamps it down and settles down next to Pran as Pran diligently starts reading the first chapter of the book, a sweet slice-of-life story that conjures images from Pat’s childhood—spare change for a bag of fruit, salt water drying in his hair, racing Pran down the street on his bicycle, pretending it’s about the competition and not the companionship.
After a while, Pat isn’t listening to the words, not really, but Pran’s voice is soothing, a pleasant distraction from the pain as he drifts in and out of sleep. This is nice, he thinks. He’s being nice. Pran is being nice. It’s comfortable, and it’s calming, and despite the pain, it’s nice.
“This is nice,” he says out loud, and Pran makes a choked noise mid sentence.
“What?”
“I like not fighting with you.” Pat isn’t prepared for the way his own voice sounds, soft and almost pleading, and he feels Pran tense up next to him.
“Pat,” Pran says, and it sounds like a warning. Pat turns his head to look at him, but Pran is staring down at the book, lips pressed together and shoulders tense. Pat resists the urge to put a hand on his cheek and pull his head around, resists the urge to say anything else, resists the urge to shake Pran by the shoulders until Pran looks at him and the jumble of thoughts in his head makes sense again.
He yawns instead, cataloguing the sensations of his body—all of it tender, all of it hurting—before realising that his stomach is also complaining. It feels like an olive branch in Pran’s direction when he quietly asks if there’s any more soup, and Pran’s shoulders fall in relief. He all but jumps up to go downstairs, and Pat pretends it doesn’t sting when he disappears again as Pat scarfs down the food.
Despite spending all day half-asleep, Pat is still exhausted when evening rolls around, and he can barely keep his eyes open as Pran checks the bandages that have gotten bloody throughout the day, before unbuttoning Pat’s shirt to rub more bruise cream over the worst of the bruises. His hands are gentle, and Pat resists the urge to card a hand through his hair, resists the urge to pet his cheek, resists the urge to roll over and drape himself across Pran’s side when he lies down next to him and shuts off the light. He lies there for a stretched out minute, just listening to Pran breathe.
“Hey, Pran,” he says into the darkness.
“What?”
“Thank you.”
There’s a pause, long enough that Pat worries Pran has fallen asleep, but then he feels Pran’s knuckles rubbing back of his hand, and he turns it to grab Pran’s before either of them has a chance to second guess it.
“Any time, Pat.”
—
The next day, Pran wakes up as normal at 7am despite it being a Saturday, and he lies in bed staring at the ceiling, going over everything in his head, replaying every little moment, every look, every word, every time Pat’s fingers connected with his face. It’s not unusual, is the thing. Every day since Pat came back into his life it’s been another look, another word, another passing touch, and Pran is aching with it. They were friends, he tries to remind himself. As much as they’ve always pretended otherwise, as much as their parents have always turned a blind eye to it, they were friends. And Pat was always like this—pushy, physical, and infuriatingly kind. Nothing has changed, really, Pat is just out of it, all his edges worn away.
Their hands are no longer intertwined, but the back of Pat’s hand is tucked against Pran’s thigh under the covers, and the warmth of it seeps through the thin cotton of his pants, all the way into his chest. He feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, and yet his stubborn heart keeps beating, the hope in his chest a searing fire he can’t escape.
Eventually, he sits up and looks over at Pat, fast asleep next to him. He looks better already, the swelling of his face almost completely gone, leaving behind a swirling rainbow of bruises. Pran wishes he could wipe it all away with a stroke of his hand, wishes he could take away the pain with a kiss, almost wishes he could find the people who did this and kick their teeth in. He settles for placing a hand over Pat’s heart, feeling the steady beat of it against his palm until the tight knot in his stomach loosens, mollified by the tangible proof that Pat is alive, and here, with Pran.
There isn’t any more cleaning to be done, but he still goes downstairs to spend another hour scrubbing the grout between the bathroom tiles, haunted by the vision of his mother finding specks of pink in all the white. He imagines her coming home the next day and noticing every minute detail that is slightly out of place—a chair tilted at the wrong angle, a washcloth from the stack in her bathroom gone, a boy in her son’s bed. He keeps scrubbing in a desperate attempt to tamp down the panic expanding in his chest, until his hands are numb and the sponge is devoid of soap, until there’s nothing left but static in his ears, until the sound of his name drags him back to his body.
Pat’s voice sounds like it’s coming through water at first, far away and muffled, and then his hands land on Pran’s shoulders, every squeeze of his fingers bringing Pran one step closer to reality. It isn’t until the hands come up to frame his face, thumbs rubbing at his cheeks, that Pran realises he’s been crying.
“Pran, breathe for me, okay?” Hands around his, prying them off the sponge, dragging the gloves off, pulling them up until they rest against Pat’s chest. “Follow me, c’mon, in.” He breathes in. “And out.” He breathes out. Pat’s chest expanding beneath his hands, in. Pat’s heart beating against his fingertips, out.
They keep going until Pran’s breath evens out, and when Pat squeezes his hands where they’re still wrapped around Pran’s, Pran is powerless to stop the forces that push him forward, head landing on Pat’s shoulder with a sigh. He knows there are a million things he should say—thank you, I love you—but he just closes his eyes and holds back a sob when one of Pat’s hands comes up to pet his neck, warm and reassuring. They stay like that for another few minutes before Pat slides the hand up to Pran’s cheek and tilts his face down to give him a crooked smile.
“I’m hungry. You got any more soup in that kitchen of yours?”
There’s a thumb at the corner of Pran’s eye, and this close he can see the stubble dotting Pat’s upper lip even with the bruising, and it would be so easy to tilt his head up and press a kiss to the line of Pat’s jaw. He’s not sure where his dreams begin and the reality of the two of them ends, but the line seems less defined than ever, Pat’s hands around him, Pat’s skin against his face. Except Pran is supposed to be the caretaker here, so he pushes himself away, and then up, hands once again stretched towards Pat.
“Feeling better, are we?” he asks when Pat is upright. It isn’t what he should say, but the weight of everything he should say feels like it might bowl him over if he tried, so he feigns nonchalance and raises an eyebrow at Pat in a way that makes him snort.
“Yeah, yeah, sure I am, as long as I don’t starve to death, dimples.”
Pran dodges the finger aimed at his cheek, scoops up the cleaning supplies, and heads into the kitchen. He places the soap in the neat rack where it belongs and dumps everything else in the trash, reminding himself to take it out in the morning before his parents return.
Pat wastes no time sitting down in one of the high chairs on the other end of the kitchen island from Pran, placing his elbows on the counter and his face in his hands.
“No more soup, but I’m guessing you can chew now, so,” Pran says, and points a finger at him. “Khai jiao?”
“Yummy,” Pat says with a nod and a smile that sort of, kind of tears the metaphorical rug out from underneath Pran’s feet, and he turns away before Pat can make another comment on his stupid, revealing dimples. He busies himself with the eggs and the stove, and Pat seems content to leave him be, his eyes wandering around the kitchen whenever Pran turns to glance at him.
“How did you know my parents were away?” Pran asks after dumping the eggs into the pan.
“I didn’t,” Pat replies, and Pran whirls around to look at him.
“You didn’t?” It’s a sensible thing to ask, Pran thinks, but Pat looks at him like he’s stupid, and it takes every ounce of Pran’s self control to not start waving the spatula at him in anger.
“I don’t know if you remember, but I wasn’t exactly in any state to think when I showed up here.”
Pran thinks he might pass out, his mind flashing with images of Pat at his parent’s door any other week.
“Pat, I’m not even here most weeks.”
“I know that.” Pat scrunches up his face like he’s trying to squeeze an explanation out of his head, and it looks so ridiculous Pran can feel his anger melting away despite his best efforts. “I don’t know, I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.”
He’s almost turned completely back to the omelette when Pat adds the last part, and he wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to turn around and make him explain what he means by that, but Pran is pretty sure that not even Pat knows the answer, so he answers with a forced snort and tries to not let the eggs burn.
They don’t burn, in the end, and they eat side by side, Pat chewing his food carefully, one small piece at a time.
“Who knew even a dog could get manners after a good beating,” Pran says, idly, his own plate empty before Pat is even halfway. Pat’s head whips up to look at him, and the answering wince as he moves his body too fast is almost enough to make Pran regret making the comment in the first place, but then Pat waves his fork at him and talks with his mouth full, and Pran’s conscience slides right back to feeling justified.
“I’ll beat you so hard you can’t walk, and then we’ll see who’s talking.”
Pran guffaws before he can stop himself, and by the time he clamps his mouth shut, Pat is gaping at him, seemingly caught up to his own double meaning.
“You,” he starts, and then pauses for a second, fork still midair. He follows up with a mumbled “shut up,” and turns back to the food, the next bite significantly larger than the previous ones. Pran feels a smile tugging at his lips as he watches Pat’s jaw work around the eggs, but decides not to push it. He gets up to do the dishes, driven as much by the need to hide the expression on his face as the need to clean. By the time he’s putting away the bowls and pans, Pat has finished, and he deposits the plates in the dishwasher.
When he turns back, Pat’s head is back in the cradle of his hands, and he looks at Pran expectantly. He looks three seconds away from pouting, and Pran realises there is no way he’s getting him back in bed at this point, so the half formed plan in his head becomes a full formed plan before he can second guess it.
“Wanna watch a movie?”
Pat lights up immediately, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that makes Pran’s stomach do a little cartwheel. It’s not reasonable, the way Pat looks at him like he’s hung the sun every time he yields to give Pat an inch, and it doesn’t make sense, the way that Pat barrels through every crack in his armour, taking up residence in his life, in his mind, in his heart. Pran watches as Pat hops off the chair and looks at Pran expectantly, eyes big and genuine—always so genuine—like he’s waiting for instructions. Pran swallows another dog comparison, tucking it away for later, another half-innuendo joining the ranks of a thousand half-innuendos, all the things that Pat inspires in him that he can’t, won’t, say.
“Couch,” he says instead, pointing towards the sitting room.
Pat nods and pivots on his heel, making his way towards the couch. He can walk just fine now, it seems, but there is a stiffness to his movements that Pran knows intimately, his own joints aching in sympathy as Pat lowers himself onto the couch and grabs the blanket that’s thrown over the armrest. Pran tends to avoid fighting, when he can, but there’s no denying that after years of friendship with Wai, and then Louis, the aches and bruises from fists and elbows and knees are all familiar to him. In later years, it has become easier to let his reputation precede him, the threat of Pran the warrior usually enough to dissuade people from messing with even his most trigger happy friends.
Until Pat. Pat, who doesn’t actually want to fight him, who chose his bed for recovery in the end. Pran looks over at him, and it’s another of his dreams, Pat on his mother’s couch, Pat with Pran’s favourite blanket wrapped around his shoulders, Pat with a space next to him meant for Pran. It’s a dream blending into reality, and despite the bruises on Pat’s face, it is still real when Pran blinks, when he sits down, when Pat holds the remote control out of his reach and sticks his tongue out at him.
They watch John Wick, because Pat attempted to mimic fainting off the couch when Pran mentioned not having seen it, and then they keep watching John Wick until Pran feels like he’s watched more people get shot in the head than is probably healthy for one day, but Pat keeps excitedly telling him to “watch this part, oh my god”, and at one point he wiggles his toes under Pran’s thigh, and Pran figures there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
They stop for take-away pizza and ice cream somewhere in the middle, and after that Pat starts nodding off and Pran starts watching Pat more than the movie, committing the image of him tucked into the corner of the couch to memory, glance by glance. By the time the third movie ends, Pat’s head is slumped back against the couch, and he’s letting out little snores that Pran decidedly does not find adorable. He lets Pat sleep as he tidies up the pizza boxes and ice cream bowls before shaking him awake by the shoulders.
He blinks up at Pran, and there’s the familiar sensation of Pran’s world tilting on its axis, Pat digging into all the hidden parts of his soul with just a look—I like to see your face, cute dimples you have there, would you like me—and Pran feels dizzy with it.
“Mornin,” Pat murmurs with a small smile, and Pran feels warm all the way to his toes.
“C’mon, sleepy head, you’re brushing your teeth today,” he says, to shake off the feeling, but it doesn’t let go. He feels it burning bright and happy in his chest as he folds the blanket, feels it electric in the air between them as they shuffle upstairs, feels it giddy and fluttering in his stomach as he hands Pat a spare toothbrush.
It’s painfully domestic, the way Pat’s eyes meet his in the mirror as he smiles around the toothbrush, the way Pat feigns falling asleep by bumping his forehead into Pran’s shoulder, the way he sits down on the toilet seat to let Pran rewrap his hands, as the bandages are, in Pat’s words, stinky, and he wants to wash his hands, thank you.
It’s almost too easy to navigate their evening routines, taking turns in the bathroom, handing Pat another round of painkillers, slipping under the covers together. Pran thinks it should grate on his nerves, to have another person this close, but Pat fits into his life seamlessly. Even if he’s messy, and crude, and loud, and everything Pran shouldn’t like, he slots into place around all of Pran’s hardened edges, whittling them down until all Pran wants to do is bury himself beneath Pat’s skin and hide away from reality where nobody can touch him, or them.
As the lights shut off, Pat doesn’t hesitate to reach over and grab Pran’s hand, and Pran feels closer to it than ever, another inch of him given over to Pat in its entirety. He lies still, eyes open to the dim contours of the room, waiting until he’s no longer sure if Pat is awake or asleep, the words burning a hole in his tongue until he lets them out.
“Pat?” he whispers, and squeezes the hand in his.
“Mmmm?”
“Thank you, for this morning.”
“Of course.”
Pat squeezes his hand back, and Pran’s heart with it, and he falls asleep feeling warmer than he has in years.
—
Pat wakes up with Pran’s scent enveloping him like a blanket, and he buries his nose in it, pulling the body next to him closer. There’s soft skin and soft hair against his face, and he presses a kiss right there, at the nape of Pran’s neck. It isn’t until Pran’s body stiffens in his embrace that Pat’s sleep-fuzzy brain realises this isn’t something they normally do, and when Pran pointedly shifts to lie on his back, Pat loosens the circle of his arms and retreats to his side of the bed.
Pran turns his head to look at him, and suddenly it makes sense. He almost wants to laugh at how simple the answer is, but he’s sensing that laughter isn’t what Pran needs right now, so he lets the feeling bleed through in a smile. Of course he would turn to Pran at the end of his wits, of course he would reach out towards him and take anything he offers, of course the tugging in his chest is love. He knows he probably looks half mad, grinning at Pran in the dark, and Pran’s brows knit together, but he doesn’t look away.
Pat feels the tether grow taut, and then pull. This time, he doesn’t resist, bringing a hand up to run a finger down Pran’s temple, and up along his jaw, before carding his fingers into his hair. Pran closes his eyes and exhales a shaky breath.
“Pat,” he says, voice trembling, and Pat doesn’t know the words to reassure him, so he pulls him closer until their noses bump together, until there’s no telling where his breath begins and Pran’s end.
“It has always been you, hasn’t it?” he whispers into the air between them. Pran makes a noise, and he sounds hurt, and he sounds scared, and when Pat rubs a thumb along the soft skin underneath his eye, it comes away wet.
“Pat, don’t,” he says, voice small. “If you don’t mean it, don’t.”
“I mean it.” He tries to say it with all the certainty he’s suddenly feeling, desperate for Pran to understand, to not run away. “Everything comes back to you. I always come back to you.”
Pran makes another noise, like a sob, and Pat rubs their noses together, gently.
“It was so lonely without you. Even if everything was easier with you gone, no competition, no keeping track of everything you did. Even if it should have been a weight off my shoulders it was lonely.”
Pran’s hand comes up to circle Pat’s wrist between them, and he whispers Pat’s name again, like a prayer, and then he tips forward and presses his lips to Pat’s, just once. He pulls away slightly, and Pat follows, not giving him time to think, slotting their lips together again, and again, ignoring the way his lip complains in favour of opening his mouth. Pran answers in kind, his tongue brushing against Pat’s, careful and unhurried, and it melts Pat from the inside out. Pran’s hand slips off Pat’s arm and snakes under to rest against his chest, and Pat hopes the hammering of his heart is enough to convince Pran that this is real, it's real, it's real.
Pran keeps kissing him, a continued slow slide of their lips against each other, a litany of little sighs in the air between them, and every time Pat tries to push closer, closer, Pran shushes him and stops him with the hand on his chest. When Pat eventually decides he’s had enough of it and slides his hand around to Pran’s back to pull him closer, Pran pushes away entirely. Pat’s answering whine hangs in the air between them, and Pran scoffs and laughs all at once, and Pat pushes forward to give him another peck.
“Pat,” he complains, voice muffled against Pat’s lips. “Your lip is bleeding.”
Oh. Pat pulls away with another whine, and Pran’s next laugh is quiet, but genuine. He smiles at Pat, and the colour of his lips is indistinguishable in the dark, but Pat can imagine how they look, red and glossy with spit. He moves his arm so he can cradle Pran’s jaw and press a thumb into the swell of his lower lip, feeling Pran’s breath warm against his skin.
I love you, he doesn’t say, because even if Pran is with him right now, under the cover of darkness, Pat knows that the morning light will bring with it more questions than answers, a web of tangled thoughts in this stubborn, precious boy’s head that Pat knows will take longer than one night to untangle.
Thoughts that seem blissfully absent now, as Pran tilts his head forward to pull the tip of Pat’s finger between his lips, rubbing his tongue along the pad of it, just once, before releasing it. Another bright smile takes over his face as he takes in the expression on Pat’s face, and he flops over on his back again, Pat’s hand landing on his sternum. Pat can see the dimple etched into his cheek, and gives in to the urge to poke it, gives into the urge to trace a finger down the length of Pran’s neck just to feel him shiver, gives into the urge to wrap the arm back around him and tuck his nose, carefully, against Pran’s shoulder.
“Good night, Pat,” Pran says with finality, petting Pat’s arm with his hand.
Pat just makes a quiet noise of complaint against him, and even if Pran doesn’t give in to giving him more kisses, Pran’s answering huff of laughter lodges in Pat’s chest like a promise that this is not an ending, but a beginning. Whatever daylight has in store for them, Pat is ready for it. He’s ready to chase Pran to the end of the world, if he has to.