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If Pat gets asked about this fake dating arrangement between him and Pran, he’d say it all started because of the foolishness of their friends.
He'd recount to Pran the moment when Korn said, “Music contest, my ass! Why do you care so much about this stupid competition?” after they destroyed the bus stop and was waiting for the verdict of their punishment, and how he should've kept his mouth shut.
Instead, out of frustration, Pat mumbled, “It’s my chance to compete with Pran again!”
Korn wiggled his notoriously wild eyebrows. “Pran? Like the architecture class president Pran?”
Pat winced. Well. There went their secret. “Yeah, that Pran.”
His friends looked stupefied at the admission before Korn tilted his head, piecing things together, and asked, “Is Pran dumpling boy? And the architecture person you’ve been courting on LINE, is it also Pran?”
The gears started working in Pat’s head, then.
“Yeah, I've liked him for so long,” Pat said without hesitation, pausing thoughtfully to watch his friends’ faces morph into realization, “now he’s gone, again. He won’t answer my calls.”
“Again?”
Pat looked like a rained-on puppy. “Remember that childhood friend I used to talk about?”
Delving into their past was all it took for them to think Pat and Pran surely needed to be a thing. Like it made sense for the universe to reunite them again, and who were they to hinder Pat’s rediscovered light in his life?
Sure, Pat omitted some of the (extremely) important details, like how Pat and Pran were not a thing in high school, but just mentioning how they’ve always orbited around each other growing up, forged their love for music together, the tragic Christmas concert, Pran being transferred, and how they were finally reunited again through strings of fate and wrong delivery orders, there were no other additions needed to convince his friends of how great of a love story they could have, whose prospect was now potentially destroyed by his hotheaded friends.
“What the fuck, Pat,” Chang said, folding his face into what seemed like a terrible attempt of a dry sob. Pat held his laughter in and kept a straight face. Chang sniffed dramatically. “You love him.”
Pat found it surprisingly easy to agree. “Yeah.”
“No wonder you flipped after we saw him. Your icy heart melted with one fiery kick in the chest,” Mo said poetically.
Pat's friends were quick to accept his plans to help Pran. After all, they’d always been easy to convince of things, especially when it came to each other. But Pat? He was still processing what he’d said as they padded towards the room and barged into the architecture gang's heated discussion.
Korn clutched Pran's hands dramatically before Wai could react, almost giving Pran a heart attack. “I’m sorry, Pran! We won’t fight your friends anymore, so please give Pat another chance. Don’t leave him again.”
“What?”
With the way Pat looked sheepishly at him and scratched the back of his neck, Pran already knew what situation he got themselves into. “Sorry, Pran. I told them about… us.”
“Oh.”
Despite the insane implications coming out of Pat, his eyes begged for forgiveness. Pran knew what it meant.
That was the first time they walked home together from campus. Their friends peered from the corner of the building—even Wai, who watched everything unfold with an overkill sulkiness—and when Pat grabbed his hand and entwined their fingers, Pran couldn’t pull back. Pat’s reassuring hand fit perfectly in the crevices of his own.
Finally, when Pat suggested they continue the ruse for the sake of their friends, Pran didn’t have the courage to say no.
After all, how could Pran say no to living out his dreams?
So if Pran gets asked about this arrangement, he knows he's also to blame. He let themselves be tangled so intricately together, creating a web of lies based on truthful pieces of their history, and any semblance of heartbreak down the line is truly on him for letting it get this far.
Now, Pran is facing one of the consequences.
Pat is owning up that forbidden label so well. Maybe a little too much.
Pat slides behind him, a palm on his waist and his breath warm on his neck as Pran makes breakfast for their friends all passed out in his living room after a night filled with shenanigans.
“Good morning, boyfriend,” Pat murmurs, deep and hoarse from sleep, and it should be illegal for his voice to linger directly into Pran’s ear.
Pran folds, feeling ticklish along with a justifiable tremor spreading through him with Pat just being… The Boyfriend Pat, a giant menace as always, a threat to his general sanity.
Pat would disagree with it if he knew. “I think I’m such a great fake boyfriend!” he’d chide, listing out all the loveable things he’s doing for Pran, unaware of how much worse that sounds for Pran’s general well-being to know that whatever that list contains actually sounds too legitimate for this pretense they’re partaking in.
This situation between them isn’t helping Pran get over his feelings for Pat, especially since their charade is starting to root deeper than what they’ve anticipated. But it's expected. They’ve gone from bickering flirtatiously in front of their friends to sending each other food in class, to Pran showing up to his practices and Pat lurking around the Architecture halls waiting for Pran. They’ve graduated from holding hands and upgraded to always being in each other's space. Pat is an avid clinger, always attaching himself to Pran in every way and every chance he could, a tap on the chin here, an arm around his waist, and many, many pokes on the closest dimple he has access to.
Pran is suffering.
His unrequited love for Pat has only magnified ever since they started pretending to be faens (Pran needs to stop smiling every time! This is not good for him!), his heart feeling like it’s grown impossibly humungous in his chest cavity, enough for him to be consistently breathless in the face of Pat and threatening to burst any minute now in the form of words of unspoken reverence climbing up his vocal cords.
It's quite unfortunate that Pran is getting accustomed to this version of Pat when he knows this wouldn’t last.
“You don’t have to call me that,” Pran says, even with his heart soaring at how adorable sleepy Pat sounds, almost as if they’re stuck in a morning-after scenario where everyone in the room ceases to exist in the moment. “Also, you don’t have to hug me. They’re still sleeping.”
The view of Pat is unmistakably accurate with how Pran envisioned him to be as he turns.
His eyes are a bit puffy from sleep, hair tousled as if he’s come straight out of a magazine spread, the dry patches on his skin accentuated and yet, the view still steals Pran’s breath away.
Pran blinks stupendously, enthralled.
“And?” Pat says, preening. “I just want to. I keep telling you, Pran. You’re so huggable.”
“Mm, whatever. Your compliment isn’t going to work and acting cute won’t cut it either,” Pran says airily, even though it’s evident in his face how pleased he is.
“But it’s true, though! And did you just say I’m cute?”
Unexpectedly, Pat squeezes around his hips for an answer. Pran yelps and elbows him in the stomach, which makes Pat groan loudly and pretentiously behind him.
“Pat,” he warns, whipping his head to the living room where their friends are. “Stop being a loud menace. You’re going to wake them up.”
He frowns and pulls Pran closer, tightening his hold. “My boyfriend is so mean to me."
“Go away, it feels like I’m getting squished by an oversized dog,” Pran says savagely despite his happiness meter going off-scale.
“I think you meant to say a sexy puppy.” Pat huffs, tucking himself into Pran. “And don’t think I don’t know you that well, Pran. You’re the one who ended up in my sexy arms this morning, so I know I must be a nice source of warmth.”
“I—” and. Well. Pat’s right. He did end up rolling over to his side of the bed sometime in the night. Screw their friends getting shit-faced enough to crash the living room. Pat could have sneaked out and slept in his own room, but as selfish as it sounded and the alcohol buzzing in his system, Pran was the one who wanted him to stay so that their friends didn’t get suspicious in the morning.
“See? You can’t even answer me,” Pat says knowingly. “You’re so stubborn.” He reaches to pinch Pran’s nose—another deathly move for Pran—and smiles, so achingly boyfriend-looking. “Anyway, my cute boyfriend is making breakfast. I should help, right?”
Cute. Boyfriend. Cute boyfriend. The universe is cruel if it doesn’t let Pran have this for the rest of his life.
“You’re going to burn down my kitchen, friend,” he counters. “Besides, I’m done. You still owe me one for last night.”
Pran looks down to turn the portable stove off rather than stare at Pat’s sparkly eyes up close. He pulls Pat’s arms off, freeing himself, and puts the plate with fried eggs next to the sausages he’d cooked earlier. Pat follows him like a magnet after his target, and Pran hides a smile as he pads towards the rice cooker next to the sink.
Again, Pran finds himself attached to Pat like an owner followed by his excitable puppy. Pat peeks at him comically from the side. He clings to Pran’s waist, and Pran feels his breath get stuck in his windpipe as Pat whines softly.
“If we left them on their own last night, I bet you they would’ve destroyed another bus stop,” Pat says, a pout evident in his voice. “I think I’m a genius for inviting them over during our ‘movie night date’.”
“That’s my movie night you disrupted—”
“I got them to sit in a room without fighting though!”
Pran huffs, flaring his nostrils, and turns to meet his gaze. Pat looks so proud of himself.
“It’s because your friends are nosy and are more interested in knowing how far we’ve gotten and—” Pran stops, catching himself and the smirk Pat has, and remembers the fake conversations from last night.
“You’re thinking about the oh so romantic first kiss I told them about,” Pat says smugly.
Pran purses his lips. “Shut up.”
“Of course, you are. You’re a romantic at heart, of course you’d want to sweep me off my feet and kiss in the rain while I was confessing about how it was so depressingly lonely—”
Pran doesn’t let him finish.
“You’re the one who came up with it!” Pran slaps his forearm, but he’s smiling because of how stupid the whole thing was. How unexpected it was for Pat to even bring up how much he loved how romantic Pran was around him, even when it was all made up. It ignited a fire in Pran, a need to keep having Pat like this. “’Why, do you want us to be friends?’ Really? That sounds like it’s straight up taken from one of Pa’s shows. I shouldn’t be held responsible for your cheesy ass.”
“I was thinking about you,” Pat sneers. “I thought you’d like all that, so I made those cheesy lines up!”
A boulder drops in Pran’s stomach.
“Was it all lies, then?” Pran finds himself asking. “Did you also make that one up?”
Pat blinks. “That one?”
It was so depressingly lonely without Pran. I just couldn’t let him go again, he remembered Pat saying to their friends last night, cross-legged on the floor and a beer in his hand, looking up at Pran across the room as if he was confessing the truth.
Pran hoped it was true to some extent, his mind wandering to more forbidden wonders, hopefulness glinting through the cracks of their charade. What does he mean? Pran wondered because even friends wouldn’t say things that way. Last night, the melody of the song he wrote in high school as his love for Pat started to bloom from little seedlings of charming smiles and thoughtful acts kept playing in his head as he looked at Pat’s sleeping figure next to him.
Pran tries to look nonchalant. Instead of letting his fingers fiddle around Pat’s forearm, he busies himself with opening the rice cooker and scooping the rice into a bowl. “I meant all of them.”
Pat’s answer comes unwavering, like he can read through Pran's mind. It makes Pran lightheaded.
“You know part of it was,” Pat admits. “Like the kiss. Obviously, we’ve never kissed.” He gazes at Pran as if he's carefully unraveling a secret. “But missing you, Pran? It’s true. I didn’t lie. It was never the same without you, and now you’re here.”
Hearing Pat's answer makes the rifts in his heart turn into a bigger destruction. It bursts open as if a miniature Pat Napat Jindapat is climbing his way inside, claiming his home.
“Now I’m here,” Pran says slowly, in case he chokes on his feelings, “I’m here, pretending to be your boyfriend.”
“Yeah, isn’t that funny?” Pat grins up at him. “Now you have no way of leaving me since everyone thinks you’re my boyfriend.”
Pran’s heartrate spikes. He can’t do this. It feels like there's a flower blooming in his throat. “You know we’re breaking up eventually, right?”
“Praaaaaaaan,” Pat whines, “you’re already ditching me? You can't. We haven’t even had our first kiss yet.”
That shouldn’t make Pran’s heart tumble and melt, but here it goes. Pat makes him feel a rollercoaster of emotions and do ridiculous things, like wonder why the hell Pat is even thinking about kissing him. Pran, ever so willing to break his heart, plays along. “You wanna run up to the rooftop first to prepare your confession? Should I hose down some 'rain' for an extra flare, too?”
“It’s romantic!” Pat pouts sublimely. “And anyway, why me? You could go there first. I was supposed to meet your brooding ass there anyway.”
“Brood—” Pran stutters out in disbelief, turning to poke Pat’s forehead with the end of the rice spatula. “You’re the one who came up with the scenario!”
Pat snuggles closer, unbothered by the faint stamp of red on his forehead. “We both know you’re the sulkier one and I will always helplessly chase after you,” Pat says unquestionably, not realizing the weight of his words.
Pran’s heart floods with warmth. “Well, I’m glad you know that.”
“I know you best!” Pat says with a laugh.
Is it crazy that Pran feels they’re rocking side to side so naturally while talking? Pran’s unsure when they started becoming this comfortable to be wrapped up in each other during this pretense, but he doesn’t want to have it any other way even though he knows he’ll miss it when it ends.
Pat sniffs cutely. “Honestly, that kiss sounds kinda nice and all.”
“But?”
“But I just don’t see us doing that.”
That's painfully devastating. “Kissing?” Pran whispers, the dimples slowly dissipating.
“Not that!” Pat says defensively, which makes Pran eye him. Pat smiles cheekily. “Maybe the rooftop is just too dramatic? You really think we’d kiss in a rooftop under the rain?”
“Well, how do you see us having our first kiss, then?” Pran freezes as the words escape him. He considers adding a snarky retort to compensate his desperate curiosity, but instead his mouth settles into an unconscious pout. He looks away, waiting with bated breath to get Pat’s response.
Then, Pat chuckles, his laughter tugging on Pran’s heart. “I don’t know, something simple. Like this when you’re so pouty, it makes me want to kiss you.”
Pran drops the spatula. It makes a clinking noise, but it doesn’t ring as loud as Pran’s heartbeat drumming in his ears.
Pat wants to what?
“Huh?”
When Pran turns to look at Pat, his eyes are fixed on Pran's lips, and Pran’s heart leaps.
Pran can see the moment Pat’s brows furrow, the realization of what he just said hitting himself. Pran expects him to laugh, to back out of it, but Pat’s eyes are soft and lovely and so incredibly spellbinding that Pran can’t bring himself to look away.
Pat sighs. “You’re making that face again.”
“Huh?"
“The one that makes me really want to kiss you,” Pat says honestly, inching closer to Pran's face.
“Huh,” Pran says again, this time in resignation to Pat’s admission, the knowledge that Pat wants to kiss him making a tidal wave inside him.
Pat squeezes Pran tighter. Everything feels so warm, just like Pat’s breath mingling with his own. “Can I—?”
“...Yes,” Pran breathes out.
With Pat’s propensity to think on his feet and be spontaneous with most things, Pran had imagined their potential first kiss while pretending to date to be like this: in public, in front of their friends, a situation that required them to lock lips in a true fake out fashion.
What he doesn't expect is how simple this kiss could be with just the two of them.
Pat leans in close enough to brush their noses together gingerly. Their eyes lock, gazes filled with conviction, and Pran meets him halfway.
The first press of their lips is soft and tender. It's like kissing the air of spring, an unveiling of a new season. It's unlike the ferocious kisses Pran imagined having with Pat in the heat of the moment. The second one lingers just a little longer, Pat opening his mouth lightly, slotting it perfectly against Pran’s.
And then the warmth of Pat’s lips is gone.
Pran’s eyes widen upon the realization that he’d just kissed Pat—Pat the love of his life!—and starts panicking until he sees the love drunk look on Pat’s face, his pupils blown out, and Pran doesn’t understand why yet, but he knows this isn’t going to be the last one.
Pat just smiles divinely at him, so handsome with his lips so devastatingly glossy, and proves Pran right. Pat leans in for another loud kiss, making Pran’s eyes go wide as saucers.
“Simple,” Pat says. “Just like that.”
Indeed, it's so simple. Kissing Pat is something that sounds like it makes so much sense, like breathing.
“You stole two more kisses from me,” Pran says as a matter of fact. He’s still processing. “Who said you could take more?”
“You didn't say just one!” Pat says, chuckling. “And you definitely enjoyed all three.”
“I’m breaking up with you,” Pran says, truly deeply terrified, although terribly, he means absolutely none of it.
“You’re not going anywhere, baby,” Pat says, smiling deviously at him, then catches Pran's lips for another kiss.
Pat is unquestionably right.
Despite his heart on overdrive, Pran gives as much as he gets from Pat. They kiss like they're dancing to quick beats of tango, matching rhythm and making each other feel as good as they could. Pran deepens the kiss, relishing in how Pat follows so willingly, so perfectly, matching the cadence of the way Pran moves his lips against his. Pran savors the distinct taste of his toothpaste on Pat’s lips, the smell of his body wash on Pat’s skin, the warmth of his body surrounding Pran.
Pran finds himself fixating on Pat’s bottom lip, sucking on it lightly and swiping a tongue against it. Pat trembles happily with a soft hum. The frenzy in Pran amplifies with triumph. Pat is still holding onto him from his back and Pran leans his weight on him, fingers now splayed against the side of Pat’s neck. He can’t help but revel in the way he can feel the goosebumps dotting Pat’s skin, as if Pran’s touch makes him shiver with desire. Pran’s fingertips catch some of Pat’s hair, palm warm against his skin, holding onto Pat tight, giving and taking as much as he can.
Pat turns Pran towards him, maneuvering his hands to comb through Pran’s hair. Pran melts into the kiss, lips parting into a soft exhale as he breaks away. As if Pat can’t stand even just a breath of not kissing Pran, he seizes Pran’s lower lip, catching it in between his teeth. The noise that rolls out of Pran is unbelievably wanting. Pat flashes Pran a prideful grin, and Pran can only respond by kissing that smugness out of him.
They slow down into a waltz. Pran pulls him closer, fingertips spread-out over Pat's back. Pat moves his hands to gently cradle Pran's cheeks, and it feels too sentimental, like Pat wants to savor him just as much as Pran does. It’s dangerous, knowing Pat asked for this. It’s all too much, but still not enough, and Pran has so many questions in his head, but he can’t think much more than how well they’re doing this, just like everything else they do together. Pran revels in it, tracing words he can’t speak aloud in Pat’s mouth, of confessions in the form of songs he wants to serenade Pat with for the rest of eternity.
Having Pat like this—on his lips, the gentle caresses of Pat's fingertips on his cheeks, breath mingling with his—it's addicting, an anomaly that Pran is willing to embrace.
Their lips are still locked in a suddenly too good rhythm they managed to get when they hear a loud snore echo in the room. The sudden panic breaks their kiss apart, both turning with limbs still attached.
Everyone’s still asleep.
“They always have such bad timing,” Pat grouses.
Pran takes it as an opportunity to escape this reality that resembles too much like his dreams come true.
“You owe me more,” Pran says, shoving Pat’s shoulder and turning around. He knows his cheeks are flushed. He knows Pat knows, too, what with the way his eyes gleam curiously at Pran. “Your debt is hiking up.”
Pat, as always, doesn’t let him go easy. He hooks his chin again on Pran’s shoulder, back to where they started from. He puckers his mouth. “Can I pay with more kisses?”
Pran inhales, looking up at the cabinet across him. “You wanna kiss me again?”
“Why not? We can add it to the list of things we need to do as boyfriends.”
Pran isn't sure, but a tiny voice clears the doubts in his mind. Pat doesn't look at him like he stands no chance. It’s intoxicating, living off the possibilities he daydreams of. He can’t bring himself to say no, not when Pat is offering his visions in a platter with a smile that makes it seem like everything else is falling into place.
“Just set the food, will you?”
Pat happily obliges. He watches Pat put down plates on his dining table, arranging the food at the center, making sure that his utensils are aligned.
Pat slides next to him and pecks a dimple Pran didn't even realize was there. “Happy?”
“Ugh, yuck. You’re giving me chills,” Pran says, though his heart is trembling. “Can you just act normally?”
“This is our normal, boyfriend.” Pat flashes him a blinding smile, the cast of the morning light haloing him, then steals another kiss. Pran looks at him, dazed, as if he hasn't spent the last few minutes kissing Pat. “Thanks for making us breakfast, baby.”
“I can't stand you,” Pran says, meaning absolutely none of it.
“You love me,” Pat singsongs jokingly, but Pran irrevocably does already.
As their laughter echoes in the room and wakes their friends up, Pran's heart settles on a hopeful wish: for this to be a vision of a future with Pat. Maybe this could be real, after all.
Somewhere at the back of his head, an unfinished song plays to the tune of the erratic beats from his heart.
Love is nothing else but you.
And somehow, just like that, kissing Pat becomes something Pran eventually gets used to, too.