Archive of Our Own

“I’m hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you. The desperate, aching kind of love. The kind there’s no coming back from. The kind there’s no way out of. The kind that’s going to be the death of me one day.”

- June First by Jennifer Hartmann

i.

It’s summer. In late June, the evening paints itself in golden, orange and pink colors; vibrant, effervescent, bubbly; all apricot hues and pastel tones.

And hot as fucking hell, if you asked Liming.

Pattaya's beach is beautiful at this hour, but not when you're trying very hard not to melt.

“Dipshit,” Liming grumbles. “Stop being a fan hog.”

North Itthiphon Chirathivat sits at his side, naked feet touching the sand underneath his haphazardly arranged seat. He ignores Liming, staring down at the handheld fan between his fingers leisurely. It stares back at him in complicity, like they’re both making fun of Liming, who’s currently burning into a pile of pitch-black ashes next to them with the blazing sun.

The fan is a ridiculous little thing — like everything North owns out of genuine want or on a whim — light purple and with plastic cat ears.

“Oi,” Liming frowns and clicks his tongue, annoyed. “I know you heard me, asshole.”

North does this thing — an horrendous, obnoxiously distracting habit — cocking his head to the side, strong jaw and exposed neck shining apricot-orange in the sunset, hair falling down over his eyes. And then, he smirks. It’s small; barely noticeable if it weren’t for the fact that Liming is able to discern and identify the most minimal changes in North’s usual stoic expression—but it’s there, the corner of his mouth tugging up, a teasing edge making its way to his pretty lips.

Liming scowls. Being so stupidly, irritatingly gorgeous without even doing anything aside from fucking breathing shouldn’t be allowed. Especially not with people like North.

“Give me that,” he grunts, and leans forward, reaching out his hand to grab the fan from North’s selfish fingers.

North doesn’t let him, lifting up his arm out of the way and behind his back; his smile widening, eyes sparkling mischeviously like a naughty cat. Liming does not find that cute.

“Are you five?” he scolds him, bottom lip jutting out, eyebrows knitting together in a scowl. “Oi—”

Smalls fits of chuckles bubble up in North’s throat, a breathy and happy sound, and because Liming becomes a tad bit stupid around North Chirathivat—and a lot more when he’s laughing centimeters apart from Liming’s face—he leans over without looking and falls down flat on his stomach.

North snorts, eyes glinting with glee when Liming gets up — hot sand sticking in his clothes and sweaty skin. He takes a look at him, scanning Liming from head to toe as he breathes in the disaster that's in front of his eyes, and then starts laughing openly. He laughs so hard he holds his stomach, eyes crinkling as the amusement reaches every curve of his face.

Liming’s frown deepens. He's torn between finding North equal parts of dazzlingly charming and frustratingly exasperating. Irritation simmers in his stomach at the same time a storm of butterflies flutters in every curve inside his chest. He pointedly pretends he doesn't care about it, stomping over to North’s laughing form. He bends over, kneels down and stretches over North, taking advantage on the fact that he can’t stop laughing and therefore doesn’t put that much effort in defending the forgotten fan in his hand as Liming snatches it away.

Liming lifts it up in the air like a fist pump; boyish, feral grin on his face as he gives out a triumphant, “Hah! I got it.”

North chuckles, lingering warm laughter still coming out of his mouth as he slowly calms down.

And it’s only then when Liming really looks at him. There, kneeling down in front of him, sitting on his own heels, with North’s legs bumping into him.

(And here’s the thing.

The thing that keeps him up at night and daydreaming during his morning shift; the thing that doesn’t stop wandering his thoughts and running inside his mind, and the thing that’s going to destroy him until there’s nothing left.

North Chirathivat is such a pretty human being. He’s literally the prettiest person that has ever existed.

It’s a fact. As real as the fact that the sky is blue and roses are red and uncle Jim is extremely annoying most of the time when P’Wen is not around. As real as North liking Khao Soi more than any other food, and the fact that Liming is stupidly, hopelessly in love with him.

Liming has been mesmerized by him since the first time he laid eyes on him, squatting down and trying to pet a stray ginger cat behind his uncle’s diner. He had expensive clothes on but, ironically, he was also wearing old tennis shoes, a colorful, handmade bracelet peeking above them on his ankle.

There’s something about the way he looked that Liming couldn’t put into words — not back then, not even now — about his posture and the way his hair fell over his eyes and the relaxing slump of his shoulders… he just seemed the softest someone could look like while watching over a cat stretch over his back.

His eyes focused on Liming as he heard noise, looking up when Liming opened the backdoor to take out the trash. A small, gentle smile was ever-present on his face and there was a cut on his lip and he had the most beautiful doe-eyes he had ever seen, and Liming couldn’t stop staring at him.

And there it was: the moment Liming fell hard, hard for a goddamn complete stranger. There was, sadly, no way back from it. He was helpless, he knew.

It was a whole show, actually; if you asked Liming, it quite felt like stumbling, tripping over and rolling all the way down the stairs eight fucking floors, all to end up hitting himself flat in the fucking face. Yeah, it had quite felt like that. It still feels like that to this day, sometimes.)

Head thrown back, now, the skin of North’s neck glows honey-like, tanned and sun-kissed. His eyes brim with genuine joy, sparkling with glee, and the thought keeps coming back again and again in Liming’s fuzzy brain: North is the prettiest person Liming has ever seen.

North softens up the way people do after they laugh — all delicate edges and tender lingering smiles, gentle eyes and exhaling an angelical aura of mirth so impossibly beautiful it was hard not to fall for it — and smiles at Liming as he rests the palm of his hands on the sand at his sides, leaning back and looking at him through coppery-red, long eyelashes.

He cocks his head, chin up, in a way that shouldn’t make him look so criminally hot, but it does.

“You got it,” he says, with a smile so impossibly fond it makes Liming ache.

He’s never wanted to kiss someone so bad before.

And maybe it’s that North has been learning a lot how to identify social cues, maybe it’s the fact that he’s been staring at Liming for so long to actually read his mind, or maybe Liming wants it so bad that it’s written all over his face with a fucking Sharpie right now, but as he’s thinking about how much he wants to kiss North, North leans forward, reaches out, holds his chin, and does just that: kisses him.

North fucking Chirathivat kisses him. Out of no-fucking-where.

Liming is going to combust.

He barely has time to react— barely has time to reason what is happening as he feels North’s fingers pulling up his chin and the gentle contact of his mouth on Liming’s.

North’s lips are soft, warm and wet, and his skin is all hot as he angles his face to kiss Liming better. He smells like summer breeze and coconut shampoo, and tastes like the strawberry smoothie he was drinking before coming to the beach. Liming grabs North’s shoulders over his shirt, his hands sweaty and shaky in an attempt to steady himself as he tries to make sense of everything. North is all warm and firm skin under Liming’s fingertips, and when he sucks at Liming’s bottom lip in the kiss, Liming’s entire being tingles.

Liming’s mind spins, body heating up as he tries his best to kiss back decently. Because he may not have that much experience, but God damn if he hasn’t wanted to kiss North since the very first day they met.

Liming’s welcoming response must encourage North, because his fingers come up to cup Liming’s face to pull him closer. His thumbs brush over his cheekbones slowly as he deepens the kiss, deliberate, unhurried, tentative—taking his time to pull Liming apart with every brush of his hands and every move of his lips.

Liming is really going to combust.

There’s something about the way North kisses him—it’s less hungry than Liming imagined a kiss from North would be; less demanding and fire-y and much more gentle and experimental. It is hot, however, washing over Liming like a wave of scorching sunlight, burning him from inside out; and a tad bit possessive, in the way North holds the back of his head and doesn’t let him get away, and the way he keeps arching into Liming’s body like he can’t get close enough. It isn’t hungry, but avid and eager, like North had been craving this for so long. Tantalizing, in the way North keeps teasing teeth and tongue in his lips, tasting sweet and tempting, without actually going too far.

Liming had never been kissed like this. North kisses him like he doesn’t want to be doing anything else; wanting, attentive, all-consuming.

Liming feels like time stretches as they kiss—every minute, every second condescended in a cloud of time Liming wishes to be eternal. Then, North finally breaks the kiss, slowly pulling away. His eyes flutter open to stare at Liming’s face as Liming puzzledly tries to keep his composure; dizzy and head too loud to focus as he stares back at him.

He blinks. North still hasn’t let go of his face. And he’s close. Too close. His forehead almost bumps into Liming’s, and his bangs tickle Liming’s eyes. Liming could even count his eyelashes.

He’s so close, so close, so close. His lips are so red, and there’s a faint blush dusting the bridge of his nose, and he looks kissed. Liming can’t believe he just made him look like that. He can see his hands on North’s shoulders trembling, can feel the hot pool simmering on his stomach, can feel the way his heart threatens to rip off his ribcage. He probably looks like a tomato, all stupidly blush-y with how warm the skin of his face feels, too.

There’s silence, and North’s boba-eyes staring at him with a kind of adoration that’s hard to put into words, and Liming’s brain smoking at not knowing how to compute.

He blinks again.

“Why did you do that?” he asks.

His voice sounds weird; all sketchy and quivery— hanging by a thread, teetering on the edge of a cliff.

North shrugs, seemingly oblivious to Liming’s messy mental state.

“I don’t know,” he says, nonchalant, like he didn’t just send Liming’s ability to think to outer space. “I just wanted to.”

Liming blinks, yet again. Slowly.

Wanted to? North "wanted" to? What does that even mean? What?

What?

North keeps staring at him. He doesn’t stop staring. Has he blinked ever since they stopped kissing? Liming can’t stop blinking. Why is North not blinking?

North speaks up again after a moment — how long, Liming wouldn’t know. He hasn’t moved on from the feeling of North’s body against his, and his hands cupping his face, and his mouth sucking on Liming’s lips, poking out his tongue at the end to get a good taste of Liming’s skin. He shivers.

Don’t get hard, Liming. For fuck’s sake.

North tilts his head in that frustratingly adorable way of his, “Are you mad?”

“…No.”

I’m just dying, he doesn’t add.

North nods. “Okay.”

Liming blinks. He’s blinking a lot today. That’s it? So he just… they just…? That’s it?

“You can have the fan if you want,” North says, poking at Liming’s hips with his index finger. “Sorry for teasing you.”

North’s lips tug up in a playful smirk. He traces Liming’s jawline with his thumb, eyes following the move before darting up to Liming’s eyes. Liming’s mind buzzes at the contact; he hates how much power North’s touch holds into him.

“But you know,” he singsongs, voice velvety and alluring. “You’re just the cutest thing when you’re being teased.”

Liming splutters. Well, nothing is going to make him cool down now.

“You dumbass!”

North pouts, looking like he’s trying very hard to hold back laughing. Familiar amusement etches in his features as he teases a, “You’re really red. Are you okay, nong? Are you having a heatstroke or am I just too hot for you?”

Liming huffs.

“You’re not hot.”

That’s a blatant lie, but whatever the hell. He’s a menace.

“Aow,” North’s grin is absolutely obnoxious, but also so ridiculously gorgeous. Liming wants to kick his ass but also kiss him again. “I strongly disagree, and I think you do so as well.”

“Shut up.”

Liming gets up and starts walking away.

“Liming,” North whines behind him. “Come back here!”

He flips him off over his shoulder, and North’s smile twitches. “Fuck off! You’re annoying!”

He gets away from the blazing sun, a very clingy North following suit after him.

However, no matter how far he is from the torrid beach, Liming’s face doesn’t cool down for the rest of the day.

.

.

It’s not the only time he does it—the kissing thing, or whatever the hell North thinks he’s doing.

Next day, he goes to visit him at work, and as Liming is turning around to say hello, North is already leaning over the counter to greet him with a kiss. He pecks Liming’s lips once, right in front of Saleng’s face and every single customer. Liming thanks every god up there that his uncle just went out to buy something and he’s not there to witness this mess.

“Hi,” North says in a cheerful and innocent tone, apparently clueless to Liming’s mental state spiraling out of reach as he grins lovingly at Liming.

Liming barely manages not to choke on air as he croaks out a strangled, “hey” and “you’re here early”.

“My last class was canceled. And I was excited,” North explains, casually.

And, okay, yes, North has been waiting for a long time for that movie they're going to watch later, but is he that excited? Is it such a joyful thing that he kisses Liming out of enthusiasm? Is Liming trapped in a long dream? Is he in a fucking coma and hallucinating now? Is it just a normal thing for North to go out of his way and kiss his friends? What the actual fuck is going on?

“I’ll wait for you at the back,” North continues, and lifts up the bag he’s holding. “I brought Ongsa’s food to eat at your break; she made your favorite,” he makes a cute little pout, “I swear she likes you more than me.”

He waves a hand goodbye and disappears at the backdoor then, leaving Liming speechless and flabbergasted and stupid.

(It’s hell trying to explain that to Saleng, especially with all the incoherent rambling and incessant teasing that follows, and especially when Liming himself doesn’t get it.)

And it’s not only that one peck.

Days later, he kisses him goodbye at the entrance of Liming’s home—sweet and warm, sneaking possessive fingers to hold Liming’s hips while he cutely nips at his upper lip and steps back a second later; leaving Liming’s mind buzzing and all of his warmth lingering in Liming’s tingly lips.

Two days after that, he steals a kiss while they watch a movie in North’s phone, in his room. A couple of playful pecks that turn into butterflies-inducing, open-mouthed kisses that make them both forget about the movie altogether.

And he keeps doing it. He kisses Liming when they’re alone, and when they’re in front of other people, too. He cups his face and holds the back of his head and draws lazy lines over his neck. He grabs Liming’s hips with searing fingers and plays with the hem of Liming’s shirts and teases the skin of his collarbones and back and belly. He sucks his lips and nibbles at them, and, once he starts getting bolder, he dips his tongue and licks inside Liming’s mouth.

One time, he makes out with him in Liming’s room, rolling over the bed to hover above Liming’s body, caging him against the mattress as his hands sneak under Liming’s tee, warm fingers roaming over now exposed skin. North’s heavy breathing ghosting warm in the infinitesimal space between them, lips teasing Liming’s jaw and the side of his neck and devouring Liming’s mouth like he was starving for it— Liming’s hands pulling at North’s hair and touching everywhere they could hold onto, grabbing North’s broad shoulders and firm chest and rolling hips— it had felt fucking fantastic; for lack of a better word to describe just how wonderful of an experience it was to have such a pretty boy kissing you senseless in your bed.

It was getting too good, with North venturing to unexplored spaces; hands lingering on Liming’s thighs, fingers solid at the arch of his back, brushing up and up and up, slow and deliberate over the delicate bones, hot mouth everywhere on Liming’s neck. One time, he sucks Liming’s collarbone so hard he leaves a mark.

Another day, he pins Liming to the wall behind the gym at his campus and kisses his brains out, when Liming visits him at college. He grabs Liming’s wrists to keep him from moving, and grins against his lips at every small embarrassing sound Liming keeps letting out in North’s greedy mouth.

It’s hella difficult to make uncle Jim calm down when he finds out— biting Liming’s ear off with a long, boring, irritating lecture after he finds them making out at the back of the diner, all messy clothes, swollen lips and completely disheveled, North’s hands glued to Liming’s back under his shirt. P’Wen helps a lot with that, as Liming just scowls and rolls his eyes at every word his uncle keeps saying and doesn’t really explain anything.

In his defense, his uncle didn’t really seem like he wanted to listen to him— as much as he had gotten better at trying to understand Liming, this seemed like a heavy topic to touch for him. Liming didn’t really see the need to justify himself either, because, yes, uncle, he was very gay; and so, what was the fucking problem with that?

P’Wen had a lot of work to do, talking with them both separately and then together to make amends. It had just ended with Liming agreeing to be ‘more careful’ if he was gonna be making out with North in public, for his uncle’s peace of mind; and his uncle decided to not make any comment on his decisions to date whoever he wanted. Liming didn’t really want to clarify that they probably weren’t even dating, because that would have made everything worse, and his uncle was already in good terms with all of this, so he didn’t mention anything about the unlabeled situation where he was standing in.

It’s strange. North and him don’t really talk about it or bring it up either, as if the whole kissing and making out thing was something normal between them since the beginning. After a month, Liming is so used to it he doesn’t even question it anymore whenever North does it.

So, when North brings it up, one day they’re hanging out in Liming’s room, Liming doesn’t know what to say.

Liming is playing games on his phone and watching videos about bartending, while North is supposedly finishing an essay for his class, but he’s too quiet, and Liming can sense something is off with him. Not only because he hasn’t been clingy all day, trying to get Liming’s attention off from his phone and back to him, but also because he usually babbles on a lot, trying get away with skipping his homework before Liming notices and calls him out on it.

“Are you spacing out again, moron?” he asks. “You’ve been looking at the same page for a while.”

Instead of answering that, North looks up with concerned eyes, a line growing between his eyebrows that Liming immediately wants to smooth away with his thumb.

“Are you uncomfortable with what we’re doing?” he blurts out.

Liming arches an eyebrow. “Am I uncomfortable with you ignoring your work and lazing around in my room? No, I’m used to it. I don’t know how you manage to always get high notes, you lucky bastard. I guess it’s because you’re irritatingly smart, but still—”

North shakes his head.

“No, not this,” North cuts him off, frowning, “I mean—are you uncomfortable with the kisses?”

Liming blinks. “…What?”

“I—” North moves to be in a sitting position instead of lying over his stomach, and looks at Liming’s eyes, earnest. “Mek— one of my dumb classmates— saw us today, at the gym, after my soccer match—” he looks down, then up, then down again, fingers flexing as he fidgets. “I don’t mind… if people see us, I mean; but he… he said some really stupid, awful things about you, and I got— I got really mad. And I just kept thinking, over and over again… I was thinking that I don’t…” he stumbles over his words, then just trails off and looks down at his book.

Liming watches him. North is very ramble-y, especially when he’s whining or excited about something, but this is different. He’s never tripped over his own words, stuttering and tangled into whatever he’s trying to say. He almost looks nervous now.

Oh.

Oh.

So this is it. The end of it. North is going to break up whatever they’re doing.

Liming expected it, at some point. It was all really too good to be true. ‘I was thinking, that I don’t want this’, he’ll probably say. ‘I was thinking, that I don’t feel like doing this anymore’.

Liming should’ve seen this coming. He should, long ago. Still, though, it really fucking hurts. For a moment, he can feel his own heart sinking to his stomach, the depth of his loss already growing roots into his ribcage.

But when North opens his mouth, he sounds desperate, “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, instead. “I’ll never want that.”

Liming looks up, caught off guard, heart stuttering in his chest as he wonders at the back of his head if he heard him wrong.

“I just—” North says, “I like kissing you. I really do. I— I like what we’re doing,” a pause; he looks down again, and when he looks up, his eyes are impossibly sad. It takes all of Liming’s strength to not go and hug him right away. “Is that wrong?”

Liming opens his mouth, but North doesn’t let him talk.

He shakes his head instead and goes on, saying, “I was thinking that it’s always me who initiates it, and I never even asked if you wanted it too, I’m such an idiot,” he curls his hands into fists, and his shoulders shake. “But if you’re not okay with it I’ll stop,” he says, looking serious, “I promise.”

Liming stares. Gears turn inside his head, and he feels like someone just ripped his chest open.

He moves, scooting over on the bed until his knees touch North’s. North’s eyes are glued to his lap, fixated on his fidgety hands.

“Hey, look at me,” Liming says, gentle, and when North does—eyes brimming with feeling—Liming leans forward and kisses him.

It’s long, unhurried, and Liming takes his time to appreciate every curve and line in North’s face with his fingers as he tastes his mouth, cupping his face. He’s warm and soft and all kinds of sweet, and Liming wouldn’t have him any other way.

When they break apart, North stares at him dizzily, blinking slowly as if waking up from a nice dream. Liming’s mouth curls up in an amused, ridiculously fond smile.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” he says. “In fact, I’m very much the opposite. I like kissing you too, idiot,” he reassures, even if the word ‘like’ sounds like a big understatement. “Why do you think I’ve been kissing you back all this time? I would have kicked your ass long ago if I didn’t like what you’re doing.”

North huffs out a laugh.

“That’s true…”

“It is. Who do you take me for?”

The left of North’s mouth tugs up. He softens up like marshmallows warmed in hot chocolate.

He holds Liming’s hand, thumb caressing over his knuckles. “Sorry for never asking first.”

Liming thumps his forehead against North’s, and looks directly at the intense and burning dark caramel of North’s pretty eyes.

“I like this,” he says, in a whisper, as if it was a secret shared between them in the quiet of Liming’s room. “I want this.”

“I want it, too,” North answers, just as quiet; just as raw.

“Good,” Liming says. “I’d feel weird if you stopped kissing me at this point. Like something would be missing.”

North smiles, saccharine and syrupy and like happiness is bubbling out of him. He’s so devastatingly beautiful.

“You’re a really good kisser.”

Liming smirks, boastful. “I’m the best fucking kisser, excuse you.”

(He doesn’t add that the way North curls his tongue inside Liming’s mouth makes Liming’s knees go weak and his mind all strikingly blank. He’s not giving the gold medal too easy. He’ll get better if they keep kissing, that’s all.)

North laughs. Liming likes the way North’s joy tastes in his mouth when he kisses him once again a second later.

.

.

.

.

ii.

“What color do you think my eyes are?”

North is wearing the same cyan jacket he was wearing the first summer day they met as he walks Liming home one evening after work, and Liming gets a bit distracted before giving him a curious look.

He arches an eyebrow, “Why do you ask?”

North pouts, bottom lip jutting out. “Just answer the question, Mingming.”

Liming splutters, face warming up.

“Ming—” he stutters. “W-What did you just call me?”

North tilts his head, mouth quirking up.

“What?” he drawls, eyes sparkling with teasing mirth. “Don’t you like it? It’s like your affectionate names for me.”

“Do you mean moron?” Liming deadpans.

North’s smile turns dry.

“Ha-ha,” he utters, sarcasm dripping from his voice. He nudges Liming’s side with his elbow, voice going whiny. “Just answer the question, nong.”

Liming hums, leaning into North’s personal space just because he can; taking on his slim chances, like a dumbass. He supposes he is a big stupid guy around North Chirathivat.

He looks up, staring at North’s eyes like he hasn’t done that a million times already.

“They’re hazel,” he says, then crinkles his nose. “No, wait— honey? Maybe.”

He decides on that, because “the color of autumn with a hint of golden summer” sounds a bit too poetic for his taste and also pretty much fucking embarrassing, considering all the other ridiculous colors he’s thinking of every time he looks at North’s eyes (the color of caramelized chocolate; a warm cinnamon-coffee; kind tawny; soft, sun-kissed brown; starry coppery; comforting, dripping-honey green; and the deepest, most gentle hickory—), like a high school teen twirling their hair as they see their dreamy crush across the classroom.

In his defense, though, North’s eyes were a new kind of mesmerizing. Sunburst; like a rainbow changing color from the center to the outline of his irises. They were amber on the center, dripping to a light brown and golden sepia, closing with a green hue as bright as rain-kissed grass on the limbal ring. They were so different to every single pair of eyes Liming had ever seen.

“Hazel?” North echoes, humming, doing that thinking pose he does where he holds his chin like a human emoji. It would be comical if only North didn’t do literally anything and looked like a graceful model every goddamn time. “Really? Ongsa and Sun said different colors, too. Sun says they’re brown, but my sister swears they’re green.”

“That’s because your eyes are a color that doesn’t exist,” Liming says before his brain-mouth filter starts working. “Too brown to be green, too green to be brown, too warm to be dark chocolate, too strong to be honey or golden—”

He stops. Freezes.

Uh.

North blinks.

Liming clears his throat, neck itching, ears getting furiously warm, “Not that I give a single fuck about your stupid eyes,” he mumbles.

North snorts, amused. He walks and stops in front of Liming, leaning over so he can look at Liming’s face as he looks away in embarrassment, averting North’s searching gaze.

“Are you shy, Mingming?” he teases. Liming can hear the smile in his voice.

“As if. Stop calling me that.”

“Mmm.”

North links his arms behind his back, a small smile drawing itself in his face as he starts walking backwards — it’s the one that looks all soft and endeared and special; quiet and secretive, like it’s only reserved for Liming, for their private moments.

“You know, I wrote a poem for literature class.”

Liming quirks an eyebrow, puzzled. He looks back at North. What does that have to do with anything now?

“…That so?”

“Yes,” North says, tilting his head adorably, and his smile grows, eyes sparkling like they hold the entire starry sky in them. Liming is pretty sure the way North looks at him could make anyone fall to their knees and declare their eternal love for him. “I wrote about your eyes.”

He’s so distracted looking at how goddamn stunning North is walking backwards that his words don’t register properly in Liming’s mind. Three seconds later, when it finally clicks and settles inside his brain like a broken record, Liming chokes.

“What?”

“I wrote about your eyes,” North repeats, patting Liming’s shoulder as he smiles. “You have pretty eyes.”

Liming glares out of shyness. He can feel his whole face getting hot. Goddammit.

“Coming from you, that sounds like an irony.”

North’s so-ever-present pout makes an appearance once again. “Why?”

“Because you have the prettiest eyes anyone has ever fucking seen,” Liming says, and then wants to smack his head against a wall until he can’t remember he said that to North’s face.

Said pretty idiot blinks. “You just called them stupid?”

“Yeah, they are. They’re also stupidly pretty, asshole,” Liming grunts. “Thank you very fucking much for the call-out.”

North laughs, throwing his head back, holding his stomach. “Stupidly pretty?”

“Stop laughing,” Liming grumbles.

North does stop, but his eyes are so full of glee and his face is drenched in amusement and so impossible gentle fondness that Liming thinks this is worse.

“So sweet, my beloved nong,” he grins, eyeing Liming cheekily.

Before Liming can counter back with anything, North leans down slightly and kisses Liming’s cheek (which successfully manages to make Liming’s face steam with how fucking warm it feels; mind buzzing like radio static.)

“You’re really cute,” North singsongs, all smiley-eyes and warm lips still ghosting over Liming’s cheek.

Liming flips him off. “And you’re very annoying.”

North’s elated grin doesn’t falter one bit. “That’s what you like about me.”

Liming hates the way he can’t even deny that.

.

.

(The thing, it’s not the first time North calls him cute. It’s a common occurrence at this point, but it still manages to get Liming flustered as hell. He’s pretty sure he’ll die of a heart attack one day because of it.

Cause of decease: A pretty guy calling him cute, cute, cute while kissing his cheek and teasing him and writing poems about the color of his eyes. He’ll be gone like a lovestruck loser.

Yes. That’s what they’ll put at his gravestone: Liming Loetphong Nueangna-uam. Pattaya, Bang Lamung District, Chonburi, Thailand. 2002-2022. RIP. Will be missed. Lived a decent life. A lovestruck dumbass; an excellent cook. Majoring in: Being in love with North Itthiphon Chirathivat, the prettiest guy on Earth.

Guh. He’s so fucked.)

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iii.

It’s cold; as cold as a rainy Tuesday could get in October. The gelid fingers of the autumn’s wind bite at his skin, but the breath ghosting over his neck is so warm Liming doesn’t even care.

Liming hisses when freezing fingertips brush against his ribs under his shirt, “Asshole.”

North hums, pressing one, two, three nails and drawing them down, down, down, all across Liming’s chest to the sprinkle of moles he remembers having kissed one day in Liming’s stomach. Liming trembles at the contact, breath hitching, muscles flexing under North’s fingertips attention.

“Sorry,” North whispers; lips trailing down the column of Liming’s neck—soft, avid, needy—as if to placate Liming’s grumbles with gentleness; it makes Liming shiver in the darkness of the room, arching into the touch, craving, longing, wanting.

He inhales, shaky as North takes his time savoring the skin of his shoulder and collarbone, as he tastes his pulse carefully with his tongue. He smells the ink of antique books, the ocean of Pattaya’s beach and North’s syrupy scent in his room. The bed beneath him feels soft, and all he can think of is North, North, North. Liming feels him— all around him, under his hands, close, close, close.

Soon, there are hands on his hips and legs bracketing his thighs, and a burning tongue is trying to memorize the inside of his mouth as he’s pushed back into North’s pillow.

North moves back after a moment, breaking apart to breathe, cupping Liming’s cheek with one hand as he stares down at him. His gaze is piercing; attentive and full of wonder and aching, unfiltered want; etched with concern as he calls for him, “Liming.”

Liming doesn’t pay him any mind, tilting his chin up to follow after North’s lips and kiss the way his name tastes in North’s mouth.

North frowns slightly as they break apart again.

“Are you okay with this?” he breathes, hands caressing Liming’s cheekbones.

There’s saliva on his jaw, and Liming should think it’s gross— he should, definitely, but he doesn’t. At all. He holds North’s chin and leans in close to drag his tongue messily over it. He bites down at the skin under his jaw, then kisses a path all the way up to that sensitive spot behind North’s ear, the one that has him always pulling at Liming’s hair— Liming kisses it gently, then sucks, hard, and North’s breath stutters, a guttural sound escaping from his mouth as his fingers dig into Liming’s scalp.

“Liming,” he tries again. “Liming— is this okay?”

Liming shivers, burning from the inside out as North’s fingers brush over his shoulder blades, as he lets himself be touched and be washed in North’s all-consuming warmth; as North looks at him intently, like he wants to remember every inch of skin in Liming’s body, like he wants to treasure every breath Liming takes, like he wants to record every single one of Liming’s expressions and sounds inside his brain.

“Yeah,” Liming rasps. “It’s okay. ’m okay. You?”

North nods.

“’kay…” he groans, eyes scanning everywhere across Liming’s face, darting down to Liming’s body lying down on his bed like he can’t believe he’s really there. “Liming, you’re so—”

Liming smirks. He kisses one, two, three times at the corner of his mouth as he whispers, “You’re so pretty, North.”

North shakes his head, resting his forehead on Liming’s shoulder and breathing slowly; it’s hot over Liming’s skin. The weight of North’s head feels comforting and cozy, like the slope of Liming’s shoulder was carved for him; like it belonged to North. Maybe it did.

“You’re the pretty one, Ming.”

Liming hums, hand resting at the back of North’s head, carding between soft strands of hair. “Really?”

North groans again, like Liming’s simple touch is doing things to him. “Yes, you—it’s. Yes.”

Liming laughs, breathy. “A bit incoherent there, huh, pretty boy?”

North looks up at him. Sometimes, North gives him that look—like he can’t believe Liming is real, like he’s never felt so lucky. And call him a goddamn sap, but it makes him want to cry, most of the time. He doesn’t know how to react being looked at with so utter unapologetic, genuine affection.

“It’s just—” he glances pointedly at Liming’s lips, then runs his thumb over them like they’re something delicate. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, tracing Liming’s mouth softly, the pad of his finger brushing against his lips over and over again like he’s in love with them and can’t look away.

Liming parts his lips, poking North’s thumb with his tongue experimentally. The touch is tentative and slow, but the face North makes sends all of Liming’s blood south.

Holy fuck.

North’s eyes darken, a pool of unending hunger swimming in them as he looks at Liming like he wants to take all of him into his mouth. The depth of his desire is frankly unexpected, but not unwelcomed; it makes Liming feel electrified, fizzing and dizzy and lightheaded. Messy and hot; mind a scorching place full of North.

He grabs North’s wrist and guides his hand as he licks and sucks his index and middle finger into his mouth. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but judging by the way North is staring, he must be enjoying it.

Liming likes the power—there’s something so wonderful and exhilarating about wanting and being wanted in return; about being desired as much as he does.

He smirks around North’s mouth, devilish and absolutely delighted to have this undivided attention on him, eyes glinting in the dark. “D’you want me to give you a blowjob, phi?”

North makes a choked, broken sound, and Liming chuckles.

“Is that a yes?” he says, moving his hand away to kiss North’s lips.

North moans in Liming’s mouth, a whimpering mess. “Liming.”

Hm. He likes the way his name tastes in North’s tongue.

He hums and works on unbuttoning North’s pants.

North holds his arm, fingers wrapping around Liming’s wrist. His chest haves and he takes a moment to speak, like he can barely keep himself together under Liming’s burning gaze, “Wait, but you—”

“I’m more than fine with that,” Liming says, already knowing what North is going to say.

The thing is, Liming’s confidence comes out of nowhere, mostly. It’s not like he’s done this before, but he knows he wants it. He knows he wants to try it. The only thing encouraging him being North’s needy eyes and his own pulsing desire; empowered by how delightful it is to have North become a melting disaster at the mere mention of Liming’s offer.

North looks torn between his own want and the worry of forcing Liming into this, so Liming leans in to whisper in North’s ear the final blow; the thing that’s gonna be the last straw in North’s dripping hunger.

He wants North to enjoy it. He wants him to lose his mind, to wreck him and let himself feel as North comes undone in front of his very eyes because of him; he wants him to do whatever he wants with Liming.

“Fuck my mouth,” he rasps. The request rolls out of his mouth like honey; velvety and husky as Liming’s lips suck on the tender skin of North’s earlobe. “I’d like it if you did that.”

(And oh, would he like it.

How many times has he jerked off just thinking about it? One day, he’ll tell North, if only for the face he’ll make after.)

He can feel as North quite melts into Liming’s touch at his words, body pulsing hot as he leans in to messily kiss Liming’s lips.

Liming smiles into the kiss. He can feel North slowly edging into erratic, flustered moves; his kissing becoming more wet and careless and desperate.

“You’re insane,” North gasps.

Liming grins, almost purring, “I’ve been told.”

“I wanna fuck you so bad,” North rasps, voice low and deep and needy.

Liming shivers, “Then do it.”

“Fuck,” North frowns, kissing Liming over and over again. “Fuck. Liming, you—”

“Just do it,” Liming whispers, holding North’s face.

“Tell me— if you don’t— like it,” North whispers between kisses.

“Will do, worrywart,” Liming grins, sweet and feral and chaotic, all at once; eyes burning. “I’ll wreck you first.”

North laughs— a breathy, shaky, whiny sound. “Is that a challenge?”

Liming’s voice is full of ecstatic want; and complete, unwavering elation. “A promise.”

(Liming thinks he does a pretty decent job for his first time, if North’s clingy hands and thrusting hips and incoherent gasps and broken moans calling his name are any indication of it.

At the end, Liming really does wreck him.

After all, he’s not a liar. He keeps his promises.)

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iv.

Liming is looking up, standing on his small balcony, admiring the morning sky in a leisure Sunday.

He never had the luxury of a balcony before P’Wen came and started making small changes in the house, which included listening to one of Liming’s incessant requests. It is a pretty view, so in retrospect, it was worth all the begging.

The rising sun casts a rosy hue across the city, cascading softly on the streets; golden fingers of sunlight lighting up the scene. The blue canvas is dotted with fluffy white clouds that drift lazily in the gentle breeze, just peeking above buildings and colorful houses.

He hears shuffling behind him, and he looks over his shoulder in time to see North opening the window and peeking through with half-lidded eyes.

“Hey,” Liming says.

North answers with a sleepy smile and a hum, walking over to him in the small space.

He’s wearing Liming’s shirt — a V-neck that leaves his attractive collarbones on full display — and boxers, and he looks as gorgeously messy as he does every morning after they have sex. It’s such a beautiful blessing, Liming thinks, to be able to look at North’s bedhead and swollen lips and the red, purple-ish marks that Liming left on his skin. To be able to look at him like this.

“Mooornin’,” North mumbles, and shoots Liming one of the most charming smiles he’s ever seen—all delicate and soft and overjoyed.

North looking happy makes Liming a tad bit stupid—in a good sense. And bubbly; happier himself. It’s not like North has ever been less than absolutely breathtaking, but Happy North wins over a lot of Norths—including the horny one that wants to jump Liming at whatever chance he has.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Liming says, and shoots him a small smirk of his own. “Give me your hand.”

It’s funny how North doesn’t even question it and just does as he’s told. It’s also a pretty big deal, considering it implies just how much trust he has on Liming—but if he thinks too much about that he’ll probably burst into tears.

“Close your eyes,” he instructs. Again, North does as he’s told without a single complain.

Liming takes a small, quick trip to his room before coming back.

“You can open them now,” he says.

North blinks.

“Happy birthday, dumbass,” Liming smiles, and then puts a muffin in North’s extended hand. It’s his favorite one—chocolate flavored. Liming took the liberties with the usual decoration of the ones they sell at the bakery he helps at sometimes; this one is half wiped cream and white chocolate, and half strawberry jelly.

North stares down at his hand and then looks up at Liming, starry-eyed.

“You remembered,” he says, softly, seemingly in awe.

Liming hides his hands inside his pockets so he doesn’t do anything silly, like hold North’s face and kiss him stupid. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t tell him he remembers everything about him. All sort of useless details about the way he acts, or the things he likes. Like the way he likes his tea and the way he lights up every time Liming tells him he saved him one of his favorite chocolate-chip cookies, and the way he puts five spoons of sugar in his coffee, and the way he rubs his fingers when he’s sleepy, and the way he keeps making delighted sounds every time he eats mango sticky rice, and the way he likes to unbutton his shirts with only one hand.

“Of course I did, idiot.”

North smiles, soft.

“Thank you,” he holds the muffin with both hands like he’s afraid of breaking it apart if he doesn’t. “Did you make it yourself?”

“Mmn.”

North’s eyes glint, like storing the sun inside themselves. “Really? Thank you, that makes me happy.”

Liming shrugs, as if to take off importance of it, hip leaning against the balcony. “There’s also cake downstairs.”

North softens up entirely, like he knows exactly how much time Liming spent baking it.

“Is it the red velvet one?”

Liming nods once, a tad bit shy, cheeks getting hot. “…And shortcake.”

North laughs. He looks so warm. “I thought you didn’t want me to eat so much sugar.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “It’s one day. I can indulge you.”

North’s smile is the prettiest thing in the whole world. “Thank you,” he says again, and his voice goes all soft. “You’re really kind, Liming.”

Kind. People don’t usually use that word to describe him, but North does. He thinks he’s heard P’Ongsa call him that too, but that’s probably all of her brother’s influence.

“I’m just giving you a gift for your birthday,” he reaches out and ruffles North’s hair. “Stop thanking me. You deserve that and more.”

North hums, smiling tenderly.

Liming’s face starts getting warmer under North’s gentle gaze, so he turns around and gets inside his room. North follows after him.

“Do you want to do something today?” he asks.

“Hmm,” North utters, contemplative, “Cuddling?”

“Idiot,” Liming starts, but cuts himself off before saying ‘we do that a lot anyway’ and tries with, “Don’t you want to go out somewhere? I can take you wherever you want.”

North perks up. “Really?”

“If the trip isn’t longer than three hours so I can come back to work tomorrow than yes,” he says. “I’m pretty sure I can convince P’Leng to lend me his bike. Or P’Wen if you’d prefer a car. Think about it while I go and take a shower, okay? Your breakfast is downstairs.”

North visibly lights up. “Okay.”

Liming smiles.

There’s something about North that makes Liming want to make him the happiest person alive.

.

.

(“You know, I appreciate you taking me on a little trip for my birthday, nong, but I already like Pattaya a lot.”

Liming quirks an eyebrow. “Do you?”

North beams. “Yeah.”

“It’s pretty,” Liming concedes. “But I guessed Bangkok would be a lot more exciting than here.”

“Well, Pattaya has something Bangkok doesn’t. It adds too many good points.”

“And what is that?”

North smiles like he has the secret of the universe at the tip of his tongue.

“It has you.”

It’s cheesy and sappy as hell, and also pretty dorky, but it has Liming becoming a blushing, flustered, spluttering mess over breakfast just after North says it anyway.

“Idiot.”

North laughs. And, during that moment, everything seems to be okay with the world.)

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v.

“You’re always wearing those old sneakers,” Liming comments one day, sitting on the back porch of North’s small home. They’re alone, as P’Ongsa is out with P’Sun doing an errand, and North is talking about which ones used to be his grandma’s favorite flowers when she was alive.

The grass is a vivid green; the flowers a canvas full of a storm of different colors—violet, blue, red. Orange, yellow, white. Dappled sun filters through the tall trees at North’s backyard.

North is silent for a moment as he touches an orange-yellow tulip between careful fingers. His lips tug into a taciturn smile; and Liming can discern the sad edge on it immediately.

“They were a gift from my mother,” he says, and prods at one of the old shoes with his index finger. “She didn’t know my shoe size, so they were a bit too big back then. They fit now, though.”

Liming hums. Mother? North never talks about her. Not that he talks a lot about his family in general, to be fair. Other than his grandma, who raised him when he was a little kid, he barely mentions anyone else. Besides a summary of how awful and neglecting his father was, and how he got a few of his scars by being physically abused by him, and the way he ended up moving to his step-sister’s home, there’s not much he’s said to Liming. He always avoids the topic. He always gets moody when his father calls. He won’t talk to Liming for hours and just sleep whenever he gets into a fight with P’Ongsa, like it affects him too much. He doesn’t talk a lot about his step-mom either, but he seems to have a good relationship with her, at least.

Liming has the big picture: an abusive home, being the oldest guy in the line of his family’s children putting way too much pressure on him to be nothing but excellent; perfect; flawless. A shitty father that barely cared about him besides the expectations that were put on him. Feeling like never enough; being too used to being hit that sometimes he still flinched whenever he heard his father’s voice on the phone.

Liming gets it. He’d never get the extension of how terrible it all must have been for him, but he gets that it’s something hard for him to talk about. So he never pushes. He wouldn’t want to overstep his boundaries. He’s sure North would talk whenever he feels like it, and if he ever wants it.

Now, under the dim sunlight, North breathes— and his shoulders look heavy, and he looks terribly lonely.

“She killed herself,” he says, without looking up. “Summers before I came here to live with my sister. I was fifteen.”

Liming blinks. The newly revealed information sinks inside himself painfully slowly; dark and ugly as it scratches his insides so hard he thinks he’s going to bleed.

“I didn’t… know her. Not really,” North continues, “Funny, because she was my mom, but she never— we never truly had a relationship, you know? She never talked to me. She didn’t want me around. She would avoid being there whenever I was in the same room. Eventually, I just… stopped trying to have something with her.”

A pause. Time stills and comes to a halt; the same way Liming’s heart stops functioning for a moment.

“But her death still hurt me. A lot,” North picks on a flower and breathes. Breathes, breathes, breathes; like he’s forgotten how to and is trying to get air into his lungs again. “I wondered why it did. I wondered that for so long. Why did it hurt me? I used to ask myself that. It’s not like she cared that much about me.”

He huffs out a small chuckle, but it sounds anything but cheerful. It’s a broken sound, a pained thing—it tugs at Liming’s heartstrings; it hurts more than he can express into words.

“In fact, I think she hated me,” he says. “No, I don’t think so, actually. She made it very clear. I was just the ‘resembling image of Him’ to her. Only that. She kept saying it. Over and over. She kept saying how I was the Spitting Image of Him. How she looked at me and couldn’t see anything else. And I guess she was right, in a way—”

“North—”

“She hated me as much as she hated him,” he says. “And I don’t blame her, you know? I know how much he hurt her. I know how much she had to go through being married to someone like him. I know I look like him, I used to hate seeing myself in the mirror because of it. And I know that I was just a reminder that she couldn’t leave. That she would never escape him. It’s just normal that she didn’t want me.”

It quite feels like a pang going off inside Liming’s chest. He feels worse and worse with every passing word being said.

“But she gave me these,” North says, and then looks up to smile at Liming. It’s soul-crushing; full of sorrow underlying the gentle surface, and it breaks Liming’s heart. It stomps on it, over and over and over again. “I want to treasure them.”

Liming is quiet for a moment. He’s so devastated he doesn’t know what to say to make anything better. He’s not sure he can make anything better.

“Did she also wrote that?” Liming asks; his voice barely a whisper.

He doesn’t point at anything, but he doesn’t need to. North knows what he’s talking about. The faded ink is barely there, but it’s visible; and the words ‘fuck you, old man’ are still a striking blue against the pale gray of North’s sneakers.

“No, that was all on me,” North chuckles, and it’s all watery and trembling, like he’s holding back tears. Then, he looks down at his feet in silence. When he looks up again, his eyes are a storm full of emotions. “Am I weird for being hurt? For missing her even though she never wanted me to be alive?” he asks; broken, raw, desperate. “Don’t you think it’s unfair of me? To miss her even though my existence made her so hurt?”

It feels like drowning in a pitch-black abyss—watching North so hurt; so pained; so full of a throbbing agony on his shoulders that would probably never fade away completely.

Liming can't breathe; his lungs don’t work properly for a moment, and it aches. His throat burns, his eyes sting. It feels like a million needles pinch at his chest.

It’s suffocating, asphyxiating; and it hurts. Severely. It burns and crawls under his skin like it belongs there: the pain, the hurt, the anger. It feels like he's being ripped open. He wants to carry North’s pain and burden it himself; he wants to take it away from him.

“You’re not weird,” he says finally, throat tight, and it’s quiet. “Wanting to use the sneakers your mother gave you as a gift isn’t weird at all. You can love people even if they’re assholes, you know,” he stares, and North stares back. “Love doesn’t give a fuck about these things.”

Liming wouldn’t mind breaking, if only it meant North wouldn’t look so sad.

“And you’re in the right to be hurt. No one can tell us what is right to feel or not feel,” he adds, because it's important he knows that. “I may not… know everything about your mother’s circumstances, and I’m not asking you to tell me if you don’t want to speak about it, but whatever made her feel that way, whatever made her do that— none of it is your fault. None. So stop thinking it was. You were just a kid. You were just as hurt as her. You deserved love, you still do. And you’re your own person—you’ve always been; you’re not anyone else, and much less your shitty fucking old man. You’re not him, North. You’ll never be, it doesn’t matter if you look like him.”

North is silent for a moment. Liming’s brain buzzes, like it’s full of raw static, and then— North starts crying. And once he does, he can’t stop. He cries, and cries, and cries— like letting all of his pain out. Like he’s hold it in for too long.

It’s like watching a blooming flower ripping under a storm, quiet but so, so, so horrible.

Liming breaks. He’s never felt so fucking shitty in his entire life.

He moves closer. “Hey," he reaches out, gentle. "Hey. Can I touch you, North?”

North nods, choking up a broken sob when Liming hugs him.

It breaks him. It does, into a million pieces without repair, but he holds him. He holds North through his pain, and tries to absorb it all himself. He holds him through the sobs, through the storm, and stays.

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vi.

“Sometimes, I feel like I don’t even know what love is,” North says.

Liming shrugs. “A pain in the ass.”

North shoots him a look.

“Liming,” he says.

“I’m joking,” he counters back.

North looks at him with the prettiest eyes Liming has ever seen—alive and holding the entire starry sky in them. “Sometimes, I feel like I don’t even know what love is, but—”

He breathes. Breathes, breathes, breathes.

“But. Why do I feel like I’m sure I love you?” he says. “It’s just— It’s real, what I feel when I’m with you.”

North looks at him, opens and closes his mouth like struggling for the correct words to say from the jumble inside his brain.

“When I’m with you, or even when I’m thinking about you—it’s all real. My feelings are real. You make me feel things I didn’t know I could feel—emotions I didn’t know existed,” he gives Liming a gentle smile, but there’s an underlying sadness underneath it. “But I don’t know— I don’t know how all of this works. How loving works. I probably will never know, and I’m always scared of messing things up. I’m scared of not being what you want. I— am I being unfair? Telling you this?”

Liming takes a deep breath. The world spins; it holds its breath.

“No, you’re not being unfair,” he says, firmly. “Love doesn’t have any shape or form. You don’t have to label it or describe it in any way for it to work.”

Liming reaches out and brushes the bangs off North’s forehead with his fingers, caring and gentle. He feels like if he ever asked P’Wen about it, he would say something like this to him. Something along those lines.

“Don’t worry your pretty head about it,” Liming says, and offers a smile that he hopes looks reassuring. “Loving works in whatever way people want it to work.”

He knows North is talking about their relationship status. About putting a label to what they have even when it overwhelms him. Liming doesn’t need it. He doesn’t need a name, a word without a meaning. He just wants North, in his life, nothing more.

“We don’t need to put a name to things we don’t understand,” Liming says.  “You’ll figure it out with time; and if you don’t, then fuck it. It’s not like everyone gets how the world works. We can make it ours. We can make our own rules. Whatever we have; it holds meaning in itself just because it exists between us. I’m okay with it as it is, if you are too.”

Liming caresses a thumb over North’s warm cheek, looks at him wanting to convey just how much North makes him feel. Just how loved and treasured North is to him.

“I love the way you love,” Liming says, and he means it. “And I love the way you love me. I don’t need more. I just want you.”

North holds the back of Liming’s hand where it’s touching North’s face. “…Really?”

“Yeah,” Liming smiles, soft.

Because to want someone you need courage. And to love someone you need to be brave. And to say it out loud you need both.

“I love you,” Liming says. “I love you so fucking much I wonder how I can store all of it inside myself without ripping open.”

North smiles, leaning into Liming’s gentle touch.

Liming really doesn’t need anything else.

“I love the way you love me, too,” North says.

It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.

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vii.

One day, when they’re cleaning before opening hours at the diner, North is sitting at one of their tables, munching on a crusty ginger bread. He seems to be reflexive about something, slight frown and unreadable expression on his face as he stares down at the Khao Soi Liming prepared him this morning, like it somehow would give him an epiphany. It quite looks like he’s in deep thought, so Liming doesn’t interrupt him.

That is, until North opens his mouth.

“Liming,” he calls, and then—unprompted, and out of no-fucking-where, like everything he does—he says, “Marry me?”

Saleng, who’s sweeping around the counter, eeks so loud it can be heard in the Antarctic. He trips over and falls flat on his ass, blinking owlishly.

(And, okay, Liming would be laughing his ass off if he didn’t feel exactly like that, both spiritually and cosmically.)

“What did you just say?”

“I want you to be the one that cooks my Khao Soi for the rest of my life.”

“What kind of shitty proposal is that?” Liming grunts, ignoring the fact that Saleng is close to tears in the background, and that he’s going hysterical at the fact that North Chirathivat just proposed marriage to him. At seven am. On a fucking Thursday.

“Ah, sorry,” North tilts his head. He looks like a clueless kitten, “I’m not that good with words…” he frowns slightly, looking like the cutest person in the whole fucking planet. He hums, contemplative, as if pondering about what he should say to confess properly. “You’re my favorite person in the entire world, and it would make me very happy if you stayed by my side for the rest of our lives. And the fact that your homemade Khao Soi is the best I’ve ever had is an astronomical bonus.”

“Liming—” Saleng sobs.

“Wait a second, P’Leng,” Liming whines, worrying about crying himself. “What—the hell?” he chokes; brimming with feeling to the tip of his tongue. “I’m fucking twenty, you dumbass. You’re barely twenty-two.”

North blinks innocent eyes at him, “And?”

“We’re too young to get married, idiot!”

He frowns. “People get married in their early twenties…”

“Well, yes—” Liming pinches the bridge of his nose. “But.”

North tilts his head. “But?”

Liming exhales through his nose. He softens, voice gentle. “We’re both guys, remember?”

North frowns, pouting, like he doesn’t see the problem in that. “And?”

Liming arches an eyebrow, “It’s not even legal in Thailand, you know?”

“We could get married somewhere else. Travel to Sapporo, or Taiwan—”

Liming blinks, watching North list all the places where same-sex marriage is legal, apparently. Then, as he does, he’s hit with a devastatingly endearing revelation.

“Did you make research on this?”

North freezes. “Er. Probably…?”

“You—” Liming opens his mouth; closes it. His cuteness aggression has never been so high in his entire fucking life. “You.”

Liming wants to kiss him so bad.

“Is that a no…?” North asks when Liming doesn’t say anything, shoulders slumping, dejected. And why the fuck does he have to look like a kicked puppy, goddammit—

“No—” he bites his tongue. “I mean, I—” he sighs, “And where is my ring, huh?”

“Ah,” North utters, straightening his back immediately; he hurries and looks for something at his back, and then turns around to face Liming; he looks like an excited kid, all sparkles around him and puerile, genuine enthusiasm coming out of him in waves. Liming wants to kiss him so bad.

“Close your eyes,” North says.

Liming blinks. When North leans in closer, he closes them.

He can feel North holding his hand between his, carefully pushing something in his ring finger.

“You can open them now,” he says, and the happiness is evident in his voice.

Liming does as he’s told, then looks down at his hand.

“That’s—” Liming says, “That’s a donut, North.”

North frowns, “It’s a temporary ring.”

“Are you trying to get engaged with a fucking donut?”

“Temporary,” he repeats, yet again pouting.

Liming blinks. Then, he huffs out a laugh, “Really?”

North lifts up his own hand, matching mini-chocolate donut in his own ring finger.

Liming must be long gone, a hopeless case, because he can’t help the dumbstruck, idiotic, so-in-love grin that pulls at his lips.

“You’re such a dumbass, did you know?” he laughs.

North hums.

“Okay, yes,” Liming rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling nonetheless. “Whatever. I’ll cook your Khao Soi for the rest of our lives, I guess.”

North bounces on the heels of his feet like an excited child, then cups Liming’s face between his hands.

“Happy marriage,” he declares merrily, and then kisses him.

Saleng makes a strangled sound behind them. Liming wonders at the back of his head if he’s choking with his own tears.

Liming hums, savoring the way North’s happiness tastes in his own mouth, “Happy marriage, fiancé.”

And, ah. Liming thanks every holy being in the universe for letting him live to this day, so he can witness North’s beautiful face getting the prettiest shade of red.

Liming smirks, “Or do you prefer ‘husband’, sweetheart?” he asks, and North chokes.

Liming barks out a laugh.

(Later, though, when North calls him exactly that as Liming is cleaning up after closing, asking if he ‘wants any help with that, dear husband’, and Liming feels extremely mortified, and like he’s gonna fucking die of a heart attack, he realizes he made a big mistake teasing him first.)

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(“Hey, but we’re not eating Khao Soi every day.”

North’s offended pout is the most adorable thing in the whole world.

“I want the divorce.”)

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viii.

Por — one of Liming’s old high school friends — is drunk.

That is not an uncommon thing, especially on a party. He’s also all over Liming, which is also not an uncommon thing, given how clingy he is all the time with all of his friends. So he doesn’t pay any mind as Por gets into Liming’s personal space, doesn’t say anything as Por throws an arm over his shoulders and almost sits in his lap, swinging his legs over Liming’s thighs.

He also doesn’t say anything as he gives him a loud and exaggerated kiss on the cheek, blabbering on about how much he missed him.

That’s not unusual, but what it actually is, it’s North’s obvious glare at the other side of the room. When Por goes for another kiss, North gets up as fast as lightning from his seat, walking over to where they are, and stops in front of them, stiff.

Por beams at him, oblivious and unbothered by North's scary frown.

“Hiiiiiii, there. What’s up?”

North doesn’t even look at him. Instead, he bends down, grabs Liming’s collar and makes out with him right there— all open-mouthed, scorching hot, and messily tantalizing. It leaves Liming breathless, tongue burning and lips tingling and mind dizzy.

“Woooah, khun phi,” Por squeaks, blinking with a faint blush dusting his face, “Get a room! I’ll leave you to it for a bit.”

His friend gets up with wobbly feet and gives them both a thumbs up and a blinding grin, “I’ll look for Gun. Enjoy your night, pretty boys.”

Liming waves a goodbye and then turns around to look at North, now sitting in the space Por left.

“What was that?” he asks, frowning. It’s not like he cares about North making out with him anytime he wants, and it’s not like his friends doesn’t know about them, but still— North did look a bit constipated there. Extra constipated, to be honest.

North shrugs and swings his legs over Liming’s thighs, just as Por did before, and then clings to his side, arms wrapping around his waist and chin resting on the curve of his shoulder.

Liming blinks. Okay, North is really, really clingy, but this is just…

“Are you okay?”

North hums. “Yes. You just looked pretty kissable so I came here to kiss you because I can.”

Liming squints, scanning North’s face warily. A second later, he realizes what is this about. “Are you jealous, princess?”

“Hmph.”

North doesn’t really give a verbal answer to Liming’s accusation, but he tightens his hug around Liming’s waist and moves to snuggle up against him more, and that is answer enough for Liming.

Liming huffs out a laugh. North’s warm breath tickles the skin of his neck when North pulls himself closer.

So North is jealous.

“No need for that,” Liming says, and cards North’s hair between his fingers gently. “I’m all yours, North.”

North freezes.

A split second later, Liming realizes what he just said. Maybe it was too much. But he’s not taking it back, because it’s true. It’s always been.

“I—” North says, and he looks like he’s about to burst into tears. “But we— we never—”

“I know we didn’t… that we never put a name to this,” Liming says, understanding. “But I don’t need that, I just want you. I’ve told you that before.”

It’s true. It’s always gonna be the everlasting truth.

“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Liming admits, “I’ve always been yours.”

North looks down, at the way Liming’s right hand—the one that’s not in his hair—rests over North’s delicate hands.

“Oh.”

Yeah. Oh.

“You don’t have to feel the same way,” Liming whispers. “Or be in an official relationship with me. I’m not asking for anything from you. I just want you to know that I’ll always be yours and no one else’s; if you’re okay with that.”

North is silent for a long time. He doesn’t get away from Liming, though, so that’s a win. He closes his eyes and breathes into Liming’s collarbone, like he belongs there—and for Liming, he does. That’s his place.

Liming will always be North’s home, if he wants him to be.

Because North is the kind of guy that writes poems about your eyes, that wears the same denim jacket and the same pale sneakers all the time, that smiles warmer than the sun itself and makes you feel stupid and dumb — the kind of guy that pets stray cats even when he’s allergic to them, the kind of guy who kisses you out of nowhere just because he wants to, the kind of guy who asks if you’re okay when you have sex, that kisses the mole in your shoulder blade and takes his time tracing your ribs with his fingertips just because he can.

He’s the kind of guy who tells you he loves you because he feels it—because he’s the kind of guy who loves too much to be quiet about it. He’s the kind of guy who looks at you like you’re his whole world, and the kind of guy who makes you love him back. Because there’s nothing unlovable about North. There’s not a single thing about him that Liming doesn’t want to treasure.

You want to keep all his smiles to yourself, you want to make him the happiest person alive, you fall in love with him as easy as breathing. You’d fight the whole world if it meant he’d be safe.

That’s the kind of guy he is.

And he makes you love him. And Liming does; and he loves loving him.

He loves the way North loves; the way he makes Liming feel.

There are so many things he’d like to say, so many things he has stored inside his heart. One day, he’ll say them out loud. One day, he’ll tell North everything. He’ll tell him just how loved he is.

He hopes North can feel some of it without actual words.

“Liming,” he mumbles, “I know you’re asking for it—” he pecks Liming’s neck; soft, barely a press of tender lips against skin, “—but, the truth is, I’m yours, too. I think a part of me has always known.”

Liming hums, a grin slowly pulling up at his lips.

North chuckles, “Why can I feel your smug grin from here even when I’m not seeing it?”

“Of course I’m smug about it, dumbass,” Liming says, elated, “North Chirathivat, the prettiest person that has ever existed, just said he’s mine. Liming’s.”

“You’re really biased there,” North snickers, sounding amused and happy.

“No,” Liming disagrees, strongly. “Who wouldn’t be lucky to have you in their life, huh? Fuck them if they think otherwise. My fiancé is the very best, and the prettiest.”

“If we’re still engaged, I need my daily dose of Khao Soi.”

Liming laughs. “You’re so spoiled. I’ll think about it.”

North muses it over, humming.

“I can change it for a daily dose of kissing and a weekly dose of Khao Soi.”

“We’ll see,” Liming says, grinning.

“How strict,” North drawls, pouting.

Liming kisses him, because he’s always wanted to kiss that adorable pout, and it works out perfectly to make North smile and giggle.

Ah, yes.

Liming is so lucky.

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Liming is blessed to exist in the same universe as North Itthiphon Chirathivat. The world is such a pretty place just because he exists.

One day, he’ll tell him that.