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Pond has discovered his newfound passion for apologizing. Ever since he picked Phuwin up in his arms and almost threw him into the air when Fourth dared him to, barely managed to not break both their arms in the process, and finally dropped Phuwin like a bag of overrated flesh and bones, Pond’s been coming up with creative ways to soothe Phuwin’s pain.
“It’s fine, it’s just a little swelling,” Phuwin says, trying for a motherly tone, as if that would keep Fourth and Pond from their ambitions. Because it is quite ambitious, Phuwin has decided, to want to cure a minor injury with theatrics. “Guys. Guys why are you picking up the tent.”
Pond extends a hand in his direction as if Phuwin’s a particularly jumpy bunny, saying, “Just stay put, don’t get up—We’re bringing the tent to you.”
Fourth finds it all hilarious but also has three long ranting sessions about how stupid his idea was; Pond tries and fails to show him the light of reason, which is that they were just having a little bit of fun and that it’s not his fault that Pond dropped Phuwin, quite unceremoniously, to the hard ground.
“I am so sorry, my dearest friend,” Fourth says in a voice close to a wail, dropping to his knees as he grabs Phuwin’s left hand in both of his own. “I swear I’ll make it up to you later.”
Pond turns his sorrowful brown eyes in Phuwin’s direction, looking altogether too soft for someone who literally lifted Phuwin up like a bag of chips not even two minutes ago.
“Please,” Phuwin laughs in helpless amusement. “Guys. I’m not dying. Fourth, get the fuck up. Pond, stop with your sad puppy eyes.”
Going out on a trip with two of his favorite idiots, Phuwin thinks, has its ups and downs. The ups involve a lot of fun; the downs apparently involve late-afternoon sentimental sessions where Phuwin tries to convince Fourth and Pond that he’s not mad at them, and that no, he does not need a trip to the nearest hospital.
Eventually, Fourth acquiesces but Pond remains at Phuwin’s side. In the small tent, they’re almost in danger of colliding into each other with only one sudden move. Fourth is outside, audibly chatting to Gemini on the phone—his scheduled quota of Gemini Time being fulfilled. This is mostly why they couldn’t completely go off the grid and lose all service or connection to the real world.
Inside, Pond and Phuwin sit in almost-silence, as if waiting for something.
Finally, Pond looks at Phuwin from under his delicate eyelashes and says, “Does it hurt bad? You can tell me.”
Phuwin lets out an amused noise, “You’re unbelievable. I’m not an ancient Chinese Ming dynasty vase.”
Pond stares and shifts closer, knocking their shoulders together, and Phuwin can smell his calm, breezy perfume until his throat fills up with it. Pond takes hold of Phuwin’s chin with a finger and a thumb, and Phuwin lets him inspect each side of his face for a bit—they both pause when their faces are suddenly brought together, a swift breath apart.
Pond doesn’t seem surprised, or really very aware at all, and maybe there is indeed some stock in what he says about being used to Phuwin all up in his personal space. Besides, Phuwin notes with a thrill of amusement, Pond is too concerned about him to keep his distance.
“I didn’t hit my face during the fall,” Phuwin has to keep his voice low, considering. “I didn’t fall face-first. You were there.”
Pond’s hand falls away, “Can’t let anything happen to this flawless face.”
Phuwin weighs his options: fight or flight, but he isn’t a flight type of guy at all. “You could kiss it better,” he says calmly.
Phuwin’s words take the shape of a physical blow in Pond’s slack jaw, and then Pond starts blushing. Outside their little cramped tent, Fourth’s laughter rings out clear as a cuckoo’s song before Pond’s gentle exhale smothers it. He retreats from Phuwin in one sudden swoop, as if magnetized.
“Fourth is probably almost done,” he says, low enough that Phuwin would have to strain to catch it outside the tent. Phuwin wants to scoff in his face—neither of them has the slightest idea if Fourth is done talking to Gemini. But Pond pretending otherwise is almost cute. Almost.
Phuwin’s hardly surprised when Pond starts to shuffle back out the tent on all fours but he clenches his jaw for a bit and holds his wrist tighter, arms slung over his knees, as he watches Pond leave. It’s not a big deal. Embarrassing, yes, but not a big deal.
But then Pond stops. But then Pond stops and he zips the tent shut, and Phuwin’s pulse quickens like he’s a hunted quarry.
This time when Pond crawls closer, his eyes are set firmly on Phuwin, no humor behind them and no lenience—plenty indulgence. His smell envelops Phuwin again, just as fully as his arms can. His warmth stalks Phuwin, leaving him at once restless and pinned to the spot, caught in his own fantasies growing and multiplying a mile a minute.
Fourth is just outside, a small voice in the corner of his working brain hisses; goes unheard. After all, Fourth should know better.
“Sorry,” Pond’s hand, big and warm, comes up to cradle Phuwin’s jaw, “this has to be quick, okay?” Phuwin has no idea what he’s talking about. Pond’s other hand touches his waist, a question. “Where does it hurt?”
“I-“ Phuwin gasps, involuntarily, the sound sticking and spasming between the muscles in his throat.
Pond’s voice is still soft, but also ever-so-slightly rough, like he’s speaking through some sort of physical pain, “Yes?” Those fingers slip down the angle of Phuwin’s jaw and into the curve behind his neck.
Phuwin shivers despite himself. “Ah-“ he draws a breath, bracing, arching slightly under all ten points of contact under Pond’s hands, “lower- lower back. I think.”
He feels a little ridiculous, shaking and blushing for nothing; Pond’s not even touching him like that and yet the need to whine is pressing up brattishly against his tongue, curling in his stomach, pressing up his toes in little pinpricks of pleasure.
“Good boy,” Pond whispers to the silver of skin just above the hemline of Phuwin’s shirt, his breath sliding and slithering upwards as Pond’s mouth moves and hovers close to the left side of Phuwin’s face. “You’re so good, Phuwin. I’m sorry I hurt you.”
Phuwin can’t help it—he whines. It’s soft, and barely audible above the thundering of his own heart but Pond catches it all the same. To distract his attention, Phuwin snipes, “It’s not your fault, for god’s sake.” He has a feeling Pond knows what he’s trying to do even when Pond remains silent in response.
Phuwin wonders if Pond’s thinking of the quickest way to make Phuwin whine again.
Without any warning, Pond pushes his hand up under Phuwin’s shirt, skin to skin, his calloused palm softly scratching the sensitive area that makes Phuwin squirm if someone touches it, and Phuwin arches violently against Pond’s chest while Pond holds him steady, doesn’t let him get far.
“Shit- Pond—” Pond shushes him, and slides his hand to the dip in Phuwin’s back, right above the waistband of Phuwin’s pants. One of his fingers slide past the elastic, dangerously close to the little curve that starts just above Phuwin’s ass.
“Here?” Pond says. His voice is so deep, Phuwin can feel it reverberating in his chest. The kind of voice Phuwin wants to burrow under, and curl up and sleep for hours, and be fucked to, and be woken up to.
Pond seems to be in a hurry to wreck Phuwin and then put him together before Fourth starts questioning what the hell they’re both doing zipped up in the tent together. He maneuvers Phuwin on his hands and knees—there’s no space to sprawl out on his stomach—and pushes his t-shirt up until the cold air tiptoes on the length of Phuwin’s spine, and despite everything, Phuwin’s getting hard.
But nothing is going to happen. Phuwin knows this. Nothing ever happens. Pond touches him and Phuwin jerks off to it later and the next day, they’re back in business as one of Thailand’s most popular phi-nong.
So Pond, with all the assurance and grace, smooths his hands up Phuwin’s naked sides, thumbs massaging up and down his lower back before drawing closer, bending over Phuwin’s ass, and dropping a peck on Phuwin’s sore spot.
Phuwin fists the blanket under his knees and bites his lip to keep from moaning out loud. That would be off-script.
But he wants to—he wants to so badly; he’s nasty for Pond, pathetic for a chance to touch him and be touched by him, and he’s only one guy. He wants to whine and thrash and moan and have Pond pin him in place, leave him squirming on his stomach for his soft kisses and caring hands, and then pick him up and fuck him while he calls Phuwin his favorite boy, his most handsome boy, his lovely partner. He’s arching for it shamelessly as Pond drops a flurry of soft kisses on Phuwin’s lower back, holding Phuwin steady by the hips.
It’s over just as suddenly as it started. Phuwin’s face is undoubtedly flushed to high heavens; Pond’s infinitely worse. They’re both breathing hard and Phuwin’s gaze automatically drops to Pond’s crotch, taking in the undeniable bulge in his loose sweatpants, the curve of it, and the impossible delight it fills Phuwin with.
It could fill Phuwin with something more than just delight.
Phuwin’s eyes meet Pond’s. A beat.
“Better now?” Pond asks, a little hoarse.
Phuwin hums, nods, self-consciously clears his throat before he replies, “You can—the tent, I mean, it’s—”
“Yeah.” Pond jolts. There’s a loud sound of a zipper as he opens the tent’s entrance flaps.
Fourth is still talking to Gemini.
“So, uh,” Phuwin waits for Pond to look at him, “want to go hang out in my car?”
Pond nods eagerly. “Yeah, god, it’s hot in here.”
“Too hot, yes,” Phuwin chimes in as they crawl out into the bright sunset. “We should’ve carried bigger tents, really.”
When Phuwin steals a glance at it again—just to check, nothing funny—Pond is not hard anymore. Phuwin’s back twinges a little in disappointment.