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Kit had been looking over his shoulder and jumping at sudden noises for as long as Pas had known him — for longer, probably, as anxious vigilance is learned behaviour. Glasses told him that, when Pas asked him how people become the way they are.
They were both sitting on Kit's living room floor. Between them, the coffee table was cluttered with stationery atop posterboard. The pair of schoolmates were partnered together for a presentation — something about three-dimensional euclidean space that Pas didn't quite grasp the specifics of. Kit gave Pas the task of cutting out the printed templates of their 3D models so that he didn't just loiter and subject them to his intense stare. Whilst Kit showered and Glasses finished up the written report, Pas slowly and carefully went through unfamiliar motions. He wondered at why he was so unpractised at what seemed a mundane exercise to the other boys, when fighting came to him instinctively and with ease. The question slipped out unbidden.
“How do you mean?” Glasses asked.
Really, Pas was trying to understand himself better: where his combative reflexes came from; why he was so adept at hurting people; why it felt requisite to trade instead of giving, even with Kit who had been too generous with him from the start. He shrugged. “Like Kit, for example. He always hunches up when I get close. Why is that?”
Glasses hummed. “He does it less so now than before, right?”
Pas nodded, his hands pausing.
“Because he's getting comfortable around you.” A toothy smile. “Before, you were an unknown, and Kit isn't the type to take his chances. Bullies have been targeting him since junior high school, so he's learned to be hyperaware. There aren't a lot of spaces he feels safe enough to let his guard down. The Senior Care Facility is one. His own home. Mine.” He counted them off on his fingers, a meagre list. With his head cocked in thought and his nose in the air, peering into space as if envisioning calculations up above, he looked like a curious otter sniffing at something unfamiliar. “Funny. He let you into his home straight away, and he's let you into all of his other safe spaces over time, even though he still doesn't really know you.”
“Well, at least we're on even playing field. I still don't really know me, either.”
“Maybe that's it. He's good at assessing a threat level. Way more so than me. I tend to be pretty oblivious as to when people mean me harm. Having Kit at my side has probably — definitely — kept me out of a lot of danger. So. He saved you, and he realised pretty quickly that you were the more vulnerable of the two of you in that moment. I mean, with Kit, he's been a caretaker longer than he's been a victim of bullying. That part of him is strongest. I'm thinking that's what him made bring you home, and what's made him help you all this time, even if it took a while for him to start lowering his guard.”
Pas turned his eyes back to his work, snipping at the tight corners of the template. “What if I don't deserve it?”
“Deserve…?”
“His kindness. His care. What if the person I am, the person I don't know, isn't a good one?”
It took a long moment for Glasses to respond. “I'm no philosopher, really, but there's an interesting problem posed by John Locke's memory criterion of personal identity. It's a lot to get into, but the dumbed down version is — oh, not that I think you're dumb, of course!” Pas waved off his reassurances; he doubted he had ever been as book smart as this kid, even before the head injury and memory loss. Glasses continued, a bit flustered, rambling now. “What Locke says is — about sameness of personhood, I mean — that, sort of, so Person B is identical to Person A if they have conscious continuous recollection of their past thoughts, feelings, actions and experiences. Of course, there's a million problems with that account, but the relevant question it poses to your situation is this: who are you if you lack that psychological continuity? Locke says you can't be the same person, because you don't have those memories to connect you to them. If you can't remember the experiences that are supposed to have shaped you, then who does that make you? And if you're a blank slate, does that give you the opportunity to just make of yourself whatever you will?”
“Was there an answer to my question anywhere in that babbling?”
Good-naturedly, or more likely, oblivious to Pas's snappish tone, Glasses just smiled. “Philosophy is more about the questions than the answers. That's why I prefer science.”
That night, Glasses made his bed on the floor beside Kit's. With a shared glance, an understanding passed between Kit and Pas that Pas would sleep on the couch in the living room like he had done in the beginning. The more recent development in their sleeping arrangements, of Pas wordlessly slipping into bed with Kit and the latter snuggling up to him, stayed between them for the time being.
—
Although he grew endeared to Glasses over time and began to see him as something of a willing wealth of knowledge with a sweet face, Pas hadn't known what to make of the guy at first.
The first time they met, Kit had brought him over after school, days into Pas's extended stay at Kit's house. Kit introduced his friend by a name which Pas forgot a second later, beginning instead to identify him as 'Glasses' in his head. It became apparent within minutes that Kit had told the other boy everything about Pas and their time together, from saving him, to the clinic visit, to offering him a place to stay while he recovered, and the advances Pas made on him in the midst of it all. This seemed unfair seeing as Pas knew nothing about the smaller guy to prepare him for their meeting. Immediately, his hackles were raised.
Unnecessarily so, as it turned out. Glasses sat down with him and Kit to give them a literature review of research he'd compiled exploring how certain stimuli may assist in the recovery of memories for amnesia patients, with a specific emphasis on tactile retrieval cues. What he said seemed to support Kit kissing Pas to assist in restoring his memories. He was incredibly forthcoming and eager to help, and Pas didn't know what to do with that. He was used to secretive, deceitful people, who scrambled for power or security using what they knew and you didn't as leverage.
And wasn't that was a discovery? He couldn't summon up faces or names belonging to the shadowy figures from his past that lingered beyond the short reach of his recollection, nor any memories of interactions with those people. Yet, somehow, he knew that nobody had ever helped him so freely as these two boys were helping a stranger.
What Glasses was giving to him then was far too much of a kindness to accept comfortably.
Looking to the fond expression on Kit's face as he watched his friend, he understood in an abstract, distant sort of way, how dear Glasses was to him. For Kit to ask for his help with Pas and let Pas meet him rather than relaying this information on his behalf was an immense act of giving in and of itself. He was allowing Pas to share in the knowing of this precious person.
Overwhelmed by the intake of information, his head throbbing for it, he escaped into the kitchen with the excuse of making tea.
After Pas had readied mugs with teabags and sugar, and leaned back against the counter waiting for the kettle to come to a boil, Kit slipped into the kitchen. Pas knuckling at his temples appeared to amuse him. The barest suggestion of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips and made his sharp eyes seem somehow softer. It was the cutest thing Pas could remember ever seeing.
“He's going to be a neuroscientist some day,” Kit declared. “And a neurologist. MD-PhD.”
“Yeah? Maybe he can treat me.”
“In ten plus years? I would hope you wouldn't need it by then.”
Pas shrugged. Hope. There was no empty ache of non-remembrance attached to that word, none of that feeling of knowing there was a memory there yet being unable to call it forth that he had gotten accustomed to in the days since Kit rescued him. Nothing of hope in his past, then.
“I might still be dealing with long-term effects. I'll have to come in for check-ups.”
Kit rolled his eyes. The water came to a boil, and their shoulders brushed as Kit stepped up to pour water into each of the cups. Pas turned his head to see his face up close, eyes flicking down to track the bob of his Adam's apple. Without meeting his gaze, Kit murmured, “Get me the milk.”
Pas prised himself from his side to retrieve the milk from the fridge. “Almost empty.”
“Mm-hmm.” Kit finished off the teas with a dash of milk and a stir to each mug. “It usually lasts longer since it's just me at home. I can get a milk from the corner store on my way home tomorrow.”
Pas picked up two mugs so Kit would only have to carry his own, but before Kit could escape being alone with him for much longer, as he was so inclined to do, he asked, “What about you?”
Kit's eyes went wide. Both hands cradled his mug. “What about me?”
“We established that in ten years your friend will be a neuroscientist and I'll be a patient. What will you be in ten years?”
Kit looked into his teacup. Maybe it was the steam making his cheeks flush pink. “A, uhm, a social worker. Maybe.” He started towards the door, but paused again. “Being a patient isn't a real objective. You should try to think of something you really want to be.”
—
On a Friday after school, before his evening shift at the eatery, Kit came by the Care Facility to visit his grandmother. Pas was already there, wheeling another resident out of the rec room as Kit entered. He flashed him a grin as he passed.
He didn't wear pale blue scrubs like the caregivers and nurses, nor a navy blue vest like the other volunteers. Phi Pim let him get away with breaking the uniform policies because he was handsome.
His grandmother sat by a window shuffling cards. He stood for a moment just admiring the practised movements of her dexterous fingers. She had learned her skills as a young, single mother getting by through working as a croupier in an underground gambling den — a story she had told him only because she hadn't recognised it was her grandson she was speaking to. The funny nicknames of all the different shuffling techniques she had demonstrated to him growing up escaped him as he stood entranced by the visuals of her riffling and fanning the cards.
“You want to play Rummy?” she asked without looking at him. “Solitaire is getting a little old.”
“Count me in, Ya— Khun Yaai.”
He greeted her with a wai when he came into her view. As he lowered his lands out of the gesture, he searched for any flicker of recognition that might come from seeing his face. She had always had an impassive countenance that invited no funny business and made his mother feel ever-inadequate, but her hands were expressive, so he paid attention to those as well. There was not so much as a twitch of a muscle or a fumble of the cards.
Setting his bookbag down, he stooped so his face was fully out of view below the tabletop to hide his disappointment.
Three lost games of Rummy later, Pas, doing his rounds, made his way to the two of them. They were in the middle of another game, Kit with all ten cards still in his hand while his grandmother already had two sets out.
“Oh-ho, Khun Yaai, do you come out of your room just to find people to wallop at cards?” He bent to put his lips by Kit's ear and stage whispered, “The other residents won't play with her anymore because they always lose, so now she finds her victims in any visitor that makes the mistake of crossing her path.”
She cackled and smirked smugly. “They're all just soft.”
“Not Khun Yaai, though?”
She shook her head. But then, her smirk softened to suggest something sweeter than pride but just as fierce, as she admitted, “Only for one.”
Kit looked to Pas for some kind of clue as to who that one could be, fearing he was out of the loop due to how little time he was able to spend with his grandmother. There was a knowing glint in the deep brown eyes that were already trained on him.
Pas didn't look away. “And who might that be?”
“My grandson.” She set her cards face down on the table. “My little Kit. You should meet him. He lives with his parents in the city, but he comes down to visit during school holidays.” She hummed delightedly. “Oh, he's a strong boy, I know that. He's always running around, getting scraped up and bruised, and then getting right back up again. But what can I do? I just want to wrap him up in my arms and protect him from the world for as long as I'm able.”
Kit made a poor play on his turn, just forcing his body into action to avoid bursting into tears in front of her. He didn't want to cause her any distress or confusion. She took her cards back up for her turn.
Of course, Kit knew his grandmother loved him. But it was rare that he got to hear it straight from her in those days.
After his parents divorced, he had been in his mother's sole custody. When she remarried to a widower with his own sons, she sent him to live with his grandmother. He was ten, and her Alzheimer's wouldn't set in yet for another two years. It had only progressed to a stage where she needed round the clock care, which he couldn't provide while finishing high school and working part-time, just over a year before he found Pas.
Dewy-eyed, he fought the smile that wanted to split his face and expose the raw craving for love that lived under his skin.
Pas saw it anyway, staring intently as he was.
—
Kit couldn't sleep. Under his cheek, his cushion was tense.
He sighed and turned his head to jab his chin into the hollow under Pas's clavicle.
“Ow!” Pas jerked away, but shuffled right back into place when Kit tugged at his shirt. “What was that for?”
“You're too tense.” His shoulders and neck and every nearby muscle group were stiff. "It's like cuddling a wooden plank.”
“Should I go sleep on the couch?”
Kit couldn't read the other boy's face in the dark. He leaned over him to switch on the lamp, bringing them chest to chest. Propped above him on one forearm, he stared down into his face.
His lips were pursed into a downturned line, his brows furrowed, and his eyes gave away every conflicting emotion he was trying so hard to keep off his face. Longing. Hope. Anxiety. Sadness. Excitement. Frustration. Anger: mostly self-directed. Anxiety, again.
As easy as it was to read him, it was harder to understand where all of it was coming from.
He stroked Pas's cheek. “What's going on with you?”
Pas shook his head, caught Kit's wrist in a gentle grip and nuzzled into his palm. “Nothing is wrong. Everything is good here.”
Kit bit his lip. “Okay.” He let Pas keep his hand but poked a finger out to prod at his forehead. “Is everything good here, though?”
Pas looked up at him from under his lashes. “It should be.”
“But it isn't.”
“Not because of you, or our life here. You make me so happy, Kit. You make me want so much.”
Perhaps to avoid the dreaded moment of Pas telling him he had to leave him, Kit chose to ask about the future they could have if he didn't. “Like what?”
Pas's other hand rose up to card through Kit's hair, brushing it back each time it fell over his face again as he spoke. “I want to be a caregiver. Professionally, as a real job. I'm good at it — P'Pim says I have the mettle for it. I can work while you finish university. We'd get to fall sleep beside each other every night and wake up together every morning. I want to hang out with you and Glasses and that student president with the obvious crush on him and the president's much cooler bodyguard, that girl with the red hair. I want us to do domestic things, like go on grocery runs together. And with me earning a salary, we'll be able to afford to get those gummy sweets you like anytime you want, but I know it'll take time for you to unlearn your self-denial enough to be able to treat yourself, so I'll sneak it into the cart for you. I just want… all I want is a life with you, Kit.”
Kit's voice cracked as he asked, “What's stopping you from having it? Because I'm certainly not.”
Pas choked back a dry sob. The glittering of Kit's eyes told him the other boy was on the verge of tears as well. Neither let their tears fall. He sat up, bringing Kit with him in a hug. "Me. The person I was before. When I didn't have so many memories, I could detach myself from that Pas. But every kiss we shared connected me to him with the memories they brought. How I was brought up, how I learned to fight, the life I led… I have to answer for it, and I worry if I don't choose to face it head on, then karma will find me anyway, and it will affect the people around me."
Kit hissed in a steadying breath through gritted teeth. He brought his knees up under him and sat back on his heels, extracting himself from Pas's arms. He needed distance from his scent and strength in order to think clearly. Pas let him go, his grip going lax around Kit's wrist as it fell to the bed between them — too much distance. Kit grasped his hand tightly, relieved to have that point of contact when he squeezed back.
“Pas… I don't know the whole story, and neither do you, but let me give you my perspective. I know your past was complicated and hard, and I know it must scare you. But think about it: the last you were seen by anyone who knew you, you were pushed off of a smuggling barge during a storm. They probably assumed you're dead, and they have no reason to think otherwise. Your bosses may have seemed almighty and omniscient, but no matter how much power they command, they don't actually know and see all. So why go back and endanger yourself on the off-chance that your past follows you here?”
Kit placed his other hand over their joined ones. “All of what you described… I want that, too. And if your past ever does come back to bite us, I'm willing to face that with you.”
“But I'm not willing to put you through that. I have to go back and try to resolve things there. If I get pulled back in, if I die, then at least I know you're safe far away from all of it. But I can't spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop and squash everything we build together.”
Kit didn't get it. Why couldn't he just accept the good things that they had and the good things that were coming, instead of focusing on the bad things he left behind? Irrationally, his heart jumped to jealousy. “Did you… have someone?”
That genuinely confused Pat. “Someone…?” He squinted. Kit hung his head, cheeks aflame. Pas craned his neck low to peer up into his face. “Oh, someone like… No, Kit. Nobody like you.”
Kit nodded, soothed.
“But I had — have — people. They were my subordinates, technically, but they were my friends first. My family. We grew up together, before I got put in charge of maintaining our territory in that shithole district. It wasn't anything like what you and Glasses have. I looked out for them, protected them, sure, but it was conditional on their loyalty and their competence. It had to be. They trusted that so long as they followed orders I would keep them safe. And the last thing I did was fail them. So I need to go back. To free myself from my past, but also to do what I can to help them.”
His thumb swiped back and forth across Kit's knuckles.
“Is there any hope that if I kiss you now, you'll remember you actually have resolved everything and then there will be no reason for you to go back at all?”
“When I'm with you, I can't help myself but to hope, no matter how dire the situation or how unlikely a good outcome is.”
“Me too,” Kit admitted. “You make me stupid.”
Pas grinned like that was the best news he had ever heard, making Kit snort out a laugh at his ridiculousness. They swayed closer with the force of their laughter, bringing their faces centimetres apart as it died down.
Pas's eyes fluttered shut and he rubbed his nose against Kit's. Kit closed the distance, pressing their lips together.
No memories came to Pas.
He turned his head and deepened the kiss, keen on committing every millisecond and micro-movement to memory: Kit's hand coming up to cradle his face; Kit's pleased hum when he pulled him closer with an arm wound around his waist; Kit keeping him close and bringing their foreheads together when they broke the kiss.
Pas didn't know it then, but the memory of sharing that kiss would fuel him in the weeks to come. He would hold onto it when he was facing the worst. When the horizon seemed grim and dark, and he couldn't find the strength to keep going, he would recall those moments and refuse to give up the opportunity to experience more moments like it.
But right then he was living in it, willingly and completely absorbed in Kit's presence and closeness.
At peace, if only for a small time.