Chapter Text
The dawn light filtered shyly through the curtains, painting honey-colored stripes across the mess of clothes on the floor and the tangled sheets. The silence of the house no longer felt heavy or lonely, now it was filled with the rhythm of two breaths that had finally found their harmony.
Pat opened his eyes slowly. The first thing he felt was the warm weight of Ryujin's arm wrapped around his waist, and the tickle of the dark-haired boy's unruly hair against his shoulder. For the first time in his life, Pat felt no urgency to get up, to iron his uniform, or to review his notes. He felt strangely at peace in the middle of the chaos.
Ryujin let out a low grumble and buried his face deeper into Pat's neck, pulling him closer.
"If you leave now just to get to class on time, I swear I'm going to burn every single one of your history books, Jirachart," Ryujin mumbled, his voice thick and deeply hoarse with sleep.
Pat let out a soft laugh — one that came from somewhere deep in his chest — and turned within his arms to face him. Ryujin had one eye half-open and a lopsided smile, that same sly smile that used to drive Pat crazy, but that now made him feel at home.
"There's no history today, Ryujin," Pat whispered, tracing the outline of the other boy's still slightly swollen cheekbone with his fingers. "Or tomorrow either. I think I could use a little of that “lack of a future” that people talk about so much.”
Ryujin opened both eyes, surprised by the audacity in Pat's voice. He propped himself up on his elbow, ignoring the sharp pain in his ribs, and looked at Pat with an intensity that made him shiver.
"So the perfect boy has turned delinquent?" Ryujin slid his hand to the back of Pat's neck, stroking the skin with his thumb. "I like it. You look much cuter when you're not trying to be the model student everyone wants to see."
"I learned from the best," Pat replied, closing the distance to give him a short, sweet kiss — which Ryujin quickly deepened into something more possessive.
They spent the morning tangled in the sheets, talking about things they would never have told anyone else. Ryujin told him about the last concert he went to, and Pat confessed how much he hated the bitter coffee he pretended to enjoy just to impress Por. They laughed at how absurd it had all been — the wilted flowers, the escapes across the rooftop.
"You know…" Ryujin said, tracing invisible circles on Pat's chest, "Por was right about one thing. I don't have much to offer you. This house is falling apart, my fridge is empty, and my GPA is a joke."
Pat sat up and took him by the chin, making him meet his eyes.
"You offered me your advice when you had no reason to. You offered me the truth when everyone else only gave me expectations. And last night… last night you gave me a place where I don't have to be perfect. That's worth more than any résumé, Ryujin."
Ryujin went quiet for a moment, and for just a second, the tough-boy mask disappeared completely, revealing the boy who simply needed to be loved. He pulled Pat into a tight embrace, hiding his face against Pat's chest.
"Then brace yourself, Pat," Ryujin whispered, a renewed spark of mischief in his eyes. "Because now that I have you, I'm not letting you go back to that boring world. You're going to have to get used to me — and to me kissing you every time you try to say something intelligent."
Pat smiled, knowing his life would never be "orderly" again, and that that was exactly what he needed. They stayed there, sheltered from the outside world, understanding that love wasn't a goal of perfection — it was the courage to share the mess with the right person.
Monday morning, the institute was sunk in its usual grey routine — until the Literature classroom door flew open with an unnecessary bang. Ryujin walked in with his backpack hanging off one shoulder, his shirt untucked, and that smug smile that screamed trouble.
The teacher stopped mid-sentence, adjusting his glasses.
"Young Ryujin? Have you gotten lost on your way to the rooftop, or have you finally decided to bless us with your presence?"
"I just came to make sure my personal tutor doesn't forget about my needs, professor," Ryujin replied in a honeyed tone that made several classmates snicker.
He walked down the center aisle and, to everyone's stunned stares, dropped into the empty seat right next to Pat , his boyfriend.
"Hey, pretty boy. Did you miss me?" he whispered, letting his backpack fall with a dull thud.
"Ryujin, what are you doing here? You're supposed to be in your own section," Pat whispered, trying to keep his eyes on his notebook, though his cheeks were already beginning to betray him.
"My place will always be wherever you are," Ryujin replied.
For the rest of the class, Ryujin didn't open a single book. Instead, he devoted himself to a far more "educational" activity, provoking Pat.
Under the desk, Ryujin stretched out his long leg until his knee brushed Pat's. Pat tried to pull away, but Ryujin was persistent — pressing gently, moving his leg in a slow rhythm against his.
"Ryujin, stop…" Pat whispered, pretending to take notes while feeling an electric heat climbing up his thigh.
"What's wrong, Pat? I'm just looking for a little moral support," Ryujin said out loud, then dropped his voice to a dangerous whisper. "Besides, your uniform feels so soft today. Makes me want to find out if underneath you're just as… tender.”
As if it couldn't get any worse, Ryujin stretched out his hand and, hidden by the structure of the desk, began tracing circles in Pat's palm. His rough, playful fingers traveled along every line, pausing sometimes to lace them together for a few seconds before letting go.
Pat, instead of pulling away as he would have done weeks ago, sighed and, in a burst of courage, squeezed Ryujin's hand. He returned the grip firmly, stroking Ryujin's thumb with his own. Ryujin froze for a second, not expecting the "perfect boy" to respond so directly in the middle of class.
"Well, well," Ryujin murmured, his eyes bright with desire. "The student is surpassing the teacher. Keep this up and you'll end up moaning my name before the lunch bell rings."
Pat had no idea where to hide his face.
During the class change, Pat was putting his books away when a shadow cornered him against the cold metal. Ryujin planted both arms on either side of his head, blocking his way out.
"Did you enjoy the class, pretty boy?" he asked, leaning in close enough that his nose brushed Pat's. "Because I loved watching you bite your lip every time my hand moved up your knee."
"You're shameless," Pat said — though he made no attempt to push him away. In fact, he slid his hands up Ryujin's chest, stopping at the first undone button of his shirt. "Everyone is staring at us."
"Let them stare," Ryujin challenged. "Let them see that one of the institute's best students has excellent taste in boyfriends."
At that moment, Por walked past in the hallway. He stopped for a second, taking in the scene with a mix of disgust and superiority.
"Pat, I hope you're not wasting your time with trash again," Por said coldly.
Pat didn't look away. Instead, he smiled and, right there in front of Por and half the hallway, grabbed Ryujin by the tie and pulled him closer in a possessive gesture.
"Don't worry, Por. I'm exactly where I want to be," Pat replied with a steadiness that left the older boy speechless.
Ryujin let out a triumphant laugh and, taking advantage of the closeness, gave Pat a playful bite on the earlobe before whispering to him.
"If you keep defending me like that, I'm going to have to 'repay' the favor in the music room. And believe me, I won't be the least bit… respectful."
Pat shot him a defiant look, gave him a light shove on the shoulder, and walked away — leaving a completely smitten Ryujin behind and an entire institute buzzing about the new scandalous duo. Order was dead, and chaos had never felt so right.
The sun was beginning to sink behind the buildings of Bangkok, painting the sky a burning orange that made Ryujin's hair gleam as if it had a light of its own. They walked side by side, but this time the space between them felt different — not the distance of two strangers, but the electric gap of two people dying to lace their fingers together yet still feeling that small knot of shyness in their throats.
Ryujin, who always walked with an arrogant stride, today had his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, kicking small stones with exaggerated concentration.
"Hey, Pat…" Ryujin murmured, without looking at him. "Thanks for what you did today. What you said to that guy… nobody had ever defended me like that before. Let alone someone like you…"
Pat felt the warmth rise to his ears. He looked down at his own shoes, feeling suddenly small.
"It was nothing. I just told the truth. Besides… I like it when you're left speechless. You look less dangerous and more…" Pat searched for the right word. "…soft."
Ryujin let out a nervous laugh — one that had none of his usual sarcasm.
"Don't get used to it. I'm still a disaster.”
When they arrived at Ryujin's house, the usual silence was replaced by the sound of grocery bags rustling. They decided to cook something simple — or at least Ryujin's attempt to impress Pat with his complete lack of culinary talent.
While Pat chopped vegetables with near-surgical precision, Ryujin took charge of the pot. The atmosphere was domestic, intimate, and strangely tender.
"My mom always said the secret was to put love into everything you make," Ryujin said suddenly, his voice soft as he stirred the pot. "She used to sing while she cooked. My dad always said she sang terribly, but he always ended up dancing with her in this very spot."
Pat stopped and looked at him. Ryujin's gaze was lost in the steam rising from the pot, his expression carrying a vulnerability that squeezed Pat's heart.
"You miss them a lot, don't you?" Pat asked softly, setting the knife aside and moving closer.
Ryujin nodded, lowering his head.
"Sometimes this house feels too big, Pat. There are days I don't go to class because I feel like if I leave, when I come back I'll have forgotten the sound of their voices. But last night… and today… the house didn't feel so empty."
Pat stepped up behind him and wrapped his arms around Ryujin's waist, resting his cheek against his back.
"You won't be alone in this kitchen anymore, Ryujin. I can sing terribly alongside you if you want. Or we can dance without music."
Ryujin tensed for a second, moved, then covered Pat's hands with his own. He turned around slowly until they were face to face. Shyness flooded the air between them again. Ryujin stroked Pat's cheek with his thumb, looking at him as if he were the most precious thing to have walked into that house in years.
"You're too good for me, Pat," Ryujin whispered, leaning in to press a chaste, sweet kiss to his forehead.
The moment was so tender that Pat felt he could stay there forever. But Ryujin couldn't be serious for too long. A spark of mischief returned to his eyes when he saw the rice was almost ready.
Pat turned around to get the plates, giving Ryujin his back.
"Ouch!" Pat exclaimed, jumping in surprise.
Ryujin had just given him a firm, resounding slap on the backside, grinning from ear to ear.
"Ryujin! I almost dropped the plates!" Pat protested, his face as red as a tomato.
"Sorry, sweetheart , it's just that from this angle your 'dedication' looked way too tempting," Ryujin teased, winking as he served the food. "Besides, we need to check whether after all that studying you still have any reflexes."
"You're an idiot!" Pat laughed, even as his heart pounded from the contact.
"Your idiot," Ryujin corrected, pulling him back in by the waist. "Now eat , we need our energy. I have a nighttime 'review session' planned that involves zero books, and this time, Pat, I'm not letting you sleep until you get a perfect score in… applied anatomy."
Pat shook his head, smiling as they sat down to dinner. The pain and loneliness of Ryujin's house were dissolving, bite by bite, under the weight of a new and deliciously disordered happiness.
Three years had passed since they left the institute's hallways, but some things didn't change. Pat was still the brilliant student, now immersed in complex econometric models and economics books at university. And Ryujin, who thanks to a miracle called Pat, managed to surprisingly graduate for everyone, and thus on his part, had found his place in the Faculty of Arts and Design, his hair now a faded electric blue and his hands always stained with ink or paint.
They lived together in a small apartment near campus. It was a balanced chaos, Pat's accounting books sometimes served as a stand for Ryujin's graphics tablet.
That Thursday, Ryujin arrived early at the Faculty of Economics to pick up Pat, as was his habit. He was leaning against a wall, his sketchbook folder tucked under his arm, when he saw him.
Pat was coming out of the main building, but he wasn't alone. He was walking beside a tall boy with an impeccable smile that looked like it had been lifted straight from a commercial. They were laughing. The boy — whom Ryujin didn't recognize — gave Pat a friendly pat on the back, and they stood talking for a couple more minutes before saying goodbye with a fist bump.
Ryujin felt a familiar cold settling in his chest. That insecurity he thought he'd buried in adolescence bloomed back with force. He looks like someone who "fits" with Pat, Ryujin thought, glancing down at his own paint-stained clothes and his uncertain future as an artist. He actually seems to have that "trajectory" Por used to talk about.
"Ryujin!" Pat came running over, wearing that signature smile of his that lit up everything around him. "Sorry for the wait, the study group ran long."
"No problem," Ryujin replied, forcing a smile and burying his hands in his pockets so Pat wouldn't notice they were trembling.
"Oh, the guy I was with is FIFA," Pat explained, threading his arm through Ryujin's as they started walking. "He's a classmate from my faculty, really sharp in microeconomics, and he's helping me with a project. He's a good friend."
"FIFA…" Ryujin murmured, feigning disinterest. "Looks like the kind of guy who's never gone without anything in his life."
"He's great, you'll meet him soon," Pat said enthusiastically, not catching the flat note in his boyfriend's voice.
That night, while Pat studied at the desk and Ryujin finished an illustration commission on the sofa, the silence felt heavy — for one of them, at least. Ryujin couldn't stop comparing his life to that of this FIFA.
What if Pat gets bored of my mess? ,Ryujin wondered as he traced erratic lines on his tablet. I don't have a stable career yet. I'm still the guy who lives off dreams and drawings, while he surrounds himself with successful people.
The fear of loneliness — that trauma of the empty house that had marked him since his parents' death — came back to sting his heart. He was terrified that if he admitted his jealousy or his insecurities, Pat would see him as an "immature" burden and finally decide to look for someone more "suited" to his level.
Pat got up to stretch and walked over to the sofa, sitting between Ryujin's legs and resting his head on his chest.
"You're very quiet today, love," Pat said, closing his eyes and enjoying Ryujin's warmth. "Too much work?"
Ryujin set down his stylus and wrapped his arms around Pat, holding him with an almost desperate force as if afraid he might vanish.
"Just tired, Pat," Ryujin lied, kissing the tip of his nose. "But I'm fine. As long as you're here, everything's fine."
"I'm always going to be here, you idiot," Pat replied tenderly, nestling closer.
Ryujin said nothing more. He locked his fear away, swallowing the knot in his throat. He didn't want to ruin the perfection of what they had with his doubts even though inside, the image of FIFA and the thought of being alone in the dark again kept stalking him in silence. He decided that for now, it was enough to feel Pat's heartbeat against his own, trying to convince himself that he was enough even if he didn't quite believe it yet.
The following day, the walk back to the apartment was an exercise in self-containment for Ryujin. Pat was talking about supply and demand curves, gesturing enthusiastically, but to Ryujin his voice felt distant like listening to a radio through a glass wall.
Every time Pat mentioned FIFA's name, Ryujin felt a small jolt of static electricity at the back of his neck.
"…and FIFA says that if we adjust the regression model, we could—" Pat stopped when he noticed Ryujin hadn't reacted to his last joke. "Ryujin? Are you listening to me?"
Ryujin blinked, snapping out of his trance.
"Yeah, sure. FIFA's a genius. Got it."
"I didn't say that," Pat looked at him with curiosity, narrowing his eyes. "You're being weird."
"It's the end of the semester, Pat. The colors are making me dizzy, that's all," Ryujin lied, forcing a smile that never reached his eyes.
Once in the apartment, their usual dynamic of easy companionship was clouded by a dense silence. Ryujin shut himself in his drawing corner, but he couldn't concentrate. His eyes kept drifting toward Pat, who was sitting at the dining table with his laptop open.
Look at him, Ryujin thought, feeling a knot tighten in his throat. He belongs to that world of tall buildings, suits, and logic. I belong to paintings and drawings that nobody understands, and a house that went cold years ago.
Ryujin's fear wasn't only about FIFA. It was the fear of inevitability. In his mind, he was still the boy who had nothing to offer, the one who survived by a miracle. He thought that sooner or later, Pat would wake up and realize that Ryujin was an anchor keeping him tied to a past he should have moved on from long ago.
If he leaves, the house will go silent again , Ryujin thought, and the idea was so painful he had to put down his stylus because his hand was shaking. If he realizes FIFA is more like him, I'll be alone again. And this time I won't even have Por's contempt to keep me standing.
Pat closed his laptop and walked over to Ryujin. He didn't turn on the light, he just stood there in the half-dark, watching his boyfriend's tense back.
"Ryujin," he said softly. "You've been drawing the same line for an hour."
Ryujin didn't respond. The silence stretched out, filling every corner of the room.
"It's about FIFA, isn't it?" Pat asked, taking one step closer.
Ryujin let out a dry, almost inaudible laugh.
"Why would it be about him? He's just a classmate, right? A guy with a future, intelligent, who actually gets your economics jokes…"
"Ryujin, look at me." Pat put a hand on his shoulder, but Ryujin flinched, pulling away from the touch.
"No, Pat. I'm fine. Go to sleep." Ryujin's voice came out cracked, despite his efforts to sound tough.
"You're not fine — you're terrified," Pat said plainly, stepping around the chair to stand in front of him.
Ryujin looked up, and for the first time in years, Pat saw a frightened boy in his eyes. There was no trace of the blue-haired, rebellious artist only a fear that was pure and old.
"Tell me what's going through that head of yours," Pat said, taking Ryujin's cold hands between his own. "Please. Don't let the silence grow bigger than us."
Ryujin pressed his lips together, fighting the urge to cry. He wanted to scream that he felt insufficient, that he hated FIFA for being "normal," that he was afraid Pat would realize that living with a disaster wasn't fun anymore. But instead, all he could do was lower his head and whisper, "What if someday you realize that I'm not enough to fill your world, Pat?"
The silence that followed was the longest of all. Pat didn't answer right away, letting Ryujin's question hang in the air finally revealing the wound that had never fully healed. Ryujin waited for the blow, waited for his fears to be confirmed, feeling the emptiness of his old house begin to swallow the apartment whole.
The silence stretched like a rubber band about to snap. Pat didn't let go on the contrary, he squeezed his hands harder, forcing Ryujin to feel his pulse, that rhythmic proof that he was still there.
"Not enough?" Pat repeated, his voice cutting through the half-dark. "Ryujin, you're the only person who has ever seen me fail and not judged me for it. You're the only one who makes me laugh when I feel like the world is about to end. Do you really think a few graphs and a guy who knows microeconomics can compete with that?"
Ryujin didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on his own feet, but his mind was a battlefield. He says that now, Ryujin thought, but years weigh on you. Success weighs on you. Someday he'll want a normal house, with normal people, and all I know how to do is paint walls and burn rice.
"Look at me, Ryujin," Pat insisted, dropping his voice until it became a kind of caress. "I know what you're doing. You're going back to that empty house in your head. You're building walls so that when I leave, it won't hurt as much. But the truth is…I'm not leaving.”
Ryujin finally looked up. His eyes were shining, heavy with a vulnerability he was trying to disguise behind his usual mask of indifference but failing spectacularly.
"FIFA is… he's everything I'm not, Pat," Ryujin said, and the words came out as if they were burning his throat. "He has a path mapped out. I'm still drawing in the margins. I'm afraid that one day you'll get tired of living in the mess and go looking for someone who already has the answers. I'm afraid of waking up again and finding no one beside me."
Pat exhaled, a sound so full of tenderness it disarmed Ryujin completely. He leaned in and pressed his forehead against Ryujin's, closing the space between them until their worlds were one again.
"FIFA may know economics, but he doesn't know how I like my coffee on a bad day. He doesn't know that I hate absolute silence. And he definitely doesn't know what it means to love someone the way I love you." Pat stroked the back of his neck, his fingers getting lost in the blue hair. "The mess is what brought us here, Ryujin. I'm not looking for answers , I'm looking for adventures with you.”
Ryujin closed his eyes, letting a single tear betray his pride. He leaned forward, hiding his face in the hollow of Pat's neck, breathing in the scent that was his only anchor to reality. For a moment, the fear of loneliness retreated, defeated by the warmth of the person who had chosen him in spite of everything.
"If you ever feel like you're falling behind… tell me," Pat whispered against his ear. "Don't keep the silence to yourself, Ryujin. Silence is the only thing that can separate us , not some guy from the faculty."
Ryujin nodded weakly, clinging to Pat's shirt as if it were a lifeline.
"I'm an idiot, aren't I?" Ryujin murmured, recovering a little of his spark.
"My favorite idiot," Pat corrected, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. "Now stop drawing shadows and come to bed. I have an early class tomorrow, but tonight… tonight I just want you to hold me until you forget someone named FIFA exists."
Ryujin smiled for the first time in hours, a broken smile, but a real one. He stood up, but before walking to the bedroom, he gave Pat a playful slap on the backside, shattering the dramatic tension with his personal signature move.
"Alright, economist. But don't get used to the sappiness. Tomorrow I go back to being the disaster that drives you crazy."
Pat laughed, feeling the balance return to the apartment. The future was still uncertain, and Ryujin still carried his scars, but as long as the house was filled with their laughter and his heavy-handed jokes, the emptiness wouldn't stand a chance of getting back in.
Ten years later, the small, noisy apartment had been replaced by a bright house in a quiet part of Bangkok, one that didn't feel empty even on rainy days.
Pat had become a respected financial analyst, but at home he was still the same boy who forgot where he left his keys. Ryujin, with his own design studio and his hair now a very fashionable ash grey, was in charge of bringing color to every corner of their lives.
On an ordinary afternoon, Ryujin was sitting in the garden, finishing the last details of an advertising campaign on his tablet, when he felt two arms wrap around his neck. Pat leaned in to kiss his cheek, letting out a sigh of contentment.
"I made coffee. And this time I didn't over-sweeten it, I swear," Pat said with a triumphant smile.
Ryujin set down his stylus and turned to look at him. Despite the years, his heart still did a small leap every time Pat looked at him with that absolute tenderness. The insecurities of his university days were now distant memories anecdotes they recounted with laughter at dinners with friends.
"Well, well. The star economist has finally mastered basic cooking. Now that's a historic milestone," Ryujin teased, tugging gently on Pat's tie to pull him closer. "But don't get too comfortable, I'm still the one who brings the spark to this house."
"I know," Pat replied, stroking Ryujin's hand, where a simple silver ring now gleamed, a symbol of their love. "Thank you for not letting the silence separate us, Ryujin."
Ryujin stood up and held him tightly, gazing into the interior of their home. On the walls hung photos of their travels, sketches by Ryujin, and in a place of honor, an old and worn photograph of Ryujin's parents , who now seemed to smile upon the warmth of the scene.
"Thank you for staying to clean up the mess," Ryujin whispered against his ear.
Before going in for dinner, Ryujin couldn't help himself. With a quick movement and his usual agility, he gave Pat a playful slap, shattering the romantic moment with his trademark mischief.
"Ryujin! We're adults now!" Pat protested, laughing as he tried to catch him.
"I will never be too much of an adult to remind you that that is still my exclusive property!" Ryujin shouted, running toward the kitchen.
Pat followed, filling the house with the sound of their laughter. The future Por said would never exist and that Ryujin had been so afraid of losing was right there, alive, loud, and perfectly disordered. They had found their own rhythm, and in that melody, there was no longer any room for loneliness. There was only them, forever and always, them.