Archive of Our Own

The only reason why Frong enjoyed his early morning art class was because the art room became the stuffiest oven-like chamber during the afternoon. Coffee left in the air from the mouth of sleep deprived art students, today no paint tinged the bitterness, it was Monday so a new model would step through the threshold like fresh meat. No brushes today, just the ever-so-calming strokes of pencils against canvas. 

Art class was more of a distraction for Frong, his major didn’t require him to take regular course classes, but he couldn’t be left without his tools for too long before his hands naturally wondered to them.  

Screwing the easel in place, Frong made sure it was sturdy enough as the rest of the alumni strolled past him. Everyone had a designated seat, depending on their lightning preferences, Frong liked admiring how the early sun casted its striking shadows from the left corner of the room creating a chiaroscuro that would have left Caravaggio speechless. 

“Class, may I have your attention.”  

Teacher Fae was a sweet woman at first glance, however, as gently as she held the brush could be just as cruel giving criticism. Frong adored her. She was standing next to the new model, hand on his shoulder where she could barely reach. 

“This is our model for today: Thara.” they exchanged a look, Miss Fae’s overflowing with gratitude. “If you want to introduce yourself, the floor is yours.” 

Now Frong had seen beauty. He  knew  beauty. Hell, it was his mentor, motivation and goal. Beauty was the wonder of creating for the mere fact that it was subjective. Perception made beauty. And Frong perceived the man standing before the class as out strikingly handsome. 

His posture was firm, yet not proud or narcissistic like most were. Smile genuine, eyes like honey, voice tender as he spoke. “Oh, well, uh hi. My name’s Thara like Miss Fae said. I am a senior majoring in acting and I’m delighted to see what you all can come up with using me as a reference.”  

Stuttering his way out of the predicament, Frong could almost feel empathy for the guy. Almost. Fifteen years of building walls wouldn’t be thrown to the drain just for a bright smile and button nose.  

“Even though Thara here is a handsome fella,” Miss Fae snatched the attention back to her by walking back to the middle of a class, bucket in her hand. “won’t you agree ladies and gentlemen?” some woos shyly echoed through the room but stopped at Frong. “We are here today to portray how fabric clings onto the body.” 

Fate was a bitch. Frong had decided long ago to make it  his  bitch, but alas fate had a hidden ace to kick his nutsack with once more. Frong, a fashion designer major, silently begging for a study on fabrics in his art class, had to find interest in the model that would make his artistic aspirations true. 

Well, ain’t that some shit? 

Too good to be true. No need to get caught up with it, just grab your pencil Frong, and by tonight you will have forgotten about it. 

Miss Fae was rambling about the technique as she normally would, this was a class after all. However, since Frong had had his fair share of art history and material introductions already, his brain shutdown involuntarily. His eyes followed the movements behind the professor, as the guy--Thara,  was taking off his uniform in favour of a cream white shirt. 

The material was cotton, a bit rough due to its badly handled washing. Some people just shoved their white laundry with other colors and hoped for the best, much to Frong’s dismay. However, it did wrap around Thara loosely, like it was hovering over his flesh, as if the boy was underwater. 

Speaking of water. 

A loud slap of water hit the floor as Miss Fae was explaining, silencing her and making all heads turn to the model. 

“My bad.” he apologized softly. 

“-but most depictions were of women instead of men.” Miss Fae finished, and then the inquiry started. Tracing the room with a raised eyebrow she stopped at the left corner, as if she could sense how Frong had been zoned out. Swear to God professors had a sixth sense for that. “What were these ladies called, Frong?” 

“Caryatids, ma’am.” Frong replied. Even though he hadn’t been paying attention he put two and two together: women wearing wet clothes only meant the Caryatids. Miss Fae gestured him to go on. “We find them in the Erehcteion in Athens. And even though they are sculpted as adult women, they were actually young girls trained to serve Aphrodite. The baskets of fruit on their heads had also offerings for the goddess which they couldn’t touch, as they carried them from the mountain to the city before dawn, in a rite of fecund-” 

“That’s plenty, thank you.” Cut Miss Fae. 

Frong lowered his gaze, that he now realized had been set on the model. The guy had gorgeous pecks, and he was a gay boy who had had to repress his attraction for years. Cut him some slack. 

“I can’t balance a basket on my head.” said Thara eyes wide, the poor thing looked positively scared at the thought of not meeting all the requirements, and Frong would deny the smile that bloomed on his face. 

He tried to hide it as he pretended to adjust his easel. 

“Oh no dear, we aren’t here to make a Caryatid out of you. Just pose comfortably and if you get cold do tell me.” Miss Fae was quick to appease him, pointing at the pieces of furniture behind them. “You can sit, lean on them, just let us know if you need to change positions.” 

Thara nodded and pushed his hair back. 

Frong’s air caught on his trachea. 

No . He was a professional, he would not let himself be swayed by a boy. That s0 not why he was in college. He hadn’t even made friends, for fucks sake. Maybe his goal-oriented tendencies would be his doom, but as of late, they were working just fine on getting him where he wanted. 

So, no boys. 

Just work. 

That principle was good and well-rooted until Frong took the first look of a now posing-Thara. The boy was standing but he found the weird fake pillar that let people lean against it without compromising their standing position. 

Hand in his pocket, Thara’s shirt drooped a little on his shoulder, exposing his collarbone with a field of water droplets shining in the morning sun.  

Frong froze. 

Where could he even begin? The damp hair with some strands sticking up comically? That cute round chin that cut into a sharp jawline? Those eyes piercing fixed in the back of the class? Those pretty lips that gathered some droplets on their cupid’s bow? Those arms pathetically hiding behind the soaked fabric? 

Frong closed his eyes. 

That was a lot. 

He took a deep breath, softly letting it go through his mouth as he didn’t want to disturb his classmates. Thara did not only take his breath away, but his inspiration too. And that was unforgivable. A thief, a criminal. With beauty beyond comparison and angelic voice. Forbidden and desired. A menace. 

A caryatid. 

Frong opened his eyes. And started from the shoulders, where a soaked toga made with pristine white clothing and golden jewelry would dress his now fully self-created priest of Aphrodite. 

“It’s eleven guys, that’s all the time we have for today.” Miss Fae’s voice was a little parched after the two-hour long silence. “Thara dear, thank you again for volunteering.” 

Thara took the towel the professor offered him and shook his head. “No problem.”  

Frong folded his easel after taking out the canvas. He had chosen a middle sized one, easy to carry from the faculty to his apartment. He held it once more in front of him, the distance making him realize how his lines had flattered at some points.  

Maybe his had was truly shaking when they made eye contact after all, even though he promised himself it was just a fragment of his imagination. Just like Thara winking at him.  

No, that one had to be a mirage created by his only-coffee fed body. 

Whatever it may be, Frong meant it when he prophesized him forgetting about Thara as soon as he stepped out the door.  

Canvas under his arm, Frong tried to avoid the swarm of people surrounding Thara. 

“At least come with us for lunch.” A girl whined. 

“I have class right after.” Thara said apologetically. “And I’d like to have a shower and get changed.” 

Another girl grabbed his arm, tugging at the damp shirt insistently as she spoke. “In that case, let me drive you home, sweetheart.”  

Wow, there went Thara’s personal space. 

If Frong had been in Thara’s position some shoving would have happened long ago. Maybe Thara was enjoying the attention, after all, he had just spent two hours being the focus of everyone’s desire. 

Frong stole one last glance at the boy.  

And just like many times during the class. Their eyes met. In a fraction of a second his walls cracked. 

Frong could recognize a cry of help in every language imaginable. 

Fuck it. Fate was Frong’s bitch. 

“Yeah great thinking.” And with that he pulled Thara closer by the elbow. “Come on man, I’ll drive you home.” 

With no other word uttered, the couple power walked their way to the parking lot. The pulse under Frong’s fingers a tad fast but steady, or maybe it was his own as it shook every single vein in his body.  

Only when Frong’s car came in sight, he let go. The blazing sun of the mid-morning making Thara glow in his now drying glory.  

“Where’s your car?” 

“You will walk me to my car?” Thara’s eyebrow rose. “And they say chivalry is dead.” 

“Good bye, Thara.” Frong rolled his eyes and started turning around. 

“Wait.”  

That was the second time Thara managed to freeze Frong, stop both his mind and body on their tracks. This time, however, Thara was clutching on his sleeve. Frong turned back around after sighing, stalling the moment he’d have to face those deer eyes. 

“Could you show me what you’ve drawn? I’m curious.”  

Frong hesitated but handed the canvas to the boy, who let out a sound of amusement. 

“So much for not making a Caryatid out of me, huh?” Thara teased, but dodged the hand that tried to yank the canvas away from him. “You are incredible. I should buy a toga.”  

“Can I have my painting back, please?” Frong asked annoyed, because he was. No one should ever disrespect an artist work like that. Stealing art was sadly a very common and recurring thing, to let it happen right in front of his eyes was outrageous. 

Thara moved to return the canvas to the extended hand. Only to stop centimeters away from it. When Frong reached out, Thara withdrawn. “Could you give it to me when you are done?” 

“Thara.” Warned Frong. 

“Please?” 

“This is a project; I’ll have to hand it in.” Frong raised his eyebrows, insistent. “Are you going to give it back?” 

Thara finally put the canvas at fingers reach of Frong, who retrieved rather harshly. “Well, if after the evaluation they return it to you, I’ll buy it.” 

“I’m not selling you my class project.” Frong scoffed at the mere idea of it. The school kept every single work of art in hopes that one of the alumni would become famous and those primary pieces would become valuable in the art world. 

“You haven’t told me your name.” Thara commented, his hair now falling to his forehead as it dried.  

“Why would I? We are never going to see each other again.”  

“You never smile, do you?”  

“Bye Thara.” Frong could take as much offenses in one day. So, he moved again this time no words stopped him from leaving. 

As he was, however, Frong couldn’t help but hear Thara softly chuckle behind his back. 

“Goodbye, Mister Smile.” 

There was no morning class on Fridays. That was the best part of the week, a free blank piece of time in his jampacked week. Granted, after lunch Frong would head back to the faculty to work on his mannequins, projects he’d been working for long and he never felt too satisfied with until the long hours of the evening. 

For now, he’d enjoy the morning sunrays as they caressed the back of his neck.  

The park was deserted from last afternoon’s child enjoyment, little feet stomping around, pretty cotton dresses getting caught in the bushes during hide and seek.  

Just as childish, and maybe fueled by the tradition of having a reserved seat in class, was Frong’s attachment to a little clearing in the park. Too boring for the kids to play in, only a worn-out stone bench facing a flower patch which changed seasonally.  

Stendhal had Florence, Dalí had Gala and Frong had his flowers. Sources of inspiration came in all forms. 

If only everything was so easy. 

“You are in my spot.” 

It came out petulant and arrogant, the only thing lacking was a pout and puffed up cheeks for the full brat look.  

“Don’t see your name on it.” The guy currently seating in Frong’s spot replied. 

That voice. Honey doesn’t mold, doesn’t rot, it can keep anything immortalized in its grasp forever like amber. Honey-like was his voice, always supple, always golden, never parched never spotted. 

Frong crossed his arms and came closer to the boy. “Thara, leave.” 

“Why would I?” Thara looked up, one eye squinting at the sun hiding behind Frong’s head. “This is a public park.” 

“Unbelievable.” Frong scoffed, running his hand through his hair and looking away. He feared his knees buckling if he was to keep eye contact. “At least scoot over.” 

That Thara did without complaining; dragging his body over to the side. Frong sat down while internally repeating a mantra meant to force him to avoid contact. Of any and all kind. However, his curiosity would definitely kill him like the saying said, but he didn’t have nine lives to take for granted. The balance between caution and curiosity was a fragile one to maintain for Frong. 

So, he peeked. Thighs wide and firm as the man himself, tan skin blending onto pale one in the now revealed spot of Thara’s upper thigh, thanks to his shorts. A combination of tender and strong made Frong feel lightheaded. 

A stupid voice he thought long gone, yelled at him to sit on them.  

Instead he took out his sketchbook and found a blank page. 

“Do you always draw the same flowers?” Thara asked. 

Maybe because Frong was too focused to remember his mantra, he replied. “They aren’t always the same. Flowers bloom and wither, they might look identical but they are never the same exact flower.” 

“That’s why you keep drawing them?” 

“They all deserve to be drawn.” 

Thara seemed satisfied with that answer, but his eyes were bearing holes into Frong’s temple. He wasn’t the one to take a linking in being observed. He was always behind the camera, behind the easel, behind the mannequins. That’s where he belonged, the shadows welcomed him, shielding him from stardom.  

“May I join you?”  

Thara’s voice felt closer, maybe he had moved closer while Frong tried to count how many petals that jasmine flower had.  

“You draw?” Frong tore his eyes away from the paper, finally. 

Only to realize that Thara had moved closer, and Frong had moved with him somehow. Like those flowers bending to find the sun every dawn, and sulking every sunset, Frong’s shoulder tipped towards Thara, thighs touching ever-so-slightly. Frong didn’t find discomfort, hell, it felt as natural as breathing. 

Therefore, he sparked away. Intimacy was a faraway object in his horizon which Frong had given up on reaching. 

“Just a little.” Thara replied as he moved to search in his bag. 

Again, Frong’s curiosity took the reins, looking over the other’s shoulder noticing a white pair of gloves and mask sitting on the other side of the acting major. Triumphantly, Thara turned back towards Frong, showing his iPad and pencil. 

Frong shook his head, physically using all his will power to not smile in disbelief.  

“Don’t judge me, Mister Smile.” Thara didn’t sound threatening by a long shot, but it was adorable how he tried. 

“Don’t call me that.” Frong decided to go back to his drawing, the little taps on the screen next to him joining the birds and the wind as his white noise 

“Then how should I call you?” 

“Jasmin.”  

Now it was Thara who laughed softly. “Will I ever get to know your name?” 

“You’ll have to keep on asking to find out.” 

That was stupid.  

Frong was laying on his bed, facing the ceiling as the evening settled into a deep purple outside his window.  

His insides churned and recoiled at the memory of the park, that smile and their thighs touching. Like an unknowing hand around scorching iron, Frong couldn’t let go of those shared moments. And still, what made him jump in his position, clutching his chest as if to rip the regret and embarrassment out of his chest was the fact that he invited Thara to talk to him more. 

That wasn’t very  We are never going to see each other again  of him. 

Blaming it on his libido was just lazy. Even if he was attracted to the acting major guy, it was way too early to even consider it a crush. Blaming it on his curiosity however gave him a scapegoat, the argument that every artist needs their muse.  

Soft knocks made his thoughts stumble into a halt. 

“Yeah?” 

“Hey.” Frong's ever so caring roommate Duen opened the door ajar. “You haven’t come out in hours. Just making sure you are okay.” 

Frong didn’t have friends. He had a guarding angel by the name of Duen. And that was it. That’s all he needed.  

“I’m fine, don’t worry about it.” Frong sat on the bed, lights bouncing behind his eyes. “Kinda hungry.” 

“I made hamburgers and we are watching a Disney original if you want to join us.” 

Normally Frong would cringe at the thought of spending time with, he guessed, Duen’s boyfriend. Their personalities too harsh and strong, like two bullets caught in battle. They kept clashing and the result was never good. 

Tonight, though, Frong needed some distraction. Something to keep him on his toes, and Thara’s honey voice out of his mind. 

“Well if it isn’t the hermit himself.” Yelled Bohn from the couch, the corner of his lips sporting some ketchup from the fries sitting on his lap.  

“Hey, Bohn.” 

“Alright that’s no good.” Bohn put the fries on the coffee table and followed as Duen sat next to him, Frong taking the armchair. “Spill.” 

“My drink on you? Gladly.” Frong raised his glass with absolutely no intention of wasting his water on Bohn. 

Bohn sighed. “Bro, I’m dead serious.” 

“And I am too when I say I have nothing to tell you.” Frong grabbed his plate. “Why would I anyway? We are not friends.” 

“With that fucking attitude you will never fucking have one in your life.” Bohn didn’t yell, he didn’t whisper either. His voice was a constant loud tone that was Frong’s demise when the couple felt like going for three rounds every night. 

“One calm evening, is that too much to ask?” Duen wasn’t even looking at them, seeking solace in his burger.  

“He started it.” Bohn also turned, giving up on making any type of conversation with Frong. 

Diving into his food, Frong knew he was at fault. He also knew he should feel bad, but if there was a tinge of guilt building in his gut, he made sure the food would cover its wails. It wasn’t the first time that happened, Bohn had been trying to wave white flags at him for a while now, maybe prompted by his boyfriend. Still, Frong decided to set them on fire. 

He didn’t need friends. What happened in his mind, in his heart, in his life, was his business and his own alone. Why would anyone else care? Or why would he care to waste his time on others? It sounded egoistic but it was just a way to a simpler life. No expectations meant freedom. 

They ate in silence while the musical Duen had chosen played in the background. Frong finished first and thanked Duen for the food.  

It was impulsive. Like that one time he grabbed his scissors and destroyed months of work and almost tore the mannequin down. Impulsive and stupid, and it made him see red at the edges. Frong took a deep intake. 

“Bohn.” he called standing almost at the hallway. But just as quickly as it came, his resolved faded. “Learn how to eat properly.” 

“This is straight up stalking.” 

“No, this is me asking if you have plans for lunch, Mister Smile.”  

It was Monday again, longest day of the week but Frong didn’t despise it. It allowed him to spend more time between fabrics, thread, and the rhythmical sound of his trusty sewing machine. Mondays were spent with blisters in his hands and coffee down his veins, which in turn made Tuesdays the worst days of the week. 

“Why would I have lunch with you?” 

“So, you don’t.” Thara bounced on his tippy toes. “Awesome, there’s this new place I want to check out.” 

“Thara I’m not having lunch with you.” Frong put his feet down, dodging the hand that was trying to grab his sleeve. “I’m not checking anything out with you. I’m not your friend.” 

“Yet.” Thara chimed in quickly. “Because first, I gotta figure out your real name, Jasmin.” 

“You won’t let that go, will you?”  

Shaking his head Thara smiled like heavens had opened up to him. Despite his soft exterior, Thara was one tough cookie. Okay, enough with food analogies, Frong was actually starving and he only had a short hour until he had to go back to his pieces. 

Rubbing his face, Frong sighed deeply. So loudly it almost hurt his lungs. Thara blinked surprised at that. 

“Fine. But that’s it.” 

Thara smiled but looked at his feet. Frong didn’t want to begin to unpack what that meant. Why was Thara shy? Where his ears always this red? -- That’s all he could grasp from the other before Thara pulled him along the street. 

“It’s like two minutes away, you are going to love it.” 

The concoction of orange and reds that appeared in front of him would be positively appalling if it didn’t smell so great. Honestly, it smelled like an entire orchard had been smushed into pulp and then presented on a plate. 

“Of course, you are vegan.” Frong scoffed, trying to decide whether he should eat that mush with a spoon or ask for a straw. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Thara smiled. Like he always did. It was hard to imagine the guy without his lips upturned in a gentle expression.  

Completely giving up any fight, Frong decided for the spoon, and to bite the bait. He let his damned curiosity take over. “What were you doing at that park on Friday anyway?” 

“Volunteering.” Thara said hand in front of his mouth, covering that mix of tofu and dumplings in his mouth. 

“You volunteer to...clean the park?” Frong took his first spoonful.   

Oh. His pride be damn, that was good. Gazpacho wasn’t as bad as the description put it. Maybe too much onion. 

“Is that so incredible?” With his eyebrow raised, Thara reached for his lemonade. “It’s just something I do from time to time.” 

Frong scoffed. “Do you also plant trees or some shit?” 

“I do actually.” 

Well, who is the asshole now, Frong? “Oh, that’s noble I guess.” 

“You are so bad at this.” 

Thara’s soft laugh made Frong raise his gaze from where it was starting at dark orange cold soup. Bohn would have grabbed him by the collar and yelled at him for being a piece of shit, Duen would have just made those puppy eyes and Frong would have had eventually apologized. 

But Thara just laughed. As if he was endeared.  

“At what?” 

Thara shook his head.  “When did you decide to major in fashion?” 

Wow. 

That was in no way, shape or form smooth, but Frong wasn’t the one to judge Thara on that. However, he was taken aback, since Frong never intended the topic of the conversation to land in his side of the field. There was nothing he wanted to tell Thara, nothing he wanted to tell anyone. 

Yet, their eyes met. 

Thara smiled. 

And Frong would never admit he was a goner from the get go. 

“I’ve always liked clothes, and dressing up.” Frong chose to focus on his food, eating between sentences hoping Thara would lose interest. “You’d have to see me clicking off ‘girls games’ websites when I was ten. Then I started drawing and well. It was like adding my two hobbies together.” 

Thara slurped on his lemonade, no intention to interrupt him.  

“And then I guess I started getting into the whole history of fashion, the brands, the off-brands, revolutions, sub-cultures. Everything. Then I got into art seeing as how many collections are based on masterpieces, so yeah.” 

Thara nodded. “Would you say art keeps feeding into itself?” 

“Pardon?” Because really, the fuck? Weren’t they just having a casual conversation? What was with the sudden philosophical shit? Well, Frong guessed that since he had humored Thara thus far, he could keep going. “I guess? In a way? I mean I think we live in a very stagnant period in both art and fashion, but as long as people keep creating, progress will be made.” 

“That’s why there was a stagnant point in art just before the avant-gardes started, right?” Thara shrugged, finally finishing his food. 

One could mark Frong as surprised. Where the hell did that even come from? Was it a test? Why the hell was he so confused? Thara did come off as a very smart guy already, however, it seems like Frong forgot sometimes with this whole happy-go-lucky thing. 

Blinking a few times, Frong finished his food as well. 

“Will you tell me your name now?” 

That was new too. That look in Thara’s eyes, that was absolutely terrifying in the number of layers it displayed. But mostly, this was Thara’s way of saying  you can end this right now, if you want . 

Frong smiled. 

“Coco Chanel.” 

Frong got up and grabbed his wallet. “This is for my soup.” 

Thara remained silent. Only when Frong was rounding the corner he whispered. “With that smile I could call you Adonis.” 

It wasn’t right. The fabric was too flowy, too ethereal. It lacked humanity, the weight of mortality. It sat on the mannequin way too light, like a feather touch. And maybe two months ago Frong would have been satisfied with it. But now he was biting on his nail, stepping away from the piece and despising every inch of it. Except the shoulder piece.  

Heavy piece of metal he found disregarded from an armor the acting majors used for a play, made a good starting point from where the rest of the dress flew from. Like a waterfall. But instead of falling, it floated into a shapeless mess of blue. 

Sighing, Frong rubbed his eyes since his vision was starting to blur at the edges. He had long ran out of coffee and the idea of crashing in the class was growing on him. 

Until the door slammed open. 

“Do you even fucking know what time it is?” 

Like a motive, Bohn’s voice awakened some irrational and instinctive side of Frong that he never knew he owned. It was irritation and annoyance and yet all tinged by a sense of comradery he could never be able to explain. 

“What are you doing here?” Frong asked, back still facing Bohn. 

“Taking you home, the fuck else if not?” Bohn came closer, grabbed him by the elbow. “Duen is worried sick, and I can’t deal with him pouting any longer.”  

Frong broke free from the grasp. Maybe the meeting point between them was Duen’s happiness. Frong would admit he had a crush on Duen when they first became roommates, but it soon faded out. He realized it was infatuation, Duen’s caring nature confused him. There was no real interest behind it. 

And then Bohn appeared and Duen hugged his pillows with the dorkiest smile while talking about him.  

Frong stared at Bohn who, arms crossed, waited for Frong to protest, complain. Instead, Frong took off his pin cushion from around his wrist and covered his mannequin. “Then let’s go.” 

As he walked past Bohn, Frong tried to not think about how taken aback the engineer looked, noticing his eyes drawing holes in the back of his neck. “Are you coming or what?” Frong asked from the threshold. 

“We aren’t going home, are we?” Frong leaned his head against the seat. 

The night city waved at them with its orange lit streetlamps, the veil of contamination covering every star, the moon timidly peeking through the skyscrapers. Bohn didn’t speed drive, he could given how deserted the road was, Frong could tell he was holding back. Bohn was basically stalling.  

“Bro, listen.” 

The air shifted. Frong knew what this meant. His parents tried a few years back before he left for college. His brothers tried in high school after he came back with gum in his hair.  

No way. 

This was not happening. 

Frong tried to suppress this groan. 

“Trust me, I’m the last fucking person who wants to do this. But even  I  am getting tired of your shit.” Bohn took a small glance at Frong before continuing. “Like, doesn’t it get tiring of being this closed off, boarding, stubborn piece of turd.” 

Frong scoffed. Was Bohn the one to talk.  

Looking through the window a lit up add for a vitamin product winked, from the side of the road.  

Loneliness had always been his scape. When the irrevocable fear of walking alone through the hallways took over, he could always take refugee within himself. Frong always found pace when there was no one around, when there were no expectations, no insults murmured behind his back. Where he could just be. 

He could only be when he was alone. 

But alone and loneliness had expiring dates. And it was approaching faster than Frong wanted to admit. 

“It is.” His words fogged the window. “It is tiring. But I don’t know any other way.” 

Bohn sighed, rolling down their windows slightly so new hair could brush everything away. Frong let its cold hands run throuh his hair as he closed his eyes. Breathing finally. 

“I used to think so too. “Bohn admitted. “I used to think I was uncurable, that I was destined to be this jealous, overbearing, controlling asshole for all eternity.” Gulping down, Frong could see the corners of Bohn’s eyes dampening. “But then, someone had faith in me. Duen didn’t give up on me, cheered me up to be better. Not for him only, but for myself.” 

Frong couldn’t tear his eyes away from the road. Completely frozen, Frong was stranded in the middle of the sea with a ring of white sharks around him. He was bleeding from everywhere, Bohn had just shot him in the stomach. Yet, maybe if he remained still, the sharks would go away. 

Maybe if he pretended Bohn’s speech didn’t affect him, his insecurities and pent up fears that lead Frong to be a rock of a human, wouldn’t bite him. 

“You are still kind of an asshole, though.” Frong said, he had to talk, he had to remind himself he was still there. That the sea hadn’t swallowed him whole. 

Bohn laughed lightly. “Just for you, babe.” 

By Wednesday his Caryatid was finally shaping up. The skin tone took a little longer than he hoped, the technique was quite hard as Frong had to figure out how to portray both cloth and flesh.  

Frong tried to scramble through his memories, remember all the tones, all the hues of Thara’s face as he posed in the middle of the classroom. The paler patches of his skin down his thighs, seeing the sun after an atrocious winter. He damned himself for coming such details to memory, for noticing. Even if they were helping him now. 

Sight was the main sense needed for painting. Duh. However, Monet was colorblind, and almost lost his vision by the end of his life to the point where he had to wear specially made glasses for him. So maybe his eyes had betrayed him, maybe he was romantizing Thara. Maybe his smile wasn’t as shining, maybe his waist wasn’t as incredible, maybe his thighs weren’t that dreamy. 

“Oh dear, what brings you here?” Miss Fae sprung to life from two easels away. 

Frong was too preoccupied with his inner turmoil to spare her a glance. 

Until a new voice replied. 

“I admit I’m curious to see how the paintings are turning out.”  

“Well, do come in Thara, dear. Normally models don’t care much about the progress.”  

Frong stared. It was a fact. He had to stop denying the truth. His excuse as that he was indeed having a crisis and well, he took the opportunity to look at the model again and see if he did get his skin tone right. 

A good excuse, if it wasn’t because Frong’s mouth hung ajar, his eyes hungrily raking Thara up and down like he was a hot served meal. Blue shirt unbuttoned, a golden necklace patting his golden chest every step he took.  

And all Frong’s doubts were answered. 

Yes, Thara’s smile was that blinding. Yes, his waist was dream-like and yes, those thighs were to die for. So no, no special prescription glasses for Frong. 

However, as Thara walked through the room, Frong found himself wanting to use more than his sight to discover every inch of Thara’s body.  

Wow  there  cowboy, you are still in class.  

The jasmine scent engulfed Frong way before Thara even leaned down his level.  

“Good afternoon, Mister Smile.” 

“Thara.” Frong didn’t turn, clutching his brush tighter he decided to go for smaller strokes. No messing up now. 

“Did I tell you how talented you are?” 

Why was he whispering? Why the  fuck  was he whispering? 

It was overwhelming. It was a raging sea and all the sharks and all that bullshit and Frong couldn’t swim, he could fight the waves but he’d end up drowning. 

Frong turned to face Thara. Bohn's voice echoed through his apparently empty skull. Frong’s eyes danced through Thara’s face and before he could even exhale, he spoke.  

“Have dinner with me.” 

Thara smiled. He was so close.  

A ray of sunshine to calm the tides. 

“It’ll be my pleasure.” 

Thara fetched the chopsticks from the side of the table, handing a couple to Frong as the steam of the noodles flew up their faces.  

“This is the only place I know where they have vegan options.” Frong commented stirring his soup.  

“Well, we can always look for more together.” 

Okay, alright who the fuck let this man be both good looking and a good talker. Frong’s chest went warm for a beat, his hand steady, interrupted from stirring.  

He resumed as if nothing happened, but the knowing smirk in Thara’s face told Frong that he lost the battle. 

Only when Thara hummed in content, did Frong break into a shy smile. Needless to say, Frong had been worried that Thara wouldn’t like the only dish he could eat in that restaurant. His fears demolished by the actor once more, made Frong feel secure. 

Secure enough to let his guard down.  

And show the interest for Thara he had been hiding for over a couple of weeks now.  

“What made you want to major in acting?” 

Thara lowered his glass. “You want the standard answer or the real answer?” 

“The one you are willing to give to me.” Frong didn’t even hesitate. 

Thara blinked, caught off guard maybe, before leaning against the backrest of his seat. 

“At first it was for fun. You know, school functions and whatnot.” Thara started. “I was tall so I was the main character always.” 

“Well, that changed.” Frong tried to ease the air, guessing Thara was going for the real answer.  

“Funny.” Thara’s eyes squinted at him but there wasn’t any malice behind them. “Then I decided to enroll into a small company aimed for youngsters, against my parents' wishes. They really...They.” Thara looked away. 

Frong was two seconds away from jumping off his seat and do something stupid.  

“They had this life made up for me. I am their only child so I had to be a doctor, and a professional soccer player, and a good child, sociable, kind and amicable. I had to be this and that and all at once.” Thara sighed, toying with his food. “It was exhausting. Being the constant gifted child, the pride of their life. It was like walking on a rope between two canyons. I would eventually fall.” 

Frong could only imagine the pressure. He had two older siblings, a lawyer and a business owner. The fist getting married the same year Frong chose his major. Frong was the spoiled younger child, no one bat an eye when he asked for a sewing kit at thirteen, everyone congratulated him when he passed his college entrance exam. 

“And I did. I fell.” Thara continued, he hadn’t looked at Frong ever since he had started talking. “I fell for theatre. I could be anyone  I  wanted. I could be Romeo crying at the rising light of the sun, I could be a psychopathic killer in search of vengeance, I could be a noble, really, anyone.” Thara smiled, his voice weakening. “Do you know how freeing that was?”  

Frong met Thara’s eyes finally, red around the edges, pooling tears before his brown irises.  

“Do you know how great it is to not be me?” 

Frong had had enough. 

How  dare  he? How dared Thara talk about himself like that. As if he wasn’t the embodiment of beauty, as if he wasn’t the sun shaped as a human, as if he didn’t put every single star to shame. How dare he. 

Thara’s arms wrapped around his waist, his nose poking Frong’s bellybutton through his shirt. 

That had to be the most awkward way to hug someone, yet it felt like he was Atlas holding the Earth in his hands. Those pitch-black locks, so alluringly put into place were now in disarray due to his fingers, combing through them slowly. Thara didn’t sob, he merely held onto Frong for a few seconds, recomposing himself, and Frong didn’t mind. Frong found himself not caring about the looks they were getting, not caring about anything else but the boy breaking against him. 

“Sorry.” Thara said pulling away. 

“It’s fine.” Frong whispered as he sat back down, because it was. “Thanks for telling me.” 

“You are the only one who cared enough to listen.” Thara was wiping some stray tears off his cheeks, his smile soon taking over again. However, this time broken a little, like an old porcelain pot. 

Frong wanted to mend it with gold. 

“For the record, I don’t think being you sucks so bad.” Frong was indeed, very bad at this. “I don’t think anyone else would pull off being such a good Caryatid.”  

“I only do because you are a great artist.” 

“Oh my God, shut up and take the compliment.” Frong said chuckling, leaning in to feed Thara a piece of cucumber.  

The apartment building stood tall behind Thara, who turned to face Frong. The trace of dead tears still lingered in his face, and it was heartbreaking. No matter how much Thara played it off, Frong acknowledged just how bare Thara had stripped himself for Frong. They met two weeks ago and he just busted out his entire sad story. 

This is why Frong didn’t do friends. What has he supposed to do with all that weight? Hug him, apparently. 

Because apparently, that’s where Frong’s instinct laid: to protect Thara. To hold him. 

He should hate the feeling. He should despise the memory of those thick strands of hair against his palm. He should forget about it. 

Yet, there he was, standing in front of Thara, trying to make justice to the smile presented in front of him. Speechless at the sudden intimacy. Begging silently for that moment to never end. 

“Thanks for driving me home.” 

“No problem.”  

Thara looked a way, shy maybe. Frong couldn’t tell due to the darkness around them, broken only by a few street lights. 

“And again, sorry for-” 

“Don’t mention it.”  Frong cut him shaking his head. 

A pause. Thara looked behind him, like a kid about to tell someone a secret. 

“What is your name?” 

Frong laughed, looking at his feet as they kicked the air slightly. When he raised his sight, there it was. Those adoring eyes. 

“I’ll let you chose that one.” 

“Mercutio.” Thara was closer than Frong remembered.  Not close enough.  

“So, does that make you Romeo?” Frong tilted his head. 

“Do you want me to?” 

Frong’s phone dinged announcing a notification and effectively shattering the atmosphere. Only when Frong typed his reply to Duen did he realize he had been holding his breath.  

“Sorry, my roommate. I didn’t tell him I was eating with someone.” Frong mumbled his explanation as he pocketed his phone again. 

“Well, thanks again.” 

“Kinda hoping you’d say goodbye like Romeo did.” 

“Oh shit, no pressure.” Thara let out a big cackle as he laughed. Frong suddenly realized he really liked how Thara cursed. “Farewell! God knows when will meet again!” 

While his voice rose in volume, his eyes stood fixed on Frong who threw his eyebrows up, impressed. “Tomorrow if you don’t have any plans.” 

“Coffee?” 

“Coffee.” 

Okay. What the fuck. 

Honestly? 

What the actual fuck. 

Does that make you Romeo? 

Like, there had to be several loose screws in Frong’s because that is just not how a mind operates. That is not what you say to someone you met two weeks ago. Two weeks, for goodness sake. 

It was beyond embarrassing, it consumed Frong as he turned and twisted in his bed. Maybe his brain had just had enough after almost twenty years of being closeted. Maybe that was just frustration and Thara seemed a good enough target to let it go. 

So, why was Frong showering the next day with the vivid dream where Thara cried over his laying body on a stage still playing in his head? Why was it that the cold torrent of water couldn’t wash away the feelings of Thara’s lips on Frong, making the audience gasp? 

The soft fabric of his cloak draped on the floor, he felt the cold air against his chest, the fake wound dampening the otherwise white shirt. Thara’s gentle touch cupping his face, a sonnet Shakespeare had hidden between his stacks of books, hoping time and history would rot them away.  

Why did Frong wake up with an empty feeling in his gut? 

He was still drying his hair when he walked to the kitchen, no matter how much he scratched the towel against his scalp, the images wouldn’t go away. 

Duen was sitting on the counter, book in one hand, glasses slipping down his nose.  

“Good morning!” He said in a little chipper voice. “Did you sleep well?” 

“Sort of.” Frong poured himself some coffee. While Duen mumbled how can one  sort of  have a good night sleep. Fuck it. Maybe it was time to get some answers. Frong could go on as if nothing was happening for so long. “Duen, can I ask you something?” 

“Sure.” Duen swung his legs a little as he put the book away. 

“How...” God that was excruciating. It was Duen though, he wouldn’t judge. “How did you know you liked Bohn?” 

“Excuse me?” Asked in turn Duen, blinking. It wasn’t confusion as much a perplexion, written all over his face. 

“Like, when did you think ah yes, I want to date this guy?”  

“Is this some sort of roast towards Bohn, because I don’t get it?” At Frong’s sigh, Duen finally understood. Eyes blown wide, he exlaimed.“Wait. Fucking wait! No way! You have a crush on someone?” 

Duens hands where on Frong’s shoulders before the taller could even hear Duen jumping from his seat. The guy, for all it was worth, had a strong grip, shaking Frong until he felt his brain slosh around in his skull. 

“Duen stop.” He begged but it came out as a giggle. “I mean, I don’t know? I think I like him but, I also think it’s too soon.” Frong took a sip of his way too bitter coffee. 

“Does he treat you right?” Duen dropped his hands and adjusted his glasses. “Tell me everything about him.” 

As much as Duen was excited, his voice all over the place and wavering at some parts, there was an unmistakable worry, brought maybe by the fact that Frong was questioning his feelings. 

“Well he is very handsome. Like, Michaelangelo type of handsome, like my god he must be Apollo’s favourite.” 

“Enough with classical references, please I am just a medical science major.” Duen joked, now leaning his back against the fridge. “But alright, I get that the boy is handsome. But is he good to you?” 

“The best.” Frong blurted out. Cold sweat gathered in the small of his back. “I mean, he takes me out to eat, and we have a lot of stuff in common.” Frong  looked at the window but didn’t pay attention to what was outside. “He is such a paradox, you know? One minute he could be talking about cool-aid, the next he is asking you about the intricacies of the gothic movement in Europe.” 

“Yeah that seems right up your ally.” 

He was. One day Frong might be able to put into words how much he needed someone to show a little bit of interest. To show Frong they cared. Maybe one day it would sink in that Thara was a godsent present for him. 

“Right?” Frong finally dropped his gaze back to his mug. “It’s too good to be true, though. I bet he doesn’t feel the same. I am just imagining things because I never dated anyone. Let alone another man. I should just drop it.” 

Duen squatted him across the back. Bohn was definitely a bad influence. “Like hell you are! Listen, we all have had our fantasies with our crushes. I literally spent hours on the daily imagining Bohn carrying me bridal style and calling me his pretty prince. Instead the little shit carries me like a sack of potatoes and smacks my butt.” 

“Romantic.” Frong rolled his eyes, he had been a witness of both these occurrences more than once. He also saw how much Duen seemed to like them. 

“What I mean is that you are crushing on this boy and you are doing normal crush things. Love is a big word, I get that, and if you are afraid of rushing things then take a break. Come with us this weekend, it’s my cousin's birthday. Meet new people, and if by the end of the night that boy hasn’t left your heart, he is the one.” 

Frong thought about it. Thought of all the possibilities, of all the scenarios as he finished his coffee. And no matter what, the thought of someone replacing Thara seemed a weakling stick against a breeze. How could someone begin to compare?  

However, he replied. “Sounds good. Should I bring a present?” 

Since he now knew he could try open his heart, why not explore how far could he take it? Let's see how long could he keep it up until he broke again. 

The coffee encounter was rather rushed. All cafés in campus were filled to the brim given that it was break time, and by the time they both got their orders, they had to run back to their classes.  

Maybe it was a sign. The universe was preparing the terrain for the next night, making Frong not have newer sweeter memories of Thara, so it was fair for everyone new he’d meet.  

He had given Duen’s words more thought than he expected. Between needles and thread, Frong decided it was fair. Fair for him. For his stupid heart who never bothered to learn how to love anyone in a romantic way. Because Frong never expected an opportunity to do so to appear. 

The sky was painted pink, the faculty was about to close soon, no crashing in the rooms on Friday's policy strict as a bolder. Frong could only begin to imagine what went on for the faculty with the loosest rules to apply that one like law. Still, Frong kept his hands busy and his ears stuff with music, a self-imposed prison to maybe stop thinking about boy dilemmas. 

It was stupid at his age. 

Someone tapped him on the back. 

“Hey, I’m very sorry to ask but could you help me? I can't go home without finishing this or I’ll be behind schedule.” She spoke fast but firm, her eyes worried into a frown.  

Frong found himself agreeing. “Fon, right?” 

The girl nodded as she led the way to her corner of the room. “I’m right before you during roll call.” 

“Okay so what’s the problem?” Frong asked, hands on his hips. 

“I need you to hold that piece up for me, so I can pin it.” Fon gestured to a strand of fabric lamely hanging on the shoulder of the mannequin.  

Frong nodded and followed instructions. Unbeknownst as to what the girl was going for, he decided to just deal with it, the theme for the evaluation was Pictures of a Dream. Very MET gala if you asked Frong, but it was mostly a free theme hugely based on the story behind it.  

So of course, Frong was curious. 

“You dream of spikey suits?” The question was almost stuttered, a habit Frong swore he killed long ago.  

“It’s a fairy.” Fon argued, but talked no further after Frong let out an understanding hum. “You dream about ancient Greece?” 

Frong stole a peek to his creating, standing proudly on the other side of the room, some threads were still loose, more accessorizing and personalization was needed. But the skeleton was basically done.  

It was basically a toga. One that was held by metal shoulder pieces, belt on the waist and hung faintly on the front. It had nothing to offer at first. The fabric appeared basic in the shadows, plain white. But it was iridescent to the light, almost transparent in the upper half. 

Frong smiled. 

“I guess.” 

Having no friends besides his own siblings while growing up had a lot of disadvantages. Ones the therapist could point out, others were learned by Frong himself as he advanced his life. Like what to buy to a complete stranger for his birthday.  

Duen had invited Frong in a whim, maybe the protagonist of the party wouldn’t like the extra mouth to feed, so maybe bringing food or ice or alcohol was a good idea. But what would the people in the party enjoy? Would that party be like those in the movies? With loud music and red plastic cups filled to the brim with a sweet concoction meant to make you forget? 

“Just buy him a mug.” Bohn rolled his eyes. 

“Oh, my cousin loves mugs!” Duen sprung from farther down the aisle. 

They were grocery shopping, Bohn had come along to be the driver, and to pretend he and Duen were actually living together like the old married couple they were. Frong hand’t mind, that meant more hands to carry the backs up the stairs. 

Frong sighed and went to the decoration section of the big ass store. Okay, new dilemma, what kind of mug would the stranger like? 

For Fuck’s sake it couldn’t be that hard. People would stop socializing if it was that hard. 

Sighing, Frong closed his eyes as he let his finger hover in front of the shelve. Moving it in a small dance he stopped at the count of then. 

It was a normal mug, with white and grey stripes and the sentence “Remember to smile” written in typewrite calligraphy.  

That could work. 

That wouldn’t work. 

Why the fuck would that work? 

Frong was stupid, that whole thing was stupid, birthdays were stupid, people were stupid, socializing was stupid. 

Duen knocked on the door. From where the muffled pounding music was coming from.  

Frong should have bolted then. He shouldn’t have agreed in the first place. People were mean, disagreeable.  

Not to mention every time Frong tried to make friends, they wouldn’t even give Frong the chance. People were quick to judge him, they always had. Except Duen. And by proxy Bohn. 

And Thara. 

No. 

He couldn’t think of him. He promised himself that night would be Thara-free. Besides, what would he do? Call Thara? Frong didn’t have his number. He could only long for the actor, even though he prohibited himself to do so. For one night. 

The door opened. 

“Hey! You guys made it.” 

Honey. A little bit slurred, as if it was pouring from the corner of his smile. A smile that could blind the healthy and cure the sick. 

“Of course!” Duen yelled before hugging the host. “Oh yeah, let me introduce you. This is Thara, my cousin. Thara this is my roommate-” 

“Coco Chanel.” 

“Uh, what?” Duen blinked once, twice. His head whipping back and forth between his cousin and his friend. “N-No he is-” 

Thara interrupted again. “I know him, we met when I volunteered to be the model for his class.” Those gorgeous eyes fell on Frong, who would have given up kingdoms just to have that adoring gaze only focused on him. “Come in.” 

Thara stepped aside letting the couple in, Bohn clapped him in the shoulder and congratulated him with a smile before getting a hold of Duen’s hand and further entering the party. 

Frong wasn’t so lucky. He had wished for those eyes to never leave him, and they never did as he took off his shoes and coat, carefull to not damage his present. 

When he was done, the man of the night presented himself in front of him, even if Frong could feel the burn where his eyes had been staring, he found himself not really caring. Not anymore. 

Wasn’t it hilarious? To think he had spent an entire week preparing to forget about Thara, to meennew people and get the newsflash that he wasn’t really that into Thara. Just like it happened with Duen, infatuation due to the fact that Thara cared. Or he appeared to care. 

No one had cared before, no oone had really showed it at least. 

Fate was a bitch. 

“This is for you.” Frong finally said, a little worried the silence would become their new normal. 

Thara took the present, finally tearing his sight from Frong. Frong hated how much he wanted it back. Rummaging a little, Thara managed to fetch the wrapped mug. He weighted it in his hand before arching a brow and looking at Frong. 

“Do you mind if I open it now?” Thara asked. 

“No, why would I? It’s your birthday.” Frong replied, and promptly helped Thara hold the pieces of wrapping paper he discarted. “Happy birthday, Thara.” 

Finally holding the unveiled mug, Thara scoffed amused at the typography. “Remember to smile.” He read out loud before sighing. “As if I can stop smiling when you are near.” 

Frong hated losing control. 

He went clubbing once with his older brother. The sweaty bodies bouncing in a pathetic excuse of dancing were everywhere, all of them bumping into Frong at once, blocking his exiti his airways. He was suffocating in a sea of people. 

Now, he was drowning in a sea of golden honey, of tanned skin and black hair and his heart was about to give out. He felt himself blushing and he couldn’t stop it. He felt his knees going weak and he couldn’t shake them into place. Frong felt himself falling and he didn’t have a parachute. 

He was falling back first towards the ground and yet he found himself reaching for the same hand that had pushed him off the edge. 

“Good. I really like your smile.” Frong found himself talking and his words tasted like candy.  

“Thara where the fuck are you? The cake is ready!” Yelled someone from the living room. 

Fate was a bitch. 

Fate kept pushing them together but loved to tear them apart when the moment was just right. Telling them here comes the airplane but never let them taste the food. It was like that damn Sisyphus and his rock. Once at their peak, the boulder rolled down again. 

“Oh shit.” Thara mumbled to himself, as if he was finally realising they were still in the entryway. “Thank you for the gift, Coco.” And finally he moved, his body not facing Frong anymore. “Let’s go eat some cake.” 

So, in the end worked. 

Thara’s friends weren’t the wild type. They sat on Thara’s couch and talked nonsense for hours, asking the first person who moved to get up to go fetch them some more drinks. They apparently also made the cake themselves, the droopy icing on the top didn’t seem appetizing and the fact that the layers leaned on one side made the whole thing appear comically inedible. 

But it was fucking delicious. 

King, an engineering major, rambled on about how they spent three days arguing which flavour should they go for.  Ting Ting, the only girl and medical science student intervened and clarified that she was the one who said a handmade cake would be better. 

And from then on Frong tuned out. The conversation unfolding into banter and then into chaos as some yelled and others laughed. 

It worked out because they never acknowledged Frong. Not really.  

Rather, Frong felt like he was intruding, like he had stepped into the wrong door and was eavesdropping into some private affairs. So out of place in fact that the chair he was sitting on started to burn, as if it had ambers in the wood. 

Without saying much, Frong stood up, the guy named Mek laughing so loud Frong was sure it would ring in his ears for weeks on end. The same laugh haulted as soon as Frong shut the sliding doors of the balcony behind his back. 

Staring at the imense metropolis at his feet, it dawned on him. Frong was temporary. 

These people inside were Thara’s life, a piece of family. They had known each other for years, they had inside jokes and memories, they would grow old and remember each other. Even if Frong was to join them, he’d never catch up. 

No one would remember him. 

He would never matter to anyone. He would never matter to Thara as much as these people inside. 

“Frong, hey.”  

Oh fuck. Bohn was not going to live that one down. 

“Hey.” Frong unfolded himself from the position he had been sitting in. His arms finally unwrapping from his own knees. “What’s up?” He tried to act non-chalant even if his voice broke. 

“Are you okay?” Bohn asked crouching, and it would be safe to say the expression he was sporting was one for the books. 

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Frong replied with a question and a shrug, and the most loopsided smile he could muster. 

“Duen is asking for you, we are going to have a dance battle, but if you aren’t feeling well, I can drive you home.” 

“I can’t dance so it’ll be better if you guys just-”  

“No one in this goddamn apartment can dance, come on.” Bohn insisted tugging on Frongs arm. He wasn’t forceful, God knows he could wipe Frong off his feet if he really tried.  

“Really Bohn, you guys should enjoy yourselves. I’m fine.” Even though his voice was coming out strained, Frong forced himself to keep the facade. He wasn’t going to break in front of Bohn of all people. 

After some more tugging, Bohn gave up. A big sigh proceeded Bohn flopping against Frong’s side on the ground. 

“Listen.” the engineer said as he fully faced Frong. “I know they can be... too much. I also felt out of place when Duen introduced me to his friends. Ram wanted to punch me a new face. But, in no time you’ll be part of the group, trust me.” 

It wasn’t about that. The burn in his chest, the sore feeling of something squeezing his heart dry wasn’t because he felt left out. Frong was used to that. After two decades, he was at peace with the fact that he’d never have a friend. 

It was bout Thara. It was, Frong realized, about how jealous he was of all those people who get to have Thara’s number on their phone. Frong was envious of the privilege everyone in that room of being considered close to Thara. 

Because what was Frong to Thara? Thara didn’t even know his name. 

Fuck it. 

He couldn’t hold it any longer. 

It hurt so bad to keep it in, it hurt so bad to not be able to say it. It hurt so bad to think that he was being unfair to Thara. It hurt so bad to acknowledge he was holing himself back from being Thara’s friend. 

“Bohn.” his voice sounded like a plea. “I like Thara.” 

“I know.” Bohn replied almost immediately. “I could tell. I’m not that dumb.” 

Frong whipped his head up from where he had been staring at the floor. Bohn’s face was softened by something Frong could call understanding. Bohn understood him. Bohn had been through the same. 

“I don’t know what to do about it.” 

“It’d be cool to start with dancing with him and his friends.” 

Bohn was right, no one in that goddamn party could dance.  

Also, Duen had drunk one sip too much and was flailing around with no sense of rhythm and beat. When he saw Bohn, he all but draped himself onto his boyfriend, moving his hips as he tried to grind with him. Instead, it looked like Duen was in heat. Frong would very much like to bleach his eyes after seeing that. 

Instead, Frong smiled when his eyes met Phu’s who gestured him to come closer. Phu was shyly bouncing with the song, right next to the speaker, which shook as if it couldn’t handle its own volume.  

“You good?” Phu yelled.  

Frong nodded and tried to follow the other dancing.  

“We ordered pizzas; I hope you are hungry.” 

“Starving.”  

It was easy.  

It was easy to pretend they weren’t complete strangers, to swim between the friend group, bump into some limbs. Tee would call for Frong to go take a shot with him and Tang, Ram would ask if Frong would take the last slice of the pizza; and Ting Ting would make him dance a couple ballroom like twirl that completely backfired when she tipped backwards, and promptly passed out. 

Seeing as everyone was pretty into their own activities, Frong grabbed Ting Ting’s sleeping body and carried her as best as his ability. 

Thara, being the good host he was, he noticed right away, leaving his drink on the table to guide Frong to the bedroom.  

“Don’t move her too much, I think she will throw up.” Thara advised as Frong placed Ting Ting on the bed with the upmost care. 

“I hope she doesn’t, this is silk.” Frong exhaled, pinching the front of his shirt. Slowly, he covered Ting Ting with the covers and tucked her in, noticing how Thara had left the room. 

Only to return to leave a bucket by the bed, right beside where Frong was still trying to cover a squirmy Ting Ting. 

Thara’s hand had sneaked to rest on the small of Frong’s back as he moved. Most likely to alert Frong of where he was, since the room wasn’t kindly lit. And that would have been it if only Frong could pretend his senses weren’t hypersensitive when it came to Thara. Suddenly it was a lot.  

A Boa constrictor around his neck. 

Thara was too close, his chest almost pressed against Frong’s back, his hand unmoving, his warmth engulfing Frong from head to toe. 

“Let her rest for a bit.” that could barely count as a whisper, if there had been anyone else (awake) in the room, they wouldn’t have been able to hear Thara. For his mouth was right next to Frong’s ear. Thara’s lips ghostly caressing the lobe. 

Frong sprung up and away. 

His eyes started to dry up from opening them so wide in surprise. But his chest ached even more at Thara’s reaction. He looked so sad. Frong wanted to- 

No.  

But he tried to excuse himself. 

“Thara-” 

“Don’t.” Thara needed to stop fucking interrupting him. “I know what you are going to say, so don’t.” 

Oh well that was just fantastic, Thara could read his mind too? Great. In the past Frong would have yelled and pulled at Thara’s hair for ever implying he could do so. Frong was no open book, he was an old forgotten book with a rusty lock no one had the time to find the key for. And Frong liked it that way.  

Or he thought he did. 

Because then, standing in that foreign dark room, light snores from Ting Ting’s slumber, alcohol buzzing lightly in his veins, and Thara looking at him with pleading eyes, made soemthing switch in Frong. 

Frong might have been a book, but he wasn’t good with words. Maybe Thara had that key.  

“What do you mean?” Frong started. Because he couldn’t expect Thara to do all the work. 

The slight intoxicated rationality he had left urged him to take the first step this time. So he did. Coming closer to Thara. 

“If-If...” Thara hesitated, stuttering oh-so-adorably. “I know you don’t have feelings for me. I know I’m just a bother but, please just don’t push me away.” Was he  begging?  “I don’t care if you will never have me, I’m content with being friends.” 

“Thara, what are you talking about?” Frong was breathless, frozen in place now as Thara’s eyes frantically searched for something to focus on.  

“I know I’m overbearing and I impose myself to you, but I really want to know you better. Is it selfish? To want to be around you because you intrigue me? Does that make me a bad person?” Thara’s hands were everywhere, having and scratching his arm. In the dim light emanating from the hallway, Frong could see him sweat. 

Frong had to reach out. Had to hold onto that hand not for his sake, but for Thara’s. He wasn’t good with words, but he’d try. For Thara. 

Fate was Frong’s bitch 

Walking the two remaining steps separating them, Frong took both Thara’s hands, cupping them gently and gathering them. He pulled them to rest on his chest, making the other come closer.  

“You are overbearing, you are imposing, and you are selfish.” Frong fired. “But so am I.” Thara’s eyes finally stopped wondering, but they were shaking as he looked at Frong. “And we can do this at our pace. Get to know each other, I mean.” 

“So, you don’t hate me?” 

“I don’ think I could ever hate you, Thara.” Frong was caressing Thara’s knuckles, his wrists. When Thara put his palms against Frong’s chest Frong closed his eyes and sighed. 

“What’s your name?” Thara had come closer, Frong could barely open his eyes.  

“Fr-” 

Ting Ting grumbled something in her sleep, and then started snoring louder. 

The boys looked at her alarmed, Frong could already forsee himself holding her hair as she puked. But at the prospects of her continuing her sleep, they both relaxed, laughing softly amongts themselves. 

“Let’s head back.” Frong offered, even though it pained him to lose those hands on him, he had to agree the moment had been broken. 

Thara nodded and gestured for Frong to head out first. 

Even though it had been a silent promise to not dwell on what happened in the party, Frong couldn’t stop thinking about what alchol made him do. Made him be brave, that is. He couldn’t shake the left over adrenaline out of his body. 

Every time he looked at his phone to see a new notification from Thara, it would remind him of the night. 

Of Thara’s hands. 

I don’t care if you’ll never have me.  

Too good to be true. Those were the ramblings of a drunk man. They had to be. No one is this blunt an straight forward. 

“So, where’s the big problem?” Thara asked poking his head from outside the empty class. 

Miss Sonia had agreed to open the class a bit early on Wednesdays. She was just that excentric. And because she took almost an hour to set up the projector and her laptop. Yes, she was that old. 

Frong gestured Thara to come in and follow him.  

“Good morning, by the way.” The actor continued as he walked. 

“Yeah, good morning to you too.” Frong mumbled, too concerned with his troubles to really give a heartfelt greeting. 

Finally, they stopped in front of the mannequin that had been giving Frong literal migraines for the last weeks.  

Thara rose his eyebrow, looking at it, then back to Frong, then back at the piece.  

“Hey.” 

“Hm?” 

“Let me try it on.”  

Almost snapping his neck, Frong turned to look at Thara dead in the eyes. Where he expected to find a mocking look, Frong was met with a stern expression, eyebrows furrowed and lips pressed.  

“There’re needles in there.” 

“I’ve done worse.”  

And with that Thara approached the mannequin, but before he put a hand on the fabric, Frong stopped him out of fear. One tug too harsh and the whole thing would come undone. 

Only when someone coughed behind them did Frong realize he was holding Thara’s hand. It took a bit too long before he let go. 

“Stay still.” Frong told Thara, even though his eyes were purposefully fixed on the dress. 

After some shuffling, and some teasing remarks about how Thara was being stabbed by tense of needles (which were not even there to begin with), Frong managed to put the piece on Thara. 

“It’s too loose.” 

“It wasn’t meant for you.” Frong explained, grabbing his pin cuishon. “But I guess it does now.” 

Frong started to work, turning around to pin the bits of fabric he wanted sewn, mark those that had to be cut, and stick small round stickers where add-ons were needed. Kneeling in front of Thara, Frong pulled the loose string of fabric sitting on the sides to loop around his waist. 

Once. 

Twice. 

It was meant to be three times but Thara was just that wide. Frong’s hands shook. 

He was kneeling in front of Thara. 

His eye were at the same level as Thara’s- 

Professional. Frong was a professional. 

But he couldn’ t move. 

“I’m no expert.” Thara stared form above him. “But I think you are making a toga.” 

Frong finally stood up, apprehension towards the criticism and realization mixing as he replied. “You said you wanted one, didn’t you?” Frong walked to Thara’s back, pinching the fabric there. “That’s payback for all the meals and coffee you never let me pay.” 

It was weird. Being in this strange impass where they called each other friends, yet Thara still didn’t know Frong’s name. And yet, they both knew the attraction was mutual. Not that this stage had to have a name, but it would help since naming it would actually put limits to it.  

Putting a name to whatever Thara and Frong were would have helped Frong understand what he could do, if it was okay to muffle his moans in the shower while he thought of Thara’s hands all over him. Only for him to get ready and meet Thara for lunch. Defining puts limits but limits are okay.  

Defining also puts meaning and that’s what Frong wanted to know. What was the meaning of all this?  

Did that mean they were together? And if they weren’t could the other date someone else? 

Were they dating? 

“Hey.” Thara waved his hand in front of Frong, leaning in a bit. “You spaced out.” 

Frong shook his head as if to wake up fully. “Sorry, what were you saying?” 

“My function is next week, I can save you seats if you want.” Thara explained. Even though he tried to sound causal about it, Frong could tell the actor was rather thrilled at the thought of opening night.  

Frong couldn’t help the smile that bloomed in his face. He toyed with a frozen strawberry that wanted to slip down the mountain of frozen yougur. “Do I get passes for the backstage?” 

“If you want to be in the middle of the hurricane that is opening night, you are more than welcome.” Thara said opening his mouth at the end. 

Frong fed him the strawberry with a chuckle. “I’m just curious to see what my seniors have done for the costumes and make up.” 

As he munched, Thara tried to pout and talk at the same time. Indeed, he choked a little. So after the strawberry was out of the way he spoke. “And here I thought you would like to see me.” 

“I always like to see you.” Frong blurted out. “I mean of course I want to see you perform! It’s your play.” Nice save. 

Or so Frong though, but Thara was smiling to himself and blushing. Some defeats came with victories as well.  

“What will you do if I do well?” Thara suddenly asked, leaning his head on his palm. 

“What do you mean? You have to do well, you are an actor.” Frong was really confused, this wasn’t a competition where Thara could lose or get second place. 

“I was just trying-” 

“To have me do something cute for your opening night?” Frong rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Do you think I don’t have something planned already? Ouch.” 

If Thara had been a puppy, (and thankfully he wasn’t- Frong wasn’t into bestiality) his ears would have jumped up. Metaphorically speaking, it was as if Thara had suddenly been presented a metaphorical treat, and his metaphorical tail was wagging. Basically, he looked exited. But inhumanly beautiful. 

It was so adorable, Frong was about to report him to the authorities. 

A thief. A criminal. Give Frong his heart back. 

“You won’t tell me what it is?” Thara sounded hopeful until Frong shook his head. “I could guess as much.” 

Well that was just unfair. No matter the crime or jury, Frong was sure that if Thara was to come into court with that pout of his, the case would be close instantly.  

Frong poked the protruding lower lip with his spoon, parting it open slightly so he could fit the piece of pie they had been sharing. “You big baby.”  

As if it had stage fright, Frong got trapped between the back of his throat and his tongue, becoming nothing but a dance of air. The faintest pink in Thara’s face and a scoff told him the actor had managed to hear him.  

A small victory. Yet it felt empty, void. Frong questioned if maybe kissing the actor would actually feel like he actually won something. 

“Thara you are being impossible.” Frong almost yelled in the middle of the café, which only got muted by the roll of Thara’s eyes. 

“You made me a toga.” Retorted the other, arms crossed. 

Frong tried hard not to stare. Tried. Needless to say, he failed. That posture did everything for Thara’s biceps and pectorals, and Frong had to suppress every nerve of his being from doing something stupid, or taking out his sketchbook. 

Instead he blew his fringe and looked away. “You paid last time.” 

“And I’ll do it again!” Thara threatened finally his façade coming undone.  

The poor girl who had to witness their bickering looked relieved as she accepted Thara’s card. Thara looked triumphant as the transaction took place, yet he went back to folding his arms. Frong wanted to yell for real this time. 

Midday sun blared bright and proud outside, a small breeze made bushes shake in a hypnotizing dance. Frong took in a big breath and exhaled so deep his eyes fluttered closed. However, his little peace was intruded by Thara. Always Thara. Frong feared he’d never know peace again. 

Or that once he got the nerve to step further inside Thara’s life, he’d never know war either. 

Thara bumped his shoulder against Frong’s. “Still mad?” 

Frong looked away.  

Now the sigh came from Thara, the man stretching a little before looking around. The place was rather isolated, located in a small alley, it was the only establishment and a stepping stone path lead the way to the entrance.  

So, when Thara moved again, Frong could only hear a faint rustle of fabric before he felt warmth. 

Just like the night of the party, it was like someone had punched him through th ribs, all air knocked out of him forcefully. Like he had finally landed from that fall, harsh and rough against the ground. His ears rung. 

Thara’s finger interlocked with his. 

His lips would leave a faint imprint where they had momentarily rested against Frong’s temple. 

“Who is the big baby now?” 

Letting Thara pamper him was easy. Easier than Frong expected. Maybe it was because with Thara all that mattered were the small things. There was reassurance in the way Thara pinched his sleeve to get his attention at an antique store, or the way his eyebrows furrowed whenever Frong seemed troubled, or in the way he’d always find Frong’s hand to hold. 

With Thara, it was the small things.  

Cute coffee dates, dinner dates, riding his bike. That last one wasn’t cute or a date, mostly due to the fact that Thara’s bike didn’t have a double seat, and Frong’s ass hurt for days. Bohn didn’t let Frong live that down for even longer. 

A month flew by since Thara appeared into Frong’s life.  

A month of him finding himself smiling at stupid text sent at the dead of night, a month of Frong yearning for the breaks so he could see Thara. His caryatid. Who would hold his bag or him, or maybe his hand, or maybe both. And even manage to open the door for him. 

A whole month since- 

“Excelent work, Frong.” Miss Fae complimented as she held the canvas. She had been pulling it closer every now and then, as she analyzed further. “Precise brushstrokes, excellent color blend, and the skin tone is rather spot on. You definitely need to work on the hands, but your anatomy studies proved fruitful.” 

“Thank you ma’am.” Frong had been antsy ever since he had asked Miss Fae if he could have some time after class.  

Miss Fae sighed, leaning the canvas against her desk and wall in order to turn to the student. “But the answer is no.” 

Frong tilted his head in confusion. “I beg your pardon.” 

“You are going to ask me if you can take this home, aren’t you?” Miss Fae placed his hands against his hips, a demeanor which left no hope in Frong. “This is clearly a work you have put...a lot into.” 

Embarrassing, to say the least, was to know how transparent Frong became when painting. Hence why he needed that piece. 

“But-” Frong, although admittedly without a plausible argument, tried to fire back. 

“I’m not finished.” Miss Fae walked pass him as she added. “Iam going to leave this room now, and accidentally forget my keys inside. It would be a shame if any canvases were to go missing during that period of time.” 

She turned, smile on her face, eyes gentle. Fondness written all over her composure. Frong was transparent only to her, only to those who already had cracked him open. Or perhaps to those who have felt the same. 

“A shame indeed.” Frong mumbled to himself as he saw the silhouette of his professor behind the mosaic glass of the hallway facing windows. 

Theatre majors really loved to make a show out of everything.  

The entrance of the faculty’s auditorium was decorated like 20’s New York. Seniors dressed up like flappers and their partners as dandys. Fitzergald would have been pleased if that man had been a little bit more agreeable. 

Frong had been asked by Gatsby himself to put a suit on. And even though the fashion major had an innate hatred for the two piece boring outfit, he made it work. Deep green vest over his dress shirt, to reference that green light Gatsby was always chasing for. The blazer over his shoulders deep maroon with golden details.   

Boring. But floral. Colorful. 

Frong couldn’t disappoint the Great Gatsby on his opening night.   

“Frong!” Called Duen from his seat. 

Bohn turning with him to offer Frong a small smile and a wave. The most genuine greting he had offered Frong in...well, ever.  

“You excited?” Chipred Duen, leaning over Bohn to talk to Frong.  

“Yeah.”  

Frong couldn’t deny it. Why would he? Exciement was and understatement when it came to see Thara perform. Knowing how much acting meant to the senior, it felt like a godsent gift to witness it. 

Out of habit, he tried to ground himself by running his hand through his hair, only to remember it had been slicked back for the occasion. 

“Look at you blushing.” Cooed Bohn mockingly. “You even followed the dress code.” 

“And you should have too.” Replied Duen hitting his boyfriend in the chest. “You would have looked so dashing.” 

Bohn pouted and turned to his boyfriend, starting a private conversation Frong was more than used to by then. However, this time he couldn’t really avoid it. 

Instead, he fished his phone out of the pocket of his blazer. Thara had sent him a selfie from behind the stage. A close up shot of his face with the tiniest bit of golden eyeshadow and also slick back hair. 

Frong sent him some encouraging words back, that fell into silence, not even a seen.  

It must have been crazy back there. 

Suddenly a voice he knew too well yelled from the back of his head. You fucker. That’s all you deserve from him. You really think you can keep him? You good for nothing, you are really so dumb.  

Almost two years without hearing it, Frong clenched his jaw. Not now. Everything was going great. Everything was going too great. It was only downhill from here. 

No. It couldn’t be. 

Thara liked him. 

Right? 

The lights were dimmed. The theatre fell into silence. 

Thara had said he fell in love with acting because it allowed him to not be himself.  

Yet Frong would like to disagree. Even though Frong would like to think Thara had been his upmost honest and authentic self to him, there was unmistakably something different in the way he behaved on stage. 

Arms flowing with the movements, voice loud and stern and sometimes cheery, sometimes sarcastic. Nothing was subtle, nothing was to be repressed or hidden. There was no care, Thara wasn’t handling something fragile. 

The floor was his. 

Pride, sadness, disbelief. Thara embodied those. A worm afternoon sun, setting behind the waves, glistening on its way down and reflecting its light on the water. 

Frong could never look away. Even if it blinded him. 

His heart widened with every word, every emotion. He laughed with Thara, he cried with his misfortunes. Frong found himself wanting to do that when the boy was not on a stage but beside him. Frong wanted to become that something that made Thara feel so comfortable. 

However, Frong was aware how much he didn’t fit the role.  

The final bow was the shift. As Thara stood with the main cast, the glint in his eyes became gentle again. Familiar.  

Those same eyes were scanning the place, and Frong composed himself with a smile to meet Thara once he found him. 

And he did. 

Thara bloomed before Frong’s eyes. His chest tightened.  

There was no way in all planes of existence that Frong deserved to have that smile directed at him. 

After telling both Duen and Bohn to wait for him outside, Frong got up and tried to sneak behind the stage. Surprisingly, it turned out to be a very easy task with all the chaos and excitement after a sucssesful first night.  

No one really paid him much mind, no one asked what he was carrying behind his back, an no one asked questions until some seniors Frong met during the orientation day called him into their little group. Welcoming Frong with enthusiastic greetings. One tall guy Gun all cheekbones and smiles, pulled him into their circle.  

“Tell me you didn’t see the patch on the back of the female protagonist.” He joked as Frong all but looked between the group, eyes wide at the sudden friendliness. 

Sure, their major wasn’t one known for being close unlike those engineers (Bohn once had told Frong what the hazers put him through during first year), but the shared love for costumes, sewing and all thinks fashion ended up bringing all students together. 

Rather than competition, fashion majors thought of each other as collaborators. Which was refreshing to say the least. 

“You guys did an amazing job.” Frong said, head bowing a little low with respect. 

A girl slapped his arm jokingly. “Well thank you, it’s nice to get complimented every once in a while.” Her words were directed towards another guy in the group. 

Frong followed her poisonous eyes, but instead of meeting his senior, Frong’s gaze focused on the actor standing a few feet away. Arms crossed and gentle smile on his lips. As always. 

“Sorry guys, someone’s waiting for me.” Frong tried not to stare. Again, tried. And again, failed. Making the group let out some woos and exclamations as they opened a small path for Frong to walk out.  

And into Thara’s space. 

“Hey.” Thara greeted. 

Frong’s chest was tight as a string. The ache so dull it felt almost natural. As if it had always been there. He clutched the wrapping paper behind his back. “Hi.”  

There was a silence then. Even though Frong tried to convey his words anyway but physically saying them out loud, sometimes, no matter how close you were to that person, they had to be said. 

Frong closed his yes.  

“Could we go somewhere more, uh.” Frong rushedly spoke, unable to look at Thara anymore. 

He didn’t deserve it.  

“Yeah, sure.” Oh, those hands. A source of all good, a golden touch against Frong’s. “Follow me.” 

Frong scoffed. “Wait, you do own a car.” 

“I do have to survive in Bangkok, you know.” Thara retorted looking up ahead. His eyes however were sneaking glances to Frong’s lap. “This is for me?” 

“No, this is for third random stranger we found on our way home.” Frong rolled his eyes. Sarcasm was always a good blanket to hide away into. “Of course, it’s for you, dummy.” 

“Stop calling me dummy.” Thara pouted. 

“Then stop acting like one.”  

Carefully, the square medium sized present passed form Frong’s lap onto Thara’s, who actually took a little extra time, pulling his seat backwards a little bit. Clearly stalling. Nevertheless, he made quite the show before starting to unwrap his present: blowing his fingers and waving his hands as if he was stretching them. Cracking his neck and taking a deep breath. 

“Can’t you just open it?”  

Frong’s soft laughter echoed through the stopped car and landed on Thara’s mouth, also letting out a little chuckle as he worked his way around the present. 

Once unveiled, Thara gasped. And held that breath. For way too long. 

“T-Thara?” 

And exhale. 

“You got it.” Thara tore his eyes from the painting. They were watery on the edges. “For me?” 

Oh god, that was overwhelming. Frong was suffocating, he had landed on his ribs, he was drowning. “Well, you said you wanted it so.” 

Thara moved before Frong could even realize it, leaning over the gear stick and hand break. The smack of his lips against Frong’s cheek was loud, almost cartoon-like, but it left Frong speechless.  

Wanting for more. 

Again though, he didn’t deserve it. 

Yeah, this was his last glance to the boy. His last night with him. 

Thara would move on, find someone better. Someone worthy of his smiles, of his gazes, his touches, his kisses. Someone who wasn’t closed off, someone who people didn’t like, someone who could change for the better. 

Someone Frong wasn’t sure he could be. 

“Thank you so much Coco.” Thara said still very close. “Do you want to come to my place, I can cook some mean spicy ramen.” 

Frong pondered for a bit, but eventually nodded, letting himself have this. 

For the last time. 

The blanket was tightly wrapped around his shoulders, Thara crouching in front of him, making sure the wind couldn’t find any spot to wiggle into. As he did so Thara pinched Frong’s sides, almost making him drop his food.  

“Stop!” Frong whined, but scoot over to let Thara seat beside him. 

“I don’t like that wind.” Thara said clapping the tongue against the roof of his mouth. “A storm is coming.” 

“Hey, Euripides, we left the theatre long ago.” Frong said bumping his shoulder against Thara’s. “No need to be somber.” 

After this awkwardness seeped between them. Unknowing if Thara noticed, Frong focusing on eating his noodles, indeed spicier than he had expected, but the burn made him forget momentarily about the situation. About how his resolve that had lead him to promise himself he’d leave Thara’s life was despairing. 

Fading. 

The wind heavy sweeping it away.  

The thunder shutting that voice everytime it as much as rung. 

Thara was pressed flush against his side. 

Frong could just turn around. Hold Thara’s face, kiss him until his lips were so red and sore and useless, he might as well peel them off. Lay on top of him, whisper all his insecurities, all his fears, his sad story like Thara had done in that restaurant. Tell Thara why this all overwhelmed Frong, why he wasn’t ready, why he was. Beg Thara to forgive him, for being so selfish, for being so undeserving. 

Frong could just turn around. The other way. And never come back. 

Instead, Frong stood up. 

Fifteen years of it. Frong was tired. 

He exploted. 

“Fuck!” He yelled. “Fuck!” The skyline didn’t respond. 

Thara did. “What’s wrong?” 

Frong couldn’t look at him in the eyes, even though Thara had followed him to the railings, he stood a respectful distance away from him. Frong couldn’t bear to meet Thara’s eyes then, if he did he might just jump out. It was overwhelming. If that’s what it felt like to love somebody, Frong thought his hear wouldn’t take a secon time. 

“Nothing! Everything!” Frong felt his tears down his cheeks before even realising he had gathered in the first place. Swallowing hard he continued. “I don’t know what to do.” 

The whole world was spinning, his mind too fast, his words too slow. There was so much to say, so much to convey. 

“Tell me what’s happening.” 

“You.” Frong had to face him. It would hurt more, but he had to. “ You  is what’s happening to me. Do you realize I’m not good for you? I’m like the bacteria in the shit you step on. I don’t-I don’t.” 

Thara stepped closer. 

Frong jumped backwards instinctively. Terrified. 

“Don’t!” Warned Frong. “Don’t touch me, don’t look at me. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve to be treated so right. Fuck! You make me feel like I do though. You make me feel like all the things I’ve been told all my life were lies. You make me feel like all those years I spent a lot were worth it because they lead me to you. Fuck! This is bullshit!” 

Finally, his words caught up, even if they sounded wet, even if they smelled like salt and tears. Frong couldn’t keep them in anymore. They were like acid: burning his insides. 

“It’s bullshit that you feel this way?” 

“It’s bullshit that I’m twenty and crying over how much I like you. And over how much I can’t be with you.” 

Thara moved. He was at arm's reach now, tilting his head both cautious and curious. Of course, Thara could keep this balance in perfect harmony. His voice calm, his gestures soft. As if he was holding something fragile. Frong was something fragile. Frong sobbed, this time he didn’t move. 

“Who says you can’t be with me?” 

“Look at you! Look at me! God, don’t you see it?” Frong was starting to lose his train of thought, his head hurting way too much to think. And Thara was walking again. 

“I see that we have a lot to work on.” Thara responded, hand stretched but not demanding. The Adam of the creation sitting in the ceiling of the Sixteenth Chapel. “I also see a beautiful, talented boy who is scared of me saying no.” 

“I’m scared of you saying yes.” Frong confessed. 

“Why?” 

“Because I’m overbearing, selfish and greedy.” 

Thara placed his hand on Frong’s chest. 

“So am I.” 

Frong’s next sob was muffled against Thara’s shirt, strong arms keeping him secure, in place. Safe. Thara was a radiant sun, Apolo’s favourite. Frong basked in his warmth, cried in his arms 

“Frong.” It was nothing but hot breath against his cheeks. 

The wind was picking up, the storm was still far away enough but Frong could hear the thunder through his entire body. Something jolted. Lightning. 

“How do you know my name?” It wasn’t a demand, even if it meant to be teasing, Frong was beyond the point of making any sense. 

“Duen asked whether you had left at my party.” Thara’s hands were always so dream-like, so supple as they cupped Frong’s face like a precious gift. “Your teacher also, when I went to visit you in class. She told me.” His thumbs, careful as an historian holding ancient porcelain, caressed Frong’s cheeks. 

It hurt. It hurt how careful Thara held him. It hurt how much Thara cared, how much he liked Frong. It hurt knowing how maybe Frong deserved it. Deserved to be cared for, liked. Loved.  

“Oh, of course.” Very eloquent. Frong blinked the tears away since he couldn’t look away. Selfishly, he didn’t want those hands to leave him. Selfishly, he loved. 

A spent mind could do as much, so it took one second too long to dawn on him.  Thara had known his name all along, that he had played Frong’s game to humor him. To have an excuse so he could come back to Frong. 

Thara didn’t want to let go either. 

“You sweet thing.” Cooed Thara as he kept on wiping the stray tears away, careful to not rub too hard. “You are so amazing, so caring, kind, adorable. I’m the one who is confused as to how I managed to earn your interest.”  

Frong sniffed some, chocking on his own chuckle. “Sorry this is stupid, I just-” 

With a simple tap on Frong’s cheek, Thara shushed him. “It’s not stupid, your feelings, whatever they are, are not stupid. Never fear telling me what goes in your head.” Thara tapped his hand against Frong’s chest. Right over his heart which was racing almost unnaturally.“Or in here.” 

There was a pause. Frong tried to collect himself fully, get his bearings, get his rationality back. The voice in his head that always told him how it was. He waited for it, waited for it to spring into life with its insistent chant of how worthless Frong was. 

Instead, he opened his eyes. 

Thara. 

“Okay.” Frong nodded, looked down slightly, leaned in. “I’ll try my best.”  

With the softest thud, Thara’s forehead met Frong’s, rubbing them together Thara didn’t stop until  Frong smiled weakly. “There we go.” Thara spoke, his lips almost grazing Frong’s. “Just, be there when I need you to be too, alright?” 

Frong nodded.  

Another pause. 

The storm was right around the corner. Deaf to the thunder, Frong could only focus on the steady breath mixing with his own, that hand still on his face, the other on his heart. Frong felt like crying again.  

“Thara.” A hum. Frong continued. “Could you kiss me?” 

“Until we both dropped.” Thara replied. 

Lightning turned the depths of the night into day, purple and blue and white. Droplets dropped from the sky, shy at first, and then all at once. Frong's fringe stuck to his hair, his hands suddenly clutching onto soaked fabric. 

Thunder engulfed them as their lips met.  

Thara held Frong by the hand on his cheek, lowering it to his jaw, Frong clung to Thara by his wrist, the other arm wrapping around Thara’s shoulder. The fronts of their shirts were still dry, so close not even the downpour had managed to pry them apart.  

Somehow, as lightning engraved stars behind his eyelids, Frong found himself parting his lips to let Thara take him. And take. And take. Frong was absolutely breathless, but he’d rather be struck by lightning than break the kiss. 

It was glorious, it was magnificent. It was Thara.  

Frong wasn’t sure if all the water running down his cheeks was from the rain. 

“Hey.” Thara called out panting, surprised by the sudden sobbing from Frong. His concern erased as Frong smiled. “Let’s head back inside.” 

Frong nodded and let himself be led.  

To Thara’s apartment, to his bed, to safety. To peace. To that seemingly unreachable horizon. 

The way was dim lit, the stairs leading down from the rooftop almost invisible in the dark. Frong thought of those girls, the night parade to honor Aphrodite, the rite of passage that marked them as adults. Like a foolish girl, Frong had been cautious, closed off, believing love wasn’t for him, that he’d never be worth of someone like Thara.  

But as the man himself stood in the middle of his own room, soaked from head to toe, fabric clinging onto his form-- Frong’s own caryatid, his own Aphrodite, his love—Frong threw himself into Thara’s arms.  

Let himself be kissed.  

Let himself love and be loved by someone like Thara.