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Pran knows he’s going to regret this before he even yanks the door open. He doesn’t give himself a chance to mull things over, and flips the lock.
Pat, sprawled out on the floor in a perfect picture of misery and misfortune, perks up when he sees Pran, surprise evident on his stupidly handsome face. He blinks up at Pran like he can’t believe his eyes, and that’s when Pran starts counting down, so Pat shoots up to his feet and scrambles past him into the room before Pran’s patience runs out. Pran sighs inwardly, watching Pat throw his backpack haphazardly onto the couch.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Pran says, lunging forward to grab Pat by the arm, not letting him fall down onto the couch.
“What the hell?” Pat asks, swaying on the balls of his feet to maintain his balance.
The movement tugs on Pran’s bad shoulder, so he lets out a pained gasp when the burn in his shoulder flares up as he struggles to keep Pat upright.
Pat freezes instantly, noting Pran’s reaction, dark eyes widening in realization, and suddenly he’s solidly on his feet.
“Shit, your arm. Pran, are you okay?” Pat asks worriedly, peering into Pran’s eyes. He wraps one hand around Pran’s forearm, anchoring them both in place, and prods gently at Pran’s shoulder with the other.
His thick brows draw to a point on his forehead as he frowns and steps closer, right into Pran’s personal orbit, smelling like sweat, grass, mint aftershave, and an underlying note of Axe body spray, and it’s like being hit by the weight of a semi-truck of nostalgia.
It takes Pran back to being fourteen and playing football at school, when they had fallen down onto the pitch, laying side by side, exhausted but high on adrenaline; their school locker room that Pran used to dread because it smelt so much like teenage boys, and that scared him — where he couldn’t take his eyes off the dirty linoleum tile as he changed his clothes with the rest of his teammates.
Pran recoils from Pat’s touch, and this time the hurt is physical as his shoulder is jarred once more.
Then, Pat’s eyes get clouded by an emotion that has become familiar to Pran in the past few months, but is still something Pran doesn’t know how to name — can’t even begin to decipher it even if he tried — sometimes his own wishful thinking makes Pran think that it might be hurt, but, no, that’s probably not it.
Pat’s stubborn, has no sense of personal boundaries, and no one has ever wanted to push away the poster boy of the Engineering faculty, so, he’s probably just taken aback when people don’t clamour for his attention or preen under it.
Pran sighs, taking a measured step back. He feels himself deflating; it’s been a long few days, and he’s tired and sore; he just needs to get some sleep.
“Please, just go take a shower first,” Pran says.
Pat must hear something in his tone because he doesn’t argue like he usually would, only gives Pran a subdued “okay,” before stalking off towards the bathroom.
In the meantime, Pran slips into his pajamas, and applies the painkiller gel on his arm, because if Pat tries to apply it himself tonight Pran just might spontaneously combust into flames and die.
He rolls out the extra duvet on the floor and pulls down one of his pillows from his own bed.
Just as he’s done setting Pat’s makeshift bed, Pat emerges from the bathroom, water clinging to his skin, and shorts hung low on his waist; Pran catches one glimpse of him and walks knee-first into his bed frame.
He curses under his breath. Pat looks at him in amusement, his mouth curled up in a tight little comma of a smirk. He shakes his head at Pran.
“Can’t I just go to sleep like this?” Pat asks, flopping gracelessly onto the duvet in a tangle of long limbs, sitting crisscross applesauce, and staring up at Pran like some golden retriever. The cut of Pat’s already large eyes are sharp in the dim light as he bats his eyelashes at Pran imploringly.
The muscles in Pat’s chest ripple when he leans back on his hands. The skin over his pectorals stretch, taught and smooth. Pran wonders if it would feel like silk if he were to reach out and touch it, the same way it looks under the moonlight.
“Absolutely not,” Pran decides, scrambling off the bed. He tosses Pat the nearest t-shirt he can find. “Here you go, but I haven’t washed it yet.”
Pat bunches up the t-shirt in both his hands and burrows his face into the material and inhales soundly. “But it still smells great.”
And it kind of makes Pran want to shove his face into his pillow and scream, but he just manages to roll his eyes.
“I’ll wash it real nice before giving it back,” Pat promises with a grin.
“No need. I was going to throw it out anyway.”
Not true. He had ordered it online just a few weeks ago, but Pran thinks about menthol aftershave and old spice clinging to this t-shirt the way it always clings to Pat, and decides he’s just going to have to bear this loss.
“Great, it’s mine, then.”
Later, when they’ve finally settled down, having found a compromise to Pat wanting to actually hold his fucking hand because he missed some old plushy, and sharing the blanket instead, and Pran’s heartbeat feels entirely too loud in the silence, Pat calls out his name.
“Are you sleeping?”
And for a second Pran actually wants to pretend that he is, but instead he says, “I am.”
“Is your shoulder still in pain?” Pat asks softly. Pran hates how his heart does small flips when he does.
Every single time Pat uses that tone with him, his voice something just above a whisper, and blanketed with concern, Pran feels himself slipping — not falling — it’s too late for that, but slipping even deeper.
“It’s okay now,” Pran says.
Pat hums. “So, Ink gave you a bracelet, huh?”
Pran’s heart sinks. “Yeah. Just like the one that you have.”
“I know that,” Pat says.
Pran lets out a shuddering exhale.Pat obviously wants to say more, but he doesn’t.
“Can I ask you something,” Pran asks after a beat.
“I also have a question for you,” Pat says.
“You go first,” Pran says.
The pause between them swells, and finally bursts when Pat asks, “Do you like Ink?”
Pran blinks up at the ceiling. Somehow he knew this had been coming — call it gut feeling, but a small part of him had been anticipating this. A bigger part of himself is relieved that Pat initiated this conversation, because he wants to hear the answer so he can rip it off like band-aid. Feel one sharp burst of pain, and then, nothing.
“Do you?”
“I asked you first.”
“So?”
Pran knows that it’s childish, but damn it, he’s not ready. He had thought he was, but he really isn’t.
Pran doesn’t have to look down to know that Pat must be frowning in that way that makes his thick brows furrow down to a point on his forehead.
After a beat of silence Pat says, “Fine, let’s do this. On the count of three we’ll answer at the same time.”
“1… 2… 3.”
“No,” Pran says. He doesn’t say ‘I’m in love with you,’ even if that’s the whole truth.
“Yes,” Pat blurts out at the same time.
And it sucks the air out of the room, just like that.
Pat lets out a long sigh. “What a relief!”
That hurts like a knife point between Pran’s ribs. He feels the corners of his eyes sting and fuck, he cannot be fucking crying right now. He blinks again, and again to get rid of the tears blurring his vision.
“Did you tell her how you feel?” Pran asks.
“No,” Pat says. “How do you think I should tell her? Do you think she likes me?”
Pat lets out a soft laugh, and tries to keep a quiver out of his voice when he says, “How the fuck am I supposed to know?”
Pat sits up, and peers over the edge of the bed, arms folded over the duvet. Pran has never been more thankful for the fact that someone has -7 vision. “What do you think I should do?”
“Do what you want.” Pran says, turning over onto his side, away from Pat, because now the tears are on the brink of spilling over and he simply doesn’t have the strength to bullshit his way out of why he just started bawling.
“Should I kiss her?” Pat asks, and Pran feels the bed shift when Pat tries to peak over his shoulder.
The blade twists, sinking deeper, and Pran has to grind his teeth against the sharp pain. Pran buries his face deeper into his pillow so he can blot out the wet trails his tears have left behind.
Fuck no, is what he wants to say. Both for his sake and Ink’s. And even though Pat’s confession, and the implicit rejection in them hurt, he also doesn’t want to hurt Pat’s feelings by telling him what Ink had told him earlier: “Pat’s just a friend.”
Pran sighs. He turns back to face Pat. “You can’t just go around kissing people out of nowhere, idiot.”
It makes Pat pout. “I didn’t mean it like that, obviously. I meant that maybe I should go in for a kiss during one of those moments, spontaneously, you know how it goes.”
Pran really, really, doesn’t.
“Maybe I’ll have a chance during the concert,” Pat says. “Before or after? How would you go about it?”
Pat’s eyes are shining when he peers into Pran’s face. His long fringe sweeps over his eyebrows, and up this close Pran can count each individual eyelash that fans over the smooth skin of Pat’s cheekbones. He sounds excited about the prospect of kissing Ink, wearing Pran’s clothes, and the scent of Pran’s shower gel still clinging to his skin — like this means nothing — like he doesn’t understand that Pran is about the burst at the seams. But how could he possibly know that Pran had loved him since they were kids with skinned knees and bruised elbows? So, at this moment, Pran hates Pat just a little.
When it becomes unbearable to hold eye contact, Pran fixes his eyes resolutely on the ceiling. “I don’t know,” he mumbles.
“You’ve got to help me out, man,” Pat whines. “It’s not like I can talk to Korn about this. Well, I could, but right now is not really the best time for us.” He lays his head down sideways on Pran’s bed, looking up at him. It makes his cheeks squish. It’s kind of adorable.
“Why not?” Pran asks, hoping to evade the actual question.
“It’s because,” Pat starts, and hesitates. He shakes his head. “It’s nothing. We’re all just a little riled up from the game.”
That’s odd; Pat’s team had won. Pran frowns. Pat and his friends should be out celebrating late into the night instead of this — whatever it is that they’re doing.
“Nevermind that,” Pat says. “Give me something to work with. Okay, you’ve kissed someone you’ve had a crush on before, right?
Pran grits his teeth because there are limits — lines he draws for his own sake, and this is crossing it. As always, Pat insists, and it’s like he’s digging his thumb into a fading bruise to see just how much it will hurt.
Pran considers lying. Just tell him you’ve kissed loads of people, you idiot, he thinks. There’s no way Pat could know. The split-second hesitation is probably what betrays him. Pat exhales sharply, as realization dawns on him.
When Pran chances a look at Pat again his eyes are as round as coins, and his mouth has fallen open in a small ‘o’. Pran is praying the light from the bedside lamp is dim enough to hide the flush creeping up his face.
“You’ve never kissed someone.”
It’s not a question.
“Fuck off,” Pran grumbles. “This conversation is over.” He grabs the duvet and is about to yank it out of Pat’s reach and turn his back to Pat again but Pat’s hand shoots out to clutch his bicep like a vice, anchoring him in place. “Let me go, asshole! I need to sleep.”
“You really haven’t kissed anyone?”
The “yet?” goes unsaid. God, Pat probably thinks he’s a loser. Because he’s so full of himself and hot and popular so obviously anyone who hasn’t had their first kiss as a teenager must be a loser to him. But he’s wrong, because there are a lot of twenty somethings out there who haven’t had their first kiss, and Pran’s normal, this isn’t weird. He doesn’t have to succumb to societal pressure!
“Hey,” Pat says softly. It jarrs Pran out of his racing thoughts because instead of the mocking tone, Pat’s voice is now only a whisper — velveteen, and heavy with something — what it is, Pran doesn’t know, but it gets his attention and pulls him down to reality again. “It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone,” Pat says, and smiles at Pran.
Pran tries to find mockery in there somewhere, but Pat’s not laughing at him. Pat’s genuinely trying to comfort him, Pran realizes, and he groans inwardly, because seriously how is this his life?
Pat chews on his bottom lip, seemingly lost in thought. Pran can’t help but stare at the way the flesh goes white and bloodless around the sharp edges of his teeth.
“Let me teach you,” Pat blurts out.
Maybe Korn knocked him down hard enough to give him a concussion too, and this is his bruised brain making him hallucinate. Or he’s still on the pitch, blacked out and dreaming.
But his shoulder is throbbing slightly — this is real.
Pat’s fingers tighten around his arm — this is still so very real.
Pran manages to pry his mouth open. “What?”
Pat blinks, like he himself can’t believe that was a sentence that spilled out of his mouth.
“I— Well, I just thought, maybe,” Pat stumbles over his words.
“Is everything a fucking joke to you? Is it fun for you, to keep badgering me, and making me go through hell?” Pran demands, feeling the corners of his eyes sting again. He jerks his arm out of Pat’s hand.
Pat looks taken aback by his outburst.
Pran waits for Pat to burst out laughing — it’ll come any moment now. Because Pran is the punchline of this joke, that’s how it’s supposed to go, except Pat doesn’t laugh.
“I wasn’t joking,” Pat says, quietly. “I know you think I’m impulsive and a clown. That I don’t take things seriously. And you think I’m annoying.”
All excellent reasons to file away inside the ‘Why Pran Should Not Have A Crush On Pat’ cabinet in Pran’s mind palace.
“I’m so glad that you know.”
“I’m not done, jackass!”
It manages to pull a laugh out of Pran.
“I know what you think of me,” Pat tells him.
He really doesn’t though, that’s the problem.
Pat continues, “I don't want to make your life harder. I don’t mean to annoy you so much. Things just happen when it comes to you. But it’s never on purpose,” he says, watching Pran closely, eyes tracking all over his face until Pran can’t take it anymore. If Pat keeps looking at him like this, Pran’s going to shatter into a million pieces.
“Okay,” Pran says softly.
“Okay.” Pat echoes. “So, let me… help you?” Pat flushes. Even under the dim light the way the skin over his cheekbones blossom is obvious. “So that when you finally kiss someone you like, you won’t embarrass yourself,” he adds, quickly.
Later, Pran will blame it on the exhaustion, or the fact that midnight makes things less real — blurs the edges of reality, until nothing is tangible, where it feels like consequences won’t matter.
“Okay,” Pran repeats. He has nothing to lose; maybe his dignity, but no one has to know because nothing will ever come out of this.
Pat exhales sharply in surprise, clearly not having expected Pran to ever accept so readily. He nods, two quick jerks of his head in a way that reminds Pran of a little bird. It’s endearing, like most things about his neighbour.
Pat leans over the bed, rising to his knees until he’s hovering over Pran’s face. Pran feels his heart lodge itself in his throat, trying to claw its way out. He’s frozen in place, thrumming with anticipation; couldn’t move even if he tried.
Pat’s eyes cling to Pran’s mouth the entire time, staring at it like he’s mesmerized. When he flicks his gaze upwards and meets Pran’s eyes, Pran thinks he can see his own nervousness and want reflected in Pat’s. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking once again.
It happens so slowly, and then all at once.
Pran holds still as Pat places his lips over his, mouth parted slightly until their lips slot together. And it feels like it’s the most natural thing in the world — how they fit against each other. Pat kisses him like this, quietly, and slowly — once, twice and a final time until Pat tilts his head just a little to the left, and when he breathes in, his lips fall open a little bit more, and suddenly the heat between them is scorching. It’s a stark contrast to the way Pran feels the way saliva coats his upper lip and his chin. The whole thing is a little weird, but it’s good. Fuck, it’s so good.
Pat leans in harder, making their teeth click, so he pushes himself up onto the bed until he’s sitting on it, and his torso is draped over Pran.
Pran wonders if he’s doing this right — tries to think about how to move his lips under Pat’s onslaught, so, he experimentally takes Pat’s bottom lip between his lip and tugs. And holy fuck does that seem to be the right move because it makes Pat gasp. Pran, emboldened by the response, chases the soft exhale, not letting Pat catch his breath, and it makes Pat let out a soft whimper — a sound unlike anything Pran’s ever heard before, and it makes his head swim.
He’s aware of the way there’s slow heat pooling in his lower abdomen, but he keeps going. He doesn’t want to stop, because that means this ‘lesson’ is over. And he’s been waiting for this for too long to let it go so soon — for the first time in a long time he lets himself be selfish.
“Why wouldn’t anyone like me?” Pat asks with a grin when they break apart once more.
Pran can feel his pulse in his fingertips. His heart is beating entirely too fast, maybe this might actually kill him.
Pat takes in the rapid rise and fall of Pran’s chest, and the way Pran’s face is surely flushed. He wonders if he looks as delirious as he feels. And Pat looks entirely too smug about it all.
“What’s there to like about you?” Pran scowls.
Pat flutters a hand up Pran’s cheek, and he presses in his index finger, dipping it into the gentle curve of his dimple. “A lot of things,” he says, smirking down at Pran. He uses the hand to tilt Pran’s head up so he can kiss him again.
“I was your drummer in the band.”
“I saved you from Korn and the gang.”
Pat keeps kissing him between each sentence.
“Alright, forget the dumpling incident,” Pat whispers against his lips. Pran can’t help but smile.
Pat kisses him again. “I helped you get the sponsorship.”
And again.
“I even kept your guitar for you.”
And again.
“See, there are so many reasons. I’m a catch!”
And again.
This time Pran pulls him in and spreads his fingers over the soft skin of Pat’s throat tentatively, feeling the way the muscle moves under his fingers. He slips his other hand into Pat’s soft hair, fisting his fingers in it loosely, until he tightens it and tugs, not hard enough to hurt, but it’s enough for Pat to break them apart to let out a low groan.
Pran opens his eyes, keeping them fixed on Pat’s lips — too scared to meet Pat’s gaze.
“Not too bad, huh?” Pat smirks against the corner of Pran’s mouth. “So, what’d you think? Would you like me?” Pat whispers. Pran feels each syllable taking shape on his skin, so it makes a shudder run through his entire body. He squints his eyes shut at the sensation.
When Pran doesn’t respond, when the silence stretches thin, Pat adds hastily: “....if you were Ink?” and it falls mismatched and ugly between them.
Pran’s eyes fly open. It’s like being doused in a bucket full of iced water. He finally remembers how they got here.
Pran wishes Pat knew how cruel this is. How much it hurts. But it’s not his fault.
Pran puts a firm hand on Pat’s chest and shoves him back until Pat’s sitting up.
Pat looks dazed, dilated pupils making his dark eyes seem depthless. Pran sees the exact moment the panic starts to flood in. Pat’s so transparent sometimes; it’s his best and worst feature.
“Enough,” Pran says. He clears his throat because it’s so dry and he feels a sob crawling up his throat.
Pat’s hand twitches on his lap. “Pran, I—” His voice sounds a little broken — a little lost — smaller than Pran’s ever heard it, but right now Pran can’t find it in him to care.
He rubs a hand down his face, trying to snap himself out of the haze that still clouds his mind.
“Pat, please,” Pran grits out. “Stop. We should stop. I’m tired. Not just about today, but I’m fucking tired, alright. I can’t help you with whatever it is that you want. Find Korn and ask him to help you plan your fucking proposal, but leave me out of it.”
Pat looks like he wants to argue. His eyes shine, the cut of them sharp like glass in the blue light. He blinks in quick succession. Pran can see how a muscle ticks in his jaw. In the end Pat just sighs, deflating visibly.
“Sorry if I went too far,” he murmurs, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor. Then, without Pran having to tell him, he slinks back down to his place on the floor beside the bed.
Pran watches the ceiling until he can’t see it anymore, and this time he lets the tears spill out.