Work Text:
"I hate you."
What a stupid thing to say. Hate, like love, was something you say when you mean it. Pran didn't mean it, never, not when it comes to Pat.
Not Pat, the person that has always been there, whether it was to annoy him, to help him (which happened a lot) or just to remind him how head over heels he was for Pat.
And Pran whished, he so whished, to be inside Pat's head, to know what he was thinking. To know his thoughts and feelings about him because so far it has been mixed signals after another and Pran was tired. Tired of thinking this time would be different only to be let down again. Pat should tell him that he hated him, that would be easier. It would be better.
So hate would have to do, the common denominator between their families and friends (but not between them, never really between them) to protect his heart and to protect them if their families ever found out they were talking again. Faking it, once again, for the sake of others. For his own sake.
Hate when the only thing he wanted to think was love when it came to Pat. But that would never happened, so he settled himself with watching Pat's resting face and admiring how beautiful he was while a small tear streamed down his face.
He turned on his bed and yanked the comforter from the other side and pulled it tight around him. He would build those walls Pat had been destroying these past few days how many times it was necessary. It would have to do, it had to.