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Sometimes it feels like their lives belong in a movie.
The boy next door, the family feuds, the secrets, the rivals turned friends turned lovers, feeling like the world will end if anybody finds out (and maybe it will).
Yeah, it seems fit for the big screen. Good material.
But this isn’t Hollywood. They’re not Romeo and Juliet. Nobody’s dying, but they will get their happy ending, that’s for damn sure. Because if Pat has to watch Pran cry one more time over all of the stupid decisions their parents have made, then he’s going to absolutely lose it. Maybe Pat did something in a past life to deserve this bullshit but not Pran.
Never Pran.
So this is the best he can do for now. He can whisk his boyfriend away to a place, a beach, to stay in a room hours away and just be together. Just exist. If he can’t give him anything else, he can at least give him that. A space where nobody knows them, away from prying and curious eyes. No threat of Pa walking in or Korn banging on doors.
And as they take off their swim trunks from running in the sand and unpack their toiletries to shower, Pat envisions a scene in the future where they’re doing this exact same thing. Except instead of suitcases, it’s moving boxes. Instead of a hotel, it’s a house. Or an apartment. Or whatever. Whichever they can afford, since Pat is slowly realizing that all of the choices he’s ever going to make after university includes Pran in all of them.
Their apartment. Their room. Their kitchen. Their future. Theirs. Theirs.
Could they get a dog?
“Are you going to stand there all night?”
Pran’s voice jolts him back to present day and to the fact he’s been standing half naked in the bathroom doorway staring into nothing for God knows how long. Though judging by the look on Pran’s face, long enough to be concerning.
Pat mentally shakes himself and quickly pulls a shirt on before he moves in under the covers along with his boyfriend. He settles in, the two of them turning to face each other on the middle of the bed.
Maybe it should scare him how comfortable he’s gotten with the idea of them. Together. All the time. How easy it was to transition from fighting against each other to fighting for each other. But then again, they’ve always been associated together, so what were their parents expecting, really? That they’d never develop sentience and the ability to think for themselves? To question what the hell the real issue with each other was?
Again, bullshit.
“Where are you?” A touch to his forehead brought him, once again, back to this plane of existence. Pat blinks, focusing on Pran who’s either very worried or very amused, or maybe in a weird in-between. It’s a look he’s very familiar with, actually.
“Just thinking,” Pat murmurs, grabbing the offending hand that’s prodding his face and instead twining their fingers to rest between them.
“That’s dangerous.”
“Oi,” he protests with no real heat behind it, feeling his mouth naturally shape itself into a grin.
He watches Pran smirk, though it loses momentum rather quickly and they’re back to staring at each other. “About what?” Pran asks.
And maybe it’s because his thoughts were already there but he can almost feel the mood shift, this heavy weight settle over them like a blanket. Because the reason they’re here at all has been this unspoken thing between them all day. It feels like they should be talking about it but neither of them has the nerve to speak, lest they break the bubble they’ve built around themselves.
They should though. Eventually. Maybe tomorrow. But right now, Pat has a whole different agenda forming in his head that feels a little more pressing, and a little more important, than the topic of dysfunctional families.
Pat hums, hoping the sound of his heartbeat doesn’t give him away. “I’m thinking about…” he trails off, feigning nonchalance that he doesn’t really feel. Pran waits, patient even as Pat untangles their fingers to brush an invisible strand of hair away from his boyfriend’s face. He likes any excuse to touch him, even if he doesn’t really need one. “About how much I love you.” Okay. Slightly easier than he thought.
Pat doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone’s expression change so drastically in real time before. It’s definitely a sight to behold, though watching tears spring to Pran’s eyes causes Pat to panic for a split second, worried that he’s upset him somehow.
This is confirmed untrue when Pran practically lunges into Pat’s chest to hide the sounds no doubt threatening to escape him. Pat has no idea what to do other than carefully wrap his arms around him and hold him there until he calms down, running his hands slowly up and down his back.
It doesn’t take long, thankfully. Pran’s sniffling quiets and it’s another moment before Pat feels a fist thump lightly on his chest. “You suck,” he hears, below his chin, though muffled by the fabric of his own shirt.
A laugh startles out of him, dripping with disbelief. “I suck?” he repeats, trying to get the leech to let go and look at him.
Pran pushes on his chest again, lacking any actual force. “You suck,” he says again, finally raising his head. Pat instinctively goes to wipe the wetness from his cheeks. Crying is exactly what he didn’t want, but he supposes some things are just unavoidable. “You weren’t supposed to say it first.”
Pat blinks. What?
“When was I supposed to say it?” Pat questions, trying and failing to prevent Pran from pulling away and attempting to become one with the nearest pillow.
“Never.”
Pat does not have the slightest idea what’s going on but he’ll be damned if he isn’t going to figure it out right then and there.
He inhales, reaching for Pran’s nearest hand and interlocking their fingers once more, relief coursing through him when Pran doesn’t shake him off. “Pran,” he starts, scooting himself a bit closer to the cocoon he calls a boyfriend. “You don’t have to say it back—”
“No, shut up, I love you, you absolute menace.” Pran spoke so fast that Pat nearly missed it entirely and it took his brain a good bit to process. But once it did, well…
Guess this was a happening.
“Okay—” Pat had to physically wrestle the pillow away from Pran and even then he was very adamant about not looking at Pat. It’s a good thing tussling with each other is something they’re very adept at doing since it took him almost no time at all to get Pran on his back and wrists pinned on either side of his head.
Normally this would be a very compromising position, but Pat’s only goal right now was just to get Pran to make eye contact. It was sort of working. ‘Sort of’ because Pran’s still wiggling.
“Pran—” he starts. More struggling. Neither of them was letting up. “What do you mean?”
Pran stops moving long enough to squint at him. “What do you mean what do I mean?” he says, as if Pat is a dork that doesn’t know what the definition of “I love you” is.
“No, like,” he pauses, waiting until his boyfriend settles down enough that he releases his hold on his wrists but remains straddling his waist, “what did you mean? When you said I was never supposed to say it?” For some reason that small tidbit nagged at him. It felt like it’d been put there just for him to latch onto.
There’s this thing that Pran does sometimes when he gets lost in his own head and starts overthinking everything. He turns his head away and stares at…well, nothing. The wall, maybe. And Pat watches as his jaw works over words that he wants to say but hasn’t figured out how to say them.
He lets him mull it over, only knowing it’s time to say something when a fresh set of tears slip their way down the side of Pran’s face. Pat immediately going to brush them away until he’s just cradling his cheek. “Hey,” he murmurs, “talk to me. Please.”
Pran takes another minute just catching his breath, gaze still locked onto some invisible spot behind Pat, before he speaks again, hoarse. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispers, voice hitching as he clasps his hand over Pat’s, “and I never thought in a million years that I could have it.”
The admission tore something in Pat’s chest, and for a split second he felt anger flash through him. Anger at the people who looked at any good thing that might make their son happy and went “absolutely not.” The feeling left just as fast as it came though, because this definitely wasn’t the time.
At a loss for words, Pat slides until he’s lying on his side next to Pran, arm tugging his boyfriend to tuck him back into his chest and just. Let him cry. That, he can do, trying his best to be a comfort in the meantime. “You deserve everything you’ve ever wanted,” he whispers a minute later, unsure if Pran even hears it.
They lie there for a while. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe an hour. Long enough that they’ve both calmed down and are, for the most part, just cuddling. He debates falling asleep but, alas, he has a few more problems to cause.
“So,” Pat starts, waiting for Pran to give him a sound of acknowledgement before continuing, “a long time?”
“Don’t,” Pran warns, which is a sign to Pat that he’s at least feeling a little better.
“How long?” he continues on, despite the obvious warnings. “High school?” Pat guesses when Pran falls silent.
“Middle school?” He just gets a Sigh of Exasperation for that one.
“Does it matter?” Pran asks, raising his head. “You admitted it first anyway. You like me.” Oh yeah, he’s definitely feeling better.
Pat hums. “No,” he says, much to Pran’s surprise, as shown by the furrow in his eyebrows. “I love you,” he amends.
Whether the redness in Pran’s face is a blush or just leftover from all of the crying, Pat may never know. But he has a hunch. “You’re not funny,” Pran groans, attempting to push Pat away from him.
“You’re smiling,” Pat points out. Pran just huffs. “Hey. Hey, Pran,” he continues, even as Pran turns away to face the opposite direction. “Pran.”
“What?”
Pat winds his arms around and pulls Pran in, now chest to back. He presses a light peck to the underside of his jaw. “I love you.”
It’s a little like whiplash, to have just gone through so many different emotions in such a short time frame, but if Pat had to pick one to hang onto tonight, it’d be this feeling right now, seeing the dimples in his boyfriend’s cheeks and thinking he’s never seen anything more beautiful; listening to him laugh, and deciding it’s his favourite sound.
Because after years and years of being told how to feel and being fed all the shit that never belonged to them to begin with…they’re allowed to have this.
At the very least, this love belongs to them.
This is theirs.