Work Text:
In the middle of the night when his desk is again awfully full of stacks after stacks of papers he barely touched, tea left cold sitting at the far end corner of the table, his mind always plays back memories. Memories he’s not entirely sure happened regardless of how surreal they might feel. Out of the stack of papers, as usual, he writes tasteful words and lovely phrases of two people though madly in love with each other are content enough sharing still hours and awkward glances. The deadline's getting nearer by every hour. As a third year art student, concocting a story for his piece, the stage one of the project, should have long been done. Unfortunately, he can’t seem to pour his heart out into whatever he was writing, his head was concentrating on something else. The memories. He’d had them. Like the autumn, it comes to him every now and then. Up have always longed for the guy who picked up his pen.
When Poompat was 10, kids around his age in their neighborhood would play race with their bikes under the scorching heat of the sun and bring home wounds and scratches all over their bodies as their trophies for the day. Without a care in the world, he spends peaceful afternoons under the cherry blossom trees in the park away from all the nosy kids with a pen and paper in. hand. He documents his day, how exciting he finds watching people from afar, writes about how his mom refused to let him sit under the tree when snow falls for fear of the possibility of him catching a cold. He didn’t have many happy memories during winter but that was when he was 10.
During winters now, he has already all the liberty that he wants. For long, he can bury his feet under the snow that stacked up by their front porch freely, enjoy the cold crisp air in his track pants without anyone telling him over again to cover up, and (his most favorite) sit in the park for hours as he wishes. All these he decides against it. Museum dates with himself is his thing now. Museum dates are an exception. It’s never too cold for museum visits in winter.
He started his museum adventure when he turned 18. It all began on one fateful university field trip day. He has his school notebook with him as usual for note-taking. His group was headed to twenty-four exhibits of fresh artists for the first half of the day. The first floor was dedicated to the physical sciences, the second about musicals, and the uppermost for history and artifacts.
The walls were consistently painted greyish, off-white. The brown-tiled floors were blanketed with maroon carpets one who definitely guess to have just been recently laid. The distance of one room to another expands to about less than fifty or so steps as Up have counted. He inhales the lavender scent that trails along with him as he marches the hollow aisles. How they will accomplish such feat of going through all twenty-four installations was a wonder to him. When he saw the majestic paintings on the walls framed in gold and silver with grotesque details, anxiety settled in him because how else would he put all those around him into words. There was so much want in him to jot down what his eyes could see - the direction of the strokes, the engravings, the texture, the sharpness of every masterpiece. Everything was too much and needless to say, he’s so scared to reduce them into poor words out of his unfortunately limited vocabulary for fear of not doing justice to the real thing. He must have prepared for this, he sulks.
If he was not stunned enough, he is now, undeniably come the time he sighted of a man he estimated to be not much older than him, who was assisting the curator himself touring them from one gallery to another. All limbs of him loses its use causing him to unconsciously drop his pen. He stared at him in long glances absorbing the beauty exuded by his now apple of the eye, over and above the paintings around. It was winter but still the museum cooling machines ought to preserve every masterpiece the building holds fails to stand up to their purpose. Up felt hot in all the wrong places. Beads of cold sweat dampen his deep black hair. It makes him uncomfortable but he has to stand with poise and pretend that everything is okay. He cannot afford to make a scene or else he’ll lose the opportunity of basking in the show of beauty of the beaut named Kao, as the curator calls the man, exhibits naturally.
He liked to think it was destiny when the man picked up his pen for him. It was his first experience of real attraction when the other offered him a smile while returning his retrieved pen. He was always composed and calm, except now, he acknowledges. He was always keenly observant and acts with careful behavior, never too showing of his too honest emotions. But again, all rules admit of exceptions and maybe this Kao is his exception. The cold sweats became unbearable. Kao asked him in what could be the sweetest voice he had ever heard in his existence, 'are you okay?' He managed a nod because talking would leave him in a stuttering mess. He can’t throw a bad impression because first impressions last as they say. He has to keep his cool in front of the beautiful man.
—
"Hi! I noticed you’ve been quite fixed with this one?"
"Yeah, it’s.. it’s a favorite. It’s just there’s so much mystery to it I can’t help but admire."
Kao from then on notices Up, a little too often than he’d like to admit. He steals glances and memorizes the boy’s details – he wears heeled boots, white oversized pastel moss green long sleeves that hides his lean shape visible only under rays of yellow lights that sometimes hit him. He also catches a glimpse of Up’s hands when they had the pencil incident; he remembers the unflawed skin from up close, tiny veins protruding the hands, and, oh the shoulders, the well-defined collarbones he badly wants to trace. He’s too pretty for a man, he concludes. He’s too pretty to forget. He finds it annoying. Disturbing. But also, he remembers he’s here for work.
Humans however have no control over things. Everything was hazy and still and dead-silent, except that Up was crystal clear for Kao. Head empty, his eyes bring him nowhere but Up, gaze locked and permanent on him. The world stopped around them, at least for Kao, he’s certain. So he asked, ‘uhh, well I was wondering, do you maybe fancy pancakes?
The boy he’s staring at burst out a little laugh or maybe the cutest chuckle as per Kao’s description. The boy’s body reverberated as he chuckles, out of nowhere? But yeah, yes, I love pancakes. Nothing’s more genuine than this reaction in Kao’s not very biased opinion. He’s so glad he talked about pancakes. Pancakes are the best after all. It was so pure a moment Kao would trade anything for it — to see that laugh again, to hear them echo in the walls of his eardrums, and the waves to travel all the way through his heart. Kao’s not much of a religious but he prayed to the gods that he be blessed a next time where he sees the boy’s face once again slowly morph into something he’d definitely not forget and would want to wake up to. He was immediately drawn that creases started forming on the sides of his temples right next to his cat-like eyes. Kao smiles a wide smile. Yeah, he nods in agreement. Yes, they’re pretty, very, I’m afraid.
Up shoots up his eyes centered on the man he’s with. P-pretty, he stutters mentally. Surely, that’s not the way you describe a painting, and why was he not looking at the painting but straight up to me, he laments to himself. "Who's pretty, may I ask?" Up bites his tongue, he knew he shouldn't have said that. The last thing he wants is to make the man uncomfortable by sounding so full of himself. "I.. I-I'm sorry I was speaking my mind I-" Kao was caught off guard and replies in a heart beat, "you."
The magic ends when Up received a hug from behind by feminine hands out of nowhere. As if he was dumped with ice cold water, Kao’s esteem was crushed to the core. Of course, the boy’s too pretty to be a lonesome individual, of course he’s got to be in a relationship. The woman next clinged onto Up’s left arm, annoyingly batting up and down her fake lashes as she asks Up to join her for lunch.
Up looks to Kao knowingly and as if by telepathy, they communicate. Up locks eyes with him as if asking, what about pancakes? He reciprocates the sadness with a weak curling of lips and nods with a heavy heart, he says please, no, no, don’t let me keep you. He makes his exit without looking back, not waiting for Up’s reply.
But what Kao missed was Up looking after him, offended for being left without being afforded a chance to talk his way out of the other offer. Up sulks the entire lunch wanting nothing to do with Kao anymore. How dare he come and go as he pleases.
—
The curator lunching with Kao inquires, "mister, what happened with your pretty, little crush, huh? Boun, the curator, takes the role of a mad investigator darting looks to and fro Kao and to the boy sitting tables adjacent to them. He makes careful inspection of the Poompat’s body language. He find it amusing how the boy was sitting facing them, shoes pointing towards their direction. What's more is that he catches the same boy glancing their way while obviously maintaining a pout. He finds it so endearing to be honest, and so he decided to pry even more. "Bet he turned you down for that female," he points over them. Kao hisses at that but he couldn’t say anything, he’s right after all. He lost him again.
"Aight man, calm down," he convinces Kao he's done with his teasing with all hands raised over his head admitting defeat. But Boun presses on after some silence he thinks is enough for Kao to go back to his old collected self, "this is why I told you to make yourself known that you are his senior in university who has been after him since he was a first year. For the love of all the love sick, do your best and not lose another chance at romance. You’re what, 27, in grad school, almost done with your thesis and got the highest mark after that standing ovation by a great audience of learned artists, and you are pursuing PhD in arts after. But the great Noppakao is actually this much of a coward when this comes to Up Poompat?? This world has too many broken people, Kao, please don’t add to their number.
Kao answers this time, "my mother does not even interfere with my personal life because she’s got mad respect for my privacy, she doesn't even know about him… who are you?" The man laughs heartily and said, "no one actually, just some random guy you’ve know since you were in diapers and who’s patience is also wearing thin from looking at how many times you’ve failed at this." Boun shakes his hand feeling nothing else but pity for his friend. How can a man be this indecisive and uncourageous. Boun adds, "Unbelievable." Kao was gifted another moment of silence. He thanks the gods for these few minutes. He's never been an enthusiastic conversationalist like Boun. He's more of a listener alright but he's been too stressed about the love of his life. Dear god, Boun opens his mouth again. Kao rests his head on the pad of his palms, effectively hiding his face from the world. "Also, the reason why your mom leaves you be is because I keep her posted. She knows about Poompat. And yes, she very much adores the boy."
Kao sighs for the nth time.
—