Work Text:
Kiss him, love him, thank him
Pat's shoulders are in front of him, bare and really attractive. A strange attractive, different from what you might think when talking about your boyfriend's shoulders. Pran, at that moment, finds them attractive in an almost romantic, comforting sense. He doesn't know why he's feeling this way; maybe it is because those are the shoulders that protect him every day from the pains of the world (they always have, since high school), perhaps because they are the shoulders of the only person he has ever loved in his life, perhaps because they are the shoulders on which he sees their future together grow. A future that is once again hidden, something that he and Pat are creating in the dark of almost all their friends and relatives in order not to have to give it up.
That thought pierces Pran for the umpteenth time as he watches his boyfriend hang the shirts of their uniform on the hanger next to the bed. Pat's gaze is concentrated - he knows that Pran hates creases on clothes - and the latter can only smile amused by the care with which Pat seems to be attentive to every little detail that concerns him. Pat respects him, loves him, spoils him, pampers him and Pran is no longer able to hide the devotion he feels for the boy in his turn. Who does he want to fool? He has loved Pat for what seems to be an eternity and now that he can express his feelings for him without having to hide them, he has no intention of holding back. He has a different character from Pat's, it's true; Pat is more spontaneous, free, less shy about shouting at the world than he is in love with Pran. But Pran also has his own way of showing Pat what he feels, a way all of him made up of small (big) gestures and words masquerading as a joke full of affection. A constant teasing that turns into a playful skirmish made up of caresses and eyes full of love. Because Pran's eyes - and Pat knows it very well - speak more than his voice does.
“Pran? This is the shirt you wore yesterday, do you want to wash it?”
Pat's words shake Pran from his whirlwind of thoughts and for a second the boy looks at the shirt in question: it is the shirt that Pran was wearing when Pat slept with him for the first time. That thought brings a small pang of pain to the future architect's stomach, recalling the topic of that night; but the look with which Pat is looking at him now, shining as stars, seems to make any negative thoughts disappear in the blink of an eye.
“What is it, do you want to do the laundry for me now? Did Pa finally force you to learn how to wash clothes?”
A sweet tease.
Pat knows this well, because he smiles.
“I'm Pat, I can do anything, huh? But no...” says the boy, placing the shirt in the laundry basket next to his feet. “I know very well that the project you are finishing in class is wearing you down. If I can do something more for you to help you, as well as being a practically perfect boyfriend, well, I want to”
Pat chuckles at Pran's surprised expression and slowly approaches him; he seems to be completely comfortable wearing only shorts and Pran is not surprised by this. The only thing that worries him at that moment is not to lose his breath, because Pat is so beautiful and so sweet that Pran might start to cry. So he watches Pat reach his hands towards his face and almost squints at the contact with his warm fingers. A warmth that seems to come from all over his body and it is a sensation that almost makes Pran drunk.
“I can't take care of you when we're out of this room. Let me do it here at least. Mmh?” Pat whispers, his tone stained with sweetness. “I know that I'm not a champion with laundry and that you live in fear that I might blow up your kitchen but...”
Pran silences Pat with the index finger of his right hand, now placed on his lips. Pat, beautiful Pat. The least selfish human being in history, less capable of wanting someone's evil, the sweetest boy that can exist in that nefarious world. Pran remembers what it meant not to have him in his life and just being able to hold him every night is the best cure he can imagine.
“Apparently my big boy really wants to make me melt hmm?”
The warmth that floods Pat's eyes at that moment, Pran recognizes, is different from what one might expect. He knows well that in another circumstance his sentence would have unleashed a fiery heat, a fire that would have turned into passionate caresses under the covers; Pat likes to be called by cute nicknames, he loves to be teased, and Pran knows this and it's something he always uses in his favor. But there, while they are standing one in front of the other with a look full of love, Pran also knows that what is happening is one of their moments. Those rare and damn intimate moments in which all that is said (both verbally and with gestures) is only pure and candied sentiment, those moments they use to deprive themselves of the usual playful tone to indulge in a truth stripped of all fears.
Pran smiles, two delightful dimples appear on his cheeks, but before Pat can even caress them, the finger disappears from his lips and in its place it is Pran's mouth to stop him from doing anything.
I love you. Thank you.
That's what Pran thinks as he takes Pat's lower lip between his own.
You don't know how much all of this means to me.
It's what Pat sees in his gaze as Pran places his hot fingers against his bare hips to push him towards the bed.
Take care of me.
This is what Pran says without really saying it when he drops his boyfriend on his back on the mattress, placing himself between his legs.
Pat looks surprised but says nothing; he just observes the beautiful boy above him as if he were admiring a divinity and Pran feels himself blushing under that intense gaze. And he feels lucky: Pat looks at him with so much devotion that he feels his heart tremble, that he would almost like to merge with him and bask in his warmth for a lifetime. How can their parents expect to push them away when it would be enough for them to see their children once together to understand all the love that flows in their eyes? And again, Pran would like to cry because it is all so intense, all too much, but something that makes him feel alive and that leads him to settle with his legs against Pat's hips, sitting on him. His right-hand flies to his boyfriend's cheek and caresses his cheekbone slowly. Pran wants to thank him. He wants to make him understand how happy he is, how much he loves him, how much he feels alive since Pat reappeared in his life that day over a year ago. And Pran is a man of gestures, isn't he?
He starts from the forehead. Pran's lips rest slowly on Pat's warm skin and he can smell his scent under his nose, now mixed with his own. He loves it, he would always like to feel it, immerse himself in it and wrap himself in it as in the warmest blanket in winter. Kissing Pat on the forehead reminds him of that almost parental love, an affection that recalls protection and comfort, an affection that Pran wants to give to his boyfriend; perhaps because their parents have never been too good, perhaps because Pran knows what it means to see a father or a mother ask, ask and ask, regardless of the feelings of the children for a matter of personal pride. Pran can also be this for Pat, if he needs it. And he wants him to know.
The lips descend on the eyes, first the right and then the left. Kissing Pat on his eyes reminds him of stars, sea, light, sun. Pat's eyes are all that is beautiful, perhaps because they are the mirror of the soul of that beautiful boy he is kissing, perhaps because inside them he sees a version of himself that only Pat is able to grasp. Pran wants to be the person who is able to see himself in those eyes forever. And he wants Pat to know.
From the eyes Pran goes down to the cheeks. Kissing Pat on the cheeks reminds him of his childhood years, when as soon as they became friends they teased each other, moved by the tender innocence that those years brought with them. Pran thinks of that little Pat who sneaked into his room at night, wearing colorful pajamas; he thinks back to chats with tin cans, running around in beds before their parents could find them. Pran will always be ready to be Pat's playmate. And he wants him to know.
From the cheeks Pran passes to the chin, two quick little kisses, because his target is the neck. He lays his lips on it slowly, with devotion, and the young boy does not escape Pat's trembling beneath him. The boy has anchored his hands to Pran's shirt and that gesture almost makes his boyfriend escape a smile. But he can't smile, he has to kiss Pat. And kissing him on his neck reminds him of all the times Pat snuggled against him, all the times he sniffed and teased him. Pran has always loved that little detail, he likes that Pat loves the smell of him, even if he will never admit it. This time, perhaps, he can make him understand: Pran sniffs Pat's neck softly, smells like shower gel with flowers and mint, before leaving there one last kiss. And Pran knows that Pat knows.
From the neck the mouth goes down to the chest. Pran kisses Pat's collarbones, lowers his tongue in the space created by the bones, but there is nothing sexual about his gesture and he knows that Pat has understood it. He hears him holding his breath and the architect suddenly perceives his boyfriend's fingers in his hair. Pran smiles as he kisses his chest at heart level. And kissing him on his heart reminds him of the moment Pat delivered that very vital organ into his hands, that night on the roof, amidst the tears they were both shedding. Pat with relief, Pran with pain. It also reminds him of the audition for Riam, the way Pat had figuratively kneeled in front of him to tell him that yes, he had won the bet and that yes, he was crazy for him. Pran loves that heart the same way and wants Pat to know it.
Pran moves towards the shoulder, going down to kiss the bicep of Pat's left arm. Kissing Pat there reminds him of the sweetness with which that boy hugs him every day despite his strength, the delicacy of his gestures, the way he protects all the people he cares about. It also reminds him of when Pat risked his life with that gunshot and the thought makes Pran tremble for a second: think back to the rush to the hospital, to the relief he felt in knowing that the wound was just an abrasion, but never he will forget the fear of that moment. Pran wants to protect Pat. And he wants him to know.
From the bicep the lips descend towards the hand and there Pran dedicates the sweetest caresses to Pat's fingers. He kisses every fingertip, every knuckle, because kissing him there reminds him of the affection with which Pat touches him. That reminds him of the boy's touch on his body, in both sweetness and passion. That reminds him of the way those fingers know how to comfort Pran, the way they are able to calm him or make him aroused in the most beautiful way. The way those fingers made him sigh, groan, arch, the way those fingers were and still are love. Pran loves those hands and wants Pat to know about it.
Pran goes back to kiss Pat's chest while, still sitting on him, begins to pull down his pants. He wants to kiss every inch of that body, he wants to pay homage to that boy who has captured his soul and who takes care of him in the best possible way. And when Pran looks up at Pat's face, while the fabric of his pants slips off, he is not surprised to find the boy's cheeks completely wet. Pat is crying, his face is beautiful in the soft light of the room; his shiny cheeks shine, his moist eyes sparkle like fireworks and Pran falls in love with him even more, more and more, in an endless vortex. He finds himself mirroring the smile that also stains Pat's lips, showing off the dimples, and without taking his eyes off those of his boyfriend Pran kisses his belly, down, until reaching the elastic of the boxers. No malice in his gestures: Pran kisses Pat's covered member, touches it affectionately, before placing his lips on his muscular leg. He covers it with kisses, entirely, reaches his knee, kisses its protruding bones, lower and lower to the ankle.
Here Pran stops. He kisses the soft skin of the foot, caresses it, because Pat's feet are the ones that always led him to him. And those feet which, Pran hopes, will always be the means by which Pat will run alongside him. Pat is sobbing now, unable to restrain himself, and Pran knows that the boy sensed everything he wanted to tell him through those kisses. Between them it is always like this, words are of little use. Perhaps because they have always known each other, perhaps because they have learned to love each other in silence and to communicate without allowing anyone to understand their language. And it is thanks to their silent talk that Pran knows, looking Pat in the face, that the boy wants to hold him close. Pran smiles, straddling Pat's hips and almost simultaneously the latter sits up, passing his arms around the architect's waist; he plunges his face into his shirt, breathes his perfume strongly, and Pran starts running his fingers lazily through Pat's hair, rocking him in that tender embrace. The skin on his back is warm, Pran would like to kiss his too, he would like to kiss Pat's shadow too, if only it had consistency.
“Pran…”
Pat's voice is hoarse, maybe from tears, maybe because it sounds muffled by the shirt. Pran leaves another kiss on his boyfriend's hair and holds him tighter, an arm around his shoulders.
"Yes, big boy?"
The boy moves away just enough to be able to look Pran in the face; his eyes are wet, still red from tears, but illuminated by a joy and a love so deep that he feels himself trembling. Pat looks at him, glances from his eyes to his mouth, before speaking again. Pran knows that whatever comes out of Pat's lips will be able to destroy him and put him back into a better person.
"I love you too"
And after those words, with his dimples on display due to the immense smile he has on his face, Pran has only one thing left to do: kiss the only point that he hadn't touched on his kissing tour. Pat's lips. Because between them it's always like this: an I love you between kisses and an I love you in words. And that is fine.
“Pat… thank you”