Work Text:
“How did we get conned into this again?”
Pat dips his brush into the can of Peony Pink paint at his feet and swipes a long line the color of blush across the wall in front of him. He admires his work for a moment before turning to Pran, standing at the other end of the wall dressed in a white smock, his own brush dangling resentfully from his fingertips.
“You know how,” Pat says, working more of the pastel paint into the previously grey wall. “We lost a bet to the girls. A bet you went all in on by the way, even after I told you Paa is a genius at charades.” He shakes his head and clicks his tongue. “You’re lucky they’re just making us paint their bedroom and not the whole apartment.”
Pran brushes his own line across the wall and frowns at the results. “I can’t imagine Ink choosing to sleep in a pink bedroom,” he mutters.
Pat laughs. “Me neither. But Paa told me Ink lost a bet to her too. Though she wouldn’t tell me what it was exactly.” He snorts. “My sister, the master manipulator.”
Pran sweeps another desultory swath of paint onto the wall. Then he steps back, holding the brush up and squinting one eye like some kind of master artist. Pat watches him, grinning, thinking about how cute he looks in his smock. When Pran glances over and catches his eyes, Pat doesn’t even pretend he wasn’t staring. He shrugs, still smiling.
Pran’s mouth twitches. He straightens his smock and dips his brush into the can of paint.
“Well, if we’re going to do this, we might as well get it over with,” he says. He lifts his dripping brush toward Pat in a sort of salute. “First one to finish his side wins?”
Pat feels the same tingle of excitement he gets every time Pran challenges him. He dips and lifts his brush in an echoing salute.
“You’re on.”
They both attack the wall in a flurry of brush bristles and pink paint. Pat decides on a strategy of inscribing huge curves of paint, using his long arms to stretch his lines as far as possible before he has to bend and get more paint. When he glances Pran’s way, he sees his boyfriend has opted for a different method, holding the paint can in one hand and dipping his brush every other stroke to get the maximum amount of paint on the wall as quickly as possible. He brushes short, hard strokes up and down from the floor going upward.
“You’ll never win that way,” Pat crows. “Besides, you’re gonna need a ladder to reach the ceiling.” He raises his arm over his head and touches his brush to the edge of the crown molding. “But I don’t. I’m gonna win for sure.”
“You talk too much,” Pran grumbles. “And you’re wrong anyway.” He gets more paint on his brush and then puts the can on the ground. A second later, he’s stepped up onto the edges of the open paint can, somehow balancing himself with one hand against the wall as he stretches up to paint near the ceiling. “See?” He smirks at Pat. “No problem.”
“No problem, my ass!” Pat keeps painting, but he has one eye permanently on Pran now, unease rippling through his stomach. “You’re gonna fall. And I’m not going to catch you.” But of course he’s ready to leap across the room in an instant to stop his idiotic boyfriend from breaking his neck with a misstep.
“Blah blah,” Pran mocks. “Just keep painting.”
Pat raises an eyebrow. “Look at how much I’ve done already!” He gestures with his brush. “I’m already halfway done.”
Pran snorts. “You call that done? I can see grey through your pink!”
Pat looks again at his section of the wall and sees that Pran is right. He’s going to have to go over everything he’s already done. He groans and crouches to get more paint.
At the same moment, Pran lets out a startled cry and — exactly as Pat predicted — falls off the paint can. Pran’s arms whirl, the can tips, and his paintbrush goes flying. Pat jumps to his feet with a yell, but by the time he’s straightened Pran has already fallen on his backside, paint squelching beneath him.
For a moment, the two of them stare at each other. Then, very faintly, Pran says, “Ow.”
Pat tosses his brush aside and rushes to Pran’s side. “Are you okay? Did you break anything? Can you get up?”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.” But Pran’s wince belies his words when Pat helps him to his feet.
“I told you,” Pat huffs, hauling Pran upright as gently as possible. “Why are you so stubborn — hey!” Pat reels backwards as Pran comes at him with a hand full of wet paint. He’s too close to avoid contact and Pran gets his shoulder and half his arm covered in the Peony Pink paint before Pat can say anything else. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because you were actually winning and I’m distracting you.” Pran grins, white teeth flashing.
“You sneaky little…” Pat leaps backwards when Pran comes at him again. He tries to anyway. He’s closer to the wall than he thought, and Pran crowds him up against it, hands extended, a wolfish grin on his face.
“Where are you going?” Pran says sweetly. “Usually you like when I touch you.”
“Pran…” Pat whines as Pran sticks both of his paint-covered hands on either side of Pat’s face and drags them down to his neck.
“There.” Pran takes a step back. Still smiling, he tilts his head and winks. “You’re so pretty now.”
Pat touches the sticky paint on his cheek and then looks at his pink fingertips. “You realize you’re going to have to pay for this,” he says.
“No idea what you’re talking about,” Pran replies, taking another step backward. “I didn’t do a thing.”
“Uh huh.” Pat drops down and swipes his hands through the spilled paint before diving at Pran. His boyfriend twists away from him, laughing. And then they’re chasing each other around the room, flinging paint everywhere. The plastic sheeting on the floor makes them slip and they both fall several times, only to scramble back up, recovering their paintbrushes so they have stronger weapons in this war of who can cover each other in pink paint from head to toe first.
Suddenly the door to the bedroom opens. Pat freezes, his arm around Pran’s neck to hold him in place while he sticks his paintbrush down the front of Pran’s shirt. Pran has his own paintbrush pushed into Pat’s chin, the bristles reaching up to cover Pat’s mouth too.
Ink and Paa are standing in the open doorway together, identical looks of outrage warring with amusement on their faces.
Pat spits the bristles out of his mouth and straightens, releasing Pran from his hold.
“We can explain,” he starts.
“Pat started it,” Pran blurts out before Pat can continue. Pat raises both eyebrows at him and Pran shrugs as if to say what did you expect?
Paa takes a step into the room, looking around at the chaos of splattered paint with wide eyes. “How on earth did you get paint in the middle of the ceiling?” she asks, pointing.
“Better to ask if they managed to keep paint off our stuff while they were goofing around,” Ink says, folding her arms and surveying Pat and Pran with cool eyes.
They press tacky palms together and wai respectfully to her.
“We’ll clean it up,” Pran says with something like remorse in his voice.
Pat eyes Pran again. His boyfriend’s smock is a moot point now considering it’s more pink than white and still Pat can see where his jeans and t-shirt got caught in the crossfire. More paint is streaked across his face, marking his cheeks like he’s going into battle, and his hair is sticking up in every direction. Pat guesses that he probably doesn’t look any better.
His sister is standing in the middle of the room now. Pat edges closer to her.
“We could clean it up,” he begins, looking down at his paint-covered arms. “Or…” He throws his arms around Paa and grabs her in a bear hug, rubbing his head against hers as she squeals. “You could join us.”
“P’Ink!” Paa shrieks, trying to pry herself from Pat’s embrace. “Help!”
Ink sighs. Then she breaks into a wicked grin and snatches one of the fallen brushes off the floor.
“Sure, I can help,” she offers.
With surprising accuracy, she bends back the bristles of the brush to spray paint across the other three. Paa shrieks again. Pat lets go of her so he can reach for the other brush — but Pran is already there.
“You win this round,” Pran says with a grin, slapping the handle of the brush in Pat’s hand. “Get her.”
Pat spins to return Ink’s volley, launching them all into another round of laughter and happy chaos. The real painting can wait for tomorrow.