Chapter Text
Pran, it turns out, has a knack for sensing when things are about to go wrong.
It often manifests itself in this weird, itchy feeling at the back of his left ear. While it’s something extremely superstitious (Pran doesn’t believe in dwelling in things that tend to have no logical explanation), it has been proven over time that this—whatever this tingly sixth sense is—is quite a reliable teller to predict unfortunate events.
And so, when Pran jolts awake with an annoyingly terrible itch at the back of his ear, he knows that something dreadful is about to befall on him. Not that he usually falls victim to his own premonitions, but the intensity of the itch and the crawling desire to scratch his entire ear off convince him otherwise.
Pran looks around frantically, the sun already a little brighter than his usual getting up time. He looks down at his bedside table where his alarm clock happens to be sitting so innocently and blinking up at him with 2:45am in bright red—broken—and Pran pats around his bed to find his phone in a frenzy.
It’s now twenty-five past his usual waking time. Pran scrambles out of his bed and nearly falls onto his face as his foot gets tangled in his blanket.
It only takes a few moments before Dissaya is concernedly knocking outside his door. “Pran, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Mae,” Pran says, despite his wrist aching against the floor from bracing himself from falling at an even worse position. He untangles his foot away from the blanket, cursing it before prodding himself up the floor. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“I heard you up late last night, so I wanted to let you sleep in for a bit. I was just about to come and wake you,” Dissaya responds outside the door, which makes sense, because it’s exam season and Pran did stay up late last night on FaceTime with Wai as he lets precious sleep be sacrificed because Wai apparently doesn’t understand half of what’s going to be on the exam. Before Pran hung up around 1am, Wai was still very confused. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” he says, finally awake enough to tread to the door.
Dissaya in her usual morning apron is looking at him full of worry when he opens the door. She watches as Pran twists his wrist around, his palm a little red from the floor.
“I just landed on it, but it’s nothing,” he says almost reflexively, afraid his mom would make a big deal out of it. He flashes her a small but dimpled smile. “Can you please pack breakfast for me instead this morning?” he asks gently, to which his mom just nods before Pran heads to the shower.
Pran likes order. He strives in planning and knowing what to expect. He likes to get up early and take his time, eat breakfast with his parents and have just enough time to stroll on the way to the bus stop. But this morning, he gets ready a little hastily with the bit of time he has left, leaving the topmost buttons of his shirt undone. He almost trips again on the way out as he puts his shoes on.
Pran usually enjoys going to school a bit earlier than most, because it gives him time to relax and avoid the bustling morning crowd, but today he’s obviously running later than usual so he finds himself sprinting to catch the next bus coming.
When he gets to the stop, Pran is sweaty and out of breath. Some random girl sitting down with her phone out say, “hey, your backpack is open,” to which Pran instinctively turns and sees the small opening in his bag where his mom probably opened to place his breakfast sandwich. Pran ignores the churning of his hungry stomach as he thinks of what could have fallen out during his run, and alas, he’s right: the carefully ziplocked sandwich had fallen out on his way here.
“Thanks,” Pran says almost grumblingly, and at the same time, a thunder echoes in the skies above him and the rain starts pouring.
Shit, Pran thinks, looking up at the looming clouds overhead and the harsh rain making a ruckus against the bus stop roof. The sun shining so brightly through his curtains this morning had foolishly tricked him into thinking about yesterday’s downpour. And because Pran had been distracted with the itching in his ear and running late, he forgot his umbrella. His mother had also been occupied with the morning news when he left, eyes trained intently on the living room television, the umbrella she usually reminds him of taking left forgotten by the doorway.
Pran should have known from the remnants of the puddles on the road and the dark clouds they reflected that yesterday’s rain wasn’t at its finality. Yesterday in the news, the story spearheading the headline had been about how the pinnacle of Typhoon Rak will end at the eastern gulf of Thailand, so by the time it reaches Bangkok and had traveled through the land, its strength is expected to have already weaned off.
Bangkok would most likely be clear most of the day, he remembered the newscaster saying, but chances of rain should still be expected.
Pran shakes his head disappointedly as the rain starts to tumble down even harder. The same girl offers to share her umbrella with him as the bus arrives, and out of gratitude, Pran doesn’t think much about the random video on the girl’s loudspeaker talking about some infamous restaurant at the beach being destroyed by the typhoon.
It’s stuffy and packed in the bus when he gets on. His uniform pants get wet by an old lady’s umbrella brushing against him, and Pran is too polite to tell her to move it away. He hears his stomach grumbling as the bus moves, head still thinking of breakfast and his ear just a tad less itchy.
Luckily, by the time Pran gets to campus, there is still an ample enough time to stop by the cafeteria to pick up breakfast before his first class. Pran generally likes to eat his mom’s breakfast sandwich comprised of ham, eggs and strawberry jam, so out of habit he asks the cafeteria lady whether they have anything similar.
“We ran out of jam and we won’t get them until lunch time. I only got bread and condensed milk,” the cafeteria lady says sympathetically. “Would you still like it?”
Bread and condensed milk, huh, Pran thinks, running a hand over his damp hair. “Sure, I’ll have one. Thank you.”
Pran hasn’t had bread and condensed milk together in a while, but somewhere tucked in his memory is a lanky boy with tan arms and a grin full of mischief who loved his toast drenched in condensed milk.
Pran tries to tuck that memory away, shivering at the thought, confused as to why it was coming up in the first place. It has been years since he’s seen that boy in the flesh, but from time to time, Pran thinks of him.
Okay, maybe not a rare occurrence as Pran would like, but regardless of that fact Pran thinks the moments this boy does cross his mind, it’s not fondly, of course. It’s usually with dread tagging along the twisting pain in his stomach and a crack in his chest. Occasionally, Pran would flip through his childhood photos and recognize those eyes anywhere in every summer vacation he’s spent as a child.
Growing up, Pran and his parents visited Pattaya every summer. It’s a trip that Pran remembers just being something to expect once school ends. Dissaya’s high school best friend and his family own a restaurant by the beach side, with their cozy home situated just behind it. Pran always spent at least a few weeks at their home before going back to the bustling life in the city.
Pran didn’t hate going there. In fact, despite how much Pran sulked about leaving his friends in the city, he lit up in a certain way whenever he would see the familiar road going to the Jindapats. And if Pran dare say, the Jindapat family is Dissaya’s second favorite after their own, and in a way, his, too. Not necessarily by choice (a lie to himself), but he’s just as fond as his mother. Dissaya loved Ming and his wife along with their two children, both of whom Pran knows have managed to squeeze themselves into her heart effortlessly over the years.
“Ming introduced me to your Pa,” Dissaya would always remind him fondly, “he just knew we would be the perfect fit together.” And when Pran was still little and got tucked in bed by his mom, she never failed to do the same with the other two children huddled together under the blanket in the big guest room bed with Pran.
Not to say that the Jindapats weren’t the same to him. Ming and his wife loved having Pran around, especially because “You are the best example of what my children could be,” Ming would say playfully, glancing down at his two pouting children, followed by an approving pat on Pran’s shoulder. Pran always reveled in the way Ming would be just as proud as his parents hearing his accomplishments back in school and beamed up at him whenever they met eyes, and his wife always cooked delicious spicy seafood platters comprising of Pran's favorites.
And so, this is how Pat Napat Jindapat comes to Pran’s mind again. Without really meaning to, like how Pat generally invades his private space in person, no boundaries whatsoever.
Pat his childhood summer companion. Pat the eldest son of the Jindapat family. Pat who’s the same age as Pran, except somehow managed to grow taller and meatier than Pran over the years. Pat whose voice deepened so drastically that one summer when they were twelve, well before Pran’s voice croaked in puberty. Pat who has the biggest, most annoying smile Pran has ever known. Pat whom Pran dislikes the most, because he’s careless and dirty and not as gentle and cute as his little sister Pa.
Pat Napat Jindapat whom Pran had a crush on since he was five, but that’s another story to tell.
But it’s odd. For someone whom Pran spent his summer vacations with, it seems like their relationship is reduced to just that: a summer companion. They don't really talk beyond summer vacations. They don't keep track of each other on social media, never really kept their phone numbers saved on each other's phone. And yet, somehow, Pran knows Pat like the back of his hand.
After Pran transitioned to high school, summers at the beach no longer became a tradition. Extracurriculars like rugby and hanging out with his local friends became a more desirable option. It helped that his parents became busier at expanding their business over the years, no longer being able to afford being away for that long.
And if Pran was being honest, he liked being away. He preferred not to waste his summer listening to some idiot running his mouth nonstop and bother him with his useless antics, whining Pran’s name at every chance he gets, and confusing Pran’s thoughts when he lingers just a little too close to Pran.
It didn’t upset Pran at all when Pat hasn’t made any attempts to contact him or whatsoever after he decided not to show up for two straight summers. In fact, Pran did not spend two summers at all sulking or whatever from time to time that Pat’s shadow never appeared anywhere near him, occupying every space he can squeeze himself into.
Not at all.
Pran shakes himself out of his thoughts when the lady hands him the plate with toast, tucking summertime and sunshine in the back of his head as he savors the sweetened bread in his hold.
The rest of the day doesn’t seem to go that smoothly either. The rain eventually stops around noon, the sun peeking through the cleared-out clouds. Wai whines for the rest of the day about how he will fail Physics and not get into college, and Pran further lights the fire by saying, “Well, I thought you wanted to get into the same program as me. Why are you slacking off, then?” Pran wiggles his eyebrows at Wai.
They stand alongside each other in the locker room, what with rugby practice resuming since the rain stopped.
Wai visibly pouts at him as he fumbles through his gym bag, finding his clothes. “I’ll get in through my rugby skills,” he says dejectedly.
“What skills? I don’t see you beating me in it either,” Pran says, eyes twinkling in a delighted way as he switches his shoes out. Pran is already dressed in his rugby jersey unlike Wai who’s taking his sweet time grimacing anywhere and everywhere. “I might get the scholarship instead of you at this point.”
Wai’s face turns sour, throwing his school shirt at Pran who strategically dodges it. “Pran, we all know you’re going to get into anywhere you want. You’re already the top student at the entire school, you can’t take rugby as well. Not from your amazing, awesome, only best friend in the whole wide world.”
Pran laughs at that, but deep down in his mind, the same lanky boy pops up very briefly. You're my best friend, Pran, is all that rings in his head, still loud and clear and as whiny as ever, the skin on his back sizzling with the phantom drape of Pat's touch. Pran shakes his head, focusing on Wai instead. “We’ll see, it depends on how well you do on the next one. Don’t disappoint me, or I might really have to replace you.”
Despite the banter with Wai, Pran knows one of Wai’s strong suits is his rugby skill. Wai might have been too agitated with his unprosperous attempt during their Physics exam and Pran being unkind about it, so when he shoulders Pran just a little harder than normal, it makes Pran slip on the mud and land on his knee. Wai frantically apologizes repeatedly as Pran rolls around clutching his knee, mud getting all over him.
When Pran comes home, clad in his rugby outfit and limping in his bandaged knee ("don't be a baby," Wai finally said after the panic has gone away, plastering the biggest bandage to cover the tiniest scrapes over his knee, and Pran had just glared at him), he gets even more irritated that his parents hadn’t noticed, barely looking up from the serious conversation they’re having in the dining room.
Pran slips into his room quietly. He hops in the shower without eating dinner, then spends the rest of the night playing the guitar, choosing to let his fingers be occupied with his favorite thing to do when he’s upset rather than indulge the persistent itching still lingering at the back of his ear. Pran stops playing eventually when the thought of his guitar strings snapping passes his mind. He shudders at the thought, putting his guitar away.
Whatever bad luck he’s having today, a little order in place shouldn’t hurt. So this time, Pran makes sure to replace the battery in his alarm clock. He sets extra alarms on his phone just in case, clears the curtains away so the sun rising can light up his room much more noticeably. He makes sure he doesn’t tuck in his blanket with his feet before he drifts off to sleep.
The next morning, the itching is gone.
Everything seemingly goes according to Pran’s plans: he wakes up just as the alarm goes off and gets off the bed seamlessly. He takes his time, blasting So Cool songs in the shower. He styles his hair and buttons his school shirt all the way up. He hops down the stairs with a little bounce in his steps despite his knee. He greets his parents, meeting their smiles at him. Dissaya puts down breakfast on the table and Pran sits across his dad reading the newspaper.
“Pran,” Dissaya starts, a hint of an unsure smile lingering in her mouth, and Pran can’t seem to shake off the excited glow surrounding his mother. “Have you watched the news at all yesterday?”
“No Mae,” Pran says, starting to take a bite out of his food. He was having such a rough day; he didn’t even bother checking his phone other than to set his alarms. “Anything important I should know?” With a second thought, he adds: “should I bring my umbrella this time?”
“I don’t think it’s raining anymore,” she says almost immediately, sitting next to him.
Pran looks at her and blinks. She's clearly not done, so he nods, prodding her to continue.
"Well, speaking of the rain,” she starts, pursing her mouth. “Typhoon Rak has brought a lot of unexpectedness to everyone.”
Yeah, maybe the typhoon was the cause of all the bad things happening to Pran yesterday. Now that he’s thought of it, even the way it was named is weird: love. A literal love storm.
Dissaya continues talking. “We are very fortunate that we live in such a big, sturdy house in the city. No flooding, no typhoons ruining our roof. I’m just thankful that we can be in this position and afford this privilege of being safe.”
Okay, that’s odd. Dissaya has always been transparent with Pran, and this is how he’s been brought up: communicate in clear, direct manner, except somehow… Dissaya is avoiding eye contact with him, and Pran’s dad has his eyebrows raised at him instead of his mom, which makes him feel like he knows exactly where she’s getting at.
Emotional manipulation, probably.
“Yes, I’m grateful,” Pran says blankly, wondering if that’s what they want to hear. He continues. “Of course, I’m thankful for both of your hard work and allowing me to live in this privilege.”
Dissaya seems to have gotten exactly the response she wanted. “So if other people cannot have this privilege, would you share it with them?”
This is becoming a weird conversation and Pran doesn’t really understand where it’s going. He puts his utensils down. His mother didn’t raise him to grow up a selfish man. “Of course, Mae. What is this about?”
Her eyes twinkle in delight. “Great! We'll be having guests over for the meantime. Their house got destroyed by the typhoon and it might take them time to be able to get everything fixed, so we'll be helping them out for the meantime.”
Huh. It still hasn’t crossed Pran’s mind exactly who they are, still a little distracted with how animated his mother is, so he just nods. “Of course,” he says. “Would the guest room be enough for them?”
“I’m not sure what they will be comfortable with, but Pran, would you be okay sharing your room just in case we need more space?”
Pran doesn’t like to share his personal space. But if these people really need it, then so be it. “Sure, that’s fine with me.”
“Great! They’ll be here tonight. Make sure not to be late for dinner,” Dissaya says, kissing him on the top of his head. “I’m so excited.”
When Pran leaves the house, a gecko hovering above their front door makes a clicking noise, as if mocking him as he puts his shoes on.
Pran feels a slight itch at the back of his ear again all the way to the bus stop.
It doesn’t go away for the rest of the day.
Pran’s hunch that doom is about to befall on him over the last two days is painfully correct.
The guests, it turns out, are exactly the people Pran had tried so hard not to expect to show up at their doorstep that evening.
His mom might as well could have screamed, surprise! at him as soon as he exited their gate. Pran feels like he’s glued to the ground between his front gate and the Jindapats, unable to move as soon as he stepped out and looked up.
How could Pran have been this stupid? He should have deduced it from the signs. He knows the gulf is usually what gets hit by the storm, and once it reaches over to them in Bangkok, it’s reduced to cold gushes of wind and rainy days.
Pattaya is right smack on the eastern gulf.
Pran is well versed in geography, but somehow, he managed to miss the obvious signs. He thought he had seen the glimpse of tan skin and a familiar voice blasting in the phone of the girl at the bus stop watching the news, the loud echoing of the newscaster’s voice calmly saying, “I'm sorry about your home. It’s a tragedy how much we didn't expect the strong hit of typhoon Rak,” despite, well, the tragedy, but Pran had been too distracted by the signs to actually see through them.
He should have seen this coming, what with the ways the universe had tried to tell him, how his mother’s delight had lingered from this morning to the way she sang in the kitchen as she made her special dishes for dinner. Pran doesn’t often have them as she reasons they’re usually for special occasions. Besides, those special gleeful tunes she hummed are reserved for specific children she liked dearly, a close call after Pran, but somehow Pran still didn’t think to ask.
Maybe at the back of his head, he’s known all along but just didn't want to confirm the creeping thoughts crawling around his head, settling like a bad omen at the base of his left ear.
Pran should know to always expect the worst from the universe, because why else is everything going wrong in his life in the past two days if not for the pair of lips curling up in front of him and his tan skin barely covered by the tie-dyed blue muscle tee glistening under their front gate lights? Those stupid, stupid suddenly so muscular and thick arms that have previously subjected Pran into painful (playful, he’d get corrected) chokeholds as a child bulging out of his denim overall jumpsuit.
That same smirk that unwelcomingly haunted Pran’s juvenile mind time and time again.
It has been years since he’s last seen him, but boy, Pran feels the same familiar twisting in his stomach. Maybe even worse, especially with how Pat looks like now, obliviously knocking the air out of Pran for a moment. He breathes in carefully, shutting his eyes briefly. Pran finally stops ogling and meets eyes already twinkling with mischief.
Pat grew up so nicely, so much better than Pran thinks he ever did. He’s much taller now compared to how he was two years ago, his chin raised up in shooting confidence that Pran suddenly feels very small and stupid in his radiate positivity t-shirt.
Those eyes, though, they haven't changed one bit. Pran swallows, tongue too thick to muster words out, and doesn’t look away. Pat wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at him, lips stretched into a smile Pran knew so well.
A challenge, and it hasn’t even been a minute.
Pran’s thoughts get broken by Ming’s voice. “So sorry for intruding last minute,” Ming says, forcing a small smile as he lands a palm over Pat’s shoulder. “Thank you for extending your welcome to Pat and Pa.”
“Of course,” Dissaya says, extending her arms out to give Pat and Pa a hug, and they both reach for it at the same time. It becomes a tangle of three as Dissaya rubs Pa’s hair soothingly. Pat’s face gets smooshed in her tiny shoulder, face tucked in. He's still looking up at Pran standing behind his mother though. “I’m sorry about your home,” she says sympathetically, and Pat’s parents’ shoulders sag even lower, unable to mask their chagrin.
It’s silent for a moment until Pran’s dad says, “let’s bring your things in and catch up over dinner.”
Ming, Pat, and Pran’s dad start unloading the few boxes at the back of the car. Pran finally gets off his spot as Pa smiles at him brightly, leaning in for a wordless hug. Pran remembers Pa being so much smaller the last time he’s seen her, but she wears the same round glasses, her hair in the usual messy bun, and that smile that can light up the entire street. Pran rubs the top of hair, arm fitting snugly around her, and Pa just whispers I missed you, P'Pran in a small voice.
Pran responds by kissing the top of her head tenderly. “You’re all grown up,” he whispers back, smiling down at her. Pa has always been like a little sister to Pran, and his heart swells a little thinking about how much he’s missed her growing up, all because he was going through his own phase of teenage stubbornness.
After he lets her go, Ming and his dad are already past the gate with respective boxes in their arms. Pa has walked off with their moms, leaving only Pat at the trunk area.
Pran sighs dimly as he makes his way over to Pat who’s pulling out the last box out of the trunk. Pat meets his eyes as he puts the box down, then grins, flashing his perfectly tiled teeth at Pran, eyes squinting.
The last time Pran has seen Pat, he was still in his goofy looking braces and black rimmed specs, but both of those are long gone now.
Instead, it’s just Pat at seventeen with somehow an even more perfect smile.
It’s irritating.
“Pran,” Pat says, and even his voice got so much deeper than Pran has heard last.
Pran swallows, again, because that’s apparently all he can muster to do. “Pat.”
Pat, of course, has the audacity to raise his arms in an open invitation of a hug. “Missed me?” is all Pat says, hands held out, waist swaying a little playfully.
Pran doesn’t miss him. Pran definitely did not miss him.
Pat can only wish, so Pran immediately rejects the idea, and says exactly that: “You wish, Pat.”
Pat sighs, rolling his eyes as Pran bends down to pick up a box. When Pran gets up with it, Pat is already squatting down, meeting his eye level.
“Truly just in my dreams,” Pat says, but then he’s got fingers tapping the underside of Pran’s chin, cheeky grin and all.
Personal space, Pran thinks, grimly considering just dropping the box on Pat’s feet to swat his hand away.
Pran doesn’t. Instead, he settles on making a face at Pat as he tries to steady the box in his arms. “That’s disgusting.”
“Whatever,” Pat says, planting his palms around his own waist. Definitely flexing his huge ass biceps, Pran thinks, quirking an eyebrow at it and then makes eye contact with Pat. Pat’s smirk goes even higher up in his cheek. “I know I’m wanted in yours.”
Pran fakes a yawn, dead in the eyes. “Another one of your fantasies unfulfilled.”
Pat steps closer to him, only a breath away. Pat smells like the mint candy they used to eat in the back of the car. At least that hasn’t changed.
“Oh? I can make many of them come true,” he says almost suggestively, “Especially now that I’m here.”
Since when did Pat make jokes like this? Pran can feel his nape burning, cheeks heating up. He tries not to let the pout slip through his mouth, but it does, and Pat’s touching his chin again, warm (and probably dirty) fingertips scratching at it playfully like he’s some sort of little kitty. Pran dips his face just a tad lower, pretending to come after his fingertips with a bite.
(Pran would never, not with those actually nasty hands.)
“Alright, I’m just kidding.” Pat laughs as he watches Pran lean back, still burning up, before adding more fuel to the fire. “But I really missed you,” he adds so, so casually, and Pran’s head immediately screams danger, because this is Pat’s favorite thing to do: rile Pran and string him up, unknowingly tangling Pran’s insides and twisting his heart as Pat moves away, his actions trapping Pran in his place like a dense anchor thrown down the ocean.
This is exactly why Pran liked being away. He hates feeling like this. He hates how he used to be around Pat. Pran would never admit it out loud, because as much as he wants to think it must be because he hates Pat, he knows he feels otherwise.
Pran hates being in love with Pat and all the stupid yearning that comes with it.
“I was having so much fun without you in the last two years,” Pran says bitterly, to which Pat’s mouth slightly curls down for a moment.
Pran finds that as a small win.
See, the thing is, Pran didn’t always dislike Pat.
In fact, five-year old Pran liked Pat a lot.
Pran remembers as clear as the Pattaya beach waters the first time he met the Jindapats. Pran remembers the car ride, the sandy road lined up with bamboo sticks leading up to Pat’s house and the colorful string lights hanging over them all so vividly.
He remembers being introduced to Pat and Pa for the first time, hiding behind Dissaya’s flowery dress with Pran wondering why Pa was equally so shy, even though her pretty yellow dress was as bright as the sun. She had her hair in a braid, to which Pran had mentally noted to ask his mom to grow out his hair longer enough to do the same.
Pat, in his short cut hair and boyish demeanor, had pulled on Pa’s braided pigtails as he looked at Pran sheepishly, almost shy. Pa had only huffed and said Hia, stop, and it left Pran laughing at them as he stepped away from Dissaya, to which both kids responded by shaking with mirthful glee.
It only took a minute before Pran, Pat, and Pa became best friends, but over time Pran always knew he had a favorite.
It was Pat, of course.
Pat was always bugging him to play and run around the house, and always picked out all the green colored candy from the bag for him to eat. “Green is your favorite, right?” Pat had asked on the first night they met, with both Pa and Pran sprawled on their bellies in the living room next to him, their dresses splayed on the hardwood floor. Pat was fascinated with the way Pran sorted out the colored candies in his hand. Pran had been embarrassed for some reason because the kids at school made fun of it sometimes, but Pat spent the next few minutes sorting his own bag and Pa’s to eventually hand Pran all the green ones.
Pat also liked to ask to hold Pran’s hand whenever their parents strolled by the beach during nighttime, his other arm snuggly holding his stuffed toy Nong Nao while a pouting Pa trailed behind them asking for her Hia’s hand.
“I want to hold Pran’s hand, but Pran, you can also hold her hand,” Pat had said defensively.
And so, that’s how they followed suit behind their parents, palms linked with Pran in the middle, basking in the way the chilly breeze embraced them all, their tiny bare feet buried in the sand with every step forward.
Pat continued to spend the first few days just ogling at Pran. Sometimes, he picked on grass on the garden bed by the family restaurant front, handing them over to Pran. “I don’t see green flowers,” he’d say stupidly, and so Pat kept picking leaves instead, handing them over to Pran, to which he’d respond with the deepest dimples Pat had ever seen.
Pran liked that a lot, among many things in those few days he got to have Pat's undivided attention. Pran found solace in indulging his newfound friend. Pat might even be his best friend. Pran had always been a loner at pre-school, and he’s not as good talking to his peers, so this was something new.
With such enjoyable memories in the past few days, Pran had come to the realization that he liked Pat and Pa so much, he wanted to spend every summer with them.
Besides, Pat liked to share Nong Nao whenever they would sleep, with both Pat and Pran holding either side of the smelly stuffed toy Pat liked to carry everywhere. Pat loved Nong Nao, could not sleep with it at all, but somehow even loved it better to have Pran cuddle it in his sleep as well. He had woken up a few times with Nong Nao in his arms, Pat’s lanky arm over the two of them instead.
“It makes Nong Nao smell good,” little Pat had said to him despite being insistent on Pa not taking Nong Nao away to the other side of the bed. “You smell like coconuts and strawberries.”
And so the four of them slept just like this in the giant guestroom bed, with Pat at the corner claiming to protect Pran and Pa from monsters under the bed, Nong Nao cradled between him and Pran, and Pa snuggling right next to her new favorite phi and the wall.
It got even better a few nights later when Pat had proudly looked up to their parents during dinner and said: “I will marry Pran when I get older.”
And the adults had all somehow simultaneously choked on their food together before a fit of laughter burst around the table. Pran remembered his cheeks feeling flushed as he sat across his parents, not really understanding why. His parents instinctively looked lovingly at each other, and little Pran watched how his dad took his mom’s hand and placed a small kiss at the back of it.
Pran had looked at Pat. Pat was still pouting, tugging on his mom’s shirt before saying, “I want to marry the prettiest one of them all. That’s Pran. I will marry Pran.”
“Do you know what you’re saying?” his Ma asked incredulously, looking between Pran and Pat. “If that’s what you want, that’s okay. But you must ask Pran, too.”
The pout on Pat’s lips grew even bigger, his cheeks puffing. He looked at Pran with a confused expression. “But why would Pran say no?”
And Pran had remembered saying out loud without any thought, “I won’t say no.”
The parents laughed even further, and Pat had taken his hand and started grinning, “It’s all set, then!” Without hesitation, Pat took off his favorite watch, only his second favorite after Nong Nao (or third, because Pat definitely had mentioned Pran was also on top of the list), and placed it gently around Pran’s wrist. “This is my promise to you. As long as you have this, I'll keep my promise to marry you.”
“Okay,” Pran responded happily, dimples and all.
“Ming, what have you been teaching Pat?” Dissaya had asked, looking at Pat and Pran fondly.
“He’s as smooth as his father,” Pat’s mom said, laughing.
“I guess that won’t be a bad thing for Pran,” Pakorn said, fishing out the camera hanging at the back of his chair. “I’m going to take a picture of this so they can remember this moment when they’re older.”
And Pran had beamed so proudly next to a grinning Pat because five-year old Pran didn’t know any better.
See, the big problem came from the fact that, well, Dissaya had not disclosed a tiny thing about Pran.
Of course, the parents knew, but they didn’t think it was something to immediately address with Pat and Pa.
It’s a tiny thing that little Pran didn’t think was a problem, because he was just a boy who liked to wear dresses, and his mother had indulged him somehow, because why would she let Pran sulk in his ugly shorts and cartoon t-shirts when he was the happiest picking out colorful dresses and sleeping in soft, fluffy pajamas?
Looking back, Pran appreciated his mother’s openness, but it was a bold move at the time.
It had been high tide when they first came to Pattaya. It was almost two weeks into their vacation when the locals had suggested that it’s okay for children to finally swim around. It’s no surprise that Pran beamed so brightly and was excited to finally get into the water. In fact, he had been taking swimming classes prior to their trip, as Dissaya suggested it was a safer decision in the long run.
Pran loved the water, but he’s never actually swam in an ocean. Pat and Pa had gone earlier than him, with Ming muttering that he had to meet the fishermen by the dock first to see what freshly caught fish could be served for dinner.
Dissaya had gotten out his swimming trunks and changed him along with her endless drawls of sunscreen over his bare top.
When they stepped off the Jindapat’s home, Pran was delighted to catch a glimpse of Pat and Pa close to shore, not bothering to listen to Dissaya’s endless screams of be careful! as he ran towards them with so much glee.
Pa had been trying to shape one of the two identical sandcastles with Pat essentially scooping them from the bucket and building it further. “I built a castle, phi!” Pa had exhaled so excitedly, looking up at him.
Pat’s eyes were intently on the sandcastle, murmuring, “I built it for you.”
Pa’s drenched from the water and she wore a colorful swimsuit that glistened under the sun, but Pran wasn’t mirroring the same. Instead, Pran was only wearing his dull swimming trunks, and he wondered if he should tell his Mae to get the same one. “I’m going to find seashells to decorate it with, Hia! You wait for me!” Pa exclaimed before running off almost immediately after away from them.
Pran looked over to Pat, interested in how focused he looked. “What are you doing, Pat?” he asked despite already knowing.
“I’m building an extra castle,” Pat said, who still hadn’t looked up. “For you. So our castles are next to each other.”
Pran smiled and knelt next to him where Pat’s own feet were buried in the sand. Pran remembered so clearly that he was happier watching Pat build the sandcastle rather than dipping himself straight to the ocean. “Why wouldn’t we just have our own castle?” Pran said curiously. “If we’re married, shouldn’t we own the same one?”
Pat huffed, as if he hadn’t thought about that at all, and exhaled very loudly, so very Pat. “You’re right!” he said, standing up, his shorts full of sand. He finally looked down at Pran, whose dimples etched themselves against his cheeks.
Except Pat had looked down at him somehow… confused?
A wave had gotten a little close to their sandcastles, to which Pran immediately scooted over to protect it meekly from the water. Pat built them not just one castle but two, it was the most Pran could do. “Pat! We need to protect our castles!” Pran exhaled.
“Why are you wearing that?” Pat had asked instead as Pran looked over his tiny shoulder to the water. His voice was low, but Pran caught sight of Pa a few feet away who was bending down to pick up something to truly pay attention to Pat.
The next thing Pran heard from above was Pat softly saying, “You’re a boy?”
Pran finally looked up to Pat, who was looking at him with his eyebrows furrowed. “You’re a boy?” Pat repeated.
And Pran had been so confused why that was a problem. Pran tilted his head at Pat, eyes fluttering back at him. “Yes?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Pat said accusingly, looking at him with eyes he’s never seen before. Like he's very angry and betrayed and Pran was so, so equally confused at the way he’s looking towards him like Pran did something wrong, like the people at pre-school who made fun of him during swimming class when he changed in the boy’s toilet.
“What did I do?” is all he can say out loud, wobbling up to meet Pat’s gaze. "Pat?"
Pran tries to reach out, but Pat swats his hand away a little too harshly, and Pran loses his balance and topples over. Pran falls onto the tiny castles Pat was building for them, ultimately destroying them.
“But boys can't marry,” Pat said sadly. Pat is crying. Pran had never seen Pat cry, even when he fell off his bike that one time on the side of the road while his dad taught them how to ride it. Pat had massive scratches on his knees and elbows, but ultimately at the end of the day, he just made fun of how sad Pran was because of it. But this—this realization somehow made five-year old Pat bawl. "How am I supposed to marry you if you're a boy? Is that even allowed?"
And Pran just clenched sand around his hands and felt tears well up in his eyes and started crying too, because Pat was being so, so mean and Pran didn’t really understand what was wrong with that.
It all got disrupted when Pat glanced behind him and started screaming, “Pa!”
Somehow Pa had managed to get herself in the water, her arms flailing around as she drowned, and Pat was screaming helplessly but standing so still, so stricken with fear to even move that it only took Pran a few seconds to realize Pat wasn’t wet—and he might not know how to swim—and Pran gathered up his 5-year old self’s courage to run over and swim over to Pa.
Luckily, she was only in the shallow part, but Pran was a little bit taller enough to fish her out, and Ming had somehow ran towards the two children before they got swept off by the wave.
The moment they got back on shore with a crying Pa in his arms and Ming hauling both of them up, Pran’s parents and Pat’s mom were already there. Pat didn’t move, eyes still fearful and cheeks streaked with tears as their parents frantically check on Pa.
Pran stood there for a moment, not knowing whether to meet Pat’s gaze as his heartbeat thumped loudly against his ribcage. The salty ocean water dripped down the sides of his swimming trunks as Dissaya frantically checked in on him, murmuring repeatedly how lucky they were.
Pran could not tell whether the salt he tasted was from the water, or from the way he cried quietly as Dissaya cradled him in her arms.
Pa might have drowned that time, but Pran didn’t get up the water the same way.
The next summer, Pran showed up with his head shaved with a suitcase full of outfits that mirrored Pat’s.
Pran’s left ear itches the entire time at dinner.
At some point after Dissaya brought out her homemade cake, Pat, who decidedly sat next to him, reaches over to hold his ear mid-conversation, not even looking at Pran. They both look stupid, but nobody bats an eye at them, even when the heat comes up on Pran’s entire upper body. Pat can probably feel the warmth at the tips of his ear, but his fingers just sit there, like it belongs.
It annoys Pran so much, the itch eventually stops.
“Still hasn’t changed?” Pat whispers eventually, leaning over his side with a smile once everybody starts clearing the table. “I told you it’s your Pat tingly senses,” he says, to which Pran can hear the echo of the last time Pat had held his ear, laughing at him saying, “Only I have the power to stop that.”
And he’s not wrong. Not really. Whenever Pran would get these itches growing up, Pat was the first to notice. For a good couple of years, only Pat knew about it, because he just never stopped pestering Pran. It was Pat who would always be the one who would spend the rest of the day bothering him, following him everywhere, predicting what could be the next bad thing to happen. “It’s you, you’re the bad omen,” Pran would often say, sticking his tongue out. But whenever Pat laid his fingers on his ear for just enough time, the itching magically went away. Pat's touch was like a soothing balm to it.
Their families only really found out when Pat did the same thing, just held Pran’s ear during dinner, and the next day Dissaya's most trusted worker resigned. So, over the years, they called it his tingly sixth sense that generally predicted some sort of misfortune.
Of course, this got to Pat’s head, and clearly it still does until now.
“Thanks,” Pran mutters softly.
“Thanks for letting us stay here,” Pat says earnestly, and Pat just smiles and smiles and smiles, his eyes disappearing into his face.
After dinner, the two families settle in Pran’s living room, with Dissaya excitedly pulling out albums from the trio's childhood. Despite their years long friendship, this is surprisingly the first time the Jindapats have been to their house. They flip over albums throughout the years, with both their moms fondly recalling moments from their childhood.
A photo of Pat and Pran wearing fake mustaches and matching suits for the summer contest Pat decided to sign an unwilling Pran up in the second grade and lost because Pat apparently can’t hold a tune. Yet, the picture shows a grinning Pat holding an upset Pran into a chokehold, making a peace sign at the camera. Pa, doing her starfish pose in the sand on the left, with a frowning Pran mostly buried in the sand on her right, his head sticking out with Pat grinning proudly next to his sand bucket. Pran smiling with his first guitar in the sixth grade sitting at the porch of Pat’s house, looking at Pat and Pa holding bottles as microphones as they pretend to sing. A photo of Pat, Nong Nao, Pran, and Pa sleeping in the guest bedroom when they were five.
Pran looks away at the last one, fiddling with his phone instead.
“That’s when Pat said he will marry Pran.”
Pran’s head shoots up at Ming, hand suspended with his phone in the air, looking like a deer in headlights. Ming laughs at his direction, followed by a hand over Pat’s shoulder sitting next to him, whose gaze meets Pran.
“You followed him everywhere when you first met,” Ming recalls. “That was probably the most I’ve seen you follow anyone around, even more than the girls you liked in the neighborhood.”
Pakorn pulls out another one, and it’s Pat and Pran grinning wildly as they showed off Pat’s watch over Pran’s wrist. Pran feels a familiar ache in his stomach. “Ah, it’s this one,” he says, handing it to get passed to everyone.
Pran doesn’t take it. Pat doesn’t either, but they’re still staring at each other, not backing down.
“Pat really liked Pran when they first met,” Pa says, giggling lightly, to which Pat responds by finally averting his gaze and breaking eye contact with Pran, the floor suddenly much more interesting than their gazing competition. It makes something inside Pran flutter.
Pran watches Pat shove Pa lightly in the shoulder. “We were five,” Pat whines.
“It’s not like you stopped anyway,” Pa says almost too quickly, then looks up at Pran’s faltering composure with a glint of knowingness. “He talks about how much he misses you all the time.”
And Pran thinks he’s going to slowly combust, his stomach twisting, his ears ringing with his thundering pulse. The fluttering has turned into a whirlpool of old feelings swirling inside him. He tries his best to maintain a tepid composure, but it’s hard when he catches Pat staring at him again like that across the room.
Like there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes, like he can’t bring himself to even rectify what Pa just said. He’s looking at Pran with a complex expression that Pran cannot read.
Pat looks away suddenly and laughs—a suspiciously fake one, Pran knows—before flipping through the album in Pa’s hand. “Well, here’s a photo of you when you decided you wanted to be a makeup artist,” he says, fishing out the photo with Pa’s face drawn all over with permanent marker.
Pa pouts at all of them, but most especially Pran. “That was P’Pran’s idea.”
Pran can’t help but smile at her. “I didn’t realize you’d fall for it,” he says, and the conversation goes back to normal between their parents and Pat and Pa occasionally chiming in. Pran doesn't talk much after that unless prodded, the fleeting moment that Pat avoided eye contact lasting at the back of his head for the rest of his night.
Later, when Pran gets tasked to get more refreshments, Pat follows him silently. He leans his back over Pran’s kitchen sink, palms flat on the counter.
“You’re enjoying this trip down memory lane awfully much,” Pran says, pouring more drinks over the cups. He's still feeling unsettled, what with buried feelings surging uncontrollably inside him. “I hate it when they go through the past.”
Instead of biting his snarky bait, Pat says softly, “your house is so nice.” And it’s true. Pran’s house is newer and well designed and decorated. Pat’s house was simple at best, but it was right next to the beach, and it always felt like home. “I always wondered what it would be like to be here.”
“I hope you enjoy your stay, then,” Pran says. It comes out a little meaner, so unwelcoming, catching Pat off guard. His eyes soften a little, lifting himself off the counter, then excuses himself to the bathroom. Pran chews on his lips guiltily as he walks back to the living room.
When the lateness of the night eventually catches onto everybody, it surprises Pran that Pat’s parents decide to still head back to Pattaya. It’s almost as if they’d all forgotten the tragedy of what happened, of why Pat and Pa are here in the first place. Their home had been destroyed and a lot of things they owned were either drenched in rain or flooded onto the shore.
It’s unfortunate, really, that one of Pran’s favorite places in the world had become fragmented pieces of memories washed ashore. But there’s something worse tugging Pran’s heart and it makes his throat tighten a little as Pat and Pa say goodbye to their parents.
Because of Pran’s irrational thoughts and desire to continue bickering with Pat throughout the night, he’s forgotten how to empathize with Pat.
Pat who just lost his home, Pat whose childhood things had been destroyed in the wreckage of their house. Pat who still smiled throughout the night, who joked around and teased Pran. Pat who’s obviously pretending to be as happy as he can because that’s just how Pat has always been.
Pran should have never made fun of Pat for enjoying the albums in his home, because Pat’s own had been drowned away by the storm.
Pran swallows, guilt washing over him. He watches as Pat tries to comfort his mom engulfed in his arms, whispering over and over again, “We’re fine, Ma. Pa and I will be okay. Just take care of yourself and Pa, okay? Don’t worry about us.”
After they say their goodbyes, Pran looks away from Pat's glistening eyes.
Pa eventually settles into the guest room. Dissaya makes a ruckus about how Pa and Pat are old enough not to share rooms, which means Pat is sleeping in Pran’s room.
Pran clears his throat as he opens the door to his bedroom, Pat trailing behind the hallway with a box full of whatever he’s managed to salvage. Pat leaves the box down the hallway, giving Pran a small smile as he steps inside. For a moment, Pat just basks in his room, and Pran feels a little embarrassed, because beside his parents, nobody has really been in this room.
It’s full of colorful posters and graphics and smiley faces, his comic books stacked neatly against the wall. The colorfulness always reminded Pran of the string lights encasing Pat's home in Pattaya, but it's a thought he keeps to himself. Pran's guitar sits at the corner of the room by the window along with a collection of old school CDs. There are a few photo frames in his room, mostly of Pran when he was younger. A young Pran holding a microphone from the summer contest during their second-grade escapade. A photo of him and his parents at the beach. A photo of him on the rugby field, arms around Wai whom Pat doesn’t recognize, and a couple more probably with Pran’s high school friends.
Pran feels exposed now that Pat is eyeing every corner of his room.
“Do you want to shower?” Pran says, trying to distract Pat from his trance. “I can lend you my pajamas for the meantime. We can wash your clothes tomorrow.”
Pat stares at him again with that expression that almost looks disappointed. Pran can’t shake it off, but he’s too tired to bother asking. Pran moves around him to get spare pajamas, sliding the mirrored door. Pat’s reflection is staring at him as he fumbles around.
“Pran?” Pat says softly when he turns around. “Can I just change?”
Pran has no energy to say no, not especially since guilt is still striking every corner of his mind. “That’s okay,” Pran says, handing him clothes. “But only for tonight.”
Pat gives him a small smile as he reaches over for the clothes. Pran stares at him as Pat just sniffs his clothes like a weirdo that he is. Pran isn’t even surprised at this point. Pat always had a weird knack for anything that smells remotely like Pran.
Pran’s heart swells a little, trying to push down memories from years ago.
“It smells like you,” Pat says, grinning. It looks real this time, the way Pat’s eyes soften, and Pran gives him a dimpled smile, the first one directed at Pat for the first time in a while.
“You’re such a weirdo,” Pran says, chuckling, and Pat’s beam grows brighter like a puppy starved of attention.
Pat wiggles his eyebrows at him and then slides a hand over his denim overall, pushing the only one hanging off his shoulder. Pran’s head goes into panic immediately, pushing Pat toward the door. “Bathroom’s that way,” he says, “go change there.”
Pat huffs a small laugh at him. “You afraid you might like what you see?”
“Ai, Pat! Nobody wants to look at your shit. Mae left you a new toothbrush there. It’s the orange one,” Pran says, closing the door on him. Pran stays still for a moment against the door, struggling not to smile. He shakes his head, his eyes catching the small box tucked in the corner of his opened closet.
Pran walks over and bends down, sliding the box out of its hiding place.
Carefully tucked away amongst many things in the box is Pat’s watch from when they were five, no longer ticking in time, but still looks just as new. Pran slides a thumb over the glass, his gaze conflicted.
Pran inhales and looks at the door, where Pat is probably changing into his pajamas, brushing his teeth in his bathroom.
No. He shouldn’t.
Pran tucks it away like he’s always done all those years.
When Pat gets back to his room, Pran has already managed to lay an extra futon on the floor, lying in bed and changed into his pajamas with his phone in hand. When he looks up at Pat, he almost drops his phone in his face, because Pat is shirtless. Pat is shirtless in his room. Pran hasn’t seen him in two years and how did Pat suddenly get so buff, his chest muscles prominent and his abs a hundred percent more defined than the jumbled thoughts in Pran’s short-circuiting brain—
Pran almost sputters the words out, mustering the courage to look away. “Why are you not wearing the shirt I gave you?”
“Can I just sleep topless?” Pat asks as he settles on the floor.
“No, no, no,” Pran says repeatedly.
Pat lies down and pretends to snore. He peeks an eye at Pran and then says, “I don’t want to get up from here anymore.”
Pran sighs, too tired to also do the same, especially since Pat is occupying the space between his bed and his closet. At the edge of his bed is his laundry hamper, and Pran just fishes out the first shirt his hand gets ahold off. “Take it,” he says, throwing the shirt at Pat’s face. “But I haven’t washed it yet.”
Pat sits up immediately and sniffs it. “It still smells great,” he says happily, grinning at Pran. He looks at the shirt and flips it over. “Friend and unfriend,” he says, slyly looking over Pran before pulling it over his head. “You picked this shirt on purpose?”
Pran wants to say no, we’re not friends, but instead Pran just scoffs, looking down at Pat who’s now wearing friend at the front so proudly. “Can we sleep now?”
Pat looks sad for a moment. “I wasn’t there when our house got flooded. I tried to find Nong Nao after, but Ma said she couldn’t find him.”
Of course, how could Pran forget Nong Nao?
Pran wonders how Pat managed to sleep yesterday, but judging from the tiredness under his eyes, he might not have. Pat always said Nong Nao kept him warm, but Pran knows it’s just out of comfort. There’s no way that small doll ever exudes heat, but just having it there allows warmth to bloom over his chest. At least, in the few moments Pran had Nong Nao, that was the case.
“How are you going to sleep tonight?” he says carefully.
Pat tugs on his blanket. “Can I share your blanket instead?”
Pran remains quiet instead of responding, but he scoots over the edge of his bed. The sounds of the bed creaking lightly and the blanket being shifted engulf the room and Pran can feel the small tug on the blanket as Pat situates himself warmly underneath.
Silence befalls them. Pran can hear Pat’s light breathing, feeling himself start to doze off. He feels the blanket shift a little. It seems like Pat turned his body towards him. Pran keeps his eyes closed.
“Pran?” Pat says softly.
Pran hums, lids too heavy.
“I wasn’t lying earlier,” Pat almost whispers. “I really missed you.”
If Pran is being honest, he feels enough warmth spread throughout his body. He probably doesn’t need the blanket anymore.
He doesn’t reply, but Pran falls asleep with a smile for the first time in a long time.