Archive of Our Own

FUTURE: 2032

“The Tigers won again, 30 to 20,” Victoria tells her new intern, Andre, motioning him to jot down the details she was going to give him.

Andre is confused when Victoria tells him to make the necessary preparation for an exclusive interview with The Tigers’ star player, Napat Jindapat.

“But, ma’am,” Andre says. “How sure are you that Napat will choose our magazine to conduct the interviews? Last time I checked, we didn’t send any of our reporters to the game and there are many other more famous outlets coming to the press conference,”

Victoria stares at her intern, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. It takes her a while for the realization to hit in, before she throws her head back and laughs. “Pran, I’ll call you back,” she speaks in the phone, ending the call and motioning for Andre to have a seat.

“My bad, I forgot you were new here,” she smiles. “Let me tell you a story,”

THEN: 2026

Pran stands among the loud chattering crowd and the bright flashes of cameras with his seniors, feeling insecure and out of place. He’s sweating, shaking with anxiety and very much annoyed that the venue couldn’t provide at least a fan for the waiting reporters.

“You’ve been given this opportunity for the first time,” his senior Wai slaps a hand on his shoulder, a mocking smile plastered against his face. “Don’t fuck this up, Parakul,”

Pran plasters a smile, nodding. “Thank you for the opportunity,” he manages, wishing he could just sock Wai in the face.

Pat stands in the half-way line of the ground, his heart throbbing along with his soaked head. He glares at his opponent who sneers right back, the ball tight in his arms.

He scans the opposing team, heaving and most definitely tired and desperate to finish the game. His opponent, Brian, some white guy glares at him through the cages of his helmet. “What the fuck are you looking at?”

Pat clicks his tongue, eyes fixed on the man before him. “I’m just looking around to see who’s going to finish second,”

Brian’s eyes go small as he scowls at Pat right as the sound of the whistle pierces through the air. Pat didn’t have time to trash talk further before the ball gets pushed among the opposing team. He screams at his teammates to tackle another player of the opposition; Pat couldn’t care much about his name.

He finally gets the ball thrown at him and Pat hollers, sprinting towards the goal post, so close to scoring when he gets snatched from the back by someone with the sheer grip of a gorilla. Pat thrashes and kicks against the giant man behind him, elbowing him hard enough before swiftly scoring into the goal post.

His teammates cheer and pat him on the back with grins but Pat’s grin is only reserved for the gorilla that held him back. He straightens his crooked helmet, patting the man on his back and laughing when he yanks his shoulder away from his hand. “If you hug me this tight, you might as well take me as your boyfriend,” he winks.

The whistle for the final two minutes blows again and Pat has the upper hand as he grips the ball tightly and curls over it. He motions for the two members by his side to block him as he attempts to reach for the final touchdown.

Pat groans when another one runs in front of him and tackles him onto his back, trying to pry the ball from his hands. The pain in his stomach is only temporary before his vice-captain, Juu tackles the white man and pushes him forcefully away from Pat.

Pat has no time to catch his breath before getting back up, elbowing the upcoming rival with a grunt and jumping past the line. He feels his head go light when he jumps down and slams the ball into the ground. Pat doesn’t register the whistle or the loud cheering of the stadium when he feels the aching pain run through his ribs.

His members run to him just as he rolls onto his back, chest heaving from exhaustion. Pat gets hoisted up and thrown into the air by his friends, hollering at him for making the winning touchdown. Pat lets out a gleeful laugh, begging for them to drop him down because he was about to pass out.

Their manager and Pat’s best friend Korn comes running to the field, his grin wide as ever as he slaps at the big and heavy boys to let Pat down. His best friend immediately pulls Pat into a hug, screaming into his ears.

“You did it, you asshole!” Korn cheers. “You broke the record!”

Pat takes his time for Korn’s sentence to sink in, distracted by the crowd cheering at him and throwing their red confetti. Before he could open his mouth to reply to Korn, Pat gets slapped in the face with a very vibrant and red bra.

“Oh,” Korn yelps, taking the bra away from Pat’s face with a sneaky grin. “Be careful, you’ll be getting more of these later on,”

Pat nods, his face flushed not only from the game. He pulls his helmet off his head, sighing in relief at the slap of cold air against his wet scalp and following Korn as he drags Pat into the locker room before anyone throws their underwear at him again.

In the locker room, Pat gets exactly five minutes of rest before Korn comes nagging at him about being chosen for the press conference. Pat removes his jersey and unbuckles his groin guard before sitting down to rest.

“Can I have another five minutes please?” Pat asks, motioning for a bottle of cold water. He takes a few sips and pours the rest over his head, sighing at the heat that releases from his body.

Korn clicks his tongue. “It’s a very quick press conference. Five questions, max, and then you can go rest. I promise, no exclusive interviews, I’ll reject them all,” Korn tries to persuade him by handing him a bar of chocolate.

Pat stares at the chocolate, contemplating on whether he should just grab his bags and go back to the hotel, or be a good friend and listen to Korn. “I’m so fucking tired,” he groans, lying on his back against the metal bench and watching as his teammates excitedly pack their bags to go back to the hotel. Pat pouts.

Korn throws the chocolate on his bare stomach before throwing a fresh jersey. “Come on, don’t make this hard for me. Think about all the opportunities you’re going to get after this,” Korn sits by Pat’s leg, slapping at his thighs. “Photoshoots, interviews, the fans, Twitter trends, the money!”

“You literally just promised you won’t allow exclusive interviews,”

Korn nods, not even listening to Pat. “Come on,” he slaps Pat’s thighs again. “You want to be famous, don’t you?”

Pat sighs, hugging the jersey on his chest, curling into himself. “I have enough money. I just want to focus on myself for now,” he mumbles to himself, knowing very well that Korn was not going to listen to him.

Korn definitely didn’t, judging from the way he nods aimlessly. “Yes, yes, the season is going to end in a week. You’re so close to the finals!”

“But-

Korn cuts him off again. “I’ll tell you what; one exclusive interview,” Korn bargains. “Your choice. And then right when the finals are over, you can block me until your six months break is over. Deal?” he thrusts out his fist.

It was a very unsatisfying bargain, but the idea of blocking Korn was enough for Pat to bump his fist with Korn’s.

“When will he be coming?” Wai groans next to Pran, rolling his shoulders in exhaustion.

Pran bites back an eye roll as he reads through his questions for the umpteenth time. “He must be tired,” he doesn’t realise the words that leave his mouth until he comes face to face with Wai’s scowl.

“And we aren’t? All he did was bump into a few guys and threw a ball,”

Pran smiles, sickeningly sweet. “That requires effort. Just give him some time, he probably hates coming here as much as we do,”

“You talk so smart, I better hear you talk like this when you get the chance to ask Napat your questions,” Wai changes the topic, clearly knowing Pran was right. Then, as if realising his words, Wai snorts. “Sorry, if you get the chance,”

Pran ignores Wai and stares at the screen above them that played the highlights of the match. His eyes glaze of smooth thigh muscles glistening through the air as they jump and land over the white line, indicating a try. The highlights repeat again, in slow motion with the commentators explaining the swiftness and agility of their star player, Napat Jindapat.

He watches as the screen pans to their celebration, the star of the match breathing heavily on the ground and smiling with the smallest eyes when his teammates throw him into the air for scoring the winning goal and breaking a world record.

He doesn’t realise the new presence that occupies the main seat on the stage, too focused on those pixelated fierce eyes to notice the real, high-definition ones right in front of him. Before Pran could even register the fact that their star player was on stage, he gets trampled on by reporters from other channels, shoving the microphone and tape recorders to the direction of the stage while the bodyguards push them down to sit.

As the host of the conference tries to calm everyone down and settle down on their designated seats, Pran could not help but feel his heart flutter at the sight of the boy he had only seen on sports channels, barging and tackling men twice his size at such a young age. He feels the blood rushing up his cheeks at the messy hair, the flushed golden skin, the bandaged biceps and those fierce eyes that he saw on screen, now wide and as innocent as a doe’s.

“Mr. Napat! Mr. Napat!” a reporter, two rows ahead of him, waves her arms above her head to get Napat’s attention. Pran watches Napat whisper something to his manager before smiling and nodding his head at her to pose a question.

“First of all,” the reporter starts, cranking her recorder as nearer to the athlete as she could. Their star player remains calm, a professional smile on his lips as he listens. “Congratulations on winning and also breaking the world record for the highest number of tries. I would just like to ask, sir, if you had an aim in mind. Did you plan for this to happen, gave your all for it, or was it purely luck?”

Pran was not sure what went on in her head, but if he was an athlete and had heard a question like that, he would be very much offended at the lady simply dismissing his hard work. Napat, however, nods with grace and leans closer to the mic.

Pran watches him fumble with the mic, a small pout appearing on his lips and his eyebrows creased. He cleared his throat and looked away when the slightest thought of it being cute comes to his mind.

“Is this working?” Napat mumbles to himself. “Hello? Oh-

Pat clears his throat, nodding again at the reporter when he was ready to answer. He holds the mic closer to him before speaking.

“I definitely gave my all to win this game and never depended on luck,” he answers. “But breaking a world record, when I have only started this career for two years.. I would say that there must be a bit of luck in it too. But you don’t get luck without hard work, am I right?”

The reporter nods, scribbling down on her notepad and thanking him before she sits down. Pat’s eyes scan the crowd to look for any interesting reporters the moment the host opens up for another question. His eyes land on a green pen, held by such delicate hands, he had no idea how he could see from such a distance.

His eyes fix on those hands, watching them wave vigorously at Pat, fingers waving in the air. Pat feels his breath stutter. The host motions for the reporters to calm down and give Pat some time to choose, which he is thankful for because the second Pat sees the face behind those hands, he feels himself exhaling loudly.

Wide eyes, parted lips, so soft and pink, skin as white as milk and cheeks that looked like pillows even from afar. The man that Pat had his eyes fixed on looked like an angel sent from heaven, he wouldn’t be surprised if a halo started to float over that beautifully styled hair. That one reporter stood out completely compared to the crowd that sat in front of him.

Pat never cared about the bright flashes of the cameras, but now he was annoyed at those stupid cameras blocking his vision of the reporter. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but Pat could spend days just watching the man before him fiddle with his pen and notebook, pressing his fingers together nervously as he waits to be chosen.

His eyes travel down to the designated signs that were pasted for each representative channel, magazine, and newspaper; he immediately locks the magazine name in mind.

“Nao Papers,” Pat whispers to Korn, eyes still fixed on the reporter when Korn points at him.

Pat was very sure he would’ve fallen down flat on his ass if it wasn’t for the chair because the second Korn chooses him, he’s blessed with the sight of dimples. Small little dents on those soft pillows, enough for Pat to rest his lips again and kiss it at every chance he gets.

He calms his beating heart and watches the reporter fumble with his adorable sling bag, setting it to the ground and grabbing his recorder, all while ignoring the burning looks of jealousy the other reporters gave him.

Pat doesn’t stop himself from leaning next to Korn, “Look at him, God, he’s so beautiful,” Pat sighs dreamily, a small smile against his lips.

Right then, the whole hall is silent, wide eyes staring back at him. Pat straightens in his seat, surprised at how even the flashing cameras had stopped and the dimpled reporter standing frozen. He turns to ask Korn what happened but Korn shares the same look, eyes wide, but more so with a glint of amusement and panic in his eyes.

“What?”

It takes Pat a while for it to sink in, the familiar echo of a microphone that had been turned on and very much functioning well and loud enough. He gasps, eyes going wide before he points to the mic and looks at the reporter. “Did you hear that?”

The reporter nods, a small smile ghosting across his lips that Pat could not help but smile back because yes, he was simpering and also, he was a sucker for those dimples. Quite literally.

So he slaps his hands to his face and lets out an embarrassed chuckle, “Sorry,”

Pat slams his locker door with yet another groan, drying his wet hair with a towel. He hears his teammates chuckling behind him and Pat turns around with a glare. “Funny?” he snaps.

Nio, his vice-captain snickers next to him. “I don’t know, you tell me, cap,” he grins and Pat rolls his eyes.

“God, he’s so beautifuuul!” Another mate, Cole sang, making the whole room roar with laughter. Pat frowns, watching the way Iqa and Zach hug each other, laughing like their life depended on it.

Pat swats Cole with his towel, smirking when Cole yelps in pain, rubbing at his reddening chest. “Asshole,”

“Okay, guys, we have to give it to Pat,” Zach says, wiping at the teardrop that had formed at the corner of his eye. “That reporter is really cute,”

Pat feels himself going red at the thought of that reporter, Parakul, he called himself. Napat and Parakul. Not exactly fitting, but more than enough for Pat’s pining ass.

“It was an accident,” Pat groans, tightening the towel around his waist when Cole tries to sneakily pull it away. “Stop being such a pervert,”

Cole raises his hand in surrender. “Hey, I wasn’t the one ogling the reporter,”

“When will you let me live?”

Iqa comes to wrap his arms around Pat’s shoulder, slapping him encouragingly. “Why don’t you go talk to that guy? He looks around your age. See how it goes?”

Pat turns to Iqa with a pout, leaning on his broad shoulders. Out of all the rugby assholes he had to play with, Iqa was the only one that he hated less. Iqa lets out a laugh, holding their team golden retriever close.

“I don’t know how,” Pat mumbles. “We don’t even know if he’s gay,”

His quarterback, Nash comes fresh out of the shower, yanking the towel out of Cole’s waist. Pat laughs at the way Cole lets out a high-pitched scream before grabbing a spare towel and cursing his team out for committing sexual assault.

“Judging from the way his face went so red and how he stuttered throughout the interview,” Nash says. “I think he’s interested too,”

“One more,” Iqa tells Pat, slapping him on his pecs. “I heard that their magazine is quite low on the ratings. So, of course, that boy’s superiors would breathe down his neck to talk to you since they know you find him cute. It’s only a matter of time before he comes in here, asking for an interview,” Iqa pauses, waggling his eyebrows. “Or more, if you’re lucky,”

Pat stares at his hooker, mouth parted and definitely confused as to how on Earth he was able to piece the information so quickly. Iqa grins at him, shaking his head before turning to slip on a T-shirt. “When you stay long enough with cameras, you’ll learn the tricks to it too,”

Pat stays in the locker room, wanting to air dry his hair, but also wanting to be alone. One by one, each of his friends get dressed and leave to go look around Paris. Pat sighs.

Paris, France. The city of love. That was where their tournament was held. Their next match would be in a week and practices are on alternate days. On the free days, Pat was usually alone, having no one to spend it with while his teammates go party around with cute French girls or some of them bring their wives as a plus one.

It was definitely hard, being a demisexual. He couldn’t engage in hook ups or meet with pretty foreigners because all Pat wanted was some quality time, to grow in love and to get to know each other. Not sex. He never wanted sex from someone he doesn’t even know.

The locker room is empty, and most probably the stadium too, if not for the janitors that are cleaning. Pat raises himself from the bench to walk by the showers and switch the heater and lights off. He strips off his towel and slips on a pair of shorts, opening his locker again to find his favourite red tank top.

Pat hears the heavy metal doors push open and he sighs, head still buried in his locker to find the shirt. “Floor’s slippery, be careful,” he calls out to one of his teammates who probably came back because he had left something.

But Pat doesn’t hear a reply, only small shuffling of feet against the wet ground. He makes a mental note to rip his teammates a new one because apparently, none of them knew what a towel was, and they simply walked around the room, dripping with water from head to toe.

Pat furrows his eyebrows, surprised at the silence of his usually loud friends. Grabbing his shirt, he turns to find another person standing a few feet away from him. Someone that wasn’t big, muscular, or hideous like his mates.

He finds a flower instead. Soft, glowing, so, so delicate and definitely out of place. His angel stands there, gripping at his camera and a soft blush against his face. “Hi,”

Pat grips the shirt in his hand, ignoring the way the reporter’s voice sounded. It sounded so much sweeter and nicer without that damned microphone they forced him to use. Pat would’ve heard him even if he didn’t use the mic. Pat would’ve heard him miles away.

Before Pat could even open his mouth to reply, the reporter, Parakul, takes a step forward, hands reaching for Pat. Instead of the soft smile that adorned his lips, Pat watches his eyes go wide and his legs give out from the wet floor.

“Oh, watch out!”

The reporter’s hands flail around Pat, trying to grip at something. Pat’s hands move involuntarily, wrapping themselves around his waist and pulling the man flush against him.

It takes Pran a while to realise that he was no longer standing on his own weight, but leaning against the hard planes of abs and chest. His hands brace themselves flat against Napat’s chest, feeling how cool his skin was. They’re both breathing heavily and Pran is getting a little too distracted by the large hands on his waist, how strong the grip was, as if Pran was a rugby ball himself.

He feels the heart throbbing under his fingertips and the only thing Pran has on his mind is; Hey, me too.

“You okay?” the rugby player whispers, his grip on Pran still strong and Pran doesn’t find the energy in him to reply. It felt like he was in one of his gay awakening dreams. A good-looking, muscular and strong rugby player.

Pran’s eyes are glued to the excessive show of skin, and also how smooth it felt. He clears his throat, finally looking up into Napat’s. “I’m fine, thank you,” he reluctantly squirms in the player’s arms.

Napat immediately understands and takes a step back, reaching down to grab his discarded red shirt. “Um,” he rubs at the back of his neck, biting his inner cheek. “What brings you here?”

“Oh,” Pran looks at his camera, unsure of what to say. “I.. I realised I forgot to take some pictures of you for the article. Would you mind if..”

It wasn’t entirely a lie because Pran did forget to take pictures of Napat when he spoke on stage. One reason being his very gay ass and another reason being his very gay ass also.

Napat’s eyes are wide for a second and he nods frantically, “Oh, um, of course. Just-

Napat pauses, staring at the red tank top and throwing it on the bench before he grabs his spare jersey. “Let me just wear this back,”

Pran nods, turning his head to the side, ignoring the heat that radiated against his cheeks while the buff player slips on his jersey. Pran gets two shots (he couldn’t care less, that wasn’t the reason why he was here.) and slips his camera into his sling bag again.

Napat stares at him, dumbfounded and Pran wonders how the fuck he had gained the courage to confront this stunning man. He clears his throat again, “So, have you made a choice on which outlet you’re going to give your exclusive interview to?”

Pran almost drops down to his knees to apologize when Napat’s eyes grow unsure and he fidgets. “I’m not.. not so sure,” he finally says, voice so small for a big man.

Pran inhales, closing his eyes. He couldn’t give a flying fuck about that interview, but it was a great opportunity for him, though. “Would you be interested in me?”

Fuck, I worded that wrongly, now he knows what I’m planning.

Pran shakes his head in alarm and rephrases his sentence. “I mean, can I, my magazine, I mean, interview you, Napat?” Fuck, what the fuck why am I like this?

The star player stares at Pran with wide eyes.

He only wants to do that stupid interview.

I.. thought he would ask me about something else.

Pat’s thoughts start to annoy him and he realizes that he’s tormenting the poor reporter before him. He shakes his, dismissing the disappointment and nods immediately. At least, he would get to spend some time with the cute reporter, even if it was strictly business.

“I was planning to, anyways,” Pat smiles, a star smile and Parakul smiles back. Pat feels his knees shake and he pretends to be macho by leaning a hand against the locker. “I’m free tomorrow,” he tells the reporter.

Parakul nods, his dimples going deeper that they almost look like holes. Pat inhales.

“That’s great,” he says. “There’s a terrace café near the Eiffel Tower known as Paul,” he informs Pat, pulling out his green pen and scribbling something down on his notepad. The reporter tears the paper and hands it to Pat. “You can give me a call anytime you’re free and we can meet there. I’ll text you the location,”

Pat furrows his eyebrows. “But won’t it be a little noisy for us to conduct the interview? Are you able to handle that?”

He’s really trying his best to friendzone me, Pran thinks as he smiles through the pain.

“You’re right,” Pran is quick to agree. “I figured you would be more comfortable in a public space with a nice view so we can be a little more comfortable,”

The rugby player smiles in gratitude and Pran could only smile back, a little too sweetly. “That’s very kind of you, but I’ll be fine,” he says. “I’ll be going for my early morning workout at the hotel gym, maybe we can meet there?”

At a gym. A fucking gym. Now he’s really trying his best to straight up reject me.

“Of course, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he gives another polite nod to the player, turning around and biting his lips from screaming. God how he wished he could slap himself in the face for thinking a world-class rugby player would be interested in him just because he called Pran beautiful.

It was probably the damned lighting.

“Parakul! Wait,”

Pran freezes, hands at the metal knob, and he turns around, most definitely not wanting to dwell on the way Napat says his name. The request for him to call Pran by his nickname dies on his tongue as he watches Napat.

“Is your hotel far from the stadium?” he asks. “You waited so long for me. The least I can do is walk you there,”

Pran inhales, closing his eyes. Now how the fuck is he supposed to move on from this god-awful man?

“It’s right next to your hotel, but it’s okay, I have some err-

Napat shakes his head, his hair flopping around and Pran’s heart drops. “Let me walk you,” he requests Pran. “Give me five minutes, I’ll change and lock up the room,”

Pran, too stunned to speak, just nods and walks out to wait for his rugby love interest to come out.

Pat is zipping up his bag when Ashe comes up to him and smacks him on the head. The scream and stream of curses he lets out were both from the pain of his fullback’s strong hands and also the new presence in the locker room when Pat could’ve sworn that he was alone.

“I heard everything,” Ashe tells Pat, sitting on the metal bench while Pat packs his bags.

Pat sighs. “I hope that’s enough for you guys to stop asking me to date him,” he pouts, trying his best to ignore the disappointment of being rejected before anything even started. “He just wants me for his magazine,”

“Pat,” Ashe sighs. “Sometimes I really wonder if your brain was swapped out with a rugby ball. Are you that fucking dumb?”

Pat pushes Ashe who doesn’t budge, an unimpressed look on his very adorable baby face. “That’s mean, asshole,”

“You deserve it,” Ashe snaps. “He was clearly trying to make a move and your dumbass just suggested a fucking gym for the first date,”

“First date?” Pat asks, cheeks burning. “What first date? He clearly wanted an interview!” he shouts and Ashe groans, pulling at the stands of his golden hair.

“You idiot,” Ashe sobs against his palm. “The interview is a cover. He’s too shy to ask you out. Don’t you get it? Why in the world would he suggest a café, that we’ve only seen in romance movies, for the interview?”

Pat stares at Ashe, eyes wide. “How-

Ashe shakes his head, pushing at Pat by his obnoxiously broad shoulders. “Go, just go,” his teammate tells him. “Go and fucking fix your love life, you oblivious dumbass. I can’t even believe you. You’re so old and I need to point such obvious things out to you,”

Pat raises his hands in surrender, hiding the small grateful smile that adorned his lips. “Okay, mom,”

“I’ll lock up, just,” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Go fix this with the cute reporter. I can’t stand your single and moping ass anymore,”

“Parakul!”

Pran turns from his seat at one of the benches that overlooked the beautiful fountain in the night sky and he finds the handsome rugby player running towards him, his hair flying in the direction of the win. Pran pulls his jacket a little tighter around him, feeling slightly colder than usual.

“I just,” Napat wheezes, motioning Pran to give him a minute while he regains his breath.

“I just remembered that I don’t workout in that gym,” he says and Pran raises his eyebrows.

What is he up to now?

“We can go to that terrace café, my friend told me their hot chocolate is really nice with the morning Paris weather,”

Pran gulps. “A-are you sure?” Because I will most definitely think of this as a date and not an interview.

Pat nods, his grin wide but cheeks flushed red. “We can grab breakfast tomorrow and you can interview me there,”

The way Napat’s tone changes at the word ‘interview’, Pran feels his heart soaring. He could not help the grin the fights its way up his face. The only thoughts that run through his mind was how Napat knew. And he was playing along.

“Of course,” Pran replies. “I can wrap up the interview really fast if we meet for breakfast,”

Napat smiles. “Not so fast, though. I mean,” he steps a little closer, his hands hesitant around his bag. “I did promise an exclusive interview. And just breakfast wouldn’t be enough to cover all that up,”

Pran is a mess. He was pretty sure that he’s shaking. And if he was, the athlete before him doesn’t point it out. Napat’s feet are touching his and a hand moves up until it hovers over his chest. Pran closes his eyes when he feels a soft pinch against his pocket. He looks down to find his green pen.

He didn’t even realise that he had left the pen.

“Would lunch, tea and dinner be enough?” he asks, a shy smile and Pran doesn’t care if he’s shameless for nodding so fast.

He’s smiling, dimples prominent. Everything feels like a romance movie. A cold night in Paris, two people from a different country, a rugby player, a reporter, an exclusive interview, a pen, those fierce eyes and that dimple. Pran nods again, holding the pen closer to his heart.

“Might not be enough, but I guess we can manage,” he jokes.

“Oh no worries,” Napat teases back. “If one day is not enough, then take all the time you need. I’m one call away, Parakul,” Pat pulls out his phone and displays the newly opened chat box with Pran’s name. He sees the first text, a simple hello :)

Pran stands frozen. The only thing that comes to his mind is, “Pran,”

Napat’s smile grows confused. “What?”

“Call me Pran,”

His smile grows wider and he nods. “Pat,”

Pran smiles back, nodding along with Pat.

Napat and Parakul sounded so weird, but something about it quirked Pran’s interest. He understands now, because even if Napat and Parakul sounded weird,

Pat and Pran sounded perfect for them.

“Should I get him flowers?”

Pat turns away from the large mirror to ask his hotel mate, Athene. Athene sits on the bed, snoring loudly. Pat sighs and walks towards the bed, grabbing his pillow and smacking it on his flanker’s head.

Athene wakes up with a groan, mumbling and cursing at Pat into his pillow. “It’s fucking seven, what do you want?” Athene snaps. Pat shakes him until his eyes open.

“Do I look good?” he stands in front of his friend, raising his arms to show off his outfit.

He only had a few proper shirts since Pat did not have any plans for a date, not when he was so hellbent on winning the game in Paris. He regrets it now, not being able to bring any nice shirts. All he had was a simple white shirt paired with that one pair of pants he would always wear during official meetings.

Athene frowns at him but still scans Pat’s outfit, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. Pat waits, knowing that out of all his rugby boys, Athene was the only one with a good fashion sense. His flanker grumbles something before yanking the sheets away and standing up to adjust Pat’s attire.

“You look like you’re going for class,” Athene snaps, unbuttoning the first three buttons of Pat’s shirt.

“What are you doing?” Pat steps away, scrambling to button up his shirt but Athene smacks his hands away, giving him a warning look.

“You’re going on a date, not a fucking interview, cap,” Athene says. “And untuck your shirt, oh my God,” he groans. “Do you have any accessories?”

Pat stares back at his friend with a guilty smile and Athene rubs a tired hand over his face. “You’re so bad at everything but rugby and looking hot,” Athene starts to nag, Pat realises that all his boys seem to have very prominent mom friend energy despite looking like sumo wrestlers.

The other day he remembers having a really bad migraine just a day before one of their qualifying matches and as the team captain, Pat had remembered feeling so useless about not being able to be a good captain for the team. Which ended up with his teammates cornering him in the locker room and nagging at him one by one on why he should stop talking like that. His hooker, Harshie had dragged him all the way to the pantry and brewed him a hot cup of turmeric tea.

Needless to say, Pat was soaring on the ground the next day.

He smiles at the thought and Athene comes back with his jewellery box, eyeing Pat with a judgemental look. Pat watches as Athene pulls out a simple chain with a black square for a pendant and he pushes it to Pat.

“Wear this, it’ll suit your white shirt,”

“Should I bring him flowers?”

Athene stares at him, eyebrows furrowed. “Well, what do we do on dates?”

“Um,”

“We bring flowers, you moron,”

Pran thanks the taxi driver with his minimal French, taking in the cold morning of Paris. The wind smells like freshly baked bread along with rainwater and Pran smiles. Love was definitely in the air for him.

He frowns, looking around and wondering if anyone had heard his cringy thought. Pran walks to the bustling café, and he chooses the smallest table. He looks at his phone and ignores the embarrassment of coming an hour earlier. Sue him.

Pran decides to kill some time by going over his notebook that were filled with questions for Pat. He wonders if Pat would kill him for doing the interview because they clearly had been using it as a cover for their date, but Pran needed to make a name for himself in their channel and he couldn’t help but be a little selfish.

“Flowers?”

Pran looks up, swallowing his gasp when he sees Pat, definitely an hour earlier than their planned time too. Pat had his hand thrusted out, a small smile dancing around his handsome face as he wiggles the simply bouquet in his hand. Pran feels himself smiling, because what the fuck heart, calm down.

“You’re early,” Pran says, taking the bundle of red flowers that he has never seen before. They looked really unique, with ruffled petals and a stark yellow middle. Pran looks up at Pat who had taken a seat opposite him, their legs touching due to the small size of the table and Pat’s ridiculously long legs.

He tries not to blush like a horny 15-year-old.

“I wanted to make a good first impression,” Pat replies, then motions to Pran. “I see you beat me to it,”

Pran huffs, feigning annoyance before changing the topic. “What are they called? I’ve never seen them before,” his eyes light up at the red flowers, soft and cold against his fingers, adorned with a white ribbon.

“They’re called Calla Lilies,”

“Hm, why these, though?” he looks at Pat and finds the boy already looking at him with his doe eyes and wide smile. Pat’s eyes wander straight to those dimples that were slightly hidden behind the bouquet. He casually leans back on his chair and cranes his neck to get a better view.

“Gorgeous,” Pat murmurs.

Pran’s eyes go wide and so does Pat’s before they’re looking away and gathering their flustered minds. Pat clears his throat and points to the flowers. “The flowers, I mean,” STOP LYING YOU MORON.

Pran nods in agreement. “Yeah,”

“No that’s the meaning of the flowers,”

“O-oh,”

Pat decides that he should stop staring at Pran or else they would waste the day just staring at each other. He straightens in his chair, “Have you ordered?”

Pran nods, eyes still fixed on the flowers and thank fucking God Athene had smacked some sense into him. He places the flowers on the clothed table and focuses on Pat. Pat doesn’t miss the way Pran’s eyes briefly travel down the expanse of skin at his exposed chest before looking back at him with a guilty smile.

“So, shall we start the interview?”

Pat nods and Pran nods back, whipping out his camera and asking for Pat to pose. Pat straightens his body and gives his best professional smile when he hears the shutter of the camera. Pran leans back to examine his picture with pursed lips before clicking his tongue in agreement.

Then, he pulls his phone out at aims it at Pat and the rugby player raises his eyebrow in question. Pran ignores the small twinge of embarrassment and tells Pat. “For me, this time,”

If Pat’s golden skin is as red as a cherry, Pran doesn’t say anything. So Pat leans against his chair, giving Pran a peace pose and grinning widely. Pran angles his camera so that he could catch the Eiffel tower and Pat glowing next to it.

He’s so beautiful.

“Thank you,” Pran smiles.

“Can we take one together?”

Pran ignores the way his breath hitches at his throat. He had always been behind the camera his whole life and Pat had always been in front of it. He had never been asked for a picture together, especially on first dates. Pran swallows his overwhelmed feelings and nods with a smile. Pat replies him with an excited grin just when the waiter comes with their pastries.

“Um,” Pat pauses, trying to get the extremely French waiter’s attention. “Excusez moi?”

The waiter immediately turns to Pat with a bright smile but Pat only knew those two words. Pran watches him, opening and closing his mouth, thinking of a way to ask. He smiles at the giant baby. Pran taps the waiter on his shoulder and gives him his phone, making a motion of snapping a picture with his hands.

The waiter’s eyes light up in realisation before he nods, “Avec plaisir, monsieur!”

Pran did not understand what that meant but it must be something good because the waiter had taken a few steps back and aimed the camera at them. Pat scoots his chair closer and wraps a hand around Pran’s chair before pulling him until they’re pasted by the thighs. Pat places his arms at the back of Pran’s chair and Pran pretends that the swoop in his stomach is just the acid asking for food.

“Une, deux, trois,”

The waiter shows Pat and Pran the photo and it looked beautiful. In the Paris morning, the dim sunlight shining against their skin, the smiles of the customers in the café behind them, Pat’s wide doe eyes squinting with happiness, Pran’s dimples, two big dips against his chubby cheeks.

Everything felt like a dream,

“Okay,” Pran laughs after he catches Pat hungrily eyeing the delicious French pastries in front of them. “Let’s eat first,”

Pat nods vigorously, taking Pran’s plate first to serve some of the food and Pran watches, leaning against his seat with a small smile. Pat’s hands are huge, too huge for the small spoon they had given them. Pat is focused, tongue jutting out in concentration as he tries to spread the cream and butter evenly on Pran’s croissant.

They eat in small smiles and silence, admiring the scenery and each other. It’s not everyday that both Pat and Pran get to have a first date in Paris. “Is it good?” Pran asks, heart fluttering at the way Pat gobbles up his food.

Rugby players. Always eating like there’s no more food.

Without realising his actions, Pran reaches forward to swipe his thumb against Pat’s lips when he notices the small stain of cream. He had realised two things at that moment; Pat was a messy eater, and Pran was going to jump off a cliff.

Pat had also realised two things at that moment; Pran was a hopeless romantic and Pat was very much touch-starved. He gulps, willing his hands to stop themselves from flailing around, expressing his emotions.

Instead, Pat smiles, graceful as ever. “Thank you,” was all he says.

When they’ve finished eating and drank their coffee, Pran finally puts on his work mode. “Shall we start?”

Pat nods, leaning back on his chair, more relaxed after talking with Pran. “On one condition,” he raises an index finger at Pran and Pran nods, respectful as ever.

“I’ll only allow you to ask me one question,” Pat answers, cheekily grinning when Pran huffs in confusion, closing his notebook that was filled with questions for the rugby player both business and personal.

“Why?”

Pat huffs this time, as if the answer was so obvious and Pran grows more confused. “You can ask me another in two hours’ time,”

It takes Pran a while to realise what Pat was doing and he huffs again, this time, fondly and so full of feelings for the man before him. He shakes his head, unable to get rid of the blooming smile. Pran takes a daring move by placing his hand so close to Pat’s that were on the table; he links the tips of their fingers with a small smile.

“You don’t need the questions to keep me longer, Pat,”

“Did you know,” Pat whispers, turning his head to look at Pran as he admires the Eiffel tower. Pat finds his sentence die at the base of his throat, mesmerized by Pran’s eyes that glistened from the lights sparkling around the tower and the way his lips stay parted, taking in everything he could see.

Pran leans closer to Pat but doesn’t turn his head, too engrossed by the view. Pat scoots closer for no specific reason, and the hands that had been braced behind them touch. Pat and Pran both look down, watching the fingers touch by the tips and make out the shape of a heart against the dry grass of Champ de Mars.

“You were saying?” Pran murmurs, face closer to Pat’s now that his head is turned.

I want to kiss you.

Pat coughs at that thought, wondering where on Earth it had come from. He shakes his head with a smile, “Did you know we can’t take pictures of the Eiffel tower at night?”

“Huh,” Pran muses, “I didn’t,”

Pat nods. “It took a really bad experience with the boys for me to realise,” he laughs at the thought, recalling his friends going to visit the tower on their second day here and Nash getting chased by the police that came out of nowhere.

“What else are we not allowed to do at the Eiffel tower?” Pran asks and Pat hums, pursing his lips and trying to remember what his rugby boys had told him about.

“Hm, I heard we can’t bring roller blades or skateboards here,” Pat says and turns to Pran to continue but Pran is looking at him with an expression he had never seen before. His eyes look almost out of it, as if they were not even here. Almost as if Pran was in his head, living in his own world there. Pat tries to open his mouth to ask but Pran speaks again.

“Is kissing allowed?”

Both Pat nor Pran had not realised the weight of Pran’s words, not for another minute of just staring. Until Pran’s eyes go wide and he’s scrambling away from Pat, removing their hands. “Pat, I am so-

Pat doesn’t let him finish, grabbing Pran by his collar and yanking him back for a kiss. Pran releases a muffled noise that dies down and soon enough, his hands are strong at Pat’s nape, pulling him impossibly closer and opening his mouth in the kiss. Pat feels his stomach swoop, as if it was going to jump out of his mouth and he gasps.

Pran takes full control of their first kiss and Pat liked that. A first date, a first interview, a first trip to the Champ de Mars, a first kiss, a first life. It takes them a date, an interview, a kiss, a snuggle and a cuddle. And the rest was history.

NOW:2028

Pat walks inside the office with a wide smile as he removes his mask and sunglasses. He’s immediately greeted by the reporters of Pran’s magazine, swarming around him with smiles and questions.

Pat places the box of donuts he had purchased on the table. “I brought donuts for you guys,” he tells Pran’s co-worker, Pat recalls her name to be Jen.

Jen beams at Pat, hugging the box of donuts to herself. “Thank you, Napat!” she grins. “Are you here for the interview?”

Pat’s smile grows wider as he nods. “Is Parakul here?”

Jen nods, already halfway into her jelly doughnut. She motions Pat to follow her into the office and walking towards one of their brainstorming rooms. It was the room Pat would always see Pran in, arguing with his team about what should be added into the magazine and what shouldn’t be. It’s one of those soundproof glass boxes where Pat could only watch Pran’s evident frown as he loses his temper.

Two years into their relationship, and Pat will take the secret of him getting turned on by angry Pran to his grave.

Just like now, Jen tells him to sit outside as he’s not allowed to enter their brainstorming room but Pat doesn’t mind. Not when he gets to see Pran work and his sexiest Pran is work Pran. He simply sits in one of the empty cubicles outside the box and casually watches Pran argue in mute, making sure no one catches him drooling.

“Came for the interview?”

Pat turns around to find Eri, another friend of Pran, walking out, tying her hair up into a bun in frustration. Pat waves at her and Eri waves back, thrusting her hand out. “Congratulations, regular guest,”

Pat laughs, taking Eri’s hand and shaking them. “For what?”

Eri huffs with a roll of her eyes. “Did you forget drinking a gallon of beer from the trophy you won for your country two days ago?”

Pat smiles at that recent memory, he never forgot it. How could he? Not when it resulted in Pran taking care of his slightly drunk self, laughing so beautifully against his ears when Pat had swayed them in his arms that night, cheering quietly about how his winning touchdown was possible because he had spotted Pran cheering for him in the crowd. And he would also never forget the mind-blowing sex that resulted in.

It was Pat’s favourite days, Pran making love to him after he wins a match, all sore and too tired to move. Pran would bring him home, undress him and massage his kinks, apply oil to his bruises and he would hold Pat on top of him, against his chest and fuck Pat into the morning. And waking up the next morning, his body sore all over would not be something annoying for Pat anymore.

Pat clears his throat, getting his mind out of the gutter and changes the topic. He points to their room, Pran now furiously shaking sheets of papers and flailing his arms everywhere. “What’s are we fighting about this time?” he asks, voice laced with amusement when Eri groans in frustration.

“They want to feature all the details on football player Dani’s affair,” Eri replies. “As usual, Pran is fighting about how irrelevant it is because we’re covering news on sports, but the others think it would be good for the subscriptions,”

It was one thing Pat hated about channels; how they exploit the sufferings and problems of celebrities just for their own personal gain. They had gotten into a few arguments because of that too, until Pat realises that Pran was only doing his job, reluctantly following the orders of his superiors. At least now, Pat had grown to know how much Pran tries his best to not exploit that kind of news.

And he had fallen in love soon enough.

Pat nods, eyes fixed on Pran when he calms down, sets the papers down and walks out of the room. He excuses himself and follows Pran with a cheeky grin into one of the pantries.

Pran almost spits out his coffee when he feels the familiar arms of his boyfriend wrap around his waist and hug him tightly. He ignores the hammering heart in his chest when Pat nuzzles under his ear and places soft kisses.

Pran squirms in his boyfriend’s arms, slapping the limb away with a staged glare. “People can see us,” Pran hissed but Pat only hums, hugging his lover tighter and kissing a prominent love bite hidden against his shirt collar.

“No one’s here, I checked,” Pat whispers. “They’re all eating doughnuts and I missed you,”

Pran’s ears perk up at that, he turns in Pat’s arms, eyes expectant. “You brought donuts?” he asks and Pat laughs, lightly pinching Pran’s chubby cheeks with a newfound adoration for the man before him.

He nods, hands limp against Pran’s cheek. “Yours are back home, figured you’d like to have one for yourself,”

Pran stares, praying to the gods above that Pat would not see how absolutely lovesick he is for him.

“I missed you,” Pat says again, sighing against Pran’s shoulder. Pran smiles.

“You just saw me yesterday,”

“And I need to see you again,” he replies. “How was the debate? Did you lose?”

Pran smacks his lover, swatting his hands away and he motions Pat to follow him out of the pantry and into the studio where Pran would conduct his interview. “I’m the team leader, of course I’d never let them win,” he scoffs. “We write about sports, not drama,”

Pat nods, sitting on the designated seat given to him while Pran grabs his camera and notepad. His smile falters. “Wait, you’re actually interviewing me?”

Pran stares at him, hands suspended over his notepad and eyebrows raised. “Yes?” he states with obvious. “What did you expect?”

Pat huffs, crossing his arms. “I thought we were going to have an exclusive interview?” he tries again and Pran nods, growing more confused.

“Yes, like we always do. Pat,” Pran leans forward, elbows on his knees at he hides his smile when Pat pouts. “You’ve only ever been giving exclusive interviews for our magazine. What else is there?”

“I know that, I just,” Pat slumps against the seat, frowning. “Exclusive,” he says again. “Like exclusive, exclusive. I even wore your favourite jersey today,”

Pran sighs, the realisation finally hitting him. He shakes his head with a tired smile at his rugby boyfriend. “Are you seriously asking me to skip work and go on a date with you?”

Pat nods vigorously. “You can tell them you’re interviewing me! Let’s go,” he gets up to drag Pran up too but Pran laughs, yanking Pat down. Pat yelps and stumbles on top of Pran, landing right on his lap. Pran wraps a secure arm around Pat’s waist and smiles lazily.

“I’ll finish work at five,” Pran whispers, thumbing at the collar of the jersey and playfully pressing over the evident marks over Pat’s collarbone. “And then I’ll pick you up after practice, sounds good?”

):)

“Pran!”

Pran waves at his boyfriend’s rugby boys with a big smile and wide arms. They’re all still in the middle of the field, far away from the bleachers and Pran could make out Pat in his gear, wrestling with the team.

Ashe and Iqa come running first, yanking out their shoulder pads and waving at Pran. “We missed you!” Iqa says and Pran smiles.

“It’s been a while since I visited you guys during practice,” Pran hands Ashe the plastic bag. “I brough fried chicken, you must be hungry,”

Ashe groans in happiness. “Dating you is the one good thing Pat has done,” he mumbles to himself. Pran watches with amusement as Ashe whistles at the boys to stop practicing and come to the bleachers.

Pat is screaming back at Ashe, asking him why on Earth he was halting their training, but Pran waves as obviously as he could so that Pat can see him. It works, and Pat sprints to the bleachers, jumping up and hugging Pran.

Pran grimaces in disgust at the feel of Pat’s jersey soaked with sweat and his hair damp against Pran’s shoulder. “Get off me, you stink,” Pran groans and Pat only hugs him tighter.

Pat and his team swarm around Pran greeting him and thanking him for the chicken while Pat sticks right by his side, beaming like a proud boy. Pran doesn’t fight the urge to lean over and push Pat’s sweaty hair behind his forehead. “Are you tired?” Pran murmurs and Pat leans into his hand with a dramatic sigh and nod.

At the sound of his team groaning, Pat turns to them with a glare and silences them. He motions for his team to grab their chicken and eat it somewhere else so him and Pran could get some alone time. Iqa listens immediately, pushing at the boys to walk away. Pran sits on the bleacher, patting the space next to him.

“Let’s go for a movie,” Pat tells Pran as he sits down. He absentmindedly plays with Pran’s lanyard, twirling it around his fingers while Pran watches him.

Pran sighs, covering his hands over Pat’s. “You know we can’t, Pat,” he replies. “It won’t be good for your career if we go exclusive,” they both laugh at that.

Pat sighs, mad at how right Pran was right. They had decided to keep their relationship as private as possible mostly because of the growing fans Pat has and how they throw hate at anyone who speculates Pat’s partner. Pat hated being the reason for people defaming Pran, but Pran hated the idea of Pat being sad over him more.

This time, Pat doesn’t deflate like he usually does. Instead, he pulls Pran by his lanyard, smiling cheekily. “I may or may not have booked us a full theatre,” he says.

Pran gasps, smacking Pat as his first response. “Pat! That’s expensive!”

Pat shrugs. “I have too much money and only one person to spend it on,” he smirks. “What do you say? You and I, a movie, just the two of us,”

And who was Pran to say no?

):)

Pat heaves the last bench press with a satisfying groan, completing his fourth set and last workout for the day. Right after he sets the heavy dumbbells down on the floor, Pat’s phone starts to ring, his boyfriend’s adorable dimpled smile appearing on the caller ID.

“Hey,” Pat exhales, trying to catch his breath. He lays against the bench for a while, allowing his body to cool down.

“Hey, sorry are you sleeping?” Pran asks, cursing at himself for not checking the time. Pat usually sleeps very early on his day off since training drains his energy and he can barely stay awake after long hours. It was nearing ten at night when Pran called.

Pat shakes his head to himself. “No, no,” he smiles. “I just finished working out. Was about to come see you,”

“I’m still in the office. You head to bed first, I’ll be there,”

Pat furrows his eyebrows as he carries his equipment back to the rack. “Why are you still working, Pran?”

“Last minute touch ups before I send the draft for publishing. Don’t worry,”

Pat most definitely was worried. Which was why he had drove to the office to get Pran, not even changing out of his sweaty clothes. He parks the car and remembers Pran’s spare lanyard being stashed into the dashboard, so Pat did not need to call Pran to grant him access to the door.

As usual, Pran is hunching over his laptop, his work glasses on him and his hair mused from the number of times he had run his fingers through them. Pran is so engrossed in his work that he does not notice his sweaty boyfriend walk over to his cubicle, pull a chair out and sit next to him.

“What are you doing here?” Pran whispers in surprise, removing his glasses to set them on the table. Pat raises one eyebrows and points to the clock.

“You don’t gain anything from working overtime,” Pat replies. “At least come home, you can work in bed,”

Pran smiles at that, turning to at least finish one page before listening to Pat. “You won’t let me work in bed,” he retorts and Pat laughs at that because yes, Pat would try his best to wrestle Pran into his warm arms and Pran would let him.

“I’m glad you know; so keep your work and come home. You can send it in tomorrow,”

Pran sighs, involuntarily placing his hand over the bare skin of Pat’s defined thighs, fingering at the hem of his workout shorts. “Tomorrow’s a Saturday and I don’t like pending work. Just for tonight, please?” he tries and Pat is adamant, shaking his head with a pout.

“At least work from home,” Pat says. “I promise I won’t disturb you. I’d like to spend my Saturday with you too,”

Pran nods, “Fine. But I’m working in the living room because I can’t trust you and your awful rugby hands,”

“Pran, it’s THREE,” Pat whines, walking out of his bedroom with the blankets wrapped over his head. Pran turns around, stifling a yawn and hiding his smile. Pat looks so tiny like that, bundled up like an adorable sushi roll.

“Come here,” Pran tries to cheer his sulking boyfriend by offering his arms. Pat lights up immediately and shuffles over to the sofa, laying down on Pran’s lap, face buried in his stomach. Pran uses one hand to run his fingers through Pat’s hair and clicking his tongue in annoyance at the dampness. “How many times have I told you to dry your hair before bed? You’ll catch a cold,”

Pat huffs, snuggling closer. “That’s your job,”

Pran shakes his head and ignores his giant baby of a boyfriend, tapping away at his laptop while Pat sleeps. He manages to get one hour of peacefulness and tries his best to finish his work, when Pat wakes up again, rubbing his eyes and looking at Pran groggily.

“You’re still working?” he croaks, frowning when Pran nods.

“I’m done, I just need to email this to them, but I can’t seem to find the template to paste this in,” Pran mumbles.

Pat sighs, having had enough of his hardworking boyfriend. It’s not like they appreciate Pran enough for him to put in so much of effort. Watching Pran’s work and efficiency get dismissed like it was nothing only infuriated him further. Pat understands that his lover is doing this because he loves his job, but a small part of Pat hated how much Pran is being pushed around. He hated how he can’t boast about his boyfriend and he hated how much he can’t shove a rugby ball down all of Pran’s superiors’ throat.

“You’re thinking about shoving a rugby ball down their throat again, aren’t you?” Pran smiles, removing his glasses and rubbing the tiredness off his eyes. “Baby, I’m okay. I’ll stop working when I’m actually tired,”

Pat gets up, completely ignoring Pran’s curious eyes. “You said you just need to submit the work?”

Pran nods.

Pat nods back, reaching down to wrap his arms around Pran’s waist before hoisting him up on his shoulder. Pran yelps, thumping at Pat’s back harshly. “You giant! Let me go!”

“They can get the draft tomorrow. They don’t deserve your hard work,” Pat replies, walking with Pran thrashing and kicking over his shoulder.

“Pat, please? Pretty please?” Pran tries again and Pat only shakes his head, swatting his ass playfully. Pran sighs, slumping over his stupidly strong boyfriend’s shoulders, knowing damn well that Pat was just as stubborn as him and Pran was indeed tired.

Pat holds Pran’s back and gently sets him down on the bed, pulling the sheets up before he slips in. “Sleep,” Pat grumbles as he pulls Pran closer and kisses him goodnight.

Pran, despite having unfinished work, something he hated the most in the world, finds himself going to sleep with a smile because here he is, being held by the person he loved the most in the world.

Pat wakes up to the harsh morning sunlight heating his skin up. He groans against the pillow, inhaling the sweet scent of Pran but not feeling any parts of his boyfriend. He knew he should’ve bought a smaller bed for them.

The first thing Pat notices when he wakes up is his gorgeous boyfriend walking inside their room, freshly showered and wearing one of Pat’s older jerseys with a pair of boxers. Pat turns on his back and rests his arms behind his head as he watches Pran talk to someone on the phone while bringing Pat a cup of hot milk tea.

“Where did you see them again?” Pran asks, setting the two mugs down by the bedstand and giving Pat a soft kiss against his forehead. Pat smiles, mouthing a good morning to Pran who returns his greeting with a soft pinch against his cheek.

Pran makes a move to walk away but Pat’s reflexes get the best of him. He wraps his hand around Pran’s wrist and yanks Pran onto him, pushing his legs apart to straddle Pat. Pran lets out a yelp and glares at Pat.

“No, no sorry just hit the table,” Pran recollects himself and Pat sneakily runs his hands up Pran’s skin, lazily leaning against the headboard. “Are you sure it was them? Last time I checked he had training that day,”

It doesn’t take him long to guess who Pran was talking about, so Pat rolls his eyes and busies himself by placing soft kisses along Pran’s now exposed chest. Pran is hitting him with his fists to stop but Pat is never the one to back down without a fight.

“A jewellery shop?” Pran’s eyes are wide even as he’s fisting his hand into Pat’s hair. “You saw Napat at a jewellery shop?”

Pat rubs his face against the soft skin of Pran’s chest, cursing at whoever it was that had caught him in the shop. He had tried so hard to make sure no one catches him; it was supposed to be a surprise for Pran.

“Is there a photo proof to back that up?” Pran lets out an embarrassingly loud gasp when Pat purposely bites at his neck, sucking it hard after. He slaps Pat’s shoulder with a glare. “What?”

From the change of Pran’s tone, even Pat pulls back to raise his eyebrow. Pran’s eyes are angry, but also scared and Pat had no idea why. “They leaked the photos?”

Pat groans, feeling tired all over again. Despite the photos of him and Ink going shopping for Paa and Pran being leaked, Pat couldn’t give a flying fuck, but he was sure that Pran was never going to let him live this down. Pran was going to kill him. Even his manager wasn’t this strict about his personal life. But Pat sometimes liked it, Pran bossing him around.

He perks up at that. Pran bossing around always ends up in a fight, or the hottest sex. He could guess which one that’s going to be happening now. So Pat does what every other normal celebrity pulled into a gossip would do; he yanks the phone out of Pran’s grasp and cuts the call.

“Pat!” Pran slaps his lover’s chest. “Give me back the phone, we need to clear the news!” Pat doesn’t budge, hands firm on Pran’s waist and staring at him with tired eyes. “Pat, you have a talk show today, they most definitely will ask you-

Pat sighs, pulling Pran closer and pushing his shorts down. Pran protests but makes no move to stop Pat and he smiles at that. “The only reason I will let you wake me up this early in the morning is to get fucked. I don’t want to hear these stupid phone calls,” he doesn’t let Pran to reply before reaching behind his lover to caress his bare body.

Pran gasps, pushing into Pat’s hands. “H-how many times have I told you to-

“Pran,” Pat cuts Pran off. “I’m only keeping this relationship a secret because my boyfriend overthinks so much and I don’t like the unnecessary hate you will get,” he tells Pran. “I know who I’m fucking and that’s enough. I don’t need to redeem myself to people who don’t care about what I do for a living and only care about who I’m dating. Are we clear?”

Pran unconsciously grows harder at that, biting his lips as he takes in the sight of Pat below him; messy hair, naked, fierce eyes in full display and his erection rubbing right under Pran’s ass. He sighs, closing his eyes. “Fuck,” Pran rasps out.

“What?” Pat cocks his head to the side, his fierce eyes going back to their normal wide doe eyes. Pran feels slightly disappointed at that. He was hoping he would get fucked into the sheets first thing this morning.

“Why were you at the jewellery shop?” Pran changes the topic, hoping it would get Pat to stop asking about his sudden change. Possessive Pat being a major turn on for Pran will be a secret he will bring to his grave.

Pat sighs, hands firm on Pran’s waist, looking up at the ceiling. “Ink wanted to buy a promise ring for Paa,” he mumbles, debating on whether he should say the next part.

Pran seems to sense it, smiling softly and nodding his head. “And..?”

Pat sighs again, reaching at the bedstand drawer to pull out a black box. “I wanted to buy you something too..” he says sheepishly, opening the box to reveal the Swarovski crystal-studded rugby ball.

Despite being naked and very much close to fucking like a bunch of animals, Pran finds himself gasping in delight at the way the crystals shone in the morning light. Pat remembers catching Pran scrolling through the catalogue of Swarovski crystal jewelleries one time and Pran had also one openly told him how much he liked those crystals and wanted a bracelet.

And Pat would be an idiot if he can’t even do this simple thing for Pran.

Pat removes the chain from its box and turns the pendant around to show a small engraving at the back. “I couldn’t find you a proper bracelet, but I figured you would like this,”

Pran’s Pat.

“Pran’s Pat,” Pran echoes back, leaning down to Pat’s chest to let his lover clasp the hook around his nape. Pran hugs his lover, hiding his smile in Pat’s warm and golden skin. “Thank you,”

“Anything for you,” Pat smiles back. “I hope you know what this means,” his tone changes; a mix of teasing and warning. “That I’m yours and I will only be yours. If you bring these meaningless rumours up one more time, I’m immediately taking a video of us making out and posting it on my Twitter,”

Pran raises his head to look at Pat and finds his eyes fierce again. He visibly shivers.

“What time is the talk show?” Pran asks, eyes hooded and hands already trailing between them to grip at the sheets.

Pat furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “Um, somewhere around twelve noon, I think? Why?”

Pran looks at the alarm clock next to them; 7:45

He nods, pulling the sheets over them, relishing in the way Pat laughs, hands immediately going home to Pran’s waist. “More than enough time for you to break my back,”

):)

Pran almost bites his finger off when he hears the match results from one of his substitutes at Pat’s rugby match. Pran had been given a last-minute task to cover another game so he could not attend Pat’s game like he usually does.

Fortunately enough, his game had ended early and Pran could come back home and cook Pat his favourite food and take care of him. It was Pran’s most favourite thing to do whenever Pat plays. This time, his sub calls him to tell him the final results.

“They lost, 19 to 15. Napat lost the final touchdown,”

Pran releases a shaky breath as he paces around the house, waiting for Pat to return. He looks at the match highlights, despite knowing very well how it would only spur his anxiety on. The match ended at ten and if Pat won, he would usually come home late after a round of celebration and interviews.

Pat rarely lost, and on the day he does, it was always heartbreaking for Pran to watch. He would come back home immediately after the game, not caring if people wanted to interview him or if he needed to wish the opponent well. And Pran would always be there for him, backing him up in public but also driving him home, and taking care of him until he falls asleep on Pran’s chest.

The bell chimes right at 10.30 and Pran sprints to the door. Pat stands behind it, still sweating, bruised and skin stained with dirt. He exhales, eyes fixed on the dried bloodstain against his eyebrow. Pran immediately engulfs Pat in a hug, making sure to not press tightly.

Pat’s arms automatically go around him, laying limp against Pran. He lets out a shaky sigh when Pran’s familiar scent enters his nose. “I’m all gross and sweaty and you hug me?” he manages weakly.

Pran huffs and smacks at Pat’s back lightly. They hug each other at the threshold in silence until Pran breaks it and tugs Pat inside. Pat lets his lover pull him in, kicking the door behind them. Pran walks Pat to the bathroom, hand in hand.

“You played so well, baby,” Pran lets slip the term of endearment, knowing how much Pat needed to hear it. “The way you tackled their hooker, that’s not easy. He was double your size Pat,”

Pat chuckles at that, smiling at the way Pran tries to cheer him up. He lets Pran pulls of the sweaty jersey over him and unbuckle his protective layers underneath. Pran grabs a loofa and carefully scrubs the dirty and soil off Pat’s body first before turning on the cold shower.

Pat’s body is flushed red from all the sweating and screaming and under Pran’s hands, he also feels how hot his lover is. He reduces the temperature, knowing how Pat usually takes ice baths at the locker room after his games. Pat watches him, with the eyes of a hawk, growing more and more in love.

“You shouldn’t be laughing. They may have won this time, but Ryder is going to be thinking about my boyfriend for the rest of his life,” Pran tells Pat again. “How are you feeling now?”

Pat shrugs. “Tired,” was all he says because he is. He’s too tired to even beat himself up for losing the final try. Pat sighs against Pran when the cold water hits his shoulders, hugging Pran close.

“You’re getting me wet,” Pran whispers but makes no move to disentangle himself from Pat. Pran washes the dirt away from Pat’s body, massaging at his sore muscles and squeezing his hardened nape.

“I don’t know what happened out there,” Pat whispers. “I was so sure I would win. It was right there. I even managed to break through their defence. I don’t,” Pat cuts himself off, shaking his head.

Pran shampoos Pat’s hair and massages his head in silence. “There doesn’t need to be a reason for you missing the goal, Pat. Sometimes it happens. For no reason,”

Pat looks up, face drenched with water but still looking handsome as ever. Pran sees the small bruise along Pat’s left eyebrow and he frowns. He rubs off the remaining bloodstain as slowly as ever. “You know that team always plays dirty. Everyone rooted for you, even when you lost. You’re Napat, their number one,” he tries to cheer Pat up, boosting him up with some confidence.

Pat smiles at that. His hand moves up Pran’s soaked shirt before cupping his neck. “But am I yours?” he whispers.

“What?”

“Am I your number one?” Pat asks, voice teasing but Pat notices his wide eyes; always so open like windows. He sighs at the way Pat’s eyes are insecure, and in need of reassurance.

On normal days, Pran would swat his lover away, snapping at him to stop spewing nonsense. On other days, he would bully Pat and tell him how he sucks at rugby and wonder how Pat was famous. But today is none of those days. Today, Pran cups his sun’s cheeks, rubs them under the cold water and kisses him as soft as ever.

Pran smiles against Pat’s lips and nods. “You’re always my number one, Pat,”

Pat wakes up at three in the morning, Pran sleeping peacefully under his arm. He sighs, pushing his lover’s slightly long hair behind his ears and slowly gets out of bed. Pat moves quietly, not wanting to wake Pran up before grabbing his phone.

He walks to the living room, to their key holder to find for the keys to their home. Pat furrows his eyebrows when he finds not a single key in the holder. No housekeys, no car keys, no drawer keys either. He places his hands on his hips and frowns. Pat wonders if he had hit his head too hard to forget where they usually keep their keys.

The sound of someone clearing their throat jolts Pat back to reality and Pat curses. He turns around to find a sleepy Pran, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and very much disappointed in him. Pran pulls the keys Pat was looking for from his back. He jiggles it in front of Pat. “Looking for this?”

Pat remains silent, standing like a sad puppy. “You were going to the gym again, weren’t you?”

Pran sighs out loud when Pat doesn’t reply. He had anticipated this since the first time Pat had returned after losing a game. He would always wake up to an empty bed only to find Pat coming back in the morning after forcing himself to train at the gym. Pran had explained to Pat many times that him torturing himself at the gym was not going make Pat win the game he had already lost, but if Pat was anything other than a star rugby player, he was stubborn.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Pran yawns, walking back into the bedroom and hiding the keys again. “Now come to bed and don’t fucking wake me up unless it’s an emergency,”

):)

“Leaving so early for the finals, Parakul?”

Pran pauses packing his bag to turn to Yoli, his editor, and smiles. “Yeah, I requested to leave early. It’s an important game,” he tells his friend.

Yoli nods. “I understand. It would literally be history-making if The Tigers win the cup since the last time they won the Rugby Premier League was almost 30 years ago, right?”

Pran nods because Yoli was correct, the match is a crucial one, with everyone rooting for The Tigers, having high hopes for victory after their notable wins and record-breaking achievements. But that wasn’t the reason Pran was going to the game.

“It’s good that you’re going to the stadium earlier. You can easily score us a team interview,” Yoli grins excitedly and Pran would agree because he could easily score an interview with the team for their magazine, but then again, that’s not the reason he was going.

“Aren’t you forgetting your notepad, Parakul?”

Pran shakes his head, finally telling Yoli. He figures that he had enough and Pat has had enough, hiding their relationship for the sake of Pran when they both wanted to scream their love for each other. “I’m not going there as a reporter. My boyfriend is playing tonight and I want to cheer for him,”

Yoli stares at Pran, her eyes wide and immediately latching on the rugby pendant that rested against Pran’s chest. “I knew it,” she grins and Pran laughs along with her. “Do I know him?”

Pran pulls out his phone and ignores the blush in his cheeks when he chooses his favourite picture of him with Pat; It was a picture of Pat right after he had won a tournament, hair still soaked with sweat, the black paint smeared against his cheek fading and his smile as bright as ever. Pran in on his back, hugging him tightly, his cheek pressed to Pat’s. It was a picture taken by Zee, Pat’s second flanker who insisted that they take a picture together when the crowd had dissipated. Pran was lucky he listened.

“Oh my God,” Yoli gasps, looking at Pran with wide eyes. “You went for the juiciest ass?”

Pran sputters out a laugh, pushing at Yoli’s shoulder, “Stop, we’re at work,” he hisses.

“You’re not denying, though,”

“Yoli,”

Mev walks in the locker room with Pran in tow. “Your husband’s here, captain,” he announces.

Pat immediately sprints out of the shower and shoots Pran a smile. Pran smiles back, setting his bag of sandwiches on the empty space of the bench. He lets Pat hug him despite being soaked with water from head to toe.

“Hi,” Pat whispers and Pran pats his back.

“I brought sandwiches for you guys,” Pran whispers back. “The game is only in two hours, right?”

Zee and Mev, already halfway through their sandwich, nod in agreement. “Ashe was right, dating Pran was the only good thing Pat has ever done,” Zee mumbles, mouth full of food.

Pat shoots a glare at his younger players, swatting their head with a towel. He turns back to Pran, stroking his hair with a small smile. “You’re early,”

Pran nods. “Figured you would want some energy before your big game,” he tells Pat, grabbing his towel to reach up and dry his hair.

They hear the groans of annoyance from Pat’s boys and smile simultaneously. “I know you’re in love and all, but captain, please take it somewhere else,”

Pat listens to Athene and brings Pran to the back of the locker room along with his attire. Pran helps his boyfriend to slip on his protective gear and buckle up the belts on Pat’s back. Pat lets him, along with the soft kisses he receives.

“Whatever happens tonight,” Pran murmurs, “You’re still my number one. Deal?”

Pat smiles, reaching forward to place a soft kiss against Pran’s warm forehead. “Deal,”

Halfway into the game, Pat gets elbowed in the face.

Pran gasps, hands tight at the metal railings of the bleachers, dying to just jump over the guards and run to his lover. Pat is still standing, despite staggering a little, and Pran watches Iqa motion for the medic.

Pat spits a mouthful of blood on the ground, glaring at the asshole that elbowed him. He pushes Iqa off him, signalling for the medic to go back and that he was okay.

“Pat, you idiot,” Iqa snaps, running next to his captain. “You’re bleeding,”

Pat shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he tells Iqa. “Get behind me,”

Pat hears the whistle and immediately sprints for his prey, head-butting him right at his chest, forcing the player to fall down, bringing Pat with him. The ball falls out of his opponent’s hands and Iqa is quick in taking the ball and running. Pat grins, pushing himself off their opponent.

Just to infuriate his opponent, Pat spits another mouthful of blood right at his foot and walks away, ignoring the curses thrown at him. Just as Iqa scores a goal, the halftime whistle pierces through the air and Pat gathers his boys for a hug.

“We’re doing well, good job boys,” he pats them hard and walks to the bleachers. The medics are immediately by his side, checking at his mouth and nose for bruises. Pat sits there, heaving for breath as he tries to fine Pran in the crowd.

He doesn’t take long in finding his dimpled angel, staring right at him just a few rows away, eyes full of worry. Pat smiles, swatting the medics off him and standing up to see the crowd. The crowd cheers, trying to get his attention but Pat’s eyes are fixed on his boyfriend. He raises his arms and looks at Pran again, as if to say; I’m fine.

Pat removes his jersey for fun when Harshie brings him a new one, wiping at his sweat. Pran rolls his eyes despite laughing, but Pat notices the way he looks away, flustered to keep staring. Pat takes a large gulp of water and pours the rest over his heated body, rubbing the cool water against his abs.

The crowd goes crazy, and only Pran stays still, a fond smile against his lips. Pat slips on his jersey with another smile. Just to give Pat some energy to sustain until the second half ends, Pran subtly throws a flying kiss to his lover.

Pat closes his eyes with a grin, patting at his heart. He ignores the confused but loud cheers and walks back onto the ground.

The match is nearing an end in two minutes and the opposing team is leading by three points. Pat pulls his team together, hugging them close to him. “I want you boys to listen,”

They all look exhausted, bloodied and bruise but Pat knew better than anyone that they want to win this as much as he does. “We can’t score a normal goal to win. The only choice left is to touchdown,”

They all look at Pat, eyes wide with hope and hesitancy. “Captain, they’re animals,” Cole tells him, rubbing at the muscle pad he had attached on his shoulder after one from the opposing team kneed him there.

Pat nods. “We have no choice. We need to win this for our country,” he tells them. “You’re all going to do whatever it takes to get the ball. If I lose it, one of you better take it and run. In these two minutes, I want everyone to fucking run. If they can be animals, then we can be beasts. Am I clear?”

His boys immediately scream in agreement, shaking and slapping each other to keep their eyes wide open. The final whistle blows and Zach is quick to tackle the player with the ball down, Zee immediately grasping the ball, running further in front of Pat to throw it back to him.

Pat rolls his shoulders to get rid of the dull ache and eyes both Iqa and Cole next to him, nodding in question. He sprints past the player, shoving him with his shoulders while his boys took care of the rest, sprinting past the opponents to keep an eye on the ball fixed in Pat’s arm.

He nears the end zone, the white line as clear as ever despite his vision being blurry from the amount of sweat his eyes were collecting. Pat sprints, hugging the ball tight to himself, praying to the gods above to break this 30-year curse. The crowd starts to cheer louder, along with the commentators.

Pran finds himself biting his lips so hard and clenching his fists enough to draw blood out. The sight of Pat running along with two players, twice his size tailing right behind him scared Pran to the core. He watches, and watches and watches.

Two players find enough distance to pounce on Pat, their legs landing painfully on the back of Pat’s knee and Pran was very sure he could hear the crack of bones from his seat. The crowd screams in shock and fear at the sound of Pat’s loud cry.

But Pat is consistent, with only ten seconds to the clock and one step closer to victory, he wrestles the two giants off him with a cry of pain, the ball still tight against his chest and when he finally has enough length to touch past the white line, Pat slams the ball to the ground and immediately goes unconscious at the sound of the whistle.

Pat wakes up in the hospital with a soft groan when he realises the painful throb along his left leg. It takes him a while to notice his boyfriend next to him, too blinded by the pain. Pat lolls his head to the side, finding Pran holding his hand tightly.

“Not how I expected to see you after the game,” Pat croaks with a smile and Pran immediately turns around, eyes wide.

He regains himself quickly, squeezing his lover’s hand. “Pat. How are you feeling?”

Pat shrugs. “Hurts like a bitch but at least I have this cutie with me,” he grins, before realising that his mouth is probably red and stained with blood.

Pran notices and lets out a soft chuckle. “I already brushed your teeth for you,” he smiles, pushing behind Pat’s wet hair. “You lost a tooth, though,”

“What?” Pat frowns, tonguing along his mouth and groaning when he feels a small gap at the back of his mouth. “My handsomeness is gone,” Pat whines, looking at Pran. “You’re going to leave me,”

“Too late for that,” Pran retorts. “Should’ve left you the second you hugged him while bleeding through your broken nose last year,”

Pat laughs tiredly at that, reminiscing the fond memories of Pran trying his best not to smack Pat’s already broken and bleeding nose. They lay in silence again, with Pat occasionally shifting to reduce the pain.

“Did we win?” Pat asks, looking at Pran expectantly and Pran has no heart to joke at this time. Not when Pat literally broke his legs to win the trophy for his country.

Pran shuffles closer and kisses Pat on the forehead. “Yes we did, baby. You did it. You broke the 30-year curse,” Pran smiles, kissing Pat again when he chokes out a laugh of relief.

“I was thinking I lost my leg for nothing,” he sighs. “Well, I am a little disappointed, though,”

Pran raises his eyebrows. “Why is that? You won, didn’t you?”

“And I’m happy, of course. But,” Pat sighs, watching the way Pran’s head unconsciously cocks to the side in confusion. Pran was so cute, his broken leg didn’t hurt more than his throbbing heart. His bag is right next to him in the ward and Pat reaches next to him, biting his lip when his knee starts to ache again.

“What are you doing?”

Pat shakes his head, unzipping the bag and pulling out the box he had stashed deep inside. Pran watches his lover, breath hitching at his throat. Pat smiles sheepishly, placing the velvet box between them. “Come closer, will you?” he motions for Pran to near him.

With a soft kiss to Pran’s lips, Pat speaks. “I wanted to win the game, run up the bleachers to you and kiss you in front of the crowd. I wanted to tell the world how much I love you and I wanted to get on one knee and ask you to marry me,”

Pran watches Pat talk, too stunned to even open his mouth.

“But now,” Pat motions to his broken leg with a soft laugh. “It’s all ruined,”

“Pat,” Pran cups Pat’s neck, kissing him hard enough to convey his words. “You idiot,” he whispers and Pat chuckles against his lips, one hand moving to cup the back of Pran’s head.

“Not what I expected after proposing to you, either,” Pat laughs and Pran laughs too.

“You didn’t propose to me yet,” he points out and Pat nods.

“You’re right,” he gives Pran the velvet box much to Pran’s confusion. “And as much as I want to get down on one knee and propose, the circumstances are not helping,” he tells his lover. “You propose to me,”

Pran stares, waiting for Pat to laugh it off as a joke, but Pat doesn’t. He waits expectantly, a small smile on his tired face. Pran raises the box between them. “You want me to propose to you?”

Pat nods, smile still glowing like the sun.

“With the ring that you bought?”

Pat huffs this time, getting annoyed. “It doesn’t matter who proposes to who. I just want to marry you,”

“Pat,” Pran chokes out at that, smiling through his blurry vision. He curses, wiping his tears with the pads of his thumb. “Fuck you, when did you learn to speak like that?”

“Your boyfriend is in pain,” Pat pouts. “And the only thing that will make him happy is when you wife him up. Aren’t you going to do it?”

Pran shakes his head but listens. He pushes the chair away and gets down on one knee, opening the case and smiling wide. “Pat Napat Jindapat, will you do the honours of marrying me and only giving me all the exclusive interviews?”

Pat throws his head back against the pillow and laughs, before groaning in pain when he accidentally moves his broken leg. “I’ll give you an exclusive of everything, Pran Parakul Siridechawat,” he replies. Pran comes back up next to him and slips the ring on Pat’s finger. The ring was tighter around Pat, given his thicker fingers but Pran was sure they can do something to fix it. There were more pressing matters at hand.

“I love you,” Pat murmurs. “I’m so happy that mic was on that day,” he kisses Pran, holding the back of his head tightly against him.

Pran chuckles at that and kisses Pat back. “I love you too,” he replies. “And I’m glad I actually took the courage to ask you out,”

“Um, last time I checked, I asked you out,” Pat says. “All you did was keep emphasising on the word interview,”

“It’s not like you got the picture either. Ashe had to smack some sense into you,”

“That’s not a nice thing to say to your fiancé,”

“Okay, you big baby,”

Pat huffs at the bullying he was getting and yanks Pran closer again. He smacks two big kisses right over Pran’s dimples, relishing in the way Pran laughs against him. “You’ve got a big mouth on you lately,”

“Hm, and what are you going to do about it?” Pran grins, falling right into Pat’s scheme.

Pat opens his mouth to reply something utterly dirty which will most definitely earn him a smack from Pran, but the doors to his ward pushes open and his rugby team comes running inside, screaming at Pat and jumping with the large gold-plated trophy.

“Captain! We-

All words die down in their mouths when the see Pran hunched over Pat, and Pat’s ringed hand gripping at the base of his neck. All eyes trail to the glistening diamond on Pat’s finger.

“Oh,”

“OH MY GOD,”

FUTURE: 2032

“We brought doughnuts!” Pat walks into the office like its his second him, waving the huge boxes of doughnuts excitedly. Pran follows his husband suit, an amused smile adorning his face.

Andre, halfway through listening to Victoria’s story, turns around to meet the man himself; Napat Jindapat. The athlete he had pasted posters over his wall, dreaming for a chance to say hello.

“Pat!” Victoria calls from her seat, waving at the player and Andre is completely starstruck.

Pat seems to have come straight from the game, judging from his sweat-stained jersey, dirty face and messy hair. Andre wonders if this is normal, but all thoughts go down the drain when his idol walks right into his cubicle with a wide smile.

“This is Andre,” Victoria introduces. “Big fan,”

“Big fan,” Andre repeats, mouth parted and eyes wide when Pat grins and pulls him into a tight hug.

“Always nice to see my fans,” Pat smiles. “Doughnut?”

Andre shakes his head, “No, sir,”

Pat shrugs, giving Andre a smack on his shoulder and walking away. Andre watches the star player walk right over to his husband wrapping an arm around his waist and talking to their colleagues. Victoria slings her arm around his shoulder, stifling a laugh at her intern’s star-struck and confused face.

“All clear now?”

Crystal clear, Andre thinks.

Pran nudges Pat with a soft smile, “Ready for your exclusive interview?”

Pat cocks his head in mock question. “Baby, be specific. Every time you say exclusive interview, we either end up having the hottest sex or I have to use my brain to answer your complicated questions,”

Pran smacks his husband. “The second first, and the first second,” he tells Pat.

“Pran,” Pat sighs, “You know I can’t use my brain right after a game. I’m mentally incapable of doing that,”

Pran laughs at that, pulling Pat into his office, making sure to lock the door. “You do the interview, and we can have the hottest sex right here,” he points to the new oak desk Pat had gifted him a few months ago.

Pat’s eyes grow wide, hands instinctively move to Pran’s waist. “Are you serious?”

Pran grins, kissing his rugby player soft and dirty against his lips. “I mean I did promise you an exclusive interview, didn’t I?”