Archive of Our Own

14^th October 2022

Promise me that when October comes, you will wait for me.

And I will go to you. Forever and ever.

I love you.

Pr-

“Sir? Sir, wake up!”

People have started to gather around the wooden bench where the old man say every year on the exact same date. Right now, he is slumped forward on his bench, a photo fallen to the ground. A letter in his hand.

Shariya and her mother who had just been preparing to leave, turn back around when they hear the sudden cries. “Mae?” she tugs on her mother’s arm.

Her mother looks to Shariya, eyebrows creased with worry. “Hold my hand tightly, okay?” her mother tightens her grip on Shariya before turning back to walk back to the wooden bench.

“Excuse me,” her mother pushes past the crowd. “Excuse me, I’m a doctor. Let me check him,”

The crowd splits almost immediately and Shariya follows her mother. The old man that had told her the story now sits with his back hunched forward while people touched him everywhere. Shariya frowns; why were they touching someone they never met? Her mother always told her that it was bad manners.

“Shariya stand next to me,” her mother lets go of her hand and proceed to touch the old man. Shariya watches as they lie him down on his back, across the bench and her mother begins touching him around his wrists and throat.

The letter that the old man had held, falls down to the ground and is forgotten by everyone. As her mother checks on the old man, Shariya hears the rumbling thunder before she feels the cool raindrops on her skin. The crowd around them dissipates quickly and Shariya frowns again. Why were they so nosy about the old man if they were going to run away from the rain anyway?

“Call the ambulance,” her mother informs someone who had taken shelter from the rain. “He’s no more,”

Her mother lets out a long sigh, and bows her head down to murmur a quick prayer. Shariya tugs on her blouse, wiping the rain off her face. “Mae? Why isn’t grandpa waking up?”

Her mother kneels down to stroke Shariya’s hair, a small sad smile lingering on her lips. “Grandpa went to God, sweetie,” she tells her daughter.

“Is that why it’s raining?”

Her mother had always told her that whenever it rained, it means that the sky and the Gods above are mourning. Shariya looks at the grandpa who lies down in the rain; the skies were mourning for his loss.

Her mother nods again. “He is happy now,”

Shariya doesn’t have time to think about what her mother meant. She was being dragged inside from the rain. Before Shariya follows her mother, she notices the letter and picture her grandpa had held on the ground. The rain seeps through the photo and paper and Shariya knew that he would not like that.

So Shariya runs to where the grandpa lies, grabs the wet paper and photo and covers it with her dress. She touches his hand for one last time. “I’ll keep this safe for you, Grandpa,” she whispers.

1973

“What is this?” Pat asks even if he knew exactly what it was that Pran held in his hands.

Pran raises his eyebrow at his lover. He thrusts the camera in front of Pat’s face. “You don’t know what this is?”

Pat gives him a cheeky grin before nodding. They sit at the steps of the orphanage that evening, Pran having brought this camera from Mae’s room. The kids are playing under the afternoon sun and Pat is resting his head on Pran’s lap as he shelters him from the heat.

“I do know what this is,” Pat takes the camera that hovers over him in his own hands. “Only rich people have these,”

Pran huffs and rolls his eyes. “Do not underestimate Mae. How do you think she raised such a big boy and made him study medicine in Bangkok?”

Pat hums, closing his eyes and allowing Pran to twirl his fingers through Pat’s slightly sweaty hair. “Why do you have this with you?” he mumbles.

“To take pictures of the government,” Pran deadpans. “Why do you think I have it with me, Pat?”

Pat raises himself from Pran’s lap with a pout. Pran does not bother with him and calls out for the kids to come. Almost immediately, the kids come running to where Pran and Pat sit by the steps.

“Do you know what this is?” Pran shows the camera to the kids who nod with bright eyes.

“We only saw those on television,” one of Pran’s sisters exclaims. Pran laughs.

“Would you like to take a family picture, Buppha?”

The children shriek with glee and Pat could not help but smile back at his lover. Mae comes to take the camera from Pran’s hand just in time. Pran decides to protest, telling Mae that he would take the picture because he wanted her to be in it. Mae shakes her head, telling Pran that they can take turns for a picture.

Pran huddles the children between them as they sit on the steps. Pat plasters himself next to Pran, Buppha on his lap and baby Rai on Pran’s lap. He wraps on arm around Pran’s shoulder and pulls the boy closer before smiling for the camera.

They take turns using the camera that evening, the children giggling and Pat laughing so beautifully against Pran’s shoulder.

The next day, when Pran develops the picture to show them to Pat, he whines at the only picture they have together. “Praaaan,”

“What?” Pran snaps as he shuffles through the bundle of pictures.

“You’re not looking in this one. It’s the only picture of the two of us,” Pat sulks. He shows the picture to Pran with a frown. Pran was indeed not looking at the camera, but at Pat while he smiles so beautifully.

He does even find the heart in him to feel guilty. No luxurious camera could ever beat the beauty of Pat’s smile. So Pran simply huffs out a meagre apology, and hides his smile behind the pictures he looks at.

14^th October 2062

Pran wakes up with a gasp, choking on his breath. His heart palpitated rapidly and Pran finds it difficult to regain his breathing. He shuffles closer to his bedstand and yanks the drawer open to find for the inhaler that he rarely used.

His vision is blurry from the tears that had formed from his sudden loss of breath. He takes deep breaths, enough to calm his beating heart down. And when he is finally okay, Pran looks around his room. It’s raining again, as what happens every time Pran has one of his weirdly realistic dreams.

He grabs his phone to check the date. Of course. It was only ever that day when Pran has these dreams. Rain, and the fourteenth of October. They seem to go hand in hand in making Pran’s life a living hell. He looks out the window, watching the droplets fall down the clear glass, and hearing the pitter patter of the rain on his roof. Pran sighs, dropping back down onto his bed. This has been happening for five years now. Pran is lucky enough that the dreams only appear on this specific day.

Pran reaches to his bedstand and grabs the notebook Pran hides from the world. Pran writes down the fifth consecutive dream he had. Him, and a boy he does not remember the face of, sitting by the steps of an orphanage and posing for a picture.

He wonders who that boy was. He remembers feeling the smoothness of his skin, the softness of his hair and even the way said boy makes his heart flutter. But every time he wakes up from a dream, Pran finds himself forgetting every feature he had admired of the boy. He wonders if that boy shares the same dreams as him too. Pran looks at the list he has made so far and he tries to decipher the meaning yet again. A hopeless cause.

The boy and I, praying to Lord Ganesh. It must be the Chaturthi. He’s flirting with me?

The boy and I, meeting at a very old library. I’m mad at him for bothering me. Why?

The boy and I, kissing. We’re kissing. Why are we kissing? We did more stuff. Oh God.

The boy and I, sharing a chair. He’s sitting on my lap, holding a guitar. I played the guitar there too?

The boy and I, the boy and I, the boy and I.

But who was the boy?

Figuring that there was no point for him to waste his time yet again, Pran sits back up in bed, leaning against his headboard and rubs the remaining sleep off his face. He decides to plug in his earphones and listen to some music until he waits for the sun to rise.

Later that morning, Pran steps down from his room to the kitchen where his aunt sits with his uncle, sipping on their cups of coffee as they read the newspaper. He greets his aunt and uncle and pours himself a cup of black coffee, downing it in one go without even adding milk and sugar.

His aunt, Shariya, looks at him with a worried smile. “You’re up early,” she tells her nephew.

Pran nods, swallowing the bitter taste of coffee that did nothing to soothe the familiar ache in his heart. It happens every year on this day. Pran thought he was having a heart attack the first time.

His aunt doesn’t know about the vivid dreams he has on this day, but what she does know is how her nephew never fails to fall sick every year on the fourteenth of October. Shariya has spoken to her Pran about bringing him to see a doctor, or maybe a priest but her nephew, stubborn as ever, refuses to let a small dream wreck his life.

This time, however, Pran slumps against the counter, exhaling and inhaling loudly as he regains his composure just to say; “I think I want to see a doctor,”

His aunt and uncle do not even try to convince him. His uncle books him the closest appointment to a family doctor that they frequently visited whenever Pran got sick as a child. And he gets sick a lot of time.

“Are you sure you should be going out today?” his uncle asks him. “You always stay at home today,”

Pran is already slipping on his jacket and grabbing the keys to his motorbike when he hears his uncle. He offers him a comforting smile; “I need to fix this problem, Pa,”

“Is it really a problem for you to fix, though?”

Pran stops at the threshold, frozen by his uncle’s words.

No, Pran thinks.

But maybe it might just be if I cross paths with him.

Shariya watches as Pran rides away on his bike, sighing worriedly. She turns to her husband, who offers her a comforting smile. Rai comes to envelop her into a hug, placing a kiss on her shoulder.

“Don’t think so much, honey,” he mumbles.

“After his mother passed..” Shariya bites her lip. “I don’t know if I’m doing a good job at filling up that hole in his heart,”

“It’s not your job to fill up that hole,” Rai holds Shariya. “You just have to stand by Pran’s side, offer him comfort when he needed it the most. And you’ve been doing great, so far,”

Shariya looks up at her husband, smiling through the lump in her throat. “You think so?”

“I know so,”

“So tell me,” the psychiatrist offers a polite smile to Pran as she motions for him to take a seat on the couch opposite her. “What’s bothering you, Mr. Pran?”

Pran bites his lips, eyes fixed on the jar of chocolates that rested on the glass table before him. He contemplates on whether he should take a handful of those and shove them down his throat so that it would give him more time to actually think about whatever he was going to say.

The psychiatrist seemed to sense the uneasiness in Pran and shuffles closer to him, reaching forward to push the jar of chocolates to Pran. “You can take them,”

“I’ve been having dreams,” Pran blurts out. His face goes red at the sight of the doctor who looks taken aback. But Pran closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and exhales for as long as he could. His aunt had thought him that tactic. It helps him all the time, but now, Pran’s heart only palpitates further.

“Could you.. Care to elaborate, Mr. Pran?”

Pran runs a hand through his hair, looks down to his lap and mumbles, “I’ve been having these dreams. That seem so real, as if they were actually  fragments of my memories,” he looks to the doctor, eyes pained. “But they’re all so.. Old. Like at an age where I probably didn’t even exist,”

The psychiatrist nods, already scribbling something in her notes; the anxiety in Pran fires up. “What do you mean by old? Do they feel like a distant memory?”

Pran nods, pressing his throbbing temples as he scrambles to find a word that best explains whatever he was feeling. “I’ve never experienced the things in my dreams, but when I dream of them, it feels like I actually knew what I was doing. Like, the words come out of me without knowing,”

“I see,” the doctor hums.

“And- And they only appear on a specific day of the year,” Pran winces at the abnormal look the doctor fleetingly gives him. “I know this sounds weird, but fourteenth of October; today. For the past five years, I get a very real dream on that day,”

“Did you have a dream today?” she asks and Pran nods. “Okay; can you tell me what are the common things you see in those dreams?”

Pran cranes his head to think. “Nothing much repeats in those dreams. But what I do know is that they’re not from any recent years. They’re old,”

“Old again?” she muses, a soft smile on her face as she motions for Pran to continues.

“I think those dreams happened in, like, the 19^th century? I don’t know. There’s no phones in my dreams, the cars I see on the streets are really old; I don’t see malls or trendy things like now,”

“So what do you see?”

Pran inhales. “A boy,” he finally whispers.

“A boy?”

Pran nods. “Every dream I have, he’s there with me. It has happened for five times now, and I’ve seen him for five times too,” he explains. “I remember everything about him when I dreamt; How he speaks, how he sounds, how he feels. But, the moment I wake up, it’s like everything slips through me like sand,”

The doctor is looking at Pran like he has absolutely lost it; Pran is already regretting for even thinking about getting help. Even he thinks he has lost it now that he hears himself speak.

“Five dreams, a boy in them, but nothing else is the same?”

Pran nods. “I think.. I think he’s my lover; In those dreams, I mean,” he coughs awkwardly, praying hard that his cheeks do not give away the embarrassment he felt.

“There is nothing to be embarrassed about, Mr. Pran,” the doctor smiles. “Your secret is safe with me and I believe that we can help each other better if you don’t hide anything from me. So tell me; what makes you think that the boy in your dreams is your lover?”

Pran rubs his forehead, wishing he could just run away from the world and never come back. Still, he thinks of how he should word his answer. And he speaks; “I’m with him in every dream, and we.. I don’t know how to explain it but he looks at me like I hold stars in my eyes.

“He.. touches me so gently, like how he would touch a flower, he knows my name and I can’t explain how I feel when he says it. I feel good, really good. And I just know that he loves me so much from the way he speaks to me, makes me laugh against my own will. In my dreams, I feel like I’m watching myself fall in love with him, and it tears me apart.

“Because when I wake up, I don’t feel the warmth I feel in my dreams, I don’t feel happy, nor do I feel like I lived a life with no regrets. When I wake up, everything is cold and all I remember is a boy with a soft laugh, that’s it,”

He doesn’t get the answers he was hoping for. The lady had just written him a prescription for stress and anxiety and sent him off back home with a big dent in his bank account. Pran knew that it was a waste.

He wanted to go back home, lie in his bed and never close his eyes because if he did, Pran would wake up feeling like his heart has been ripped from him yet again. And he would wake up wishing for even a fraction of the warmth he had felt in those dreams.

As he walks back to his bike, Pran notices a small crowd by the electronic gadget shop where his bike sat. Pran sighs internally; how the hell was he going to get to his bike?

He walks, as slowly as he can, hoping that the people would notice and give him space to start his bike. But no one moves, having being too invested in whatever that was being displayed by the glass case of the shop.

“Excuse me,” Pran taps on the shoulder of a man that has the audacity to sit on his bike. The man looks up at him, annoyed at Pran for disturbing him, but Pran jiggles his key before his face with a bitter smile and his eyes go wide.

“Oh, sorry!” he says.

Pran nods, not wanting to make a big deal out of anything. He just wanted to go home. Until he starts his bike and no one makes a move. Pran ramps up his bike three times and still, no one budges. He groans, rubbing at his face. The man that had been sitting by his bike still stands. Pran taps him on the shoulder once again.

“What’s going on, uncle?”

“Oh,” the man turns to Pran and points to the screen, “It’s the 89^th anniversary of the 1973 Thai Uprising today. And the media has just released snippets of the leaflets that had been distributed that day,”

Pran huffs; “What’s the big deal about that?”

“You must have never heard of this side of the story,” the man laughs. “These were the leaflets that were distributed by the leaders of the protest. They were written so powerfully, that it was enough to end the dictatorship and corruption that went on,”

“Okay..” Pran pulls. “But this happens every year. Why is it so special this year?”

“People have been trying to find the person behind these documents. Who he is, where he lived and died. But no one could find anything about him. He was proclaimed to be Thailand’s unsung hero. But this year,” the man leans closer to Pran, eyes wide with excitement.

What a nerd, Pran thinks.

“This year they found a piece of evidence that dates to Pattaya. Where the documents were sent from. They believed that he had lived in Pattaya,”

When Pran gives him a blank look. The man only shakes his head disapprovingly. “Children these days have no appreciation for history. If it weren’t for him, the country would be in shambles; People will die for just voicing out their opinions,”

“Great, well, good for him,” Pran smiles and bows at the man. “I would like to leave now, could you please tell the others to move aside?”

As Pran drives away, he doesn’t bother to listen the disapproving huffs and mutters about how disrespectful he is. He just needed to get home.

When Pran arrives home, the first thing he notices is his uncle, standing by the steps of their home, a worrisome smile on his face. Pran parks his bike by the garden and walks up to him, keys jiggling in his hands.

“Pran,” Rai begins, hands on Pran’s shoulder; lightly, but enough to know that he was stopping Pran from entering. “I need you to listen to me, okay?”

Pran frowns. “Why, who’s here?”

Rai exhales. “Just stay calm. Don’t pick a fight. You’re not little kids anymore,”

Pran’s eyes harden at that. It could only mean one thing if his uncle is worried for him. Respectfully, he pushes his uncle aside and yanks the door to his home open. Speak of the devil, Pran thinks.

There his aunt stood, a container in her hands and the devil itself standing next to her. He’s gone taller, Pran notices. Still a devil, though. Pat doesn’t realise his presence in his house and Pran, wishes he could control the course of anger that boils through his veins.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Pran snaps.

It’s enough for Pat to turn to where Pran stands by the threshold. There’s a flicker of happiness, then sadness, then anger that passes through Pat’s eyes. Only Shariya notices it. Pran is too angry to notice anything. Even when Pat’s eyes were like an open window.

Pat sneers, cocking his head to the side with a mocking smile. “I miss you too,” he snaps.

The anger in Pran flares further, but he stops himself. Today was not the day to pick a fight with Pat. Today of all days should not be a day to pick a fight with that asshole. Pran is weak, he knows it very well. Something always goes wrong on the fourteenth of October.

Even know, the palpitations in his heart increase the second their eyes meet. It increases, and increases to the extend of hurting. Pran wants to squeeze his heart and cry out in pain. That’s how he felt. But knowing the asshole before him, Pat would jump at the opportunity to tackle Pran at his weakest moments.

Shariya senses the never ending tension between the two boys and steps to interfere. She walks to where Pran stands, eyes still fixed on Pat, an evident scowl on his face. Pran is too tall for her own good and even as she tries to get his attention, she is only up to his neck. Shariya slaps his shoulders.

“I was the one that called him here,” she tells Pran. “Pat just returned from Singapore. He’s studying here back again,”

Pran turns to his aunt in one swift motions. “Why? His grandparents finally got tired of his shit?”

“Mind your fucking words, I hate it here as much as you do,”

“Then go the fuck back, asshole,”

“I’m here for your aunt, don’t make me-

“BOYS,”

Both the boys quiet down immediately despite having clenched jaw and an undying urge to punch something. Shariya is glaring between the two of them; she may be small, but no one is more afraid of a short lady that handles a knife really well.

“I don’t like listening to your foul language in this house,” she snaps. “You want to rip each other’s throats out? Go do it outside,”

Pran rolls his eyes, huffing out a breath of anger. “He’s the one invading my house. You should tell that to him,” Pran argued.

Pat sets the container that he had been holding down on the counter just to give Pran a look of utter disappointment. Jaw tightened, eyes tired and found curved downwards. It absolutely fires the anger back up in Pran. He should not be given Pran that look. He had no right to.

“I thought you would understand what had happened,” Pat speaks softly, as if Pran was not even worth his anger. “But even after five years,” he huffs out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he spits with venom in his mouth. “You’re still as childish as ever,”

Pran decided that enough was enough. He ignores the way his knees shook as he walked, ignored the way his stomach churned with the acid, ignored the way his airpipes tightened until no air could enter his nose, ignored the way his heart beat faster; as if warning him that no, you’ll regret this.

Pran ignores everything that screams in his body and takes three long strides to where Pat stands. The anger in him is released through his blurring vision, but Pran refuses to cry. He grips Pat by his collar, pulling him up and closer until they face each other.

“How could I ever forget, you fucking murderer,” Pran spits despite his brain shutting down one by one. Even his hands shook, but the ego in Pran refuses to let him survive. “You killed my fucking family,”

Pat’s eyes are as fierce as ever when Pran carelessly throws his words around. He reaches up to cover Pran’s hands with his, opting to yank them away from his collar. And then-

And then,

“Just be with me. We’ll figure out the details later,”

“I started believing in God the moment he brought me into your life,”

“You promised, Pran,”

“I need you to listen to me,”

The voices become louder and louder in Pran’s head. But he could no do anything except cling into Pat’s collar. Pran feels as if he has died. As if something else is inside his body, whispering these things to him, desperate for him to remember. He can feel Pat’s hands on him, shaking as much as his was. And all Pran could wonder about is if Pat was hearing the same voices too.

Pran chokes out a gasp, eyes wide, but unable to see anything. He thinks he might just die, but he remembers falling, falling along with Pat. He remembers his head being cushioned by Pat’s chest and he’s fucking confused because why does this feel so familiar yet new at the same time?

The last thing Pran registers is the shrieks of his aunty and uncle.

When he wakes up, the sky is already dark. He must’ve slept the whole day. The soft crashes of the rain can still be heard when he wakes up. Pran sits up on his bed and rubs his throbbing temples. He doesn’t remember much after Pat had pissed him off, and he is thankful for that. Judging by the aftereffect of it, Pran does not want to go through that again.

Before Pran can adjust himself to go back to bed, a sudden shuffle in the sheets jolt the sleep away from his eyes. Because sharing his bed, in his room, is Pat. He’s sleeping on a spare pillow, hoarding all of Pran’s sheets, and hugging his bolster. He seems to be happy enough, given the evident snoring and drooling all over his pillow. Pran scowls, ready to beat the shit out of him.

But he stops again. Every time he raises his hands to hit Pat, something in him screams in agony. Pran doesn’t understand why. It’s like his own body fights him, tells him to stop or else. It infuriates Pran further. Pat is the guy he hates to the core of his existence, and yet, something about the peacefulness of that face, guard lowered and lying right under the crook of Pran’s arm. Something about that makes Pran feels giddy.

He could’ve sworn that he had felt the warmth Pran had only experienced in his dreams. Pran shakes his head; that would make no sense.

His aunt and uncle carefully open the door to his room, bringing in a two glasses of water and matching sets of tablets. Shariya almost jumps and drops the glasses when she finds Pran sitting against the headboard with wide eyes and messy hair. But her husband holds her carefully instead.

“You’re awake,” Shariya whispers. “Here,”

She sits on the edge of the bed, right by Pran’s thighs before setting the glass of water on his bedstand. His hands are still shaking for him to even make a sudden movement. Pran decides to wait it out first. He jerks his chin to where the obnoxious asshole slept like a baby.

Shariya sighs. “You both just collapsed on the floor. Do you know how worried we were? Children these days..” she trails off, clicking her tongue at the both of them. “How angry do you have to be until you both collapse?”

He doesn’t hear a word his aunt says. Pran only furrows his eyebrows in confusion, still stuck on the first part of Shariya’s sentence. “We both fainted?”

Shariya glares at her nephew, wishing she could just reach forward and whack his head, but she opts not to. “Yes,” Shariya grounds out instead.

That’s not possible, Pran thinks.

I collapsed because of the dreams, and the voices.

Why should he?

Unless..

Before Pran’s thoughts infiltrate his mind, there is movement next to him. A soft arm stretching, coming to press against his rib, followed by a long groan. Pran bites his lips and hopes to the gods that he does not suffocate Pat with the pillow.

“Oh good, you’re both awake,” Rai smiles. He strokes Pat’s back lightly. “How are you feeling, Pat?”

Pat smiles at him despite pressing his throbbing temples. “I’m feeling better now, Lung,”

Silence ensues between the four of them while Shariya prepares the tablets for Pat and Pran. Pran crosses his arms and looks to the other side; he was not going to trigger his temper again by opening his mouth.

Pat, however, doesn’t give a shit. He politely takes the glass of water and medicine offered by Shariya and gulps it down in one go. Then he removes himself from Pran’s bed, making sure to accidentally push the sheets down to the floor.

“Where are you going?”

Pat smiles, albeit bitterly. “I’ll go home, Naa,” he tells Shariya.

Relief spreads through Pran. Only for a few seconds, because his aunt decides to be a saint about it.

“Pat,” she speaks sternly. “Where will you find a taxi? You don’t drive and it’s dark; stay the night here. You can leave tomorrow,”

Pat shakes his head, “Anywhere is better than here, Naa,” he side eyes the frowning boy beside him.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Whatever the hell you think it’s supposed to,”

“You should be lucky enough I didn’t kick your ass out of this bed, because I’m nice that way,”

“Why thank you nice guy, I wouldn’t know what I would do without you, nice guy,”

“Oh fu-

“BOYS,”

Pat and Pran stop to their uncle’s booming voice. Rai stands by the foot of the bed between them, glaring with his arms crossed. “Keep your feelings aside. You’re both sick,”

“Pat,” Rai turns to him swiftly. “Listen to your Naa and sleep here for the night, you can leave in the morning. And Pran,” Rai points to Pran with a hardened look. “Don’t pick a fight like little boys. It happened five years ago; Nobody is at fault,”

Both Pat and Pran huff, but they nod either way. “Good,” Shariya says. “Now go back to sleep, we’ll see you in the morning,”

Pat goes back to sleep almost immediately, his back facing Pran and huddling with the sheets like he owned them. Pran takes three deep breaths, settles in his bed and gives Pat a longing look of confusion. Something in his heart is feeling at unease every time he looks at Pat. He doesn’t know why.

Pran doesn’t bother thinking much about it; he was sure that a good night’s sleep will solve the inner turmoil in his heart.

So Pran turns to his side, trying to take the sheets but they’re stuck from the way Pat wraps himself around them. Pran yanks it hard enough that Pat gets no sheets at all.

1973

Pat wakes up to an empty bed around four in the morning. When his eyes flutter open, Pran is not there, next to him. Instead, he feels the heat of the gas lamp radiating from the table at the corner of his room.

Pran sits by his desk, his thick reading glasses perched on his nose as he revises his papers again and again. Pat sighs, pushing the sheets down and sitting up against the bed as he watches Pran get so engrossed in his work.

“Come to bed,” Pat stifles a yawn, keeping his eyes open when Pran turns to him with a surprised expression.

“Pat,” Pran whispers. “I’ll be there soon, sweetheart. Go to sleep first,”

Pat shakes his head. This will not do.

He opens his arms for Pran to come in them. “The world will not change in a night’s worth of work, dear,” he mumbles. “Come here; I don’t like sleeping alone,”

There is a soft chuckle that lights up the dark room where Pat and Pran sleep. Pran decides that he could always continue revising the leaflets tomorrow. Right now, Pran’s heart lies there, on the bed, waiting to be embraced by his lover.

So he dims down the gas lamp, sets his glasses down and lies on the bed with his open arms. Pat turns to burrow his face in Pran’s chest, inhaling deeply. “Goodnight,”

Pran presses a kiss on top of Pat’s head, stroking his back lightly. “Goodnight, my Pat,”

Pat wakes up with a gasp, heart burning and tears streaming down his face. He tries to get up, but he’s stopped by an unpleasant weight on his chest. Pat wipes his tears away, the confusion in him firing up. This shouldn’t be happening to him. The dreams should not come today; they never come after that specific day. So why was he dreaming now?

As usual, the boy that had so lovingly held him, stroked his back and whispered his name, is forgotten by Pat. All he remembers is the smell of ink, freshly made paper, and a boy that held the stars in his eyes.

He rubs his face to get rid of the sleep, trying his best to make out the figure cuddled on him. Soon after he completely regains his consciousness, Pat finds none other than Pran, sleeping on his chest; almost like a baby. He is half minded on whether he should push Pran off him and tease him about it. He wants to, he really does.

But he feels warm. Pat never feels warm, especially after having a dream. Dreams were the ones that always rip the warmth away from him, leaving him in chill coldness. Pat sighs internally, unable to wake Pran up. His head is throbbing again, and his heart burns just like yesterday.

Pat knew that it was a bad idea; coming to Thailand on the fourteenth when he knew that his heart will be unstable and hurt. He knew it was even worse, visiting Shariya and Rai after five years of his absence. But deep down, Pat knew that he wanted to see Pran, speak to Pran about the past. Make sure that they were okay. Apparently, they were not.

Pat looks down at the mess of midnight black hair again. Waiting until Pran wakes up would be too much of a hassle, not to mention, an unnecessary spat between them because Pran would not let this die down. So Pat does the second best option he can think of.

Carefully, he raises Pran’s head from his chest and manoeuvres his body until it rests on the pillow next to Pat. Pran sleeps like the dead, not moving an inch when Pat lifts him up so gently. He lies down on the pillow, lips parted, eyes sealed shut and hair fanning his forehead.

Pat hesitates at first, but his hands move on his own accord, as if it was muscled memory. He pushes Pran’s hair away from his face, and Pran huffs out a breath, turning to the side and resuming his sleep. Pat releases the breath he does not know he had been holding.

Covering Pran with the sheets, Pat gets out of bed, grabs his belongings, and leaves the house. Hopefully, whatever that had happened yesterday, would not happen anymore.

Months pass

“Pran, the engineering assholes are jumping Wai again!”

Pran sighs. He looks at the palette of colour pencils before him as he rubs his face in exhaustion. “What the fuck did he do now?”

“We don’t know, just come quick. It’s five of them and only Wai,”

Today was not a good day for Pran. The dreams have been coming more often lately and his depressive episodes have prolonged. Just like today. He wonders why on Earth Wai could not keep his fucking mouth shut for one time.

When he arrives at the basement, Wai is being backed up into the wall while the five other engineering gangsters laugh at him. Pran presses his fingers to his temples, calms down the numbing pain in his heart, and prepares to fight.

Chang and the other boys come to Wai’s aide almost immediately, punching and kicking the other engineering students. But Pran remains frozen, having fixed his eyes on the last person he would expect here.

Pat stands, clad in his dark blue engineering shirt, hair mussed up from running and chest heaving from beating people up. Despite all that, something inside Pran rejoices, jumping happily. Pran coughs at himself; Was he happy to see Pat?

No. Of course not.

“Already showing off your true colours after just six months here?”

Pat huffs out a laugh, shrugging as he walks past the group of fighting students. “What can I say? They needed a leader, I just happened to be there,”

“Leader for what? A bunch of assholes that have no better work to do?”

Pat’s mocking smile falters into that of a frown. “Why don’t you go tell that to your little boy toy over there? He seems very excited to run his mouth along everywhere,”

“Don’t talk about him like that,” Pran snaps, glaring at Pat who only laughs mockingly.

“Why? Can’t handle the love of your life-

“Shut up,” Pran hisses and his anger gets the best of him. He sprints to where Pat stands and gives him a kick square on his chest. Pat, taken aback by the sudden attack, falls on his back with a groan. Pran takes the moment of weakness to tackle him to the ground, legs on either side of his hips and punches him on his nose.

He goes for another punch, but Pat acts quicker this time, gripping both of his wrists to push him on his back before Pat climbs over him and raises his fist to punch Pran. He gets one punch right at Pran’s cheek, and raises his hand to strike another one. But then-

But then-

They’re both frozen, eyes unfocused before their minds take over again. Pat notices the room he’s in; He has been there before, in his dreams, with the boy. It takes him a while to register what was happening this time. And they were most definitely not fighting.

1973

“Are you sure?” Pat whispers, breathing heavily as he tries to regain his breath from their kiss.

Pran is under him, shirt unbuttoned halfway, cheeks flushed beautifully and his hands are running up and down Pat’s bare torso as he smiles.

“We promised to live our lives to our fullest, right?”

Pran takes Pat’s hands and places them square on his chest; Pat’s hands move on their own accord, unbuttoning the remaining clothes, pushing his pants down to his thighs enough for Pat to nestle perfectly on Pran.

He chokes out a gasp at the sensation along with Pran pulling him down on his chest to pepper kisses all over his face. “Pran,” Pat whimpers, grinding slowly at the feel of Pran’s heat against his hole; So close yet so far.

“Let me take care of you,” Pran whispers right in his ear.

It was the best thing Pat could hear together with Pran’s fingers gently prodding through his hole. Pat nods, “Yes,” he pants. “Yes, please,”

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,”

“You’re so beautiful for me,”

“Keep going,”

Both boys recoil from each other with a cry, scrambling to avoid any form of contact. Pat could not believe his eyes, he just can’t. There was no way in hell that he had just had the vision about Pran.

Judging from the way Pran looks at him wide eyes, panting and cheeks flushed red, Pat knew that he wasn’t the only one who had that vision. They swallow hard, regaining their composure, unable to even look each other in the eye.

“I-

Pran chokes out, pressing his hand to his chest, where it burned with pain and a sudden surge of desire. “I have to go,” he tells Pat.

His cheeks are bruised red, blood is pooling in his mouth too, but Pran doesn’t even wipe it off. Pat doesn’t catch up to Pran before the boy gets up and runs away from him.

Later that night, Pat contemplates on whether he should confront Pran about whatever they had both seen during the fight. He’s walking back to his dorm room, ice cream in hand and an ice packet wedged against his nose.

The bleeding has stopped and Pat doesn’t feel much pain from the fight earlier. He feels more agony from the images of Pran he had seen before. It wasn’t possible. The boy in his dreams, that has been coming in his heart for five years now, that held the stars in his eyes, could not be Pran.

He could not be Pran. He couldn’t.

Pat stands between the two doors of the apartment complex. Pran’s door is on his right while his is on the left. Shariya had stubbornly insisted that Pat get a room that’s nearer to Pran just in case anything happens to either one of them. Pran had openly rejected the offer almost immediately, but if anything, Pran is a good boy for his uncle and aunt.

He stands again, holding the ice pack harder against his nose, hoping that the frozen ice would do anything to numb the pain in his heart. Nothing works. Nothing ever works to reduce the pain inside.

He sighs; there was no choice. He steps up to where Pran’s door sat and raises his fist to knock on the door. Before he could knock, Pran’s door swings open and he stands before Pat with wide eyes. His left cheek is swollen and red, there’s a bruise at the corner of his lips and his one arm is exposed, a muscle patch covering his bicep.

“I..” Pat begins. “I wanted to speak with you,”

Pran nods, head down. He doesn’t even look at Pat; It’s something Pat has never seen in Pran before. Pran who would stubbornly look right into his eyes even if he’s wrong. Pat bites his lips and looks away too, because he understands. Even Pat doesn’t know how to explain this.

“I’d rather not,” Pran croaks. His voice is sore, Pat doesn’t know why.

“I think-

Pat runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. “Can I come inside?”

He attempts to walk inside Pran’s dorm, but the asshole steps right in the middle, blocking him from advancing. Pat frowns. Pran is frowning back, eyeing him weirdly. “My room then,” Pat snaps.

He turns to go back to his room and leaves the door open, not bothering to look behind him. Pat hears the shuffling of feet inside and the door shutting. He finally turns around, hands on his waist. “Sit,” Pat motions to the gaming chair by his desk while he takes the bed.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Pran snaps but sits either way. Pat does not even find the energy in him to pick a fight with Pran this time.

There’s a tense silence between them, Pat doesn’t know how to begin. Pran is sitting with his head bent down, playing with his fingers as he waits for Pat to start first. He almost screams at Pran; why did he have to start first?

“Fine, since you’re so fucking stubborn,” Pat snaps. “I’ll start first,”

With a deep breath, Pat begins; “I’ve been having very real dreams for almost five years. Every year, on the fourteenth of October. I don’t remember who was in them the moment I wake up. But I feel so..”

His throat clogs up and Pat almost curses. Why did it have to be Pran? Pran who has hurt him so much, and Pran who he has hurt so much. Pat presses his temples again, opting to cover his face for a minute to regain his breathing.

“Warm?”

Pat looks up and finds Pran looking back at him with pained eyes. He’s swallowing hard, just like Pat. But he nods either way. “Yes,” Pat croaks. “But it also hurts a lot,”

When Pran nods in agreement, Pat finds the courage to continue. “I don’t remember the boy in my dreams but he makes me feel so much of love and pain at the same time and it tears me apart,”

“The old camera, a guitar, Ganesh Chaturthi,” Pran speaks in the middle. “Did you see all these in your dreams too?”

Pat’s heart drops all the way to his stomach when Pran tells him. “Yes,” he gasps. “Yes, I-

Pat swallows. “I dreamed of those and more,”

Pran chokes out a laugh, bitter and painful. “It can’t be,” he whispers. “It can’t be you; the boy in my dreams,”

“I find it difficult to believe too,” Pat answers. “Today.. did you see what I saw?”

Pat tries to ignore the way both their cheeks turn pink, along with awkward coughs and avoiding eye contact.

“If you mean us.. together,” Pran speaks. “Then yes,”

“And every dream I have ever had with that boy, is restored with your face,” Pat answers. “Did that happen to you too?”

Pran nods a little too quickly. They sit in silence again; those were the answers that they needed to hear. Pran did not feel as satisfying as he should be. The answers only proceeded to create more questions that Pran and Pat are unable to answer.

“Where.. do we go from here?” Pat takes the courage to ask.

Pran looks at him; Pat couldn’t decipher exactly what is going through his mind. So Pat patiently waits for Pran to give him an answer.

“I think we should not see each other for a while,” he finally says. “Since you usually visit my aunt most times. The dreams have become a common occurrence after we crossed paths. And more when we touched,”

Pat nods along to what Pran was trying to explain, despite the way his heart banged against his ribcage, waiting to be let out. As if his heart could not bear the idea of staying away from Pran. Pat needed to see a good doctor to give him a proper diagnosis on why his heart says one think but his brain says another.

“Let’s not see each other, touch or speak for the time being. If.. there are no changes, we’ll figure out from there,”

Pat nods, then pauses. “How long?”

“How long?”

He furrows his eyebrows. “Our parents’ death anniversary is in two weeks’ time. Naa wanted us to go visit them together,”

Pran’s gaze hardens at that. He stands up, arms crossed against his chest as if Pat could see the way his heart acted opposite of his body. “And you agreed?” Pran asks.

“Pran,” Pat sighs, tired of fighting all the damn time. “Their graves are right next to each other. I was going to visit Pa then too,”

Pat was right, unfortunately. Pran hated when he was right.

“Whatever it is; your family is yours, my family is mine. Stop interfering,” he finally says.

Pat looks up, his eyes showing a tinge of hurt in them before they harden into the fierce eyes Pran always noticed during their fights.

“What do you want from me Pran?” Pat stands up until he’s in front of Pran, despite his shaking legs. “What more do you want? Did you forget that both our parents died?”

“Yes,” Pran points right at Pat’s chest, pressing his index finger hard against the muscle. “Because you killed them,”

“Fine, I killed them. Let’s go with that. But what else?” Pat raises his voice enough to notice the way Pran flinches in shock. “I can’t bring them back from the dead, Pran,”

It takes Pran a while to notice the shake in his voice and the way Pat’s eyes soften into those of utter desperation. Then he notices the tears, slowly filling up his eyes, but never once dropping down.

“I told you,” Pran finds his own throat clogging up. He tries to hide it, tries to appear as brave and fine to Pat. He should be over it. It’s been five years; he should be over their parents’ death. But no. Pran finds his vision blurring again.

“I told you it was a bad idea; you never listened,” he doesn’t hide the tears that flow down his face after years of pent-up anger and sadness in him. Pat is in front of him, head hung low but shoulders shaking violently as he sobs.

“Our parents died but we never did,”

“Do you know how hard it was for me without you?” Pat cries.

His cheeks are flushed and wet with tears, he’s full-on sobbing before Pran and Pran, does not even have the heart to be angry at Pat. He missed his best friend so much. Pat’s knees give out soon enough and he lands to the floor before Pran, a sobbing mess.

“I had to live with the guilt of killing both without having anyone to keep me sane. I felt like I was going to die, Pran. Fuck, I can’t even drive after what happened,”

Pran hesitantly goes down too, until he kneels before Pat and watches him sob, unable to control his tears too. “I lost my mother because of you. I couldn’t even look at you. How was I supposed to be there for you, asshole?”

“You could’ve punched me, slapped me, screamed at me,” Pat looks up with pained eyes and Pran feels the world inside him crumbling down. “But you j-just left me all alone. A-and when I left, you never once saw me,”

“I was afraid that if I saw you, I’d murder you with my own bare hands,” Pran whispers. “I was so, so, angry Pat,”

“I’d rather die anyway,” Pat replies, more tears dripping down his cheeks, following the prodding veins down his neck. “Living without you by my side felt like dying anyway,”

“I missed us, Pran; I missed us fighting for the normal things. I missed us against the world, not us against each other,” he continues. “Please, when will you ever forgive me?”

“Pat,” Pran finds himself shuffling closer, arms in front of him to find the boy using his blurry vision. His eyes are burning from rubbing at the never-ending tears, but he quickly finds Pat’s face. And he wipes the tears off them with ease. Pat’s hand come to cage his despite shaking uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry,” Pran finally whispers, and Pat chokes off another sob, folding into the curve of Pran’s palms. “I shouldn’t have blamed you; You were just a child,”

“It doesn’t change the fact that you made a mistake, but I know I made a mistake too. I should’ve been there with you. It must’ve been hard for you, huh?” Pran sobs together with Pat, holding him close after so many years.

It felt so good, as if a missing piece was restored into his heart. It felt like two puzzle pieces fitting together. Pat clings onto the back of Pran’s T-shirt and sobs uncontrollably. Pran wonders how long he had been keeping this inside of him.

“I’m trying, Pat,” Pran says in a hushed tone. “It’s so hard to move on from the past, to forgive you. But give me time. I need more time, please,”

Pat doesn’t answer him for a long time and Pran holds him in place, allowing his sobs to reducing and his pain to subside. When all Pran hears are sniffles, he sets some space between them. Pat rubs the remaining tears off his face before he looks up. His eyes are puffy and red and his lips are wet and pink from biting them so hard, but Pat nods.

“Take all the time you want,” Pat croaks. “But please, don’t leave me like that again, Pran,”

They don’t talk about what happened that night for the whole week. But the glaring and mini spats have reduced for the time being. Pat and Pran try not to acknowledge each other when they’re in the same room and Pran knows that it is hurting the both of them.

He tries not to think too much about the way his heart flutters when Pat enters the same room as him, or the way he feels like dying when they don’t speak at all. But it’s there and Pran can feel every soft vibration of the tension between them.

On the Friday before Pran returns home for the death anniversary of his parents, he finds himself standing before Pat’s front door, knocking at it. Pat opens in less than a minute which is bad because Pran does not have the time to prepare what he wants to say.

Pat looks thin, tired and out of everything. There are dark bags around his eyes and his cheeks are sunken. Pran wonders if he has even slept properly.

“You’re coming home for the anniversary, right?” Pran says at last.

Pat looks taken aback at first, but he nods soon. “I’ll be there by tomorrow morning,”

Pran nods; Awkward silence ensues between them again as Pran contemplates on whether he should ask Pat of his doubts.

“Do you still drive?”

Pat huffs out a small laugh, bitterly. “You should know the answer to that, Pran,” he says almost exhaustedly and Pran regrets ever asking.

Silence again.

Pat clears his throat this time, jerking his chin towards Pran’s duffle bag. “Are you leaving?”

Pran looks at it as if he had forgotten it had been there. “Oh, um, yes,” he pauses again. Pran thinks, and thinks and thinks about his next question and then, he decides to fuck it.

“You can come with me now,”

Pat’s expression of surprise doesn’t go missed. He regains his stoic face quickly before shaking his head at Pran. “It’s fine, I’ll just grab a taxi tomorrow,”

Pran realises that Pat probably thinks he was asking for the sake of it. Since they technically did promise at trying to fix their hateful relationship towards each other. But that’s not the case.

“Come with me,” Pran insists again.

“Weren’t you the one that said it’s best if kept our distance,” Pat shoots back, a hint of smile on his tired face.

“We broke that rule five minutes after setting it, remember?”

His smile falters again. Pran curses internally. “Look, Pran,” Pat begins, running his hand through his hair. They fall graciously down his forehead and Pran doesn’t know why his heart is doing flips. “If this is about that night, we can forget about it. You don’t have to force yourself to forgive me. I know what I did was wr-

“Pat,” Pran cuts him off.

Pat stares.

“Naa is making dinner which I most definitely can’t finish by myself. And I know how much you love her cooking,” Pran begins. “So just come with me now and stay for the anniversary,”

Pat doesn’t put up a fight after that. Everyone knew that Pran was the stubborn one between them.

2057

They lived as neighbours; Pran and Dissaya, Ming and Pat. Their parents were they best of friends, even through thick and thin. Even when Dissaya’s husband left her for another woman. Even when Ming’s wife died giving birth to Pat. Together, they raised their boys.

Pat and Pran grow up to be a bickering mess; always competing with the stupidest things. Their parents always had to sit them down and tell them to stop fighting over meaningless things. Nobody cares if Pran scored higher than Pat; nobody cares if Pat became the middle school football captain.

They were happier like that.

Until that night.

“Pat this isn’t a good idea,” sixteen-year-old Pran tells his best friend who is blinded by the excitement of taking his father’s new sports car.

Pat pouts at Pran and Dissaya, knowing how much Dissaya grows weak at Pat’s secret weapon. “Aw, it’ll just be a small round,” Pat tells them. “I learned how to drive from a senior in school,”

“You don’t have a license,” Pran snaps. “We could get into an accident,”

Ming comes to place a shoulder on Pran; trust Dissaya’s son to always be the smart one among them. “Pran is right, son. It’s dark already too. You can take the car tomorrow,”

“But, Paaa,” Pat whines. Dissaya sits next to them, only half invested by her novel. Pat runs to where she sits and props his elbows on her lap, cupping his face. “Mae, please?”

“Don’t ask me; it’s your Pa’s car,” she pinches the boy’s chubby cheeks.

“Please?” Pat begs and begs and begs the three of them.

Dissaya is the first to give in with a sigh. She turns to Ming and smiles sheepishly at him; “Let him drive for once,” she tells Ming.

Ming rolls his eyes. “You always fall for his schemes,”

“Oh, like you don’t do the same for Pran and let him taste your liquor collection,”

“That was one time!”

“Do this for Pat and we’ll be even,”

Pran and Ming have identical frowns on their faces, but they nod either way. Dissaya has gotten them exactly where she wanted. And so the two pairs of best friends get in Ming’s new and shiny car with young Pat as their driver.

Pran sits at the back, head peeking between the console to nag at Pat to slow down and turn on the lights. Pat snaps back at Pran to calm down and that he was driving as slow as possible.

It happens in less than a second.

Pat had turned around to shove Pran’s head away from the middle and screams at him to stop nagging. Both their parents were laughing. It was all going so well. But no one saw the lorry that drove recklessly before them.

They both survive; Pran with broken limbs, Pat in a coma. Their parents do not.

That year, Pran refuses to even look at Pat. His aunt and uncle start to take things over. Ming had been close with Shariya and Rai too. Which was why Shariya would walk drive back and forth to the hospital to check on Pat and Pran.

Pat regains consciousness 1 month after the accident. Almost immediately, his grandparents decide to take him to Singapore. Pat had begged and begged for Shariya to let him see Pran one last time. But Shariya knew that nothing good will ever come from letting Pran meet Pat at that time.

And so they leave each other for five years. Never once did Pran talk about Pat. But never once did he stop thinking about Pat.

When Pran comes back home that evening with Pat in tow, Shariya must rub her eyes to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. Pran ignores the giant, neon green elephant in the room when he enters and greets his aunt like nothing changed. Pat does the same.

Shariya could only stare at them. Her heart throbbing from the anxiety of it. She had a gist of the tension between them, dating all the way back to when she was a six-year-old girl. And when she heard the story of the grandpa that sat next to her.

Shariya never told anyone, but she kept the letter and photo left by the grandpa safe and sound for almost 40 years. Something about that rainy night made Shariya think that maybe, just maybe he would come back to ask her for those things.

Years passed and nothing much happened. Shariya would spend nights reading the letter over and over again, wondering who on earth was Pr- and hoping she would get the answers she had been looking for. For a period of years, she gives up on her quests, after the weight of adulthood takes her down.

Her sister Dissaya gives birth to a beautiful boy, and their best friend Ming lost his wife, but gained a son. Things go well for the group of friends.

Until Ming decides to name his son.

Shariya still remembers that night of the naming ceremony for Pat. She had run back home to grab the preserved letter to read it all over again.

To my Pat.

To my Pat.

Pat.

It can’t be, Shariya had thought.

She leaves her triggering thoughts alone again. Until more years pass, and Pat and Pran grow into handsome young men. She doesn’t realise it at first. She doesn’t realise it at all. Until Dissaya invites her to Pran’s 16^th birthday party, and she walks in on Pat and Pran hugging each other, smiling widely at the camera.

She feels her heart throb exactly the way it did on the night Ming reveals the name of his son. Shariya couldn’t swallow even a sip of juice. She had excused herself again and went back home to take the fragile photo in her hands, willing herself to not tear the only memory she had of the old man.

Pat and Pr-

Pat and Pran.

They looked exactly like the boys in the photo.

Shariya remembers gripping at her chest with a gasp and slumping to the floor. How could fate play with her family like this? Was it her fault for taking what belonged to the man? Did she bring the wandering souls to her own family? Her mother always told her to never speak ill of lovers who died with pain of losing each other.

She prays and prays and prays that what she actually thinks would happen to the boys. Shariya had heard the story from the old man and she knew that the ending he had given her was most definitely not the ending that had happened. As the years pass and as Shariya grows older, she realises that. And her heart hurts further.

Then, the accident happened and Pran loses his parents from Pat’s recklessness. Pran tells his aunt that he never wants to see Pat. Shariya’s heart breaks further. What used to be the purest love story that ended in tragedy, now ended up the two of them leaving each other in heartbreak.

She leaves them at that. Fate had its own plans to make. What is meant to be will be soon enough. When they want to know the answers by themselves, Shariya will give it to them.

“What a pleasant surprise,” Shariya hides the pain in her smile as he pulls Pat into a hug. “Did he threaten you to come?” she jokes.

Pran rolls his eyes, neatly removing his shoes to place them on the rack outside. “We’re trying to be civilised people. Didn’t you want us to be friends again?”

Shairya nods and coos at her nephew. “Yes, yes, my good boy. You came just in time for dinner,”

Together, they eat dinner like a normal family. Although Shariya felt like vomiting, although Pat and Pran are still very much awkward with each other. They manage through the night. Like a real family.

Later at night, when Shariya and Rai go to bed, Pran offers Pat to share a room with him, albeit awkwardly.

“Pran, you really don’t have to-

Pran crosses his arms and raises his eyebrow at Pat. “It’s not like we’ve never shared a bed before,” Pran notes. “It’s fine,”

“I can just sleep on the couch,”

“Shut up and go to sleep,”

1973

“Pran?” Pat croaks, raising his head to rub the sleep of his eyes.

Pran stops talking to his group almost immediately as he shifts his focus on Pat. It’s almost endearing, watching the confused faces look at Pran who had just been laying out plans to trash talk politicians, now turning to baby a grown man.

“Yes, sweetheart?” Pran strokes Pat’s hair. “Are you feeling hot? Do you need some water?”

Pat shakes his head. “I just wanted to make sure you’re still here,” he mumbles, hoping that nobody had heard them.

Pran chuckles on the top of Pat’s sweating head. “I’m here,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep, I’ll wake you if there’s anything,”

“Mm,” Pat agrees and resumes his position back on Pran’s shoulder. The sounds of Pran discussing matters with other students, slowly lulls Pat back to sleep.

Pat wakes up with a gasp, choking for air and pressing his chest harshly. He’s coughing from a lack of breath and someone is holding him tightly. Usually when the dreams come, Pat feels a gust of cold wind enter his body. But not today. Today, he feels the exact same warmth he felt in that dream.

He coughs violently while rubbing at the tears that had dropped down his face. When he looks up, Pran is over him, eyebrows creased in concern and arms wound tightly around Pat. Pat’s hand unconsciously moves to grip at Pran’s bicep. “Pran,” he gasps.

“You’re okay,” Pran whispers softly. “I’m here, you’re okay,”

Pat slumps against Pran the second he hears those words, allowing the remain tears to be ripped out of his body. His heart is burning from a lack of breath, and something else. Something that hurt way more than whatever panic attack he had. Pran holds him and rocks him through it; Pat feels so familiar and at home.

He doesn’t dwell much on that thought.

Pran is breathing right next to his cheek and Pat smells a hint of alcohol. Pran must’ve been drinking. When Pat is calm again, he slowly turns his head to meet Pran’s face, flushed and intoxicated with alcohol.

“Feeling better?” Pran whispers, voice so low that it sends pleasant shivers down Pat’s back. He’s realising a lot of things he really didn’t wish he has to realise about Pran.

Pat nods slowly and Pran nods back. Soon enough, the arms around him are removed and Pat hugs himself, feeling colder than usual. Pran sits on the edge of the bed, watching the way Pat sits up to lean against the headboard and massage his temples.

His eyes are still red from the crying and suffocating; Pran resists the urge to hold him back, run his finger’s through Pat’s hair until he falls back asleep. “Another dream?” Pran asks again.

Pat nods, unable to look at Pran in the eyes. “I was sleeping in your arms,” he speaks so suddenly that Pran does not have the time to register the information.

When he is met with silence, Pat continues again. He hugs his knees to his chest and rests his forehead on them, hiding his face from Pran. “We were outside, surrounded by people,”

Pran nods. They stay silent again, for at least five minutes. Until Pran opens his mouth with a sigh, “I was drinking at the balcony; I know you won’t be sleeping anytime soon. Join me?”

Pat nods without thinking and follows Pran up the balcony of his home. The brown Jubin tiles they had placed on the balcony is heated from the hot Bangkok weather despite the sky being midnight black. There was not a single star at sight; unlike the starry night he would often see in his dreams.

There’s a carton of beer at the place where Pran sits on the warm floor; a few cans already empty and crushed. Pat sits next to him, hugging his knees again. The night is hot, but occasional breeze that wafts around them never fails to send shivers down Pat’s spine.

Pran hands him a can and opens a new one for himself. The boys drink in silence; Pran gulping down the whole thing and Pat, sipping slow sips. He huffs out a tired laugh at how uncharacteristically Pran behaves.

“Never knew you were a drinker,”

Pran hums, eyes half lidded, a small, almost unnoticeable smile on his face as he looks up at the dark sky. “I’m not,” he answers Pat. “Somewhere along these past few months, when the dreams become a common occurrence and the pain becomes unbearable.. I found out that being drunk numbs it down,”

Pat sighs at that, following Pran by downing the remnants of his beer in one go and coughing loudly. Pran chuckles at that and it sends yet another set of shivers down his spine. “You could’ve shared this information with me, you know,”

Pran shrugs. “I didn’t know you dreamed like me too,” he answers again. “We only found out that we dream about each other like a week ago,”

“That’s true,” Pat sighs, leaning on his palms as he motions for Pran to open him another can. The rapid beating of his heart is slow now, and he doesn’t feel the burn anymore. Pran was right, as usual, Pat thinks.

They sit in silence, and this time, it was not tense, uncomfortable or awkward. For the first time in their lives, Pat and Pran felt at ease, as if they were sixteen again. They gulp down their beers simultaneously, and pause. Then they erupt into a fit of giggles, hiccupping and hushing each other under the night sky.

Pran lies down on his back, crossing his arms behind his head when the laughter dies down. Pat sneaks a look at the boy on the ground; his eyes were closed and the lashes fanned against his cheeks. Pran was smiling softly now, and Pat forgot how much he had missed the way Pran smiles at him. He had missed Pran so much.

Pat follows suit after downing another can of beer, making sure to lie down until they touch by the shoulders. Pran exhales with a soft hum before speaking with a slurry voice; “Have you.. ever dreamed of the first time we met?”

Pat cranes his neck closer to Pran, hoping to hear him better. “How do you know it was our first meeting?”

Pran hums again, then lolls his head side to side in a no. “I don’t know it just felt like it,”

Pat shifts onto Pran’s side and props his chin up on Pran’s chest. Pran laughs lightly at the tickling sensation but doesn’t budge, even opting to place one arm across Pat’s back. His eyes remain close.

“You were a cop,” Pran answers. “And I was a rebel. I think I was an activist in those dreams,”

Pat has not dreamed of that, but from the way his heart gave a single thud against his rib cage was enough information to know that Pran was telling the truth. Pat had never dreamed about the important things. It was always the sweetest memories that they share together, and the bitter aftertaste that makes him wonder why he was feeling sad.

“You protected me from the army,” Pran slurs. “You saved my life.. Pat,”

Pat turns his head to the side, until his ear is plastered right over Pran’s chest. He involuntarily shuffles closer with a content huff. “Your heart is beating so fast,” he opens one eye to see if Pran would catch the words he had used.

Pran, smart as ever, opens his eyes to look at Pat and then laughs. They both laugh in the night, Pat on Pran’s chest, feeling the reverberations all over his body. Pran gets a little high-pitched and almost choked off with a sudden sadness when he says his next sentence;

“I would be surprised if it wasn’t,” Pran repeats exactly how Pat had heard those words in his dream. It only makes Pat hurt further, knowing that the boy in his dreams is Pran and only Pran.

“Did you dream of our first kiss?” Pat whispers this time.

“I’ve dreamt of us kissing,” Pran answers. “But how do you know it was our first meeting?” he retorts just like Pat did at him and Pat chuckles against Pran’s chest.

“I don’t know, I just felt like it,” he replies mockingly. “We were in a room. You had a guitar in your hand and I was.. looking at you-

“Like I held the stars in my eyes,” Pran looks right at Pat as he whispers the last part.

Pat feels his breath hitch when he looks at Pran. There were no stars in the polluted Bangkok sky, but Pran’s eyes shone so beautifully. Better than any dream of him Pat had ever has.

“Like you held the stars in your eyes,” Pat breathes back, eyes never leaving Pran’s. “You still do,” he adds.

Pran doesn’t smile, doesn’t laugh like he always does. The alcohol does not numb down the pain he feels. Instead, it amplifies everything that Pran feels in his body, on his body. Pat’s weight on him seems heavier, the soft puffs of breath against his neck is hotter than before, Pat’s fingers on his stomach, tracing absentminded patterns.

“You said,” Pran begins. “Oh no, we are in trouble,”

Pat nods. Pran watches him intently and together, they whisper;

“We are falling for each other,”

“And I said,” Pran’s voice goes lower if possible, already fisting the back of Pat’s shirt and pulling him closer. Pat finishes his sentence;

“Can I kiss you?”

He remembers Pat pulling him by the collar of his shirt in the dream. He remembers how it felt to have such warmth so close to him that it almost seeps into his clothes, burn through his skin and warm his heart enough to increase its speed.

He simply watches Pat who inches closer and closer when Pran makes no move to reject his question. When Pat raises his head to hover his lips over Pran’s, the hand on Pat’s back slides up to push into his soft hair.

What Pran didn’t expect from kissing Pat was how much the feelings in him fluctuated. There’s a peak of happiness, then drives down to sadness and hurt and Pran is gasping against Pat’s lips. Pat is too. They pull each other closer than ever; Pran pulling his head and Pat grabbing his shirt.

They kiss soft and slow at first, until Pran realises that yes, this was his missing piece. This, was what he had been waiting for his whole life. His heart feels like a pot of milk; bubbling and bubbling over until it boils and pours down his heart. And it’s burning and burning and keeps boiling even when Pran tries to reduce the heat.

“Pat,” Pran gasps and Pat gives him a muffled hum of acknowledgement, unable to get enough of Pran’s lips. They grip each other desperately by their thin clothes, and the kiss until their jaws hurt.

It wasn’t a surprise when one of them chokes out a sob, and Pran tastes the salt between their mouths. He ignores it and continues to kiss Pat through the tears. They’ll talk about this soon enough. But not today. Never today. Today he needed to kiss Pat until they lose their breaths.

Shariya notices the tension between Pat and Pran the next morning when they prepare to visit the mausoleum. She knew something was wrong immediately. It was too good to be true, Pat and Pran finally reconciling.

They don’t sit next to each other at breakfast and they don’t bicker like they usually do. The weirdest part is that they’re not even fighting or baring their throats at each other like hungry lions. She doesn’t bother them until after the visits have finished and Pat and Pran had both taken their lunch, worried that they might fight and storm off on empty stomachs.

It was nearing tea time and Shariya was just about make some banana fritters for the boys who were helping Rai fix the broken pipes at the backyard. Pat enters the kitchen with a sullen look. When Shariya turns to look at him, he immediately brightens and smiles. Shariya pretends to not notice the change.

“Naa,” Pat begins. “I’ll be leaving to the dorm now. I have a project that I have to finish,” he mumbles.

“Oh?” Shariya turns around from where she had been peeling the bananas. “Can’t you stay for a few more hours? I’m making your favourite,”

Pat offers her a quick side hug. “I promise to visit soon,”

“Alright,” she sighs. “Let me get Pran to take you-

“No!” Pat rejects almost immediately. When he realises his tone, Pat clears his throat and his polite smile is back. “No, I don’t want to bother him. He seems very tired,”

“Pat,” Shariya scolds lightly. “You’re part of our family. There’s noth-

“Naa, really,” Pat begs, almost desperately. Shariya could not stay quiet anymore.

“What is going on between you and Pran?” she asks. Her hands come to hold Pat’s in them and if she notices the shake in them, then that’s her problem.

Pat shakes his head a little too quickly and doesn’t look her in the eyes. “Nothing’s wrong. We’re just taking some time to get used to each other,”

“Did Pran do anything to-

“No,” Pat looks down. His hands shakes more in Shariya’s hands and she presses them harder. “No, really. We’re just figuring things out,”

“I’ll drop you off,”

The two of them turn around to find Pran standing by the kitchen, arms crossed and jaw clenched. He’s not angry, but Shariya knew that there was something in there. Pat looks at Pran with pain in his eyes and Shariya notices that.

“It’s fine,” Pat doesn’t smile as usual. He carefully removes his hands from Shariya’s and gives her a wai.

Pran is a stubborn boy, Shariya knew. If he really wanted Pat to come with him, he would be adamant enough to force the boy on his bike. But this time, all Pran does is nod and mumble, “Let me at least walk you out,”

Pat hesitates at first, but he nods again. His duffle bag is already at the door, so Pat slings is over his shoulder and walks out. Pran follows suit.

“Did you call for a cab?” Pran asks.

Pat shakes his head. “I’ll take the bus,”

He wants to scream, wants to grab Pat by the shoulders and tell him that he shouldn’t be afraid anymore. He wanted to beg Pat to let Pran protect him. To let Pran take care of him. Because the longer he watches the pain and fear in Pat’s eyes, the longer he wishes to hold Pat in his arms, keep him safe away from the world.

Instead, he just nods, ignoring the lump in his throat. “Okay,”

Pat smiles, steps down to the porch and offers Pran a small wave before he makes his way to the nearest bus stop. Pran watches him walk out of his house, pass two houses, until he decides to fuck whatever morals that had been stopping him.

“Pat!” Pran takes off on his feet and sprints to where Pat is walking. His heart burns again, but the pain reduces gradually when he comes closer to Pat. “Pat, wait!” he screams again.

Pat stops in his track and turns around with wide eyes when he notices Pran running towards him. Pran runs and runs and slams their bodies together into a tight hug. Pat’s arms naturally go around his waist while Pran wraps his around Pat’s shoulders. They hug tight enough that the air inside their lungs come out as choked off sobs.

“I’m sorry,” Pran whispers against his ears. “We’ll figure this out, Pat. Whatever this is, we’ll figure this out,”

At the sound of Pran’s voice in his ears, Pat slumps almost immediately in Pran’s arms, a shaky sob escaping from his lips as he grips the shirt around his waist tighter. Pran runs his fingers through Pat’s hair as they grip each other tightly.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Pran cries. “I should’ve been there for you. We should’ve talked about last night,”

“I’m so scared, Pran,” Pat whispers back. “Yesterday-we, hah, everything hurts.”

Pran pulls back to cup Pat’s flushed cheeks, wiping the tears away. “I know, I know, sweetheart,” he chokes off at the words that come out so naturally for him. “I promise, I promise we’ll find a way to fix this,”

Pat sniffles and rubs his nose against the crook of Pran’s neck. “What’s happening to us?”

“I don’t know,” Pran answers honestly. “I don’t know, Pat. But what I do know is that I’ll never leave you alone with your thoughts again,” he whispers.

“Please don’t,” Pat sobs, shoulders shaking. Pran’s heart burns vigorously at the sight. He nods, forcing himself to smile.

“I won’t,” Pran answers. He reaches for Pat’s head and presses a soft, fluttering kiss against his forehead. “I’ll be here. Whenever you need me,”

1973

“I need you to listen to me,” Pran begins, but Pat is already shaking his head, trying to remove the bag from his shoulder to give it back to Pran.

Pran’s grip is harder despite having a lot less energy than Pat. “No, no!” Pat screams amidst the crowd. “I’m not leaving you! I’m not,”

“Pat,” Pran tries to calm Pat down, holding onto his biceps. “Pat, PAT,” Pran screams. It seems to get Pat to quiet down. “There’s no time,” Pran cries. The tears flow freely down his face and Pat begins to sob too.

It was inevitable, their love.

“Just go to the city centre,” Pran cries, holding Pat close as yet another pair of feet trampled on him. “Take this and go to the city centre, okay sweetheart?”

“Pran, you promised,” Pat wails, gripping Pran by the collar. His vision is so blurry that he could not see Pran at all. Pat wishes he would stop crying so he could at least see his Pran one last time.

Pran cups his face tightly, hugging him until no air is able to enter Pat before he gives Pat a soft kiss. It was a kiss just like their first one; soft, quiet and pure. For a second, Pat forgets about the place they are in, the gunshots, and the smear of blood everywhere. For a second, Pat clings onto the boy he had fallen in love with, the boy he had begged a chance for and the boy who would risk his life for the country and Pat himself.

“Go,” Pran whispers against his lips. “Go and never turn back,”

“Pran,” Pat shakes his head slowly again, but Pran is already standing up, and pulling Pat with him

With one last kiss to Pat’s forehead, Pran says; “I love you.” And pushes Pat as far as he can.

“No!”

Pran stumbles off his bed with a thud, knees weak and vision blurring with tears. He desperately scratches at his heart for air to enter. He’s on the floor, crouching in pain when he reaches for the bedstand to pull out his inhaler. Pran takes it with shaky hands and coughs out the remaining air in him before squeezing the inhaler.

When a small amount of air enters his lungs and he is able to breath again, Pran drops his head on the floor with a thud. The pain is amplified even after inhaling air. He thumps his chest roughly with his fists, gasping out at the pain.

Pran can faintly hear the rain against his window, the pitter-patter along his roof and walls. It was fairly cold when he went to bed. Now, everything felt hot, to the extent of burning.

Somewhere along the way, Pran had released a strangled moan of pain, thrashing on the floor and almost ripping his shirt off. Pran felt his body burning all over, peeling his skin as if someone was setting him on fire. It was a pain he has never felt before.

Pran doesn’t realise when the door to his room is yanked open and his aunt and uncle come running inside. Shariya pulls Pran into her arms, pressing on his chest as he thrashed around. “Pran, Pran!”

“It- hurts,” Pran cries out. “Burning, it’s burning,”

Shariya’s heart aches for her nephew, but she remains strong for him. Rai had entered the room with a wet cloth, pushing Pran’s shirt over his head and wiping him down with shaky hands. They bite their lips from worrying for their nephew when he continues crying and screaming.

“Pran, please,” Shariya whispers. “Open your eyes, look at your Naa, we’re here,”

Suddenly, Pran gasps hard and his eyes shoot open. He stops thrashing around and raises himself from Shariya’s arms. Pran sits on the floor, heaving deep breaths of air and wiping the tears off his face. “Pat,” he turns to Shariya. “Where’s Pat?”

“He-

Shariya clears her throat, ignoring her palpitating heart. “He left yesterday, Pran,”

“I have to see him,” Pran raises himself up and his knees give out before falling down with a groan. His uncle holds him tight against his chest. But Pran gets back up with held of his uncle and stumbles out with his hands on the wall.

“Pran, how can you go now?” Shariya asks. “It’s three-

“I have to see Pat,” Pran cuts her off again. The shirt his uncle his ripped off of him is on the floor. Pran picks it up and grips it in his hands before making his way down.

“Pran, it’s too late now-

“Don’t stop me,” Pran whirls on his uncle and snaps loud enough. Louder than he has ever spoken. “I must go see him now,”

His uncle and aunt try to stop him again, even when he trips as he walks down the steps. But soon enough, they hear three loud knocks on their door. They freeze. Shariya is the first to walk down and check who it was at the door so late at night.

When Shariya opens the door, she almost falls down to her knees when she comes in contact with Pat, soaking wet it in the rain. He’s only in a thin black tank top, eyes bloodshot red, cheeks flushed from the rain and hair dripping with water.

Pat’s hands are shaking at his side and Shariya could not differentiate if the droplets on his cheeks are rain or his tears. He’s visibly shivering before Shariya, lips turning a pale pink. “Is Pran here?” Pat croaks out, almost inaudible for Shariya.

Shariya remains frozen. There was too many things for her to process.

“Please, is Pran here?” he speaks through his sobs. “I have to see him,” Pat cries.

Shariya is pulled aside by Rai when Pran emerges from where he stands. Pat exhales with a soft cry at the sight of Pran. He slumps down to his knees, under the rainy night. Pran doesn’t waste time in running out and pulling Pat into his chest as Pat sobs.

“You promised, Pran,” Pat sobs. “You promised,”

Pran bites his lips to will himself to stop crying. He needed to stay strong for Pat, needed Pat to know that this is his Pran, protecting him from all the hurdles in life.

“I know, I know, sweetheart,” Pran strokes Pat’s wet hair, pressing his lips to his temple as he sobbed. Pat clings onto Pran’s bare skin, he wouldn’t surprise if there were scratch marks against his back.

“I told you we’ll figure this out,” Pran whispers. “I told you I’ll never leave,”

Pat nods, coughing against Pran’s chest. He’s shaking uncontrollably, both from the cold and from the pain, relief and happiness of it all. He looks up, eyes filled with tears, eyelashes caught in them. Still, he looked so beautiful in Pran’s eyes.

Pran cups Pat’s face, fingers tracing every feature he could see. The taunt cheekbones, the flushed cheek, his clenched jaw, the bridge of his nose, his eyebrows and eyelids. Pran exhales harshly. “Fuck,” he chokes out. “How could I ever think about anything but loving you,” he whispers to himself.

Pat nuzzles against Pran’s warm palm, sniffling still. “I love you too,” he whispers. “I never got to say it then, but I love you too,”

Pran pulls Pat in for a kiss, almost desperately, just like their last night almost a century ago. Pat places his hands flat against Pran’s back, pulling him closer with a shaky sigh. Pran is holding Pat’s head almost painfully but Pat couldn’t care less. He needed to go closer to Pran, creep inside him and hide inside his ribcage so that no one will separate them again.

“I promised to wait for you when October comes,” Pat whispers against Pran’s lips.

“And I did go to you,” Pran replies. “And I will continue to go. Forever and ever, my Pat,”

Shariya enters their room around seven in the morning after leaving the boys alone for the night. The photo and letter in her hand felt heavier than ever.

Pat is sleeping on Pran’s chest, almost like a baby. It takes a while for Shariya to realise that Pran wasn’t sleeping despite his eyes being closed. He was absentmindedly tracing the tips of his fingers on Pat’s spine while he slept.

Shariya sits on the foot of the bed. Pran opens his eyes, albeit fiercely, as if afraid that someone was going to rip Pat away from him. When he realises that it was his aunt, Pran’s eyes soften.

Shariya’s hand rests on one of Pat’s thighs that had been strewn over Pran’s hip. “How is he?” Shariya whispers.

Pran exhales softly, eyes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. He couldn’t speak loudly because Pat’s ears are so close to his lips. So Pran whispers, “He just fell asleep an hour ago. He didn’t want to sleep,”

Shariya nods, then pauses. “How are you?” she asks.

Pran huffs out a small laugh. “Better now, Naa,” he speaks. Pran seems so tired a weak; Shariya could understand why now.

“I, um,” she begins, eyes fixed on the paper in her hand. “I think I’ve been holding something that belonged to you for a very long time,”

Pran furrows his eyebrows at first, but when he notices the burnt letter in Shariya’s hand, he visibly tenses. Pat stirs in his sleep and Pran relax immediately, shushing him against his head. Pat scuffles and nuzzles against Pran before stilling again.

“Where did you get that?”

Shariya’s laugh is quiet when Pran looks at her with utter confusion. “It’s quite funny actually,” she looks at where Pat sleeps so peacefully on Pran. “He gave it to me; almost 40 years ago,”

It takes Pran a while to register what his aunt was saying. Until he gasps softly, eyebrows creased. “You mean-?”

“I met him when I was a child,” Shariya explains. “He died before my eyes, and I didn’t want the letter to just go forgotten like that,”

“You know about us?” Pran asks. “You- knew what happened, Naa?”

Shariya nods, choking out a laugh. “I was too young to understand about all these.. reincarnations and past lovers. But that old man.. was so sad when he told me your story. I had been a child, believing in happily ever after,” Shariya croaks. “But I knew something happened. And you were not reunited. What happened?”

Pran smiles at that. “It must’ve been very hard for you,” he whispers. “Keeping this story in you while you waited for us to grow. And find each other again,”

She didn’t know what Pran had told her for her to choke out a sob. “I kept thinking about him, kept wondering how sad one would have to be to just.. Die like that,”

Pran sighs. Then he carefully holds Pat and places his head on the pillow. Pat moans and groans a little at the loss of contact but Pran kisses his head for a few times and he becomes quiet again.

Shariya doesn’t feel like she’s watching her nephews. She felt like she was watching the two boys in that photo.

Pran raises himself from the bed and offers a hand to Shariya. “We should talk outside, Naa,”

Shariya follows Pran, hand in hand. Somehow, she feels six again, losing her mother and sitting next to the old man that tole her their story. She contemplates on whether she should ask if Pran was possessed by the soul of that boy years ago.

Pran only stands outside his room with the door closed. He tells Shariya that he doesn’t wish to stay away from Pat, afraid that he would cry for Pran again. Shariya understands. She hands Pran the letter and photo.

Pran takes one look at the photo and releases a surprised laugh. “This is so old,” Pran smiles. “He scolded me a lot when the picture came out. I wasn’t looking at the camera,”

“Do you.. remember everything?”

Pran looks at Shariya, smile fading a little, but he pushes it up soon enough. “We’re going to need more time to finish the story. Some things are still a little hazy, but at least I have him with me. That’s all that-

“Pran?”

They both hear Pat’s call and Pran almost sprints back into the room. He gets on the bed, cradles Pat’s head like a baby and hugs him tight. “Hi,” Pran whispers. “Do you need anything, sweetheart? Are you thirsty?”

Pat doesn’t answer him, opting to just stare at Pran. Shariya watches from the corner, hoping to hide herself. Pat’s eyes are wide and soft, as if he could not believe that this was real. He touches Pran’s face so softly and Pran smiles. Pat presses his dimples with a sniffle again. Pran covers their hands and kisses the inside of Pat’s palm. “What is it, love?”

“I just wanted to make sure you’re still here,” Pat whispers finally and Pran gives him a blinding smile. Pat feels like crying again. He never knew how long he had been waiting to see that smile again.

“Sleep, Pat,” Pran speaks, running his fingers through Pat’s hair. “I’ll be here when you wake up,”

Pat hums again, offering Pran a smile. “I love you,” he whispers again.

Pran gives Pat a soft kiss against his lips. “I love you too,”

When Pat wakes up again in the early afternoon, he’s on Pran’s lap. Pran is patting his chest in a slow rhythm, one that Pat remembers him doing when he couldn’t sleep during those scary nights. When he looks up, Pran is wearing his reading glasses as he reads a novel.

Pat new knew that Pran needed reading glasses. But what knew the most was his Pran years ago, needing reading glasses to write those democratic leaflets late into the night. Pat smiles. He never changed.

“You’re awake?”

Pran closes his book and smiles down at Pat. He runs his fingers through Pat’s hair simply because he can. “Are you hungry?” Pran asks.

Pat shakes his head. “I missed you,”

Pran’s breath hitches at his throat for the umpteenth time. He leans down to kiss Pat’s forehead, hugging him there. “I missed you too,”

“I miss our home,” Pat whispers.

“Pattaya?”

Pat nods. “There is somewhere I wish to go with you, Pran,”

It took them a while to convince Pran’s uncle and aunt that they wish to go for a week-long vacation to Pattaya. Pran had made a deal with his aunt to tell that they will call her every one hour. Pat had shyly apologised to Shariya for disturbing their sleep last night to which all she did was hug him tight and tell him she was completely fine.

They pack their bags, with mostly Pat sticking close to Pran. It was almost endearing that he could never leave Pran’s side. But it was also heart breaking to see Pat so weak and hurting. Pran remains quiet, even if he has to hold Pat’s hand in one and do all his work in another.

“How did you even come last night?” Pran asks absentmindedly as he packed their bags. Pat is sitting on the edge of the bed, tracing the veins on Pran’s hand.

“I drove a friend’s bike here,” Pat mumbles. His voice is still so soft, unlike the fierce boy Pran had grown to admire and now love.

“You drove?” Pran asks. “You drove to see me?”

He chuckles at that, looking up at Pran with a soft smile. “You took a bomb for me, I can’t overcome my fears for you?”

“Hmph, my Pat,” Pran coos, cupping Pat’s cheeks and leaning down to bump their heads together. “When did you learn to speak like that, hm?”

Pat giggles, a soft and beautiful voice that Pran has only ever heard in his dreams. He doesn’t resist the urge to push Pat down onto the bed and kiss him breathless.

“Pran, what-

Pran silences his lover again, hugging him tight and kissing him hard. Pat gasps against Pran’s lips, but pulls him closer, legs going around Pran’s waist to lock them on his back. “God, I missed kissing you,” Pran whispers. His lips trail across Pat’s warm skin, taking in everything about the boy below him. The way he shakes under Pran, the way he smells, the little noises he makes and how he touches Pran in all the right places.

He kisses a spot under Pat’s neck, one that never fails to set his body on fire. “Ah, Pran,” Pat whispers. “S-stop, your family is downstairs,”

“So?” Pran whispers back. “I finally got you back after waiting for so long,”

He feels Pat nod under his lips; Pran bites the skin near his throat and watches it bloom with blood on the surface. Pat tries to resist Pran with a small laugh, but Pran doesn’t budge. He raises himself from Pat’s neck with a small smile. “Usually you would be the one dying to kiss me. What changed?”

“Your family is down,” Pat pushes him again, smiling so brightly. “We have all the time in the world, Pran,”

“I guess you’re right,” Pran sighs with mock disappointment. He makes a show to slowly get up from Pat’s arms. But Pat, using the strong legs he wrapped around Pran, pushes him back down.

Pat grabs him by his collar and gives him another hard kiss, enough for Pran to go breathless. Then, he pushes Pran and raises himself up with a cheeky smile. “I’ll be waiting for you,”

Pat turns around to smile at Pran again. “I’ll always be waiting for you, my Pran,”