Work Text:
1989
“Pran, please?”
“No,”
“Just do me this one favour and I’ll forever be grateful to you, man,”
“No,”
“Pran, it’ll be fun!”
Pran finally looks down from where he had been fixing the light of their rusty workshop. He frowns at his best friend, wishing he could just throw the old bulb on his head and watch it crack satisfyingly. “If it’s so fun, you go then,” Pran snapped.
Wai groans, pushing a hand into his hair; “I can’t! I promised Mae that I would be home for the weekend, it’s Wani’s wedding,” he reasons. “And I promised P’Toto that I’ll send someone in my steed. The ballroom dancing class would be ruined if we don’t have an even number of students,”
Pran carefully steps down the shaky ladder, his glare never faltering at his ass of a best friend. With a deep scowl, Pran projects his anger by shoving the screwdriver into Wai’s chest. Wai catches it with a painful groan, still tagging behind Pran like an annoying cat.
“Please? It’ll just be for two days! And there’s even a party on the last night!”
“Wai,” Pran snaps. “Do you understand that I would have to close my shop for two whole days just to attend your stupid dance class?”
“Aw,” Wai frowns. “So what? You work too much, you should take some days off, get to dress up nicely and dance with pretty strangers!”
Pran resumes his position behind his working table to get started on the broken electrical appliances his customers had given him. Wai continues nagging behind him, informing Pran about all the pretty girls that would be there and how he would get to dance with them for two days, how they would be dressed up in nice gowns and he gets a suit for free. Pran couldn’t care less.
“Pran-
Pran slams his test pen down, annoyed with his friend’s voice. “Fine!” Pran snaps. “Fine, I’ll fucking go just- just stop talking,”
Wai brightens immediately at that, running to hug his best friend and give him a big kiss on his cheek. Pran grimaces, wiping the residual saliva and cursing at Wai to go take a shower because he stinks. Wai doesn’t bother, resuming his tight arms around Pran.
“I’m so happy, thank you Pran,” Wai coos, and Pran rolls his eyes. “And thank me when you find yourself a nice wife,”
Pran rolls his eyes again.
As if.
---
The morning of the 8-hour dance class, Pran is already in a bad mood. Wai had stolen all of his proper shirts and left Bangkok, so Pran had to make do with a plain white T-shirt. The light in his shop had stopped working again, and Pran had left his Walkman behind in the rush of catching the bus. He hated not having his Walkman with him.
He squints at his leather journal, at the address that Wai had scribbled on for him. A small and white building stands before his eyes, newly repainted to cover the moss it bore before, only one entrance at the front. Pran takes a hesitant step towards it and stops by the wooden door that had been closed. The door is creaky with age, scratch marks and scribbles here and there.
He looks down at his journal again; Sukhumvit, Ballroom Dancing Class, 9.00-17.00, 22/04/1989 – 23/04/1989.
Pran looks at the handwritten poster by the door, examining the correct information before pushing through. The first thing he registers is the numerous people that gathered in the ballroom studio. Then, Pran looks around, taking in the architecture of it all; It was beautiful for an old building. The ceiling was raised high and curved into a dome, beautiful carvings around the studio that gave the classes some meaning, polished wood that were scratched with age and history. Pran was taken aback.
“Pran!”
Pran whirls at the unfamiliar voice of a man calling for him. A chubby man with a bright smile walks up to him, patting him on the shoulder. Pran tries not to show how annoyed he had been first thing in the morning and bows respectfully at the man.
“I’m P’Toto,” he introduces himself. “Wai told me he sent you as his replacement. Thank you for saving this class,” Toto groans. “I needed everyone to be in pairs, it would not be nice if Wai could not make it,”
“It’s..” Pran begins, coughing uncomfortably; “It’s not an issue, P’Toto,”
Toto gives him another slap on his back and tells Pran to mingle around while they wait for more students to come. Pran looks around, noting the working adults around the ballroom, laughing and socializing together. He wonders why grown people like them would want to sign up for such classes like this. But then again, his own friend had signed up for said class.
Pran kills time by isolating himself at the very back of the ballroom, waiting for the students to gather so he could finish this class and leave immediately. He waits exactly twenty minutes, before the dance instructor calls for them draw out their numbers to be paired up. The usual anxiety settles deep inside Pran as he wonders who he would be paired up with. Pran curses out at Wai again, because he is, about to be stuck with some girl for the next two days, dancing like a puppet.
He waits for everyone to finish drawing out papers, face set in a grim line as he watches them squeal excitedly and run up to their respective partners. When the crowd begins to reduce, Pran pushes himself away from the wall he had been leaning on, ignoring the curious looks he received. He walks up to the glass bowl, frowning when he comes in contact with an empty bowl. Pran turns around, finding the students all paired up and standing next to each other. Which meant that-
The door to the ballroom is pushed open with a load slam. Pran jumps, eyes wide as he, along with the other students, turn in the direction of the door. A boy enters, face flushed, breathing heavily. Pran’s eyes trail all over him, from the thick hair that dusted his forehead, the strong jawline, the parted lips that heave for air, the thin gold chain that rests on his chest, the dark green shirt he wore, tucked into a pair of black trousers. Pran’s hand inside the glass bowl falters, as he pulls it out. The boy pushes the strap of his bag that had fallen to his arm, up his shoulder, gripping it tightly as their eyes catch across the room. Pran notices a ring that glimmers on his index finger.
“There must have been a miscalculation,” the dancing instructor tells Pran. He turns back to her, willing his lips not to turn into a frown. “You don’t mind pairing up with him right?”
“I, um..”
Pran sighs; it was not like he actually had a choice. So he nods, turning around to sneak a glance at the beautiful boy again. He stands by the door, feet shuffling, looking anywhere but at Pran. The dance instructor walks up to him and he wais respectfully at her. Pran watches the dance instructor motion to him, and the wide doe eyes at the boy who look at him, then look away.
Pran feels his heartbeat stutter.
He distracts himself by aligning himself with the row of students who had already begun to practice. The empty space before him is soon occupied by the shy boy who refuses to look at him. Pran watches those doe eyes dance around him, shyly looking at the students on either side of him as they began to link hands with their partners.
Pran decides to make the first move, bracing his hands before him, motioning for Pat to link his own. The boy stares for a solid second, then realises that everyone had already linked their hands. So he hesitantly aligns his own before Pran’s, and they link, only by the tips of his their fingers. Pran notices the soft blush that dusted his golden skin, and his heart stutters again.
Much to his surprise, the boy is the one that makes the first move, left foot before Pran, then right to his side. Pran stumbles, right foot going behind him. And for the first time, the shy boy smiles. A dimple forms against his cheekbones; Pran bites back a gasp. His heart begins to pick up pace when the boy continues moving skilfully, creating a rhythmic waltz along with the other students.
Pran stumbles to follow, shy to ask for help, or even properly hold link their hands together. He looks up at the boy, catching the tip of his tongue that darts out in concentration as he listens to the instructor. Pran stumbles on his feet again, and the boy looks up, a soft smile, almost not there if he didn’t look closely. “First time?” he asks, voice gentle like the cool breeze on a hot Bangkok night.
Pran bites his lips, nodding, “You?”
The boy is distracted by the hand movements that the instructor explains. Their linked hands broken to touch the hands of the person beside them in a light tap. Then, their hands resumed together again. And Pat answers his question; “I’ve learned the basic steps, but it’s my first time here too,” he answers.
“Take the hand of your partner and gently let them lean back, then pull into a twirl,”
Pran furrows his eyebrows at the instruction, unsure of what he should possibly to. But the boy is fast, intertwining his right hand with Pran’s left, smiling again and saying, “Hold me tight,” and taking one step back to lean solely on the strength of Pran’s hand.
Pran listens, holding his hand tightly and yanking him back for a twirl. The boy twirls perfectly, his shoulder brushing Pran’s chest along the way. When they face each other again, Pran does not have time to speak before the instructor teaches a new move.
Pran’s eyes never leave the boy’s as they clasp hands with the person beside them and switch partners. Their eyes lock across the room even as they grow further apart. Pran stumbles on his feet every second, earning the annoyed glare of each student. He doesn’t bother, eyes latched on the dark green shirt that twirled the ladies beautifully.
Pran gets to the end of the line and is pushed to the side, hands braced before him only to realise that he had gotten out of the line of dancers. He stares at the boy, unsure of what to do now. Thankfully enough, the sequence ends and a new one begins. Pran is paired up with the boy again.
They are instructed to come closer, hold each other almost like lovers. Pran sputters at the usage of words. The boy before him is flushed, but still looking at him with his doe eyes. Pran scratches the back of his neck, biting his lip, not looking at the boy when he hesitantly rests his hand on the left of his waist.
“Is.. is this okay?” he asks and the boy chuckles, showing his teeth in a grin. He nods, his own hand resting lightly on Pran’s shoulder while the other reaches to take his hand and link them by their heads.
Unable to bear the weight of his gaze and the close proximity, Pran focuses on the ambience of the room; the dimly lit ballroom, the shuffle of feet around them, light giggles here and there, and the faint music that plays from the dusty radio. Pran looks at their hands, his fingers warm in the wedge between the boy’s index and thumb. They sway to the music; Pran merely stepping in the opposite space of where the boy steps.
“Sorry, I-
Pran stutters when he hears a soft chuckle near his ear. He looks up, eyes pained with the guilt of messing up their dance routine. The boy smiles again, shaking his head; “Don’t be. Just relax,”
How was he supposed to relax when the hand on his shoulder is so warm, penetrating through his thin shirt? How was he supposed to relax when the faint smell of roses and sweat kept flooding through his nose, disturbing his thought process? Pran stares at the boy who smiles brightly. The hand in his tightens. Pran instinctively does the same for his hand on his waist.
“Relax,” the boy whispers. “Follow me,”
Pran does. His eyes never leave the boy’s wide ones, watching them crinkle with delight, then squint with concentration. He catches every feature on his face, from the long lashes, the cheekbone dimples, the thick eyebrows that touch his fluffy hair, the lines on his neck, a mole here and there.
The song is dull in the background as the bright boy guides him around the ballroom. He smiles wide when Pran dips him, gripping onto his bicep, and complimenting Pran with how much better he has gotten the last time they tried the dip. Pran blushes, gripping the boy’s waist in an effort to not drop him.
“You are getting better,” he breathes when Pran pulls him back up, both hands on his shoulders. Their chests touch, heaving together in the rush of adrenaline. Pran smiles, holding the boy closer, feeling the smoothness of the polished wood under their feet as they swayed unconsciously while waiting for the next instructions.
The boy’s fingers brush against the mullet by his nape, carefully holding him as they rhythmically stepped around each other. “Thanks to you,”
The boy laughs beautifully against his ear; “Oh, please. You’re a fast learner,”
Pran is stubborn, “No,” he hums. “The credit goes to you,” without a chance for the boy to speak, Pran takes the hands that wrap around his neck and twirls the boy behind until his chest presses against his back. Pran takes their entwined hands and pushes them down, before the boy’s stomach, pulling him flush against his chest. He relishes in the way the boy against his chest gasps with surprise, clinging onto his forearms out of shock.
The boy looks to his side, where he catches only half of Pran’s face, his chin resting by his shoulder. Pran dares to look to his side, smiling at the wide eyes and parted lips of surprise. Soon enough, the boy smiles, albeit shyly before Pran turns him back to face each other.
“Stubborn,” he states endearingly, placing a hand on Pran’s shoulder while the other clasps their free hands together. They sway together, matching smiles, sweat dripping down their temples, but never wanting to stop.
“Determined is what I like to call it,”
When the class was over, the evening light seeped through the windows, a sign of sunset as everyone prepared to leave. Pran hated crowding, so he waits until everyone finishes leaving through the door. He leans against the wall at the very end of the ballroom, arms crossed and waiting for the crowd to dissipate.
His eyes gravitate around the room again, finding for a certain boy with expressive eyes. Only then does Pran bite back a curse; They had been dancing for a whole day, and he had never asked for the boy’s name. Pran presses a hand to his throbbing temple, wondering why on Earth he was so stupid. He looks around the room, hoping to find a dark green shirt, a shimmering chain, a mess of dark hair, a pair of wide eyes.
He must have left early, Pran thinks begrudgingly.
“Pran!” P’Toto comes up to him, a grin across his lips, much to Pran’s dismay. He plasters a smile even when every cell in his body begged to go back home. “Wai told me you’re an electrician,” he begins, then motions to the row of lights that hung by the side of the ballroom. “These lights need some fixing, could you help please? I’ll pay you even,”
The thing about Pran, is how much he cannot say no even if he tried. So he scratches the back of his neck, pushing away the annoying hair that tickled his nape. “Um.. I’m not so fr-
“Please, Pran,” Toto whines. “It’s for the ball tomorrow night; it wouldn’t be nice to host a ball with flickering lights,”
Well.
Pran’s mind wanders to the potential future, where he would be dancing with the golden boy, clad in suits under the yellow lights, the slow disco ball that turns above them, his bright smile and laugh when Pran dips him in his arms. When Pran twirls him and he lands perfectly against his chest because Pran would always be there to catch him.
Suddenly, staying back didn’t feel so tiring.
Pran nods, a hesitant smile on his face when Toto thanks him and drags him to where the appliances to fix the lights would be. He leaves Pran with the promise of returning to lock up at night. So Pran spends an hour of his day to fix the lights around the ballroom with the thin sliver of hope that he would be able to dance properly with the boy again.
He makes a mental note to head back home and practice every technique the teacher had taught him, adamant on making himself look good and dance good for the boy tomorrow. Pran easily fixes the lights, testing them multiple times (to feed to his delusions of dancing with the boy under those very lights, sue him.) before turning them off with a satisfied huff.
He writes a little note for Toto, just in case he wonders where Pran had gone before leaving. Pran pushes the creaky wooden door with one hand, while the other tightens the strap of his shoulder bag, body aching with delight from the dances. However, after he opens the door, Pran halts in his steps, eyes widening.
The boy is sitting on the steps, overlooking the orange sky. Pran freezes, taking in the way the wind sifts through his damp hair, the arms that hug his knees, making him feel smallest in the most adorable way possible. The ring shimmers against his index finger, golden from the orange sun. Pran presses a hand to his heart, willing it to not beat so fast. He wonders if the boy had heard all the thoughts in his mind, and is not grossed out by him.
“Hi,” Pran breathes instead.
The boy jumps, turning his head with wide eyes. He resembled an adorable dumpling; cheeks puffed up, glistening with sweat. “Hi,” he smiles, flushing up again. Pran takes a step forward and sits beside the boy. Their shoulders brush briefly, then they recoil with embarrassment, biting back shy smiles.
“I..” the boy begins, reaching into his black bag to withdraw a greyish cassette. Pran watches with curious eyes, the printed label, reading it.
ชอบตัวเองตอนอยู่กับเธอ,
I like myself when I’m with you.
“I wanted to give this to you,” he mumbles, ears growing red. “You said you were going to practice when you go back. I.. I use this song all the time. It’s my favourite song,”
Pran takes the cassette and holds it in his hand, as if it was the heart of the boy. He touches the sharp edges of the grey cassette, mouthing the words of the song. “I wish I knew this song, so we could dance better,” he replies.
“Oh-
The boy reaches into his bag again, this time, producing a Walkman, black like his hair and smiling at Pran. He finds a spare pair of headphones and plugs them both into the receiver. Pran stares, giddy like a schoolgirl. “We can listen to it now,” Pat offers. “Together,”
It was the soft together that made Pran inch closer to the boy, gently taking the pair of headphones that he offers him and fastening it against his ears. The sound around him is silences by the rough sponge of the headphones, but Pran could still feel the whirs and clicks of the machine.
The song begins with a soft whir of the record tape, and then-
I like myself when I’m with you
How I am when I’m with you
How I become a better person than before
Pran turns to the boy, finding himself unable to hold back the smile that appears on his lips. The boy beside him is smiling too, eyes closed, head turned in the direction of the sun that sets, lips mouthing the lyrics. The music plays in his head, but Pran’s attention is on the boy.
I’m not all good, just a normal human
Sometimes with temper, sometimes unkind
A bit hopeless sometimes
Pran pushes one side of the headphone away from his ear, content with hearing the off-key hums the boy does. He watches him, head swaying as if imagining himself in a ballroom fool of people, being held so gently by the one he loves, and being swayed by the music. Pran hopes that he is the one the boy thinks of.
When the song was over, Pran finds himself plastered next to the boy, from shoulder to the sides of his thigh. If the boy had noticed, he doesn’t move away. Instead, he turns to Pran, and gently removes the headphones so as to not mess his hair up or scratch his face with the wire. Pran gives him a smile which he gladly returns.
They stay like that for God knows how long, gazing at each other by the steps of the ballroom studio. The boy before him was so beautiful, Pran wonders if he knew that. The boy breaks their gaze first, pushing the cassette into Pran’s pale hands. “You can use this,” he says.
Pran looks down, then shakes his head politely; “Oh, it’s oka-
“I want you to,” he insists, nodding encouragingly. “You can use it to practice our dance,”
Our dance.
Pran looks down to hide his smile. Then masks it with a playful frown; “Are you saying I cannot dance well?”
The boy panics at first, then notices the playful aura that surrounded them and he smirks. Pran falters because, how, HOW does he look so good? “There is room for improvement,” he teases.
Pran laughs along, under the hot evening sun. He looks at the cassette in his hands and then remembers. Pran whips his head up, eyes wide; “Before I forget,” he begins. “May I have your name?”
The boy looks surprised at first, and then laughs beautifully at the sight of Pran’s wide and desperate eyes. “My name is Pat,” he smiles.
Pat.
His name is Pat.
“Pat,” Pran practices the name on his lips. “I am Pran,”
“Pran,” Pat smiles. “Nice to meet you,”
---
Later that night, (when Pran is practicing their dance using the song Pat had given him) Wai calls. The cranky ring of his telephone is heard all the way down from his room. Pran sighs, clicking the pause button on his Walkman to answer Wai’s calls.
“Hello my best friend, my brother, my-
“Shut up. What do you want?”
“I just want to talk to you,” Wai’s voice is rough through the receiver. Pran rolls his eyes. “How was the class? Did you meet the pretty girls? Find one to marry?”
His mind wanders back to the boy; Pat. His smile, the gold chain that rested on his neck, the mole right by his throat, his fierce eyes. Pran finds himself smiling.
“Pran? Hello?”
Pran coughs; “Uh, no. It was okay,” he lies.
“I spoke to P’Toto about the ball tomorrow night. You.. don’t have to attend if you don’t want to. He say-
“No!” Pran is quick to answer. Silence ensues between them, until he bites his tongue after realising what had just escaped his lips.
Wai exhales, then chuckles knowingly into the phone; “Is there something you aren’t telling me, friend?”
Pran pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales, “I’m busy right now, Wai,” he pulls in an attempt to change the topic.
Wai, nosy as ever, only whines teasingly; “So you’ve finally fallen in l-
Pran slams the receiver back into the telephone and refastens the headphones against his ears. The song had finished, much to his dismay. Pran rewinds the song back from the top. He stands in the middle of his room, arm outstretched to touch the ghost of Pat. Pran still stumbled on his steps, forgetting some of them now that Pat is not there to gently remind him what to do next.
He closes his eyes, trusts his determination to win the heart of the boy by tomorrow, and imagines Pat before him. The song plays into his ears as Pran sways, groping the air, wishing it was Pat and manoeuvring himself around the room.
Till today, when you walked towards me
You made me realise
How better I can be
“I like myself when I’m with you,” Pran sings softly, smiling at the way Pat’s sweet smile pops into his head, the way he laughs when Pran dips him, the brief moment their noses brush. He takes it all in as he sways to the music and sings along to the lyrics. The steps come naturally, left first, then right next, then left following and the cycle repeating all while he holds Pat close and savours the soft smile and the tiny gasps of surprise.
And I like when you’re with me
I like when we have each other
I like that I get to love you
The song ends with a soft pan in the piano, and Pran stops, arms braced before his face. Finally, his eyes open and comes in contact with his dimly lit room. Pran pushes the headphone down to wrap against his next and removes the Walkman from his belt. He stares at the cassette, an excited smile against his face.
I like myself when I’m with you.
---
The next night, everyone enters the ballroom with glowing smiles and shining dresses. The men came with their hair slicked back, clad in three-piece suits, while the ladies let their gorgeous hair down, curled them beautifully and came in long dresses that shone so brightly under the golden lights of the ballroom. Pran stands by the buffet table, feeling uncomfortable and out of place. The suit he wore had been borrowed from Toto who, suspiciously has a closet full of random outfits that could never fit him.
He looks at the mirror across the ballroom, eyes travelling over his maroon suit, the white shirt that was a tad too big for him until the collar hung loosely behind his neck and spilled out through the hem of his sleeves. But it fit him perfectly, and Pran was thankful enough for that. Toto had even offered to style his hair properly, given his horrifying decision to just attend the ball with his fluffy hair unattained.
Pran wonders how Pat would look like tonight. He had already been beautiful yesterday, Pran thinks about how Pat could become any more beautiful. So he waits patiently, even when the party has begun and everyone had already filled the dance floor with their perfect waltzes. Some ladies had walked up to him, to shyly ask him to dance with them, but Pran declines. He would like his first (and last) dance to be with Pat and only Pat.
The doors to the ballroom open and Pran straightens expectantly, an excited smile forming against his lips. Pat catches his smile from where Pran stands and he enters, a shy one matching Pran’s on his lips. He raises his hand in a half-wave, and Pran smiles wider.
He wants to press a hand to his chest and stop it from beating too fast. Pran thinks he might pass out from the beauty that Pat was. His hair is gelled up, a strand of it falling down his forehead, and his lips glistened under the golden lights. He wore the same gold chain Pran noticed yesterday, a heart shaped pendant that rested at the base of his throat, not that he had been looking. He glowed like the sun, even when he dressed like the sky; A baby blue suit, paired with a white shirt and a cotton rose that rested over his heart.
He walks over to where Pran stands, smiling wide. Pran takes in the smell of roses, and the hint of cologne. “You look..” Pran trails off, unable to find the words to explain, using his eyes to explain instead.
Pat only huffs out a small laugh, bracing his hands before him for Pran to link his fingers with. “You don’t look too bad yourself, Pran,” he says Pran’s name so perfectly and Pran instinctively tightens their hands together.
The music begins, a dull boring ballroom waltz, but both Pat and Pran knew what was playing inside their heads when they begin dancing. Pran takes the lead in the waltz, much to Pat’s surprise, humming confidently along to the music, taking one of Pat’s hand and placing it on his own shoulder. Pat’s eyes are wide and curious as to what more the boy hides from him. Pran only smiles, wrapping his arm around Pat’s waist, gripping their linked hands to dip the boy.
Pat gasps in surprise, just like how Pran loved, tightening his hold on Pran until his nose brushes against Pat’s bobbing Adam’s apple. And he brings the boy back, effectively holding him close.
“Oh,” Pat gasps, their foreheads touching as Pran sways them in the meantime. “That was..”
Pran merely hums, cutting the boy off as he puts some space between them. They grip each other by a forearm, and Pat yanks them until their shoulders brush side by side, eyes never breaking contact as they circle each other. Pran is the first to choke out a shy laugh, and Pat follows.
Pran uses his grip on Pat’s forearm to pull him again, sling his own arm over Pat’s shoulder while they swayed. Pat presses against his chest, and turns his head to the side, smile never faltering at Pran who sways them side to side. The music plays in the background, the people dance around them in circles, but nothing goes into his mind. Only Pat, his bright smile, the thin layer of sweat against his skin and the way he glowed under the dim lights, registers into Pran’s mind.
“Did you practice?” Pat asks him, voice thick with happiness.
Pran hums, pursing his lips as if deep in thought. He takes one step back and raises their intertwined hands to twirl Pat around. The movement takes him by surprise, but Pran easily guides him with his arms and pulls him back until their chests press again. “How does it feel like?” Pran whispers.
Pat does not answer, but he merely pulls Pran closer with a sigh. The music stops in between, while the they wait for the next one to play. Pat and Pran don’t stop dancing. Pat wraps his arms around Pran’s shoulders and steps closer until their cheeks rub against each other. “It’s my birthday today,” Pat whispers.
Surprise takes over Pran, but not for long. Nothing ever takes over his feelings when a boy this beautiful is plastered against his body. His fingers tap rhythmically against the back of Pat’s baby blue suit; “What would you like as your gift then?” Pran replies in a murmur, intoxicated by everything that Pat was.
The smell of gel and the short strands of Pat’s hair tickles his nose as they sway under the golden lights. When Pat pulls back, his eyes never leave Pran’s, lips parted in a half-smile as he shakes his head; “This is a gift for me,” he replies, and again, Pran’s heart begins to speed up again.
He doesn’t reply to Pat’s words. Instead, Pran presses their hands together, floating between them, and begins the first ever waltz Pat had taught him. Left foot front, right foot next, left foot follows and the cycle repeats. Pat watches with an endeared smile, as the boy shows him how much he had improved. However, the distance between them is not such a nice thing for both Pat and Pran. So Pran quickly pulls the boy closer, wraps and arm around Pat’s waist and takes him by surprise when he dips Pat the second time.
This time, Pat doesn’t gasp with shock, nor does he grip onto Pran with the fear of falling. He leans freely against the muscles of Pran’s forearm, throwing his head back and laughing gleefully as the air sifted through his hair. Pran presses a soft kiss to the chain against his throat, smiling against his neck as he holds Pat low. Pat’s one hand touches his nape as usual, pressing at the skin there when Pran brings him up, laughing breathlessly.
“You always surprise me,” Pat breathes against Pran’s lips.
They dance like that throughout the party, never bothering to stop or eat. At one point into the night, the guests at the part began to switch partners, wanting to dance with new faces. Pat and Pran, who had been clinging onto each other, laughing and smiling in their own world, noticed the shift in faces.
Pat is the first to break the silence, “Would you like to dance with someone else?” it was unfair, unfair how he asked this in a soft whisper, forehead resting against Pran’s and holding him close. How could Pran ever want to leave whatever this boy was doing to him.
He only shakes his head, tightens his hold on Pat and continues their dance. The music was getting to him, boring and so stereotypical. Pran hated it. He hated dancing to boring songs with a boy that glowed so beautifully in his arms. Pat deserved symphonies, grand ballrooms coated in gold, and a cassette tape playing between them.
So Pran breaks the silence with a gulp, unable to look at Pat in the eyes as he spoke. The boy now rests his head against Pran’s shoulder, eyes closed and leaning completely on Pran as they swayed. They were far from dancing. “Pat,” Pran begins. “Would you like to get out of this place?”
Pat’s head comes up instantly, eyes wide as if asking Pran for a confirmation. Pran merely nods, smiling widely. The parted lips soon turn into a smile of their own as Pat takes his hand and pulls him to the side of the dance floor. They grab their bags and make a run for it, well into the night sky. Pran laughs airily, feeling the shift in temperature from the warm room into the cold night.
The run together, hand in hand, Pat turning back to grin widely at Pran. There’s a soft drizzle of rain that drops onto their suits but Pran couldn’t care less. This moment, here with Pat, felt like the freedom he had craved for years. They run and run and run together until they reach a stone bridge, just over the one of the streams that lead to the Chao Phraya river. With the rush of adrenaline still flowing deep in him, Pran easily swoops Pat in his arms and swings him around in the air.
The boy laughs like music to his ears, soft, high-pitched giggles as he cries for Pran to put him down. Pran does after a while, when the laughter has died down, and Pat now looks at him with the moon in his eyes. The night would be fairly dark if not for the single functioning streetlight illuminating Pat and Pran. Pran’s hands go around Pat’s waist naturally, just as his arms loop around Pran’s neck and their heads touch.
“Dance with me,” Pat whispers.
“I am a mere electrician,” Pran replies. “Would you have this dance with me?”
Pat’s eyes are closed to bask in the coolness of the raindrops against their heated skin, and the bright white light that resembled their very own spotlight. The wind surrounds them in a cool hug from the heat when Pat nods, “Only with you,” he replies.
It was a perfect answer for Pran who removes the Walkman from his pocket to clip it by Pat’s waist. They don’t stop swaying even as Pran plugs in a pair of earbuds, reaching up to gently fix one into Pat’s ear while fixes another into his own. The song plays, albeit roughly, a result from Pran repeating the tape so many times.
“I like myself when I’m with you,” Pran sings along to the song, swaying the two of them under the moonlight. Pat’s golden skin is painted with tiny droplets of rain water which Pran wipes away with one hand and Pat smiles in return. He feels almost drowsy from how dreamy everything feels for Pran.
Pran hopes this isn’t a dream.
“I hope this isn’t a dream,” Pat whispers and Pran bites back a laugh at the ridiculous coincidence. He busies himself by reaching down to wrap an arm around Pat’s upper thigh, slowly bringing it up until it rests against his hips.
Pat’s eyes grow wide, cheeks dusting pink when he feels his leg follow Pran’s hand willingly. Pran keeps a tight hold on both his thigh and his waist before slowly, very slowly dipping him down under the moonlight. From this angle, Pran’s breath hitches at the streetlight that shines against Pat’s golden skin, accentuating his features.
Pran’s lips rest just over Pat’s pulse, “I can assure you that it’s not,” he whispers against the heated skin, placing another kiss along the length of his neck, this time, firmer, until Pat feels it.
The hand on his nape unconsciously pushes into his hair, holding Pran tight against his neck as he raises them back up. Pat is no longer smiling when Pran brings him up. He breathes heavily, feet stumbling against the slow pace Pran sets for them. The earbuds they share rub against their skin uncomfortably. Pran remains singing to distract Pat and his beating heart.
“Someone with temper, someone unkind
Turned into a person who knows love just fine,”
Pat arches his neck, holding Pran close until he sings against the heated skin of his cheeks. He closes his eyes, relishing in the lips that move against his cheek, and sing so beautifully. Pat does not hide his compliments; “You sing so well,” he whispers.
Pran does not reply, and only continues to sing, but Pat feels the way his arms tighten around him. The plastic Walkman brushes between them, digging into their skin uncomfortably, but Pran wouldn’t trade this for the world.
He uses his grip on Pat’s waist to surprise the boy again, turning him around until his back presses against Pat’s chest. Pran’s arms go around Pat’s hips, clasping his own wrist to trap Pat in him. Pat merely relaxes against his chest, his pink lips pulled into a smile, eyes closed from the rain that poured. They are totally wet now, their suits damp, hair falling down their faces, the gel losing its purpose. But Pat does not move at all.
Pat’s earbud had accidentally been plucked off his ear when Pran turned him, but he couldn’t care less. Not when Pran is still singing the song against his cheek and swaying them back and forth under the moonlight. His own arms go behind to wrap around Pran’s neck, arching his back and fully giving himself up for Pran.
“I like myself when I’m with you,
And I like you when you’re with me
I like when we have each other
I like that I get to love you,”
“The song has finished,” Pran whispers, turning Pat around to face him again. The boy does not open his eyes, continues clinging onto Pran with desperation.
One hand moves to cup Pran’s jaw when he finally does open his eyes. They’re wide, glowing under the moonlight and searching Pran’s own eyes for something; “Don’t stop,” Pat whispers. “I want to stay in your arms longer,”
That was the last cut to the thin string of restraint Pran had been holding. He exhales, tearing the earbuds aways from his ears and cupping the back of Pat’s neck. The free hand begins to pull his thigh to rest against his hips again as he dips Pat under the cool Bangkok night.
“You always dip me,” Pat laughs. “I wonde- Mmnh!”
Pran silences the boy with a press of their lips, holding him by the nape and bringing him lower and lower. Pat’s arms go around his shoulders, playing with the mullet by his nape as he kisses Pran back, tasting the sweet champagne mingled with rain water. Pat’s lips are cold to Pran’s warm ones, probably from the rain, but he easily warms them up.
With a strike of thunder, the rain grows heavier, until Pat and Pran are drowning in it, but they never stop kissing. The kiss breathlessly, sucking in each other’s plump lips, exhaling harshly, inhaling more air before kissing each other again. Only when Pran feels his arms begin to burn with the weight of Pat leaning on them, does he pull the boy back up.
“Pran,” Pat comes up for air with a gasp, clinging onto Pran, resting their foreheads together as they breathed in the same air. “When will I see you again?” Pat whispers. Pran hated how good his name sounded when Pat whispers it like that.
“Whenever you want,” Pran answers.
“I don’t think I can dance with anyone else after this,” he chuckles, stealing a kiss from the electrician again.
Pran smiles, pushing the wet hair that had covered Pat’s beautiful eyes behind his head. “Then don’t,”
Pat’s smile widens, eyes closed as they bask in the comfort and warmth of each other. “I like myself when I’m with you,” Pat whispers the lyrics between them.
Pran smiles back, stroking the wet hair between his fingers, pushing it back,
“And I like you when you’re with me,”