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On the day Pran had bruised his shoulder during their annual Architecture versus Engineering game, Pat had been mad. No, he had been furious. It had been irritating enough that he couldn’t chec on Pran when he had injured himself, but finding out that his rival did not even take the initiative to care for his wound only made me angrier. Pran would be the last person he expected to neglect tnding to his wounds. Which was why he had rushed back to their dorms that night, with bruise cream and food for Pran.
It was the first time Pat had seen pain in Pran’s eyes, when he had pressed a little too hard on the bruise while applying the cream. Pat couldn’t think of a way to help distract Pran from the pain. All he could think about was their fucked up fate that prevented Pat from even showing an ounce of care for his so-called enemy. He hated it.
Somehow, the conversation about dimples were brought up and Pat was happy enough that he was distracting Pran from the pain. He wondered why his heart dropped, why his face paled in seeing someone he supposedly hates, hurt so much. He wondered why he would go lengths to spend the night with Pran just to check if he would sleep well. Pat didn’t know back then. But he knew now.
Pran had always been one of the strongest person Pat had known. When they were eight and both of them had fallen off the cycle they had been trying to ride together, both boys couldn’t tell their parents without exposing their silent friendship. Pran was the one that had covered up their bruises enough to sneak into his room to get it properly treated. Pat could vividly remember that day; when he bit his lips hard to hide the tears from his parents. Pran, though, remained as stoic as ever as he waited for the chubby boy to enter his room.
Pat could barely sneak past the concrete slab that connected their rooms without tearing up like a baby. Pran was the one who had silenced him, snapping at him for beig such a cry baby and then silencing Pat with a (rudely placed) rubber ball in his mouth. It always mesmerized eight-year-old Pat how smart Pran had been to treat his own wounds and even treat Pat’s own. The scrape on his knee never faded even after so many years. Pat had been yet again surprised when Pran pointed it out the other day, as they shared a nice bowl of store bought ramen noodles.
“You’re always so calm,” Pat had whispered to him that night, a rainy night with the last instant noodles cup he kept stealing bites from. They were in Pran’s dorm, the show his boyfriend had put on is blaring at the background but Pat could only watch the way Pran systematically slurps his noodles and chews. He was pretty sure Pran was the only guy he knew that actually chewed his food the proper way.
Pran had scoffed at that; “What do you mean by that?” he speaks only after swallowing, not looking at Pat, but leaning toward his warmth when the latter shuffles closer to steal another bite of his noodles. Pat doesn’t chew, nor does he swallo before speaking. Pran will de before he admits being endeared by that.
“How you handle things,” Pat replies, smiling with his mouth full and getting the sauce all over his lips. He could’ve sworn he saw a smile there, before Pran had masked it with the roll of his eyes and a grimace. “Every time there’s a problem. You handle it so well. Like, even when you get hurt, you barely flinch,”
Only then does his boyfriend turn, facing Pat on the couch with a mocking smile that Pat knows is a mask again. His boyfriend was so easy to read. “That’s because you’re the cry baby. Always have been. Tsk, ” Pran pauses talking with the click of his tongue when he finds the sauce stain gainst Pat’s lips irritating. It’s a subconscious action, reaching forward to wipe Pat’s lips clean with his finger.
“Sometimes, I worry that you bottle everything up and push it down. It’s not healthy, you know,” Pat replies once again. Judging from Pran’s far away look, Pat knew that he was back to thinking again. The kind of thinking that makes Pran forget about his surroundings, for a good or bad reason, Pat doesn’t know. The cup of noodles is forgotten between them, so is the Netflix show.
Pat rubs the hand he had place on Pran’s thigh with a soft smile. “You know you can talk to your boyfriend about anything right?” he whispers. Somehow, from the look in Pran’s face, Pat preferred whispering. Pran in his thinking process is very easy to startle and that would the last thing Pat would want.
Pran only stays silent for a few minutes before smiling until his dimples showed and made Pat’s brain shortcircuit for a moment. He had nodded, patting Pat against his chubby cheek and kissing it there. “I’m fine ,” Pran pulls. “Of course I know that,”
Pat doesn’t bring the conversation up after that night. Little did he know, how good his boyfriend is at botting up his feelings. After all, how could Pran get through five years of school while harbouring feelings for his lifelong rival? Pat would never know that. Pran was smart, Pran knew better than to cry about all the pain he has ever felt. That smartness (or stupidity) had been the cofactor to the walls he had built around his heart, made of titanium, impossible to break.
The dents in his titanium wall begun to show after a while. Pat knew it all too well. He may be oblivious, but with matters regarding his boyfriend, Pat would never falter. It came soon, when Pat had been shot.
Of course, it was in his nature to joke about the severity of the gunshot wound. Pran had rushed to the hospital, his prized earphones nowhere to be found, a symbol that only Pat knew; Pran coming to see him without a second thought. The momentary pain and panic in his eyes had been easily hidden with mock anger when Pat reassured his boyfriend he was fine. Pran took care of him very well, stubborn enough to not leave his side until Pat coaxes him to rest with the excuse of his parents coming to see him. He should’ve known. Should’ve known that Pran staying by his side was not only fo Pat, but for himself.
The day Pat gets discharged, Pran insisted on taking him back home and caring for him the whole day. He had told Pat that he was free of classes, but Pat knew his schedule like the back of his hand. A Wednesday; Pran would be swarming with classes today. Yet, as Pran gently sets him in his bed, covers him with the sheets and goes to prepare lunch for then, Pat could only stare quietly.
Pran never asked Pat how he felt, or if his wound hurt. He never asked, but he also never left Pat’s side. It was just Pran. His boyfriend always had difficulties expressing things he felt for Pat. But Pat always knew his questions from his actions. Every night, while Pat slept, (pretended to) the soft hand that touches around his wound, making sure it doesn’t have an infection. Every morning, when Pat has been awake for the last five minutes, a hand would swipe along his forehead and neck, to check for fever.
Or the Internet search history about gunshot wounds and how to care for them. Pat knew it all. Pran was a silent lover and he knew that. What he didn’t know, was Pran also being a silent sufferer. They speak to each other, hug and kiss each other as usual. It never crossed Pat’s mind that Pran would be hiding so much inside of him. Boyfriends care for each other, that was normal. Pat would do the same if Pran had been the one to be shot.
There. That thought being put in his head.
The thought of Pran being shot, Pran getting hurt. It makes Pat’s heart drop, makes his face pale again. Pat wouldn’t know what to do with himself if Pran was ever hurt like him.He’d probably cry first, and then try to find a way to fix this through his tears and snot. He would probably coddle Pran like a baby and never sleep until Pran is safe and healthy. Pat would do that in a blink. He would be traumatised, scarred for life, worried that Pran would leave him again.
So why wasn’t Pran doing the same? Why was he so.. calm about this?
That thought is yet again, pushed to the back of his head, when Pran comes back home from classes and fusses at Pat for walking around the house when he was supposed to be resting. Pat could only look down at the new scar by his hip and frown; He could barey feel anything, he was completely fine, yet here his boyfriend was, fussing over him.
The dents soon turn into scratches, deep enough to create holes. Pran’s wall had holes in it now. Pat notices it when their lives go back to normal. When Pat is completely healed and back to his normal routine. With spending two weeks missing his classes, Pat had a lot to catch up with. Of course, he missed cuddling with his boyfriend, so he tries to finish his work as fast as possible every day so he could come back home to see Pran.
One day, Pat unfortunately, has to stay up late in the library to revise some complex equations he couldn’t quite figure out. He didn’t want to bother Pran with his work, so it was better to finish it outside before seeing his boyfriend. His phone battery had died somewhere in the night, but Pat couldn’t care less. When he was finished with his work, he had a tired but satisfied smile on his face. Tomorrow is a Saturday; Pat would have all the time in the world to spend with Pran.
It was two in the morning, Pran would be sleeping with his mouth open, snoring like the dead aleady. That single thought was enough to make Pat brisk walk all the way to their dorm rooms with a soft smile. He arrive at Pran’s door, fumbling with his bag to pull out the keys.
The door opens by itself, much to Pat’s surprise. His dumbass would have thought it had been magic if not fo the sandal-clad feet that stood by the threshold. Pat looks up with wide eyes, lips parted in surprise at Pran standing before him. His hair is in a mess, eyes wide, face flushed. He was wearing one of Pat’s hoodies to cover the thin T-shirt underneath. Pran looked like he was going somewhere.
“Baby?” Pat whispers, touching his flushed cheek, stroking the skin there with furrowed eyebrows. He doesn’t hide the concern in him. “Why aren’t you sleeping yet? And why-
Pat trails off, tugging at the hoodie with a frown. “Is there an emergency?”
“Where were you?” Pran asks, voice hoarse and thick with sleep. His voice always becomes like that when it’s late at night. The first scratch to his wall.
“I- I was at the library,” Pat exhales softly, pushing his boyfriend inside with an arm around his waist and locking the door behind them. “Sorry- I should’ve told you. My phone died,” Pat rambles.
He doesn’t question the tense shoulders under his fingers, nor does he speak about the tension leaving. Pran doesn’t ask him any other questions, merely walks to their room and slips off the hoodie before folding it neatly and placing it back into the wardrobe. Pa sits on the edge of the bed, plugging in his phone to the charger.
When Pran remains silent, only then does Pat open his mouth to speak again; “You never told me why you were going out,” he asks after Pran disappears into the bathroom to wash his face.
“Oh, I was just going to get my power bank. I left it at the library,”
When Pran spoke, Pat’s eyes never left the power bank that sits neatly inside one of Pran’s drawers. He pushes down the lump in his throat and musters up the words to acknowledge Pran. He stays in the bathroom a little longer that night. Pat follows soon, hugging Pran from the back, kissing the warm skin along his neck and murmuring an apology for not texting him. Pran merely hums, patting the hands that caressed his stomach and urging Pat to come back to bed.
They go to sleep as usual, Pran holding Pat close against his chest and Pat easily falling asleep to the dull throbbing of his heartbeat. The both of them knew how much Pat couldn’t sleep if he wasn’t holding on to something, but that night, Pat figured out that even Nong Nao wasn’t helping him anymore. He woke up easily after a while, finding his arms around the doll instead of his boyfriend.
Pat pushed himself up into a sitting position, rubbing his tired face and frowning at the yellow light that seeped through their bathroom door. The night was quiet, he could easily hear the running tap water and the loud sighs that come from the other side. Pat doesn’t question Pran again, and simply waits for his lover to come back. He does come back, after fifteen minutes.
Pran had jumped in surprise when he found Pat sitting up with his fluffy hair all over the place instead of sleeping. “Pat,” he breathed. “What happened? Are you in pain?”
I got shot two weeks ago.
Pat only shakes his head, plasters a tired smile and opens his arms for Pran to slot himself into. “I missed you,” Pat coos playfully, wishing he could hear Pran snap at him or roll his eyes. Pat was missing that.
Pran only shakes his head and gets back into bed with his lover. He kisses Pat’s forehead as an apology and tightens his arms around him. “Sorry, I was just using the toilet,”
Pat hums, rubbing his nose at the thin shirt his boyfriend wore, exhaling with bliss; “Was it the fried rice you ate last night?” Pat whispers cheekily and much to his delight, Pran chuckles deeply, beautifully.
“Go to sleep, Pat,”
Another big scratch comes on another harmless day. When Pat and Pran finally had some time alone to go on a proper date. They had planned to drive out of the town, out of the eyes of anyone familiar to freely be themselves. Pat was excited to spend his day with Pran at the park, on a picnic they had been planning for ages. They usually ate together at the dorm or in secluded areas. Pat had really been looking forward to sitting outside, in the open air with his lover.
Their date goes without a bump, the boys sitting side by side, sharing their food, Pat making it his challenge to get Pran to laugh, Pran nagging at him to eat properly and not make a mess. Everything had been perfect. Until a loud noise interrupted their moment. A loud boom, like the sound of thunder, or fireworks, or something else in the far distance.
Coming from families that supply items needed for construction, and spending long hours at construction sites, loud noises and sudden crashes were a normal thing for both boys. However, the instant the ear-splitting noise erupts, Pat notices the way Pran flinches, gripping his thigh so tightly. Pat was sure that his thighs would have indents the shape of Pran’s nails from the intensity of his grip, but he didn’t care much about that. His eyes never left Pran’s face; the eyelids that slammed shut, the lips he bit so hard until they turned white, the plastic spoon in his free hand that looks very close to breaking. Pat took it all in.
“Pran?” Pat touches the hand on his thigh, coaxing it to loosen a little before he takes it and kisses it softly. “Baby, what happened?”
It took Pran a while to register the fact that Pat was talking to him. Only when Pat had touched his face and pushed his head to look at him, did Pran exhale softly. “Yes, I- just startled,” he stammers.
“Babe,” Pat wants to call him out. To tell him to stop hiding his feelings to stop lying. But Pran is looking at him with wide eyes and biting his lips, and Pat could only stare. The little wobble in his bottom lip only makes Pat fearful. So he steals a kiss from Pran and rubs his cheeks comfortingly. “It’s okay,” was all Pat whispered.
That night, when they’re freshly showered and burrowed in bed, Pran absentmindedly pushes his fingers through Pat’s hair while he babbled on about some video game he found online. It’s what they do every day; Pat talking himself to sleep and Pran following suit. But that night, Pat could feel the eyes on him as he slept. Pran held him like he does every other night, but he never slept.
“Pran,” Pat had mumbled that night, face buried into his chest. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”
He doesn’t get a response, only a halt of movement. Pran stops stroking his back and places his hands flat there. After a while, Pat feels one of those hands tighten on the fabric of his shirt. Pat remains silent, waiting for his boyfriend to speak. “Pat,” he croaks out, voice rough with sleep.
“Mn,” Pat hums in acknowledgment, too sleepy to move from his comfortable position.
“Text me whenever you stay out late,” was all Pran said.
Pat had been drunk with sleep to properly digest the weight of Pran’s words, so all he did was nod and push Pran to go back to sleep.
Pran’s titanium wall cracks only a few hours later, that morning. A fine Sunday morning, when Pat surprisingly wakes up earlier than usual and decides to surprise his lover with breakfast in bed. Pran probably slept so late last night that he wouldn’t be waking up for another few hours. Pat slips out of bed and makes sure Nong Nao is in Pran’s arms before entering the bathroom for a shower.
He checks the scar that is now fading along the length of his hipbone, thumbing at the darkened skin. Pat was sure that it healed so fast because of his boyfriend’s magic fingers. His thoughts are filled with Pran as usual even as he showers and changes into an old tank top and one of Pran’s boxers. Pran is still fast asleep, adorable as ever. Pat doesn’t resist the urge to press a soft kiss on Pran’s warm cheek before he leaves to make breakfast.
He isn’t as good of a cook as Pran is, but he can survive. That doesn’t stop him from trying to ook the best and most delicious meal for his boyfriend because Pran deserves it. Pat decides on making some critic’s choice fried rice for Pran, with extra sausages for him since he knew very well that Pran loves his meat. Pat likes cooking with the music on, and Pran has complained many times that he listens with such a high volume that he wouldn’t be able to hear his surroundings.
But Pat knew that Pran was a sensitive sleeper, so he doesn’t plug in music this time. He cooks in utter silence, fueled by the prospect of being rewarded with kisses (or more) by his boyfriend. And maybe get roasted for his cooking.
“PAT?”
The cry of his name pierces Pat’s heart almost instantly. Pat has never heard Pran scream like that in his 22 years of life. Of course, his first instinct was to drop everything that he had been doing and rush into the room where Pran slept. His heart palpitates crazily, almost to the point of fainting at the thought of Pran being in danger. Pat barges into the room without a single thought in his head. Everything looks normal at first.
And then his eyes land on Pran. His beautiful Pran, sitting on their bed, sheets kicked down to his shins, face red and soaked with hot and wet tears streaming down the curve of his cheeks. Pran is holding Nong Nao to the point of changing the shape of its body, and he’s taking long and draggy breaths to calm himself down. Their eyes meet across the room and Pran’s face scrunches up, the way it does when he’s about to sob. Pat is fast in taking two big strides and gathering his boyfriend in his arms, pulling him close to muffle the loud sobs.
“Shh, I’m here, I’m here Pran,” Pat repeats again and again, because he was here. And he wasn’t going to let Pran bottle his feelings up again. Pat would single-handedly bring a sledgehammer and break down the walls Pran had built around his heart. There was no going back. He grips onto his boyfriend just as hard as Pran does.
“Don’t leave,” Pran sobs against his shoulder, legs wrapping around Pat, arms tight and fingers gripping into the skin on his back, as if wishing he could crawl inside of Pat and make sure he’s here, he’s with Pran and he’s safe. Pran is shaking uncontrollably, heaving out painful sobs while Pat remains still and coaxes everything out of him.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out the pain in Pran that he had been skillfully hiding for almost a month since Pat’s accident. Pat knew Pran better than anyone, which meant that he also knew when something was wrong with Pran. Things had been wrong with Pran ever since his accident. Pat knew, but he never made a move to fix it. He was never going to make that mistake ever again.
“You idiot,” Pran chokes out after a while, still shaking, still drooling, and crying over the fabric of Pat’s tank top. He’s grabbing fistfuls of it now, most probably stretching his collar, but Pat doesn’t give a flying fuck about the collar. “That was very stupid of you,” he continues. “Fucking idiot, fucking idiot,” he kept repeating those words, shaking his head and pulling Pat impossibly closer.
“I know,” Pat repeats, stroking Pran’s hair, caressing his nape and kissing every inch of skin he could find to calm Pran down. “I know, baby, and I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I scared you,”
“I can’t lose you, Pat,” a soft whisper through the sniffles. “I lost you once, I can’t bear to lose you again,” Pran says. “I’m not strong enough to handle the pain,”
Hearing Pran say the words he never dared to say only makes the lump in Pat’s through larger. Pran has been shy to even reciprocate the I love you Pat throws at him every day. Yet here his boyfriend is, clinging onto Pat and saying much more powerful words with so much pain. His I love yous could never come close to the words Pran says to him now. To the words Pran rips out of his heart and shows to Pat.
“I promise,” Pat whispers after a while when Pran had calmed down a little and allowed Pat to hold his head up and kiss his tears away. “I promise I’ll be there through everything you go through. You won’t have to keep everything inside of you anymore. I’m here now, Pran. I’m never leaving,”
Pran nods along to each word Pat says to him, trying to calm himself down. He doesn’t move far from Pat, still holding onto Pat tightly, afraid that he would be gone. Pat doesn’t mind it at all. He merely brushes the hair out of Pran’s face, wipes his tears away and holds his lover closer to his heart’s content. Pran lets Pat coddle him with sweet words and soft kisses, rocking them back and forth until he calmed down completely.
“You’ve been hurting so much, my Pran,” Pat mumbles to himself. “I’m sorry, I won’t do anything that will scare you again, okay? You can make me those charts of do’s and don’ts. Give me a schedule, a curfew, anything you want, baby. Just make sure you’re always happy and smiling. I hate seeing you cry,”
Pran finally smiles, albeit so softly, almost never there. He nods, ignoring the burn in his eyes from crying so much. “Sorry- I just got reminded of that night. I know it’s not a big deal, but you weren’t next to me when I woke up and I-
“You panicked,” Pat finishes with a soft kiss on Pran’s lips. “I know. And yes, it’s a big deal. I would panic too if my boyfriend is missing, if my boyfriend is hurt somewhere, and I didn’t know,”
“Don’t get into fights like that again, Pat,” Pran replies, eyes wide and raw with so much of pain that makes Pat pull him into his arms again. Pran’s arms go automatically around him, exhaling softly and nuzzling into his neck. “I was so scared, don’t ever do that again,”
“I promise,”
And from that day onwards, Pat always remembers to carry his own power bank and makes sure to send pictures of his whereabouts every two hours to Pran. It wasn’t much, but enough to make sure that the dimples on his lover's face would never falter.