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When Pat had been six, he had been adamant on following his parents who needed to bring Paa to the hospital because of her bronchitis. He needed to make sure his little sister was safe and healthy. Pat didn’t trust his parents. Much to his dismay, his parents didn’t let him enter the clinic during consultation. So little Pat was left to sit at the waiting area of the paediatrics department, bored out of his mind. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Still, he wanted to be there for Paa, just in case they make his little sister cry and Pat is not there to make her laugh. Pat sits patiently, swinging his socked feet against the worn-out sofa as he watches the boring cartoon that played on the old and heavy television.
He waits and waits and waits, bored out of his mind, following the movements of the other kids that came in wheelchairs, entering random rooms around the hospital. Pat wonders why they’re here, in the most boring place on Earth. Maybe they too, had a bad cough like Paa, Pat thinks. Or maybe they fell down while they went cycling. Either way, Pat decides to kill his time by counting the number of children his age that pass by him, then he decides to count the number of girls, then boys. And his parents were never going to come anytime soon, he thinks.
As he slumps against the sofa, exhausted from waiting so long, Pat hears the strum of a guitar and his ears perk up in interest. Finally, something to do! Pat thinks as he cranes his neck to hear the strumming again. It’s not like the ones he hears in movies; on beat, clear and perfect. This one is shaky strums, unsure of what is happening, just wanting to play. Pat scoffs. He thinks he could do better on his drums that that guitar kid. The strumming becomes louder, more confident and the curiosity in Pat sparks. He jumps up from his sofa and begins walking along the hallway that bustled with nurses and doctors and little kids being wheeled around. Pat follows the strumming, past the room where his family sat inside.
He finally stops at a blue door, painted with adorable leafy pink flowers. Pat presses his ear to the door and tries to listen to the inconsistent strumming. His little bag had fallen down his shoulder from his determination to hear the music; Pat pushes it up and holds it tightly. The doorknob brushes his fluffy hair; Pat looks up, feeling the urge to wrap his hand around the metal bulb and just enter the room to make a new friend. He was always good at making friends. Pat looks behind him, biting his lips in contemplation; his parents were probably going to take long. Pat could just go in and sit there. It wasn’t like he was doing anything wrong.
So the cheeky boy easily twists the doorknob and jumps inside the private ward, eager to befriend whoever that had been strumming that guitar. He closes the door behind him and walks inside the room, making eye contact with a little boy, around his age. As Pat had expected, the boy lies against his bed, covered with a blanket and holding a miniature guitar against himself. He stares back at Pat, lips parted in shock. Pat doesn’t say anything but walks closer to the boy and stands by the edge of his bed.
Pat first notices the red monkey cap he wears to cover his bald head, and how pale his skin was. His lips are a ghastly blue; Pat thinks that he must’ve played in the rain for too long. He looks down at the dainty little fingers the pluck the string of the guitar and Pat stakes his claim next to the boy. He drags a chair and sits by his bed, eying the guitar with interest. “You like the guitar?”
The boy was hesitant at first, looking at Pat with wide eyes and an unsure grimace, tightening his hold on his guitar as if Pat would steal it. He remains quiet until Pat speaks again. “I like the drums. I have a big drum set at home,” he grins. “Did your Pa buy it for your birthday?”
The boy warms up a little and looks at his guitar, and then back at Pat. “Not for my birthday,” he says, his voice soft and hoarse. He has bags under his eyes; Pat thinks he looks like a cute little panda.
Pat braces his arms on the bed, propping his chin on them and looking at the boy. “My name is Pat. What’s yours?”
“Pran,” he answers. They sit in silence again, Pat watching as Pran absentmindedly strums his guitar.
“When you’re all better,” Pat perks up again, like a light bulb turning on above his head. “We can form a band!”
Pran only looks at the boy as if he had grown two horns. Pat waits for his response; “I won’t get better,”
Pat frowns at that, his attention split between wanting to speak to Pran or play with his guitar. Pat plucks the strings with his one hand before turning to Pran; “Why?”
Pran only shrugs, coughing lightly and pulling his blankets around him. Pat stares at their fingers that lightly brush each other along the sharp wires of the guitar. “I heard the doctors tell my Mae that I’m going to die,” Pran says.
Pat only frowns further, standing up to sit on the bed by Pran’s thighs. “That’s a lie,” he says confidently. Then, Pat looks around, checking to see if anyone could enter or eavesdrop on their conversation. “Pa told me that doctors can scam you for money. You should tell your Mae to be careful,” he whispers with wide eyes.
Finally, Pat watches with glee, when Pran chuckles and smiles. He doesn’t resist the urge to poke his dimples, grinning widely along with the sick boy. “You can’t die, Pran,” Pat repeats again. “My Mae said that dying is for old people,”
“Really?” Pran looks at Pat with wide and innocent eyes. The boy nods and they continue strumming Pran’s guitar together.
“You will get better,” Pat smiles until his eyes turn small. Pran’s monkey cap had fallen down his bald head a little, so Pat reaches forward to adjust it. “And then we can make a band!” Pat pauses at first, frowning to himself when it dawns on him. “Ah,” he sighs. “But who will sing?”
“… I can sing,” Pran continues. “Mae says she will put me in those singing classes once I’m all better,”
Pat lights up at that, nodding vigorously and giggling together at the prospect of being famous bandmates. He reaches towards the bedstand where a black marker lies and Pat pops it open. “Do you have a paper?” Pat asks.
The sick boy doesn’t waste time in turning to his little bag and pulling out a sketchbook. He flips through the pages of countless sketches and drawings until Pran finds an empty one for Pat to use. Pran shuffles closer to the boy, propping his elbow on the guitar between them and resting his chin on his open palm. He watches as Pat uses the marker to write a few messages, draw little stars and smiley faces, a guitar and a drum set. Then, he draws two stick figures, one bald and one with fluffy hair, smiling widely and singing into what closely resembled a microphone stand. Pran looks at Pat, smiling at the way his hair fell to his forehead and how his tongue dart out in concentration.
“My name is..” Pat murmurs to himself, writing his name in the air to get the spelling right before writing it on the paper. Pat Napat Jindapat.
Once satisfied with his work of art, Pat turns it for Pran to see and smiles widely. “This is my Get Well Soon card for you,” Pat says. “Get well soon!”
Pran looks down at the card, at the ridiculous number of smiley faces, hearts and stares. At the musical instruments and them singing with musical notes escaping their lips. He looks at Pat’s name and the little message he had written for Pran; Keep fighting Pran!
Before Pran could thank him, Pat gets down and stands before the boy. “I have to go now,” Pat points behind him. “My parents are going to be angry. Bye, Pran!”
Pat walks to the door and Pran calls out to him again; “Will you come see me tomorrow?” he asks with hope in his eyes.
The little boy merely smiles like sun and nods vigorously. “I’ll tell Pa to bring me!”
---
15 Years Later
“Did you hear about the new Architecture student?” Korn tells Pat when they go out for lunch on a usual Wednesday afternoon. Pat loved his best friend, he really does; But when Korn begins his endless gossip sessions, sometimes he just wishes he could shove a sock ball into his mouth. A tiring morning swarmed with classes and assignments and when Pat finally has some free time to enjoy his lunch, Korn comes spewing nonsense about someone he couldn’t give a fuck about.
“He’s only been here for three days but he’s taking no shit from anyone, man,” Korn tells to the three of them. Pat nods mindlessly, only focused on his bowl of noodles. “He almost punched his seniors when they tried to rag him. The balls on that guy!” he continues. “Remember when we were juniors and had to do everything our seniors told us?”
“But the chicks have begun flirting with him so quickly,” Mo argues. “Maybe we should’ve picked a fight with our seniors too..”
“It doesn’t matter if chicks dig him,” Korn snorts. “He’s gay,”
That catches Pat’s attention. The young man whirls on his friend, smacking him right against his manbun. “How the fuck do you know these things?” Pat frowns.
Korn nudges his friend, his thick eyebrows furrowed with anger at Pat for ruining his hair. As Korn unties his manbun and cleans the strands up, he answers; “Didn’t you see the pride flag badge pinned to his bag?”
“Seriously, Korn,” Pat sets his spoon down. “That could mean anything,”
“That, we saw him making out with a guy during the afterparty of our annual rugby match,”
“Oh,” Pat realises that he doesn’t have an argument to put up with that, so he shuts up and continues to slurp his soup.
“Honestly, it’s a win for us,” Korn continues again. “He’s pretty good looking. I’d be mad if he steals my girlfriend. But now, I don’t have to worry about that,” he sings and earns another smack from Pat.
“Just eat your noodles,”
---
Later that evening, when Pat goes to the library to return a textbook, he catches a blue tote bag with a big and white P printed on it. And the pride flag badge pinned against it. As he waits in line, Pat stares at the bag that sits lonelily on one of the chairs at the library. Pat looks around out of curiosity, wondering where the owner could be. And if he really was as good looking as Korn had explained.
Tall, fair-skinned, dimples but barely smiles, thick hair that dusted his nape, broad shoulders. Pat had drawn an image of him in his mind, and he had been pretty pleased with it. Korn better be right. Or he might just be the reason behind Pat’s wrath.
Soon enough, his turn comes to return his books and Pat bites back the disappointment in him when he doesn’t see the new guy. He thanks the librarian and decides that maybe they were just not meant to meet. So Pat walks out of the library with his head hung low, and a new and fucking thick Mathematics textbook in his hands.
As he walks, Pat takes a little too much time to raise his head and see where he’s going. He ends up having a little accident with the person who walks in the opposite direction as him. The textbook in his hand falls down to the ground with a painful thud while Pat falls against a foreign body, soft to his touch. Both the men grunt in pain, falling onto the hard ground, Pat being pillowed by the guy. He raises his head from the other person’s chest, ready to apologize, but there he lies, pathetically when their eyes meet.
Fair-skinned now flushed with blood pooling at his chubby cheeks, dimples appearing from the way he bites his lips to stop the pain, wide eyes with long lashes, a round nose, cute enough to bite, parted pink lips panting against his face. The boy beneath him was beautiful. Better than Korn’s description.
“Uh..” Pat begins, unable to hold back the blush against his cheeks at the handsome man below him.
The boy below him pats his thighs once, twice before speaking; “Are you getting up anytime soon?” he asks, voice thick with sarcasm. Pat coughs and nods, scrambling onto his knees and helping the boy with his books and papers that have spilled.
“Sorry- I wasn’t- uh,” Pat stammers again, using shaky hands to gather a bunch of notes and papers for the boy. As they clean the ground in silence, Pat’s eyes latch on a piece of paper, crumpled and aged with many years. He looks at the black marker and childish drawings and then his very own name scrawled across it.
The boy looks at him and shoots Pat a glare when he realises where Pat had been looking at. He yanks the old paper back into the comfort of his arms and proceeds to take the crumpled papers that Pat held. The boy doesn’t bother to say another word before he stands and turns around to leave Pat.
Pat was not going to let that happen. “Wait!” he screams at the boy’s back. He doesn’t budge, only taking larger steps to escape Pat. “Wait, Pran!”
Pran finally freezes, turning around with the same old wide eyes and parted lips Pat had seen when they were kids. What are the odds? Pat thinks with a small breathless laugh. Pran remains surprise, standing right where he had stopped while Pat jogs up to him and catches his breath.
“You’re Pran,” Pat breathes. “The one with the guitar,”
Pran is silent for a moment, before; “.. Pat?” he gasps.
Pat chuckles and nods. “Hi, Pran,” he grins. “You- um,” he coughs. “Your hair’s longer now,”
“Yeah,” Pran breathes, eyes going up and down, along the length of Pat’s body before exhaling in surprise again. “You still remember me,” he states.
“Of course I do,” Pat scoffs. “It’s not every day I meet a cute sick boy that played the guitar,” he replies with a smile. “How are you now?”
Pran finally smiles and his dimples appear again and fuck, how could’ve Pat not see this? “All good,” he replies. “I’m a cancer survivor now,”
The urge to pull Pran into a tight hug almost possesses him, but Pat refrains from doing so. Instead, he steps closer and wraps one arm around Pran; “Which means you can join my band?” he teases and Pran throws his head back in a gleeful laugh that sounded like music to his ears.
Pran nods, smiling ear to ear and he replies; “I can even sing now,”