Archive of Our Own ^beta

It's not like much has changed. The sun still shines, and it rains sometimes. Teachers at school still teach, his classmates still pull pranks on each other and talk about their crushes and new video games. He still wakes up every day, a bit too late for the shower. He still listens to Pa complain about the dirty laundry that she so kindly does for him. Well, maybe only his dad doesn't put as much pressure on him anymore, but other than that... Nothing has changed.

Only no, everything has changed, but people around him, for whatever sick reasons they have, don't want to acknowledge it.

Pat didn't even fully comprehend the fact that Pran was gone, for the first few days. It felt as if Pran was just sick and was taking his time to recover. He's responsible, he wouldn't put others at risk with his flu. But Pat couldn't bring him a chocolate bar Pran liked, Pat couldn't climb into his room and share his notes from the previous day so that Pran isn't left behind with his studies, because Pran isn't in the room across his rooftop anymore. Pran is gone. He's not sick (as far as Pat knew), he's just kilometers away, out of Pat's reach and no one seems to notice it.

Sometimes Pat wonders if he had imagined it. Did he even have a rival, named Pran, who lived next door, liked organizing things, played guitar really well, and had the cutest dimples and the most adorable laugh? Who was always making a disgusted face at Pat, but his eyes always had more to say.

That he had imagined Pran. The only reminder that Pran was actually real was an empty seat in a full classroom that belonged to Pran. Oh, and well, Pran's room, just outside of Pat's window, is always dark now. Pat only knew the room to be bright with funny smiley lights that Pran put all over.

That room. It was sore to Pat's tired eye. As if it was wired in him, every day when he woke up, realizing that he was late, he would still take a moment to look at Pran's window, to see him get ready (Pran was usually standing in his room, checking if he took everything needed for the day when Pat woke up, but looking at Pran's focused face was a ritual of Pat's. The one he never missed, unlike the morning shower). He never saw him. After school, sitting at his desk, trying to make sense of his homework he would look at Pran's window, fighting the urge to climb in there and ask for help, only to realize, with a painful pinch in his chest, that Pran isn't there to help him anymore. And late at night, when he was done with his homework and when he had dinner with his family where everyone seemed happier than he's ever seen them, he would go to his room and stare at Pran's window for a while and just wait for the lights to turn on. For Pran to walk into the room and check if Pat is asleep and if he isn't talk to him for a bit, before waving good night (another ritual).

But Pran never walks into the room. The lights never turn on. Neither do the lights in Pat's life.

He should be happy, right? His lifelong enemy is gone, he doesn't bother him anymore, and he doesn't have to compete with him or even interact. And he was happy for the part where he didn't have to worry anymore about being better than Pran, but Pran wasn't an enemy for a very long time. He was... Pran. His Pran. The boy who would call him stupid, but would still listen to him whine about some meaningless things. His Pran, who saved Pa. His Pran, who, without anyone noticing it, would try his best to lift Pat's mood, by raising a competition, by bickering non-stop with him, until Pat would forget where they even started. His Pran, who would tell him all about fantasy books he read, and the way he talked never failed to make Pat feel warm inside. It was Pran, who Pat knew better than he knew himself. How could he be happy?

So he wasn't. He pretended. No one noticed.

'Pran would' Pat thought. He wouldn't ask anything, because he would already know everything he needed to know, he would nonchalantly offer Pat to teach him to play guitar and he would let Pat annoy him, just to make Pat feel better. Or something like that. And then he would deny ever being nice to Pat because they hate each other.

***

It was another ordinary day, the one that would blend into the grey mess of every other day ever since Pran left if Pat hadn't run out of clean paper sheets for his assignment due the next day. It was way too late to go to the store and he could ask Pa for one or two pieces of paper, but she was already asleep and she has trouble sleeping as it is, so there wasn't much he could do. He was almost ready to give up (it's not like his grades mattered to anyone anymore, so getting one bad grade wouldn't hurt) when out of habit his head flung to Pran's room. Did he take all of his stuff? He left pretty soon after the Christmas concert, so maybe he didn't take much? Would there still be a few paper sheets left in his right table drawer?

The thought was feeling odd in Pat's mind. It's one thing, coming into Pran's room when he was there, but it's something completely different about him coming in there while Pran is gone. It was feeling odd in Pat's mind, but it was also bugging him, making him over-concentrate on that thought only. Was Pran's room still the same? Would he see the smiley posters on the wall? Neat bed sheet? His books on shelves in perfect size order?

'And the window could be closed anyway, but at least I can try' Pat thought as he jumped from his roof to Pran's balcony. They would sometimes just sit there when their parents were gone. They could do their homework or speed read (obviously betting on who reads faster (Pran won every time)). One time Pran was telling him about the color theory and even though Pat didn't understand much, he loved listening to Pran talk about it, in such a dreamy, excited voice. And then, after Pat annoyed his way to Pran's permission, Pat tried to use the color theory to color the skyline Pran drew and he failed miserably, which caused those sweet giggles and unserious scolding from Pran, that still tickles Pat's stomach, whenever he thinks about it. It was a nice place to just be. To sit with their knees and shoulders pressed together, the light wind brushing their hair, while they were just existing next to each other. Either in their own world or each others.

The room looked dark and scary. Not inviting at all, not how Pat remembers it. If Pran was there he would already be standing in front of the window, hands on his waist and with an unimpressed look on his face. No one, but the darkness and unknownness greeted him this time.

He tried to slide the window with shaky hands almost hoping it wouldn't open, but to his surprise, it moved. It opened. It invited him in without its owner knowing.

It was very quiet, way too quiet for Pat's liking, but then he never really knew what this room was like when he wasn't in there. He caused all the noises. Pran made sure, Pat knew he was noisy. Giggles, arguments, loud exhales, and drumming his fingers on Pran's table, whenever the homework was too hard to grasp. Talking to Pran in low voice was a noise too. And Pran answering him in a voice just as low was a noise Pat never thought he would miss. But it was quiet now, a foreign soil to Pat. Despair was engulfing him.

He shook his head and turned the flashlight on his phone. Irked by the trepidation digging its cold fingers into his heart, he started to look for what he came here for. He quickly moved to the exact drawer, he knew Pran was keeping his paper sheets in and luckily found and took some.

And then he was sliding the window open again, slipping out of Pran's room into the cold air, mind clouded with memories. Crestfallen he headed back to his room.

***

Even though he was exhausted from rugby practice earlier that day and the tones of homework he had to do, sleep wouldn't come, his mind kept running back to Pran and that room where they created so many memories.

For example, when he came to Pran's room to give him his watch back after saving Pa. Both of them being so new to this, speaking to each other outside of feud. Little did they know, the said room would be their shelter from the world that was putting those ridiculous labels on them.

Or when he made a tin can phone and Pran didn't tell him off right away and they just started talking. Pat kind of tricked Pran into the activity, he was asking him 'how are you?', 'have you eaten?', answering these questions as well, even if Pran didn't ask back. At first, it was taking Pran a while to realize that Pat is making small talk with him and then he would eventually tell him off, but he would pick up the can and repeat it all over again, the next time Pat threw it over the roof. A few weeks after Pat started it, it became natural for them and Pran was finally just talking to him. Pat liked it. Liked the fact that he annoyed his way into Pran's life like that. Liked that Pran had let him.

The time Pat first came to Pran's room with the offer to share notes. Part of it was reasonable, Pat wanted to see if Pran understood the math issue Pat didn't understand. Part of that was very unreasonable, but Pat didn't want to think about it. He only knew he wanted to be close to Pran, to get to know him better as a person. Wanted to know if he had 2 pillows on the bed like Pat did, or just one. Did Pran also have a stuffed toy? If so, what was its name? He didn't take a good look at Pran's room when he came to give him the watch back. Pran looked terrified and flushed but didn't kick Pat out (he tried to, but Pat made sure to be more stubborn to stay).

Or when he came to Pran after he realized he was in love with a girl in their school. His first crush ever. It felt big. He told Pa about her because she somehow noticed Pat's change of mood (he thought he was hiding it pretty well). She mercilessly teased him about having a crush on someone, she pitied that girl and Pat teased her back about a boy she was having a crush on (Pat wasn't blind either). And after she kicked him out of her room, with a spark in his heart he realized, he wanted to tell about this to Pran. He loved talking to Pran so far, so he didn't see any reason, why he shouldn't climb into Pran's room and tell him all about her. So he did. He told Pran how funny she was, that she also had dimples, and that she teased him, just like Pran did, and he told Pran how much he liked it. Liked her. Pran was quiet and seemed distant. He didn't say much, just joked with a faux smile that maybe now Pat will stop bothering him as much and will bother his new girlfriend instead. Pat thought Pran liked that girl too but was too insecure to approach her.

He also came to Pran after that girl broke his heart. Pran hugged him in his room, for the first time. It wasn't an actual full-on hug, more like a side hug, where Pran patted his shoulder encouragingly, but he was warm and soft and smelled so so good. So good Pat forgot why he was sad in the first place.

That time when Pran himself first invited Pat into his room to play a board game he got for his birthday (he just bragged to Pat about this game and how he can win Pat in no time, so Pat raised a challenge, basically inviting himself into Pran's room. Did he even need an invitation at this point?). He doesn't remember this game very well, he remembers that they laughed so much, Pran's snot came out of his nose and he turned so red with embarrassment Pat couldn't even bring himself to tease Pran about it.

Pran also invited him into his room to show off the guitar he bought (no excuse this time). He was so happy, vibrating with the joy of earning some sort of independency, his usually deadpans face was shamelessly broken by the deepest dimples Pat had ever seen. Pran wanted to share the news with someone, even if it was his enemy. Pat knew Pran was working part-time in the local store. He would often come by just to spend time with Pran, since they couldn't do it at home that often anymore, because well, Pran was working. So he knew Pran was saving up for something, but he didn't tell for what. Didn't want to jinx it. And so Pat listened for hours about how Pran was choosing the guitar, so the color and size would be perfect, how he had to make a whole presentation to his parents about the guitar he finally picked, and how they only permitted him to have it if he buys it himself (Pat couldn't understand how giving your child a guitar was a bad thing). He told him that he designed that "P" on the headstock himself as well as the guitar case. He was doodling for hours, trying to come up with a meaningful drawing, but in the end settled for his name, because it was unique as it is. He showed Pat songs he wanted to learn first and Pat still remembers how widely Pran smiled dozens of crinkles at the corner of his eyes and deep dimples on his soft cheeks. And all Pat could think about was how much he wanted to feel those dimples under his fingertips.

Pat was often coming to Pran's room after Ming would scold him a little too harshly. They would lie in Pran's bed and talk about everything and nothing. Pat would tell Pran that he sometimes imagines how the world would look like if dinosaurs were still alive and if one of them was to attack their school. Pat felt like Pran and he would team up and save everyone. Pran would tell him that he was an idiot and they'd all probably just hide somewhere until dinosaurs tamers would come and save them. Pat would say Pran was no fun. Pran would tell him how sometimes he wants to run and hide because his mom makes him feel like the world is crushing him like air is poison and he needs to be the top in everything he does to earn the non-poisoned air. Pat told him, if Pran would run away, Pat would run with him. That seemed fair and the only way how things should go.

On rare occasions (at least twice a month), Pran would allow Pat in his room at night, because Pat had a nightmare. And he didn't feel ashamed of himself about coming to his sworn enemy at night, because he couldn't handle being alone at the moment. After all, Pran never made him feel ashamed. They would lie under Pran's blanket, Pat usually on his side, facing Pran and touching him with one of his limbs for his own comfort. Maybe Pran just didn't mind it, or he was too sleepy to protest, but he never said anything.

Pran wasn't an enemy. Pran was nice and smelled good and he was soft and smart and always managed to keep Pat on his feet, even when he was at his lowest. He was a lot to handle, sure, he was picky and anxious a lot, but Pat liked it in him. Pran was his perfect balance. Pran was a friend. Pran never agreed with this term.

That room was their small universe, where the laws didn't work. The sight of the room empty, dark, and cold, crushed Pat in a way nothing else really did.

***

By the time he had to get up, he was choosing whether to stay at home and try to clear his head on his own, or go to school and pretend for another day that he was alright. Maybe, at some point, he would actually believe it. But staying at home also meant still seeing Pran's room and besides, he didn't do that assignment for nothing, right?

***

Just as he was about to put on a smile for his friends as he entered the class, something caught his eye. It would be hard not to notice it, since everyone who was in the class was gathered in one corner of the classroom. They were laughing and talking about something, Pat couldn't quite understand yet.

"Oi, Pat" Ink smiled and waved at him "I finally printed the Christmas concert photos, take a look at this one". She pointed to one of the photos, of their band in which Pat bit his lips and squinted his eyes funnily when he got too invested in the song. Moments before Pran was ripped away from him.

Pran. He was in that picture too, turned to the side, looking at Pat. He looked so happy, so calm and careless. Just before their worlds turned upside down. Pat felt sick. That didn't feel fair at all. How something like music can be bad? How Pran being himself is bad and worth punishment?

"Too bad Pran got sent away," said someone to Pat's left, obviously implying that it was Pat's fault. It was natural that people's minds went there, Pat and Pran were enemies and hated each other's guts, they were causing trouble to each other, so obviously Pat was condemned for Pran's banishment. They even fought publicly a day before the Christmas concert, so of course he was the one to blame.

"Yeah" someone agreed "He isn't the one at fault, he was actually doing a nice thing"
Pat ignored. His eyes roamed through all of the photos. People, their classmates, and nongs and phis and teachers were captured smiling, listening to their song. They were hugging and clapping and whistling all because of Pran. His voice, his performance. Their song. The one Pat and Pran poured their souls in. They spent hours staying up after school, writing down ideas, and practicing the chords and drums, Pat listened to Pran's voice when he was trying to find the right note to sing, sometimes it would take days for Pran to finally settle for something (not that Pat complained). He argued with Pran that the song was good as they wrote it when they were done with the writing process (Pat was mostly just throwing unnecessary synonyms to Pran, but somehow that got Pran going). Pran kept nitpicking and overthinking the lyrics and melody. To Pat, it was the greatest song ever written. Because it was their song. And people dare to think he would want Pran to go as far away as possible. 'People are stupid', Pat thought, 'They know nothing about us'.

"Pat should've been sent away instead" the third person added.

Pat futilely was trying to appease the dismay he was feeling all this time, but his pretense was wearing thin. He wanted to redeem himself somehow. He wanted to tell everyone that they were wrong and that he misses Pran just as much as everyone else, probably even more. But the sudden onslaught of tears shut off all the words he wanted to say. Neither of them deserved to be sent away if you ask him. But then again, there was nothing he could do or say to make them believe Pat and Pran weren't enemies. They had to be there, with Pat and Pran, holding a candle up, and see for themselves the dynamics of their relationship.

"Ai, you guys are mean" Ink stepped in. Thankfully. Pat didn't want to have a breakdown in front of his friends. "Stop this bullying, I'm sure it's not Pat's fault!"

"How do you know it's not?" one of the girls asked in a bitter voice. She thought she did something. She thought she said something grand and cool.

"And how do you know it is?" but it was Ink that girl was talking to. She couldn't be cooler than Ink.

Nobody replied to Ink and after that everyone just went back to their seats and settled back into the usual chattery rhythm.

"Don't listen to them, Pat" Ink said, squeezing Pat's as he sat down at his table "I don't know what kind of relationship you two had, no one knows really, but I never saw you fight. Not seriously anyway. They're just mean, don't let it wear you down, okay na?". She smiled at him with her widest smile, the one that used to make Pat's heart feel too big for his chest. It didn't make his heart feel too big for his chest now, but it made him feel at ease. Well, maybe some people would understand that they weren't at each other's throats all the time, but he didn't want to share their story with someone without Pran being next to him to correct him or scold him. So he just smiled back, just as wide, and nodded reassuringly.

The rest of the day Pat was dissipated, he barely participated in the conversations people involved him in, and he nodded and smiled when everyone else smiled, but his mind was elsewhere. Not even necessarily in a specific place, for the first time in hours if not days he didn't think about Pran. He didn't think about anything really. But somehow it wasn't a good thing. He felt empty, broken. He blinked and breathed, but he didn't live. He only wished for the day to be over.

***

And his prayers were heard. Their coach canceled their rugby practice, his friends didn't drag him to the new coffee shop they wanted to go to for a while now and so he finally headed home.

"Hey, let's make a deal! I'll help you with your art project and you help me with chemistry?"
"Why would I help you?"
"Because I asked!"
"So what?"
"Oh come on! Why do you always play hard to get?"

Pat's head jerked to his right, where Pran would always be, when they were walking somewhere, eyes full of hope, heart pounding in his throat. But it wasn't Pran and he talking. Those were some kids from a neighboring school, having a conversation Pran and he used to have. The universe must hate him. To bring Pran up when he just stopped thinking about him. To remind Pat about a Pran shaped hole he had in his soul. What did he do so wrong in his past life to deserve it?

***

At home, he didn't go to the kitchen like he usually did, he didn't feel hungry at all. He went to his room, wanting to forget his worries in his sleep, but just as the night before sleep wouldn't come, no matter how many sheep he counted. And of course, being in such proximity to Pran's room he felt it calling for him. As if the room was just as lonely as he was as if it was yearning for someone to be in it.

It was pushing four o’clock when Pat finally couldn't take it anymore. At this time neither Pran nor his parents were home, he knew that because Pran and he would usually study at this time in Pran's room. They decided to study right after school and not after dusk because they wanted to have time to relax, read books, watch movies or just stare at a wall and think about nothing, without having to worry about homework. Sometimes they did it together. More often than not.

In the fading daylight, the room didn't seem as scary as it was at night, so stepping in there was much easier, mentally for Pat. He looked around, it was as he remembered it, clean floor, greaseless closet mirror, posters with smiley faces still smiling at him. It was kind of soothing at first. All of the things he knew about Pran stayed with him, even if Pran didn't, but as he thought about it a bit more he realized how devastatingly sad it was. Him having all of Pran's things within arm's reach meant Pran didn't have his comfort objects with him. Pran might not have had a comfort toy, like Pat's Nong Nao, but he had his comfort things. His smiley lights and posters and sticky notes, coloring pens, and sketchbooks. His guitar too. And now when he's in a new environment, surrounded by strangers, he doesn't have his comfort with him. It must be lonely for him, even lonelier than it is for Pat. The heaviness of the thoughts slumped Pat on Pran's chair. It squicked in an inanimate hello.

Pat ran his fingers over the table. It was cold and dustless. It was reassuring somehow. Maybe Pran's mom doesn't want this room to get all dirty, because Pran is coming back sometime soon. More likely, she's just a clean freak. Pran had to learn it from someone, right? Pat sadly chuckled at that. How can Pran be so much like the person, who's so different from him?

Dissaya was scary and strict, her outfit and hair always on point, even on weekends, even when she was just gardening. Pran took Pat touring around his house once (after a lot of convincing) and the rest of the house was just as neat as Pran's room was. Stainless, smelling of chemicals and air cleaners. It smelled of Dissaya. It didn't feel like the cozy home Pat had, where it was always noisy and where it smelled like homemade food and mom's and Pa's perfumes.

But Pran seemed comfortable in this habitat. He cleaned the table right after they ate and washed the dishes after that. He kept fixing a pillow on the couch when they sat down to watch a movie. A pillow that didn't need to be fixed. It's a pillow. What is even there to fix? He put napkins under their iced tea and didn't even try to put his legs on the coffee table. But it all came naturally, he was raised like this, and he was used to it.

But Pat hated it, to be honest. He liked when Pran was letting his guard down with him when he was the goofy teenager he was and not the pent-up adult his mom wanted him to be. So he closed the fair distance between them, plonking onto Pran's shoulder, crushing them on the couch.

"Ai, Pat get off me" Pran laughed. It was better.

"It's more comfortable this way" Pat replied as he was trying to find a comfortable position in the crook of Pran's neck. Right where he smelled so good. But it was hard to do since that was Pran's sensitive spot and Pran kept squishing Pat's head with his shoulder.

"For you, maybe, you selfish bastard!" Pran said without anger. It was endearing to Pat, the fact that they could read between the lines. It's like they had their own language, only they could speak.

"Who are you calling a bastard, jackass?" Their bickering was a never-ending competition. Who would win in a quarrel like this? They never get to find out, because, by the time they're too tired to talk, they forget who started the whole thing.

"You, of course. You're the only other person in the roohoohoom" Pat started to tickle him, arms reaching everywhere, where Pat knew it would tickle. And Pran laughed and laughed and laughed, begged Pat to stop, and then laughed again. And then he got away and ran upstairs, the movie is long forgotten. It wasn't an interesting one anyway. Pat of course followed Pran to his room, where he yet again got the upper hand and started tickling again. Pran was so adorable, laughing like this, with his dimples out, back arching in an unsuccessful attempt to get away again. Pat wanted more of that. He didn't think twice when he started covering Pran's neck with sniff kisses, while his hands still roamed through Pran's torso. But then Pran wasn't laughing anymore. He was breathing heavily, looking at Pat, lips parted. Stunned. Amused. Scared.

"Are you blushing, Paracul?" he grinned as he watched the bemused look fade into a quipped one.

"It's because you have been tickling me for the past 10 minutes, now get off me" and he pushed hard enough to make Pat fall off the bed onto his ass. He liked what he saw when he looked up at Pran. His hair was messy, his t-shirt all crumpled, and his sweaty neck and face reddish. He was very lovable.

"You look cute," Pat said then, smiling. Why wouldn't he? The compliments were nice. It earned him a smack on the head and bitch-face from Pran, the one he made when he was blushing on the inside. Well, it's not a win, but it's something.

***

The lump in Pat's throat was growing stronger. He would give everything to get Pran back, so he could tickle him and then sweep him off his feet with some cheesy lines. Oh, he was miserable...

Pat moved to Pran's closet and to his surprise he found almost all of Pran's clothes still at home. All of his soft oversized t-shirts, neatly ironed school shirts, jeans, and shorts. What was he wearing then? Did his parents buy him new clothes? Or was he only allowed to wear his new school uniform and then in his free time he didn't go anywhere, therefore didn't need his clothes? Pat hoped it was the first thought. Pran deserved to be happy in the new place. He deserved to go to the movies and the beach, go out with his friends, and all of that.

His eyes landed on a t-shirt he hoped to see. The one with the white-lavender stripe pattern, the one he wore that day in his room, a week before he vanished from Pat's life.

It was one of the "Dad yelled at me again for no reason and even though I know he's wrong, it still hurts" kind of cases. Long story short, he needed Pran's company. So he climbed into his room, and found Pran on his bed with the guitar, mumbling a song to himself. He looked up and nodded, smiling as he played the last cord. Pat felt his heart flutter as their eyes locked. Pran shifted a little making a room for Pat to sit on his bed too.

"Parents suck" he announced as he flopped down next to Pran. In response he got Pran nodding at him, agreeing.

"That bad?" Pran asked, starting to play some soothing melody, very quietly, not to interrupt their conversation. It was relaxing, numbing. Pat never really understood the perks of classical music, though Pran seemed to like it (which was so Pran of him, Pat couldn't even word, how fitting it was for Pran), but music, in general, was nice. Nothing too heavy would do for Pat.

"I skipped one rugby practice, and suddenly I'm the worst son of a bitch in the world" Pat snorted. It wasn't actually funny, but it was so sad that it made him laugh. In a bad way. If that's what his dad thinks a bad son is, Pat would gladly tell him that it's not. There are far worse cases. Pat wouldn't even be in the first hundred.

"Hey, I need your help" these words never failed to light something inside Pat. Just the mere fact that Pran needed him was very exciting and there was hardly anything in this world that would stop Pat from helping Pran. Pat wanted Pran to need him more. "I need you to pretend you've never heard this song before, alright? As if you weren't there with me writing it. And tell me how you feel"

Pat nodded, already feeling his cheeks stretch with a smile, leaning down on his hands, so he didn't have to look at Pran and could concentrate on the song.

And then Pran started playing the "unfamiliar" melody (Pat really tried to pretend he didn't know the lyrics by heart). And it sounded just as nice as always, Pran's voice was sliding through notes without any issues, even if sometimes he still slipped into something hoarse or pitch high (voice breaking was taking a toll on Pran, but Pat didn't see the problem, it was natural after all and Pran's voice was good no matter in what condition it was). And he really liked the message of the song and how they put the words together, how bitter-sweet and raw and honest it was. No matter how many times Pat heard it, for the billionth time or the first, he would still find it beautiful.

"There must be nothing
In the way, you talk to me, no need to feel insecure
Or read between the lines"

And then his eyes landed on a tip of Pran's t-shirt that was crumpled and without any further thought he reached to fix it. His left hand stayed on Pran's left hip, moveless at first. Pran was warm, and comforting, like a human-sized Nong Nao, that Pat wanted to cuddle. That would take a lot of convincing, but maybe in the end he would get to cuddle Pran, get to bury himself in Pran's neck and inhale him to calm his nerves. Would be too embarrassing to imagine Pran brushing Pat's hair, but he would lie if he said that thought didn't cross his mind.

"I can’t make sense of what you’ve done
In my mind, there’s one question
Are we just friends or are we more?"

And then somehow he found his hand under Pran's t-shirt, just above the waistband of his soft shorts, touch feather-light. Mesmerized by his voice he was just stroking up and down Pran's side, enjoying the soft velvety skin. He wanted to squeeze it, bite it, kiss it. Feel it under his lips, because it felt nice under his fingertips. He looked at Pran from behind, he saw him get tense, but he still sang.

"You make me
Feel butterflies in my core
If you don’t mean it
Don’t act that way"

Oh, no Pat meant it. The need to touch Pran hit him hard, like a train at full speed. He was always handsy with people he was comfortable with and Pran was even beyond that. He saw Pat at his worst, covered in mud, losing the rugby match, and still stayed by his side (behind the closed doors, but still) or heartbroken for the umpteenth time and Pran was still there encouraging him to keep fighting. And he was handsy with Pran like all the time, but not how he wanted to be now.

Pat's other hand curled under Pran's t-shirt too, unable to stop himself Pat palmed Pran's slightly round belly, feeling it twitch under his touch and he stroked there too. Pran closed his eyes, stubbornly singing, and ignoring Pat, even though his body wasn't. Goosebumps and flush on his neck, ears, and cheeks were giving him away.

Pat then placed his chin on Pran's shoulder and that was what made Pran finally look at him. He looked scared, like a deer on a dark road, just before the car is about to hit it. Being so close to Pran's neck had let Pat hear his heartbeat, rabbit fast and strong, it made them both shake a little.

And so he sat closer to Pran, his chest to Pran's back, his nose against Pran's nose, foreheads pressed, arms now wrapped tight around Pran's quivering torso. 'Just to steady us' he thought. He was reeling in it, feeling like he belongs. He could just stay there, with Pran in his arms, so close and warm, so home to him.

But then Pran did the unimaginable. He leaned closer with a determination Pat only saw when they competed and kissed him. And oh, did Pat ever feel as good? It was like a puzzle piece fell into its place, finally, everything made sense, even though he didn't know what it all meant yet. All he knew was that Pran was kissing him. None of his previous kisses, pecks really, just like this one, felt this good. Is he going to be able to go back to how it was? To how it was to live without knowing how hot Pran is against his mouth, how soft he is, how good he smells kissing Pat.

And then he felt Pran's mouth open and then Pran's tongue licked over his lips and no. There was no going back after that. He didn't want to go back anyway.

And so they kissed, slow and wet, tongues dancing, soft pants filling up the room. A bliss.

And then there was a thud downstairs and Dissaya was calling Pran's name. And then Pran was gone, physically gone off the bed, stumbling backward clutching the guitar to his chest. He went pale. Pale, pale, color washing off of his skin with each second.

"You need to leave," Pran said drily as if they weren't just making out a second ago.

And there was so much Pat wanted to do. He wanted to keep on kissing Pran, he wanted to talk about it too, tell him how good it made him feel, and even though he still didn't know what to think of it, he wanted to discuss what just happened. More than that he wanted to come over to Pran and comfort him because the way he looked didn't look healthy, but then he thought that it would probably make things worse. Besides, steps were getting closer to the room and he didn't have time for any further thinking. At a light speed, he was gone, back in his room, with a taste of Pran on his lips.

Later that night Pat found Pran's window closed.

And of course, Pran ignored him the next day. Pat would be kind of worried if Pran didn't. But then he ignored him the day after that and after that. He wasn't even pretending to be at least polite with Pat, he completely ignored Pat's existence and that had hurt like a bitch.

Pat felt used and nonplussed and lost and the only person he wanted to talk to about what happened was the person who ignored him. He could talk to Pa, but he wanted to discuss it with Pran first because it's something that happened between them, and letting someone else (even Pa) into the situation without talking everything through first felt wrong.

Pat snapped on Thursday. A day before the Christmas concert. It was a hot day, but the PE teacher didn't really care, so after a thorough exercise, he made them play football. The tiredness from the day and the heat of the sun were already driving Pat up the hill, but Pran throwing the ball to anyone, but Pat was especially annoying.

"What's your problem?" he didn't even register when he came up to Pran and when he pushed him. He was angry, tired, and on the verge of being dehydrated.

Pran didn't say anything, just turned around on his heels and headed back to the goal.

"Why won't you talk to me?" he yelled pushing again on Pran's back and hating himself for that. But it wasn't fair, Pran can't ghost him like that, he at least should tell him that he doesn't want to talk about it. Then Pat would... He would figure out what to do.

"I have nothing to say to you" replied Pran as he pushed Pat back. His brows were brought together, lips tight, tense, not quite anger, more like fear. Pat had registered the words, he respected Pran's boundaries, but he was mad at him, hurt and exhausted. His mind kept running in circles for days now in an unsuccessful attempt to make sense of their kiss. Did Pran actually like him? For how long? Was it just an irrational decision that Pran regretted now? Did Pat regret it? Pat thought he knew Pran so well, how come he didn't notice how and when Pran started to like him that way? If he did. And what if he didn't, what would Pat do?

The unsettling feeling was the worst for Pat because he wasn't the type to overthink, but this was serious. It was them. And for the first time in forever, they couldn't sort it out. For the first time in forever, he couldn't get through to Pran. If Pran didn't want to talk about it, he at least should listen to what Pat had to say.

"You're such an asshole, you know that?" he yelled again "Who does that to a person they've k-" he didn't get to finish as Pran punched him in the stomach, not hard enough to hurt physically, but hard enough to bruise mentally.

Now Pran was angry. Pat saw the glint of fury in his eyes and the way his jaw clenched. Pat doesn't get to see Pran like that often, usually, it's a pretense that only Pat can read through, but not now. Now was real.

"I don't fucking wanna talk to you, moron, take no for an answer for once" he growled as he fisted Pat's t-shirt and pushed him away.

And before Pat could even think of a call back there was a whistle "Paracul, Napat, principal's office, now!"

'Great' Pat thought back then. He really needed his Dad to scold him for getting sent to the principal's office for picking up a fight on a football field. Even though he was picking up a fight with Pran. Maybe that would sweeten the pill. But that didn't make Pat feel any easier. They didn't fight as much anymore, they didn't fight at all, to be honest. To others, their bickering might've seemed like a fight full of insults, bordering to get physical, but it wasn't, really (tickling would be the closest thing to physical in their fights). So this fight sucked especially hard, it was a fight of frustration, no one tried to prove the other wrong, so there weren't winners or looser, but somehow Pat felt like he had lost.

They sat on opposite sides of the bench outside of the principal's office. Under the cool air of the air conditioner, the realization of what happened was starting to hit Pat harder. He almost told everyone that Pran kissed him. No, that they kissed. And Pran punched him. Like actually put a fist to his stomach, because he wanted to hurt Pat. Was Pat this blind not to notice Pran hated him all along?

The thought tasted bitter.

Pran can't hate him.

Right?

The secretary gave them a puzzled look when they walked in, Pat could read 'why are you two here?' on her face. They haven't been in here in a while, they've managed to stay out of fights. Though they kept the feud, they weren't friends, but fighting was off the table for a long, long time. Everyone seemed pretty pleased with it too, teachers, because they didn't have to keep them apart anymore, their classmates, because they didn't need to pick sides or stay overtime in school, because of Pat and Pran's fights. A win-win situation, parents didn't need to know.

They were told to wait, the principal went out (probably to grab something to drink). The tension was tangible, Pran was bouncing his leg as he was picking at his fingers. Like he did when he was nervous. His lip was trapped between his teeth and it was white where he was biting it. If Pat would wait a little bit longer he might see the skin of the lip break and then Pran would bleed.
Pat on his half could feel every muscle in his body tense from the unspokeness that hovered over them like a mountain. He would go for a run right now if he could, even in this inexorable heat, only to release the tension. The silence was weird, they only stay this quiet when they were working or don't feel the need to talk when they were just savoring the moment of being. Now, however, they had a lot to talk about, yet they were quiet.

Thankfully, the silence didn't last long.

"I'm sorry," they said at once as they glanced up at each other. The conversation was held quitely, meaning for only them to hear.

"Sorry I caused a scene in front of everyone" Pat whispered honestly turning his body to Pran.

Pran however didn't copy the move, still tense and nervous, he spoke after a few moments. "Sorry I kissed you" was Pran's reply. He looked so miserable, yet relieved somehow as if he was letting some weight fall off his chest. As if saying it out loud made him feel at ease. As if he was really actually sorry for kissing Pat.

"No. No, Pran, you think that's what I'm mad about?" that couldn't possibly be true. There was no way Pran of all people would think that's what upsets Pat. But then how would Pran know how Pat felt if they hadn't spoken a word about what happened?

And back then all Pat wanted to do was to scrub Pran into a tight hug and tell him that regretting the kiss was the last thing on Pat's mind. It wasn't even a thing on Pat's mind, it felt too good to regret it.

He didn't do any of that, he only leaned closer, to hear whatever else Pran has to say.

"And for ignoring you" he looked up at Pat as if remembering that kiss wasn't the only thing he did to Pat "And for punching you" Pran added quickly. Well, the hope isn't entirely lost. "But you should be. You should be angry with me for- And you should distance yourself from me." Pran nodded as if agreeing with himself. Oh, no Pran definitely regretted it. The guilt was so painfully obvious on his face, it made something break inside of Pat, it hollered, it ached.

"I won't..." he tried to find the words but was interrupted.

"Pat, please. Let's not make it more complicated than it already is" Pran begged. He willed. He almost cried.

"You mean our parents? I don't care, we can take care of it. I mean they don't know what we've been doing all these years, why would they get suspicious now?" he tried again. He had to let Pran know that he didn't regret it, he didn't blame or hate Pran for the kiss, and he was ready to take things slow and hide it from every living soul in their lives to be with Pran.

Shit.

He wanted to be with Pran.

In some way. In every way? He didn't have time to think about that.

"Pat. Please" was said with so much desperation and imploration in his voice it had taken Pat aback. What was going on in Pran's mind?

Pran's eyes were moist but he didn't shed a single tear yet, his face was troubled, and he looked at him with such intensity. Was he about to say something else, something big or was it just another plea for them to stop and never go further than the kiss?

"Alright," Pat said eventually, his mind struggling to grasp what to do. Pran was starting to shake a little, so he figured pushing would be worse than leaving it be for now. "I won't make it more complicated. But I don't wanna distance myself from you either." at that Pran's mouth fell open attempting to argue. "I won't. And you won't either. Let's just... How about a movie night after the concert? We can talk afterward. If you'd feel like it" perhaps giving Pran a wide berth so they could feel like themselves again was the best idea for now. To go back to being their non-awkward, talkative, and open selves. Sure there had to be a way to make it comfortable between them again. If not talking about the kiss for a while longer meant having Pran back next to him, he would take it. That would be fine by him.

"You can't say no though" he smirked.

"I can, actually and I'm saying no" Pran argued, and oh, the relief Pat felt when he realized it was Pran's usual competitiveness bleeding through his expression. 'Make me agree' was written all over Pran's face, in the way his eyebrows were raised, his lips tense in an attempt to hide the smile, but the dimples were popping out anyway.

"Well, then I have to come to your parents and beg them to let me in the house" he flicked Pran's chin, just to make his dimples pop out even more, just to make his lips curve into a tiny smile.

"Don't you dare!" Pran's eyes went wide at the suggestion and he pinched Pat's stomach. The touch burned, even through his t-shirt.

"Then you have to say yes!" he pinched back, which made Pran jump on his seat and then glare fake-angy at Pat. Pat was having the time of his life.

"No" Pran soundly slapped his lap.

"Say yes" Pat poked his dimple.

"Why would I want to watch a movie with your stinky butt?" Pran tried to bite his hand, and the touch of his lips on Pat's palm was hot and really nice.

"You're stinky butt," he said staring at his hand that was still joined at Pran's cheek. Where Pran was slightly leaning into the touch. Coy smiles mirrored their faces.

"Alright boys, I see you sorted everything out yourselves" the principal's voice suddenly caught off their quarrel "you're free to go" she was smiling a weird smile as if she knew something. Maybe she did, Pat couldn't say how long they have been doing this (whatever it is) and how long has she been standing there.

That evening they did their homework as usual, then they were simply catching up on what happened during the week. They didn't talk about anything significant, they didn't clear anything about the situation, they didn't even mention it, yet Pat felt content.

The next day Pran was gone, like dust in the wind.

***

His mind went back to where he was, he must have blinked out of existence for a second there and it wasn't until he felt dump fabric against his face that he realized what he was doing. He was in Pran's room, on his bed with his t-shirt wrapped around his face, because Pat had to smell him. Like the dog, Pran always called him. Thinking about him. Missing him. Yearning for him.

'My life is so intertwined with Pran' he thought 'he's everywhere I go, everywhere I look, he's in the decisions I make and mistakes too'.

He slowly unrolled himself from Pran's bed and stood up on shaky legs. His mind was in turmoil, he had no idea why this was happening but it seemed to be increasing the longer he sat in Pran's room.

He couldn't stop thinking about him. Everything he did reminded him of Pran. It would be so easy if he could just forget all about it. Forget about Pran, who was always there for him. Who treated him like an equal, not as though he owed him anything. About Pran who was nice to him. About Pran who was now away, he left Pat behind with these feelings, growing stronger day by day.

Could anybody understand? Could anybody help?

There was nobody who could help him but himself. He needed to cut Pran off completely. He needed to find some way to make him disappear forever from his mind, to erase him from his memories, so he could start over.

He slid the window open and was out on the balcony again, with Pran's t-shirt in his hands.

Today he says goodbye.

Pat wore Pran's t-shirt to dinner and no one noticed. Probably for the better, he didn't have an explanation, and saying the truth wasn't the best idea.

It was tight on him, almost uncomfortable, but it was cozy, somehow still smelling like Pran. He found it funny, how tight it was on him and how big it looked on Pran. Pran wasn't even that much shorter than him and yet he was drowning in the t-shirt.

The t-shirt was the last hug Pran and he never got to share. The last physical contact between them.

After dinner he will burn it, so any evidence of that kiss will be destroyed.

He tried to enjoy the meal, which tasted good, but the more he ate, the heavier his heart grew. The realization that it was the end of something great was sinking down in him.

He wondered, how many times did he stare at Pran? How many times did he doze off thinking of Pran?

How many nights did he spend dreaming of Pran?

Too much. Not enough.

He missed him.

He missed him so much.

It had to stop.

Pat did his best to try to appear talkative as usual. He told his Dad about the project he presented today (he got the highest score, which earned him a proud smile from Ming, a smile that was much easier to earn these days). He talked for a bit about the universities he planned on applying to. He talked about the upcoming rugby match. It seemed to be enough to satisfy the need for conversation with his parents.

Then he excused himself to leave the dinner early, saying that he was tired, and went to his room.

He lay on his bed with a pillow over his head and tried not to think about anything. But the memories kept coming back. They were still so fresh and vivid; they made his chest ache and tears sting at the corners of his eyes. The touch of Pran's lips against his. Pran's breathing searing his face. Coldness when Pran jumped off the bed. Fight. Apology. Pran leaving.

He had some homework to do for tomorrow, but his limbs felt numb same as his mind. He wouldn't be able to concentrate on the tasks, he knew it in advance, so he didn't even try.

Instead, he put on some music and tried to kill some time before performing his plan.

The plan was easy, he would just take the guitar and place it on Pran's bed, so the next time Dissaya came in here to clean up, she would see it and would definitely never leave the window open again. Fewer opportunities for Pat to go back. And she wouldn't blame him, since there was no evidence that it was actually him. And Pat hoped she would give the guitar back to Pran, so he could have his comfort object back at his new place. So he could strim the strings whenever he felt like it and maybe, it would make Pran feel more comfortable in the new place. The thought that it might make Pran feel better, irrationally made Pat feel better too.

He waited for a bit until he was sure his family was asleep and pulled Pran's guitar from under his bed. The cover was slightly dusty, Pat made a mental note to ask Pa to vacuum the floor. On second thought, he scratched that note and made another one, to do it himself.

'New beginnings, new ways of thinking' he thought. Maybe this was going to be good for him after all.

As careful as always he eased himself into the cool night air, jumped onto Pran's balcony, and slid inside his room for the second time today. And the last time in years.

"Well, it's a goodbye then" he held the guitar at eye level and smiled at it sadly. The guitar obviously didn't say anything back, but Pat just had to make the final point. He couldn't stop his eyes from roaming around the room for the last time, before putting the guitar down. It felt big, saying goodbye to this life they used to have and now neither could continue living.

His eyes caught the sight of Pran's coloring pens again, his sketchbook on top of other, already finished ones. And then his mind clicked again. If these things were still here if Pran's clothes were still here, what were the chances Pran's parents would bring the guitar to him? Close to zero. The chances they would destroy or sell the thing they didn't want their son to have in the first place were close to a hundred. And that made his stomach twist.

Pran isn't coming back soon, but he's coming back at some point. His parents don't seem to be moving out to live near where Pran is, so he would have to go home sometime in the foreseeable future. And he would want his guitar back, right? He worked so hard to buy it, he seemed so happy to play it. It was his thing, for sure he would want to have it back, even after all of the years.

Pat couldn't let it go to waste. He couldn't let it get ruined or used by someone else.

He heavily sat on the bed and looked at the guitar again, as if waiting for it to give him an idea of what to do next. His plan was crushing down fast, he couldn't leave the guitar here to the mauling of Pran's parents and it meant that it will lie under his bed. And the knowledge of that would burn Pat at night, it meant he can't completely get rid of Pran and his remains. He was doomed to live with this searing pain of losing the person he gravitated to the most.

He unzipped the guitar cover and stared at the big "P" on the headlock. It stared back at him. It was smooth and cold against his forehead.

"What do I do?" he whispered shakingly. It's been a little over two weeks since Pran left and Pat hasn't shed a tear, hasn't let himself go through the separation, which was unusual for him. He wasn't the alpha male everyone seemed to view him as, he liked to watch rom-coms and cry his eyes out when the movie made him. More often than not he would get sulky over small things and he would just let himself be sulky. He wouldn't pretend that he's strong and above all the "girly" emotions. Because he wasn't. He was a human and he knew well that he can and should feel things. But allowing himself to feel the absence of Pran was too scary. He was afraid that someone would see him and all of the secrets Pran and he kept for years would be revealed for everyone to see and judge.

Now, however, tears fell and Pat didn't intend to stop them.

He unzipped the guitar further and let his lips brush against the strings and the song spilled into the quiet of the room. The song was a sad and lonely tune about two boys who loved each other dearly but lost their chance of being together due to the cruelty of destiny. A fate that was supposed to keep them apart, but instead of making them angry, instead of making them hate each other, it made them embrace the differences, disagreements, and friendship and made them try to live their lives as best they could. Unfortunately, with the way things were, boys were destined to burn.

Pat couldn't help but bring the guitar closer. It was now trapped between his legs, he stroked the neck of it. It was comforting, the hug, even if it wasn't reciprocated.

"I'm sorry," he said to the instrument in a small voice. "I shouldn't have come here in the first place."

And he sobbed more and more, shoulders shaking with each breath he struggled to take. His face felt cold and his throat was sore from trying to suppress the wet, teary hiccup. Or a cry. Or the confessions that threatened to slip from his tongue.

But he managed to keep them in, to hold his silence. He didn't want to admit that he was in love with Pran. He didn't want to confess that he dreamed about him, about kissing him. He didn't want to admit that he had spent hours replaying the song in his mind, but was never able to get through the part when Pran left.

Because if he did admit all of these things, then it would hurt more. Losing a friend is painful, but not nearly as painful as losing love. As losing someone your entire being yearns for.

But it already ached like that.

He felt the bed dip next to where he was sitting and then a warm hand started to caress his back, up and down, soothing, calming. He didn't need to open his eyes to know who it was, even though it didn't make sense at all. At the back of his mind, he distantly realized that it couldn't be Pran, that it was his tired brain imagining things for its own well-being.

"You've never been afraid of letting things go, Napat" imaginary Pran stated. He sounded cold, yet so comforting, so alien, yet so home.

"How," Pat asked. "How can I possibly let go of you?".

"I don't know" imaginary Pran replied. As simple as that. Of course, he didn't know what to do. Maybe real Pran would. No, real Pran definitely would know what to do, but this is not real Pran.

"I hate that," Pat whispered, "I miss you so much."

Silence followed and then "Pran" kissed him gently on the cheek. It was a chaste, soft, and wet press of lips, but it was like a remedy for bruises. Pat's breath slowed and he finally felt the chokehold of tears ease.

"I'm really sorry," he said, dropping the last tears to his knees. He was apologizing for not fighting hard enough for their relationship, for not realizing his feelings earlier, and for not seeing Pran's feelings. He was apologizing for every time he made Pran listen to him talk about girls when Pran probably wanted to be those girls. Pran was really a better man than he. Pat doesn't think he would be able to handle hearing his crush talk about someone else, without letting them see that he's upset.

Sadly, it didn't matter, because Pran doesn't get to hear the apology.

Another "I miss you" fell from his lips and then his mind spoke.

"Good," Pran said. "You should miss me. You should hold onto that feeling and try to make the best of it!"

Maybe Pran is right. No. Maybe he is right. There are so many stories of people turning their grief into art, music, or books. Pat wasn't opposed to writing a book.

And besides, Pran isn't dead, he's very much alive (as far as Pat knew) and that meant that someway, somehow they could meet again. And Pat should clutch to that opportunity. He figured he shouldn't mop around all this time, waiting for Pran to return, like a rag doll, like a thing that only resembled a human being.

He had friends, who were inviting him to different activities (he kept declining because he didn't feel like having fun when he knew he couldn't tell Pran about it). He had Pa, who was worried about him and was probably the only person who saw at least a small portion of the change Pran's absence brought to Pat. She never said anything, maybe because she didn't know what to say. Pat wouldn't know what to say in a situation like that either. But she was there for him, forcing him to watch movies with her and go shopping, so he wouldn't feel so lonely. He had his Dad to impress and his Mom to make proud. He had his sports and drums. He was about to apply for a university where he would meet more people, where he would make more friends, where life was supposed to sweep him up so much that university years would fly by him, and by the end, he would miss it. And then there was a job at their family business, waiting for him, laid out on a plate. He had things to do. He had a life to live.

Maybe having Pran's guitar with him was a good thing. Painful, but good. Pran's passion for music has inspired him a lot in the past, the soft streaming of the guitar carried by the wind to his window has been the best stress reliever after Pran himself. And how could he think it was a bad thing to have a piece of Pran with him?

He was going to keep it. As a motivation to keep going, no matter what. Because Pran made him stronger, because he had never let Pat have anything the easy way, so Pat knows how to power through tough times.

Besides, who is Pat to back down from a challenge? The challenge. The last competition between them, even though Pran probably doesn't know about it.

Finally, everything made sense. Finally, hopelessness left his body. And so did the warm hand from his back.

"I am going to miss you," he smiled. "I promise, I'm gonna miss you so, so much," he sighed and opened his eyes. His vision was blurry at first, but slowly began to clear. He didn't see Pran next to him, but he didn't need to. He saw the guitar and it was enough. He stroked it a bit more, smiling a bitter-sweet smile at it. He was already planning how he was going to beat Pran in living his life. Which was silly and by no means did he not want Pran to have an amazing life, but the goal was set.

In years, when they meet again, (Pat knows they will), he has to tell a lot of stories to Pran.

He zipped the guitar back and hugged it again, tight. He left a quick peck to the cover of the guitar and slipped back to his room, cherishing the dullness, determining to make something great out of it.