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Pran loves birthdays.
Ever since he was young, birthdays have always been particularly special to him. His parents always went the extra mile to dote on him and some of his most formative moments grew from them. His father would play music and talk about it with such passion that his love for it settled deep in Pran’s bones. His mother had taken him into the kitchen to teach him his first recipe on his fourth birthday, and cooking together had been a tradition ever since.
Even when his birthday became one of the few things Pat held over them for most of their childhood (Pat being older by barely a few months), it was something fun, something that was theirs. Pran especially loved when he beat Pat at something that Pat had “more time to perfect because of his seniority.”
Now, it’s Pran’s first birthday in Singapore, and Pran is having a harder time than he expected.
Pat had video called him first thing in the morning, still looking like he was still waking up, to wish Pran a happy birthday. Pran had been distracted by just looking at Pat’s features, the sound of his sleep-rough voice, that he nearly missed the look of stress and displeasure growing on Pat’s face.
It ended up that Ming had planned a meeting with Pat shortly before Pat and Pran had a planned virtual birthday date and had only texted Pat to let him know before Pat had called Pran.
“I’ll tell him I can’t,” Pat had said, and Pran had immediately shaken his head.
"You know you can’t do that, ” Pran had replied. “I’ll probably go out to dinner with coworkers and I’ll call you after.”
Pran hadn’t gone out to dinner because his co-workers had been unavailable, and Pran has been trying not to dwell.
He exhales, checking his phone as he turns onto his street. It’s late enough now that Pat could potentially be done with meeting his father and be around for a call, and while Pran hovers over Pat’s name, he doesn’t press call.
It’s silly, Pran knows it’s silly, but he wants to wallow in his disappointment just a little longer before his night gets better.
He enters his building, greeting a few people distractedly, before heading to his floor. He takes out his phone again, and this time he presses Pat’s name. It goes straight to voicemail.Pran sucks in a breath, and he’s almost embarrassed about the way his eyes sting. He’s an adult, his friends are adults, his boyfriend is an adult.
It’s just a birthday.
It’s just a birthday, and Pran feels the loneliness creeping into his throat.
“Who made my boyfriend look so sad on his special day?” A familiar, beloved voice demands from a few feet away.
Pran drops his work bag, his eyes stinging for a completely different reason– surprise and joy, and he turns.
Pat is standing at Pran’s apartment door with an overnight bag at his feet, beaming at Pran, his eyes shining. Pran stares at him, and Pat’s face crinkles happily.
“Surprise,” Pat says, and Pran has never moved so fast, his dormant rugby skills leaping to the forefront as he knocks into Pat, pinning Pat against his apartment door. Pat’s arms are around him immediately, and they bury their faces into each other's necks, breathing in, Pat more shameless about it than Pran, but it might also be for show.
“Asshole,” Pran chokes out, and Pat huffs a little laugh to disguise his own sniffle. “Your meeting–”
“Rescheduled,” Pat says, grinning, like it wasn’t a big deal that he rescheduled a meeting with his father– a man he used to idolize – so he could fly to another country to surprise the one person he was never supposed to care about on his birthday. “Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, it was kind of last minute.”
Pran can only tighten his arms around Pat in response, overwhelmed and in love, fingers clutching at the fabric of his boyfriend’s shirt.
After a little more time just clinging to each other and sneaking sniff kisses, they mutually step back. Pran hastily wipes at his eyes, and Pat just smiles at him, not bothering to do the same for himself.
“I should probably let you in,” Pran exhales, shakily. Pat just nods his agreement, tucking himself against Pran’s back and holding on while Pran gets the door to his apartment open.
Pran doesn’t even pretend to complain about it, letting Pat drape over him, using his foot to slide both of their bags inside.
“Bathroom is straight ahead and to the right,” Pran says before Pat can say anything, as if Pat is just an ordinary guest.
“Oh,” Pat presses a kiss to Pran’s temple. “Thanks. I’ll be right back!”
Pran just hums in response, still processing, watching Pat move easily through Pran’s apartment and shutting the bathroom door behind him.
Pran drops his gaze to stare at Pat’s overnight bag, nestled neatly against Pran’s, and it looks so right that Pran can feel the tears building again, and he jams his palms into his eyes.
Pat flew all this way to surprise him on his birthday, and Pran will not spend it randomly bursting into tears.
Pat comes out of the bathroom, looking like he just splashed water on his face, and Pran clicks his tongue at that, going to the linen cabinet to get a washcloth.
“There were hand towels right there,” he scolds without heat, drying Pat’s face as Pat leans into the touch with a content smile.
“I’ve spent too long drying my own face and hair,” Pat says, seriously. “Why would I, now that I have a boyfriend to do it for me? I should take advantage.”
Pran rolls his eyes, but dabs the cloth in a heart shaped direction around Pat’s face, then seals the completed task with a quick kiss.
“Done already?” Pat pouts at him, but he’s already wrapping his arms around Pran like not having the physical contact for three minutes was torture. Pran can understand that, at least.
“Well,” Pran says, leaning into Pat’s hold. “I’m going to shower soon–”
“Got it, got it,” Pat says, eager, and Pran kisses him again.
“Are you hungry?” Pran asks, heading for the kitchen, and Pat grabs his wrist, stopping him.
“You’re not cooking for me on your birthday!” Pat says, offended. “What kind of boyfriend would I be? We’ll order in.”
Pran just looks at Pat over his shoulder, his heart bursting with fondness. “Pat,” he says, soft. “I want to cook you something.” Let me cook you something, Pran adds, silently. Let me tell you I love you in all the ways I can, in a place that’s just ours for tonight, where I don’t have to hide you.
Pat’s hold on Pran’s wrist loosens, and his whole expression goes soft and warm. “You know,” he says, flopping back on Pran’s couch. “This was a really long day. I’m hungry.”
It’s perfect having Pat here, with Pat’s eyes on him the entire time Pran cooks until the few feet of distance between them is clearly too much and Pat joins him, wrapping himself around Pran from behind as Pran cooks. Pran can’t bring himself to elbow Pat out of the way, especially since Pat just seems to know how to move so Pran isn’t hindered too much.
Pran is also guilty of getting distracted and kissing Pat whenever Pat’s mouth is in range (which is often).
Eventually, Pat’s hand starts fidgeting with the waistband of Pran’s pants, and Pran does have to shove him out of the way before they get too distracted.
Pat just laughs and backs off, smacking a kiss to Pran’s cheek then wandering over to his bag, digging through and taking out a few wrapped packages, setting them on the counter.
“These are from Paa, Ink and Ma,” he says, leaning on the counter. “Korn says he’s sending you something in the mail, so keep an eye out.”
Pran fears that he’ll be looking for something in discreet packaging from Korn, but he doesn’t dwell too long. “Wait, from…your mom?”
“You didn’t hear it from me,” Pat’s voice is softer, and Pran blinks a few more times. He promised himself he wouldn’t cry, but when he looks at Pat again, Pat’s eyes are overly bright like he’s trying not to cry himself.
It feels like a start to something, like something is beginning to bend, and Pran reaches out to brush his thumb under Pat’s eyes, before tugging him to his small dining table. “Come eat,” is all he can say, and Pat nods, flashing him a brilliant smile and despite Pran’s brief insistence that he sit and relax, Pat stays at his heels until Pran shows him where plates and utensils are.
They’re just sitting down when Pran’s phone rings, and Pran reaches to silence the call, but hesitates when he sees it’s a video call from his mother.
Pat also catches sight of the ID on screen, and stands up to move out of the way. “I’ll unpack my things,” he says, leaning in to kiss Pran’s cheek.
“Pat–”
“It’s your parents, Pran,” Pat tells him, matter of factly. “It’s your birthday.” With that, he grabs his bag and vanishes into Pran’s room, almost like he was never there to begin with.
Pran rubs a hand over his face, taking a breath, answering the call just before it ends.
“Happy birthday, Pran!” the faces of both his parents fill the screen, beaming at him.
“We were hoping we would catch you,” his mother says. “But we couldn’t be sure you weren’t celebrating with friends! Did you eat? I wish we could have come out so you’re not sitting around at your apartment.”
Pran’s eyes dart to his bedroom door, before he shakes his head, smiling. “It’s fine, don’t worry. You know me, I love my peace.”
His parents chuckle like they do know him, and Pran has to swallow the lump in his throat.
“You look happy, Pran,” his father says. “That’s all we can ask. We won’t take up any more of your time. We just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”
Pran’s mother slaps her husband’s arm. “Why would you say that? I want to hear more about what Pran has been up to! Now he’s going to use that as an excuse!”
“Honey,” his father meets Pran’s eyes through the screen, and there’s an understanding in his expression that makes Pran feel like he’s going to have a heart attack. “We shouldn’t keep him, he might have plans after all.”
Dissaya looks ready to protest, but relents, giving Pran a soft smile. “Well, don’t forget to call and tell me everything, Pran. Happy birthday again. We love you and we’re proud of you.”
“Thanks,” Pran says, smiling back. “I love you both and I’ll talk to you soon.”
They say their goodbyes and hang up, and Pat reappears in the bedroom doorway. Pran is across the room in a heartbeat, pulling Pat into a kiss.
“Don’t do that again,” he says against Pat’s mouth, heart pounding. “No more hiding. You’re here, and I would have told them if they’d noticed anything. Pat, I would have–”
“I know,” Pat smiles at him, cupping Pran’s face in his hands. “But I would have wanted us to decide that together first, okay? Not like this.”
Pran takes a breath, and they just stay close, before Pran takes Pat’s hand and leads him back to the table, pausing only to set his phone to do not disturb.
They eat dinner, legs knocking under the table, scooping food onto each other’s plates and stealing bites off each other’s spoons. They catch up about their days as if they haven’t spoken nearly every day.
Eventually, they’re left with empty plates, fingers interlocked over the small table.
“I don’t think I officially wished you a happy birthday since I got here,” Pat says, playing with Pran’s fingers, smiling contentedly. “So, happy birthday, Pran.”
“It’s about to get happier,” Pran informs him, pulling him to his feet, already dragging his boyfriend in the direction of the bedroom.