Work Text:
Prapai woke up with a new outlook on life. Unfortunately, that outlook was through blurry, sleep-filled eyes.
When the world finally comes to focus, the first thing he notices is the neatly wrapped bandages adorning his arms, their pristine whiteness contrasting against the sterile environment that surrounded him. An odd fascination flickered within him, finding a twisted beauty in the morbid elegance of the bindings.
(Maybe it's because they remind him of how Sky would carefully treat his wounds, making treating wounds look like an art form. He's not even being a ridiculous simp about it, even Phayu agrees with him on it.)
The pervasive scent of disinfectant snaps him out of his thoughts, filling the air that invaded his nostrils, assaulting his senses, and bringing him back to his current predicament. He blinked around the room, wrinkling his nose at the sterile white walls. In fact, now that he noticed it, everything was white, besides the soft and fluffy chocolate blanket that covered him. He was glad, honestly, he was really starting to hate the color.
"Mm, Prapai."
A soft mumble broke him out of his musings. His eyes landed on Sky, sleeping in what looked like an uncomfortable plastic chair, his upper half leaning on the bed and looking absolutely adorable. Seriously, how the heck can somebody be this adorable, especially at god-knows-what-time? Prapai was going to have to conduct a research study if Sky kept this up.
His boyfriend was a vision of ethereal grace draped in an oversized white hoodie that swallowed him—and damn, Prapai took back whatever he said about the color white. Because Sky looked like the fucking angel that he was in white. Prapai wanted to tuck him under his ribcage and keep him safe next to his beating heart, or keep in in his coat pocket all the damn time because Sky was Cute with a capital C.
And because his boyfriend was the epitome of cuteness, Prapai felt that nobody could blame him if he spent a while admiring the way the sleeves of the enveloped Sky's delicate hands, forming adorable sweater paws that tugged at Prapai's heartstrings like the strings of a guitar. Actually, fuck that, his heart was a bloody orchestra right now, with how much it was jumping up and down in happiness.
At that moment, his previous aversion to the sterile surroundings dissipated, replaced by the sheer loveliness of Sky's presence. Sky was an antidote for all of his aches, Prapai wondered how other people could live without having a Sky in their lives. Every time the other man was away, he always had a Sky-shaped hole in his heart, everything reminding him of his beloved's glaring absence.
Sky's form seemed both gentle and vulnerable as he rested his head upon his folded arms, a position that speaks of his unspoken but unwavering devotion despite its apparent discomfort. And that thought, the notion that Sky could be in pain while Prapai was around, brought him out of his staring. A surge of concern washed over him, and he tried to move and shift Sky to a more comfortable position.
The keyword here being: tried. Because the moment he tried to shift his position, a searing pain coursed through his body, paralyzing him in place, making a painful hiss escape his lips even as he attempted to keep silent so as not to wake Sky up. Which was a failure, because Sky always was a light sleeper, so light that even a small movement would wake him up.
And, that was exactly what happened. Sky rose from his slumber, looking like a grumpy kitten, before his eyes landed on Prapai. His soulful doe eyes widened in a mixture of awe and disbelief as if beholding a miraculous sight, and magically, Prapai could feel the pain subside just as quickly as it had risen.
Prapai found himself entranced by the luminous amber eyes that reflected warmth, tenderness, and love. Laced with astonishment and reverence, Sky's gasp resonated through the room like the whisper of a miracle unfolding before his very eyes. Prapai couldn't help but smile fondly at the sight.
"Prapai," Sky whispers the name as if he's afraid Prapai will disappear if he speaks too loud. "Prapai," this time the tone is louder. "You're awake!"
If this was anybody else, Prapai would have probably rolled his eyes, sent them a long-suffering look, and drawl out something along the lines of 'Astute Observation,' but this is Sky, his baby, his dear heart, so he smiles and simply says, "Yeah."
It's a simple statement. Yet, Sky sends a beaming smile at him, and it's so bright, he's sure that it would beat the sun with its radiance. It feels warm, like homemade chocolate chip cookies out of the oven.
"How do you feel?" Sky asks his voice like a gentle breeze.
"Like I crashed into something hard," Prapai groans dramatically, trying to make Sky laugh. It has the opposite effect however because Sky's expression withers like a wilting flower, he falls back in the chair, reminding Prapai of a marionette with its strings severed.
"Oh," Sky murmurs, his words a whisper carried on a fragile breeze. His voice is dull and defeated, and Prapai's heart speeds up in panic. "Yeah, that would make sense."
"Sky, what—"
"You would be right in feeling that way," Sky murmurs in a tone that is meant to clarify, and yet his words are like droplets sinking into a murky sea. "You did, crash, I mean."
"Huh?"
Sky drifts away, his eyes slipping down from Prapai's gaze to stare at the floor. "Your car brakes were deliberately cut," he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper. "You weren't able to stop. You almost died."
"Oh," is all he managed to say. "Sky, I'm so sorry—"
"No, don't apologize, It's my fault—"
"What?" Prapai frowns, his eyebrows furrowing. "No, it isn't, Sky, baby—"
"And," Sky continues on, biting his lower lip so hard Prapai fears he might draw blood. "And, Gun is the one—" Prapai's heart drops. "—who cut your brakes, he thought they were mine. I'm sorry, you wouldn't be in this situation if not for me." Prapai shakes his head, but Sky doesn't even see.
He's about to say something, anything, but then Sky looks at him and his heart stops. Because, when Sky looks up at him, his eyes resemble distant galaxies - once brilliant and vibrant, now fading, like the last flickering embers of a dying star about to collapse into oblivion.
And, Prapai's heart cries in anguish as he sees the traces of sorrow etched in those once-luminous eyes. Sky averts his gaze again, the weight of his emotions evident in the muted tone of his voice, a stark contrast to the starburst of energy he used to exude.
The words that escape Sky's lips next pierce through Prapai's soul like shards of ice.
"You deserve someone better," Sky whispers, his voice quiet and dead. "Someone who didn't stay entangled with someone like Gun, someone who can make you happy without holding you back."
Sky's delicate sniffs reverberate in the room, a symphony of suppressed emotions. His gaze fixates on the floor, a long and bloody war clearly waging within him, and he almost seems to glare at the floor. But, Prapai knows that determined glare, knows it masks the tears threatening to spill. "I thought—I thought, I had escaped Gun, you know? I thought I was more than that immature kid I used to be, but I still am. Pathetic, that's what I am."
Prapai's chest heaves.
"You—" Sky sniffs again and Prapai would set the world ablaze, would watch apathetically as it would burn, to make sure he never cries again. "You don't deserve to deal with this shit, my shit. You didn't sign up for this—"
"And you did?" Prapai snaps, and his voice crackles with frustration.
Sky's eyes snap up. "Sky, you self-sacrificing idiot," Prapai heaves. "Did you sign up for any of this? Did you ask to be treated less than what you deserve? Did you ask not to be pampered like the fucking prince you are? You deserved the world, Sky, served on a silver platter. You should've had diamonds and gold given to you on a daily basis. You should've had the moon and stars decorating your bedroom. You didn't ask for any of that, Sky. You didn't deserve any of it."
"But, I just attract trouble, Prapai, you need someone better—"
"Silly darling," Prapai says, and he knows his voice sounds more soft than stern, but he can't help it. He captures Sky's trembling hands within his own, ignoring the spike of morphine. "You're my whole heart, don't you know? How could anyone be better for me than my heart?"
Sky's expression contorts, his lips quivering, and Prapai tenderly cups his cheek, the rosy hue resembling a delicate bloom. Sky chokes on a sob, choking Prapai's heart with it, his lovely, beautiful, heart. "Have you been crying alone all this time?" Prapai breathes, it's the most heartbreaking thing in the world.
The only place Sky should ever cry is in his arms. He shouldn't ever cry, but if he ever does, then Prapai should be there to wipe his tears away. "You have my whole heart, Petal." He breathes, and he can feel the tears running down his cheeks. "It'd stop beating if not for you."
One of Sky's hands curls desperately at the front of Prapai's shirt, even as he shakes his head. Like he can't help but hold on, even while trying to let him go. Prapai loves him. "Don't say you're not the one for me," Prapai breathes. "Please, sweetheart. You're my whole heart."
"Is it," Sky says, eyes slipping closed and hand curling tighter. "Is it—is it really okay? Is it okay to love you, still?"
Prapai's laughter, tinged with both sorrow and love, dances on his lips. "Of course, it is, baby," he murmurs, kissing the sob out of Sky's lips. "My baby."
And they sit there, for god knows how long simply holding each other.
And it's the first time ever since hearing the news, that Prapai acknowledges the fact that he could have died.
For the first time in his entire life, he feels the time that slips through his fingers like sand in an hourglass, the grains trickling down with a relentless urgency. The hourglass itself, once a symbol of measured moments, now reveals its frailty as fine cracks crawl across its glass surface. Each fracture is a testament to the fragility of time, a reminder that its steady flow is bound to shatter into countless shards.
He is standing before the hourglass, its delicate structure teetering on the edge of collapse. The rhythmic ticking of the hands echoes in his ears, a haunting reminder of the dwindling seconds. The weight of the inevitable weighs heavily upon him, a solemn realization that time cannot be rewound or extended.
He can feel the world closing in, the once expansive expanse of possibilities diminishing. The shadows lengthen, stretching their icy fingers toward him, as if eager to claim their prize. It should scare him, the thought of dying, the realization that he had been so close to exhaling his last breath, but it doesn't.
What does scare him, however, is the thought of Sky dying. Gun had cut the brakes thinking that Sky would be the one to ride the car. (Prapai would kill him for that later, preferably painfully and slowly.) The thought of waking up without Sky's laughter, pouts, curious expression, or just not being in the presence of Sky makes him shiver.
So, for now, he embraces the fracture lines that etch their way across the surface of the hourglass of his life. He dares to halt time, to to capture its essence in this fragile moment. Because he knows that in the stillness lies he power to transcend the limitations of mortal existence, to embrace the eternity that awaits beyond the confines of a ticking clock.
Maybe past him would have been terrified at the thought of dying, but right now, as the hourglass trembles on the precipice of disintegration, he finds solace in the fractured beauty that emerges. The cracks, like delicate veins, weave intricate patterns across the glass, revealing the underlying essence of living.
A life lived beyond the confines of ticking hands.
It takes them three days to reach home.
For three interminable days, the passage of time stretched out like a desolate road, paved with needles and tubes, winding through the labyrinthine corridors of the hospital. Injections pierced Prapai's skin, delivering a bitter concoction that coursed through his veins. IV drips hung above his bed, their transparent tendrils snaking into his body, providing a lifeline of sterile sustenance. Medicine, in all its clinical forms, became his constant companion, his only companion.
All those, however, Prapai could bear (with a lot of whining, Sky would add). He could grit through the whirlwind of medical procedures and the stifling sterility of the hospital walls, but the absence of something infinitely precious weighed heavily on his poor heart.
It had been three miserable long days, without Sky's kisses, those tender caresses that held the power to heal wounds deeper than any physical ailment. He was constantly tortured by the temptation of those lips. Candy lips—a fusion of saccharine sweetness and velvety softness, beckoned with their irresistible allure. They glistened like the morning dew on a bed of vibrant flowers, their lusciousness calling forth an insatiable desire to taste their delectable essence. They held the promise of a confectionary delight, a treat reserved for the most privileged of palates.
(Sky seemed to know that they were sweet too, because all the little minx seemed to be able to do was chew at them.)
Their hue, reminiscent of spun sugar and summer sunsets, painted a picture of indulgence and whimsy. A shade of rose petal pink, curled in soft smiles and sly smirks. With each breath, they whispered secrets of sweetness and passion, casting a spell that was impossible to resist.
(And yet he was supposed to resist. Was expected to, even. Was chided that it was the ‘responsible thing to do.’ Which, excuse him, he's already doing the responsible thing by not ravaging the boy where he stands. And second, when has Prapai in any way been responsible? He almost burned the kitchen down a couple of days back.)
So for three days, he had to stare (dramatically, in Sky's opinion) out of the window, lamenting about the fact that he couldn't taste those lips, which were as soft as a cloud's embrace, possessing a texture that transcended mere mortal expectations. They were satin silk, gliding effortlessly against the skin, leaving a trail of tingling sensations in their wake. They invited exploration and encouraged gentle brushes of fingertips and tender caresses.
They were the only physical memory of stolen moments and stolen breaths, a gateway to a world where his weary soul could relax. Where worries dissolved and time stood still.
Prapai really hated the cosmic forces that governed his fate. What sins had he committed in his past life to deserve this cruel punishment? To be trapped within the sterile confines of a hospital bed, isolated from the solace of Sky's embrace. The apathy, the coldness that enveloped his surroundings felt like an impenetrable barrier, denying him the one thing that made him feel alive, that made him human.
"Oh, for the love of the stars, Prapai. You're lying on a hospital bed after almost dying. Forgive me if I don't want to tear your stitches." The exasperation hangs heavy in the air, blending with the antiseptic scent of the medical ward.
And since Prapai is unable to stomp his feet (the many difficulties of a medical ward), he settles for a pouting expression, his face contorted in mock outrage. "But, Sky, I'm the patient," he protests, his voice bordering on a whine. "Shouldn't you, as my wonderful, caring companion, shower me with endless empathy, tender care, and most importantly, kisses?"
Sky pulls the eye roll he's famous for, the dramatic one. "Believe me, Prapai," his voice oozes with the expiration of a weary guardian, a caretaker who had weathered the storm of angry toddlers. "If sympathy was lacking, I would have bid my farewell a long time ago."
Prapai gasps dramatically, his hand fluttering to his chest. "You wound me with your words, My Sky." He tries to hold a betrayed face, but his feigned indignation dissipates into a burst of laughter that escapes his chest.
A smile tugs at the corners of Sky's lips, warm and genuine, mirroring the fondness that twinkles in his eyes. "I wish I was capable of being apathetic, especially, towards you," he says, his voice laced with a tender sincerity. "But you know better than anyone that my heart refuses to stray from your side."
"Oh, Sky!" Prapai gasps, like a blushing maiden. "You have such a way with words."
"Never mind, I hate you."
When P'Phayu and Rain came to visit, Prapai couldn't resist regaling them with his tales of romantic deprivation. As he poured out his woes, P'Phayu's response was a simple: "TMI, dude, even for me," the insensitive bastard.
Rain, however, had been more sympathetic. "Oh," he had breathed, starry-eyed and beaming. "It's just like that drama I was watching! Prapai has gotten all philosophical due to romantic deprivation." He had turned to Sky, a concerned look on his face. "It's a very serious condition, Sky, P'Phayu had it once," his expression grave. "It lasted days. Though, it did magically stop when his sister came to visit."
Prapai is pretty sure that even he had never gotten such an exasperated and severe reaction from Sky. As Rain chattered on, it was as if his boyfriend was going through a carefully scripted sequence of facial expressions, each one vivid and distinct. Prapai had meticulously labeled and cataloged them, creating a comprehensive chart of Sky's stages of grief, as Namtan had once observed.
Which, hey, Sky is entitled to his own stages of grief, okay. His boyfriend deserves it. Not his fault people always have to provoke such severe reactions out of Sky.
He can't help but feel sympathy for P'Phayu though, poor guy. 'Cause Sky is going through all 10 facial expressions. Prapai has even titled them.
First came the Eye-Roll Extravaganza, where Sky's eyes traversed a spectrum of disbelief and mild annoyance. This was swiftly followed by the Sigh of Supreme Disbelief, a deep exhalation that conveyed his weariness.
The Facepalm Fiesta soon ensued, as Sky's palm met his forehead in a theatrical gesture of frustration. Raised eyebrows danced across his forehead, orchestrating the symphony of the Raised-Eyebrow Fiasco.
With each passing stage, Sky's expressions grew more pronounced. The "Seriously?!" Stare pierced through the air, a piercing gaze that questioned the sanity of it all. The Exasperated Eye Twitch raised the bar of his exasperation.
The "Here We Go Again" Glare followed suit, a withering look that suggested a weariness borne from countless similar encounters (probably Sig). The Face of Utter Despair painted a picture of defeat, as if Sky had given up on life (Prapai could relate).
The next stage was the fiercest of them all, The ‘I'm Too Sober For This’ stare was strong, eyes burning with a raging inferno. And finally, the pinnacle of it all, Stage Ten: The "I Can't Even" Expression, where Sky's face transformed into a masterpiece of incredulity and resignation, an expression that Prapai had gotten the most.
"I can explain," P'Phyau said in a meek voice after Rain was done. "I swear."
"If your explanations are anything like Prapai's," Sky said, sounding tired. "I'll need to drink beforehand."
It was familiar, even though it was no less painful, walking through the double doors of their new apartment.
It burns, his eyes, his hands, his heart—it all burns. And looking at Sky, his beautiful, wonderful, sassy, sarcastic, and courageous Sky, he knows that it burns for Sky too, perhaps even more.
It's better than the look that resided before, that had taken permanent residence on his boyfriend's face before Prapai had decided to take matters into his own hands and buy a new house. The look on Sky's face had haunted him, it still does haunt him, taunting him, making him flinch sometimes when his eyes play tricks on him.
Because Sky's eyes had been twin pools of exhaustion, reflecting the weariness etched into the corners of his soul. His once vibrant irises had been dimmed, like stars hidden behind a thick veil of clouds on a stormy night. Shadows lingered beneath his eyes, smudges of darkness that told stories of sleepless battles fought against invisible demons only to find them still there as the sun rose.
Prapai had understood that look the moment he had seen it.
With all the cards on the table, after that night, after long nights of terror and nightmares of bonds and bones and blood, he had seen it in the mirror.
After a while of wanting to break the furniture, to crush it into dust, the desire to set everything ablaze and watch it burn, brighter than the molten gold sun. To want to crush Sky against his chest, tuck him under his ribcage, so he would be safe beside his heart.
Sky was stronger, stronger than Prapai would ever dream to be, stronger than he should have been. But Prapai would be strong for him, he would keep his promise. He would keep Sky safe. And by the next week, they were house hunting.
Sky had looked guilty. Had told him that he didn't have to. That he was sorry for ruining Prapai's place. But Prapai had simply hushed him and cradled him against his chest, had looked at the condo, which had held all his dreams and plans, had looked at it and could only see the charred remains of a live once lived, and had said that he wanted to.
And so, they had.
It was a beautiful house. P'Phayu had called it extravagant. Rain had called it comforting. Sky merely sighed saying something about growing used to Prapai doing something like this. Which—yeah, okay, fair enough. Prapai was guilty of that. But Sky deserved the best and since nobody else seemed to share the sentiment Prapai would gladly double his efforts, it helped that his family shared the same sentiment.
Sky deserved to be greeted by a foyer adorned with gleaming marble floors, reflecting the glow of the chandelier above. He deserved to have a lavish living room with plush velvet sofas, and soft oversized cushions. Since Sky was fond of art, Prapai had bought some tasteful artwork from Sky's favorite painters, to add a touch of sophistication to the space.
(Sky had stared at him for an entire ten minutes because of that—which was progress, it had been twenty minutes last week.)
The dining area was P'Phayu's idea (Prapai knew the man was taking notes, he had been roaming around with a literal clipboard), and as such beyond the living room, a spacious dining area now awaited them, bathed in natural light (much to his mother's pleasure) streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows (much to his father's approval). Thanks to P'Phayu, he now owned a wooden dining table—which was always polished to perfection thanks to Sky being an adorable little neat freak—stands proudly at the center, surrounded by elegant (Sky had called them frivolous) high-back chairs.
His sister had gone out and bought him the dinnerware too, and as such, he now owned a cupboard full of fine china, sparkling crystal glassware, and delicate silverware. His mother had beamed when she had seen it and said that at least one of her children of them had taste. Which, excuse her, he had excellent taste! His proof? Sky.
(His mother had to agree with that. The entire family adored Sky—as they should, in Prapai's humble and unbiased opinion.)
The kitchen had been the only thing Sky had been eager in. (Okay, so he had protested three times, but it was an improvement!) Sky was a brilliant cook, so much so, that Prapai wasn't even exaggerating when he said that even Gordon Ramsay would have nothing to criticize.
And as his father had said, a brilliant cook deserved a brilliant kitchen. As such, Prapai consulted the best (Namtan) and Sky is the proud (reluctant) owner of a kitchen that boasts state-of-the-art appliances (including Sky's pride and joy: the coffee maker), with a massive refrigerator. There is a bay window too, overlooking the city skyline, it's a place where Prapai often finds Sky savoring a cup of coffee.
The bedroom, however, was the best place in the house (though any place where Sky spent the most time was automatically the best place, and since Prapai had been banned from the kitchen, the bedroom had been leveled up). They have a custom-made bed made, as large as Prapai's love for Sky (but larger because the company didn't make bed's that big, shame, really).
It's adorable really, seeing how despite having a bed bigger than people's dreams, Sky still curls into him, as though Prapai is the only source of warmth. Despite the multiple heavy blankets cocooning them. And Prapai, because he is allowed this, this care, this love, will hold him tighter, will tuck him against his chest, wishing that he could merge them into one.
Any space between them is too much space.
But for all that the new house is great, it holds new memories, experiences, a new future. It is a bitter reminder of why they moved, every time he walks into the house he can't help but imagine the cream walls of his old house, the stains of something sinister that no amount of fresh paint could erase.
It's not too bad, by any means, sometimes it's just a mere shiver, and other times it's a full-on body flinch. Sometimes it's a mere spacing out, other times, he finds Sky awake, eyes haunted, staring out of the window, as though searching for something—someone, who merges into the shadows like a patch of the night.
But then, there were moments like these, as Sky's hands gently caressed his hair, when Prapai felt an overwhelming sense of peace wash over him. The soft touch of Sky's fingers felt like a gentle breeze on a summer's day, a soothing sensation that chased away the shadows of pain. His heart, a tender, swollen thing, swelled even further, flushed with a feeling that seemed almost otherworldly.
It was as if every stoke of Sky's hand was a promise—a promise of unwavering love and devotion.
As the water cascaded down, carrying away the worries of the day, Prapai closed his eyes and surrendered to the tranquility of the moment. Sky's hands moved with such delicate precision, as though handling the most delicate of treasures.
It felt as though they were cocooned from the outside world—a world that had once cast shadows on their path. But now, all that mattered was the here and now, the profound intimacy of this moment. It was a bridge of trust and vulnerability that had been forged, one that had been strengthened by the trials they had faced together.
(A bridge that had almost been shattered by that disgusting asshole, Gun would be an extinct species, as soon as Prapai was well again.)
It felt as if he were floating in a sea of tenderness, his heart buoyed by the boundless affection in Sky's touch. The bridge they had crossed together had not been burned or churned away; instead, it had transformed into a sacred haven where their souls could intertwine without fear.
(Or, at least it would, as soon as his men called.)
For now, the echoes of the past, the haunting memories of uncertainty, were now replaced with the harmonious symphony of two hearts beating as one. There was a profound realization that this love—the love that Sky poured into every gesture, every touch—was a love that would endure beyond time and space.
And at that moment, Prapai knew that they had crossed a bridge that was built to last—a bridge held together by the boundless power of their love, a love that would stand unwavering against any storm, a love that Prapai would guard fiercely, even if it meant becoming the troll that lived underneath.
It was at those moments, where late at night when the world outside slumbered, he would gaze at the city skyline from their window, the twinkling lights a canvas of dreams and aspirations. And in those moments, he felt a poignant realization that loving Sky wasn't enough—no, it would never be enough.
It wouldn't be enough until he was intertwined with every fiber of Sky's existence, to blend into the very essence of his being. Until he dissolved to become the very air that filled Sky's lungs, the warmth that embraced his skin, and the ground he treads upon. Loving Sky would never be enough until he could melt into the very cracks of the concrete sidewalks to ensure each step his beloved took was nothing short of comfort and ease.
He shifted himself closer to Sky, the bandages gleaming from when Sky had tenderly applied them, as though he had shed the very starburst of stardust into the very folds of the cloth. Carefully lifting a hand he pulled Sky closer to him, tucking him to his chest, simply feeling the steady beating of his heart.
And as the moonlight bathed the room in its ethereal glow, Prapai made a silent vow to himself—to cherish every moment, to treasure every touch, and to love Sky with a depth that defied the bounds of mere existence.
For he knew that loving Sky wasn't just about being together—it was about becoming one, a bond that would endure even as the world spun on, a love that would etch its mark into the very fabric of eternity.
Prapai has been loved.
His entire life, he has been loved. His mother had been the epitome of a doting mother, smelling like orchids and consisting of all the warmth of a safety blanket. Her touch and gentle words had (and still do) instantly soothe tears and wounds, no matter how deep.
His father had been protective and doting too. Spoiling them rotten, and constantly worried about their health. He had carried Prapai on his shoulders and had talked about the numerous trees in the backyard, patiently enplaning their origin in a manner that was entertaining. His eyes would be on them as they decided to climb the trees, always ready to catch them if they fell.
Both of them had read him stories, told him tales of gods, and merchants, of sirens and sea creatures. His mother would sing and kiss his cheeks, calling him the apple of her eye as he rested on her chest. His father's soothing voice would lull him to sleep, drifting into Morpheus's realm dreaming of the characters with squeaky voices that his father adopted whenever he told a story.
He had been loved by his siblings. Despite being the oldest, he had never felt less treasured, had been the chief guest of the many tea parties his sister had hosted, and had listed attentively to the astronomy books his brother had been fond of.
Sky's love, is on a whole new level.
Prapai found himself drowning in Sky's love, a love so pure and ethereal that it felt like being immersed in a sacred pool of holy water, washing away the stains of his past. Every touch, every caress, was like a gentle baptism, cleansing his soul of its darkness and bringing forth a rebirth of hope and tenderness.
Yet, paradoxically, it was this very love that ignited a fiery passion within him. That made him burn with an intensity he had never known before. He felt the desire to conquer, to move mountains and shatter stars, if it would keep Sky safe, if it would keep Sky happy.
Sky, like the comets that grace the vast expanse of the cosmos, is a celestial enigma composed of fragments from the cosmic symphony of existence. Just as comets are remnants of the ancient birth of our solar system, his Sky carries within him the echoes of forgotten times, woven into the fabric of his being. Like the comets, he traverses the universe with an air of mystery and allure, leaving trails of stardust in his wake.
Prapau sees the ethereal beauty in his presence (the beauty that Gun had been bat-shit blind to see). Sky is a convergence of elements—of sand, ice, and carbon dioxide—symbolizing the layers of experiences, emotions, and complexities that shape his essence. Just as comets hold secrets from the birth of our cosmic home, Sky carries within him untold stories and untapped potential, waiting to be unraveled.
His Sky was a miracle, a being of transient beauty, carrying the weight of the past while embracing the promise of the future.
And he is Prapai's to cherish, Prapai's very own little miracle.
Prapai is sure that Sky has never cooked so much in his life.
Because on the tray, piled to the high heavens, is a feast fit for royalty. In the center, there is a huge bowl of steaming rice noodles, swimming in a fragrant broth that reminds him of home. Thin slices of succulent grilled chicken, marinated in a medley of herbs and spices, nestled amidst the noodles, serving starbursts of flavor with every bite.
Besides the noodles, a medley of colorful vegetables glistens with a glossy sheen. Crunchy bean sprouts, vibrant bell peppers, and tender baby corn with a sprinkle of fresh cilantro and a squeeze of zesty lime juice.
There is also a plate of golden-brown omelets, delicately seasoned and cooked to perfection. There are fluffy eggs, studied with slivers of green onion and delicate herbs, looking far more like a jewelry set tailored for royalty than a meal.
"Here," Sky says, pushing a cup of tea into his hands. "It'll keep you warm."
"You're trying to kill me, aren't you?" Prapai says, looking grave. "I feared this day would arrive."
Sky sputters. "What on earth are you—no! Of course, I'm not trying to kill you! Why would you even think that?"
"That." Prapai points to the breakfast tray in his lap. "Is the most threatening meal I've ever been offered. I think I'll die halfway through eating it, simply because of how good it is."
"That is ridiculous," Sky says, looking pained. "It doesn't even make sense."
"It does too!" Prapai argues, pouting fiercely. "It's the same way you give me a heart attack whenever you smile. Death by adorableness is a thing, you know?"
"Yeah," Sky says, voice as dry as dead leaves. "I do. God knows I'm at risk of it every damn day."
"Exactly—wait, no that's not what I—are you calling me cute?—I'm not, I'm charming, not cute—stop laughing."
Sky doesn't stop.
The room seemed to come alive as the curtains were drawn wide open, allowing a gentle breeze to weave its way into the space. Sky stood there, bathed in the golden embrace of sunlight that streamed through the window, a vision of ethereal beauty. His hair danced caressed by the playful fingers of the wind, while his skin glowed with a radiant warmth as if it had been kissed by the very sun itself.
His laugh was like the chorus of wind chimes each note a pure and melodic sound that filled the room.
Every inch of Sky seemed to exude the essence of sunlight, from the blush of delight on his cheeks to the curve of his smiling eyes. He was a walking masterpiece of warmth and light, an embodiment of the sun's tender embrace. Prapai can see the sunbeams that radiated from him, blindingly bright and impossible to ignore.
Clad in a pastel yellow hoodie, Sky looked like a walking sunflower, bringing cheer and brightness wherever he went. The sleeves of the hoodie were long enough to envelop his hands, his small delicate hands. On the left leg of his baggy jeans, delicate illustrations of the moon and stars adorned the fabric, among them, Prapai's small, shaky drawing of Saturn stood out in white, the reason why it's my favorite - Sky had said.
Bathed in the glow of sunlight, he couldn't help but feel that the boy before him was like the sun itself.
And for Prapai, who has been a rogue planet for so long, untethered and lost amidst the countless constellations and galaxies that adorn the cosmos. It is fulfilling to feel the incandescent flames of love that engulf him.
To finally have a sun to call his own.
