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our season

Summary:

Pran likes the rain. The pitter-patter of the drops on his umbrella, the fresh scent that rises up into his nostrils as the grass verges around campus soak up water, watching the way people avoid puddles, and the way they hold all manner of things over their heads as protection.

There are things his mother has and will take away from him — his guitar, his allowance, his freedom — but rain will never be one of them.

Notes:

Prompt:

 

Pran likes the rain,
Pat has the power to control the weather.

Work Text:

The Day Everything Changes

 

His father drives them south towards Pran's new school, and if Pran could see into the rear view mirror, he imagines he'd be greeted with the familiar urban sprawl receding slowly from view.

Instead, his eyes glaze over watching fat raindrops begin to patter on the window.

Drip.

Drop.

Drip.

Drop.

It only takes a few seconds, and suddenly they're driving through lashings of rain, a waterfall cascading against the windshield, forcing his father to slow down. The seat directly in front of him blocks Pran's view of his Mae, but he sees her arm reach across the centre console to flick the wipers on. His father lets her do it, smiling in thanks when she settles back into her seat, even though Pran is sure that what she did must be some kind of driving law violation. Pran's throat tightens. Why do they get to have love when I can't even have friendship?

He swallows and turns his gaze back to the downpour. Its monotony is calming.

Pran likes the rain. The sky's open expression, its inevitable release, the way the air feels heavy with the thought of it, the anticipation and then, and then— the thrill of the fulfilled forecast.

Pran likes the rain, because the clouds of a monsoon take liberties that Pran himself cannot. That, in itself, is a comfort. At least nature knows how to release what builds up, with no care for anyone caught in the crossfire. Like that time he got caught in the rain and had to borrow a shirt from P— he cuts off that train of thought.

The point is that the rain didn't care that it was getting his freshly washed shirt soaking wet, or that his mother would express that silent disappointment Pran hated so much when she inevitably found out.

(She didn't find out in the end though, thanks to— Pran cuts his thoughts short again.)

New school, new start, new Pran. Pran focuses on the mantra he's crafted for himself ever since the day his mother put in for his transfer. Best to pack away the memories into a place he can't access; prevent them from bubbling to the surface. That's why he left behind his little box of things at the bottom of his wardrobe, like a time capsule he'll never reopen. He didn't even look at it before they left.

The rain continues splashing down, sheets of liquid battering the asphalt at a pace that Pran's eyes can barely keep up with. He focuses on his hearing instead, closing his eyes and tipping his head back to rest against the seat. He can hear the droplets hammering on the roof of the car, and the steady rhythm of it makes him wish he could reach into the backpack propped up next to him to retrieve his earphones. But his mother doesn't like it when he listens to his own music during car journeys. You won't hear me if I speak to you, luuk. I don't like raising my voice.

There's a pressure mounting behind his eyelids, and Pran knows a headache is coming on. He's had a lot of them in the last few weeks. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter and balls his hands into fists.

Pran would like to imagine himself a cloud, if his life were perfect. Build up and release, rinse and repeat. Inevitable. Expected. Welcomed, even. There's always someone, somewhere, who welcomes a downpour.

Pran lets the drone of the rain drown out the low rumble of his parents' conversation as they drive on, and he dreams of a better self, a better son — a different life.

The rain has cleared by the time they arrive at the imposing grounds of his new school and new home, and Pran is too caught up in the anxiety of it all to remember that monsoons don't usually happen in January.

 

Three Months Later

 

"Where are we going? Hey, stop!"

Pran ignores the protests of his friend behind him, Wai's wrist held firmly inside the circle of his right hand as he drags him along.

"Pran! Are you deaf? I said it's raining. There's a downpour going on right now!"

Pran is very much aware of the rain currently buffeting off the roof of the school's main building as he pulls Wai down the corridor towards the nearest exit. Every step he takes feels like a contribution to nature's percussion, a rhythmic symphony he couldn't possibly ignore.

There are only three days left of school before the two-week break, and the first rain of the season isn't due for another month at the very least, but the sky opened up two minutes ago in a way it hasn't since the day Pran left Bangkok. So he's not going to miss this. He can't. His mother isn't here to give him that disapproving look, and Pran'll be damned if he doesn't take advantage of this moment.

"Haven't you ever enjoyed a downpour?" Pran stops at the double doors and turns to face Wai, his fingers still curled around Wai's wrist. They're still in their uniforms, having only just dropped their bags in their dorm room after the last class of the day when the rain started.

"From the comfort of indoors, sure. But you want to go outside in this?" Wai gives him an incredulous look. Pran doesn't appreciate his tone — he's going to go out in this rain, whether he catches a cold from it or not. And he'd like Wai to go with him.

(Truth be told, Pran's never really enjoyed a downpour from outside either, but he always wanted to, despite what his Mae taught him.)

They stare each other down for a few seconds, Pran silently imploring Wai to acquiesce, Wai silently willing Pran to realise his stupidity. Other students are running in through the double doors, bags held over their heads and trails of water following behind them as they shout for their friends. Pran's sure the rain will stop as quickly as it came, so they don't have much time.

Wai doesn't say anything, but he breaks their eye contact by rolling his eyes and sighing dramatically, and Pran knows he's won. He tugs on Wai's wrist again, and this time Wai follows without complaint, although Pran does still have to forcefully pull him through the doors.

They stumble outside and spend all of two seconds under the awning before Pran yanks them both out into the rain, and it feels as if a bucket of ice has been dropped over their heads. But Pran doesn't care — he keeps pulling Wai along, the two of them half-running through the rainfall, tripping over their own feet as the drops bounce up off the tarmac, ensuring they're well and truly soaked from head to toe.

Pran can't help the laughter that bubbles up in his throat when he sees the looks other boys (who are running the opposite way) are giving them, and he can't help the bark he lets out when he turns to see Wai's grumpy face, with his hair all plastered to his forehead and water running down his cheeks in swathes. Wai's lips quirk up in response, and he's looking at Pran like he's fascinated by this boy who likes the rain so much he'll ruin his clothes just to be able to feel its rhythm drumming against his skin.

They come to a stop a stone's throw from the school's main gate, the one Pran's parents drove through three months earlier with a son who could barely look them in the eyes. Pran finally drops Wai's wrist to slick his wet hair back as Wai does the same to his own. They stand there, the water cascading down their backs feeling almost warm now that they're a little more used to it, and Pran feels elated. It's a happiness he hasn't felt for a long time now — and he's trying not to remember the last time he got caught in a downpour, that memory he's trying to rewrite, he's not thinking about it, he's not, but now is Wai is looking at him like something is wrong, and the rain is slowing to a light drizzle but the liquid slipping down his cheeks isn't stopping, and all of sudden Pran realises he's crying.

He turns away from Wai and starts walking back towards the school with his head down, his wet clothes sticking to him uncomfortably. Now that the sound of the rain has receded, he can hear Wai's shoes splashing in the puddles just one pace behind him. He's grateful to Wai for coming out here with him, even if he won't say so, and he's grateful that Wai never asks about it when Pran gets quiet like this.

He makes a mental note to buy Wai a bottle of that green tea he's always drinking from the vending machine later. He'll leave it on Wai's desk in their shared room, and Wai will pick it up with a smile, and the two of them will carry on as if Pran didn't drag Wai out into an out-of-season monsoon and then spend the rest of the evening crying.

 

Last Year, Rainy Season

 

Pran doesn't understand what he did to deserve this.

It's a Monday, and he left his umbrella at home. (He also forgot his earphones, but that's neither here nor there because he only remembers to shove those into his school bag maybe twice a week anyway. Although he has been picking them up more often since Khru assigned him to be the vocalist of their class' band for the Christmas concert. But that's besides the point.)

It had been dry over the weekend — a rarity for September, the height of the monsoon season — and Pran had gotten so used to it that he didn't even consider checking his bag for his umbrella this morning, as he normally does when he spots the puddles leftover from the previous night's showers.

So Pran forgot his umbrella, but it wasn't really a big deal. In fact, he didn't even notice for the whole morning as it remained dry, through lunch and into the afternoon, even when it drizzled for about 20 minutes after Pran had refused to let Pat borrow his eraser.

They didn't have band practice after school on Mondays, so Pran had shuffled out of class at the end of the day to walk home alone. These days, Pat would often try to walk with him, but today he seemed to have been caught up in some Class President duties when Pran was leaving, so he didn't wait around. Pat had bugged him enough for one day, and Pran needed time to recover his fragile heart, knowing that Pat would probably sneak into his room again tonight under some kind of weak guise, as he was wont to do recently. Pran didn't understand it, couldn't quite put his finger on the game Pat was playing, but he had to at least prepare himself (by avoiding Pat as much as he could throughout the day, of course).

So, here Pran is, five minutes into the fifteen minute walk home, when he feels the first drop land on his head. And here he is, five seconds into rummaging through his bag for his umbrella, the reality of the situation slowly dawning on him, when the clouds start dumping their entire contents over him. All he can do is hug his bag to his chest and run through the rain as fast as possible until he reaches the awning of the convenience store he visited throughout his childhood, whenever he had pocket money to spare. It's of little use, though, because he's already utterly drenched.

The aircon blowing out from the store's entrance makes him shiver, and he can already hear his mother's reprimands ringing in his ears — I would have expected you to be more observant, luuk. Do you need a reminder to take your umbrella in the mornings? Or perhaps I should check your bag before you leave… You know, you're 14 now, and I know you're capable of packing your own bag for school without my input. Did something happen to make you forget it? You're not usually like this, no? I just worry about you getting ill… — and on and on and on. She'd have the whole conversation by herself, and Pran would stand in silence, accepting every word with a pit in his stomach. She wouldn't be unkind about it, she never truly is, but Pran would feel like an awful son regardless.

The longer Pran stands under the awning, the colder he feels. And the longer he waits for the rain to let up, the later he'll get home, such that even if he miraculously dries himself off before arriving, his mother will likely start a different one-sided conversation — about his tardiness. The window for an appropriate length journey home from school is rapidly closing, and it doesn't look like the rain will let up any time soon. Pran feels hopeless. He's going to have to run the rest of the way home in the rain, then try and dry off as much as he can under the porch of his house before going inside. It's the only way he can minimise his mother's unspoken disappointment.

Just as he's steeling himself to step out into the rain again, he hears a familiar voice.

"Pran! Hey, wait!"

It's Pat, running through the rain without a care for the way it's pouring over him, waving vigorously. Pran feels too many things at once.

First, he's anxious, because an excitable Pat bounding towards you is usually a recipe for disaster when your name is Pran. (He's also anxious just because it's Pat, regardless of how he's approaching, but that's a given.)

Second, he's relieved beyond belief because that's definitely an umbrella in Pat's hand, and — anxiousness be damned — he's not above begging Pat to use it.

But worst of all, Pran feels shamefully embarrassed, to the point where he can feel his ears reddening, because he must look like a drowned rat right now. He's not sure there could be anything more mortifying than this in the world. And his embarrassment is definitely not helping to quash the butterflies that have started making themselves known in his belly, their fluttering increasing as Pat draws closer. Pat's bright smile seems to bring the sun with it, clearing the dark clouds from the sky as he approaches.

(Sue him, but Pran's not above waxing lyrical about Pat. He does it almost daily in the little songwriting notebook he keeps tucked away under his mattress.)

Although… Maybe Pran's poeticism wasn't unfounded. He blinks and pushes his wet hair out of his eyes. Huh. The rain is actually clearing up — the advancing sunlight isn't purely a product of Pran's Pat-tinted glasses.

By the time Pat slows to a stop in front of him, Pran can take a step out from under the awning to meet him without fear of getting drenched. And Pran does so without thinking, then mentally scolds himself for giving in to his heart's whims so easily. He glances around to make sure no one is watching them, then crosses his arms tighter over his bag (still clutched to his chest — his arms feel practically glued to it now) and gives Pat as stern a look he can manage with his ears as red and his clothes as wet as they are.

"What?" he demands.

"You didn't wait for me."

"I never wait for you."

Pat brushes off Pran's barbed tone like he knows Pran doesn't really mean it. Pran hates that. (He doesn't say so though, because he knows Pat would see right through those words too.)

"Let's walk together," says Pat, and brushes past Pran without waiting for an answer.

For a split second, Pran comtemplates staying rooted to the spot just to spite Pat's assumption that he'll follow. Then he remembers the promise of his Mae's lecture, and he scrambles to catch up.

They walk in silence the whole way, Pran trying to stay a step ahead of Pat so that he can't see Pat in the corner of his eye. He feels awkward and uncomfortable in his wet clothes, and he's hyper aware of the way their steps are falling in sync. Pran feels like the butt of some cosmic joke that he can't quite grasp.

When they reach the corner of their street and their houses are in sight, Pran expects Pat to stop. That's how it usually goes — they can't approach their houses together, and the unspoken rule is that Pat is always the one to wait a little longer. Well, unless he's feeling competitive and wants to turn who goes home first into a game. But Pran seriously isn't in the mood for that, and he feels disappointed that Pat hasn't picked up on that given the state of Pran's hair and clothes.

Pran stops walking, and Pat stops with him. Pran sighs.

"I don't have time for a game, just go first." He gestures down the street towards the gate of Pat's house.

When Pat doesn't say anything, and also doesn't start walking again, Pran gets frustrated. He opens his mouth to complain, but stops short when he looks up from where he was scuffing his shoe on a loose stone and sees— Pat is staring at him. Like, really staring. Pran's arms fall limply at his sides, and he feels the butterflies in his stomach start up again when Pat takes a step towards him.

What are you doing? Pran wants to say. Why are you looking at me like that? But his throat has closed up and his jaw is locked shut, and he's trying not to think about the million different scenarios he imagines at night when he's trying to fall asleep, he's trying not to jump to conclusions, but Pat is looking at him and he's stepping closer and he's reaching out his arm and Pran—

Pran has forgotten how to breathe. He's rooted to the spot like a fly caught in Pat's web, and at the edge of his awareness he can sense their houses looming over them like malevolent spirits. Pran swallows and closes his eyes to Pat's slow-approaching hand. If he can't see it, maybe it isn't happening.

He counts one, two, three, four, silently tapping the beat out on his thigh, and then another two, two, three, four. And three, two, three, four. But even the steadiest time signature isn't calming his racing heart. He continues still, four, two, thr— but then his mantra is cut short when he feels Pat's fingers brush past his chin. His eyes fly open of their own accord, searching, because this can't be happening whyisthishappening why here why n—

"It's still damp," says Pat, matter-of-fact.

Huh?

Pat's fingers aren't touching Pran's skin.

Pat wasn't reaching for Pran's cheek, or his neck, or his lips — he was reaching up to rub Pran's shirt collar between his thumb and two fingers. To test the dampness.

Pat looks up from his hand then, and he sees what must be the most confused-yet-incredulous expression Pran has ever pulled in his life, because he bursts into laughter and falls back a step, doubling over. Pran's whole face feels like it's on fire. He's so stupid.

"What?" demands Pran, for the second time that day.

"Your face," Pat says through giggles — which Pran doesn't find cute, by the way — and points at Pran's now down-turned mouth. "You look like you can't decide whether you want to jump out into the road or push me out into it instead."

"Definitely you," Pran retorts. "I want to push you into oncoming traffic daily."

"Awwww, you think about me every day?" Pat reaches up again, this time to pinch Pran's cheek like a baby. Pran swats his hand away with an audible huff.

"I see you basically every day, Pat. It would be weird if I didn't think about you, what with how annoying you are all the time."

"I'm taking that as a compliment, my dear Pran."

Pran rolls his eyes, and for a moment their houses fade into the background and they're just two high schoolers on a street, talking and joking around.

The moment is shattered as soon as Pran remembers he was trying to avoid getting home late.

"Pat, I need to go."

"But you're still all wet!" Pat looks genuinely upset about it. "Won't your Mae be upset?"

Pran shrugs. "What can I do?"

He'd meant it as a rhetorical question, but Pat's eyes immediately take on a sly glint.

"I can give you a spare shirt."

"What, and you want me to change into it in the middle of the street? Just let me go home, Pat. I don't want to be late."

"No no, I mean— no one's home right now. You can come in and dry off, and I'll lend you a shirt to go home in."

So that's how Pran ends up in Pat's bedroom, looking at his window from the outside as he changes out of his wet shirt and into a dry one of Pat's. (He'd kicked Pat out to the hallway as soon as Pat had pulled out the clean shirt from his wardrobe. Pran's had enough embarrassment for one day, he doesn't need Pat watching him change added to the list.)

But as soon as Pran pulls the shirt on, his ears heat up again. It smells like Pat, even though it's clean. And even though Pran knows no one is watching him, he refuses to bring the fabric up to his nose to sniff it, despite how much he wants to. He can't stoop that low. He's only wearing this for a few minutes to get past his mother, and then he can swap it back for his own across the roof. Don't get attached, Pran.

When he's dressed, Pat comes bounding back into the room with Paa's hair dryer, and he won't take no for an answer when Pran says he can dry his hair himself. So Pran clenches his fists and sits on Pat's bed as Pat waves the hot air over him, fingers carding through Pran's hair. He blames the redness of his face on the heat from the hair dryer, and when he finally goes home, his Mae doesn't notice that anything is different.

After that, Pran makes a promise to himself to never forget his umbrella again, which mostly works. But the one thing he can't do is stop his thoughts from returning to Pat whenever it rains.

 

Three Years Later

 

It's raining.

Not a downpour or anything — just a gentle shower, so Pran doesn't really mind that he has to go out. He can take his umbrella.

He's on his way to meet Wai for a late night study session in the library, as he's still catching up due to the timing of his transfer to South Tech. Given how restless Pran's been feeling lately, he's sure that a walk in the rain will help him feel refreshed, so he sets off, umbrella in hand.

The restlessness started when Pran first saw Pat again, and has only grown since — when he saw him taking the trash out, and again when running from his friends, and through his window at home too. Now that Pran knows Pat is a South Tech student, it's like he can't stop catching glimpses of him around the university buildings, and even a couple of times near his dorm. One of Pat's friends must live in the same accommodation as Pran, and it's not making Pran's life any easier. He feels like he's being haunted, and he can't relax.

But Pran likes the rain. The pitter-patter of the drops on his umbrella, the fresh scent that rises up into his nostrils as the grass verges around campus soak up water, watching the way people avoid puddles, and the way they hold all manner of things over their heads as protection.

There are things his mother has and will take away from him — his guitar, his allowance, his freedom — but rain will never be one of them.

After a few minutes of strolling through the rain, Pran gives up on staring at the ground and trying to dodge puddles. His shoes are grubby and wet anyway — maybe the pools of water will wipe them clean. And it's not like he's wearing socks, anyway. His feet and shoes can dry off easily in the secluded corner of the library that he and Wai frequent.

As soon as Pran looks up, though, he has to do a double take. Because in the distance, across the courtyard that leads to the Arts faculty, Pran can see Pat sitting on a bench. It's dark, and he's facing away, but Pran is sure of it being Pat. There's a floodlight on the side of the building illuminating his broad back, and Pran instinctively knows that it's him.

The rain isn't coming down particularly heavily — in fact, it's even lighter now than it was when Pran first stepped out — and Pat isn't sitting under any kind of cover. He's hunched forward, just letting the rain drizzle over his head and shoulders, and it's really none of Pran's business, but he can't say he's not curious as to why Pat is sitting outside, alone, in the rain. Pran stops at the edge of the footpath and watches him for a few moments, but Pat doesn't move. And he doesn't seem to be waiting for anyone either, although Pran can't see whether his phone is in his hand or not, so he could be wrong.

Something in Pran compels him to lower his umbrella. He blames it on the rain being lighter now (it won't get him that wet, and he's pretty close to the library now anyway) but he knows that there's more to it than that. Maybe he just wants to feel a little closer to this version of Pat — quiet, subdued, still — because this is all he'll ever be able to have.

Pran turns his face to the sky, letting the rain wash over his skin. When he finally looks back, Pat is gone, and he feels a little foolish. A pair of girls walk past him and furrow their brows at him not using his umbrella, so he quickly shoves it into a plastic bag and then into his tote and starts speed walking to the library.

When he arrives with damp hair and wet shoes, Wai asks him if he forgot his umbrella, and Pran says yes.

 

The Day Everything Changes, Again

 

Pran is on the rooftop. Pat is here, and he's saying things that Pran can't comprehend, that Pran doesn't want to comprehend, and now he's crying — they both are. The tears are hot on Pran's cheeks, and he watches the nighttime breeze ruffle Pat's hair, and between one blink and the next, it's raining.

The drops are soft at first. They land on Pat's biceps and run down in rivulets around the shape of his muscles. They land in his hair, on his nose and eyelashes, and Pran is enraptured by the way Pat looks in the rain, close-up. It's like the rain knows him, each drop on his skin a loving greeting between old friends.

"No," breathes Pat. And the rain joins him in chorus, the cool water seeping through Pran's sleep shirt, as if it's caressing him.

Pran likes the rain, he loves it, and of course it would be here with them in this moment as they're drawn inwards. There's a roaring crescendo in his ears, his heart pumping erratically and the rain pattering on the roof in a syncopated symphony, and Pran's caught up in the tide as the chorus chants in, in, in.

Pran kisses Pat the way he's always wanted to. It's raining, and he's crying, they're crying, the sky is crying, and for the first time in his life Pran feels the dam on his emotions break.

Pran likes Pat, he loves him, and it's with a sudden clarity at the moment Pran brings his hands up to Pat's neck that he realises Pat isn't wet at all. And yet Pran feels him, and this moment, slipping through his fingers like water. He can never have this again.

Pran leaves, and he tries to repair the dam on his emotions once more.

 

A Year Later, Before Semester Start

 

"You know, you always remind me of rain."

Pran brings it up one day when he and Pat are chilling in his dorm room. They didn't have much chance to relax together like this over the summer break, so they're making the most of the time they have in the dorm before the semester kicks off. A sudden downpour had started a few minutes ago, and Pran feels content to watch it from his position on the sofa, Pat's head resting in his lap, but this is something he's been thinking about for a while.

"Hmm?" Pat responds, obviously paying more attention to Pran's hand scratching gently at his scalp than to the conversation Pran is trying to have.

Pran tugs on a few strands of Pat's hair. "I said, you always remind me of rain."

Pat responds properly this time.

"Me? Why?" His eyes remain closed, but Pran feels like something has shifted in the way he's holding himself.

"I just… always had so many strong memories of you and of us that involve rain in some way." Pran pauses, considering. "I always liked that, though. Even if it did make things difficult for me whenever it rained after I transferred. I couldn't stop thinking of you."

Pat smiles genuinely, and Pran is thankful that Pat doesn't tease him for being sappy. His smile fades quickly, though, and Pran can sense that Pat is building up to something. He waits it out, twirling strands of Pat's hair between his fingers and watching the rain batter against the window pane.

"I associate myself with rain, too," is what Pat comes out with. It makes Pran laugh a little. "No, I mean—" Pat huffs, clearly unsure of how to get his point across. His eyes are still closed, and a little furrow has appeared between his eyebrows. Pran wants to lean down and kiss it. "I like rain, and I think… it likes me."

Pran isn't entirely sure what Pat means by that, but he remembers their first kiss on the rooftop — the serendipitous timing of the rain, and how Pat hadn't felt wet to the touch at all. And then he remembers Pat's presence clearing the rain clouds so that Pran could walk home without getting wet.

Pran tears his gaze away from the window, and he finds Pat looking up at him with those sweet puppy dog eyes. He almost coos.

"I'd believe that," he says instead.

"You would?" Pat sits up, turning to face Pran head-on.

Pran shrugs. "Why not?"

Five minutes later, Pran finds himself at the entrance to their building. Pat had immediately dragged him out here by the hand, barely even leaving enough time for Pran to slip his feet into his shoes. They'd stumbled down the stairs, Pran following Pat, because there's no universe in which he wouldn't.

"Do you want the rain to stop?" Pat asks, hand still holding Pran's. He sounds serious but excited. Pran squeezes his hand fondly.

"I don't mind it," Pran says. "Since we're not going anywhere, I kind of enjoy listening to it."

"Just say you want the rain to stop," Pat requests, eyes sparkling.

Pran eyes him sceptically, then says, "I want the rain to stop."

Pat looks out at the downpour, and Pran follows his gaze.

Nothing changes, except the pressure of Pat's hand around his own, squeezing harder.

And then Pat steps forward, out into the rain, dragging a surprised Pran with him, who stumbles into it with his eyes squeezed shut and shoulders raised up to his ears in anticipation of the water running down his back, but— he feels nothing.

He cracks open an eye to see Pat beaming at him, and when he finally straightens up fully, he looks around to see the last glimpses of the downpour receding into the distance.

Pran doesn't even know where to start. All he can do is stare at Pat, eyes wide open. Pat just laughs and pulls Pran into a hug, tucking his face into Pran's neck and sniffing, while Pran is still trying to understand what just happened.

"Let's go inside, baby. And since you like listening to the rain, I'll bring it back just for you."

 

Singapore, In The Future

 

Pran hates staying late at the office.

He hates it because it disrupts his routine — commute, shower, video call Pat while cooking and eating, relax in bed, maybe jerk off, then mess about on his phone for a while until he falls asleep — and he hates it because he doesn't get paid for it. He didn't mind so much about that second part at the beginning, though. He was more than happy to stay late and finish up tasks, but now that he's been working here for almost a year, the feeling of needing to prove himself by going above and beyond has faded. He knows that he's perfectly capable of proving himself within the hours of his work day.

Pran hates working late, but here he is, the last one in the office on a Friday, trying to put the finishing touches on the latest design they've been working on for a new client. He's usually tasked with the last minute checks before they send it off to the lead architect for approval, which he doesn't mind given his tendency to be a little controlling. (He's working on that, though.)

Double checking every measurement and calculation is a meditative task that always sets his mind at ease. But this time, Max hadn't sent him the final version of the design until the day was basically already over. And they're due to present to the client on Monday afternoon, so Pran needs to turn it in for approval tonight to ensure they'll be able to squeeze in any changes requested by the lead on Monday morning.

Pran sighs and leans back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head and unfolding the crick in his neck with a tilt to the left and then the right. He straightens his posture for a moment, thinking of his Mae's usual reprimands, and then slouches back down into the chair.

His eyes flick to the clock on the wall out of habit, and he feels wronged when he realises it's already an hour past his usual clock-out time. He's already thinking about how he's going to make Max feel so guilty that he offers to pay for Pran's lunch on Monday.

As he thinks of how he'll complain to Max, his eyeline wanders to look out of the huge floor-to-ceiling windows that take up an entire wall of their office. That's when he notices it.

It's raining.

Pran can't help the fond smile that stretches across his face. He knows Pat can't affect the weather beyond his own immediate vicinity, but the thought of him causing a drizzle in Singapore because Pran hasn't called Pat at their usual time is so cute that Pran can't stand it.

He pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of the water drops running down the glass, immediately sending it to Pat with the message:

Miss me that much?

Within seconds Pat responds,

Always 💕

Pran squeezes his eyes shut and closes his fist around his phone, trying to contain the love threatening to burst out of his chest. He finishes up the last of his work with an unwavering smile on his face, and calls Pat as soon as he steps foot out of the office and into the rain.

"Hello beautiful," answers Pat. Pran feels so buoyant that he could become a cloud and float away with the rain, all the way back to Thailand.

"Hi yourself," says Pran, not at all trying to hide the fondness in his voice.

It's still raining, and Pran lets the droplets and Pat's warm voice wash over him in unison as he walks to the metro.

Pran likes the rain, and he loves Pat. He thinks it's only fitting that the rain loves Pat too.