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Team’s first therapy appointment happens on a Wednesday. He’s silent on the drive to the office, which Win doesn’t love, but when he takes Team’s hand across the console, Team squeezes, just a quick, fleeting pressure, but Win appreciates it all the same, sending him an encouraging smile.
The office is tucked away in a side street, sat above an accountancy firm. Win has to park several streets away and then pull out his phone to find the route, but it’s at least fairly easy to get to. Despite the slightly remote location, the building is well-maintained, the white walls clean and flower boxes bright and blooming. There’s a glass-paned door with a buzzer next to it, names printed professionally by each button. All in all, it’s a pretty inoffensive building, just a generic-looking set of offices.
Team’s staring up at it, though. His eyes have caught on a cracked open window, blinking slowly, his hand twitching at his side.
Throwing an arm over his shoulders, Win yanks him closer. “The building won’t eat you, baby,” he says, teasing but gentle, his thumb stroking over the slight jut of his collarbone exposed by his red t-shirt.
Team frowns at him, lip pouting out before he says, “I know, Hia.”
The words hang in the air for a moment. There’s no real heat in it, no jab back at Win, not even a smack to his shoulder. Win’s stomach churns uncomfortably, and he tightens his arm around Team’s shoulder. “If you think you can’t do this today, we can try again next week,” Win reminds him.
But Team, his strong, sweet Team, heaves in a breath and says, “I can do this, Hia.”
And, well, Win has to kiss him for that. Just a quick one, to the apple of his cheek, and when Team starts to squawk, Win just tells him to press the button for the office already.
They’re buzzed in, Team giving Win a withering glare as he pulls open the door that only makes Win want to kiss him again. They take the elevator up to the second floor, Team’s hand starting to fidget again halfway, and Win tangles their fingers together. Despite his complaints about the kiss, Team seems to deem this acceptable, his hand tightening around Win’s again.
The elevator dings as they reach the second floor, a loud, clear noise that attracts the attention of one of the occupants of the small waiting room, a guy a few years older than them glancing over then looking away. A girl sat in the corner doesn’t seem to notice, headphones over her ears, knee jumping up and down as she stares at the floor.
“Hi,” a voice calls, pulling Win’s and Team’s attention. A receptionist sits behind a desk, a wide window separating her from the rest of the waiting room. Next to her little cubby is a wooden door with a small window, another buzzer next to it. “Can I help you?” She asks, her high ponytail swaying as she tilts her head slightly.
Team shuffles forward, Win keeping his pace. “Uh, Team. Teerayu Siriyothin,” he says, a little stilted.
The receptionist only gives him a kind smile, though, her fingers moving quickly over the keyboard. “Perfect, take a seat, Team. Are you here to see someone too, or are you waiting?” There’s no judgement in her tone, her voice even.
“I’m waiting,” Win says easily, giving Team’s hand another squeeze.
“No problem,” she says easily. “We have some magazines in the corner, you’re welcome to look through while you wait.”
“Thank you,” they both say, before turning back to the room at large. Win lets Team do the leading, finding them seats in the corner of the room, away from either of the other occupants.
No sooner than they’ve sat down does a woman open the door at the front of the room. “Mook?” She calls with a smile.
Despite the giant headphones over her ears, the girl in the opposite corner stands, pulling them off and striding to, Win assumes, her therapist, smile small but present. They disappear behind the door together, and the room returns to the silence of before, broken only by the muffled sound of bodies shifting into place.
“Still good?” Win asks, voice low. He doesn’t want Team to think he doesn’t believe him, but he’s not used to Team being so quiet.
Team nods, giving Win a quick smile. It’s tinged with nerves, but it soothes Win a little anyway. “I’m okay, Hia. Just… nervous,” he admits.
“It’ll be okay,” Win says. “And I’ll be right here when you get out. We can go for barbecue.”
Team’s eyes light up so fast that Win can’t help but snort. The sound makes the receptionist look up, but she only gives them a smile and keeps working.
The door opening again stops their conversation. A man with short dark hair pokes his head out, surveys the room, and then his eyes fall on Win and Team. Smiling, he steps out. He’s wearing a clean white shirt with black trousers, a bright blue lanyard with an id hanging from his neck.
“Team?” The man asks, looking between the two of them.
Letting out a shaky breath, Team stands, giving Win a wobbly smile before he steps forward. “I’m Team,” he says.
“Hi Team,” the man says. “I’m Jom, it’s nice to meet you,” he introduces himself as they head back through the door. With one last look back, the door closes, and Team has disappeared.
Win can admit to himself that he’s nervous. He knows Team will be okay, he’s only a few rooms away, and Win is more than happy to drive the getaway car if Team suddenly decides to bolt, but as the seconds stretch into minutes, the door remains closed.
Win whittles away the time by playing around on his phone. Team had asked (demanded) he download a game he’d been addicted to recently so that he could get extra gifts from the game’s friend feature, and somehow Win had found himself actually getting sucked in. He takes his time, powering through a few levels before getting stuck on one. He runs through his five lives quickly, and since his boyfriend is a menace, he has not returned Win’s very gracious gift of extra lives, bringing his distraction to an abrupt end.
He responds to a few texts, sends Dean a TikTok that he won’t look at, and somewhat successfully distracts himself by reading an article about a new motorbike model coming out in one of the magazines stacked in the room.
After 56 minutes – yes Win was watching the clock, sue him – the door finally opens again. Team steps out, Jom just behind him, waving him off before he closes the door again.
“Hey,” Win greets, pocketing his phone and standing up, meeting Team halfway. “All done?”
Team nods. “Yeah. Barbecue?” He asks, eyes wide and hopeful. Win takes it for what it is: a request not to talk about it — not yet, at least.
Win ruffles his hair and hooks his arm around Team’s shoulders. “Yeah, yeah, let’s get you fed.”
~*~
Their regular barbecue place is fairly quiet for a weekday lunchtime, only a handful of other patrons scattered around the restaurant. Music plays quietly over the speakers, and the smell of cooking meat has both of their stomachs rumbling as soon as they enter.
Win shows incredible restraint, in his own opinion. He took Team’s silence on the walk over in stride, and now, as they gather meat and vegetables to cook, he lets Team chatter about the specific foods he wants. Win pointedly ignores the mushroom Team shoves under his nose, and as they head back to their seats, Win takes both plates so that Team can reply to a text, likely from Manaow, given the other six that make his phone buzz in rapid succession.
He holds off, in fact, until the first piece of meat is cooked, a tender cut of steak that Win puts gently onto Team’s plate before he checks the other pieces steadily cooking. He loads up a few of the vegetables onto Team’s plate next, making sure all the mushrooms end up on it.
“So how was it?” Win asks as he adds another piece of steak to Team’s plate. “Is he nice?”
Team takes the meat, chewing it and swallowing before he shrugs. “It was okay. Weird,” he admits, scrunching his nose just a little, “but he was nice.”
“That’s good,” Win says. He’d read too many stories about people not clicking with their therapists, having to hunt around to find one they could work with. He couldn’t say he was surprised, though, Team had never had a problem getting along with people. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Team shifts, thinking about the question. “There’s not much to say,” he says, pushing a piece of broccoli around his plate with the tip of his chopsticks. “We just kind of introduced ourselves. Talked about what it would be like and stuff.” Team leans back into the booth and gives Win a small smile. “It wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be.”
Relief floods Win’s chest and he grins, proud. “Good. Now eat your food before I steal it back.”
As his chopsticks inch towards Team’s plate, Team is quick to swipe the broccoli up, shoving it in his mouth and leveling his own chopsticks towards Win’s face in warning, eyes narrowed in a glare that loses any sway it may have had from how cute Team looks with his cheeks full as he chews.
~*~
Despite Team’s decision to start therapy, it had taken longer than it should have to start, a combination of poorly timed events, research, and the unavoidable waiting lists that Team had flatly refused to bypass by Win paying for a private therapist.
It’s for those reasons that Team’s fourth therapy session falls on the anniversary of Ton’s death. Win knows it’s going to be hard, all of his research has made it clear that anniversaries can be severe triggers, and Team’s still too early into his therapy to have developed strong coping mechanisms. He’s prepared to deal with just about anything, he thinks, and he has a game plan for the day.
So, when their alarm rings at eight, Win wakes up, plants a kiss on Team’s cheek, and whispers, “I’m going to shower first, and then I’ll get breakfast, okay?” At Team’s slow, sleepy nod, Win gives him a gentle smile, sneaks a kiss to his lips, and gets up.
He keeps his shower quick, aiming to get in and out as fast as possible.
When he exits the bathroom, a cloud of steam escaping with him, Team’s still curled up under the covers. It’s expected, Team’s always been the type to lay in bed until the last possible moment. Win grabs a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, changing. Team doesn’t stir at the sound of movement, not even to ogle Win while pretending he isn’t.
“Team?” Win calls, moving to stand over his bed. When the amorphous form of his boyfriend shifts under the covers, Win says, “I’m grabbing breakfast, shower while I’m gone, okay?”
There’s movement again, which could be a nod, though it’s hard to tell. Stomach starting to knot, Win shoves his shoes on and begins re-evaluating his plan for the day.
He adjusts his original plan, forgoing his idea to get jok from Team’s favourite stall and settling on chicken skewers and rice from a much closer stall.
Still, Win’s gone for at least ten minutes but Team hasn’t moved from the bed when Win gets back, their breakfast warm in his hands.
He puts their breakfast on the table and slowly walks to the bed, crouching down to look at Team. His heart cracks open in his chest; Team is red-faced and shaking, just slightly, and he’s crying. It’s different this time, though. It’s not the heaved, awful sobs from the night Win drove in the rain, and it’s not the guilty, quiet crying from the hotel room. There’s tears, yes, slowly and silently running over Team’s nose, hitting Win’s pillow, but it’s almost like Team doesn’t notice it.
“Hia,” he says, voice thick and wet.
“Baby,” Win whispers back, sliding back under the covers. It's the sort of thing he’d usually rebuke Team for, wearing outside clothes in bed, but Win couldn’t give a fuck if he tried. Team came first.
Pulling Team close, he lets him burrow into Win’s neck, and that’s when the quiet, hitched sobs start. He runs his hand up and down Team’s back, a slow, easy rhythm that slowly has tension easing out of him.
When the crying seems to stop, Team sniffling into the skin of Win’s neck, he moves back, just enough that he can look into Team’s face.
“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks, a hand moving to cup his cheek.
Team thinks about it, and Win knows he’s trying to get himself to do it, but ultimately he shakes his head.
“That’s okay,” Win tells him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “We can just stay here, hm?”
He strokes over Team’s cheek, the skin so soft, so warm, and so delicate under his thumb. Win has never really thought of Team as fragile — he still doesn’t, even in his worst moments, Team’s so, so strong — but hidden under Win’s covers, face blotchy and eyes bloodshot, the vulnerability he looks up at him with makes Win feel like he’s holding a wounded creature, and he’d do anything to make him better.
“If you need to stay in today, you can,” Win tells him. “Just tell me what you need.”
Team’s voice is raspy when he says, “Can we just stay here? Just for a bit?”
Win gives him a small smile. “Yeah, baby, we can stay here as long as you want. You want to go back to sleep?”
Team nods, closing his eyes immediately, like just the idea of sleep has made his eyelids heavier. Win shuffles closer, until he can rest his forehead against Team’s, and closes his eyes too. The concern still lingers, but when Team’s hand clutches the back of Win’s shirt and he presses a small kiss to Win’s lips, he can’t help but relax a little too.
~*~
A few hours later, they’re both awake again and Win has coaxed Team into the shower. Win has been working primarily on a plan of distraction, poorly making stir-fry with the rice that should’ve been their breakfast, grumbling when Team laughingly tells him, “Everyone knows you’re meant to use day old rice, Hia!”
It’s after they’ve eaten that Win decides to broach the topic of Team’s therapy.
“I called the office earlier, to rearrange your appointment,” he begins, “and P’Jom said that he’d be happy to talk over video call if it made it easier for you,” Win tells him. Team looks unsure, blinking up at Win as he stands with their bowls. “You don’t have to, but the option’s there if you feel up to it.”
He lets Team mull it over while he does the dishes, taking a little longer than necessary to make sure they’re all sparklingly clean.
When he does finally dry his hands and turn back to the table, Team looks surer in himself. “I want to talk to P’Jom,” he tells Win.
Pride effusing into every corner of his being, Win gives him a small smile and says, “Sure, you can use my laptop.”
While he’s setting up the app, he asks, “Do you want me to stay or give you some privacy?” He keeps his gaze focused on the screen so that Team doesn’t feel pressured.
After a few moments, Team murmurs, “Can I have some privacy, Hia?”
“Of course,” Win tells him, sliding the laptop over to him. “I’m just going downstairs,” Win takes Team’s room key and shakes it. “Text me if you need me, okay?”
“Thank you, Hia,” Team whispers as Win kisses his forehead. It makes his heart ache, and the last thing he really wants to do is leave Team, but he has to trust him, listen when he says he’ll be okay alone.
He closes the door quietly behind himself and takes the stairs down to Team’s room, trying to pace out the time as much as possible. When he gets there, he spends his time doing small bits of cleaning, the odd sock or rogue t-shirt thrown into the laundry hamper, the window opened to air out the room. Ultimately, though, Team’s room is fairly clean, which is probably more down to him having practically moved into Win’s dorm, rather than suddenly developing a tidying habit.
After that, all there’s left to do is wait, scrolling through Instagram, watching a few TikToks, trying to pretend he isn’t constantly checking the time.
The hour mark passes and Win’s stomach turns to lead, sitting there, weighing him down to Team’s bed. He wants desperately to run upstairs, check that Team’s okay, that he didn’t suddenly decide to run away, but he holds himself back.
Fifteen minutes. Thirty minutes. Win tells himself that he’ll wait until the two-hour mark passes, and then he’ll have to check on Team, but a text comes through before then.
Baby ♥️
[14:39]: You can come back
Win shoots up, out of Team’s room before he’s really finished reading the message. What he finds when he opens his own door is Team, still curled up under a blanket at Win’s desk, laptop closed in front of him.
“Hey, baby,” he says, walking to Team and running a hand through his hair. He’s been crying, dried teartracks staining his cheeks, his hoodie sleeve damp, and Win’s certain his eyes will be sore tomorrow. “Come on,” he murmurs, pulling him up and sitting him on the bed. He shuffles them until Win’s leaning against the headboard, Team’s head on his shoulder.
“I still feel like it’s my fault,” Team whispers. “It is my fault.”
“No, baby,” Win murmurs, running his hand through Team’s hair, soft and fluffy now that it’s dry, and just slightly longer than Team would usually let it get. “It isn’t.”
Team doesn’t reply, and Win can only hope that he isn’t saying the wrong thing. He doesn’t want to invalidate Team’s feelings, but he doesn’t want to undo any of his progress either.
“You were eight, Team. It was an accident,” he presses a soft, lingering kiss to the top of Team’s head. “You can feel however you need to today, but you have to know you aren’t to blame, okay?”
Team takes a shaky breath, and Win feels hot tears hit his collarbone. Then, slowly, he nods. “That’s what P’Jom said too.”
Team doesn’t say any more after that, and he eventually falls asleep curled into Win’s side. Win holds him, watching as the late afternoon settles into evening.
~*~
Win knows he’s been hyperfocused on Team. It’s not exactly unusual, Win’s brain has been pretty set on Team since they met, but he’s at least self-aware enough to recognise that it’s changed a little.
When they’d first discussed Team getting a therapist, Win had spent hours researching, looking into good therapists nearby, how effective various forms are, anything he could find to make sure he was being as supportive and helpful as he could be.
He knows, though, that it’s become… different lately. He’s still determined to be supportive, of course, but he’s found himself worrying about smaller things, things he never would have questioned before, and he doesn’t understand why.
“I’m worried I’m coddling him,” Win says, hand gripping the cup of tea. “I don’t want him to think that I think he can’t handle things.”
His mother hums, brushing some of her hair behind her ear. Win’s father had decided to handle less of the business a few months ago, after realising just how fractured their family had become, and his mother had stepped into many of the roles he’d previously occupied with a confidence Win doesn’t think any of them had anticipated. His mother had always been far sharper than many gave her credit for, though.
It’s for that reason that she’s the one he turns to with his worries.
“I doubt he would think that,” she starts carefully. “And I think it makes sense that you’ve become especially protective of him while he starts this process. He’s having to unpack years of trauma and sadness. That’s not an easy thing for anyone to do, luuk. As long as you’re not smothering him –”
“What if I am smothering him?”
His mother snorts, quick and sharp, before she takes a sip of tea. “You and I both know he’s not the type to take treatment he doesn’t want lying down. Nong Team is so strong,” his mother says, a fond grin on her face. “You have to remember to trust that about him. He trusts you, Win,” she puts a gentle hand on his face, the tips of her acrylic nails scraping over his skin just slightly. “He’ll tell you if you overstep.”
~*~
By the time they’re on their way to Team’s ninth appointment, they’ve developed a (mostly) foolproof routine. They’ve had to shift Team’s appointment time a little with the beginning of the new term, but they found a space on Tuesday afternoons where they’re both free, and Jom had an appointment slot open.
They go through their normal morning routine (Win nudges Team awake and pulls him in to shower with him, then buys him breakfast at the university), then once their classes are done, he drives them to Jom’s office.
It’s after Team’s session that the routine goes one of two ways: if Team emerges with a smile, or at least chats with Win on the way to the car, they go to their barbecue place and Win treats Team to whatever he wants. Sometimes Team talks about his sessions, letting Win in on how it’s going, some of the advice Jom has given him, but Win doesn’t pry. Team will tell him when he’s ready.
On days where Team doesn’t talk when he leaves Jom’s office, when he won’t say a word about what happened during that hour, Win takes them straight home. He orders a pizza, and puts a drama on, and they eat quietly together at the foot of Win’s bed. Eventually, Win will ask, “Can I do anything, baby?”
Depending on the day, depending on what must have been discussed, Team will either shake his head, but burrow into Win’s arms, or he’ll ask if they can take a nap. Either way, Team falls asleep and wakes up seeming slightly better. Not entirely okay, still processing his session and clearly struggling with his anxiety, but he talks. He’s gotten so good at talking to Win, he could cry about it most days.
Win doesn’t know what to do in this situation, though. Team’s not exactly silent on the way home, but he’s clearly thinking about something, his answers to Win’s questions complete sentences, but slightly absent.
Unsure what else to do, he opts to ask. “Baby,” he says, “do you want to get barbecue today? Or just go home?”
Team’s brows furrow while he thinks. He finally says, “I want to go home, Hia,” and Win changes lanes.
Despite wanting to go home, Team doesn’t seem sad or anxious, still just in his head, mulling something over while Win glances nervously at him from time to time. When they pull up to the dorms, Team’s the same, but he tangles their fingers together as they walk from the car to the elevator. Win’s heart beats faster at the contact, a reaction to Team reaching out for him that he doubts he’ll ever be able to be control.
Neither of them say anything as the elevator heads to Win’s floor, and as Team fishes out his keycard to Win’s room, Win tries very, very hard not to think about how it feels like Team’s moved in with him, and just how warm the thought makes his chest.
“Can I shower?” Team asks, dropping his bag by Win’s door and kicking off his shoes.
Win picks up his bag with a fond huff of laughter and hangs it up next to his own. “You don’t have to ask, baby. You want company?” He gives him a shit-eating grin that Team scowls at.
“No,” he says simply before closing the door. There’s no actual malice to Team’s behaviour, he’s told Win before that he ‘distracts’ Team in the shower too much.
While Team’s busy, Win shrugs out of his clothes from the day, switching to a pair of joggers and a t shirt, lounging about while he waits for Team to return so they can decide on dinner.
Win’s lying down on the bed, scrolling through his phone when Team emerges, already changed into an old pair of shorts and a t-shirt Win has been looking for for a month. He doesn’t get a chance to make a barb about it, though, because Team spots him and seems to come to a decision. He strides across the room, and then slings a leg over Win and sits himself in his lap.
Win’s not exactly surprised, Team’s favourite seat has been Win’s lap for a long time, though he’d never admit it, the brat. It’s not what he was expecting, though.
Ignoring the little demon in his mind that wakes up whenever Team’s ass is anywhere near his dick, Win places his hands on Team’s hips, over his shirt, and gives him a level look. “Can I help you?”
Team keeps his gaze, lips pouting. “I want to ask something.”
“Okay,” Win nods. “Ask away.”
“Do you mind coming to my appointments?” Team asks, looking down at Win, eyes a little unsure below the glint of determination.
Win raises his eyebrows. “Do you mind me coming to your appointments?”
Team groans, throwing his head back. “Hia.”
“What?” He asks.
“I’m asking you,” he says, leg twitching like he wants to stomp his foot. Adorable.
“I don’t want you to feel like I’m encroaching on your therapy,” Win tells him, thumb smoothing over the skin of Team’s hip where his shorts have ridden down just slightly, a slow back and forth that always makes Team relax. Like clockwork, his shoulders slowly untense, his own hands finding a space on Win’s chest to occupy. “If you don’t want me to wait, or if you want to drive yourself, you can. I just,” Win licks his lips, trying to find the right words. “I want you to be comfortable. Or,” he allows, “as comfortable as possible.”
“I’m not uncomfortable,” Team says slowly, hands curling into Win’s shirt. “It’s more like… I feel selfish.”
“Selfish?” Win repeats, brow furrowing and head tilting, trying to follow Team’s thoughts. “Selfish how, baby?”
There’s a pause while Team works through his thoughts, and Win waits. Team’s gotten so much better at explaining his feelings, and Win’s so proud, so he’ll wait however long it takes Team to decide how to word himself. It only takes a few moments, though.
“It feels selfish to ask you to spend two hours just taking me there, waiting for me, and then bringing me back,” Team mutters, face burning, “but… I like that you drive me to my appointments. I know it’s not, like, romantic, because,” he makes a vague hand gesture as his cheeks get redder. Win loves him. So much. “But, I don’t know. It’s nice. I like it. I like spending those drives with you.”
Win tries to tamp down his urge to squish Team’s face, but he’s never been very good at controlling the cute aggression his boyfriend inspires. So, with one hand on either of Team’s lovely, flushed cheeks, still slightly damp from his shower, Win coos, just a little. “I like driving you, baby. I’m happy to keep doing it. Be selfish more often.”
“Hia,” Team whines through squished cheeks, his brows all furrowed like he doesn’t believe Win.
Win pushes them together just a little more, and then pulls Team down to press a kiss to his pouty lips. “I’ll drive you anywhere you want,” he declares. “Anytime.”
“You drive me up the wall,” Team mutters, then yelps when Win removes one hand to smack Team’s ass. “Hia!”
As Team starts to complain about his sore ass, and Win makes a lewd comment about how he could make it worse, the (mostly) gentle banter settles them back into easy domesticity.
There’s still a long road ahead, Win knows, but Team will be okay. They both will.