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“Hey, Tat,” Hoy's voice comes through the speaker of Tattoo's old, shattered phone, sounding tinny but ever so cheery. “We're going to grab dinner at that new ramen place. Wanna come?”
“No, I'm good,” Tattoo replies, hoisting up the two white plastic bags in his hands as he walks up the stairs to his flat. “I got some food for Aran and me on my way home. I think we'll just stay in and have a quiet one.”
"Ahhh, I see,” Hoy says with a giggle. “Have fun. Don't forget we have the early gym class tomorrow.”
Tattoo groans at the reminder. “Alright, yeah. See you tomorrow.”
Wrestling his phone from under his shoulder, Tattoo drags his feet up the last few stairs, his eyes itching from fatigue. Teaching is surprisingly fulfilling, but it doesn't fill the stomach, so he picked up a food delivery job alongside his obligations at the school. It pays decently enough to keep himself and Aran afloat for the time being, but it comes with long hours in the misty grey of the early morning and correlating short nights.
Still, Tattoo smiles to himself when he sees the blue door to his room and quickly fishes the keys from his pocket.
With the tip he got from one of the nicer chefs today, he made the little detour to the good food stand that sells the grilled squid Aran loves, and it's a small thing, but he's still happy he was able to get it today. Aran is a ticking emotional time bomb on the best of days, but a good dinner usually puts him in a good mood, and that, in turn, makes Tattoo's life significantly easier. If he also enjoys the way Aran smiles at him on such an occasion, that's neither here nor there.
“Hey there!” Aran whistles as soon as Tattoo opens the door, humming along to the radio that's blasting top 40 hits.
But instead of dropping a greeting, Tattoo's face falls alongside the bags in his hands. Because his place looks like the bomb just exploded in the middle of it: The boxes from his shelf are scattered around the floor, the couch cushions piled on top, as well as the throw pillows Aran bought a few weeks prior. The table is loaded with a hotchpotch of half of their belongings, and on the single counter that serves as a kitchen, dishes are stacked in a precariously fragile pyramid while Aran has his rubber glove-clad arms in a bowl filled to the brim with foam, water sloshing out and onto the floor.
"What are you doing?" Tattoo asks, aghast at the state of his flat.
"Spring cleaning!” Aran announces cheerfully, having the utter audacity to look proud of himself. “I bought new curtains, because the old ones were really gross, and then I decided we need a deep cleanse, bring in some freshness, you know, and now I'm doing the dishes."
Tattoo just takes another gobsmacked look around the chaos, then continues staring at the guy in disbelief.
Aran, on his part, doesn’t seem to notice as he prattles on, extravagant gestures and all the usual flourish amped up full throttle. "And that got me thinking. Maybe I'll design a home fashion line for the fashion-forward housewife who wants to be comfortable and slayful."
A muscle twitches in Tattoo’s jaw, nerves worn thin, and a headache approaching. "Maybe you learn how to do the dishes before you think about what you look like while—careful!" he shouts out loud, jumping forward to save the pile of crockery Aran just nudged with his gesticulating elbow from tumbling over.
"Whoops," Aran giggles, biting his lips before clutching a soapy hand over his mouth.
The plate Tattoo saved from the pile is full of soap and specks of sauce, a sad, mushy rice corn still sticking to the ceramic.
"Half the floor is flooded!” he yells as he almost slips. “And these aren't even clean!”
In response, Aran crosses his arms and pouts, grumbling defensively, "I've never done this before," as if it would make anything better.
Tattoo turns and gapes at him, dumbfounded when he asks, "You never cleaned a dish in your life?"
Aran shakes his head in a way that makes it seem that it should be obvious, and Tattoo is acutely reminded of who Aran was, or, evidently, still is.
"God, you're totally useless," he mutters, shoving Aran aside and snatching the plate from his hands with the motion, throwing it back into the basin where it breaks neatly in two. They're now down to three. Brilliant.
Tattoo pinches the bridge of his nose.
Aran, standing his ground opposite him, ignores his ensuing cussing, tips his chin up, and pretends with all his might that his arrogance is real and not just an old costume when he says, "Well, I had employees for that."
"Not anymore, you don't," Tattoo snaps at him.
"I have you," Aran quips back, eyes fiery and contemptuous.
"I'm not your servant," Tattoo grinds out, about to throw half a plate straight at his pompous head, the sudden anger in his stomach blistering hot.
For a second, Aran just looks at Tattoo, who knows they're both gauging whether to back or double down. It's always a thin line for them, a balancing act brought about by too much proximity and this strange tension that's been building for weeks now. Tattoo can't quite place it, only knows that something constantly puts him on edge around Aran, that something shifted and destabilised what was once an almost pleasant arrangement. Until finally, with a twitch in Aran's jaw and a spasm of Tattoo's, it discharges with rumbling thunder.
"Your attitude is too bad to be one, anyway," Aran drawls, his voice loaded with every ounce of derisive pomp Tattoo ever heard from him.
"And your attitude is too bad to even tolerate," Tattoo growls back, abandoning the dishes to face Aran, mirroring his fury.
“At least I have one!”
“I wish you’d give it up!”
“And be boring like you?”
"Well, the door's over there if I'm boring you. Don't forget to cry on your way out.”
"What's that supposed to mean? Sorry for having feelings, unlike you!"
"Well, I'm sorry that I don't have the urge to constantly blurt out how I feel, Aran. Sorry that I don't cry every five minutes!"
"You're a block of concrete, Tattoo!"
"No, I just don't go out of my way to annoy absolutely everyone around me with my every problem all the time as if they don't have any of their own.”
"You always treat me like a burden!" Aran yells, his voice finally cracking.
"You are a burden, Aran!" Tattoo shouts back, and he recognises the step he took that went too far, but it's too late now, his ire too strong to hold himself back. "You don't work, you don't do chores, you're a picky eater, you need three fucking pillows to sleep, you need constant attention at all times! Who the hell is supposed to deal with all that?!"
His words are met with stunned silence and Aran's eyes welling up, as always. Tattoo groans and prepares for his next dramatic blowup. But instead of sobbing and yelling, Aran's shoulders sag, his face impassive and empty as he stares at Tattoo, not a single tear rolling down his cheeks.
"Well, no one asked you to do it," comes a voice much smaller than anything he ever heard from Aran, and before Tattoo can throw another insult, Aran storms out, slamming the door shut behind him and leaving the place eerily quiet, as if a storm that wreaked havoc for months finally subsided.
When the dust settles, Tattoo slumps on a chair and breathes out as if he’d held it all that time, something clenching in his stomach at the same time that he feels strangely deflated. He wanted this evening to go differently and thought that his small surprise would mollify Aran's discontent and allow for one of their calm, quiet nights.
When he looks around his flat once more, though, Tattoo decides that he was right in telling him off. It's not his fault that Aran can't handle being criticised and that he's too fragile to take responsibility for anything, expecting Tattoo to handle his problems. The irony of him doing it once again when he gets up to clean up Aran's mess isn't lost on Tattoo, and in the hour it takes him to get the place back to normal, he decides that Aran can go screw himself.
A part of him feels guilty that something pushed him to press harder, to be meaner, to get a reaction from Aran that would get rid of the itch under Tattoo's skin. But he's pretty much insufferable, if Tattoo thinks about it, vain, spoilt, and irritating, has no meaningful filter and a shocking lack of tact for someone who comes from "Good society", as they call it.
It had to be said.
Now, it's peacefully quiet, for once, without Aran chattering, or whistling, or playing his damn awful pop music. Tattoo kicks Aran's seven throw pillows off the couch and watches a movie without someone commenting on every scene or having his hand squeezed to mush when things get exciting. His bathroom is free for once and doesn't smell flowery from shampoo and conditioner and whatnot, his bed is gloriously empty, and his blanket is his own once more. It's a little cold now that the weather has cooled down and there's no one lying by his side, but there are also no ice feet pressed to his calves so it balances out. It takes him a while to get comfortable, and he stares at the ceiling for a long time, alone in the darkness with his thoughts that are curiously slow and convoluted at the same time.
He tosses, turns, and his hand slides over the mattress to his left until his fingers find the damp concrete wall. He could scoot over, stretch out, and splay himself across the entire mattress now that Aran isn't occupying it. But the pillows still smell of him, and so Tattoo stays on his side of the bed, his fingers twisted into the sheets and his ears perked for the sound of keys in a lock that never comes.
*****
"You should've seen my nurse costume,” Joke says with a big laugh. “That one would've gotten us out in a second.”
“Do you still have that, or…?” Jack asks, and Hoy makes a gagging sound, throwing the three of them into a laughing fit.
They're having lunch together in the staff room of the school like they always do, but Tattoo is only half listening to his friend's antics. He's annoyed—at what he doesn't know—and he didn't sleep too well, putting him further on edge, his nerves taut, and his brows set in a constant scowl. Something is askew, and his mind feels all scrambled, and even the kids got on his nerves today. He pokes around in his food, letting the rice fall back onto the plate instead of eating it, and he's aware that he's moping, but he also can't stop it.
“Wasn't that hilarious, Tattoo?” Hoy asks with a big, expectant grin, and Tattoo snaps out of his reverie, staring at him.
He has no idea what Hoy just said.
"Huh?”
"Are you alright?" Joke asks after a beat, his brows drawing together. "You're kind of quiet today."
Tattoo huffs and folds his arms across his chest, pursing his lips. "Had a fight with Aran. He stormed out.”
The others exchange looks, then turn their attention back to him, looking more worried than the situation warrants. Aran is just sulking. No big deal.
Voice serious, Jack asks, "When was that?"
"Coupl'a days ago," Tattoo replies curtly. It's been three, to be precise, but it's not like Tattoo is counting.
"Do you want to talk about what happened?" Hoy, bless his heart, sounds genuinely concerned.
Tattoo just shrugs. "He destroyed half my flat, I told him he's useless, and instead of trying to improve anything, he ran away. Typical, really."
It's leaving out a lot, but it's the gist of it, and they don't have to know about all the complicated layers that are him and Aran. Tattoo can barely make sense of them himself, and he's not in the mood for that particular examination. But his friends are, as always, too nosy and insensitive to leave him be.
"See, I get that Aran is... unusual," Joke starts, then clears his throat to suppress a snicker. "But in a relationship you need to compromise, so-"
Tattoo interrupts him with a barking laugh, holding his hands up to stop him in his tracks. "Whoa, whoa, we're not in a relationship."
Joke exchanges another glance with Jack, one of those obnoxious silent understandings passing between them, as Hoy's brows meet his hairline.
Tattoo looks from one to the other, then huffs out, "What?"
"Remember when we asked you to come see a movie with us?" Jack asks with a curious smirk.
"Yeah, but what does this-?"
"Remember what you replied?" Joke continues, cheeks dimpling and looking smug.
"I don't know, that was weeks-"
Hoy picks out his phone and reads out loud, "Sorry, Aran is trying to crochet a sweater, so we don't have time."
"Well, yeah, he was busy with that the entire night. What's your point?"
Tattoo is getting agitated now, fingers drumming against his biceps as he endures their weird little spiel.
"We never asked Aran," Jack says plainly. "We asked you."
Tattoo's face scrunches up in confusion. "Okay, and?"
"You live together," Joke reminds him, dimples now on full display.
"He'd be homeless otherwise. You guys forced me to let him move in!"
And really, this was all their fault, and Tattoo doesn't get why he's suddenly the bad guy here.
"You share a bed," Hoy chimes in, and Tattoo's patience runs out.
"I only have one!"
His voice is getting louder now, because it's not like Tattoo has a spacious apartment with a fucking guest room to spare, as Hoy should bloody well know.
"Every night," Jack doubles down, and Tattoo is aware that neither of them ever dealt with Aran as up close and personal as he did, and yes, he knows what it looks like, but for this one, he actually does have a good explanation.
"You try to make him sleep on the couch. The whining alone could kill a man."
"And you cuddle," Joke says, making Tattoo throw his hands in the air.
"He cuddles me!"
"You let him," they all say in unison.
That does snap Tattoo into silence, because he can't deny this part. He and Aran cuddle, basically every night and most evenings and sometimes just because, and he's gotten so used to it that he almost misses it now that Aran is gone. Almost. He doesn't miss Aran. Not even a bit.
"Why are you ganging up on me?" He asks instead of answering. "You and Jack lived together before you started dating!"
Resounding snorts, and Hoy cackles when he says, "Even I realise what you just said there."
Tattoo decides there and then to retire him as his best friend. He needs new ones in general because these guys are a bunch of traitors. He decides to tell them that.
"You're a bunch of traitors."
Instead of apologising, Joke leans forward, Cheshire cat grin on his face as he asks, "When was the last time you did something without him, hm?"
That does give Tattoo pause again because he can't remember. Aran is just always there. Maybe he should say that, too.
"He's just always there," Tattoo mumbles, but knows it explains little to nothing. His brows furrow.
"And why don't you ask him to leave?" Hoy presses, but Tattoo doesn't have an answer for that, either. Across him, Hoy shrugs as if to say, "Case closed."
"You know," Jack interrupts their teasing, and Tattoo turns to him in hopes that he'll make them stop. After all, Jack's the most reasonable of them all. But this must just be Tattoo's third unlucky day in a row, because instead of defending him, Jack says, "Sometimes feelings are confusing, and you might not realise what you feel for someone because you're preoccupied with other things. You might think they're not right for you, or that you're not right for them." His eyes are penetrating on the last words, knowing, and Tattoo's own fall to the table, studying the ugly turquoise vinyl. "There are always reasons not to go for it. It can be really scary. But at the end of the day, when you find someone who compliments you, someone you can rely on, it's worth taking a risk on them.”
"It's not like that," Tatto replies weakly, picking at a loose piece of plastic.
Gently, Jack continues, "You two have each other's back in every situation. Don't let him get away just because you're too stubborn to apologise or you're hung up on something irrelevant.”
"Yeah, not like that, my ass," Hoy interrupts, voice loud and booming. "You're attached at the hip, dude. Even Nang noticed. It's kinda cute."
“I'll give you cute,” Tattoo snaps, smacking Hoy over the head as he gets up from his chair and stomps out of the break room.
*****
So maybe he is kind of, sort of, dating Aran, Tattoo admits to himself as he's sitting in the old, roaring bus that takes him home. It surely wasn't intentional, not on Aran's part at least, who just last week told him about a guy he was talking to who was apparently very rich and very interested. He did a hair mask and a face mask and other masks before their planned first date, and he sulked the entire night when the mystery guy cancelled on him at the last minute, demanding Tattoo take him out instead to make use of his outfit and routine. They went to a tiny hole in the wall because Tattoo couldn't afford more, and he felt inadequate about it for the next three days.
Maybe that was the reason he snapped after all, Tattoo muses as he walks back into the dark, empty flat. Aran, by his mere presence, makes him feel not good enough. It's not even something he says or does, it's just who he is, his heritage and his upbringing and the luxuries he's used to. He's coping with their loss relatively well, all things considered, but Tattoo knows he's used to better linens and softer mattresses and would prefer salmon to the cheap bass Tattoo cooks for him when he can take home leftovers from the grocer. He does have the decency to pretend to enjoy it, but Tattoo can't help but feel small next to him, to feel ashamed of how little he has and for all the things he cannot give him.
With a sigh, he looks over at the wall where Aran taped pictures of them and their friends over the cracks. In all of them, they're right next to each other; in most of them, Aran has his arms around Tattoo; in one of them, Tattoo is looking at him in a way that reveals all the lies he tells himself.
The truth is that it is like that, but Tattoo is too damn scared to admit it. The stupid butterflies he feels when he looks at Aran sleeping on his shoulder mean nothing in the real world, and neither does the tug in his chest when Aran laughs at a stupid joke he made, nor the fact that Tattoo almost instinctively reaches for him to share both his happiness and his fear with him.
Because the second truth is that the thought of him and Aran is too preposterous to even entertain, a stupid Cinderella story that's missing a prince or two and a couple million baht. Aran wouldn't settle for anything less, and Tattoo can't give him that; he can't give him what he deserves, so that's that.
And yes, he's annoyed by him half the time, but he’s also stupidly fond of the fact, is stupidly fond of him, because despite the dramatics and the antics, Aran is also incredibly loyal, kinder than Tattoo anticipated, and stronger too. He wears his heart on his sleeve, never afraid to show his feelings where Tattoo has no idea how to express his own, and it's all painfully disarming. He blurts out what he thinks unprompted all the time and cries at the smallest inconvenience, and while Tattoo figured out that hugging him helps, he'd rather find a way to make life easier for him to prevent the crying in the first place. But he can't, and it makes Tattoo feel goddamn helpless to see him struggling while he doesn't have the money to stop it.
Tattoo huffs out a derisive laugh. Romance isn't meant for people like him who are too busy chasing their next meal and rent to stop and indulge in it, so this whole train of thought is pointless. Aran is just a beautiful pipe dream he cannot afford. He was only here out of necessity and desperation, anyway, and maybe Tattoo should set him free to pursue the life he deserves. But the thought makes him feel sick.
Because the final truth is that he already misses him too much, can't sleep without him by his side, and his home has long become theirs, yet it feels lifeless without him here. It was Aran who made it one, with all his little memorabilia and knickknacks he collected, and his damned pillows and curtains and the flowers he puts on the windowsill every week. But it doesn't feel much like a home without him.
"Damnit," Tattoo mutters, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if to fight off the inevitable conclusion to all of this: He's completely gone on Aran. And he totally and utterly blew it.
Aran would be right to never speak to him again, and Tattoo for sure doesn't deserve his forgiveness. But maybe Jack was right after all, and maybe Tattoo is desperate enough right now to be a goddamn better man for once in his messed up life.
Without thinking much more—because that never got him anywhere—he jumps up, grabs his keys from the table, and snatches his phone up on his way out.
From: Tattoo
To: Hoy
“Is he at the temple?”
From: Hoy
To: Tattoo
“Yup”
“Come get your man 🤪”
Tattoo types out various iterations of fuck you before he settles on a simple middle finger emoji.
*****
Tattoo finds him in a far corner of the temple complex, sweeping the floor with a brushwood broom and a look on his face as if he's currently experiencing all the miseries of life all at once. When Tattoo steps closer, though, he also notices that Aran looks a little pale and worn out, with uncharacteristic bags under his eyes and his hair flat and unstyled, falling into his eyes.
“Hey,” Tattoo mumbles before he can chicken out, his hands stuffed in his pockets and trying to sound cool and aloof. But his heart is hammering in his throat, making him sound a little choked instead.
At his greeting, Aran’s head whips up, and for a moment he stares at Tattoo with wide, disbelieving eyes that are red and bloodshot. With a sharp sting in his chest, Tattoo realises that he's been crying.
“Did you come here to criticise me again?” Aran asks, sniffing and clutching his broom, but standing up a little straighter.
Tattoo rolls his eyes on reflex. He can't really help it. “Would you stop sulking now and come home?”
"I don't want to burden you," Aran quips, now with the same tipped-up chin and pursed lips Tattoo grew so accustomed to. "If you want me to move out permanently, I can. I asked my aunt, and she's willing to help me out. She's probably only doing it for Hoy, but, well, it's not like I have a choice. So I can come pack my bags if you want to kick me out. It's your choice; I don't care."
He does care; Tattoo can see it in his wobbling chin and drawn-up shoulders and the way his foot twists inwards like it always does when he's lying to shield himself from being found out or getting hurt. Despite himself, a smile tugs at Tattoo's lips at the sight, and he braces himself, utterly unprepared for whatever happens next.
“I'm sorry, Aran,” he starts, biting his bottom lip. “I'm sorry for saying you're a burden. You're not. I was just in a bad mood.”
“And?” Aran demands, looking at Tattoo with an unreadable expression on his face.
"And…I don't want you to leave," Tattoo says eventually, gathering his courage as he takes a few tentative steps towards Aran. "I think... I don't ever want you to leave. I like having you around.”
He stumbles over his last words and winces. This all looks so much easier in the movies, cooler, too, when the hero comes in to sweep his love interest off his feet all smooth and suave. In comparison, Tattoo just feels like a stammering idiot.
“Why did you never tell me that?” Aran asks after a moment, putting the broom aside and crossing his arms over his chest.
“You know me,” Tattoo replies with a shrug, trying to look indifferent even though he knows it's pointless. Aran knows him better than that. “And what's the point? You're just waiting to get out of here, and I have no chance to do so, so... "
“Tattoo…” Aran murmurs, his voice almost pleading, as if he needs something from Tattoo, needs to hear the words Tattoo can't bring himself to say out loud.
“What do you want me to say?” Tattoo asks instead. “That I miss you? That I think I'm not good enough for you so I pushed you away? That's all pretty stupid, isn't it?”
He looks at the ground, embarrassed and silently hoping Aran will understand what he's trying to say. He's not about to admit something stupid like “I like you,” or worse. Aran will have to piece that part together himself so Tattoo can save at least a small sliver of his dignity by not saying out loud that he's kind of in love with him. No chance.
He comes precariously close to blurting it out, though, when Aran steps forward and carefully twists his fingers between Tattoo's, looking up at him from underneath his fringe with a small smile on his lips.
"There was never a date," Aran mumbles, peeking through his lashes.
"Huh?"
"I never had a date," he admits, a little sheepish. "I did all that for you."
Tattoo's brows draw together in confusion. "That makes no sense.”
"Well,” Aran continues, looking a little embarrassed himself. “I thought that maybe you'd get jealous and ask me out instead. Or that you'd see me all pretty and gorgeous and realise you're missing out."
"That makes even less sense," Tattoo says flatly, and he is properly confused now because that's a worse plan than whatever Hoy comes up with on a regular Tuesday. "I actually like you much better without all that stuff."
“You do?” Aran, on his part, sounds genuinely surprised.
"Yeah," Tattoo says awkwardly, a part of him ready to run away. But he tries, for Aran's sake. Because he's worth taking a risk on. "I know you like all that stuff and your creams and whatever, but. I think you're pretty without it. In the morning, for example."
"When my eyes are all puffy?” Aran asks with a laugh and a blush. “I look a mess."
"It's cute," Tattoo mumbles, and he wants to kick himself because he just can't get this right. "I mean. You are. I guess. God, I'm bad at this.”
He sighs and looks up at the ceiling at the same time as he takes a firmer hold of Aran's hand. He's not good with words, quite evidently, but maybe he can at least show him through actions. So he laces their fingers together, his thumb brushing along Aran's knuckles as he takes another step closer, until, finally, they're face to face and he can smell the warm, comforting scent of him that he grew so terribly dependent on.
“Yeah, you're awful,” Aran says quietly, smiling at him all soft and gentle and making the knots in Tattoo's chest unravel. “The worst.”
“I'm trying, okay?” Tattoo mumbles, brushing a strand of hair out of Aran's eyes as tenderly as he can. He hopes it's enough.
“I don't want you to buy me stuff or spoil me or whatever,” Aran says, tapping a finger against Tattoo's forehead. “I know what you're thinking in that dumb, thick head of yours. But I've been spoilt all my life, and it got me nowhere. I don't need any of that anymore.” He takes a deep, trembling breath before he whispers, “I just want you to like me. Because I like you. So much."
His eyes are large, terrified but sincere at the same time, hopeful, too, and he's so close now that Tattoo could count his lashes if he were cheesy like that. It's a little overwhelming, and Tattoo thinks they should skip the talking now and go to kissing because kissing means no talking—that's kind of the point—and he doesn't know what to say anymore. Instead, he scratches his head.
"So... does that mean you-”
"Oh, for God's sake," Aran groans with grand dramatic flourish, gets up on his toes and shuts Tattoo up with his mouth.
He tastes of cherries and sugar, and his lips are so soft that Tattoo thinks he's unworthy of this, of being kissed by this magnificent curiosity of a boy who's so much stronger and smarter than him in so many ways. Still, he wraps his arm around Aran's waist to pull him closer, to hold him, feel him, and when Aran's arms slide around his neck and his lips open to deepen the kiss, Tattoo's heart beats so fast that he feels dizzy with it.
It's all italicised ohs and corny metaphors.
Tattoo thinks he could get used to this.
Aran giggles against his lips, breaking their kiss but staying close, their noses brushing against each other and their breaths mingling.
"Can you come home now?" Tattoo asks, because he'd like him to, and he'd like to keep kissing him, but they're still in a temple, and it's all a little inappropriate.
“Ask me nicely,” Aran demands with an impish grin, entirely too pleased with himself.
Tattoo rolls his eyes for the sake of it. But they both know he's too wrapped around Aran's fancy little finger to deny him anything he can give him.
“Would you please come home with me?”
Aran smiles wider, slow, and sugary, tilting his head forward until their brows touch, and nods.
Tattoo kisses him again because he can.
And the stupid butterflies soar.