Chapter Text
Everything had been normal when Pran went to sleep that night.
Same as always, really. It had been dinner with his parents; small bites and tired smiles as he listened to his mother’s non stop animated blabbering, something about the school play her friends had been insisting on having Pran direct back at his old high school for their senior kids.
“I’m working on it, mom.” He had said through a spoonful of soup that, at this point, did nothing to warm him up, his voice coming out strained with the tension of a clear lie bugging his conscience, brief memories of blank pages and headaches caused by the lack of inspiration rushing to him. “I’ve just been busy.” He’d told her, as if she really had no idea, as if she couldn’t see her son in front of her; eyes heavy with perpetually tired bags hanging from them and posture slouched under the crushing exhaustion of a full day at the faculty.
She had huffed in disappointment. “You’re always busy these days. You don’t have time for anything anymore.”
And Pran had bitten his lip, repressing a “ well, you wanted architecture, did you not? ” that tasted spicier than his mother’s sauce, because the last thing he wanted to do was have another fight with her when he was already struggling to stay awake.
After that, it had been his father, asking about the rugby tryouts, attempting (and failing) to make his tone sound nonchalant, like he hadn’t been bugging Pran about it for over a year.
“I like the oil painting workshop better.” Pran had told him during his first year, in hopes that, perhaps, the man would understand and, maybe in a more far-fetched way of thinking, he’d respect his son’s wishes. It hadn’t worked, of course. So, Pran had settled for a different answer. “Do you think I should still try? I’m not a freshman anymore.”
And his father had answered. “Never too late.” His smile tight and fake, and urging.
After dinner, Pran had gone upstairs, steps weighty and dense, one of his hands rubbing his nape, where a sharp pain had settled at some point of the semester and had since refused to leave him alone, burning and threatening to break his spine in half with the heftiness.
He had washed up, taking in his reflection in the mirror and sighing when he found a zombie-like version of himself staring back. His mind had refused to shut up even when he finally managed to lay down on bed, yelling things at him that he barely has the heart to care about anymore, like how he’s supposed to help his professor with a design, and how he has plans due in a couple of days. He had fallen asleep with the hint of a frown on his face. So yes, everything had been normal when Pran went to sleep that night.
And then he meets a man.
Or, he supposes, more accurately, he makes up a man.
His dream is sunny, which is rare these days. These days, he can never remember his dreams when he wakes up. Now, however, there’s some kind of glow that frames everything here, something like sunlight shining through the curtains of his bedroom.
He panics for a moment, thinking he’s late for school before he remembers he can’t be late in his dreams.
He’s laying on bed here too, and everything is the same as it was when his eyes closed. Except, of course, there’s a man sitting next to him. He’s not standing, but even like this, Pran can tell he’s tall; his hair is dark brown but the locks look like caramel under the influence of the dreamy lightning embracing them. His face is soft and patient, like he’s been sitting there for a long time, like he had been waiting for Pran to wake up without a rush, content to sit there beside him forever if he had to. His eyes, big and twinkling become smaller when the gentle smile on his pink, full lips gradually expands, the corners of his mouth pulling at his cheeks. He is handsome, objectively, undeniably.
Pran almost huffs in disbelief, realizing his imagination really outdid itself this time. Creating a handsome man is fine, he supposes, he can’t control that. It makes sense, even, considering the lack of romance, and even beyond that, the lack of attractive men in his life, but giving him a whole halo-like look as if he’s some kind of angel? Have his hormones gone insane or what? It’s ridiculous, even for a dream. This has to be some form of overcompensating.
He has no time in real life for cute guys, so he had to do it in his sleep? It’s a little pathetic. He can’t give himself too much hell for it, though. Perhaps it’s even more simple than that, maybe it’s just a very detailed, very well made, very handsome representation of his exhaustion.
Pran has no idea who he is, obviously. He’s sure he has never seen this man before, and yet, he’s not scared. In fact, he feels surprisingly at peace. There’s some kind of warmth spreading through him until he almost feels like he’s glowing,
“Good, you’re awake.” The man speaks first. His voice is as soft as the rest of his demeanor, fond to the point where Pran feels a tug of something in his stomach, like maybe he should know this man when he talks to him with such tenderness, that it almost translates into familiarity.
“I am.” He answers quietly, a small frown forming in between his eyebrows as he watches the unmovable smile on the man. “Who are you?” He can’t help but ask.
The man giggles shortly in an endeared tone, the way one would while looking at a kitten, as if Pran is some kind of wonder he’s marvelling in. “I’m Pat, of course.” He answers like it’s obvious, like Pran is supposed to know. “Don’t you remember me?” He says, one of his hands reaching for Pran’s arm.
And something strange happens. Pran believes it’s because he’s dreaming. He thinks he’s providing himself with a fake background, made up motives and memories with Pat that, at this moment, feel real enough for him to play along. Images of the man and himself appear behind his eyes; them running into each other at school, eating together at Pran’s house, driving through Bangkok as the sun sets in front of them: he sees flashes of that sweetish, soft gaze in Pat’s eyes looking at him once, then twice, then a thousand more times in different scenarios, circumstances that Pran had no recollection of before this very instant. It all comes crashing at once like a meteorite, like he’s unlocking echoes of something blurring with reality that had been buried under layers of dust until his head aches.
He groans, one of his hands going to his temple to try and subside the pain. His eyes shut as he shakes his head.
“Oh.” Pat murmurs worriedly. “Are you okay?” He asks him. “Something hurts, baby?”
Baby .
The word rumbles in the walls of his mind, bouncing from corner to corner like a little ping pong ball. Pran shudders, goosebumps taking over him even when he’s still under his covers.
The back of Pat’s hand finds his forehead like he has a magnet attracting him there, and it’s weird; as soon as they make contact again, Pran’s head feels light and clear, imminent headache gone in less than a second like it was never even there. The man’s skin is warm on him, it feels like that’s exactly where his touch belongs. Suddenly, all those disperse pieces of memories and encounters fall into place, like his head sorts them into organized drawers; dates and meetings, touches, accidental and intentional, almost kisses, real kisses, meeting each other’s families, all of them adorned with a shiny bow that have Pat written on top of it.
But more importantly, when Pat’s hand touches him, he’s at ease again. It’s almost like he’s numb. He sighs tamely in the comfort before nodding. “I’m okay.” He says, smiling at Pat. “Of course I remember you.” He answers after, the words surprising him, going past his mouth and any other remaining rational thought that could contradict him.
He doesn’t think to ask why Pat is calling him baby like it’s a normal thing to do between them, it’s suddenly meaningless, almost laughable. What would Pat call him if not baby, after all? It was a silly thought.
“We should go now. Your parents are waiting downstairs.”
He sits up, his feet firm on the ground. The floor is warm, not cold like every morning when he wakes up. “Waiting for what?”
Pat chuckles lowly, his smile turning into a smirk that Pran swears, for a moment looks mischievous, maybe even something more than that; scheming, naughty. The illusion flickers in front of him for barely a couple of seconds before Pat’s features go back to the angelic look he seems to wear on his face perpetually, as soft as before when he responds. “It’s a surprise.”
“I don’t know if I wanna see my parents right now.”
“Oh?” Pat hums, one of his eyebrows going up curiously. “Why is that?”
“They’re gonna pester me.” He groans in complaint. “Like they did last night, and then we’ll fight. I’m tired of fighting”
Pat laughs. “Baby, you must be confused.” He dismisses, his amused voice suggesting Pran is speaking nonsense. “Your parents don’t bother you here, ever.” The man assures under Pran’s hesitant look. “Last night you weren’t with them either. We had dinner together, remember?” His hand sneakily reaches for him again, this time resting on Pran’s back like a kind guide.
And for a moment, he wants to freak out again, because he does. He remembers. Candlelight and cloth napkins, steak and wine, and those eyes gazing at him. Clear as day, he remembers.
“Right.” He murmurs. “Maybe I just slept for too long.”
“Too long? Not even close.” Pat mutters under his breath. Pran does not question it.
His house is the exact same, but when he goes down the stairs, Pat’s hand steady on his waist, Pran catches sight of his parents; they’re sitting on the sofa, laughing together in a way Pran hadn’t seen since he was maybe ten, they’re happy, the way Pran had forgotten they could be. His mother glows like the sunshine, not a hint of scowl or displeasure on her face. He barely recognizes her.
“Good thing you’re up!” She tells him joyfully as soon as she sees him. “Don’t keep Pat waiting any longer.”
“Waiting for what?” He asks again, sitting right where Pat’s lead takes him.
“I want to ask you something.” The man says, kneeling on the floor in front of Pran, both his hands tangling with Pran’s as their fingers intertwine. “Will you say yes?” He asks, dark eyes staring straight at him with something Pran can’t explain. It’s compelling, inviting, it’s close to eerie,
“I think you’re gonna have to ask me first before I can answer.”
Pat giggles like he finds him funny, his smile shining from where he kneels, and soon enough, his mother joins with unrestrained laughter, followed by his father, who throws his head back in amusement like they’ve just heard the funniest thing come out of his mouth.
Bizarre, is all Pran can think of. He chuckles awkwardly, thinking above all, he can’t be that funny. His parents quiet down at the same time Pat does, as if controlled by the snap of someone’s fingers. The man grabs his face, fingers caressing his cheek to make Pran focus on him only again.
His mouth dries in an instant, breath turning shaky when Pat finally asks the question. “Will you marry me?” He says sweetly, big eyes staring up at Pran almost like he’s begging.
He hears his parents cheering in the back, somewhere next to him, dazing him until all he can hear is an unstoppable echo of Pat’s voice and their celebration of something Pran knows they wouldn’t like in the real world. He shakes his head again, eyes closed because for a moment, it’s like he wakes up inside his dream. He gets up, letting go of any contact with Pat as he holds his head in his hands, the sharp pain in his nape that was there when he went to sleep shines through the haze to keep him grounded enough to remember this is a dream, which means he can control it. He can end it.
“Don’t go!” Pat excalims hurriedly like he can read his mind, like he knows he’ll try to wake up. “Are you gonna leave me here?”
“Marry you?” He asks, close to scandalized, confusion all over his face as he paces in the living room. “You’re not even real.” He laughs. “This is so stupid.”
Pat’s expression glitches the way it did earlier. Now that he’s not touching Pran, he can see it more clearly, how his face flickers with something more obscure that he tries to contain before his sharp eyes go back to being soft and kind, and his mouth returns to the gentle smile he doesn’t seem to get tired of.
“How can I not be real? I’m right here in front of you.” He chuckles. “You’re being silly again.”
“That’s because I made you up! You’re just a dream.”
“Is that really what you think?” Pat tilts his head. “I’m very real.” He says, his heavy words settling in Pran’s brain.
“Say yes, Pran!” His mother’s voice almost yells, her hand holding Pran’s arm tightly. “Do you have any idea of how much Pat loves you?”
“Pran.” His father joins, a little too enthusiastic. “You’ve wanted this for so long, why aren’t you saying yes?”
“Because I…” He trails off, forgetting what his next words were like his thoughts were made of cotton.
Pat’s sturdy hands grab his waist, stealing him away from his parent’s hold to keep him all to himself. The world is blurry again in his embrace, Pran’s breath trembles when he inhales, being unarmed under the man’s intense gaze and the way his lips are almost touching Pat’s.
“Say yes?” He whispers, and Pran forgets anything even felt strange at all.
No . His mind screams at him in a small voice. No, say no. No, no, no .
He thinks it’s weird that a dormant part of him tries to wake him up like he’s in danger.
His common sense is blocked by Pat’s lips finally taking him in a kiss. His mouth is sweet and plump, and it tastes of the strange sunshine clouding everything around him. Something in Pran tries, time and time again to convince him this isn’t the first time he’s kissed the man holding him now. He doesn't see how he could believe that, rationally. However, none of this is precisely rational.
His mind is cloudy, so instead of the blatant no that had been hanging from the tip of his tongue before the kiss, he breathes out a “let me think about it.”
“What’s there to think about?” His mother says somewhere in the room. “Say yes.”
His father adds in agreement. “Don’t play hard to get now.”
He shifts in discomfort, but Pat’s hands don’t let go of him. Instead, the man shushes his parents subtly. Pran can’t think of a single instance where his parents would allow disrespect like that, but here, they quiet down once more without a fight.
Pat smiles at him with that endeared look from earlier, rubbing his nose on Pran’s as he remains still. “Think about it?” He hums in consideration. “I’ve already waited so long for you.”
“You said…” Pran starts, unsure voice trailing off. “You said we were together last night.”
The man laughs quietly with his mouth closed, lips pressed together. “I did say that, yes.” He sighs. “A day.” He decides. “Give me an answer tomorrow.” He tells Pran. “Can you do that for me, baby?”
Distantly, almost imperceptibly, Pran tells himself that’s fine. He will most likely never see this man made of dreams again anyways. It won’t matter once he’s awake. None of this will matter, because none of this is real.
“Yes.” He says, a small smile showing because it feels like the right thing to do. “I’ll give you an answer tomorrow.”
Pat nods slowly, one of his hands patting Pran’s head one, two, three times like he’s doting on a puppy. “Good.” He says finally.
Pran watches, feels everything turn more and more blurry as the seconds pass. Pat’s face becomes one with the background as the living room, and all other things making up his dream turns into empty darkness.
When there’s nothing left, Pran swears he can hear the man’s voice ringing in his head.
You’ll say yes. And it’s not really a question.
He wakes up with a sharp inhale, eyes snapping open.
The first thing he notices is the ghostly pressure of something on his lips, and when his fingers fly up to them, he realizes he’s searching for the memory of the man’s… of Pat’s lips kissing him. He must be going crazy, he thinks in something akin to amusement.
What happened last night was nothing but a vivid dream; a crazy lucid piece of his imagination that was seemingly strong enough to make his brain trick him into believing he had been kissed.
The second thing he notices is the light coming in past the closed curtains.
He sits up abruptly, grabbing his phone to check the time. His heartbeat quickens, throbbing in his throat when he realizes just how late he is; nine in the morning. Pran is supposed to leave the house at seven.
And sure enough, there’s hundreds of texts flooding his notifications.
He never oversleeps. Ever. Pran sets three alarms every night without fail, and he wakes up right after the first one rings, everyday, no exceptions. It has been this way since he was young, maybe middle school, or maybe the end of elementary.
He texts an apology, shamefully making up an excuse because he thinks, he’s sure his professor wouldn’t exactly grant him grace if he explained he hadn’t shown up on time to their appointment because a man kissed him in a dream that definitely lasted way more than normal. It was absurd.
There’s a lot to do, just like everyday. He goes about his day like nothing happened, because nothing happened , his mind tells him in a murmur. And foolishly, perhaps, Pran thinks the impression left in him by last night will fade when he drowns himself in his work; in all the plans and models, and lectures. But by the time he manages to take a break to eat something with Wai around midday, his dream keeps replaying from start to finish like a broken record.
That is strange too, he recalls every last detail. Pran has never been the best at keeping track of his dreams after waking up, so why now..?
“I had a weird dream last night.” He tells his friend before he can help himself.
“Yeah?” Wai snorts mid bite. “That’s new.” He says, waiting a moment to swallow his food. “It’s usually me having those.”
“I know.” He chuckles humorlessly. “It’s been irking me all day.”
“You do seem a bit distracted, now that you mention it.” Wai squints. “I just thought you had too much on your mind, like always.”
“I do. But it’s like… I don’t know. It felt too real.”
“What was it about?”
He mumbles, rubbing his eyes as he laughs, a little embarrassment crawling in him as he tries to put it into words. Pran shakes his head, like he’s trying to diminish the situation before Wai can, even though he knows his friend won’t make fun of him.
“A man wanted to marry me.” He says before he can regret it.
He watches as Wai’s eyebrows go up behind the drink he holds up to his mouth.
“And my parents wanted me to say yes.”
This time Wai does giggle, his shoulders shaking a little in mirth. “Now.” He says. “That is freaky.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I mean, take what you can.” His friend says animatedly. “When was the last time your parents wanted something from you that wasn’t free labor or frustrated dreams lived vicariously through you? Marriage with a random man doesn’t seem too bad after all that.”
“That’s something else, actually.” He remembers with knitted brows. “It was like I knew him. When he touched me, I felt like I did know him.”
“Maybe you saw him on the street some time.” Wai reasons. “Or maybe some hallway in uni.”
“I don’t think so. I would’ve remembered.”
“Oh. So he was handsome.”
“Mhm.” He sighs. “He was-” It’s hard to describe. Hard to understand. “He looked at me like he really loved me. So much that it almost felt a bit… creepy?”
“Is that possible?”
“Apparently so.”
“Well.” Wai thinks for a second. “He must’ve loved you if he wanted to marry you.” And then he chuckles. “What do you think it means?”
“I think I’m starting to go crazy. I’m losing my mind.”
“Good theory, actually.” Wai smiles. “I think it means you’re craving romance in your life.”
“Yeah, well. I don’t have time for that.”
“And that’s the problem.” His friend complains. “You can’t keep being like this! Look at you, all skinny and dull.” His tongue clicks in disapproval. “You need to step back and relax before you consume yourself.”
“There’s just too much to do, I have the project and the play, and maybe the bus stop…”
“Yes, and who chose those things, hm?” Wai rolls his eyes. “Not you, I can tell you that!”
Pran sighs quietly, shoulders slouching as he looks at his friend. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying you need to start putting yourself first.” He says before an angry bite. “You need to choose what you want, what feels right for you!”
“It’s not that easy.”
“It can be.”
“Yeah?” Pran laughs dryly. “How?”
His friend snaps his fingers like he’s just had an epiphany. “We need to get you on tinder.”
He’s actually amused this time, throwing his head back in laughter. “How is tinder gonna fix anything?”
Wai looks at him like it’s evident. “You can meet a handsome man there! A real one, someone who can take you out and not let you die buried in assignments and work.”
“Okay. There has to be another way.”
“Or you can go back to your man when you go to sleep tonight.” He shrugs. “Continue your dream. I mean, it might be weird but it’s still better than eight a.m meetings with your old professor and your mother’s nagging.”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll do that. Don’t you know it’s highly unlikely for you to pick up dreams where they left off?”
“Maybe it’s possible if you want them enough.”
“I’m not sure I want him that bad.” He chuckles. “It was just a weird dream, that’s all.”
“You seem a little too immersed in it for it to be that meaningless. Hey, maybe he’s your soulmate stuck in another universe or something like that.”
Pran snorts. “Something like that?”
“Yeah, you know. Stuff flat earthers say.”
“Okay.” He rolls his eyes. “None of that. Wouldn’t you be a little shaken up if someone asked you to marry them in a dream?”
“I’d be flattered.” Wai jokes. “Did you say yes, or what?”
“I said I’d tell him later.”
“See? You have unfinished business, he’s for sure coming back.” His friend teases.
“I hope not.” Pran says. “I overslept because of it.”
“You’re calling a decent amount of sleep oversleeping? Nine in the morning isn’t even that bad.” He huffs. “You know what? I hope it happens again, if that means you get to have your eight hours of slumber.”
“You might as well curse me.”
“So dramatic.” Wai shakes his head. “Either you start taking care of yourself, or I make you a tinder profile. Choose wisely.”
“Excuse me, am I hearing this correctly? You’re holding me at gunpoint here?”
“Yes, because a dating app is the same as a bullet.”
“Might be worse, let’s be honest.”