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Pat is stumbling a little, brain overfocused on putting one foot in front of the other while attempting not to lose too much of the strong liquid in his glass with the way he’s swirling it around in the air, when he suddenly gets dragged by his arm so quickly he can’t even yelp.
He’s promptly pressed against a wall, the dark red wallpaper painting a contrast with the black of his suit jacket, the surface cold and firm against the muscles of his back, which push harder into it as a mouth collides on his own, assured but gentle in a paradox as dizzying as it’s beautiful. Warmth floods his chest, different than the warmth the alcohol he’s been drinking the whole night does, a lot softer and fulfilling, familiar and perfect.
His arm wraps around Pran’s waist instinctively, as automatic as touching Pran has always been ever since he has a memory, and his palm places itself on the dip under his ribs, fingers pressing one by one until they can sink into the loveliest bit of pudgy flesh.
Their mouths meet again and again with a quiet certainty, lips pressing close in a rhythm they’ve written over the years. Lips meeting like gravity—inevitable, unrelenting, and absolute. Slow, a molten kind of slow, like the first lick of flame curling into dry wood.
They separate for a few seconds, then Pran’s mouth brushes against his once—soft, reverent, almost teasing, a giggle hidden in the dimple of his chin—before they lean back in, this time with the full weight of want behind it. Pat feels too much, attempts to focus on the nimble fingers burrowing themselves in his hair, messing it up, while Pran’s other hand stays firm on his chest, keeping him upright, present, always. Parting and meeting again, firmer now, hungrier. Tongues sliding past the seam of mouths with the ease of memory, like they were returning to a place they’d never truly left. The kind of kiss that feels endless. That needs to be. The way kissing Pran always feels.
As soon as his hand starts to slide down Pran’s side and over to his back, right at the waistband of his slacks, Pran’s hand goes up and holds the front of his neck as he pushes him back, ignoring Pat’s immediate whimper of discontent. Pran laughs, and as cute as it is, Pat huffs as he attempts to focus his hazy eyes, mouth half open and panting.
“Easy there, tiger,” Pran mumbles with a sideways smile, fingers tightening around Pat’s throat for a second before they let go, hand now on his shoulder.
“You’re no fun,” Pat sighs. Pran giggles again, lazy and drawled out, product of the fruity sweet drinks he’s been downing with Wai for the last hour and a half since the open bar opened. As he comes closer again, Pat can smell the mango and strawberry vodka on his breath.
“Oh, but I am fun. I’m so much fun, and I’m gonna be so much fun later when we leave,” he whispers, using the hand on Pat’s nape to pull him closer. Pat smiles, bumping their noses together. “But right now, there’s a room full of guests, including your coworkers and family, who wouldn’t appreciate it if I were fun now.”
“We can leave now,” Pat says like it’s obvious, a playful tone in his slurred speech. He brings his other arm around Pran’s waist, caging him in, careful not to spill the (barely there) remains of his scotch on Pran’s suit. “I don’t think they’d miss us.”
“This is your birthday party, Jindapat,” Pran laughs, letting himself be pulled closer. He plants a loud peck on Pat’s mouth, tks-ing when Pat attempts to follow his lips. “Stop it. Come on, we have to go back.”
“You are pretending like it wasn’t you who corralled me into this corner!” Pat groans, but still complies, settling for holding Pran’s hand and entangling their fingers as they pad down the hallway towards the salon.
“You were taking too long in the bathroom. We are getting ready to sing to you,” Pran rolls his eyes, politely nodding towards the few guests who stand in front of the doors chatting as they arrive at the salon entrance.
“That is not an admission of guilt.”
“I’m guilty of nothing!”
“You’re guilty of trying to get into my pants before we cut the cake.”
“Like you’re complaining.”
“Never,” Pat grins cheekily, attempting to get a squeeze of Pran’s butt right before his mother gets to them, putting his best mask of innocence on.
“Pran!” She calls, not even acknowledging her own son. “They’re bringing the cake in. The waiter wanted to know—ugh, maybe I should’ve made sure of it, I’m always packing things just in case! It’s going to be a mess if we don’t—do we have candles?”
“Yes, of course we do! Don’t worry,” Pran answers gently, letting go of Pat’s hand and putting his hand on Noi’s shoulder, guiding her towards the kitchen. “I told them I had left them on the white box with the lid, I don’t know how they missed it—”
As Pat watches them walk away together, a huge breath exits his lungs, making a chuckle of disbelief escape him.
How did he even get here? How did they even manage to get to this?
Pat didn’t want a big celebration. Pat didn’t even really look forward to celebrating his birthday, he has never been that type of person. Ever since he was a kid, he didn’t feel like making a big deal out of it, which seemed to go against what everyone believed of him, wanted from him. He had parties a few times, specially when he was a kid and that one big one when he was sixteen that had made the neighbors furious—and Pat feel weird (read: sad, actually) when Pran stared out of the window at his backyard full of tipsy teenagers. They were all unexpected things his parents had planned without asking. But it just wasn’t—not birthdays, not being all for himself, not being the center of attention just that day. It was not his thing, not in this particular yearly occasion.
This time, it felt very silly, thinking of throwing a big bash in the middle of a big career decision, an upcoming wedding, and a secret third thing, but Pat is a weak, weak, terribly weak man. And when Korn had mentioned that Pran had started to look for venues for the birthday party they had briefly had a conversation about at the bar in between after-work drinks, he couldn’t say no.
Pran had just been so excited. Pat knows that his boyfriend loves to plan things, but he didn’t really think Pran would be interested in doing something like this. After all, he was basically playing assistant wedding planner for Paa and Ink, who had gotten too overwhelmed after the first few days of dealing with vendors and bridal consultants, and had enlisted Pran’s help with bribery in the form of takeout and pouting—but of course, that didn’t deter Pran from jumping at the opportunity of doing something for Pat.
“You don’t turn 30 every day, silly,” Pran had whispered, temple pressed to Pat’s shoulder, and the gentle moonlight coming in through the window. Pat had sighed, turning to look at him, reaching so he could remove the reading glasses from Pran’s face before he fell asleep with them again.
“Are you sure? We can just go to the bar! Or have a nice dinner, just you and me. It’s really not that big of a deal. You don’t have to, baby.”
“I want to.”
Pat feels a little dumb, looking back on that night. Because, of course, Pran could pull it off.
Of course, Pran would get one of the nicest venues Pat has ever seen—fancy enough that the money was worth it, but laid-back enough that it would make sense for him; a rooftop bar, industrial but pretty, lit under the stars, with enough games and alcohol for their friends to be entertained, and enough fancy sitting areas and tasty food for their families to feel content.
And that was another thing. Pat was foolish.
Because, of course, times have changed. Years have passed. Fires have burned down. And that means that, of course, Pran would make his family and Pat’s part of the celebration.
He stares at the other side of the room, where he can see Pran and his mom through the kitchen windows, both bent in front of the counter as they seemingly rearrange candles with matching concentrated frowns and tongues peaking out of their mouths.
Pran’s dad leans back on a pool table as he gestures with both hands, animatedly discussing something with Paa who, by the looks of it, is definitely complaining about wedding venue prices again.
And Pran’s mom, with the whole splendor only Dissaya would exude for her son-in-law’s birthday, fiddles with her fancy dress as she sits on a small white sofa next to none other than Pat’s dad, Ming’s hand swirling a glass of liquor around. They both stare straight ahead, but they’re talking. Pat even sees them both chuckle, at the same time, buried under the loud chatter of the party-goers and the music, the same way they’ve managed to bury their grudges deep in the ground of their adjacent backyards for the sake of their sons.
“Oi, Pat!” Korn calls, slapping Pat’s shoulder blade slightly to snap him out of his trance. Pat finds his eyes a little wet, and he discreetly rubs at the corners of them as he turns. “Pran wants you to go over to that table so we can sing. Hurry up, better listen to the future hubby.”
“You’re an idiot,” Pat chuckles, shaking his head. There’s a beat of silence where he notices Korn is standing still, the grin on his face just getting bigger. “I’ll be right th—wait…”
Korn doesn’t stop smiling. Smirking.
“What the fuck, Korn?” He whispers, tugging at Korn’s arm with a hiss as he pulls him near the bar, away from anyone who might hear. “How did you know?”
“Because I’m your best buddy. And you’re a fucking idiot,” Korn snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. “In your room? In the dresser? Fucking seriously, Pat?”
“How did you even go in there?!”
“Last time we had dinner at yours, I went to the bathroom before we left? And then you told me to borrow a jacket? Just get it from your room? Yeah, I was snooping for something spicy, imagine my not surprise when I saw the box inside the other box. Explained why you had been acting like an anxious dog the entire week. Do you really think Pran, of all people, isn’t gonna find it there?”
Pat groans, digging his palms into his eyes. “Fuck. You don’t think he saw, did you?”
Korn rolls his eyes, signaling the bartender for a drink as he leans on the bar. “Nope. I commented on your dresser being a mess a few days ago, and he just scolded me for going into your room. If he knew, he would’ve definitely made a comment about me checking the boxes or something. Pran can hide stuff, but he is not as good at lying as he thinks he is.”
Pat nods, staring at where Pran and his mother are coming out of the kitchen with a waiter following behind, carrying a blue and black decorated cake. “Okay, good. It’s not—not yet, uhm. But I saw that ring in the market the last time we went to visit Uncle Tong and… It felt right, you know?”
“Obviously.” Korn nods, sipping his newly acquired monstrosity of a green drink. “You two are right. It was only a matter of time. We were all shocked when Ink popped the question before you, you know?”
“It didn’t feel good before. Now, it’s just… It’s kind of crazy, actually,” Pat chuckles, his voice turning wistful. The guests begin making their way over to the bigger table, following Pran’s gently yelled directions, and Pat watches the most important people in his life coming together to celebrate him, following the same path. Ming stands up from his seat, clears his throat, and nonchalantly puts his hand out to help Dissaya. “It’s the first time in my life where everything feels like it makes sense. Like this is why I’ve lived through everything I have. Like… It all came together in the end.”
“Pat, come here!” Pran calls, hands cupped around his mouth. Pat blows him a kiss, making him huff but bite back a smile.
“Anyways, that was sappy. Sorry,” he laughs sheepishly, standing upright and fixing up his dark blue suit. When he turns to look at Korn, he finds him sniffling into his glass. “You will be my best man, you know that, right?”
“Fucking go to your man before he gets cranky, come on,” Korn chokes up emotionally, batting Pat’s hand away when he attempts to pinch him.
The first notes of a traditional rendition of “Happy Birthday” begin to come out of the speakers, and the attendees clap to the familiar beat as Pat walks away from his friend and towards the table, laughter and fondness still on his face.
Buying a ring is not something he had planned to tell anyone, as tempted as he had been. There was only a handful of things he could keep to himself ever since he and Pran had settled into their kind-of-new everyday, since the family feud stopped being a big deal, since they saw their friends once a week for lunches at Mo’s countryside home and their families once every few weeks for dinner alternating in between houses, since they weren’t something forbidden anymore. As happy as it made him, it didn’t mean that the mandatory secrecy he was so used to didn’t make him prone to want to keep his relationship close to his chest. It was nice, through it all, to still think of what he and Pran have as their own and no one else’s.
The ring had been an impulse as much as it wasn’t. Pushing thirty and with as close as a blessing as he’d get from Pran’s family, he knew everyone was waiting for it. Hell, he himself doesn’t even know why they’re not married yet.
Maybe because, deep inside his psyche, he still felt like he was balancing on a tightrope for years, no safety net under. Like any sudden movement could send things toppling down on them, like a woosh of the family next door hates us still would send Pran away to some foreign place on the other side of the country again, and Pat would wake up with a purple busted lip, a heavy chest, and clawmarks on Pran’s guitar tightly held in his arms.
He’s not surviving anymore. He’s living, he knows. He’s learning how to, properly, now that he is free.
Pran’s arm drapes around his back when Pat reaches the table. The hand on his side is firm but loving, and Pran’s melodious voice reaches his ears, a sweet whisper like he’s just singing for Pat and no one else, through pearly teeth and crinkled eyes.
He curses Korn in his mind. Pat doesn’t cry often.
“Happy birthdayyyy… Toooooo… Youuuuuu!” The crowd sings, a messy mix of out-of-tune questionable pronunciation, mumbled chatter, and inharmonious clapping, and it couldn’t be more perfect. Pran lets go of him and pushes him softly so he can be closer to the table. Pat leans, closing his eyes, feeling the warmth of the flames against his cheeks. He can’t help but shake his head as he tries to come up with a wish, mind going blank. Could he ask for anything else?
“We want cake, man, hurry up!” Chang calls boisterously, earning chuckles and some shushing, definitely coming from his and Pran’s mothers.
Pat feels a hand on the small of his back. Take your time. We have forever. He blows his candles without a wish behind them.
The guests cheer and clap, someone (probably Safe and Louis, he saw them struggling with some tubes in their hands earlier) pops a few confetti poppers, and the music switches to something lively and fun. And when Pat turns, Pran is right there, cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the wind, hair messy and a little sweaty from running around making sure everything was perfect, burgundy suit messy and delectable, every single dimple on sight.
“Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss!” A chant begins. Pat doesn’t even have to turn around to recognize the voice of his sister, followed by her fiancé and Pat’s friends, then accompanied by younger cousins who giggle mischievously. Pran blushes even deeper, letting out an exasperated “oooooooi!” as Pat wraps his arm around his waist with a delighted laugh.
“A kiss for the birthday boy!” Wai yelps, bringing his drink up and above his head.
“Shut up!” Pran huffs, hiding his face against Pat’s shoulder.
“Something sweet before the cake!” Korn contributes, wiggling his eyebrows a few times.
Pat keeps huffing and scolding, muttering things about public displays of affection, and Pat looks.
Their parents at the back of the room, all four of them standing next to each other, matching soft smiles on their faces that he knows Ming and Dissaya can’t even hide anymore. Their friends, fighting back against Pran’s whining, nagging him to be a good host and give the people what they want. And above all, Pran.
Pran, who did all of this for him, because he thought celebrating Pat’s birthday was more important than anything else they had been busy with. Pran, in his beautifully tailored suit that is now wrinkled, shirt half unbuttoned, a small stain at belly level, because he always wants to make sure everyone around him is happy. Pran, almost twelve years later, standing next to him with the purpose of spending another 365 days with Pat.
Pran, whom he’s going to spend every single one of the rest of his birthdays with.
He leans close, bringing Pran flush against himself until he can press his lips against the softest part of Pran’s cheek and he inhales, unable to stop smiling as soon as he’s done when he feels Pran whining and pushing him away, the hoots and hollers of the people around them echoing in his ears.
“Paaaaaat!” He whines embarrassingly, but doesn’t move from Pat’s side in the slightest.
“You’re so rude. Why are you whining at me instead of wishing me a happy birthday?” Pat mocks, raising his eyebrows.
“This is gonna be your last birthday if you keep bothering me,” Pran threatens, flicking Pat on the forehead. He gasps indignantly, then lets a moment pass before he swipes at the cake frosting with one finger, immediately putting it on Pran’s nose. “What the—oh, this is war. You asked for it!”
“Don’t you dare, young man,” a low voice stops him before Pran can smush some on Pat’s nose. His face falls like a kitten who has been scolded, and Pat bites back a laugh before Pran flicks him again. “Let the lovely staff take care so it can be used for its intended purpose, please.” Dissaya tsks, a gesture so similar to her son that it makes Pat melt a little. “Happy birthday, Pat.”
“Thank you, mae,” Pat smiles, bowing his head.
“Let the kids play,” Ming calls, coming up next to her with a hand on his pocket and the other around a whisky glass.
“Not kids anymore.”
“Don’t you know how to have a little fun? Would you like a drink, perhaps?”
“The type that you’ve been having? I’m okay, thank you. I’d rather act my age.”
“That’s fair. You shouldn’t be drinking much at a hundred.”
“I swear—”
“Shall we help the staff?” Praew interrupts, his eyes widening towards them. He puts his arm around his wife, guiding her towards the kitchen. “Come on, let’s make ourselves useful, all of us.”
“Thanks, pa,” Pran mutters, pressing his lips together. He’s trying not to laugh as much as Pat is.
As the group of parents walks away—Pat’s father and Pran’s mother still bickering, followed by their spouses making more mellow chatter—the two of them are left alone at the table, the rest of the guests gone back into party mood, mingling, dancing, and drinking. Pat takes a deep breath, walking a few steps until he can drop unceremoniously on the small couch, putting his arm along the backrest as he waits for Pran to do the same. They both take deep breaths, leaning their heads back to look up at the starry sky.
“So… Thirty, huh?” Pran says after a few moments of silence.
“Thirty indeed.”
“You’re so old.”
“Your birthday is literally in a month. You’re turning thirty too, fossil.”
“Still. You’re a whole thirty days older than me.”
“Are you into silver foxes?” Pat asks cheekily, his voice still serious and low, curling his arm slightly so Pran can rest his head better. He turns to look at his boyfriend with a raised eyebrow, and Pran brings his hand up to tug at a strand of hair falling on his forehead.
“You have grey hairs already? Wow. I could be into it, though.”
“You make me get grey hairs.”
“Are you saying I stress you out?”
“Every day, darling.”
“That’s fucking rich, coming from you,” Pran snorts, swiping the frosting from his nose and dragging it along Pat’s cheek. Pat’s gaze doesn’t waver, and he smiles softly.
“I know. But that’s the thing: we’re gonna stress each other out for the rest of our lives. Isn’t that nice?”
Pran is stunned into silence, his favorite reaction Pat can get from him. His eyes, big and mirroring the stars, soften.
“Fuckin’ cheesy,” he mumbles, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand cups the side of Pat’s jaw, uncaring if he’s getting sugar on his fingers, and he strokes the skin, feathery gentle. “... Happy birthday, Pat.”
“Thank you, Pran,” he whispers, feeling the smile he only has for Pran make its appearance. Pran gives his own, special one, to him. And he can’t help but think that, as much as they have going on, he can’t even think of regretting this celebration.
Because twelve years ago, he was spending his birthday on Pran’s floor. Heart beating fast, magnetic pull unexplainable, insides still bruised, nails short to stop clawing at the world around him for some stability. Now he’s here, with the same man, love of his life, tipsy and tired and in love and honest, surrounded by everyone he cares about and who care bout him in return, right where he was always meant to be.
“So… What’s my birthday present?”
“You just wait and see when we get home. Patience is a virtue.”
“Oh come on! Can’t a guy get a hint on his birthday?”
“Alright, well. Mmm… I’m not wearing boxers under my slacks. But I’m also not not wearing underwear. A type of underwear.”
“... How much longer until this stupid party is done?”