Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Faifa considered himself a pacifist. Calm. Patient.

Unlike his brother Yotha, he didn’t let emotions run his life. He didn’t act on impulse. Didn’t speak in anger.

His friends, his family—even his boyfriend—had never seen him angry. Not once.

Anger, fury, violence… Those things didn’t live in him. Or maybe they did, somewhere deep, locked far away.

He didn’t see himself as a martyr. Just someone who learned early on how to take what was offered.

A little love here. A half-hug there. A pat on the shoulder. That had always been enough.

Except once. Just once, he’d asked for more.

He’d asked his mother—begged her—to love him half as much as she loved Yotha.

It hadn’t gone well.

Empty words. Meaningless tears. A hollow hug. No apology. No change.

That day taught him something:

If he wanted to keep the family he had, he’d have to pretend.

Pretend it didn’t hurt. Pretend he didn’t need more.

But Faifa wasn’t sad anymore.

He’d accepted that his mother loved Yotha more. That his brothers, by blood, were strangers in spirit. Even his father—kind but distracted—was too far away to notice when Faifa was quietly breaking.

And somehow… that was okay now.

Because someone did see him.

Wine had changed everything.

Wine, with his shy eyes and quiet heart. Wine, who loved him fully, without question, without pause.

Wine had become Faifa’s safe place. His breath of air. His reason.

Maybe it was fate. Or maybe it was just mercy—one person who loved him the right way.

So Faifa forgave the rest.

The lonely childhood. The uncelebrated wins. The pain left unspoken.

Because now, he had something real. Someone real.

And if his love for Wine was too intense, too clingy—well, it was nobody’s business.

No one had ever cared before. They didn’t get to judge now.

After a year together, things had started to settle. Faifa had learned how to temper his affection in public—Wine didn’t like crowds, didn’t like attention. And Faifa didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.

He hadn’t changed completely, but he’d grown. Learned to say no. Learned to help without hurting himself.

Not for himself—never for himself. But for Wine.

He didn’t want to be a burden. He didn’t want to be regretted.

But even now, there were lines he wouldn’t let Wine cross. Not out of pride. But because if Wine ever realized he’d caused Faifa pain—even by accident—it would devastate him. And Faifa couldn’t bear that.

So they talked. Really talked. Set boundaries. Laid everything bare.

And Faifa asked for only one thing: sincerity.

No masks. No performance. No lies wrapped in smiles.

Just honesty.

Despite his outgoing energy, Faifa had moments of fragility.

And only Wine had ever been allowed to see them.

And Wine—bless him—never flinched.

He held those pieces of Faifa with care, with reverence.

He dried his tears, protected his heart, and gave him the one thing he had never truly known.

A safe place.

🌸•••🌸

It had been an uneventful day. Quiet—maybe too quiet.

The only real nuisance was Wine’s bad grade in English. But it wasn’t enough to ruin the day.

He sat at lunch with the remaining 10liners still in university: Arm, Yotha, Gun, himself, and the newest member, Pon.

Faifa wasn’t there. He had an English exam—ironically—and Wine had full confidence his boyfriend would ace it.

“P’Wine, why are you so sad?” Pon asked suddenly.

Wine blinked. The question caught him off guard. He still wasn’t used to being called P’ by the younger ones.

And Pon… Pon seemed nice, but Wine’s quiet nature made bonding difficult.

He was grateful Arm had taken the boy under his wing—especially since Yotha hadn’t helped when Wine himself was new.

“I got a bad grade in English. But it’s not serious—I can retake the exam,” Wine replied, offering a small, nonchalant smile. “That’s all. I’m not sad.”

And he wasn’t. Not really. But Pon didn’t stop.

“Isn’t P’Fai really good at English? Why didn’t he help you?”

Wine tensed.

“P’Faifa has a lot of exams right now,” he said calmly. “It’s not that he didn’t help—I didn’t ask him. On purpose.”

He hoped that would end it.

But Pon’s voice came again—soft, almost scolding.

“But he’s your boyfriend. He should know when you need something. It’s his duty to help you! He knows you’re bad at English. He shouldn’t wait for you to ask.”

The table fell still.

Wine exhaled slowly. He didn’t like confrontation. He didn’t like tension, raised voices, uncomfortable moments.

But for Faifa—he’d learned.

Faifa would defend him without hesitation. But never himself.

So Wine had taken it upon himself to be that person for Faifa. The one who raised his voice, if needed.

“P’Faifa has no obligation,” Wine said. Calm. Firm. Clear.

“I didn’t ask him on purpose. He always puts others first—even when it hurts him. At least I, his boyfriend, can choose not to be a burden to him.”

“If he found out I needed help and didn’t tell him, he’d be mad and devastated. That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

Gun and Yotha, who had been quietly absorbed with each other, finally turned to the conversation.

“Nooo!” Gun laughed. “Fai could never be mad at you. He wouldn’t even know how.”

Wine sighed. That wasn’t the point.

But Pon wasn’t finished.

“P’Fai’s not attentive enough,” he said, frowning. “He helps classmates during lunch but doesn’t notice when his own boyfriend needs help. That’s not a good boyfriend.”

The silence was immediate.

Arm’s phone slipped from his hand.

Gun blinked, speechless.

Yotha reacted first—his emotions always louder than his thoughts.

“Shut up!” he snapped. It wasn’t elegant. But it was the only thing stopping him from punching someone.

Wine didn’t understand where this resentment was coming from.

Faifa had always been kind to Pon—treated him like a younger sibling. Patient. Generous.

What could possibly make Pon say something like that?

Arm, ever the peacemaker, stepped in gently.

“Nong,” he said softly. “Maybe you’re idealizing what a ‘boyfriend’ should be a little too much.”

He smiled a little. “If Wine is happy, and Faifa is happy, then they’re doing something right. Everyone has their own standards. It’s not your place to judge theirs.”

Wine could have left it there. Could’ve swallowed the moment and kept the peace.

But Faifa came to mind.

Faifa would’ve stood up for Wine.

So now—it was Wine’s turn.

He raised his voice. Just enough.

“Just for the record,” he said—sharp, cool, and devastatingly clear.

“Don’t you dare judge someone you don’t even know.”

“Faifa loves helping people. He can’t stand seeing anyone struggle. And when he helps, he gives everything. Even if it costs him.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t ask. Because I love him. And I don’t want him sacrificing his own grades, his own peace, for me. He already does that too often.”

“It’s my job to protect him. Because no one ever has.”

The table was stunned.

Even Arm was frozen.

No one had expected this from Wine—the quiet one, the listener, the polite peacemaker.

“Don’t project your fantasy version of a boyfriend onto mine,” Wine said. “He’s perfect the way he is. Sometimes too perfect. I still don’t know what I did to deserve him.”

“If you don’t have anything intelligent to say, then don’t say anything at all.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Wine didn’t regret a word.

Even when he saw tears form in Pon’s eyes.

—And then, like a splash of color—Faifa arrived.

“FAIFA has arrived!” he declared, arms wide, voice bright.

He only made entrances like that when he was in a very good mood.

Which made it worse when his smile dropped the second he saw the table.

“N’Pon!” he cried, rushing over. “Did someone make you cry? Who was it? I have connections. I’ll ruin their social life and their GPA!”

Yotha snorted. Gun sighed in relief. Arm smiled softly.

Pon, however, stayed quiet—his face burning with embarrassment.

Wine could have twisted the knife.

But right now, all he wanted was for Faifa to smile again.

Without a word, he pulled Faifa gently into his lap, wrapped his arms around his waist, and pressed his face into Faifa’s back.

“W-Wine?” Faifa asked, startled. He wasn’t against affection, but Wine had never initiated this in public.

Something had happened. Something real.

Wine didn’t speak. He just held him tighter.

Faifa smiled faintly, brushing his fingers over Wine’s arm.

“It’s the exam, isn’t it? It didn’t go well?”

Wine didn’t ask how he knew.

“Jay talks too much,” Faifa teased softly. “But I finished all my exams for the month. Took them all this week. Crushed them, obviously.”

He poked Wine’s cheek. “Now? No excuses. I’m yours for the next fifteen days. We’re turning you into a native speaker—and you’re going to ace that retake.”

“You took seven exams in one week?” Gun asked, shocked.

“Yep. And aced them.” Faifa grinned, throwing up a peace sign.

Yotha still hadn’t stopped glaring at Pon.

“Nong! How did you do that?” Arm groaned. “I max out at three a month and need a vacation.”

“I pay attention. I record lectures. I study every day,” Faifa replied smugly. “Now I’m free—and my baby gets all my time.”

He had no idea what he’d just walked into.

Wine, still holding him, felt like he might fall in love all over again.

“Understood, Pon?” he said sharply. “Don’t force your expectations on my boyfriend. You won’t find someone like him—ever.”

Yotha and Gun burst into laughter.

Arm sighed again, clearly used to the chaos.

Faifa blinked, thoroughly confused.

Just then, Phuri appeared at the edge of the table.

“Nong Wine,” he said, flashing a grin, “mind if I steal Faifa for five minutes?”

Wine let go—but not before kissing Faifa’s cheek.

“I’ll explain later,” he whispered.

Faifa smiled.

He didn’t need the story right now.

He’d always wait for Wine.

Wine already had the best boyfriend in the world.

And if the world tried to hurt him—

Wine would fight it.

Chapter Text

Faifa had been having the same recurring dream for a while now. He was on the roof of his university, his usual sanctuary, but this time, something was different. He was screaming—desperately—but despite his efforts, his voice didn’t come out. It felt so real, yet he couldn’t understand why he was there or why it felt so unsafe.

The roof had always been a place of solace for him—a place to relax, to escape, to find silence, to hold Wine, to cry. It was strange to see it in his dream, twisted into something that felt so threatening.

Ring, ring, ring.

The sound of the phone shook him from his thoughts. His mother was calling. Faifa hesitated.

Despite her attempts to stay in touch, it felt like it was never enough anymore. But he wouldn’t tell her that. It was too late for that. When he needed her most, when his world felt empty and he needed her love, she wasn’t there.

Now, the family had been reunited—hugs exchanged, apologies made, the cracks patched over. But it didn’t change how empty he felt. Her love, once something he longed for, now seemed pointless. He didn’t want it anymore.

But for Yotha and Newton’s sake, for his father’s sake, and for the family’s peace of mind, he kept up the appearance of a united family. They all believed in it, but Faifa felt hollow.

Once, he had craved his mother’s love. Now, all he wanted was for family dinners to end quickly so he could retreat to Wine’s arms—the only place that ever truly made him feel loved.

He didn’t call anymore. Didn’t text. Didn’t ask for updates. He didn’t want attention, and he didn’t need it. The best part of his day was when his mother left, and the house grew quiet again, allowing him to breathe.

P’Fai, answer the phone.

Instead of answering, Faifa wrapped himself around Wine, sinking into his arms.

“It’s just my mom,” he muttered, burying his face in Wine’s chest. “After two calls, she’ll stop.”

Wine smiled, pressing a kiss to Faifa’s forehead. He understood. He knew about the delicate balance Faifa tried to maintain—keeping up the facade of a loving family, even though it hurt. And Wine knew how much it cost Faifa, how his smile had grown more forced with each passing day.

“Today’s June's birthday,” Faifa added. “She’s calling to remind me to wish her happy birthday. I’ve already set a message to be send automatically. I don’t know why she’s acting like I’d forget…”

Wine kissed Faifa again, slow and tender, then pulled back slightly to look him in the eye. “ Don’t let it get to you.”

Faifa wasn’t fooled, though. Wine knew him too well. He could see through the mask Faifa wore, the sadness that crept into his eyes every time his mother’s name came up.

But Wine understood the pain without saying anything, and that, in itself, was a comfort.

🌸•••🌸

Later, as they prepared breakfast together, Faifa broke the silence.

“You never explained what happened with N’Pon yesterday. Why was he crying? What was all the tension about?” he asked, flipping pancakes with a distracted air.

Wine paused for a moment, considering his words. There were two ways to handle this. He could lie, but that was never an option. He’d promised Faifa long ago that he would never lie to him, no matter how hard it was. The truth, though, might hurt Faifa, and Wine wasn’t sure he wanted to burden him with it.

“…Can I not tell you?” Wine asked softly. “I promise it wasn’t anything serious or important, but I’d rather not get into it.”

Faifa seemed to appreciate the honesty, smiling and pressing a quick kiss to Wine’s lips. No questions, no demands. Just a quiet understanding between them.

The rest of breakfast passed in peaceful silence—part of their small, shared routine. Pancakes. Fresh juice. Wine in Faifa’s arms. Showering together, then heading off to university. It was a moment of calm in a world that often felt anything but.

🌸•••🌸

Faifa couldn’t stop thinking about the dream. It had been bothering him for weeks, so strange, so unsettling. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t interpret it, and that made it even more frustrating.

“Man! You’ve been sighing all day! What’s going on, problems in heaven?” Phuri’s voice broke through Faifa’s thoughts. The very idea that there might be problems with Wine sent a cold, paralyzing fear through him.

“Don’t even joke about that!” Faifa snapped, suddenly defensive, but Phuri continued to look at him with raised eyebrows, silently urging him to explain.

Faifa sighed and shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve been having this weird dream for weeks… I’m on the school roof, screaming and crying desperately, but no sound comes out, there are noises around me but my voice is just… gone. Maybe it’s a premonition, like a warning? I should probably just stay quiet so I don’t lose my voice or something…”

Phuri, usually the one to joke around with Faifa and play along with his nonsensical thoughts, was unusually quiet this time. He stared at Faifa, lost in thought.

“Maybe it’s a sign. Like something symbolic,” Phuri said thoughtfully. “There’s something inside of you that you’re not saying out loud—something that’s suffocating you. In the dream, you want to speak, but you can’t, because you never say it. You know, some symbolism like that…” Phuri trailed off, clearly pondering his own words.

Faifa was taken aback by the seriousness in his friend’s tone. For a moment, it seemed as though Phuri had read him, understood something deeper than he had expected.

“…Well? Is there something you’re keeping inside?” Phuri asked, his eyes searching Faifa’s face for any hint of an answer.

Faifa opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat. The things he hadn’t said, the things he’d buried deep inside, were so many that a thousand sheets of paper wouldn’t be enough to write them down.

Phuri waited patiently, his expression soft and open, sensing Faifa’s hesitation.

“Let’s start with something simple…” Phuri continued, his voice almost playful, like a therapist guiding him through a session. “Is there something you’d like to ask me? Something you’ve been wanting to know?”

Faifa’s automatic response was to say “No.” He never asked for more than what life gave him, never demanded anything. He was content with what came his way, even if it wasn’t exactly what he wanted.

But maybe that was the problem. Maybe for once, he could ask. The thought alone made his hands tingle, his voice tremble, but it could make him feel less suffocated. Maybe nothing would happen, he told himself. Maybe it would help.

Phuri watched him for a few long moments, seeing the struggle behind Faifa’s eyes. When he thought Faifa wouldn’t speak, he saw his friend open his mouth, but no sound came. He saw Faifa try again, and still nothing. Then, Faifa looked up, and Phuri saw it—the saddest, most broken expression he had ever seen. It hit him hard.

“Faifa…” Phuri started, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, trying to reach him.

“Whatever it is, I won’t judge you. I won’t make fun of you, or think less of you. You can tell me anything,” Phuri continued, his voice full of sincerity.

The words seemed to give Faifa a little strength. He smiled, but it was forced, and still, something shifted in him.

“…I just… I want to know,” Faifa whispered, his voice barely audible. He paused, then looked up with a vulnerable expression. “What am I to you?”

Phuri blinked, a little confused. He didn’t quite understand the question. He knew Faifa didn’t mean it in a romantic way—he had Wine, after all, and they were madly in love. But still, Phuri thought their friendship was clear, their bond unspoken but understood.

“You’re my best friend,” Phuri said, his tone light, as though this was an obvious answer. “From day one to today. If you weren’t, I wouldn’t be singing stupid songs with you all day, and I wouldn’t be listening to all your romantic shit about Wine…” He laughed, trying to keep the mood light.

But something in Faifa shifted at those words. Phuri could have sworn he saw a tear glistening in Faifa’s eye, but before he could confirm, Faifa was already on his feet, heading toward the door. In an instant, Faifa was gone, with a faint, “Sorry…” barely leaving his lips as he dashed out of the classroom.

Phuri sat there, stunned. He wanted to go after him, to comfort him, but something inside him told him that Faifa needed to be alone right now. He would come back when he was ready. Phuri just hoped that Faifa would find the courage to speak what was suffocating him, before it broke him completely.

Chapter Text

“P’Wine, is P’Fai coming today?”

Pon’s voice was quiet, cautious, the moment Wine sat at the table.

After what happened the day before, Wine had half-expected him to avoid eye contact entirely.

“He should’ve been here already,” Wine replied, his tone clipped but civil. “Someone probably stopped him.”

Pon hesitated. Then, sincerely:

“I want to apologize to him. For yesterday. You were right—I had no right to judge. I said a lot of stupid things. I know P’Fai is already perfect.”

Wine looked at him for a moment. The remorse was genuine. That helped.

“He’ll laugh it off,” Gun said from across the table, sipping his tea. “Probably agree with you just to keep the peace.”

Wine’s stomach turned. Gun didn’t mean anything cruel by it—just a careless observation.

But it was true. And that was the problem.

Faifa would agree. Even if it hurt. Even if it wasn’t true.

He always chose to protect others before himself.

Wine’s voice went cold.

“Yes, he might. But you’ll still need to say you were wrong. If he agrees, then he’s wrong too.”

Gun blinked, caught off guard by Wine’s tone.

He was often amazed at how protective Wine was of Faifa—more than Yotha, even.

It made him wonder: was Faifa really that fragile?

Before he could dwell on it, Phuri approached the table.

" P’Phuri, do you need something? "

Wine greeted him respectfully, though he was taken aback by the man’s demeanor. Phuri seemed uncomfortable under the scrutiny of everyone’s gaze, and as only a foreigner in Thailand could, he leaned close to Wine’s ear to whisper something, as though they were old friends.

" There’s something wrong with Fai. Maybe you’re the only one he wants to see. You know where he is."

Wine felt his stomach tighten. Yes, he knew. Phuri left quickly after, not waiting for a response. Initially, Wine’s first instinct was to rush to Faifa’s side, but he stopped himself. If Faifa was so ill that even Phuri had noticed, maybe Wine’s presence wouldn’t be welcomed.

He hesitated for a moment before pulling out his phone to call Faifa. The line rang three times before Faifa’s voice finally came through.

“…My baby,” Faifa whispered. His voice—cracked, quiet, broken.

That was all it took.

“I’m coming,” Wine said immediately. “Don’t hang up until I get there.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He ran.

🌸•••🌸

Yotha saw him.

Wine, sprinting up the stairs, phone clenched in one hand, panic all over his face.

And there was only one reason Wine would ever look like that.

Faifa.

Without thinking, Yotha followed.

He didn’t knock. Didn’t call out. He just waited quietly behind the rooftop door, unsure whether to stay or leave.

Maybe he was intruding. Maybe Faifa just wanted privacy. A kiss on the roof, a laugh, nothing serious.

But then he heard it.

A voice—his brother’s voice. Desperate. Raw.

It wasn’t a sound Yotha had ever heard before. Not when they were kids. Not when their mother left. Not even during their worst moments.

This was something else.

Faifa was crying.

Not softly. Not with control.

Crying like something inside him had snapped.

And it wasn’t him Faifa had called.

Yotha froze.

The guilt came quick and crushing.

He’d never really seen Faifa cry before. Not like this. Not even close.

And the worst part wasn’t that Faifa was breaking.

It was that Yotha hadn’t even realized he was close to the edge.

He wasn’t the one Faifa reached for.

And maybe… maybe he never had been.

🌸•••🌸

Faifa was the kind of person who laughed loudly but cried in silence.

From the start, Wine’s quiet wish had been to help him break that pattern.

To help him cry without shame. To let him feel deeply—and know it was allowed.

So when Faifa crumbled in his arms—trembling, tearful, finally letting it out—Wine felt heartbreak and relief all at once.

This was a beginning.

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” Faifa choked out.

Wine held him tighter.

“You’re my mess,” he whispered, “and I love you more than you can imagine.”

Faifa hugged him back, slow but certain.

“I love you too. I’m sorry if I weigh down you down…”

“Shhh.” Wine kissed him gently, warm and tasting of tears. “I’d be sadder if you kept this from me. I’m not afraid of your pain. I just want to share the weight.”

They sat there, tangled in each other’s arms, as the rooftop wind carried the last of Faifa’s sobs into the sunset.

“I feel stupid,” Faifa whispered eventually, resting his head in Wine’s lap.

“Why?”

“I didn’t know I was Phuri’s best friend until he said it out loud. I thought… I’ve never been the friend, you know? Always the nice one. Not the important one.”

Wine stroked his hair gently, listening.

“I always thought if I just stayed quiet, didn’t need anything, people would keep me. But it never worked. Not really.”

“You were always enough,” Wine said softly. “They just didn’t see it.”

“I just… never felt like the important one before,” Faifa admitted.

“You’ve always been important,” Wine said. “To me. To him. Even when you couldn’t see it.”

Faifa didn’t reply—but he leaned into him a little more, eyes closed, finally still.

And that, Wine knew, was enough for now.

Faifa smiled faintly. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” Wine said. “But you don’t have to figure it out alone.”

They sat there in silence, watching the sky change.

And for once, Faifa let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—being seen wasn’t impossible.

Maybe it had already started.

🌸•••🌸

When they returned home, the apartment felt warm and inviting—a sharp contrast to the cool night outside. Faifa was quiet, the weight of the evening still lingering in his eyes, but the alcohol had softened the edge, making it easier to breathe.

“Let’s just relax before going out,” Wine said gently, closing the door behind them. He looked at Faifa, taking in the weariness etched across his face. “We don’t have to do anything. Just you and me.”

Faifa nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He understood. No expectations, no pressure—just a moment to let go.

They moved to the couch, settling into a comfortable silence. Faifa leaned back into the cushions with a long, quiet exhale. His eyes closed briefly, soaking in the calm.

Wine’s hand found his, their fingers intertwining naturally. “How about we just cuddle for a bit?” Wine offered, his voice lighter now.

Faifa’s heart fluttered at the simplicity of it. He nodded again, shifting closer as Wine pulled him in. The warmth of his body was soothing, and Faifa allowed himself to relax completely.

The silence between them was comforting. Wine wrapped an arm around him, holding him close. Faifa rested his head on Wine’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat—a sound that always made him feel safe.

Wine’s fingers slid gently through Faifa’s hair, slow and reassuring. “You don’t have to talk,” he murmured. “Just stay here with me.”

Faifa’s eyes closed again as he sank deeper into the embrace, the tension in his body slowly melting away. He shifted slightly, pressing a soft kiss to Wine’s collarbone—a small, instinctive gesture of affection.

Wine responded with a quiet hum, his hand tracing soothing patterns on Faifa’s back. Every movement was careful, comforting, like he was wordlessly telling Faifa it was okay to let go.

“You know I’m here for you,” he whispered, his lips brushing Faifa’s forehead.

“I know,” Faifa replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

Their lips met in a soft, lingering kiss—slow, tender, full of quiet understanding. Faifa’s hand moved to Wine’s chest, feeling the steady beat beneath his fingers. It grounded him, reminded him he wasn’t alone.

Wine shifted them gently, guiding Faifa with unspoken care. His kisses trailed down Faifa’s neck, each one deliberate, drawing him closer to the present moment.

Faifa sighed softly, content. He let the rest of the world fall away, focusing only on Wine’s hands, his lips, the steady warmth surrounding him. The intimacy between them deepened—slow, deliberate, never rushed.

With every touch, Faifa felt something uncoil inside him. The pain, the confusion, the doubts—all of it faded into the quiet rhythm of the night. In Wine’s arms, he found something rare: peace.

When it was over, they remained tangled on the couch, wrapped in warmth and stillness. Faifa rested his head against Wine’s chest, his breathing steady, the calm of the moment settling over him like a blanket.

“Feeling better?” Wine asked softly.

Faifa nodded, his hand resting lightly against Wine’s side. “Much better.”

Wine kissed his temple and held him closer.

Chapter Text

Pon leaned forward, breaking the lull in conversation. “Hey, P’Fai… you good? You’ve been kinda off tonight.”

Faifa didn’t look at him right away. “I’m fine,” he said, short and simple.

Pon hesitated. “You just seem… different. I dunno, quieter than usual.”

Faifa finally turned to him with a faint, practiced smile. “I’m allowed to have an off day, right?”

Pon blinked, taken aback by the tone. “Of course, I didn’t mean anything bad. Just… noticed it, that’s all.”

“Cool,” Faifa replied, brushing his hair back casually. “Then don’t overthink it.”

Pon frowned slightly, uncertain. “It’s just—you always seem like you’ve got it all together, y’know? Like nothing gets to you.”

Faifa let out a short laugh, dry and without humor. “That’s your mistake, not mine.”

Pon looked away, clearly unsure how to respond. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it weird.”

“You didn’t,” Faifa said quickly, then pivoted before Pon could go deeper. “Anyway, how’s your project going? The one with that disaster of a group partner?”

Pon blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. “Uh… still a mess.”

“Figures, I will give you a hand later” Faifa said with a small smile, already steering the conversation back to safe ground.

But even as the subject shifted, Faifa could feel the tightness in his chest. Pon’s words lingered longer than they should have, brushing up against things Faifa didn’t want touched. Not by Pon. Not by anyone.

Only Wine got to see that part of him.

🌸•••🌸

Yotha sat at the bar, his drink untouched, the taste of guilt sharper than anything alcohol could dull.

He kept hearing Pon’s voice.

“P’Faifa’s been different tonight.”

Pon had seen it. Not him. Not Faifa’s older brother.

Yotha stared into his glass, jaw tight. He thought back to all the times Faifa had smiled and said he was okay. He should’ve noticed. Should’ve asked. But instead, he’d been distracted, distant—comfortable assuming Faifa could handle himself.

Now he knew better.

And what stung most was knowing that if he hadn’t stumbled onto Faifa crying on that rooftop, he still wouldn’t have seen a thing.

That was the part he couldn’t forgive himself for.

🌸•••🌸

Later that night, with most of the group gone and the noise winding down, Yotha spotted Faifa outside near the building, standing close to Wine as usual.

They weren’t speaking—just sharing quiet. Wine’s hand hovered near Faifa’s, fingers brushing gently. It was subtle, protective.

When Yotha approached, Faifa looked up and offered a casual smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey, Phi. Are you checking on me?” He said jokingly, because he never used the P with Yotha.

“Something like that,” Yotha replied, eyeing him carefully.

Faifa laughed, light and quick. “Why? Did I look like I was about to collapse dramatically in the middle of the bar?”

Wine gave him a glance, sensing the mask instantly.

Yotha didn’t laugh. “You just seemed… off.”

Faifa raised his brows. “Wow, you and N’Pon must’ve rehearsed this. Should I be flattered or worried?”

“Fai—”

“I’m fine,” Faifa cut in, gently but firmly. “Long day. Too much noise. I’m not used to this much attention.”

Yotha hesitated. “You don’t have to joke all the time.”

“Sure I do,” Faifa replied with a grin. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold. Who else is going to keep the mood light while you and Gun stare at each other like you’re in a drama series?”

That got a faint huff of laughter from Wine, but Yotha wasn’t letting it go so easily.

“I’m being serious.”

“I know,” Faifa said, this time a bit softer. “But there’s really nothing to be serious about. I’m good.”

Yotha studied him. There was something in the way Faifa smiled—charming, easy, practiced. The way his body angled ever so slightly toward Wine, like leaning into safety.

“You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

Faifa tilted his head, giving Yotha a bright, teasing look. “Wow. You’ve gotten sentimental. Did Gun put you up to this?”

Yotha didn’t answer.

“Listen, Yotha,” Faifa went on, gentler now but still dancing around the edge.

“I’m not trying to be difficult. But I’m okay. Really. If I ever fall apart, you’ll hear about it. Probably through a very dramatic voice note. Maybe even with background music.”

Yotha smiled faintly, but there was still a hint of sadness in his eyes.

“Alright,” he said at last.

Faifa grinned. “See? I knew you’d come around.”

As Yotha turned to leave, he glanced one last time at his brother—still smiling, still standing close to Wine like the moment hadn’t touched him at all.

But Yotha had seen it now.

There was something behind that smile. A wall. A quiet one—but thick.

🌸•••🌸

Outside, the cool night air brushed Faifa’s skin, but the tightness in his chest remained.

Yotha was gone, but his words clung to him.

He hated how easy it was for people to see through the cracks.

Wine stood beside him, silent but present—his calm a steady weight.

“You didn’t have to shut him out like that,” Wine said gently.

Faifa didn’t answer right away. His face stayed calm, unreadable.

“I didn’t shut him out. I just didn’t feel like talking.”

Wine didn’t push. The silence stretched between them—quiet, heavy, patient.

“I’m fine,” Faifa added. A little too quickly.

“I know. But you don’t always have to be.”

Faifa looked away, mouth twisting.

“I’m not looking for sympathy. Especially not from Yotha.”

“You don’t have to let him in,” Wine said.

“But you don’t have to carry it alone either.”

Faifa’s shoulders tensed.

“I’m not fragile.”

“No one said you were.”

“I just don’t want them seeing me like that.” His voice dropped. “Like I’m something to fix.”

Wine placed a hand on his shoulder—steady, warm.

“You’re not. You’re just human. And you don’t have to hide with me.”

Faifa didn’t pull away. But he didn’t lean in either.

He trusted Wine more than anyone—but 

He couldn't do it with others even he tried.

“I can’t let them see it,” he said quietly. “Not the parts I can’t even look at myself.”

Wine’s hand stayed right where it was, a constant against the cold.

“Then don’t. But know I see you. And I’m still here.”

Faifa exhaled slowly. The wall stayed up, thick and quiet—but with Wine, there was a crack. Just enough to breathe.

Wine glanced up, then back at him.

“Hiding doesn’t make it hurt less,” he said softly. “It just makes you carry it longer.”

Faifa didn’t respond. His jaw tightened, eyes locked on the dark horizon. The words hit deeper than he wanted to admit.

Still, he scoffed lightly.

“You reading fortune cookies now?”

Wine smiled faintly. “Maybe. But I meant it.”

Faifa turned, searching his face.

“You always say stuff like that,” he murmured, just a hint of teasing. “Makes it hard to stay annoyed with you.”

Wine raised a brow. “Good. I like that effect.”

Faifa rolled his eyes but stepped closer, defenses slipping.

“You’re impossible.”

Wine smiled, eyes warm. “You love me anyway.”

Before Faifa could deflect, Wine leaned in—soft, steady. A kiss that didn’t demand anything, just offered quiet reassurance.

Faifa kissed him back, slow and certain. When they parted, his forehead rested lightly against Wine’s.

“Don’t get used to me getting all serious,” he murmured.

Wine grinned. “I won’t. But I’ll take it when it happens.”

Faifa let out a breath of laughter, quiet but real. The weight hadn’t lifted fully—but with Wine’s hand still on him, the night didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

🌸•••🌸

Wine could feel it in the weight of Yotha’s gaze—heavy, unreadable.

There was something behind it—guilt, maybe, or concern. Maybe both. Wine wasn’t sure. But he didn’t miss it. And he didn’t interfere. Faifa was his brother. Maybe, just maybe, it was time for them to talk.

The night wound down, the bar emptying slowly. But something hung thick in the air—an unspoken tension, a quiet weight that clung to them as they left. Wine stayed close to Faifa—not in an obvious way, but in the way someone does when they’ve just held your heart and aren’t ready to let it go.

“I’ll drive you both home,” Yotha said, standing up.

It wasn’t a question. His voice carried the quiet authority of someone used to being listened to. But underneath, there was something softer. A thread of concern. Maybe even guilt. Wine glanced at Faifa, who gave a small, wordless nod. No protests. Too tired. Too drained.

They made their way out into the street, where the cool air greeted them after the warmth of the bar. Yotha’s car was just around the corner, and the drive started in silence.

Gun sat in the passenger seat, his face neutral, but his eyes seemed to ask the questions Faifa wasn’t answering.

Faifa leaned against the back window, eyes closed, distant. The streetlights flickered by like slow pulses of time—quiet, unrelenting.

No one spoke.

It was Wine who broke the silence first.

“Thanks for driving.”

Yotha nodded, eyes on the road.

“Of course.”

Another long pause.

In the rearview mirror, Yotha caught a glimpse of Faifa’s reflection—eyes half-closed, shoulders slumped in exhaustion. Not just physically tired. Worn out. Burdened.

“You okay back there?” Yotha asked, his voice softer than he intended.

Faifa let out a dry laugh, the kind that never quite touched his eyes.

“Define okay.” there was almost no need to say it, because Faifa was really too drunk.

Yotha almost smiled, but the heaviness in his chest made it impossible.

“Fair.”

“I’ve had worse nights,” Faifa murmured. “But I’ve had better.”

The words landed between them like a weight Faifa didn’t want to acknowledge. There was something heavy in the way he said it. The mask Faifa wore seemed thinner tonight, cracked just enough to let the exhaustion seep through.

Yotha tightened his grip on the wheel, wanting to say something—anything to ease the tension—but the words caught in his throat.

Gun turned slightly, glancing over at Faifa, then back at Yotha, sensing the shift in the air.

“He’ll be alright,” Gun said quietly, offering a soft assurance that seemed to settle more on Yotha than on Faifa. “He's not alone he has N'Wine, like you have me Yotha.”

Yotha nodded slowly, his eyes still focused on the road.

“Good. It’s about time someone took care of him.”

Faifa’s laugh was sharp, cutting through the moment.

“You make it sound like I’m a charity case.”

“You’re not,” Yotha replied, not looking away from the road. “You’re my brother.”

A beat of silence.

Wine glanced at Faifa in the rearview mirror, catching his eyes. There was something there. Something that didn’t belong.

Faifa’s gaze shifted away, briefly meeting Gun’s eyes in the passenger seat, before looking out the window.

The rest of the ride was quiet, but the air had shifted. There was a comfort now—less strained, but no less heavy.

When they pulled up outside Faifa’s place, Yotha cut the engine but didn’t move right away.

Wine opened the door but paused.

“You guys coming in?”

Yotha shook his head.

“Not tonight. Maybe another day.”

Wine gave a small nod.

“Okay.”

He stepped out of the car, Faifa following right behind. But just before the door shut, Faifa leaned in, his voice quieter than usual.

“Thanks for the ride, P’Yotha.”

The honorific hit differently this time—no teasing, no distance, just something real. Sincere. Yotha’s lips tugged up into a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He was also sure that Faifa would not remember that moment.

He watched them head into the building, watched the door close behind them. Only then did Yotha let out a long, steady breath and rest his forehead against the steering wheel.

He hadn’t been the brother Faifa needed. Not for a long time.

But maybe it wasn’t too late to change that.

Gun, still sitting quietly in the passenger seat, gently placed a hand on Yotha’s hair. His fingers stroked softly, a silent comfort. Though he didn’t understand everything going on, he was determined to stay—to be there for Yotha, for Faifa, for whatever came next.

🌸•••🌸

Yotha wasn’t ready to go home.

He dropped Gun off with a kiss and a vague excuse. The truth sat heavier in his chest than he could admit: he needed to talk. Not to Gun. Not yet. He needed someone who had been there—someone who didn’t see Faifa as a little brother or something delicate and breakable. Someone who might give him the truth, even if it hurt.

Can we talk?

Where are you?

A few blocks away.

On my way.

It didn’t take long before Wine climbed into the passenger seat, quiet and unreadable. He didn’t greet Yotha, didn’t ask questions—just shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and stared out the windshield.

Yotha didn’t waste time. “I’ve been thinking about Faifa.”

Wine’s voice was flat. “I noticed. So did he. He didn’t really appreciate the attention.”

That wasn’t the reaction Yotha expected—not the ice in Wine’s voice, not the way his stomach dropped.

“I just…” Yotha exhaled. “I feel like I missed something huge. Like I let everything slip through my fingers.”

“You did.” Wine’s reply was flat, no hesitation.

“When he needed you, you weren’t there.” Wine’s tone didn’t change, but the edge was undeniable.

The car felt too small for the tension. Yotha’s chest tightened. “I didn’t mean to. I swear. I didn’t realize how bad it was until—”

“I didn’t mean to let it get that bad.” Wine turned to him fully now, eyes sharp and voice shaking with control. “You didn’t mean to. Right. Because it was easier to stay in your own bubble, wasn’t it?”

Yotha froze. “What are you talking about?”

“You were busy. You had P'Gun. Your mom. Your life. I get it,” Wine said, almost spitting the words. “And P’Faifa? He just got quieter. You didn’t ask why. You didn’t push. You didn’t even look close enough to see he was falling apart.”

Yotha’s voice cracked. “I didn’t know—”

But then, as if something inside him snapped, Wine leaned back in his seat, voice turning colder. “You know, P’Yotha… I remember the first time I really saw P’Faifa. It was on the rooftop at school. We weren’t even dating yet. He looked so small… so fragile, but he still tried to act like everything was fine. Like he wasn’t drowning inside.”

Yotha swallowed hard, but Wine wasn’t finished. His words were sharper now, laced with the weight of the past.

“P’Faifa told me that day he didn’t know who to go to. He said he didn’t think anyone cared. He didn’t feel like he could tell anyone how much he was struggling. And you know what? He was right. No one was really there for him, P’Yotha. No one could see it.” Wine’s voice softened, just for a second, a flash of vulnerability in his eyes. “And it broke me, hearing that. Knowing he felt like he was alone. And still, I couldn’t do anything to take it away.”

Yotha’s throat tightened as he listened. He hadn’t known the full extent of Faifa’s pain, not like this.

Wine’s voice turned cold again, almost as if the rawness of the memory stoked the fire in him. “You didn’t abandon him, but you sure as hell forgot him. You let him get swallowed up in his own world because you were too busy with your own life. And now you want a second chance, like nothing happened. You think that’s how this works?”

“I didn’t mean to—” Yotha’s voice faltered, but Wine cut him off.

“Yeah, you didn’t mean to,” Wine spat. “But you did. You chose to look the other way, P’Yotha. And P’Faifa carried that weight all on his own.”

The air in the car felt suffocating, the silence thick as both of them sat with the harsh truth.

Yotha had never seen Wine like this before. The usually shy, reserved, and respectful man who always measured his words, never speaking out of turn, now had an edge to his voice that almost startled Yotha. It was as if this quiet, composed person had been completely overtaken by an anger and intensity Yotha wasn’t prepared for. It was a side of Wine he never imagined existed. And it made him realize just how deeply the situation had affected him—how much Wine truly cared about Faifa.

Wine’s voice softened, a little, though the anger still clung to his words. “He trusted me, in the end. And I know… I know he didn’t want to, but he needed someone who could hear him. Who could see past the ‘always fine’ act. And I couldn’t let him carry that on his own anymore.”

Yotha closed his eyes for a brief moment, a flash of guilt sweeping over him. He hadn’t seen it. He hadn’t known. Or maybe, he had, but he hadn’t wanted to know.

“I didn’t know how bad it was,” Yotha whispered.

“Yeah, you did. You felt it,” Wine said, voice thick with frustration but also something gentler now. “You just didn’t want to confront it. It was easier not to. And now… now it’s not about what you say or how sorry you are. It’s about what you do from here on out.”

Yotha’s chest tightened, the weight of Wine’s words sinking in deeper than he ever expected.

Wine’s gaze softened, his anger still simmering but muted. “You didn’t get to him in time, P’Yotha. But that doesn’t mean it’s too late. If you really want to make it right, you don’t get to just show up for a day. You have to show up every day. No excuses. P'Faifa doesn’t trust easily, and I don’t blame him. He’s been hurt enough.”

Yotha let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know if I can fix this…”

“You don’t fix it. You earn it back,” Wine said, his voice quieter now, the anger still there but less biting. “And maybe he’ll trust you again. Maybe he won’t. But if you really care, you show up. And you keep showing up. That’s all you can do.”

Yotha met Wine’s eyes, his own filled with something more than guilt. There was a slow, dawning realization—he had to make things right, no matter how long it took.

“I will,” Yotha said, his voice filled with determination. “I won’t give up on him.”

Wine nodded, his tone a little softer. “Good. Because P’Faifa needs someone who’s not going to turn their back on him again.”

There was a pause, and then Wine’s gaze shifted, the weight of their conversation still pressing down on both of them. “But there’s something else you don’t understand, P’Yotha. P'Faifa’s been fighting this battle on his own for so long. And it’s not just your mom. It’s you too. You and P'Newton.”

Yotha frowned, not understanding. “What does that mean?”

Wine’s voice dropped, hard and raw. “P'Faifa doesn’t just feel abandoned by your mom. He feels invisible. From you. From P'Newton. You think he doesn’t see how close you and Newton are? How you two have this bond, this connection? Faifa feels like he’s the outsider in his own family. He’s the one left behind.”

Yotha’s heart skipped a beat, a sickening realization settling in his chest. “I didn’t—”

“No,” Wine interrupted gently, “you didn’t see it. But Faifa has. Every single day. And the worst part? He’s never told you. He never wanted to be the one to ask for more. He doesn’t want to ruin what you’ve got. But inside? He’s been dying for a brother who actually sees him. Who isn’t too busy with their own world to care about his.”

Yotha felt like the breath had been knocked out of him. How could he have been so blind to this? To how Faifa must have felt—shunted aside, left to fight his struggles alone while the bond between Yotha and Newton deepened.

“And since P'Gun came into the picture,” Wine continued, his voice tinged with something sharper now, “the indifference, the distance… it’s grown even more. P'Faifa watches, quietly, as you’re wrapped up in your own happiness. And he’s left in the dust.”

Yotha closed his eyes, guilt flooding him. This wasn’t just about his mother or about Wine; it was about him . He had failed his brother in the most painful way.

Wine’s voice softened, the frustration turning into something more like compassion. “But it’s not too late. If you really care about him—if you really want to fix this—you have to prove it. Every single day. Faifa doesn’t trust easily. And he shouldn’t have to. Not after everything that’s happened.”

Yotha clenched his fists, a new determination settling in his chest. “I’ll do whatever it takes. I won’t let him feel invisible again.”

Wine nodded once, his gaze steady. “Good. Because if you don’t, you’ll lose him for good. And I’m not sure either of you can come back from that.”

Yotha inhaled deeply, the weight of his mistakes pressing on him, but with the clarity that came from facing those mistakes head-on. He had a lot of work to do. But he wouldn’t back down. Not now.

With one last look at Wine, he muttered, “Let’s go inside. I don’t want him waking up alone.”

Wine sighed, his tone softened. “You’re really down bad.”

“Yeah,” Wine said, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “And I’m proud of it.”

🌸•••🌸

The next morning came slow and quiet.

Light filtered in through half-closed blinds, casting soft stripes across the floor. Faifa stirred on the couch, the scent of someone brewing coffee drawing him halfway out of sleep. His head pounded lightly—not from too much alcohol, but from too much emotion the night before.

Wine was still asleep in their bed, curled up under the blanket, hair a mess, face half-buried in the pillow they always ended up sharing. There was something grounding about the sight—soft and unbothered, like Faifa’s world hadn’t tilted quite so violently after all.

Faifa sat up slowly, rubbed his face, and dragged himself toward the kitchen.

He didn’t expect to see Yotha there—sleeves rolled up, pouring two cups of coffee in his kitchen.

“Morning,” Yotha said without turning around.

Faifa blinked. “…Did I miss something? You crash here?”

Yotha glanced over his shoulder. “Wine let me in. You were pretty out of it.”

Faifa stared. His memory of the night was blurry around the edges—he remembered Wine’s arms around him, remembered lots ok kisses, remembered falling asleep—but apparently, not everything. “…Right. Yeah. I probably just don’t remember.”

Yotha handed him a mug. Faifa took it cautiously, sniffed it like it might explode. “You even remembered how I like it.”

“I’m observant. Sometimes.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Faifa mumbled, then immediately felt bad. He took a sip. “…It’s good.”

A beat of silence passed between them. Faifa leaned against the counter. Yotha mirrored him, leaning next to him like muscle memory.

Yotha didn't brought up the rooftop. Or the way Faifa had cracked open like wet paper. Or how Wine had held him through it like the world might break if he let go.

Yotha didn’t bring any of it up.

He just stayed.

🌸•••🌸

Later that afternoon, the apartment was quiet again. Wine had left after lunch with a soft kiss and a promise to text when he got home. Faifa had teased him about being clingy, but he smiled all the way to the door.

Then the door shut. And the quiet settled in like dust.

Faifa figured Yotha would follow suit. Show up, say something blunt, and vanish.

But this time, Yotha stayed.

Faifa sat on the floor, folding laundry with the intensity of someone trying to ignore everything else. Yotha lounged on the couch, flipping through a book he clearly wasn’t reading. Occasionally, his eyes would flick over to Faifa, but he didn’t speak.

Faifa didn’t like it.

“Yotha…” Faifa broke first, flicking a pair of socks into a vaguely folded shape. “Did you lose your key or are you just redecorating my house?”

Yotha didn’t even flinch. “Just thinking.”

“That sounds dangerous,” Faifa deadpanned, tossing a shirt over the edge of the basket. “Should I call someone?”

Yotha raised an eyebrow. “Can’t I just hang out?”

“Not really your style,” Faifa said. “Unless you’re planning to insult my fashion choices again. In that case, help yourself. But fair warning, I’ve been dressing like a raccoon in a house fire lately.”

Yotha chuckled softly. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Talk around everything.”

Faifa shrugged. “It’s a gift. Some people get dimples, I got deflection.AND dimples” He joked.

Yotha leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Faifa, I’m serious. I want to talk. I’ve been thinking about us—about how things used to be.”

“Wow. I didn’t know this was a therapy session. Hold on, let me get my emotional support blanket and a scented candle.”

“Faifa.”

His voice was quiet, grounding. But Faifa didn’t flinch. He just kept folding, eyes on the fabric in his hands.

“You’ve been through a lot with mom, with me and Gun, with the family ” Yotha continued. “And I didn't know . I should’ve been.”

“Well,” Faifa said with a light, empty smile, “you missed a lot of crying and sleepless nights. Real top-tier programming. But good news—you’ve arrived just in time for the reruns.”

Yotha didn’t laugh. “You don’t have to do this every time, joke about everything .”

“No, but it’s a hell of a lot more fun than reliving old trauma over clean underwear,” Faifa said, finally looking up. “Why now, Yotha? Why are you suddenly trying to be the big brother of the year?”

“Because I care. And because I messed up. But I’m not going anywhere, even if you keep shutting the door in my face.”

Faifa stood, grabbed the laundry basket, and moved toward the bedroom. “Then get comfortable out there.”

Yotha watched him go, unmoving.

And Faifa, behind the closed door, stood still for a long moment—his arms around the basket, his chest tight with something he refused to name.

He just breathed. Quiet. Controlled.

Alone.

Chapter Text

Faifa stepped out of class into the warm air and blinked. 

The sun hit just wrong. His bag felt heavier than usual. 

His brain fuzzed with the kind of fatigue that wasn’t physical. Just… tired.

He wasn’t expecting anyone to be waiting.

But there Yotha was—leaning against a nearby pillar like it was part of his spine, earbuds in, one hand fiddling with something behind his back.

Faifa paused. “Stalking me now?”

Yotha didn’t smirk. He just held out a small plastic bag.

“Lunch,” he said simply.

Faifa took it slowly, peeking inside. His favorite rice dish. No fanfare. No teasing. No commentary.

“…Thanks,” he said, quiet.

Yotha nodded. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

He started to turn.

“Wait,” Faifa said, before he realized the word had left his mouth.

Yotha glanced back.

“…You doing anything?”

Yotha shook his head. “Just existing.”

Faifa gestured vaguely at the steps. “Sit for a bit?”

They sat in silence. No jokes. No questions. Just a shared meal and a breeze. It wasn’t easy. But it wasn’t hard.

It was something.

Faifa hadn’t known what to expect. Yotha had never exactly been the warm-and-fuzzy type, and their relationship had always been more sharp edges than soft landings. But lately… things were different.

He didn’t trust it yet. Not completely. But he noticed.

That evening, he sat on the balcony with Wine, the city spread out below them, soft with traffic noise and faraway music. 

Wine sat with his tea, quiet and cozy like usual. Faifa leaned against the railing, fingers tapping absently along the metal edge.

He huffed a small laugh. “It’s like he's been replaced with softer versions of himself . It’s freaking me out.”

Wine grinned a little, setting his cup down. “Maybe he's just trying.”

“Trying what?” Faifa asked. “To confuse me?”

“To care,” Wine said, easy and calm. “And maybe he's finally figuring out how.”

Faifa looked away again, watching the flicker of headlights down below. “I don’t know. It just… makes me feel weird. Like I’m getting all emotional over a couple of basic acts of decency.”

Wine leaned back, comfortable. “Maybe that’s not weird. Maybe it’s just what happens when someone notices you’ve been carrying more than you should.”

Faifa was quiet for a long beat. “I’m not used to being noticed like that.”

“I know,” Wine said. “But you are now. Doesn’t mean you have to throw the door open. Just… maybe don’t bolt it shut either.”

Faifa rolled his eyes a little, but there wasn’t any heat in it. “

“That’s dangerously close to being profound.”

Wine smiled, bumping his shoulder lightly.

“Don’t worry, I’ve reached my emotional depth quota for the week.”

Faifa laughed and sat down next to him, closer than before. Shoulder to shoulder. Quiet, comfortable, not quite ready to open up—but not walking away either.

He still didn’t know if he could trust the change.

But he was starting to believe it might be real.

And that was something.

🌸•••🌸

Gun was rinsing glasses in the sink, sleeves rolled up, eyes flicking toward the hallway where Faifa’s door had just clicked shut.

“You’re doing better,” he said gently to Yotha, who was still perched on the edge of the couch, half-watching the muted TV.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Yotha muttered.

“He noticed the lunch,” Gun said. “He doesn’t say much, but he sees everything.”

Yotha rubbed at the back of his neck. “It’s not enough. It’s like there’s a door between us, and I can’t find the handle.”

Gun turned off the tap and dried his hands slowly. “You’re looking for the wrong thing.”

Yotha frowned. “What do you mean?”

Gun looked over at him, voice even.

“He doesn’t need a big gesture. He just needs to stop feeling like he’s the extra part of everything. You and Newton. You and me. Your mom and her favorites.”

He sat beside Yotha, quiet now.

“He thinks he’s easy to forget.”

Yotha didn’t respond. But something in his chest cracked open.

He was quiet for a moment. “I just want him to know I’m here. That I’m not going anywhere. Even if he never fully lets me in.”

Gun leaned into his shoulder lightly. “That’s why he’ll let you in, eventually. Because you won’t push.”

Yotha looked at him, brows drawn. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Gun said. Then he hesitated, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Also… I may have started looking at apartments. Nearby.”

Yotha blinked. “Nearby where?”

Gun sipped his tea like he wasn’t about to drop a bomb. “Faifa and Wine’s building.”

Yotha straightened. “Wait—what?”

“I figured if we’re closer, it might be easier. Not just for you and Faifa, but… all of us. You won’t have to keep pretending you’re ‘just passing through’ every time you come by. And Faifa doesn’t say it, but he notices when you leave too quickly.”

Yotha stared at him, stunned. “You did that for me?”

“I did it for  us ,” Gun said simply. “I know how much he means to you and to me too. I want to help. And… maybe being closer will give Faifa a little more space to realize we’re not trying to push into his world—we just want to be around when he’s ready.”

Yotha looked down at his tea, his throat suddenly tight. “You’re too good to me, you know.”

“I have excellent taste in emotionally repressed men,” Gun said with a wink.

Yotha laughed, the sound quiet but real. “I don’t deserve you.”

“No,” Gun agreed, teasing. “But you’ve got me anyway.”

Yotha leaned into him, head resting lightly against Gun’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Gun murmured. “We’re in this together. All four of us.”

🌸•••🌸

Yotha and Gun had managed to find an apartment close by.  Too close.

As in, literally-the-door-next-to-Faifa-and-Wine’s close.

🌸•••🌸

The first week was chaos wrapped in good intentions.

Yotha showed up with small things: extra rice, detergent, a set of matching towels “just in case.” 

Gun delivered banana bread with a sticky note that said, *‘Sorry for the proximity’.*

Faifa tried to act normal. Grateful. Chill.

But every time he heard a knock, his pulse jumped. 

Every time Yotha said “Just checking in,” something in him coiled up.

Still, he didn’t push him away.

Not yet.

🌸•••🌸

The next night of few weeks later started with Gun.

They were alone in Faifa’s kitchen, waiting for takeout. Gun was leaned against the counter, absently scrolling through his phone when he said, “You know Yotha got into it with your mom last week?”

Faifa looked up. “About what?”

Gun didn’t look up. “You.”

Faifa blinked. “Me?”

“Mm-hmm.” Gun tapped something on his phone, like it wasn’t a big deal. “She said something kind of crappy. He didn’t let it slide.”

Faifa frowned. “He… yelled at her?”

“Pretty much,” Gun said, finally looking up. “Didn’t shout or anything. But yeah—he stood his ground.”

Faifa opened his mouth, then closed it again. The usual instinct to brush it off crept up, but this time it didn’t quite land. The words sat somewhere in his chest, heavy and warm at once.

after dinner Faifa got a version of the story straight from Yotha.

Not that Yotha brought it up on purpose. It just kind of slipped out, the way things sometimes did between them lately—quiet and sideways.

They were on the couch, some random show playing in the background, when Yotha said, 

“I was kind of a jerk to you.”

Faifa raised an eyebrow. 

Yotha huffed a little laugh. “Okay, fine. I was a jerk.”

The smile faded quickly though. “I used to think you were just… quiet. That that was it. I didn’t notice how different you were around us. Or her.”

He scratched at his jaw, uncomfortable. “It wasn’t on purpose. I just didn’t look close enough.”

Faifa didn’t reply, but something shifted in his posture. A small softening. He wasn’t ready to unpack it, but he heard it. And he held onto it.

🌸•••🌸

Faifa found himself thinking about it while brushing his teeth one night. He stared at his reflection, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth, and thought:  Maybe I could let him back in.

The idea startled him. Not because it was too soon, but because it felt too late.

He rinsed, wiped his mouth, and leaned on the counter, blinking at his own tired eyes. The truth settled in gently, without ceremony.

I already have.

Somewhere between the cautious smiles and the quiet dinners, he’d stopped waiting for Yotha to mess it up. He’d started answering his texts faster. He’d started sitting a little closer on the couch. He’d stopped flinching when his brother reached out first.

Faifa didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t need to. The change wasn’t loud. But it was real.

And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel so hard to breathe.

🌸•••🌸

“Why did you suddenly change?” Faifa asked, his voice soft. “What made you think I wasn’t okay?”

They were sitting at the dining table, plates cleared, the room quiet and dim. Wine had gone out, and Yotha hadn’t rushed off like he usually did. Lately, he stayed.

Yotha leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. “That day on campus,” he said. “I saw Wine running. Fast. Like something was wrong. He was heading to the rooftop.”

Faifa looked up, his brows pulling in slightly.

“I followed him,” Yotha continued. “Didn’t think, just did. When I got there… I heard you. You weren’t just upset—you were hurting. And I’d never heard you like that before. It… stopped me.”

He met Faifa’s eyes, quieter now. “I realized how little I knew about what you carry. And how easy it was to miss, just because you didn’t say anything.”

Faifa was quiet for a while. Then he gave a small nod. “I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

“I didn’t,” Yotha admitted. “Not until it was too loud to ignore. But I see you now. I do.”

Something in Faifa’s expression shifted—less guarded, more open. “You’ve been… different lately.”

“I’m learning,” Yotha said. “Still messing it up sometimes. But I want to be someone you don’t have to hide from.”

There was a pause, full but light.

Faifa stood slowly, walked around the table, and pulled his brother into a hug. Not hesitant, not rushed—just full of quiet warmth.

Yotha hugged him back without a word, one arm tight around his shoulder, the other steady at his back.

They didn’t say anything else.

They didn’t need to.

🌸•••🌸

The door clicked softly as Wine returned, his footsteps light as he stepped into the apartment. The low hum of the kitchen light was the only sound, and for a moment, he just stood in the doorway, taking in the quiet.

Faifa and Yotha were sitting side by side on the couch, not as distant as they usually were. Faifa was laughing about something, a soft sound, and Yotha's usual guarded expression was relaxed—just enough to show he was comfortable.

Wine couldn’t help but pause. The change was subtle, but it was there. Something in the air, something between the two of them.

He smiled to himself, leaning against the doorframe. “Guess I didn’t miss much,” he said, his tone light.

Yotha glanced up, his usual smirk now softer, more genuine. “You were out with Jay for hours. We were fine.”

Faifa turned to look at Wine, and their eyes met—quiet, but full of something unspoken. For a brief moment, Faifa’s gaze softened in a way Wine hadn’t seen before, and it made his chest tighten with something close to contentment.

“You look like you’ve been up to something,” Wine teased, though his eyes lingered on the two of them.

Yotha shot him a look. “Maybe I’m just trying to be a better brother.”

“About time,” Wine replied, a grin pulling at his lips.

Faifa chuckled softly, his shoulders relaxed, the lines around his eyes lighter. He stood up and moved toward Wine, slipping his hand into his as if everything had shifted back to normal—but different, in the best way.

As Faifa squeezed his hand, Yotha stretched out on the couch, his gaze soft but satisfied, as if knowing he had finally done something right.

Wine squeezed Faifa’s hand in return, giving him a look that spoke volumes. “I’m glad we’re all here.”

Faifa leaned in a little too close, shoulder brushing Wine’s.

“You always smell this good or is that a trauma-induced side effect?”

Wine didn’t miss a beat. “Depends. Are you turned on or just emotionally unstable?”

Faifa blinked. “Why not both?”

" Why not both,’ he says. Because I’m standing right here, that’s why not both. I’m leaving.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll save you a front-row seat for the wedding.” Faifa laughed amused 

🌸•••🌸

INT. CAMPUS CAFETERIA – LUNCHTIME

The table was alive with soft chatter, clinking utensils, half-finished laughter. Everyone sat in easy comfort—except Faifa, who felt like he was holding himself together with string.

It wasn’t a bad day. But the weight of  everything  had settled on his shoulders like fog—quiet, heavy, and inescapable.

So instead of sitting upright like he usually did—cheerful, present, alert—he let himself fold.

He leaned sideways, carefully resting his head on Wine’s lap. His eyes closed. Not for attention. Just for stillness.

Wine didn’t move. Just curled a hand gently into Faifa’s hair, slow and grounding.

The conversation at the table quieted instinctively. The group wasn’t used to Faifa being quiet. Or tired. Or still.

But no one teased. No one questioned.

And then, softly—barely louder than a breath—Faifa spoke.

“…Yotha?”

There was a pause, like the room held its breath.

“Yeah?” Yotha answered, casual—but gentler than usual.

Faifa didn’t open his eyes. His voice stayed soft, even.

“Can you remind Mom I’m allergic to milk?”

The words alone were simple. But the silence that followed made them loud.

“I don’t want to deal with it,” Faifa continued. “And I’m pretty sure whatever she’s planning for dinner isn’t going to be safe for me. Can you just… handle it?”

No jokes. No deflection.

It wasn’t a command—it was a risk. From  him  to  Yotha . The brother he had spent most of his life pretending not to need.

Everyone stilled.

Even Gun, mid-chew, blinked. Pon looked like he’d just realized the moment was bigger than it sounded.

Wine’s fingers moved slowly through Faifa’s hair, the barest pressure of pride and protection. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

There was a pause.

Then Yotha asked—not challenging, but careful, open—

“…Do you actually want to go to this dinner? Or are you forcing yourself?”

Faifa opened his eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling. The lights were too bright. His chest too tight.

“I don’t know,” he said finally.

Wine’s hand tightened ever so slightly in his hair.

Yotha nodded, voice quiet. “Okay. I’ll talk to her.”

Faifa closed his eyes again.

He hadn’t said much. But he’d said  enough .

For the first time in a long while, the table stayed quiet—not because of awkwardness, but respect.

And when Faifa breathed out—slow, tentative—Wine leaned down and kissed his temple, proud and silent.

Across the table, Yotha didn’t say anything else.

But his eyes lingered on Faifa.

And for once, he didn’t feel helpless.

He felt trusted.

🌸•••🌸

The street was quieter now. The last rays of daylight stretched long shadows across the pavement as Faifa and Wine walked side by side. Not touching. Not talking.

Just breathing in sync.

Faifa’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets. His shoulders were hunched like he was trying to disappear into himself.

Finally, he spoke.

“I asked Yotha for help today.”

Wine didn’t say anything right away. Just glanced at him, gently curious.

Faifa kept walking. “Just a small thing. About the dinner. Milk. I didn’t even look at him when I said it.”

He laughed once—dry. “I thought my voice might shake. Isn’t that stupid? Just asking my own brother to do something for me.”

Wine said nothing. Just listened. That was what Faifa needed.

“I didn’t ask for me,” Faifa continued, more quietly. “Not really. I asked because… if we’re ever going to have something real again, I have to try. Right? That’s how it works.”

He kicked a small rock down the sidewalk, watching it skitter away.

“But even after everything—after the rooftop, the soup, all of it—I still couldn’t say how I really felt. Not to him. Not like this.”

He turned his face slightly toward Wine.

“Only you get that.”

Wine looked at him fully now, eyes warm. “And I always will.”

They kept walking. Slower now.

Faifa let the silence stretch before breaking it again.

“I don’t want to go to dinner,” he admitted. “I really, really don’t.”

Wine didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

“But if I skip it…” Faifa trailed off. “It’ll feel like I’m giving up on whatever this fragile, broken thing is between me and them. Like I’m saying it’ll never get better.”

His voice was steady, but quiet. Almost ashamed.

Wine’s voice came gently. “So you’re trying to protect something that barely exists?”

Faifa huffed a bitter little laugh. “Yeah. Dumb, right?”

Wine shook his head. “It’s not dumb. It’s you.”

Faifa glanced over. That sentence landed harder than he expected.

They walked in silence again. A few steps. A few breaths.

Then Wine added, voice low but firm, “We’ll go. But we’ll go together. You don’t have to smile through it. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. If it gets too much, we’ll leave. No questions. No guilt.”

Faifa stopped walking.

Turned fully to face him.

“That simple?” he asked, soft but raw.

Wine’s answer came without hesitation.

“Always is, when it comes to you.”

Faifa didn’t reply.

He just stepped a little closer—close enough to lean into Wine’s side, shoulder to shoulder, and exhale like he’d been holding his breath for years.

And for now, that was enough.

🌸•••🌸

The house smelled like warm rice and familiar spices—comforting in theory, but to Faifa, it felt like walking into a stage set.

Everything was too neat. Too curated. As if the house had prepared to perform.

He paused in the entryway. Wine stood just behind him, a quiet, steady weight at his back.

“You’ve got this,” Wine whispered.

Faifa nodded, slow. He didn’t feel like he did. But hearing it still helped.

He stepped inside.

From the kitchen, his mother’s voice floated out—light, pleasant, distracted.

“You’re late,” she called, not unkindly. But she didn’t turn. Didn’t look up from her cutting board. “Dinner’s almost ready. Go sit.”

Faifa didn’t reply. His eyes moved across the room.

Yotha was setting the table with quiet focus, his movements careful—too careful. Gun sat on the couch, legs crossed, murmuring something to Newton, who gave Faifa a quick, unreadable smile.

It looked like a family. But it didn’t feel like one.

The gap between image and truth stretched beneath Faifa’s feet like a hairline crack in marble—beautiful, glossy, fragile.

“Hi, Ma,” he said eventually.

His mother glanced over her shoulder for a fraction of a second. “Hi, darling. You look thin. You eating enough?”

The kind of line that was meant to sound like love, but landed like habit.

“I’m fine,” he replied, flat.

She hummed—noncommittal—and went back to her chopping. Her hands moved quickly, efficiently. She didn’t ask how he’d been. She didn’t ask if he was okay.

And he didn’t offer.

Because she never asked when it mattered.

Because she didn’t want the answer.

Wine gently touched Faifa’s back—a small reassurance, unspoken but clear.  I see it too.

Faifa took a breath, then moved further into the house, every step heavier than the last.

Chapter Text

Faifa’s fingers curled around the glass of water. He stared into it for a long time, his throat tight. Then, quietly, he set it down.

“You know,” he said, voice low but clear, “I used to think you just forgot. That it slipped your mind. The allergy. The food. The way I always got quiet at the table.”

His mother looked up, her jaw set.

“But it’s not that, is it?” Faifa said, still not looking at her. “You don’t forget. You just don’t want to remember. Because remembering means caring. It means seeing me as someone different than the son you wanted.”

She flinched. “Faifa, that’s not fair—”

“I’m not interested in being fair,” he cut in, eyes finally meeting hers. “I’m interested in being honest.”

Silence fell again.

“You always say you’re doing your best,” he continued. “But your best never included trying to understand me. You’ve memorized every little thing about Newton’s career. You know Yotha's favorite tea. You even remind Gun to take his vitamins. But me?” His voice cracked slightly. “You don’t even want to know me. I'm your son too"

“Don’t do this,” she said, her voice rising slightly. “Don’t make a scene in front of everyone just to punish me.”

He blinked. Then laughed—short, bitter, dry. “You think this is punishment? No. Punishment would be me pretending everything’s fine and coming back again next week for more of the same.”

His mother opened her mouth, but before she could speak, their father raised his hand again.

“Let him finish.”

Faifa turned to look at him. “You don’t get to play neutral, Dad. Not anymore.”

His father’s expression didn’t change, but he didn’t argue.

“You watched this happen my whole life. You saw it, and you said nothing. And silence might be gentler than cruelty, but it does the same damage.”

“I know,” their father said quietly. “And I’m sorry.”

Faifa gave a small shake of his head. “It’s too late for sorry.”

No one moved.

“I’m not angry,” Faifa said, voice hollow now. “I’m just… tired. I’ve spent so long trying to be okay with being invisible. Trying not to make waves. Trying to be grateful for the scraps of attention I got. But tonight? Tonight I realized it’s not just carelessness. It’s not forgetfulness. It’s indifference. And indifference hurts.”

He looked around the table, the weight of every unsaid thing pressing against his chest.

“If I died today, in front of all of you, my family…” He paused, letting the words breathe. “Tomorrow, your lives would go on as if nothing had ever happened. This is how much I count in this family.”

Wine’s breath caught scared. Newton looked away.

“Faifa—” their mother began, her voice cracking.

But he stood, slow and steady, like someone rising out of deep water. “Don’t. Don’t tell me I’m being dramatic. Don’t make this about your hurt feelings. You had every chance to know me. You still do. But you don’t want to. And I won’t keep asking for what should’ve been given freely.”

He looked at his father, then back at his mother.

“I don’t hate either of you. I just don’t belong here, I just don't get it...why did you even give birth to me?”

And then, without waiting for a response, he turned and walked quietly out of the room.

The clink of his glass, still half full, was the only sound that followed him.

🌸•••🌸

Faifa’s footsteps faded down the hallway.

The silence left behind was heavy—no longer tense, but hollow.

Their mother opened her mouth again, a weak “Faifa—” just barely forming.

“No.”

Wine’s voice was quiet but firm. He stood slowly, his hand still resting on the table, eyes locked on her with a calm so steady it cut through the noise more than shouting ever could.

“You’ve done enough,” he said. “Let him go.”

She blinked. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Then listen to yourself,” Wine interrupted. “You never mean to. But you do it anyway. And he’s always the one who gets hurt.”

He turned, already heading toward the hallway. “I’ll go to him. Because he shouldn’t have to be alone tonight.”

And with that, he walked out, silent and certain.

The sound of his departure was like a starting pistol—and Yotha, who had been frozen in place, finally exploded.

“All he wanted was soup that wouldn’t kill him. Not a Michelin star. Just non-lethal soup. How is that a high bar?"

“I CALLED YOU.”

His voice slammed into the silence, loud and raw. He shoved back from the table, eyes wide with disbelief and fury.

“I called you this morning. I reminded you. Fai didn't even expect you to remember. He asked me, please, to call you to remind you, so that we could eat in peace,  I called you two times just to be sure, because I know you always act like it’s not real. And you just—what? Decided it didn’t matter?”

“Yotha, I didn’t think it would be this serious,” their mother said weakly, shrinking back slightly.

“Not this serious?” His voice cracked. “You watched him sit there, stare at the bowl like it was poison, and you still acted like it wasn’t a big deal.”

“I just thought—”

“You never think!” Yotha shouted. “That’s the problem! You never think about him, or what he needs, or what it costs him to keep coming back here when you won’t even see him!”

His chest heaved, face flushed with grief that had nowhere to go but out.

“All he wanted was soup that wouldn’t hurt him. And you couldn’t even give him that. You couldn’t give him that.”

Their mother looked stunned, like she’d just been slapped. “I’m trying,” she whispered.

“No,” Yotha said, the fury gone now, voice shaking. “You’re pretending.”

He turned, wiping angrily at his eyes, and walked out of the room.

🌸•••🌸

The house was still. Too still.

Their mother stood in the kitchen, rearranging plates that had already been scrubbed raw, like if she moved enough things, she might shift the past back into place.

Newton stood in the doorway, arms crossed so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The quiet used to comfort him. Tonight, it was suffocating.

“You don’t get to cry,” he said. His voice cut through the air like glass.

She jumped. “Newton—”

“You don’t get to cry!” he snapped, louder now, stepping forward like he was ready to pace a hole into the floor. “Not tonight. Not after this.”

She opened her mouth, but he didn’t care what she was about to say. He didn’t want to hear it.

“I used to hope,” he said, voice brittle, “that one day, you’d be someone I could actually call Mom. Without having to lie to myself. Without having to choke on it.”

She stared at him, eyes wide, stricken.

“I let that hope die a long time ago,” he said, quieter, but shaking now. “You killed it. Every time you looked past me. Every time you made love feel like a transaction.”

“But Faifa?” His voice cracked, and then sharpened into a snarl. “He still hoped. God knows how. After everything—you still had him. You still had a chance.”

He pointed at her now, trembling with fury. “And you crushed him. Again. Until he couldn’t even look at you.”

“I didn’t mean to—” she tried, but he shouted over her.

“Don’t say that! Don’t you dare say that again!” His whole body was shaking now. “You always say that! You ‘didn’t mean to.’ You were just tired. You were just stressed. You forgot. You didn’t think. You didn’t notice. You didn’t mean to.”

He laughed, a sound so hollow it almost hurt to hear.

“Do you even hear yourself? Do you have any idea how much damage a person can do without meaning to?”

Her eyes brimmed with tears, but he didn’t stop.

“I didn’t speak up when you tore Faifa apart with your indifference. I didn’t call you out when you acted like Yotha’s anger was some ‘mood swing’ instead of what it really was—anguish. I didn’t say shit when you stopped looking at me like your son and started treating me like your proof that everything was fine.”

“I was quiet. I stayed out of it. Because I thought silence meant strength. I thought keeping the peace was noble.” He laughed again, vicious this time. “But it wasn’t strength. It was cowardice.”

His fists clenched. His chest rose and fell too fast.

“You want to know how I really knew Faifa wasn’t okay?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t move.

“I found his diary.”

Her brow furrowed, eyes glassy.

“I was looking for a CD in his room. Months ago. Found this little notebook shoved behind his books. I thought it’d be funny. Tease him. Maybe read some cringey childhood secret.” His voice twisted. “And it was a childhood secret. It was pages and pages of agony.”

“I read, ‘I think if I disappeared, they’d just take my plate off the table and call it a quiet night.’”

He stepped closer.

“I read, ‘Mom doesn’t hate me. She just doesn’t see me. I think she ran out of love before I was born.’”

Another step.

“I read, ‘If I died, would Newton feel it? Would Yotha? Because I don’t think Mom would even notice until she tripped over my shoes.’”

His voice broke entirely.

“I read that. I read all of that. And you know what I did?” he yelled. “NOTHING. I cried. I locked myself in the bathroom and cried until my face went numb. And then I PUT THE FUCKING DIARY BACK.”

She gasped softly.

“I didn’t tell him I saw it. I didn’t ask him if he was okay. I didn’t do a single goddamn thing—because I thought things had changed. I thought he was okay. I thought you were better.”

“And I chose you,” he spat. “I chose you. Again. After reading that. After knowing what you made him feel. I still fucking chose you.”

His voice dropped to a whisper, ragged and broken.

“Do you know what that makes me?”

She said nothing.

“A coward. A goddamn coward who stood by and watched you kill your son’s spirit inch by inch.”

He stepped back, hands gripping his hair like he could rip the guilt out of his scalp.

“I told myself I’d do better. I promised myself. I thought I’d be there for him. I thought I could fix it. And then tonight happened.”

He looked up, eyes burning.

“And you poisoned him. Not just with the food—but with the message that even now, even after everything, he still doesn’t matter. You were told. You were reminded. You were begged. And you still did it.”

She covered her mouth, sobbing.

“It wasn’t just soup,” he said, venomous. “It was proof. Proof that he never stood a chance in this family.”

She tried to speak, but no words came.

“You could’ve had us,” he whispered. “You had three kids who just wanted to be loved. That’s it. That’s all we wanted. And you threw it away.”

A long pause. He turned, then stopped in the doorway.

“I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make sure Faifa knows he’s not invisible. I’ll fight for Yotha too. But you?”

He looked over his shoulder, eyes hollow.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you. And honestly? I hope you don’t forgive yourself either.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” he said. “But I want him. He’s still my little brother. And I will not lose him because you kept pretending love was something we had to earn.”

And with that, Newton walked out.

No more silence. No more stillness.

Just the sound of her sobbing—raw, ugly, guttural—and the echo of plates rattling under her trembling hands.

But no one came back to help her clean up this time.

She was alone. And she had never deserved it more.

🌸•••🌸

The bedroom door was ajar.

Wine knocked once, softly. “Faifa?”

No answer. Just the sound of breath, shallow and fast.

He pushed the door open gently.

Faifa was sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, shoulders curled in. His hands were knotted together so tightly his knuckles had gone white, his chest rising and falling in erratic rhythm.

Wine closed the door behind him and crossed the room slowly, not saying anything at first. He knelt down in front of Faifa, so they were eye to eye.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Faifa didn’t look up. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I did,” Wine replied. “There was no version of tonight where I wasn’t coming to find you.”

Faifa gave a sharp, humorless laugh that cracked in the middle. “I ruined everything.”

“No,” Wine said. “You just finally said the truth. And they couldn’t handle it.”

Silence.

Faifa blinked rapidly, a tear slipping down one cheek. “I didn’t want to say it like that. I didn’t want to say anything at all. I just—”

“Broke,” Wine finished for him. “You broke.”

Faifa nodded, barely.

Wine reached up and gently cupped the side of his face, guiding Faifa’s gaze to his. “But you didn’t break alone.”

Faifa closed his eyes, more tears coming now. Not loud. Not messy. Just tired. Like something long-frozen had started to thaw and it hurt.

“I’m so tired of being the one no one remembers,” he whispered. “I could disappear and nothing would change.”

“I would change,” Wine said. “I’d never be whole again.”

Faifa let out a breath that shook all the way down his spine. “Why do you stay?”

“Because I see you,” Wine said. “I see you every day, even when you hide. Even when you don’t think you’re worth noticing. And I stay because I love you.”

Faifa’s breath hitched.

Wine reached for his hands, gently pulling them apart from the fists they’d become, threading their fingers together.

“You don’t have to earn love, P’Faifa,” he said. “Not from me.”

Faifa looked at him, his eyes rimmed with red. “But I’m not whole.”

“I don’t need whole,” Wine replied. “I just need you.”

And that—that—was what finally cracked something in Faifa, for real. He leaned forward, forehead pressing into Wine’s shoulder, arms wrapping around him like he was the only steady thing in a world that kept shifting out from under him.

Wine held him, steady and quiet, one hand stroking slow, safe circles on Faifa’s back.

No more words. Just breath. Just presence.

For the first time that night, Faifa let himself cry without shame.

“After a long silence, Faifa murmured into Wine’s chest, voice still shaky:

“I think I emotionally detonated in front of the entire extended trauma club.”

Wine chuckled, lips brushing the top of his head. “You did. And it was hot.

🌸•••🌸

The knock was soft. Hesitant.

Wine looked up from the bed, arms still around Faifa, who hadn’t spoken in a while. His breathing was slow. Barely-there. But present.

Another knock. Then the door creaked open.

Yotha came in first, face wet and drawn tight. Newton followed behind him. His fists were still clenched, knuckles bruised. His eyes were red. He looked like he’d shattered something—maybe a wall, maybe himself.

Neither said anything.

Wine glanced at Faifa. “You want them here?”

Faifa didn’t speak. But his hand clutched Wine’s sleeve, and he gave the smallest nod.

Yotha dropped to the floor beside the bed, like he couldn’t trust his knees. Newton stayed standing, stiff near the wall, breathing like it hurt.

Then Newton said, hoarse: “I told her she doesn’t get to cry. That she doesn’t get to be broken when she’s the one who left us all bleeding.”

His voice cracked.

“I told her she lost us. All of us. And that the worst part—” he paused, choking on it, “—was that I let her. I fucking let her.”

Faifa’s shoulders trembled, but he didn’t look up.

“I loved you more than I ever loved her,” Newton said, louder now, angry at himself. “I always have. You and Yotha—you were everything. And I let her treat you like you were invisible. I stood in the middle like I could fix it all, like being quiet would keep us safe.”

His voice broke again. “But it didn’t. You still got hurt. And I still lost you.”

He took a step forward, then another, like gravity was dragging him.

“I read your diary,” he whispered. “I found it months ago. I laughed when I opened it. I thought I’d find some dumb crush or bad poems. But I didn’t. I found pain. Years of it. Words like knives. Pages of you wondering if anyone would notice if you died.”

He was crying now, silently at first. Then with sound—harsh, gasping sobs.

“I put it back on the shelf like it wasn’t the most important thing I’d ever read. I went home. I did my laundry. I fucking made dinner.”

He dropped to his knees beside the bed, broken wide open.

“I didn’t stay away because I didn’t care. I stayed away because I didn’t know how to come back. I didn’t know how to look at you and not fall apart.”

Faifa turned toward him slowly, lips trembling, eyes swimming.

“I don’t know how to love right,” Newton said. “Not you. Not anyone. I mess it up. I shut down. I disappear. But I don’t want to anymore. I don’t want to lose you again.”

“I’m here. I’m staying. Even if you never forgive me. Even if you hate me. I’ll be here. Because you’re my little brother, and I don’t know how to be anything in this world if I’m not your big brother first.”

Faifa let out a sob, sharp and sudden.

“I wanted to disappear tonight,” he whispered.

“I know,” Newton breathed. “And I wanted to die the day I read your words and did nothing.”

A silence fell between them, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of years. Regret. Love. Everything unsaid until now.

Faifa didn’t say he forgave him. He didn’t say much at all.

But he reached out with shaking hands, and Newton pulled him close.

They cried together, bodies shaking, breath tangled, grief shared for the first time instead of carried alone.

Yotha wiped his face and leaned in, resting his forehead against Faifa’s arm. Wine didn’t let go.

🌸•••🌸

It was quiet the next morning.

The air in the house felt hollow, like the echoes of last night hadn’t finished settling into the walls. Everyone had spoken—but not everything had been said.

Faifa was in the small back garden, wrapped in an old hoodie, his knees pulled up to his chest on the wooden bench. The morning light was soft, the sky still gray with the weight of a day deciding what to become.

He heard the door creak open behind him. Soft steps on the wooden boards.

His father.

“Can I sit?”

Faifa shrugged, not looking up. “It’s your house.”

His father sat anyway, leaving a wide space between them. He didn’t speak for a while.

“I used to come out here when you were a baby,” he said quietly. “Just to breathe. When things got too loud inside.”

Faifa didn’t respond.

His father folded his hands in his lap. “You were the quietest of all the boys. Thoughtful. Not shy. Just… careful. Like you knew early on that words weren’t always worth throwing into a room where no one was listening.”

Faifa looked at him now—eyes guarded but attentive.

“I want to be honest with you,” his father said. “I don’t have a defense. I should have stepped in sooner. I should have seen more. I did see things—but I didn’t always act.”

He exhaled slowly. “I’ve been a coward, Faifa. Not cruel, not neglectful in the way your mother is—but still absent. And absence, I’ve learned, can hurt just as much.”

Faifa’s mouth twitched. “She’s louder. You’re quieter. But you both made me feel the same.”

His father winced, but nodded. “I know.”

He turned toward Faifa, not touching him, not crowding him—just there. Present.

“You’re not invisible to me,” he said. “You never were. I remember things. You loved jigsaw puzzles. You hated oranges. You cried the first time you saw a bird with a broken wing, and you carried it home in your hands like it was the most important thing in the world.”

Faifa swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder for you. For your space in this family. I let your mother’s version of ‘normal’ run the show. I convinced myself I was doing enough by not making things worse.”

He turned away slightly, ashamed.

“But I want to do better. And I want you in my life—not because I feel guilty, or because I want to fix things. But because I love you, Faifa. I have always loved you. Even when I didn’t show it well.”

Faifa was quiet for a long time. The breeze moved through the garden gently, brushing past them like a question waiting for an answer.

“I don’t know if I can be your son again,” Faifa said finally. “Not the way I used to. Not like nothing happened.”

“I don’t expect that,” his father said softly. “I just want to be someone you can call when the world gets heavy. Or when it doesn’t. I want to know who you’re becoming. If you’ll let me.”

Faifa sat still beside him. The morning light fell between them like a wall, pale and cool.

Then, almost in a whisper, Faifa said, “Last night… when I said I could die in front of everyone and it wouldn’t matter…”

His father turned his head toward him, eyes focused now, alert.

“I wasn’t being dramatic,” Faifa said. “I meant it. I still do. That’s how it feels—to be in this house. Like I’m a shadow no one bothers to name.”

His father turned his head toward him, eyes focused now, alert.

“And when I said that,” Faifa continued, “you didn’t even flinch. No one did. You looked away.”

There was silence.

Then, very slowly, his father exhaled—and it broke.

Not loud. Not sudden.

But devastating.

He covered his face with both hands and leaned forward, his body curling in on itself, a tremble running through him as if he were trying to contain something too large to hold.

“I heard it,” he whispered into his hands. “God, Faifa—I heard it. I just couldn’t move.”

Faifa turned to him, eyes widening in shock—not because he wanted the apology, but because he had never seen his father like this.

“I didn’t flinch because I didn’t know how to hold the weight of what you said. I didn’t know how to sit with the knowledge that my son—my child—truly believed that his death wouldn’t mean anything to me.” His voice cracked.

“I failed you,” he said, breath shuddering. “I failed you, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But God, Faifa, I love you so much it hurts.”

The tears ran down his face, unchecked, unhidden. His shoulders shook.

“I think about the things I missed all the time. Every quiet moment where I should’ve looked closer. Every time your mother spoke over you and I said nothing. Every birthday I made smaller so the house would stay calm. I thought I was protecting you. But I was protecting myself.”

Faifa sat frozen. No one had ever cried for him before. Not like this. Not because of him.

“I remember you, Faifa,” his father said again, lifting his face just enough to meet his eyes. “Not just the child you were. The person you are now. And if you died—if you were gone—I wouldn’t know how to keep breathing.”

Faifa stared at him, heart pounding, something inside him trembling too.

He opened his mouth, closed it again.

Finally: “Then why didn’t you say any of this before?”

His father looked gutted. “Because I didn’t think I deserved to.”

The words landed like stones. But they were honest. Raw. Unpolished.

Faifa reached out—not all the way. Just enough. His fingers brushed the bench between them. His father saw it. He didn’t grab his hand. He just placed his own near it, letting the space remain until Faifa chose.

“I don’t forgive you,” Faifa said, his voice hoarse.

“I understand,” his father whispered.

“But I believe you,” Faifa added, quieter still.

That was enough.

For now.

🌸•••🌸

The kitchen was too quiet.

Faifa had just stepped back inside. His eyes were still a little red, his hands stuffed deep in his hoodie pockets, sleeves tugged low. The weight of his father’s tears still lingered in his chest like a bruise he didn’t know how to name.

He didn’t notice his mother at first.

She was sitting at the table, hands folded neatly in front of her, as if rehearsing something. The remains of her untouched tea sat beside her, cold.

“Faifa,” she said, when she saw him.

He paused in the doorway.

She looked nervous. That surprised him. She never looked nervous.

“I wanted to talk to you,” she said, smoothing her blouse like the creases in her sleeves mattered more than the wrinkles in everything else.

He didn’t answer.

She gestured to the seat across from her. “Sit?”

He stayed standing.

Her mouth tightened, then relaxed into a small, uncertain smile. “I know last night got… out of hand. And I’ve been thinking about it. About what you said. What everyone said.”

Faifa crossed his arms.

he couldn’t stay quiet anymore.

“This didn’t start with the soup,” he said. Calm. Steady. Devastated.

She turned, startled. “Faifa—”

“No. You’re going to listen.”

She froze.

“You divorced Dad. Took me. Left Newton and Yotha like they weren’t yours anymore. You never asked if I wanted to leave or come back. You just packed my bag and decided I’d live in your new life. That empty apartment. That silence.”

Her mouth opened—but he didn’t give her space.

“You said it was temporary. You lied. Then you remarried. Had new children. Built a life without me in it. Made a new family. And when I didn't work out in that, you sent me back like I was broken. A return label on your mistake. "

Tears welled in her eyes, but Faifa didn’t soften.

“You abandoned Newton entirely. Left Yotha to grow up alone. And me? You forgot me while I was still in the same house. You love whatever’s easiest. The obedient version of your children—the ones who don’t ask questions. The ones who don’t need you.”

“That’s not true—”

“It is,” he said, his voice suddenly cracking, raw and low. “You call what you gave us love, but it wasn’t. It was convenience. Image. Escape.”

She trembled. “I was trying—”

“No. You were tired. And selfish. And careless. And we paid for it.” His chest heaved, barely containing the years that wanted to rip through him. “You think this is about soup?”

She flinched.

“I don’t care about the soup. I care that you never saw me. That you never wanted to. That you left three sons in three different broken ways and convinced yourself you were doing your best.”

Her face crumpled, but Faifa wasn’t finished.

“I grew up in the cracks between families. I was too much for you. So you left me. Over and over again. And now you want what? Forgiveness? A reset?”

He shook his head, biting down grief like glass in his throat.

“I don’t hate you. But I don’t want you in my life.”

Her breath hitched. “You don’t mean that—”

“I do,” he said, eyes fierce through the tears. “Stay away from me. From us. We are trying to rebuilt something without you and maybe for the first time it will actually work"

He stepped past her. This time, he didn’t look back.

She stayed in the hallway, silent, surrounded by memories she’d left unloved, and doors that would never open for her again.

🌸•••🌸

Faifa didn’t cry when he stepped out of the hallway.

He had nothing left to cry with.

But something inside him felt… different. Not healed. Not whole. But unlocked.

The silence in the house felt less suffocating now. Less like a weight, more like space. A space he could breathe in.

He walked upstairs, slower than usual, as if his legs weren’t sure they could carry this new kind of freedom. In his room, he sat on the edge of the bed—and for the first time, he didn’t feel like he was sinking into it. He just sat. Still.

The door creaked open. Soft footsteps followed.

Wine.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just walked in like he belonged there, and knelt in front of Faifa.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

Faifa didn’t answer. He just looked at him. And then—he smiled.

“Do I look okay?” Faifa asked.

Wine gave him a once-over. “You look like someone who finally said everything they’ve been holding back since 2006 and needs a nap, a massage, and possibly… a very long, very horizontal cuddle.”

Faifa laughed softly. “I’m free all day.”

“Good,” Wine said, already toeing off his shoes. “Because I’m about to be horizontal and clingy.”

🌸•••🌸

Faifa’s expression tightened. “Do you think I was too harsh?”

Wine smiled, soft and proud. “No. I think you were perfectly harsh.”

Faifa let out a shaky laugh, his shoulders finally relaxing.

“I wish I could say it felt heroic,” he said. “It didn’t. It just… felt necessary. Like I was finally drawing a line.”

“Necessary is better than heroic,” Wine said, brushing a hand through Faifa’s hair. “You’ve spent too long shrinking yourself for people who only saw the version of you they wanted.”

“I told her,” he said, breathless. “Everything.”

Wine’s eyes softened. “I heard.”

Faifa let out a laugh. A strange, shaky, relieved kind of laugh. “It was awful. I think I was awful. But I feel like I can finally breathe.”

Wine didn’t say anything. He just reached forward and took Faifa’s hands.

And Faifa let him.

“I thought I’d feel empty after,” Faifa murmured. “But I don’t. I feel… lighter.”

Wine smiled at him then, something proud and warm and gentle in his face. “That’s because you let go of something you were never meant to carry.”

Faifa’s lips parted, and for a moment, he looked like he might cry again—but not from pain.

From relief.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Wine’s, and whispered, “Thank you for coming after me.”

“Always,” Wine whispered back. “Wherever you go, I’m there.”

Faifa pulled back just enough to see Wine’s face—close, steady, waiting for him without pressure.

“Thank you,” Faifa said softly. “For being here. For seeing me when it felt like no one else ever did.”

Wine’s thumb brushed over the back of his hand, slow and grounding. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” Faifa said, voice thick now—but not with sorrow. “Because you’re part of the family I’m choosing. The one that doesn’t forget me. Doesn’t erase me.”

Wine’s breath caught—just a little.

And then Faifa leaned in and kissed him.

Not cautious. Not careful.

But full of everything he hadn’t been allowed to say, all the hunger for closeness he’d hidden for too long. It was desperate, but not sad—just full. Overflowing. A fire finally given air.

Wine kissed him back with the same urgency, one hand rising to cradle the back of Faifa’s neck. They held each other like something sacred, something salvaged.

When they broke apart, both breathless, Faifa smiled—truly smiled. The kind that lit his whole face.

 "I don’t know what comes next. But I know I want you in it.”

Wine grinned, resting his forehead against Faifa’s once more.

“Then we build something better,” he said. “From here. Together.”

And Faifa, for the first time in years, believed it.

Chapter Text

Yotha found him first.

It was late that night when he knocked on Faifa’s door, peeking in without waiting for a full invitation. Faifa was curled up on his bed, half under a blanket, scrolling on his phone.

“You okay?” Yotha asked, voice cautious.

Faifa nodded. “Yeah.”

Yotha came in, flopped onto the bed beside him like they were still kids.

“She called,” Yotha said.

Faifa was on the bed already, blanket up to his chest, staring at the ceiling.

“She called me too,” he said quietly.

Newton slipped in a moment later and shut the door. “Same. Said we were ungrateful. Said we hurt her.”

“Said I’ve changed,” Faifa murmured.

Yotha scoffed. “She said that like it’s a bad thing.”

There was a beat of silence.

“God,” Yotha added, dropping onto the bed. “I told you. I told you I shouldn’t have forgiven her the first time.”

Faifa glanced over, unsure if he was serious.

But Yotha just shrugged. “But nooo. You said, ‘Maybe it’ll be better this time.’ And like an idiot, I listened.”

Faifa sighed. “I just didn’t want you to carry it forever.”

“I was fine carrying it. She’s the one who keeps throwing it back.”

Newton sat down on the floor beside the bed, cross-legged. “Are you okay?” he asked.

Faifa hesitated. “I didn’t yell. I didn’t say anything cruel. I just said what I felt. And now she’s acting like I burned the house down.”

Yotha looked at him. “You didn’t.”

Faifa shifted. “But are you guys mad? I mean… I know things are kind of different now. I just—if I made it worse—”

Yotha cut him off with a laugh. “Fai. You didn’t make it worse. It was already worse. You just stopped lying about it.”

Newton added, “We’re not mad at you. We’re glad you finally said something.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Yotha said. “You didn’t ruin the family. That version of the family didn’t work. Not for you. Not for any of us.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s just us,” Newton said simply. “And I’m good with that.”

Yotha nodded. “Honestly, this is the healthiest we’ve ever been.”

Faifa let out a breath. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Yotha echoed. “Now scoot over. Your blanket looks warm and I’m stealing half.”

Faifa rolled his eyes but didn’t stop him.

And no one said anything else—because the truth had already been said. Finally.

🌸•••🌸

Their group chat, once dead, was now very much alive. It began with Yotha sending a blurry selfie from the gym:

Yotha: i look good. everyone shut up and agree.

Faifa: you look like a confused protein bar.

Newton: sir that’s a granola bar at best.

Yotha replied with a zoomed-in photo of his bicep and a voice message that was just him saying “power” in a low growl.

Faifa sent back a 0.5x speed voice memo of himself laughing.

Newton: god help this family.

🌸•••🌸

Thursday Nights

It wasn’t something they planned.

But after that night—the night Faifa said it all out loud, and no one tried to fix it or shrink it—they started showing up.

The next Thursday, Newton texted:

Bar’s quiet. You around?

Faifa was.

Yotha showed up twenty minutes later, claiming he was only there because Gun made soup that tasted like betrayal.

They didn’t bring up their mom.

They didn’t talk about apologies.

They just… talked.

Small stuff. Songs Faifa was working on. The time Newton saw a man order milk at 1 a.m. Yotha complaining about how Gun keeps adopting plants and forgetting to water them.

And maybe that’s why it worked.

There was no grand gesture. No “healing moment.” Just three brothers sitting around, knowing no one would have to explain themselves.

⸻

By the fourth Thursday, Newton had moved them to the rooftop above the bar—claimed the barstools were making his back worse. Yotha brought snacks this time. Faifa brought nothing but sarcasm.

They sat in cheap lawn chairs, watching the city breathe.

“I’m thinking of adding a piano to the upstairs lounge,” Newton said suddenly, passing a bottle of water to Faifa.

“You don’t even play,” Faifa said.

“But you do.”

Faifa didn’t answer. Just took a sip. But he stayed until midnight.

⸻

A few weeks later, it rained.

They didn’t cancel.

The bar was closed, chairs up, music low and lo-fi. Newton was writing something in a notebook. Yotha cleaned out a glass that didn’t need cleaning. Faifa sat on the bar with a soda, legs swinging.

“I used to think none of you really knew me,” he said. Not loudly. Just… out loud.

No one said a thing.

“Maybe I didn’t really let you.”

Newton looked up. “We didn’t exactly try hard either.”

Yotha didn’t speak. But he poured Faifa another soda—no ice, just the way he liked it.

It felt like enough.

⸻

Sometimes the nights were messier.

Yotha tried to cook in the bar’s tiny kitchen once. Newton burned a pan. Faifa sliced bread with surgical precision, then laughed when no one noticed.

They made terrible grilled cheese. Drank warm beer. Yotha started complaining about Gun’s taste in TV. Faifa defended him like it was a sport.

It wasn’t therapy. It wasn’t reconciliation.

It was just dinner.

“We’re not a normal family,” Yotha muttered, flicking a crumb at Newton.

“Thank God,” Faifa said.

And they all cracked up.

⸻

One night, Faifa arrived first.

He didn’t say much. Didn’t smile. Just dropped his bag, took a seat, and rested his forehead against the bar.

Newton didn’t ask questions. Just set a glass down beside him and said, “Didn’t water down the soda this time.”

Faifa let out a small, half-laugh.

Yotha arrived ten minutes later, tossed Faifa a spring roll, and took the seat beside him without a word.

They stayed like that for a long while.

Just being.

⸻

Late one Thursday night, as the bar lights dimmed and they sat in the quiet hum of the fridge and the ceiling fan, Faifa spoke without thinking.

“I used to think I didn’t want a family.”

Newton raised an eyebrow. Yotha sipped his drink.

“Now I know I just didn’t want that family.”

He paused, then added, almost reluctantly:

“This? This I could live with.”

Yotha reached for his glass and raised it wordlessly.

They all toasted—not to forgiveness. Not to the past.

Just to Thursday.

To being here.

To still trying.

____

It was a quiet Thursday night.

Faifa was wrapped in a throw blanket like a human burrito, half-asleep against the bar counter. Newton was lazily organizing coasters. Yotha hadn’t shown up yet—something about Gun and a malfunctioning rice cooker.

Faifa had barely spoken all night, just hummed in response to Newton’s bad playlist and poked at his drink.

Then, out of nowhere:

“Can I get a hug?”

Newton looked up, mid-coaster-stack, blinking like he’d misheard.

“What, from me?”

Faifa nodded, the blanket shifting slightly as he sat up. “Don’t make it weird. Just… you know.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely making it weird,” Newton said, already crossing the floor with open arms. “You’re done for.”

Faifa snorted but didn’t move away. Newton scooped him into a hug like he was handling a very delicate, very sarcastic piece of glassware.

“You’re warm,” Faifa muttered.

“I’ve been simmering all day just for this moment.”

“Gross.”

But Faifa didn’t pull away.

And Newton didn’t rush it.

They stayed like that, warm and wordless, until the rooftop door creaked open.

Yotha stepped in. Saw the hug.

Paused.

“Seriously? I leave for one hour and Newton turns into the emotional support unit?”

Faifa didn’t look up. “You were late.”

“I was saving Gun from rice-related death.”

“So you chose carbohydrates over me.”

“I thought we had something!”

“We do,” Newton said, still hugging Faifa. “It’s called sibling neglect, and I’m here to fix it.”

Yotha groaned. “Oh no.”

Newton turned his head slowly. “You’re next.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Emotional ambush. Full-body contact. No escape.”

Yotha backed up, hands raised. “Don’t. I’m warning you.”

“I contain multitudes, and all of them are huggers.”

“I will leave. I will jump off this roof.”

“You’ll land in a hug.”

“This is a violation of my rights!”

“I made you,” Newton declared. “I get one free hug per decade.”

Faifa was now openly laughing, face buried in Newton’s shoulder. “Please hug him. He deserves it.”

Newton advanced like a villain in a sitcom. Yotha darted behind a chair.

“We’re not doing this!”

“Oh, we are. One of you asked for a hug and now I’m emotionally activated. This is who I am now.”

Faifa slid to the floor, still wrapped in his blanket, tears of laughter in his eyes.

Yotha eventually gave in—because he tripped, or because Newton is secretly stronger than he looks, no one would ever confirm.

The group hug was lopsided, chaotic, and full of poorly concealed affection.

Yotha grumbled the entire time.

“I hate this. I hate both of you. Let go.”

“You smell like jasmine tea,” Newton said.

“I WILL REPORT YOU.”

Faifa leaned into the chaos, muttering, “We should do this every week.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Yotha snapped, pinned under two-thirds of the sibling unit.

“Too late,” Newton beamed. “Thursday night: drinks, drama, and unsolicited emotional growth.”

They eventually peeled apart, panting from laughter.

And Faifa—still in his blanket, cheeks pink, heart steady—looked at them both and said, softly:

“I really needed that.”

Yotha didn’t argue this time.

He just reached for the chips and mumbled, “Next week, I’m showing up in armor.”

____

The message came on a Tuesday. Short. Casual, like nothing had happened.

His birthday’s next week. He’d love to see you. Maybe we could all get lunch. Just you and me, for a bit. Talk.

Faifa read it three times, thumb hovering over the reply.

He didn’t answer right away.

That night, he brought it up—Thursday, of course. Rooftop, late, soda in hand.

“She texted me,” he said.

Yotha didn’t even look up from his bag of chips. “Let me guess. ‘Poor sweet Aron. So innocent. Wouldn’t it be nice if his big brother came around for his birthday?’”

Faifa blinked. “That was alarmingly accurate.”

Newton snorted. “She’s got a formula. Guilt bait, nostalgia trap, finish with a sprinkle of martyrdom.”

“I don’t want to avoid Aron,” Faifa said, quiet. “He’s a kid. It’s not his fault.”

“No one’s saying you should,” Yotha said. “But let’s be honest—she’s not inviting you. She’s inviting the version of you she thinks she still controls.”

Faifa nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

He paused. Then: “I just wish she’d love him. Really love him. The way she couldn’t with us. Maybe if I show up—”

“No,” Newton cut in gently. “That’s not on you. Aron’s her son. If she can’t love him without conditions, that’s her failure. Not something you can fix by smiling through it. I won’t let you do that anymore ”

🌸•••🌸

A sunny afternoon. The park is scattered with balloons, picnic tables, and kids running with cake-sticky fingers. The party is modest but bright. A banner reads in shaky marker letters: “Happy Birthday, Aron!”

Near the tables, their mother stands smiling tightly, adjusting paper plates and making conversation with other parents. She keeps glancing at the gate.

She expects one son with a boyfriend maybe.

She does not expect all of them.

But they arrive— Faifa, Yotha, Newton , followed by Gun and Wine .

Their mother freezes. Her smile falters.

Faifa is the first to greet her, short and neutral. “We came for Aron.”

She opens her mouth to say something—probably aimed at Faifa—but Yotha cuts in, voice even. “Don’t make this about you.”

Gun places a gift on the table, his hand resting lightly at Yotha’s back. Wine stays close to Faifa, an unreadable look on his face. Silent, steady.

Then—

June bursts forward. “P'Faifa!”

Faifa’s whole face softens. He bends down just in time for her to tackle him in a hug. She’s grinning wide, tears on her cheeks.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too, June.”

She doesn’t let go. “You came.”

“Of course I did. You and Aron are my family.”

From across the yard, a little voice shrieks: “ P'Faifa! ”

It’s Aron —small, stunned, and now suddenly sobbing as he runs over. He barrels into Faifa, wrapping his arms around his waist, crying so hard his shoulders shake.

Faifa holds him tight.

“Hey, hey—Aron, I’m here. We’re here.”

Aron looks up through tears at the circle of brothers, his little voice cracking. “You came for me?”

Yotha kneels beside him. “Of course we did. You think we’d miss your birthday? You’re stuck with us, kid.”

Aron wipes his eyes. “Even P'New?”

Newton snorts. “Rude. But yeah. Even me.”

Their mother watches from the background—speechless. This wasn’t the scene she imagined.

They sit. They eat. They help with the cake and laugh with the kids. June sticks to Faifa’s side like glue. Aron doesn’t stop beaming.

Gun quietly cuts pieces of cake for the younger kids. Wine makes June laugh by pretending to get frosting on his nose. Every single one of them finds a way to make the moment about Aron and June —and not about her.

At one point, she approaches again, voice quiet, hopeful. “It means a lot that you came. Maybe this can be—”

Newton interrupts. “Don’t.”

She blinks. “I just thought—”

Faifa’s voice is calm. “We’re not here to rewrite anything. We’re here because Aron and June are part of us. That’s all.”

She looks at them, at the solid wall of unity she never expected to face.

Yotha adds without venom: “We love them. That doesn’t mean we forget.”

Newton crosses his arms. “Don’t mistake presence for permission.”

Yotha , still seated, doesn’t even look at her when he says, “You don’t get us back just because we showed up.”

She says nothing. Slowly walks away.

🌸•••🌸

The sun is lower now. Kids are trickling out with their parents. The brothers linger, gathering empty cups and folding chairs. June and Aron sit in the grass, poking at leftover cake with plastic forks.

Faifa watches them quietly. Aron is giggling over something June whispered. She’s got frosting on her cheek. They’re happy. They’re just kids.

Faifa smiles. Then the smile falters.

Yotha notices. Comes to stand beside him. “You okay?”

Faifa nods slowly. “They’re just… so good. So untouched by all of it.”

Yotha glances toward the kids, then back at his brother. “That’s not an accident, you know. She have a reason to be obliged to love them" Maybe Yotha was just a little angry. You know, the emotionally constipated kind — all clenched jaw and dramatic sighs.

Faifa swallows. “She loves them. Because it makes her look like a better mother now. With her new husband, her second try. She puts in the effort—for them.”

Yotha says nothing.

“I’m glad,” Faifa adds, voice low. “I want them to be loved. I begged her to love me, it didn't work. They don't have to try. But sometimes it feels like… that love came out of what she learned failing us.”

“Maybe,” Yotha says.

Faifa exhales. “It’s just hard to hold both things at once—being happy for them, and still hurting for us.”

Yotha nods. “That’s what being the older one means, huh?”

Faifa manages a small smile. “Yeah. I just don’t want them to have to go through what we had to.”

Yotha puts a hand on his shoulder. “Then we make sure they don’t.”

Across the park, June waves excitedly . “P'Fai! Come sit with us!”

Aron shouts, mouth full of cake: “We saved you the best slice!”

Faifa looks at them—his heart aching and full all at once.

“Go,” Yotha says. “You’ve earned the best slice.”

Faifa walks over, kneels between them, and lets Aron rest against his side. June’s hand wraps around his wrist like she’s afraid he’ll vanish.

And even with the ache still there, he knows this is worth it —loving them fully, freely, with nothing held back. Even if it never fixes what came before.

He just hopes it’s enough to build something better now.

🌸•••🌸

The ride back was quiet at first.

Newton was at the wheel, focused on the road, jaw relaxed but eyes alert. Yotha lounged in the passenger seat, one foot propped against the dash, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. In the back, Faifa sat behind Yotha, head tilted against the window, Wine curled into his side with no regard for personal space, legs draped halfway over Gun, who was pressed up against the opposite door and silently tolerating it. Gun, for his part, had one earbud in and was flipping through Aron’s handmade thank-you card with the kind of care reserved for rare artifacts.

It had been a long day. A loud day. A necessary one.

And now, under the soft glow of highway lights, everything was still.

Until Wine, nestled against Faifa like a cat who’d claimed a lap, broke the silence.

“Okay but—let’s admit it—Aron’s taste in people? Impeccable.”

Gun didn’t even look up. “He gave me a sticker and then told me I wasn’t allowed to talk to June without clearance.”

Yotha smirked from the front seat. “And you listened.”

“Obviously. Kid had authority.”

Faifa chuckled under his breath. “He also asked if we could come back every weekend.”

“That was after he tried to feed me icing with his fingers,” Wine mumbled.

Yotha glanced back. “He let you near the cake? I had to trade three juice boxes just to get a slice.”

Newton, still driving, sighed. “I didn’t even get cake.”

“Because you showed up late,” Gun pointed out.

“I was in the bathroom !”

“Still your fault ,” Yotha added

“Okay,” Newton said, completely unfazed, “but let’s talk about how I’m the one driving all of you home and yet somehow the only one without a boyfriend.”

There was a beat. Then Faifa, without lifting his head, said dryly, “Sounds like a personal problem.”

Gun grinned, smug. “We offered to set you up.”

“With who?” Newton asked. “your emotionally unavailable friends? Yotha’s exes who still send him death wishes ?”

Yotha didn’t even blink. “Don’t be jealous just because I inspire loyalty. They still think of me after all this time"

Gun finally looked up. “That’s one word for it.”

Wine snorted and nuzzled closer into Faifa, who leaned his head gently on top of Wine’s without hesitation. No one commented on it. No one needed to. It was familiar now—easy. Soft, and theirs.

Newton huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Unbelievable. All of you, disgustingly in love.”

Gun gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder from behind. “Hang in there, P'. Someone out there probably likes emotionally repressed control freaks.”

“Thanks, I feel seen,” Newton muttered.

“Don’t worry,” Faifa said. “We’ll write you into the next family group Valentine’s.”

“By name,” Gun added. “With glitter.”

Yotha stretched in the front seat. “Only if he earns it. Maybe he needs to be the emotional support boyfriend for once.”

“I support you emotionally every time I agree to drive,” Newton said flatly.

Everyone laughed—easy and genuine.

Gun leaned back again, letting his head bump lightly against the window. “You guys did good, though. Showing up. Letting them know you're still here.”

Yotha nodded. “They needed it.”

Faifa didn’t say anything, but his hand found Wine’s without looking, fingers twining together.

The car settled again into silence—not heavy, not tired. Just full of something good.

Family.

Even if it looked a little different now.

Newton muttered just loud enough:

“If one more person cuddles, I’m pulling over.”

Laughter again. Because no one was going to stop.

🌸•••🌸

The rooftop looked like a new place.

Sunlight spilled across the tiles like it had missed them. The city hummed softly below, but up here, it felt like the world was quiet just for them. Warm air, four drinks sweating on the ledge, and nothing heavy left to carry.

Faifa stood near the edge, arms out like he could touch the whole sky. His breath filled his chest without resistance. He closed his eyes—and screamed.

Loud. Joyful. Unapologetic.

Not a scream of sadness. Not one of pain.

Just release. Like all the years of shrinking had finally burned off him.

And then he laughed.

God, he laughed. It burst out of him, full-body and breathless, so sharp and sudden it startled birds from the railings. He clutched his stomach and nearly crumpled to the ground.

Wine startled slightly—then laughed too. Because this was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Faifa, unfiltered and loud, so light he could have floated. The boy who once whispered his pain like a confession was now laughing so hard he hiccupped.

“I’m perfect,” Faifa choked out between gasps.

“You always were,” Wine smiled, heart stretched wide and soft.

Faifa turned, wild with energy, and launched himself at him. He wrapped his arms around Wine’s neck and kissed him hard, messy, grinning against his mouth.

“You,” Faifa said, “are the best decision I ever made.”

Wine’s voice caught. “And you’re everything I never believed I’d have.”

Behind them, Gun shrieked. “Okay, break it up! Some of us are single parents to emotional baggage!”

Faifa turned like a tornado and tackled Gun next. They crashed into a heap, Gun squeaking in protest.

“You stayed, ” Faifa said, hugging him like a lifeline. “You chose us.”

Gun blinked. He hadn’t expected to feel so wrecked by that. “Of course I did. You two are mine now. Forever.”

Faifa kissed his cheek. “You’re family, Gun. My rainbow friend. My emergency contact. My partner-in-crime. Whether you like it or not.”

Gun groaned. “You’re disgusting.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” he admitted softly.

Faifa turned to him. Really turned. And for a second, neither moved.

His smile softened, but it didn’t fade.

Yotha stood nearby, too still, too quiet, still watching like he hadn’t convinced himself he belonged in this kind of scene yet.

Faifa crossed the space in two steps and wrapped his arms around his brother like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You can stop now,” Faifa whispered.

Yotha stiffened, confused. “Stop?”

“Trying,” Faifa said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “You can stop trying to be part of my life. You already are. You’re not fixing anything. You’re here . Just be here. I want you here.”

And Yotha—God, Yotha nearly broke.

“You mean it?”

“Of course I do.” Faifa kissed his cheek without warning.

Faifa pulled back slightly, hands still on his shoulders. “You are. You’re part of my life again. Not because you earned it. Just because you stayed.”

A single laugh broke from Yotha’s chest, quiet and surprised. “You’re exhausting when you’re healed.”

“And glorious,” Faifa added, glowing.

“Infuriating,” Gun chimed in.

“Radiant,” Wine said, grinning.

Faifa turned around dramatically. “New rooftop rule: we love loudly and unconditionally and probably annoy each other about it.”

“Too late,” Wine murmured, resting his chin on Faifa’s shoulder. “I’ve been annoying with love for months.”

Faifa laughed again—loud, warm, weightless.

They collapsed together in a messy pile on the ground—legs tangled, hands overlapping, hearts full. Someone’s foot was in someone else’s lap. Faifa’s head ended up in Gun’s stomach. Wine’s hand found his. Yotha tossed a leftover tangerine slice at a bird.

It was loud, and clumsy, and perfect.

Faifa looked up at the sky. It didn’t seem so far away anymore. It looked like something that belonged to him now.

The rooftop that once held his silence now held his laughter. His family. His joy.

He glanced around at them—Wine, steady and glowing; Yotha, finally still, finally present; Gun, loud and chaotic and so deeply part of this world.

Faifa smiled so wide it hurt.

“I didn’t think I’d ever feel like this,” he whispered.

Wine leaned closer. “Like what?”

Faifa looked at all of them.

“Loved out loud.”

Gun rolled his eyes. “You’re gonna make me cry, and I’ve only got one tissue and it’s covered in snack crumbs.”

Yotha snorted, head tipped back toward the sky.

Wine just kissed his temple. “You deserve it. Every version of you.”

Faifa closed his eyes and let himself believe it.

This was the version he never thought he’d live to meet—the Faifa who didn’t flinch when someone called him precious. Who didn’t apologize for needing. Who laughed too loudly and hugged too long and never once said “I’m fine” when he wasn’t.

He had made it.

Not to perfect.

To peace.

And he wasn’t alone.

Chapter Text

EXTRA 1

The Idealist

Pon’s POV

The cafeteria buzzed with energy, but Pon sat quietly at the corner of the table, half-watching his seniors like they were characters in a series he didn’t fully understand. Everyone looked relaxed. Yotha was leaning lazily into Gun’s side, Arm was scrolling his phone with half-lidded focus, and Wine—quiet, delicate P’Wine—was sipping something that looked like it tasted like sadness.

Pon tilted his head. Something felt off.

“P’Wine, why are you so sad?” he asked, genuine curiosity tugging at his voice.

Wine blinked, clearly startled. His quiet nature still made Pon nervous, like talking to a pond that might ripple or swallow you whole.

“I got a bad grade in English,” Wine said with a small, soft smile. “But it’s not serious. I can retake the exam.”

Pon frowned. That wasn’t the point. It wasn’t the grade. It was the look in P’Wine’s eyes—tight, tired, something unspoken. And maybe it was none of his business. But something in him, some ache to understand , made him push anyway.

“But isn’t P’Faifa really good at English?” Pon asked. “Why didn’t he help you?”

He didn’t mean to sound accusing. He really didn’t. But love—love should mean knowing what the other person needs. Shouldn’t it?

Wine’s expression tensed. “P’Faifa has a lot of exams right now. It’s not that he didn’t help—I didn’t ask him. On purpose.”

The answer didn’t sit right with Pon.

“But he’s your boyfriend. He should know when you need something. It’s his duty to help you! He knows you’re bad at English. He shouldn’t wait for you to ask.”

He realized too late how quiet the table had become. The shift in atmosphere hit like a cold gust.

Wine’s response wasn’t loud. But it was sharp. Clear.

“P’Faifa has no obligation.”

Pon blinked. No obligation?

That wasn’t how he’d grown up seeing love. Love meant sacrifice. Proof. Big gestures. The people who loved you were supposed to show up , without asking. Right?

He hadn’t expected Wine’s voice to hold that kind of strength.

“I didn’t ask him on purpose. He always puts others first—even when it hurts him. At least I, his boyfriend, can choose not to be a burden to him"

The rest of the conversation blurred after that—some laughter, some tension, a sharp reprimand from P’Yotha, who looked like he might actually throw Pon off the table. And then Faifa arrived, sunshine in human form, all bright grins and loud declarations. And Pon… wanted to disappear.

Because he knew.

He’d said too much, and understood too little.

And as Faifa rushed to his side, asking who’d made him cry, concern spilling from every inch of him—

Pon felt something unfamiliar twist in his chest.

Regret.

Not just because he’d been rude.

But because, for the first time, he realized he might not know what love really was.

____

Pon didn’t sleep well that night.

The conversation replayed over and over in his head—his own words echoing with too much bite, P’Wine’s calm voice like a mirror he hadn’t wanted to look into.

“He has no obligation.”

He’d thought love meant responsibility. Like… a checklist. You’re someone’s person, so you do the things they need. Anticipate. Provide. Prove it.

But Wine had rejected all of that—and still sounded like the one protecting Faifa.

What kind of love is that?

The next few days, Pon stayed quieter than usual. He still hung out with the group, but his eyes watched more than his mouth moved.

He started noticing things he’d missed before:

How Faifa always leaned into Wine’s space when Wine was anxious, but never touched him first—like he knew the boundary and waited for permission.

How Wine always brought Faifa a bottle of water after classes. No grand announcement. Just a small routine. A small need, quietly met.

How Gun always stood a little behind Yotha when they fought—close enough to reach, far enough to let him have space.

How Arm listened . Really listened. The kind of listening where you weren’t waiting to speak—you were waiting to understand.

None of them were perfect. Faifa could be too loud. Yotha too guarded. Gun too blunt. Wine too withdrawn.

But the way they loved each other…

It wasn’t about being perfect.

It was about showing up. Quietly. Consistently. Without needing to be asked.

That , Pon realized, was harder than grand gestures.

Harder—and maybe more beautiful.

____

It started with the shelf.

Gun was humming again—something soft and old-fashioned—as he rearranged a stack of books and tiny plant pots on the cabinet in his and Yotha’s apartment. Pon watched from the couch, unsure if he should help or just sit quietly.

“You’re always fixing stuff here,” Pon said before he could stop himself.

Gun didn’t turn around. “Yotha’s hopeless with design. He put a shoehorn on this shelf once and called it modern art.”

Pon smiled, but his voice was still thoughtful. “He doesn’t ask you to do it, though.”

“No,” Gun said, placing a framed photo down with gentle precision. “I do it because I want to. That’s how I show care.”

“But you don’t expect anything back?”

Gun turned to face him then, something calm and knowing in his expression. “If you love someone just to be loved back, that’s not love. That’s a transaction.”

The words hit harder than Pon expected.

He nodded once, but said nothing.

⸻

Later that afternoon, Pon wandered to the common room at the university, looking for his charger. He spotted P’Arm seated on the floor, organizing group worksheets into neat piles. No one else had stayed to clean up.

Without being asked, Pon crouched beside him and handed over a stray paper.

“Thanks,” Arm said easily, as if Pon had always been the kind of person who stayed behind.

They worked in silence for a few minutes before Pon asked, quietly, “P’Arm… how do you know someone really cares about you?”

Arm paused, a paper half-folded in his hands.

“I don’t,” he said honestly. “But I watch what they do when no one’s watching.”

He looked up at Pon, his smile easy but serious. “Love isn’t what people say. It’s what they choose to keep doing , even when no one notices.”

Pon swallowed that slowly. It sat heavy in his chest.

⸻

By evening, Pon’s mind was still restless.

He returned to Yotha’s place—an excuse about needing to review notes. He found the older boy alone, making tea. It smelled like jasmine and something warm.

Yotha handed him a cup. No questions.

“P’Yotha,” Pon said after a while. “Can I ask something stupid?”

Yotha raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt.

“…I used to think P’Faifa was kind of… soft,” Pon admitted. “Too soft. But I think I was wrong.”

Yotha didn’t smile. But his voice was gentle. “You were.”

Pon looked down. “He’s stronger than he looks.”

“He’s stronger than most of us,” Yotha said. “But he’s had to be.”

There was a pause. The tea cooled in Pon’s hands.

Yotha added, almost as an afterthought, “I’m glad you’re seeing it now. He deserves to be seen.”

Pon didn’t trust himself to speak.

⸻

The next day, Pon was exhausted. He’d skipped lunch, powered through his lectures, and was halfway through a headache when a voice called to him from behind.

“Oi, snack goblin,” Faifa said, pressing something into his hand. A protein bar. “You’re getting cranky. Eat.”

Pon stared at the wrapper. Almond butter.

He opened his mouth to ask how Faifa knew, but the older boy had already turned to leave, tossing him a wink.

And for a second, Pon wanted to cry.

Not because he was tired. Not because he was hungry.

But because that bar wasn’t a grand gesture. It wasn’t an obligation.

It was just care. Not asked for. Not expected.

And it meant more than anything loud.

⸻

That night, Pon sat in bed, pen hovering over his journal. He stared at the blank page for a long time, before writing:

“They don’t love with noise.

They love with hands full of groceries. A fixed shelf. A look that says, I see you.

I’ve been looking for love in fireworks.

But maybe it’s been in the leftovers this whole time.”

He set the pen down.

And tomorrow—he’d find Faifa.

Not to be forgiven.

But to apologize.

_____

Pon didn’t plan it.

He’d imagined a dozen versions of how it would go—pulling Faifa aside with a dramatic bow, offering a hand-written letter, maybe even tearing up a little for effect. But when the moment came, it wasn’t in some cinematic corner of campus or during a quiet night.

It was just lunch.

The usual cafeteria table. The usual noise. Faifa had just arrived, plopping down beside Wine with a grin, still dusted with sunlight and whatever magic made him glow even during midterms.

Pon sat opposite him. His hands were sweating.

Faifa tore open his juice box. “Pon, you look like you’re about to confess you failed math or joined a cult.”

Pon inhaled. “I was wrong.”

The table stilled. Even the straw froze halfway to Faifa’s mouth.

“I was wrong,” Pon said again, louder this time. “About you. About… love.”

Faifa blinked, then slowly set his drink down. “Well. That’s not ominous at all.”

“I said something stupid a while back,” Pon continued, eyes fixed on the table. “When you weren’t there. About you. About how you’re not a good boyfriend because you didn’t help P’Wine with English.”

He heard a soft sigh from Wine’s direction. Faifa stayed quiet.

Pon forced himself to look up.

“I didn’t get it then. I thought love meant always knowing, always fixing, always… being perfect. But now I think it’s more like…” He struggled for words. “More like showing up. Not because you have to. But because you want to. Because you choose to.”

Faifa was still watching him. Not smiling. Not teasing.

Just listening.

“I saw it. All of it,” Pon said. “How you take care of people. How Wine takes care of you. How you let each other be instead of trying to fix everything. That’s love. That’s… the kind I want to learn.”

Faifa tilted his head, one elbow on the table, expression unreadable.

“Are you done?”

Pon swallowed. “I think so.”

“Good,” Faifa said, finally smiling. “Because I was this close to hugging you mid-sentence and embarrassing you in front of all these people.”

Pon blinked. “Wait—what?”

“I forgive you, Nong,” Faifa said, reaching out and ruffling Pon’s hair. “You were just a baby when you said it. And now look—you’ve grown.”

Wine raised an eyebrow. “That was three weeks ago.”

“Time moves fast in the emotional development world,” Faifa said proudly.

The table eased into laughter again. The tension cracked, then melted.

Pon smiled, despite himself. But the guilt still curled in his chest.

He’d wanted that moment to mean something. And Faifa had laughed through it like it was a joke.

Which is why it surprised him when, later, as they were leaving the café, Wine walked a little slower beside him and said, without looking:

“I know what you were trying to say earlier, P'Faifa told me.”

Pon glanced over, startled.

Wine offered him the softest smile.

“You didn’t owe anyone an apology. But you gave it anyway. That’s more than most people ever do.”

Pon opened his mouth—but Wine stopped him with a quiet pat on the shoulder.

“The fact that you saw it… and cared enough to change?” Wine said. “That’s love, too.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

And for the first time, Pon didn’t feel like he was chasing something impossible.

He was just… catching up.

____

Pon never heard the rooftop conversation.

He only heard about it—whispers from Gun, a glance from Arm, Wine’s quiet exhaustion. Something had happened. Something important had happened — something that cracked open a fragile space between Faifa and P’Yotha. And now, they were trying to piece it back together"

Pon didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.

What he did do, though, was start watching more closely.

He noticed the way Faifa walked a little more loosely now when Yotha was nearby—like a wall had been taken down between them, one brick at a time. He noticed how Yotha didn’t just hover anymore—he sat, stayed, sometimes even listened.

And then, there were the things Pon hadn’t noticed before. The quiet things.

Like how Faifa always asked everyone if they’d eaten—every time, without fail. How he always remembered who didn’t like cilantro. Who preferred cold tea. Who needed quiet when they studied.

Or how Wine knew exactly when Faifa’s smile was real and when it was paper-thin.

Or how Gun never left a room without checking whether Yotha was holding too much in.

They didn’t teach love.

They lived it.

And Pon—he’d been blind to all of it.

⸻

It started small.

One afternoon, he picked up Yotha’s jacket from the back of a chair and folded it without thinking. Yotha blinked at him but didn’t comment.

Another time, Arm was collecting old quiz sheets, and Pon stood without being asked, helping him stack them.

When Gun forgot his iced coffee, Pon slipped out mid-meeting to grab a new one—only realizing afterward that he’d memorized everyone’s orders.

They never praised him. Never clapped him on the back or told him he was getting there.

But they smiled. Not the kind of smiles people wear when they’re trying to be polite. The real ones.

And Faifa?

He kept treating Pon exactly the same.

Still teased him. Still ruffled his hair. Still called him “baby freshman” even though Pon was learning more from him than from any professor.

Pon thought, Maybe that’s what being one of them means.

Not being noticed for the things you do—but doing them anyway.

⸻

One night, after dinner, Pon found himself walking home alone. The streetlights buzzed faintly overhead. He thought about how easy it would be to slip back into the boy he was before.

The boy who thought love was loud.

Who thought respect came with status.

Who thought Faifa was weak, and Yotha was cold, and Wine was passive.

He wasn’t that boy anymore.

He wasn’t one of them yet—not really.

But he wanted to be.

He wanted to love like they did.

To see people.

To stay.

He pulled out his phone, opened a blank note, and typed:

“I don’t want to be admired. I want to be trusted.

I want them to count on me—not because I’m loud, but because I show up.

That’s the kind of person I want to be.”

And maybe… one day, they’d see him that way, too.

____

It was raining softly.

Not enough to cancel the campus club fair, but enough to soak through paper signs and chase people under awnings.

Pon had offered to help set up the 10liners booth—not because anyone asked, but because it felt right. He carried boxes, taped down corners, passed out flyers. No one gave him instructions. He just did it.

By late afternoon, most people had left. The booth was half-packed, the group scattered. Faifa was sitting cross-legged on a table, lazily kicking his heels and watching the raindrops collect in puddles.

Pon moved to grab the last stack of folded chairs.

“You don’t have to do all that,” Faifa called out.

“I want to,” Pon replied.

Faifa tilted his head, studying him. “You’re starting to sound suspiciously like a 10liner.”

Pon paused. He turned, half-smiling. “Am I?”

“Hmm.” Faifa tapped his chin. “You help without being asked. You eat without complaining. You’ve stopped being annoying.”

“I was never annoying,” Pon grumbled.

“You were,” Faifa grinned. “But you’re not now.”

Pon rolled his eyes, but Faifa’s smile softened—just slightly.

“You’ve changed, you know,” Faifa said, hopping down from the table. “Not in a dramatic way. Just… quietly. Like someone who started listening.”

Pon looked down. “I was a mess when I started here.”

“You still are,” Faifa said, then bumped his shoulder gently. “But now you’re our mess.”

Pon blinked, caught off guard. “Does that mean I’m…?”

Faifa stretched his arms out. “You’ve been one of us for a while now, Pon. You just didn’t notice.”

Pon couldn’t speak for a second. His throat tightened in a strange, grateful way.

“I didn’t think you noticed,” he managed.

“I notice everything,” Faifa said lightly, walking ahead. “I just wait for people to catch up.”

As Pon watched him disappear into the drizzle, he felt something warm bloom in his chest.

It wasn’t a ceremony. It wasn’t a title.

But it was everything he’d been waiting for.

____

The beach trip was loud in the way only the 10liners could be—yelling, laughing, teasing, arms flung around shoulders, sand in places it shouldn’t be.

But Pon stood just slightly outside the circle, watching.

Watching Faifa press a kiss to the top of Wine’s head as he handed him a juice box. Watching Yotha pass Gun a towel without asking, rolling his eyes but still folding it neatly across his boyfriend’s lap. Watching Jet and Pun lean into each other as they bicker about whose sunglasses were “fashionable” and whose were “functionally embarrassing.”

Watching Arc slip his fingers into Arm’s, just for a second. Just long enough to say I’m still here.

It wasn’t big or showy.

But it was love.

All of it.

And Pon felt it like gravity—how these people had found each other, made homes out of human hearts. How they’d messed up and hurt and healed, and still chose to stay.

He didn’t envy them.

He wanted what they had.

⸻

When Tawan finally arrived, barefoot and smiling, he looked exactly like the stories had painted him—but more real.

His hair was longer than Pon expected, sun-lightened and tied at the back. His voice was low and warm, and he hugged like someone who knew exactly how much to give.

He greeted everyone by name—even Pon, who he’d never met.

“You’re the quiet one,” he said, eyes amused. “But the one who notices everything, right?”

Pon flushed. “I—I guess?”

Tawan gave a soft hum. “That’s good. The world needs more people like that.”

Pon didn’t know how to reply.

So he just followed the others as they headed toward the beach bonfire.

⸻

Later, under a sky smeared with stars and sea spray, Tawan stood by the fire with a small woven box in his hands.

“I started the 10liners with a few friends, years ago,” he said. “We weren’t cool or loud. Just kids who wanted to feel seen. Wanted to belong.”

He opened the box.

Inside were two simple bracelets—

“Whenever someone becomes part of that thread,” Tawan continued, “I make these. One for them. One for the person who’ll one day carry their heart.”

He walked across the fire circle and stopped in front of Pon.

“You’ve grown into this space,” he said. “Not by demanding it. But by showing up, every day, with more heart than noise. You’ve earned your place, Pon.”

The group clapped—whooped, even—but Pon couldn’t hear much over the sudden pounding in his ears as Tawan placed the bracelets in his hands.

One for him.

One for the person who hadn’t come yet.

⸻

Later, when the group had wandered off toward the water or curled into blankets on the sand, Pon sat alone, the box in his lap.

He looked out at them—his people.

Faifa cradling Wine, their laughter muffled in the wind.

Gun tracing idle shapes on Yotha’s wrist while the latter pretended not to be flustered.

Arm and Arc sharing a scarf like two halves of the same sentence.

Pun resting his head on Jet’s shoulder while Jet complained about sand in his hair.

It wasn’t just affection.

It was safety. It was presence.

It was choosing each other again and again, even after the world had given them every reason not to.

Pon looked down at the bracelets.

He didn’t know who the other one was for. Not yet.

But he was done settling for half-versions of connection.

He wanted this.

He wanted real.

He tied his own bracelet on slowly, carefully, like a vow.

The other, he closed back into the box and pressed to his chest.

One day.

———

It started after Arm’s graduation, when the monthly group dinners became sacred.

Everyone promised to show up.

And somehow, after every single one, Pon and Tawan ended up walking to the station together.

It wasn’t planned.

It just… happened.

The walks were quiet. Comfortable. Tawan never asked questions. Pon never filled the silence unless he wanted to.

But something grew there. Something warm. Undeniable.

⸻

Then came the kiss.

Not a confession.

Not a climax.

Just a Tuesday. A casual walk home. The kind of silence that’s filled with almosts.

And when they reached Pon’s door, Tawan kissed him like he already had the answer to a question Pon hadn’t dared to ask.

And Pon?

He kissed back like it was obvious.

Because it was.

___

They didn’t talk about the kiss.

Not right away.

But the next morning, when Pon stepped into the kitchen, there was a post-it on the kettle.

“Boiled water already. For your tea.

Also, last night wasn’t a mistake.”

Pon smiled into his mug.

It wasn’t loud. But it was there.

___

They never made an announcement.

No one asked, either.

Because the moment Tawan kissed him outside his apartment, it was… just true.

Like a page turning in a book you forgot you were reading.

And after that, it all happened gently.

Tawan started leaving a toothbrush at Pon’s place.

Pon started restocking Tawan’s favorite tea without comment.

They started waking up tangled. Started cooking for two. Started going home to each other.

No confessions.

No plans.

Just presence.

⸻

Tawan started sending photos. Not of himself — but of the world through his eyes.

A perfectly golden egg yolk he made Pon for breakfast. A cat curled under a market stall. A sunbeam across Pon’s pillow.

Each one arrived without a caption.

Each one felt like, “I thought of you.”

And when Pon fell asleep on the couch one night after grading papers, he woke up under a blanket that smelled like Tawan’s soap — and found a peeled orange, waiting in a bowl, with a note:

“You looked tired. Rest is allowed.”

_____

But Pon was still learning.

He’d grown up thinking love had to be loud. That it meant grand gestures, constant reminders, big words.

He’d let that go—mostly. Because Tawan didn’t do grand.

Tawan stayed. He showed up. He noticed. That was his way.

And Pon loved that about him. He really did.

But sometimes… sometimes he missed the sound of it.

He’d never say that out loud. He didn’t want to ask for more than he already had.

But sometimes, when Tawan reached for his hand and didn’t say anything—

Pon wished he’d say something.

Just once.

⸻

Tawan noticed before Pon ever asked.

Because of course he did.

Tawan always noticed the things Pon tried to hide.

So one night, after another group dinner—after Jet had kissed Pun’s cheek and Faifa had slow-danced with Wine in the kitchen and Yotha had whispered something into Gun’s ear that made him smile—

Tawan pulled Pon aside on the balcony.

The air was cool.

Tawan wasn’t a man of speeches.

But tonight—for him—he tried.

“You’re not loud,” he said, voice low. “But you’re everywhere. In my clothes. In my kitchen. In the way I sleep better when you’re next to me.”

Pon’s breath caught.

Tawan looked at him, eyes steady, voice rough.

“I don’t say things often. But I think them. About you. All the time.”

Pon opened his mouth, then closed it. His heart was thudding, soft and full and aching.

“I’m trying,” Tawan added, more quietly now. “To say it more. Because I know you hear things the way I watch them.”

Pon took a shaky breath.

Then: “Just once. Just this once. Can you say it?”

Tawan didn’t hesitate.

“I love you.”

And Pon—who had waited his whole life to be told that in a way that felt like home—broke into the softest smile.

“I love you too.”

⸻

The next morning, Pon came home to find a small sketchbook on his desk.

Inside, pressed and taped carefully, were pieces of them:

• A train ticket from their first walk together

• A dried jasmine blossom from Pon’s favorite tea

• A doodle of Pon sleeping with his mouth open (Tawan’s handwriting: still cute )

• A page that simply said:

“You’re my favorite quiet.”

Pon didn’t cry.

But he held that book against his chest for a long, long time.

⸻

On the one-year anniversary of their first kiss, Pon didn’t expect anything. They weren’t the type for flowers or balloons.

But that night, Tawan handed him a box — inside, a new bracelet. This one with a single blue bead next to the gold.

“For every year we get through,” he said. “I’ll add one.

If you want.”

Pon slipped it on.

“Only if you wear yours too.”

Tawan held out his wrist.

The first matching bead was already there.

____

At the next group picnic, everything felt as it always did.

Jet feeding Pun fruit.

Gun helping Yotha untangle his headphones with silent patience.

Arm drawing a tiny sun on Arc’s wrist in marker.

And Tawan?

Tawan was sitting beside Pon, hand warm around his own, thumb brushing lightly over the gold bead on Pon’s bracelet.

Pon turned, leaned against his shoulder, and said softly:

“I used to think I wanted a love like theirs.”

Tawan glanced down at him. “And now?”

Pon smiled, rested his forehead against Tawan’s neck.

“Now I know I have one.”

⸻

It was gentle.

It was steady.

It was spoken—sometimes.

But it was always there.

And this time, Pon didn’t just see it.

He felt it.

He believed it.

Chapter Text

EXTRA 2

The Group Never Split

They had never split.

Not after Pon graduated. Not after careers started or apartments changed or lovers moved in. Not even after that one winter when everyone had seemed to drift a little too far. The group held—sometimes by thread, sometimes by force, but most of the time by choice. And that choice was often Pon.

He’d always been quiet, but he knew how to keep people close. He remembered birthdays. He planned weekends without asking too many questions. He noticed when someone was too tired, and showed up anyway. After his graduation, instead of pulling away, he leaned in—and they followed.

In the five years since, they hadn’t just stayed together. They’d grown.

The first to get married—against all odds and everyone’s bets—had been Pon and Tawan.

Their love had always been quiet, subtle, almost invisible if you weren’t looking. But once you saw it—once you really saw the way they moved around each other, like gravity knew their names—it was impossible to unsee.

They married the summer after Pon’s graduation. A small ceremony. Just friends, lights strung between trees, Tawan crying more than he expected to.

Jet and Pun were next. Loud, ridiculous, and inseparable. Their wedding was chaotic and heartfelt, and everyone remembered the part where Jet cried so hard during his vows he couldn’t finish them, and Pun took the mic and said, “I know,” before kissing him.

Then came Gun and Yotha—three months later. A wedding at dusk by the river. Yotha wore a suit for once, and Gun couldn’t stop staring. That kind of devotion that didn’t ask for show.

Arm and Arc closed the year out. Two engineers, two absolute contradictions, and somehow one of the most loving unions anyone had seen. They planned the wedding like a project. It ran like a dream.

Faifa and Wine came last. If only because they didn’t care about the ceremony.

They had already bought the house. Already adopted the cat. Already shared everything from bills to breath. To them, a wedding was a party, not a confirmation. But eventually, they held one anyway. For the group. For the photos. For the damn cake.

“They were more married than the rest of us long before they signed anything,” Jet had muttered during his toast.

No one disagreed.

The Family They Rebuilt

Tuesday nights never lost importance.

At first, it was just the three of them—Faifa, Yotha, and Newton—sitting on the living room floor of Faifa’s house, a takeout spread between them, the TV on but ignored. No agenda. No ceremony. Just presence.

It had started quietly. A shared meal. Then two. Then it was tradition.

“Feels like we’re making up for something,” Newton had said once.

They were.

Their childhood had been measured in absence. Quiet dinners. Avoided glances. A mother who left. A father who didn’t know how to stay, even when he was physically there.

But the father—he came back. Not in a dramatic way. No big speech. Just small, consistent effort. He listened more. Asked better questions. Never begged for forgiveness, just earned it.

Over time, they let him in. Not all at once. Not completely. But enough.

Their mother, on the other hand, had returned, she had moved back to Thailand—with June and Aron in tow. She came with softer eyes, steadier hands, a different kind of love. But the damage to the boys was already done.

Faifa was the first to draw the line. Clear. Calm. Absolute.

“You can come to the birthday parties. The dinners. The big things,” he told her. “But not the quiet parts. Not the hard parts. You don’t get that part of us anymore.”

She’d nodded. Teared up, but didn’t argue.

Newton and Yotha hadn’t said much. But they stood where Faifa stood.

Still, she became a good mother to June and Aron. Gentle. Attentive. Present in all the ways she hadn’t been before. And the brothers—while they couldn’t let her in—could see her. Not the mother they needed, but one their younger siblings were lucky to have.

And that mattered too.

Now, Tuesday nights sometimes included June and Aron. The little ones brought chaos, laughter, sticky fingers grabbing fries off everyone’s plates. They didn’t understand the layers in the room, only that they were surrounded by people who loved them.

The brothers let them come. Let them fill the space with new sound. That was their healing.

Gun and Yotha had moved in next door to Faifa and Wine—not because they had to, but because the idea of being apart now felt ridiculous. Their houses shared a garden, a grill, and a cat who wandered between them like it owned them all.

Sometimes, the rest of the group joined. Pon and Tawan brought wine and impossible desserts. Jet and Pun showed up with their toddler and forgot the diaper bag every single time. Arm and Arc played card games like it was life or death. The group never stopped being the group.

But the foundation—the family—that was the brothers.

Not because of blood. Not because of obligation.

Because they had chosen each other again and again. Even when it hurt. Especially then.

____

The Rooftop, Full Circle

The rooftop air was warm and sleepy, thick with leftover laughter. The bowl of chips had mostly become a pile of crumbs, and someone had started a playlist that no one bothered to change.

Newton leaned back on his elbows, long legs stretched out, gaze flicking toward the city skyline.

“I’m seeing someone,” he said, like it wasn’t a bomb in the middle of the rooftop.

Faifa sat up fast. “Excuse me?”

Yotha blinked. “You’re what?”

“Dating. Seriously.”

“Who?” Faifa and Yotha asked in unison, their eyes fixed on him.

Newton hesitated, then spoke barely above a whisper. “Pipo.”

A beat of silence. Then, footsteps on the stairs.

“We heard the word ‘dating,’” June called as she and Aron climbed up, Aron carrying cold watermelon in a mixing bowl and June with a water bottle she clearly swiped from Faifa’s fridge.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Newton muttered.

“We’re teenagers,” Aron said. “Sleep is optional.”

June flopped dramatically next to Faifa. “Okay. Dish. Who are you dating?”

Yotha, gleeful: “Someone we know.”

Faifa, cracking up: “Someone they don’t.”

“Oh god,” Newton muttered.

“Wait,” June narrowed her eyes. “Is it someone from your weird friend group? That old one with the garden party vibes?”

“They’re not weird,” Newton said.

“They had a themed picnic with coordinated sandals,” Aron pointed out.

“Exactly,” Faifa said. “Anyway. It’s P'Pipo.”

June scrunched her nose. “Pipo?”

“Who’s Pipo?” Aron asked.

“P'Pipo is… how do I explain?” Faifa grinned, looking at the sky. “Imagine if a soap opera and an astrology blog had a baby. That baby is Pipo.”

“He used to write heartbreak poetry and give relationship advice to himself on Instagram stories,” Yotha added.

“years ago, he came to me after a breakup. Like full crying, snot and everything, told me I was the ‘emotionally balanced one.’”

Newton and Yotha both cackled.

“Then he asked me,” Faifa continued, grinning, “and I quote, ‘How do you build a heart again , Faifa? Where do I start?’”

“Poetic as ever,” Newton said, shaking his head.

June blinked. “And now he’s dating P'Ton ?”

“Apparently,” Yotha said, nudging Newton. “And Newton is soft about it.”

“I am not soft .”

“You’re so soft,” Faifa grinned. “I’ve never seen you smile at your phone before. You used to scowl at it like it owed you money.”

“He makes me laugh,” Newton said, finally. “He gets me.”

June’s teasing faded a little. “Do you love him?”

Newton looked across at her—his not-so-little sister, her face half-lit by string lights—and nodded. “I think I’m on the way.”

Aron, mouth full of watermelon, shrugged. “Cool. But if he doesn’t bring pastries to brunch, he’s out.”

“Oh yeah,” June added, bright again. “We will be judging.”

“You don’t even know him,” Newton said.

“We don’t have to,” June smirked. “We’re your siblings. Judging is our birthright.”

The rooftop filled with laughter again, all of them folded into the night, elbows touching, stories overlapping.

It didn’t matter that they’d grown up in different houses, under different circumstances. The love here was loud and real. Built, not inherited.

This was what a family sounded like when it healed.