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"I met this dude Arthit at the car meet last night," Style says one morning, grinning over breakfast. "He’s funny as hell. We talked for hours. He actually talks as much as I do. Can you believe that?”
At first, Fadel is happy for Style. His boyfriend is social, loud, always making new connections. It's part of why Fadel loves him.
“Actually I can’t." Fadel says honestly, sipping his coffee.
“Arthit’s got a sick '78 CB750. It needs work, but he's letting me help him rebuild it."
There are no red flags yet. Just Style being Style- excited, chatty, making friends. Best of all, he’s living his dream of getting to rebuild a bike, and learn to fix up anything on wheels.
So it’s all good for the first few days.
But then Arthit’s name starts popping up in every conversation between Fadel and Style.
"Arthit says this bar has the best wings."
"Arthit thinks I should change my exhaust setup."
"Arthit and I are gonna check out that new parts shop."
Fadel notices. It's still not bad, just... constant.
One night, as they get ready for bed, "You’re hanging out with Arthit again tomorrow?" Fadel asks Style, keeping his tone level, casual, like he’s not slowly starting to get bothered by Arthit.
"Yeah, he's helping me with the carburetors," Style says, pulling his shirt off. "Dude knows his shit I tell you."
Fadel nods. But there's a tiny twist in his gut. Style is always bragging about how good Arthit is at this or that.
Then Fadel meets Arthit a few days later, and… holy fuck.
Arthit is alarmingly just like Style.
Same loud laugh, same sharp humor, same way of talking with his hands. They finish each other's sentences. They both don’t stop talking. They vibe.
Later when Fadel and Style are alone again, "You weren't kidding huh," Fadel mutters to Style. "He's... a lot like you."
Style grins. "Right? It's like having a twin but cooler."
Or a fucking soulmate, Fadel thinks.
Fadel forces a smile, but something cold settles in his chest. He can’t bring himself to speak of the ugly feeling though because he can’t bring himself to thwart the genuine spark in Style’s eyes right now.
***
The first real twist of jealousy comes when Fadel swings by Style's garage unannounced, expecting to steal him away for lunch at someplace else than their usual your-place-or-mine deal.
Instead, he finds Style and Arthit bent over an engine, laughing about something.
"- no way, you did not just say that!" Arthit wheezes.
"Why do you still get surprised when I say things like this, bro? Seriously. You know you’d do the same.” Style replies
Fadel stands there, unnoticed. "Hey," he finally says after a little while.
Style looks up, surprised but smiling. "Oh- hey, baby!"
Fadel walks over to give Style a peck on the lips.
Arthit nods at him. "What's up, Fadel?"
Fadel nods back. "Just came by to see if you wanted food." He hopes it’s clear that the offer is for Style alone.
"Yeah? Uh.” Style’s smile turns regrettable, “Arthit brought burgers earlier though," he says, wiping grease off his hands.
Fadel blinks. oh
Style sees how disappointed Fadel looks, and rushes to soothe him a bit, "We're almost done here. If you can wait a few minutes, I’ll go with you so you don’t eat alone.”
Fadel's jaw tightens. "It’s okay. You guys seem to be in your zone here. Continue. I'll catch you later."
“Are you sure?”
Fadel nods his head, giving a small smile that doesn’t particularly reach his eyes.
As he walks out, he hears Arthit and Style resume talking. He stops for a few beats near the door to listen in, curious to hear what they’re saying. It’s about something they saw at some expo they went to together apparently.
Fadel doesn't know what they're talking about. Style has been doing stuff with this guy that Fadel doesn’t know about.
And that hurts.
***
Then the hangouts start.
"Me and Arthit are gonna grab drinks."
"Arthit's got an extra ticket to that boxing match I talked about."
"I'm at Arthit's place, might crash here."
Each time, Fadel just says, "Cool."
But inside he’s burning. Style invites him sometimes and Fadel declines because he’s too proud to be an afterthought. He doesn’t want to go and watch Style hitting it off with his new favorite person.
One night, after Style comes home late again, Fadel is sitting on the sofa, TV on low.
"Hey," Style says, dropping onto the sofa beside him, throwing his arms around him.
“Hi.”
“I missed you.”
Did you really, Fadel wants to ask? He just gives Style a small smile instead.
Style frowns at the way Fadel’s smile lacks its usual warmth. "You've been quieter than usual lately, Fadel. You okay?"
Fadel nods, can’t look Style in the eye. "What could possibly be wrong?"
A pause. Then Style sighs, leaning away from him. "Okay."
Neither of them believes it.
***
The next time Style invites Fadel to join him and Arthit, Fadel agrees. He can tell Style is starting to wonder why he always declines invitations.
They're at a dimly lit arcade, neon lights flickering over the three of them. Arthit and Style stand shoulder-to-shoulder at a racing game, laughing as they bump their cars together on-screen. Fadel leans against the machine beside them, arms crossed, watching. Style's laughter is bright and loud- the way Fadel loves- but tonight it's all for Arthit.
It's not that Arthit has all of Style's attention. Earlier, Style spent plenty of time with Fadel too, playing different games. They had fun together. But somehow, it doesn't feel like enough anymore. Maybe because Fadel feels like he's being forced to share Style with Arthit now.
Arthit nudges Style with his elbow. “You still wanna learn how to play chess?”
Style grins, not even looking at Fadel. “Of course.”
“We can start right away.”
Fadel doesn’t know what they’re talking about, again. He’s not aware of Style ever having an interest in playing chess. Fadel shifts his weight, quiet. The machine beeps, the game ends, and Style finally glances back at him. “Let’s go do something else, babe.”
Fadel nods, but his chest feels tight. He doesn’t like the way Arthit’s hand lingers on Style’s back as they walk to the next game. He doesn’t like the jokes he’s not part of. But he doesn’t say anything. He just watches, and it stings.
It’s never hurt this much for Fadel being a man of few words.
***
Style and Fadel often hang out with Bison and Kant at Kant’s place and the next time they’re over there, Style invites Arthit.
The group is sprawled across Kant’s living room; Kant and Bison on the couch, Fadel in the armchair, and Style and Arthit on the floor by the coffee table. There’s an open seat next to Fadel, but when Style walks in, he doesn’t even glance at it. Instead, he flops down right beside Arthit, their knees knocking together.
Fadel’s grip tightens on his drink.
Arthit grins, nudging Style with his shoulder. “I think I’m your favorite now.”
Style laughs, “As if.”
Fadel’s jaw clenches. He stares straight ahead, but his fingers dig into the armrest. Bison, noticing, raises an eyebrow at him and nudges him, the look on his face questioning. Fadel ignores it.
Arthit leans in, whispering something to Style that makes him snort. They’re in their own world. They have a fucking world of their own now.
Fadel’s chest burns. He wants to pull Style up by the wrist, drag him into his lap, make it clear who he belongs to, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, silent, seething.
***
Fadel’s restaurant is warm, buzzing with the low hum of conversation and the crackle of fried chicken fresh out of the oil. He should be in his element here, comfortable and in control. But tonight, he might as well be a ghost at his own table.
Style had invited Arthit to join them as-fucking-usual, and from the moment they sat down, it’s been them- jokes flying, shoulders bumping, fingers brushing as they reach for the same piece of chicken. Arthit steals a bite off Style’s plate, and Style just laughingly says, "It’s not cute, Arthit. You’re just a thief."
Fadel chews slowly, sipping his beer, watching.
He’s sitting right next to Style, but he’s never felt further away.
It’s not that Style ignores him, no. Style is polite and includes Fadel in the conversation, throws him a grin here and there, even reaches under the table to squeeze his hand at one point. Later, when Arthit tells some stupid joke, Style leans into Fadel’s side, laughing, and presses a kiss to his cheek. It’s sweet. It’s something.
But it’s not enough.
Because the second Fadel’s hand is no longer in his, Style’s right back to Arthit with his eyes bright, voice loud, alive in a way that makes Fadel’s chest ache.
Style is Fadel’s best friend. No one gets him like Style does. No one makes Fadel feel like this, not just loved, but known, accepted. And for the first time since they started dating, Fadel feels like he’s losing that. Like he’s being replaced in his own life.
And the worst part is that Style doesn’t even notice.
Fadel isn’t the type to beg for attention. So he stays quiet while the jealousy eats him alive.
“Do you date someone?” Fadel asks Arthit because at this point he’s starting to wonder.
“As hard as it to believe that someone as fine as myself is alone, I’m single.” Arthit says with a sheepish smile
Of course he’s fucking single. Great.
***
Later at home, Style and Fadel shower, change, slide into bed. The silence between them isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s heavy. Fadel stares at a spot on the wall across the room, jaw tight, while Style scrolls on his phone beside him.
Then, suddenly, Style shifts, straddling Fadel’s lap, cupping his face in his hands.
"Okay, what’s wrong?"
Fadel exhales through his nose. "Nothing."
Style’s thumbs brush his cheekbones. "Bullshit."
Fadel could tell him. He should tell him. But the words stick in his throat, ‘I felt like you didn’t want me tonight. Like you’d rather have him.’
It sounds pathetic. Possessive. Weak.
So Fadel swallows it down.
"I’m fine," he murmurs, turning his head to kiss Style’s palm.
Style searches his face, worry flickering in his eyes. He knows something’s undoubtedly wrong. Of course he knows. But Fadel won’t give in, and after a long moment, Style sighs.
"Okay," he says softly, giving up.
It’s not okay. They both know it.
But Style kisses him anyway, slow and deep, like he’s trying to pour an apology into it even without knowing what it is he’s apologizing for. Fadel grips his hips, pulling him closer, losing himself in the heat of it because it’s easier for him than talking.
They make love like that, desperate and quiet, like if they hold each other tight enough, the hurt won’t have room to breathe between them.
After, Style curls against Fadel’s chest, fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. Fadel stares at the ceiling, heart heavy.
Style doesn’t ask again.
Fadel doesn’t offer.
And the silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid.
***
Fadel comes home to find Style standing in front of their bedroom mirror, adjusting his outfit. The sight punches the air from Fadel's lungs. Those khaki wide-leg pants hug Style's slim waist perfectly, and the soft pink crop top- Fadel's favorite- shows just a sliver of skin that normally makes Fadel's mouth water. But tonight, the cologne is too strong, the hair too carefully styled, the silver hoops catching light that suddenly feels too bright.
"You're going out?" Fadel asks, his voice rough from disuse.
Style turns, flashing that brilliant smile that doesn't quite reach Fadel's heart anymore. "Hi. Yeah, Arthit's picking me up in a few. We're hitting that new rooftop bar." He runs fingers through his hair again, checking his reflection. "You should come!"
The words land like stones in Fadel's stomach. All this effort...for Arthit. The realization settles heavy in his chest, how many times has he watched Style light up for that guy? How many inside jokes have piled up without him? That pink top used to mean lazy Sundays in bed, just the two of them. Now it's become a uniform for outings where Fadel feels like a ghost.
"No," Fadel says, the word sharp as broken glass.
Style freezes mid-motion. "...No?" he frowns, confused by Fadel’s sudden tone.
“No.” Fadel repeats
“What do you mean no? We-”
"I said no." Fadel steps forward, crowding Style against the dresser. His hands fist in that damn crop top, the fabric soft under his calloused fingers. "You're not going."
"Fadel, what-"
"Why?" Fadel's voice breaks. It hurts to ask. "Why dress like this for him?" His thumb rubs Style's bare waist, marking what should be his. "You used to wear this just for me."
Style gasps. He can't find words.
The quiet between them grows heavy. It holds all those times Fadel sat alone waiting, counting the clock while Style was out having fun with Arthit. All those inside jokes he was left out of. All the small moments he felt invisible in his own home, too many to number.
Fadel knows Style isn't cheating. That's not the pain. The pain is being left behind. Being forgotten. Watching someone else get the best parts of the man he loves while he gets the leftovers.
"Fadel..." Style's voice is softer now, his hands coming up to frame Fadel's face. "Talk to me."
The gentleness undoes him. Fadel's jaw flexes, the words still lodged in his throat. When they finally come, they're rough with unshed tears. "I feel...replaced."
Style's eyes widen. "Baby-"
"You laugh louder with him. Dress better for him." Fadel's grip tightens on the crop top. "Sometimes you smell like him when you come home."
Style swallows hard. "...You should've said something."
"I shouldn't have to." The words crack down the middle.
Something shifts in Style's expression - guilt, realization, pain. He doesn't argue, doesn't tease. He just steps forward and pulls Fadel into a hug so tight it aches, his face buried in Fadel's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," Style mumbles, voice thick. "I'm so sorry."
Fadel stands rigid for a long moment before his arms slowly wrap around Style, his grip firm. All the loneliness of the past weeks pours into that embrace; the silent dinners, the empty side of the bed, the way his heart had started wondering if Style would even notice if he stopped coming home.
"I hate this," he mutters into Style's neck.
"I know."
"I hate him."
Style pulls back just enough to look at him, thumbs wiping at the moisture Fadel hadn't realized escaped. "No, you don't." His voice is unbearably tender.
Fadel glares but doesn't deny it. How could he when Arthit had become the living proof of everything he feared- that he wasn't enough, that Style would realize it too?
Style sighs, pressing their foreheads together. His thumbs trace the tension in Fadel's jaw like he's memorizing the shape of his pain. "I'll dial it back. Okay?"
When Fadel doesn't answer and just closes his eyes and breathes him in (too much cologne, but beneath it, still home), Style's voice cracks. "Look at me. Please."
Fadel opens his eyes to find Style's glittering with tears he's never seen before.
"You could never be replaced, Fadel." Style whispers fiercely. "Not by Arthit, not by anyone. I didn't forget you. I was just..." His fingers tighten in Fadel's shirt. "Stupid. Careless. Got too excited having someone who gets the bike shit like I do and…fuck, I didn't see what it was doing to you."
A tear escapes. Fadel catches it with his thumb, stunned. Style almost never cries.
"I'm sorry I made you feel alone," Style continues, voice raw. "You're my heart. My always. Those times I spent with Arthit?" He presses Fadel's hand to his chest. "I was always waiting to tell you about them after. But like an idiot, I forgot to actually... tell you."
Fadel's takes a deep, shaky breath. That fragile hope hurts more than the anger did.
Style kisses his palm, desperate. "If you walked away? I'd notice before the door closed. I'd literally burn the world down to follow you."
And Fadel realizes that he in fact knows this fact. He just forgot. It all got buried in the ugly jealousy.
“I’m sorry.” Fadel whispers
“For what?”
“I don’t mean to stop you from living your life and having fun.”
“I know. I just need to strike a balance.” Maybe boundaries with Arthit too, Style thinks. He’ll have to talk to Arthit.
“Thanks for listening, Style.” And not belittling my feeling
“No, thank you for telling me.”
Later, when Style cancels his plans, when Arthit's texts go unanswered, when that pink crop top ends up on their bedroom floor instead of some rooftop bar, Fadel maps every inch of exposed skin with his mouth- reclaiming Style, remembering. Style does the same- reminding Fadel, in between the whispered ‘I love you’s and apologies against bare skin.
-END-