Work Text:
The alarm went off at exactly 3:00 a.m.
William groaned, eyes still shut, hand swatting at his phone until the sound finally cut off. He laid there for a second longer, face buried in the pillow, regretting every decision that had led to this moment — most of all the one where he had voluntarily offered to set this stupid alarm for the third day in a row.
But then he sighed, rolled over, and grabbed his phone again and dialed.
One ring.
Two.
On the third, Est picked up with the most chaotic voice William had ever heard.
“Huh? …Hello?” Est’s voice was faint and slurred, followed by what sounded like laughter and—a hose?
“Where are you?” William asked, sitting up and dragging a hand down his face.
A beat of silence. Then:
“Uhm. Somewhere near the noodle stall… maybe. Daou just said it’s—no, no wait, Punch dropped the—” clatter “—we’re fine. I’m fine. Williammmm, it’s sooo wet out here—”
Of course it was. Songkran.
William sighed again. A resigned, heavy exhale through his nose.
He was already reaching for his keys.
—
Fifteen minutes later, William pulled up at the spot Est had clumsily described. The area was still buzzing — Songkran crowds lingering even though it was technically early morning. Water buckets, towels, flower petals, shirts everywhere. And Est…
Est was easy to spot.
Half-wrapped in a cartoon beach towel, soaking wet, hair flattened, cheeks flushed — standing between Daou and Punch like an overgrown toddler who’d lost his mom at the mall.
Punch saw him first. “Your knight has arrived!” she called, dragging Est by the arm.
Est beamed the moment he saw the car. “Williammm!”
William stepped out, catching him before he could run (stumble) straight into traffic. “You’re freezing,” he said flatly. “Get in.”
Daou leaned over. “He refused to go home unless we called you. Said — and I quote — ‘William would come. He always comes.’”
Punch grinned. “Don’t worry, we took videos. He was so dramatic.”
“Can you not.” William muttered followed with an upward tug of his lips, pulling Est toward the passenger seat.
“I missed you,” Est mumbled as he sank into the car, towel and all.
“You saw me yesterday.” William said, shutting the door.
Est shrugged, then yawned so hard his head thunked against the window.
William glanced at him, lips twitching despite himself. Then he started the engine.
“Let’s get you home.”
The second Est stepped into the apartment, he peeled off his sandals with one wobbly toe, then dropped his towel dramatically onto the entryway floor like he’d just survived a war.
William toed it aside with a sigh, locking the door behind them. “You’re dripping.”
“I’m festive,” Est announced, arms outstretched like a performer finishing his final bow.
William stared. His white shirt — or what was left of it — clung to him like a second skin, soaked through with what looked like water, glitter, and was that flower petals?
“You look like a drowned mascot for a wet market.”
Est giggled. “You think I’m cute.”
William walked away before his brain could agree out loud.
He headed to the linen cupboard, grabbing a towel and a pair of his comfiest shorts — soft, grey, elastic waistband, worn in — plus an old white T-shirt with a cracked band logo that Est always said “smelled like him.”
When he returned, Est was hunched over on the couch, elbows on knees, hair sticking in every direction. His cheeks were pink from the heat and the alcohol, and he was blinking slowly like it was taking actual brainpower to keep his eyes open.
William held out the clothes. “Here. Shower. Now. You’ll catch a cold.”
Est looked up at him, blinked again, and slowly — so slowly — reached out to take the bundle.
“Thank you, William,” he said, suddenly soft. “You’re always so nice to me.”
William felt his chest tighten for a reason he couldn’t name.
“I’m not nice,” he muttered, stepping past him. “I just don’t want to nurse your fever tomorrow.”
Est stood up (too fast) and stumbled sideways into William’s shoulder. “You’re secretly soft. Like… soft soft.”
“I will literally leave you on the couch.”
“You woke up at three in the morning just to come get me,” Est whispered, clinging to William’s arm like a koala. “You’re like... a teddy bear with judgmental eyes.”
William sighed but didn’t shake him off.
He walked Est down the hallway and nudged the bathroom door open.
“Shower. Ten minutes. Try not to drown.”
Est gave him a thumbs-up, then leaned dramatically against the doorframe before slinking inside with all the grace of a drunk noodle.
William turned away with a huff and went to the other bathroom to wash up.
He figured by the time he came back, Est would be warm, dry, possibly passed out sideways on the couch like the last time.
He was wrong.
Because what he came back to was not a sleeping Est, but the sound of clattering in his kitchen.
Est’s POV:
Est stood in the kitchen doorway like a man with a mission.
Well.
Half-standing.
Half-leaning against the fridge. But still. A mission.
His hair was damp, the hem of William’s too-big shirt brushing his thighs. It smelled like laundry detergent and comfort and something very William that Est couldn’t name. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the heat still clinging to his skin from the shower. Or maybe — just maybe — it was the fact that William had set an alarm at 3 a.m., again, for him.
Est looked at the sink. Overflowing with dishes. Bowls from yesterday, a pan with congealed oil, a spoon that was definitely judging him.
His tipsy brain whirred.
William had been so nice.
And Est was… what? Just going to stay here, eat his food, use his shower, wear his clothes, and leave his dishes dirty?
He imagined William waking up tomorrow, groggy and grumpy, walking in to find his kitchen still a mess.
He imagined that little frown — the one with the crinkle between his brows.
The sigh he’d let out.
That exact tone of voice: “Could’ve at least done something useful.”
Est muttered out loud, “He’s gonna sulk.”
Then louder, with conviction:
“Not on my watch.”
—
He grabbed the sponge. It slipped from his hand and bounced into the sink with a splash. Soap suds sprayed up onto his chest.
“Rude,” he told it.
He reached again — successfully, this time — and turned the faucet on full blast. Suds foamed up immediately. Encouraging. He started humming something under his breath — a lullaby? A LYKN demo? His own internal chaos theme? Even he didn’t know.
First plate.
Slippery. Dangerous.
He scrubbed carefully, squinting like it might explode.
“I am an adult.” he whispered.
The fork clinked loudly against the sink and he shushed it. “Do you want him to wake up?”
His elbow knocked over a mug. It wobbled, teetered on the edge, and Est caught it with reflexes that surprised even him.
“Ha! Still got it,” he announced proudly to the room.
—
He didn’t hear William approaching.
Didn’t notice the soft footsteps padding across the hallway until—
“…P’Est?”
Est flinched like he’d been caught doing something illegal.
The sponge squirted water down the front of his borrowed shirt.
He turned slowly, guilty and dripping.
“Hi.” he said, like a child with cookie crumbs on his face.
William blinked, glancing aroung. “What—are you doing.”
“I didn’t want you to sulk,” Est explained sincerely, as if it were obvious. “You already set an alarm for me, and then you drove and gave me a towel and your shirt and your water and I can’t just exist in your home like a freeloader, William.”
“You’re not—” William cut himself off, walking toward him slowly like Est might bolt. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m useful,” Est said, pointing at the soap-slick sponge in his hand like it was a weapon.
William exhaled. Deeply.
Then gently, carefully, plucked the sponge from Est’s hand.
“Let’s not break anything.”
Est pouted. “I was doing so well.”
“You almost broke three mugs.”
Est held up a finger proudly. “Almost.”
William pressed the sponge into the sink and turned off the water. “Go sit down.”
“No.”
William raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not done.” Est leaned forward, arms crossed now. His wet hair clung to his forehead, cheeks still red from the alcohol. “You’re gonna be tired tomorrow. You do everything, and I—I just wanted to help, okay?”
William’s expression shifted.
He didn’t say anything right away.
Just stepped forward and, without asking, wrapped the kitchen towel around Est’s shoulders. Rubbed lightly at his damp arms. Then pushed his hair back, tucking it behind his ear like it was second nature.
“You helped,” William said quietly.
Est blinked up at him, eyes a little glassy. “Really?”
William nodded. “Now go sit before you wash yourself with dish soap.”
Est sniffed, but finally turned and padded back toward the couch.
“I’m only sitting because your voice is nice when you’re bossy.”
William didn’t answer, but Est caught the ghost of a smile before he turned away.
Est woke up to the dull throb of his skull trying to crack itself open from the inside out.
He winced, groaning as he rolled onto his side, one hand instinctively reaching for his phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up—too bright—burning his eyeballs and soul simultaneously. He squinted, pulling the blanket over his face until he adjusted.
9:37 AM.
Ugh.
He blinked again. Something felt… unfamiliar. The walls weren’t his. Neither was the blanket. The bed was way too neat for someone who had crawled into it drunk at God-knows-what hour.
Then he smelled it.
Something warm and garlicky wafting through the air.
William’s place.
Right.
His phone buzzed again in his hand.
[Punch🐸]: You two are disgusting.
(Attached: blurry video titled "domestic_dish_disaster.mov")
[Daou💀]: He woke up at 3AM for you. I’d marry him.
(Attached: photo of William tugging him toward the car. Est was clinging to his arm. He looked unhinged.)
Est dropped his head back into the pillow. “Kill me,” he whispered to no one.
But the sound from the kitchen tugged at him — a gentle clatter, the dull scrape of a ladle against a pot, the soft hum of someone moving with intention.
He peeled himself out of bed, still wearing William’s shirt, wrinkled and oversized. It smelled like detergent and soup and something familiar he couldn’t name. The apartment was quiet, except for the soft noise drawing him toward the kitchen.
Est padded in barefoot, rubbing at his eyes.
William stood at the stove, one hand stirring a pot, the other holding his phone, shoulders relaxed in a soft gray hoodie. His hair was still messy from sleep. A quiet instrumental played in the background — something lo-fi and warm.
Est didn’t say anything. Just stood there, watching.
William noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye, turned, and gave him a lazy smile — one of those slow ones that made his eyes sparkle.
“You’re up.”
Est didn’t answer. His throat felt dry. His head still pounded.
William tilted his chin toward the counter. “Sit. Soup’s almost ready.”
Est walked over on autopilot and dropped onto the stool. He rested his elbows on the counter, letting his forehead fall into his hands.
“I think I’m dying.”
“You say that every time.”
“I mean it this time.”
William snorted. “Good thing I started this fifteen minutes ago.”
Est peeked at him through his fingers. “What is it?”
“Hangover soup. My version. Ginger, garlic, eggs. Magic.”
“Love potion?”
William turned with the ladle and gently placed a bowl in front of him. “It only works if you’re already in love.”
Est blinked.
Then blinked again.
And very slowly picked up the spoon, hiding his entire soul in that one sip.
“…It’s good.”
William leaned on the opposite side of the counter, eyes still on him. “You remember anything?”
Est thought for a moment. “I remember soap. And... being judged by a fork.”
“Impressive.”
“I was genuinely trying to help.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t break anything.”
“That’s debatable.”
A silence settled between them. Not awkward. Just... quiet. Familiar.
Est looked up at him. “Thanks. For... everything.”
William shrugged, looking away. “You’d do the same.”
Est grinned, finally, soft and crooked. “Would I?”
William’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “You’d try. You’d definitely wash the dishes at 3 a.m. and nearly slip on a sponge.”
Est chuckled, pushing his spoon around the bowl.
The kitchen felt too warm. Or maybe it was just him.
Maybe it was William.