Chapter Text
Phayu had lost count of how many times Rain had groaned today. The younger had been curled up on the couch since morning, hair sticking to his temple, face buried against the armrest as though sheer stubbornness could fight off nausea.
“Still bad?” Phayu asked softly, crouching down so he was at Rain’s level.
A muffled noise came from the couch cushions. “Worse,” Rain muttered, not even lifting his head.
Phayu smoothed a hand through the auburn mess of hair, brushing it off Rain’s clammy forehead. His palm lingered, steadying. “You should try tea.”
That earned him a groan loud enough to echo off the walls. “Don’t want tea. Tea smells… bad.”
Phayu huffed out a laugh under his breath. Of course it did. Rain could find fault in anything when he was sick. He reached for the damp cloth on the side table, folding it before pressing it gently against Rain’s temple. “Then water. Just a sip.”
“I’ll throw up.”
“Then you’ll throw up in my hands,” Phayu said simply. No edge, no sarcasm. Just fact.
That got him one hazel eye peeking open, glassy and sharp all at once, the kind of look that accused him of being unreasonable. Phayu only met it steadily, his own gaze calm.
He’d weathered worse storms. This one was small. Manageable. Rain’s stubbornness was something he’d already learned to meet with quiet patience, never force.
“Just a sip,” Phayu repeated, voice softer this time.
There was silence, then a faint sigh, the kind that deflated Rain’s shoulders. “…Maybe.”
Phayu almost smiled, but he didn’t let it show. He reached for the glass on the table and held it out. Rain pushed himself up just far enough to take a careful sip, lips pressing against the rim, eyes squeezed shut like even water was a betrayal.
When he was done, he collapsed back onto the cushions with a pitiful sound, hand flopping across the couch.
It wasn’t much — but the edge of nausea seemed to ease, his breathing even out little by little. And then that hand, the one flung out limply, crept closer until it brushed against Phayu’s knee. A wordless, fragile gesture.
Phayu covered it with his own, thumb sweeping across knuckles. “Good,” he murmured.
Rain didn’t answer. But he didn’t pull his hand away either.
Phayu stayed crouched there longer than he meant to, watching the boy he’d once thought only chaotic and noisy breathe a little easier, wrapped in blankets and stubbornness. His Rain. His storm.
And if his knees ached later, it was worth it.
—
The stomach bug clung stubbornly for days, each morning blurring into the next with groans and half-finished meals. Phayu had hoped it would pass quickly, but when Rain’s nausea only worsened, he finally scheduled a doctor’s appointment. At least then, they’d have answers.
The night before, Rain was uncharacteristically quiet. No complaints, no teasing, no dramatic sighs — just curled small beneath the blankets, staring at nothing in particular. Too quiet for someone who usually filled the room with chatter and warmth.
Phayu sat on the edge of the bed, brushing damp hair from Rain’s forehead. He told himself it was nerves, that Rain was simply anxious about the appointment. Leaning down, his voice softened against the stillness. “Don’t worry. Whatever they say tomorrow, I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere, Rain.”
Rain only hummed in reply, leaning ever so slightly into his touch. Phayu held him until his breathing evened out, the weight of his quiet settling into Phayu’s chest. He never imagined that would be the last time he’d wake with Rain beside him.
—
The apartment was too quiet.
Not the peaceful, morning-lazy kind of quiet Rain usually brought with his soft hums in the kitchen or the occasional clatter of mugs. This was the kind of quiet that made the skin between Phayu’s shoulder blades tighten — hollow, unnatural, wrong.
He sat up in bed, bare feet meeting cool floorboards, eyes sweeping the room. Rain’s side of the bed was empty, blanket pushed back but still holding the shallow imprint of his body.
Too early for class.
Too quiet for the shower.
Too still.
He moved through the apartment with the steady pace of someone who already knew — deep down — that something was off but refused to rush to the conclusion.
The hooks by the door told the first story. Rain’s favorite sweater — the overwashed auburn one Phayu had complained about but secretly loved seeing on him — was missing. The sneakers he wore for errands were gone.
The key dish was empty. No wallet.
On the console table sat the slim black box he’d given Rain for his last birthday. Inside should have been a simple silver necklace. It wasn’t jewelry so much as insurance — the pendant held a tracker keyed only to Phayu. The lid was open, the necklace curled neatly inside. The tracker was still and cold, like a dead heartbeat.
His phone was on the counter. He dialed Rain’s number. Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Again.
The third time, he didn’t wait for the tone before hanging up.
A faint chemical scent lingered in the bathroom. Not bleach. Sharper. Plastic.
The trash bin by the sink had a white stick angled under a crumpled tissue. Two pink lines.
For a long, slow moment, Phayu just stood there, the silence of the apartment pressing in on his ears.
The facts lined up in his mind like puzzle pieces — sweater missing, wallet gone, phone dead, tracker left behind. The one piece that didn’t fit, that didn’t make sense, was the pregnancy test. Not because it was impossible. But because Rain hadn’t said a word. And Rain always said something.
Memory surfaced unbidden — Rain curled on the couch in that same sweater, hair damp from a shower, eating breakfast with one sock on because he’d gotten distracted halfway through getting dressed. The way his laugh tilted high when he was caught in a lie. The way he always dropped his bag in the exact same spot, even if Phayu told him to move it.
All those little things, gone from this morning like someone had cut them out of the frame.
He picked up his phone again and hit one number.
It rang once.
“He’s gone?” Prapai’s voice was stripped of its usual drawl, flat as glass.
“Yeah.”
No other words. No questions. No demands. They didn’t need them.
Phayu’s coat was already on when the call ended.
The war room was never called that aloud — not in official circles, not even in family ones. But the name fit. A space lined with screens, maps, files, and faces. A place where problems were solved before they became public.
Rain’s disappearance wasn’t going to be public. It wasn’t going to be anything except resolved.
He locked the apartment behind him without looking back.