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The studio smelled faintly of earth and water. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, casting golden reflections on the shelves lined with handmade bowls and lopsided mugs from past students. Aou and Boom stood side by side, aprons tied, eyes wide with the quiet thrill of doing something new—together.
They walked to the pottery wheels, side by side. Boom sat first, brushing his fingers over the cool, metal rim of the wheel, while Aou settled onto the one next to him. Their knees almost touched.
Moments later, Teacher Thi entered. Her soft sandals made no sound on the studio floor, but her presence was warm and grounded.
Both boys stood and gave her a polite wai.
Teacher Thi returned it with a gentle smile. “Are you ready?”
Aou and Boom glanced at each other. A flicker of excitement passed between them—then they both nodded.
“Yes,” Boom said.
Teacher Thi sat at her own wheel and began demonstrating. “First, you wet your hands. Keep them damp or the clay will fight you. It wants to move, but only with trust.”
Aou and Boom listened intently, watching as her hands glided over the lump of clay, slowly transforming it into a cylinder.
“Don’t rush it,” she continued. “Let it center. Guide it, don’t force it.”
The whirring of the wheels filled the studio as the lesson continued. Teacher Thi showed them how to control the speed, how to keep their elbows tucked in, how to press down gently, always gently.
Boom bent forward, sleeves rolled back, as he molded a small mound of clay, brow furrowed in concentration. Aou, watching from his wheel, didn’t even pretend to work anymore.
He was watching Boom—every motion of his hands, the way his tongue peeked out when he focused, the faint smudge of clay on his cheek.
Then, as if pulled by something he didn’t understand, Aou stood up. Quietly, he stepped behind Boom and sat down behind him, knees bracketing Boom’s hips. Boom stiffened just a little, his hands frozen mid-shape.
“What are you—” he began, but Aou said nothing.
Aou leaned forward and wrapped his arms slowly around Boom’s waist. His hands rested there—tentative, unsure.
Boom said nothing, only looked down.
Then Aou’s hands began to move. He slid them under Boom’s apron, fingers brushing the hem of his T-shirt. Slowly, they moved up, then down again, until his fingers reached the edge of Boom’s pants, pausing there.
Boom flinched. His hand shot back and smacked Aou’s.
“Aou, what are you doing?” Boom asked, half-turning, his voice a mix of surprise and sharpness.
Aou blinked, looking as if he’d just woken up.
“I don’t know,” he said softly. “It just felt like... like the right moment.”
Boom’s eyes searched his face. “We're in class. Teacher Thi is right there.”
Aou looked toward the far end of the studio. Teacher Thi was focused on trimming her own pot, pretending not to notice—but Boom knew better. Teachers always notice.
Aou sat back a little, the air between them now tight and silent.
“I just wanted to be closer,” Aou murmured.
Boom sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “There are better ways.”
“I’m sorry,” Aou said, voice low.
Boom looked at him again. His irritation softened, but only slightly.
“Next time… just ask,” he said.
They both sat in silence for a moment. Then Boom reached out, grabbed Aou’s clay—still untouched—and placed it in front of them.
“Help me finish this one. Since you like being close.”
Aou blinked. Then, slowly, he smiled.
They leaned in together—hands touching clay, for now.
Aou hesitated before placing his hands over Boom’s, letting the silence between them settle into something less awkward. Boom’s fingers were already damp, guiding the wet clay in slow, careful turns. The spinning wheel hummed beneath them, rhythmic and grounding.
Aou exhaled quietly, trying to match Boom’s movements, not interrupt them.
“Like this?” Aou asked, voice low against Boom’s ear.
Boom didn’t turn around. “Softer. You’re pushing it off center.”
Aou adjusted, fingertips more gentle now, letting Boom lead. He could feel the subtle shifts in pressure, how Boom steered the shape without forcing it. Together, their hands began to coax a small bowl from the lump.
Clay rose under their touch, trembling a little, but it held. Aou could feel Boom’s back pressed lightly to his chest, steady, warm, focused. For the first time, he wasn’t chasing closeness with touch. He was in it—sharing the space, the rhythm, the moment.
Teacher Thi glanced up at them and smiled faintly but said nothing.
“You’re not bad at this,” Boom said after a while, keeping his eyes on the spinning clay.
Aou chuckled softly. “I’m just copying you.”
“Well, copy less. You’re about to make it collapse.”
They both laughed then, quietly, and Aou eased his pressure, letting Boom take over again. The clay bowl took shape—wobbly, uneven, but unmistakably something.
When it was done, Boom reached for the sponge and carefully dabbed water along the rim. Aou’s hands had drifted back to Boom’s waist again, but this time they rested there with purpose, not with want.
“You always try to get close by touching,” Boom said without looking at him. “But maybe I like it better like this.”
Aou leaned in just slightly. “Like what?”
Boom finally glanced over his shoulder, their faces inches apart. “Doing something with you. Sharing it. Not rushing.”
The quiet between them stretched, warm and charged. Aou nodded slowly.
“I can do that.”
Their bowl sat spinning on the wheel, imperfect and a little lopsided, but wholly theirs.
Teacher Thi stood and walked over, peering at their work with a small grin.
“Not bad,” she said, inspecting it. “More heart than balance, but that’s a good start.”
She gave them both a wink, then moved on to check Aou’s abandoned wheel.
Aou smiled. Boom allowed himself a small smirk.
As the lesson wound down, they cleaned their hands together at the sink, bumping elbows and quietly enjoying the mess they had made—not just with the clay, but in the air between them.
There was something real forming now, something slower than touch.
And neither of them was in a rush.
They left the studio just as the sky began to soften into late afternoon hues. The street was quiet, the kind of quiet that made footsteps sound louder than they were. Boom carried the plastic tray with their clay bowl carefully inside, while Aou walked beside him, hands in his pockets, glancing at Boom from time to time.
“It’s kind of ugly,” Boom said, peering down at their bowl.
“Kind of charming,” Aou replied. “Like us.”
Boom gave him a side glance, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
They didn’t talk much on the way home. The air felt full of the things that didn’t need to be said — the clay under their nails, the warmth still lingering from shared laughter, and the unspoken understanding that something had shifted between them.
When they reached Boom’s apartment building, they both paused at the gate.
“So,” Aou said, rubbing the back of his neck, “what now?”
Boom looked at him, then down at the tray in his hands. The bowl inside was already starting to dry, the soft gleam of wet clay turning matte and pale.
“Now we wait,” Boom said simply.
“For the bowl?”
Boom nodded. “For that. And maybe… whatever this is too.”
Aou took a small step closer, the way he always did when unsure. “And if I mess it up again?”
Boom exhaled through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Then I’ll smack your hands again.”
Aou grinned. “Fair.”
Boom looked at him, steady this time. “But just—try to meet me where I am, not push where I’m not ready to go.”
“I’ll try,” Aou said, voice softer now. “No rushing.”
They stood there a moment longer. Then Boom reached out with his free hand and flicked a smear of clay still on Aou’s cheek.
“You’ve got something,” he said.
“So do you,” Aou replied, not moving away.
For a heartbeat, it felt like the world held its breath.
Then Boom pushed open the gate. “Come on. You can help me clean the tray.”
Aou followed without hesitation.
They didn’t kiss. Not yet.
But the silence between them as they walked up the stairs felt full of promise. Of patience. Of something slowly being shaped, like clay between careful hands.
And this time, neither of them was afraid to wait.
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