Chapter Text
The classroom was empty except for the four of them. Most students had fled the moment the final bell rang—it was Valentine's Day, after all, and people had places to be, confessions to make, rejections to nurse. But Jet's little corner remained, his desk buried under a small mountain of pink and red.
He'd claimed the back corner by the window, chair tilted back on two legs in a way that would've gotten him yelled at if any teachers were still around. His tie was loosened, shirt untucked, and he wore that easy smile he always had when surrounded by proof of his popularity—like a cat in a sunbeam.
"I still don't understand why you don't open these yourself," Manow said, perched on the desk in front of his, her laptop bag still slung over her shoulder. She sorted through the gifts with methodical precision, adjusting her glasses as she examined each one. Her short hair was tucked behind one ear, revealing the little rainbow pin she always wore. "Some of these are actually thoughtful."
Jet shrugged. "That's what I have you guys for."
"Delegates his love life like it's a group project," Mod muttered from where he'd sprawled across two chairs, already three envelopes deep into reading confession letters aloud in increasingly dramatic voices. "Oh, this one's from Nam in M.4/1. She says your smile is like—wait for it—sunshine through monsoon clouds."
"Poetic," Kan said, diving into the pile with the single-minded focus that made him captain of the football team. His jersey was still damp with sweat from practice, and he'd dropped his gym bag by the door. His hand emerged victorious, clutching a distinctive purple wrapper. "YES. Dibs on the Xoconat bar! I've been CRAVING chocolate."
He tore into it immediately, and the sharp, spicy-sweet smell of chocolate mixed with chilli flakes filled the classroom.
Mod looked up from his letter, wrinkling his nose. "Sometimes I wonder if you eat like this because you're a footballer or you're pregnant."
Kan paused mid-bite, chocolate smeared at the corner of his mouth. "Hopefully not both at the same time."
Manow snorted, nearly dropping the gift box she'd been examining. "That would make for an interesting season."
"Coach would have a meltdown," Jet added from his chair, still not bothering to sit up properly. "Probably make you run laps for 'improper planning.'"
"You're all terrible," Kan said, but he was grinning as he took another bite, seemingly unbothered by the heat. Sweat was already beading at his temple. "This is amazing though. Whoever sent this actually knows what's up."
"It's from Mint," Manow said, glancing at the card. "She sits behind Jet in Chem."
"The one who always shares her notes with him when he spaces out," Mod supplied helpfully.
Jet finally let his chair drop to all four legs, leaning forward to rifle through the pile himself with the kind of interest someone might show their birthday haul. He picked up a heart-shaped lollipop, examined it, and grinned. Then he extracted a small gold box—Lindt, the expensive kind.
"Ooh, Dad will want this one."
Manow flipped over another card. "You’re seriously not keeping any of this?"
Jet shrugged. "I’ll keep a couple chocolates for me and Dad. The rest go to the common good."
"Translation," Mod said, "Kan’s stomach and the student council snack fund."
Kan raised his hands in mock offence. "Hey, I’m a generous recipient."
"And a bottomless pit," Manow added.
"Still counts," Jet said, grinning.
Outside the window, the sky was starting to take on that particular shade of orange that meant evening was approaching. The football team was running drills on the field below, their shouts carrying up through the glass. Somewhere in the building, a club was still meeting, their laughter echoing down empty hallways.
Jet picked up one of the stuffed bears —a white one with a red bow —and squeezed it experimentally before setting it aside. "This one’s cute. Maybe I’ll donate it to the daycare."
"That’s actually sweet," Manow said.
"I have my moments."
Jet's phone buzzed on the desk. Another message, probably. Another heart emoji, another hopeful question. The classroom smelled like chocolate and spice, and the vanilla body spray that clung to every stuffed animal.
"Alright," Jet said finally, pulling himself up to actually look at the carnage. "Let’s get this over with."
Mod grinned, picking up the next letter like a game show host. "That’s the spirit. Now, this one starts with 'Dearest Jet' and I’m already living for it…"
Manow rolled her eyes and went back to her sorting. Kan reached for another chocolate from the pile.
And the afternoon stretched on, warm and ordinary and theirs.
*
Jet Pitayatorn was fifteen, and everyone at school seemed to agree that fifteen-year-olds like him should come with a warning label. Pin-straight hair that stuck up in every impossible direction, that “too-cool-to-care” bad-boy vibe, and a grin that made teachers sigh and classmates swoon in equal measure.
The uniform policy stated that black shoes are required. Jet wore Doc Martens with safety pins on the laces. The dress code specified tucked-in shirts. Jet's was perpetually half-out, sleeves rolled up, top button undone. Earrings were strictly prohibited. Jet had three in one ear and rotated them based on his mood.
When the principal called him in—for the fourth time that semester—Jet had simply looked at him and said, "Sir, respectfully, these rules were written in 1987. Even the Constitution got rewritten before these rules. Maybe it's time for an update?"
The conservative teachers hated him for it. Ajarn Somjai had once spent an entire class period lecturing about "respect for tradition" while looking directly at Jet. Ajarn Prawit had written him up three times in one week for "defiant attitude."
But the thing was—Jet never actually caused trouble beyond questioning the rules. He didn't vandalise. Didn't cheat. Didn't bully. He just... refused to comply with things he deemed pointless.
And he backed it up with results.
Straight A's across the board. First place in the national debate championship. Winner of the regional mathematics olympiad. His English was flawless, his Thai composition was award-winning, and his performance in the science fair had earned the school a feature in the newspaper.
The administration tolerated him with a mixture of awe and exasperation because they couldn't exactly punish their rising star for having opinions about outdated dress codes.
The modelling agency loved it. Rebellious but smart, they said. Marketable. Jet had been booked for editorial spreads, commercial shoots, and lifestyle campaigns.
But what really made him feel alive were his performances in Siam Square: freestyle dances, music covers, the occasional impromptu rap. The crowds, the flashing phones, the energy—he thrived on it. A few of his videos had even gone semi-viral. Not bad for a teenager whose idea of homework sometimes involved sneaking into the school records room just to see how the system worked.
Nobody had ever blamed him. Not once. Partly because he was always careful. Partly because, well, Jet Pitayatorn had a way of making even his teachers forget they were supposed to be angry
*
By the time the sun set, Jet opened the apartment door, the familiar smell of old books and strong coffee greeting him like an old friend.
“Dad? I’m home!”
Naran Pitayatorn emerged from the study, wavy hair a little mussed, reading glasses perched low on his nose. He looked every bit the managing editor of Siam Weekend: composed, quietly authoritative, and always just a touch exhausted from navigating Thailand’s political currents. Yet when he saw Jet, his face softened instantly.
“How was school?” Naran asked, his voice calm but amused. “Anything… interesting happen today?”
Jet flopped onto the couch dramatically, one leg tucked under him. "Nothing I can't handle. Ajarn Prawit tried to write me up for my boots again. I told him they were a necessary medical accommodation for my flat feet."
"You don't have flat feet."
"He doesn't know that." Jet grinned, spinning the story like a magician drawing cards from thin air. "Also, maybe almost started a small revolution in calculus."
Naran raised an eyebrow. “A small revolution?”
"I suggested that since half the class doesn't understand derivatives, maybe we should spend less time copying problems from the board and more time actually learning the concepts. Ajarn Sripat said that was 'undermining her teaching methodology.'" Jet shrugged. "I said it was advocating for educational efficiency."
Naran shook his head, but the corner of his lips twitched. He understood rebellion in a way most parents didn't—probably because he'd been exactly the same at that age. Maybe worse.
They fell into their rhythm: Jet flopping across the furniture, Naran editing articles at his desk.
Jet was the kind of child who was so close to their parent that they knew all the tiny details: from how his dad took his coffee, how he read the morning papers, how he sang off-key while making dinner. How he quietly commanded respect in the political journalism world.
*
But there were gaps in Jet’s knowledge, spaces Naran never filled. Anything before Jet existed in Naran’s life—those years before the boy was born—remained sealed behind polite deflection. “I had a different life then,” Naran would say, changing the topic as if the conversation were poison.
Jet had learned not to push too much. Mostly.
Jet perched on the armrest of the couch, pulling out a homework sheet, flawless as ever. “Hey, Dad? There’s this current-events assignment. Everyone’s talking about the Ministry of Defence and that corruption thing. Could I… maybe get your insight?”
The instant Jet mentioned the Ministry, Naran’s shoulders stiffened, his expression shuttering. Jet knew the look—like a storm held in check.
“Another topic,” Naran said flatly. “There are plenty of scandals in other ministries.”
“But Siam Weekend has been covering it—”
“Jet.” One word, heavy enough to stop a train.
Jet paused, hands mid-air, blinking at his father. The topic of the Ministry had always been a boundary. A line drawn in permanent marker that Jet had learned not to cross.
It wasn't just the Ministry in general, either. It was specific. It was about him.
Minister Krailert Suwannaphat.
Jet had noticed it over the years. The way his dad’s jaw would tighten whenever the news mentioned the Defence Ministry. The way he'd reach for the remote with barely concealed urgency whenever Minister Suwannaphat's face appeared on screen.
Last month, their neighbour—Khun Malee from 4B—had been chatting with Naran in the hallway about some defence drill happening near her sister's village. She'd mentioned Minister Suwannaphat almost casually, something about how he'd handled the situation well.
Naran had gone still. Then he'd looked at Khun Malee with such cold fury that she'd actually taken a step back.
"I'd rather not discuss him," Naran had said, voice like ice.
Khun Malee had stammered an apology and hadn't brought up the minister again.
Jet had asked about it later. "What's your deal with the Defence Minister?"
"Nothing," he had said. "Just don't like him."
But it wasn't "just don't like him" energy. It was something deeper. Something that made his dad’s hands shake slightly when he switched channels, made his expression go distant and pained.
Something that felt like history.
"Sorry, I'll pick something else," Jet said now, backing down. "Maybe the education reform thing?"
"Good," Naran said, his shoulders finally loosening. "That's a safer topic anyway. Less likely to make your teacher think you're trying to stage a coup."
"I would never stage a coup. That's so much paperwork."
Naran laughed despite himself, and the tension broke.
They fell back into easy conversation. Jet told him about dance practice, about the new choreography he was working on for his next Siam Square performance. Naran told him about the latest drama at the magazine—someone had accidentally published a quote attributed to the wrong politician, and now they were doing damage control.
Normal. Ordinary. Safe.
Jet had googled the minister once, out of curiosity. Found articles about his military career, his transition to politics, and his role in various government initiatives. He was older—mid-to-late fifties, probably. Distinguished-looking. The kind of face that belonged on campaign posters.
Nothing obviously scandalous. Nothing that would explain his father's reaction.
But then Jet had found an old article from sixteen years ago. Something about a corruption investigation, a scandal involving a power plant project. The Huay Kam Saeng scandal.
The article mentioned several names. One of them was Naran Pitayatorn.
Jet had stared at that name for a long time. His father's name, in an article about a scandal that happened right before Jet was born.
The article said several people had been implicated. Some had been killed, while others had been exiled.
Jet had closed the laptop without reading more.
Some mysteries, he had decided then, were better left alone.
Outside, Bangkok hummed with its evening rhythm: tuk-tuks weaving through narrow streets, street-food vendors calling, neon lights blinking in the Siam district.
But in Jet’s mind, the questions he thought he’d laid to rest kept swirling.The Pandora’s box that not only his father, but also everyone from his dad’s friends to the Salenkos, would never talk about.
When he left America almost a decade years ago, he didn’t care for it. But at the age when you see the world for what it is, maybe you have to dust out the box.