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What the hell are you doing?
It’s the only thought Mek seems capable of making in this moment as he waits for his heartbeat to slow down.
It’s beating faster than if he’d pulled a rickshaw all the way across town; he’s a little concerned it might actually explode. Which he’d probably deserve, considering what he’d just done.
What the hell are you doing?
People like him don’t kiss people like Dech. He’s a baronet, for one thing, and Mek is far beneath him, socially. For another, Dech is… well, he’s a man. There’s no getting past that. Men don’t kiss other men, especially men so above their own station. He’d been a fool, stealing that kiss from Dech, but Dech had kissed him first and really, what was Mek supposed to do? Let Dech get away with just kissing him out of the blue like that? Like he had some kind of ownership over intrusive thoughts and impulsive actions?
No sir. Two could play that game.
But now, coming down from the high that was the feeling of Dech’s lips against his, Mek can’t help but panic. He holds Dech to his chest and cards his fingers through Dech’s soft hair. The smell of his shampoo tickles Mek’s nose, and he’s painfully aware of the fact that Dech has discarded his shirt, and he wants nothing more than to move his hand from where it rests on Dech’s shoulder and trace his fingers down Dech’s ribs, but he doesn’t.
Because he’s panicking. He doesn’t panic—even when he’s short on baht and has to go a couple days without food, he keeps his head about him and focuses on what he can control. Like getting more jobs, saving more money, and making the rice stretch even longer.
Mek doesn’t feel in control around Dech. He feels distinctly out of control around Dech—hence the kissing that led to this panic in the first place. He’s never felt the way he feels with Dech. He’s never had anyone confide in him, look out for him, care about him. Mek’s never had a friend, just customers, and the aunties and uncles who take pity on him. Dech, though, insists on Mek calling him friend. And more than that, he insists on calling Mek friend in return.
He sighs, careful not to jostle Dech where he lies, asleep now, on his chest.
What the hell are you doing?
Mek needs to stop this. He needs to tell Dech they can’t do this, they can’t see each other anymore, they can’t be friends or passing acquaintances, or anything else. He knows what he has to do, but…
He cranes his neck to look at the sleeping man currently using him as a pillow. Dech looks so peaceful, the hints of a smile still on his lips. His wide eyes are closed, his long lashes brushing against his cheekbones, and Mek is gripped by a wild urge to kiss those closed eyelids. Mek can’t give Dech up, he realizes. Not when this thing between them feels like magic, wild and reckless, and right.
If Dech wants him, and Mek truly thinks he does, based on the fervour with which he kissed him, then Mek doesn’t stand a chance. For better or worse, a piece of him now belongs to the young master now drooling onto his shirt, and there’s nothing Mek can do about it. He closes his eyes, Dech’s steady breaths filling his ears, and thinks about hard kisses and sharp teeth as he drifts off to sleep.