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Pat shouldn't have been flying that often. His physio warned him about jet lag, about inflammation, about his back locking up mid-flight. But he was in Mumbai again, watching Ishan hop around the edges of the hotel bed like a kid with fireworks in his blood.
Ishan was nineteen. All cheekbone and adrenaline, giggling like mischief in a bottle. He jumped onto Pat's back without warning. "Twirl me," he'd said, lips flushed from laughter. "Come on, cowboy. You're built for it."
Pat did. Because if Ishan danced, he would dance. And if he didn't, Pat would still dance anyway—just to keep that look in Ishan's eyes. Like he hung the stars, like the earth only spun because Pat nudged it every morning.
"You're too tall for this," Pat teased, grunting as he lifted him.
"And you're too in love to care," Ishan grinned, arms around his neck, forehead bumping his. The line was a joke. But it wasn't. Not entirely.
Pat spun him anyway. Three dizzy turns. The air smelt of monsoon and love, young sweet love, dripping like honey from sweet sweet lips. He could feel Ishan's heartbeat where their chests met. Could feel the way his own lungs steadied just having the boy in his arms. Like fear didn't exist. Like death would wait its turn before approaching them.
"I feel safe," Ishan mumbled that night, head on Pat's chest, fingers curled in the threadbare sleeve of Pat's travel hoodie.
Pat didn't answer. But he held him closer.
He never said it aloud, never told him: You're the only peace I ever found. And one day, I'll lose it.
"If you dance, I'll dance / And if you don't, I'll dance anyway / Give peace a chance / Let the fear you have fall away."
Ishan's laugh hit first, sharp and startled, bubbling into something wild. Pat barely had a second to brace before the boy was yelling at the TV again, leaping to his feet, pointing at a slow-mo cover drive like it was live war footage.
"See that? That's my boyfriend! That's my...... everything!"
"Highlight reel," Pat deadpanned from the bed.
"Shut up. It's art."
He didn't care that it was the sixth replay. Or that Pat was watching him instead of the screen. Ishan was electric with pride, hair damp, voice dark and raspy and so not nineteen and yet he still bounced like a kid high on sugar.
I've got my eye on you
I've got my eye on you
Pat moved.
He caught him mid-sentence, grabbed him by the waist, and with practiced ease flipped him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing. Ishan yelped—a sound that turned into shrieking laughter as Pat tossed him onto the bed. He bounced once. Then again, dramatically, like a soap opera death.
"You're obsessed!" Pat accused, climbing over him.
"Damn right," Ishan wheezed, grinning up at him. "You got that wrist action, baby."
Pat barked a laugh. Feeling alive with love.
Ishan was quiet for a full two seconds before he was back at it.
"Pattyyy!"
Ishan shoved at his chest, eyes gleaming. "I got selected! Nationals! They called—I'm in!"
Pat froze.
His face shifted through the five stages of joy (if there existed something like that) in quick succession.
He howled.
There was no other word for it. He screamed, full-bodied and primal, arms scooping Ishan up again and spinning him like the room couldn't hold them. Ishan wrapped his thighs tight around Pat's waist, holding on like they were midair, like if he let go he'd fall back to Earth and none of this would be real.
"I knew it," Pat kept saying, breathless, dizzy. "I knew—I told you—bloody told you—"
"I said yes to the universe," Ishan giggled against his ear.
Pat kissed him.
Like an echo. Of joy. Of fear. Of saying yes before they ever knew what the question was.
Say yes to Heaven
Say yes to me
Say yes to Heaven
Say yes to me