Chapter Text
Thame leaned against the out of order sign taped to the snack machine and decided that the mall smelled better in summer.
It wasn't true. It still reeked of fried dough, cheap perfume, and whatever chemical the cleaners drowned the tiles in. But in summer, people were louder. Sweatier. Dumber. It made the place feel alive instead of just... fluorescent.
He stole a piece of lemon candy from Auto and popped it into his mouth while the others argued about which game to play; winner chooses the movie, loser pays for everyone's ticket. It had been their rule since middle school.
"Wait, is Jun coming?" Lao asked, glancing up from his phone.
Ton snorted. "You're delusional." He slung an arm around Thame's shoulders. "Our boy here hasn't even seen him since the fair."
"Damn." Lao said solemnly. "Jun's in love-love."
The group fell into their usual rhythm: mock insults, light shoving, exaggerated outrage, until they finally settled on rock-paper-scissors. They formed a loose circle right at the entrance, taking up just enough space to earn glares from passersby and a near miss from an elderly woman wielding a bright purple purse.
They were being way too loud. Security came over and demanded they lower their voices. The order lasted exactly two sentences before Auto nearly tripped over a spicy chicken stand and Thame burst out laughing.
"All right." Ton announced, grinning as he counted with a terrible fake Australian accent. "One, two, three."
Hands flashed.
Auto lost.
He stared at his fingers like betrayal was written on them. "Statistically, this makes no sense."
They shoved him toward the ticket line while Kai, Sumdong, and Lao went off to buy popcorn and drinks.
Ton and Thame didn't need words. One look and they turned toward the Seven-Eleven, their designated smuggling zone. The aisles were narrow, the store possibly the smallest one they'd ever seen.
Ton picked up a bright orange package and held it up. "Fucking cough drops?"
Thame slapped his arm. "Absolutely not." He grabbed their usual cherry-and-lime gummies instead.
Ton approved with a nod. They stuffed their hands with chips and candy, strategizing how much they could hide without looking like shoplifters with body issues.
At the register, Ton's phone rang. He checked the screen and grimaced. "Man, can you pay for this? I gotta take it." He held up the phone. His boss was calling him.
"On a Thursday afternoon?" Thame frowned.
Ton shrugged and stepped outside to answer. Thame sighed and pulled out his wallet.
"Left you alone?" The cashier asked, smiling like they shared a secret.
Thame clutched his chest dramatically. "I'm suffering."
She laughed as she rang him up.
He left without a bag. They needed pocket storage anyway. He managed four packets cleanly and shoved the rest into Ton when he got back, before anyone could witness the crime.
Auto returned at the same time, muttering curses. "That line was a nightmare." He handed the tickets to Kai, the only one they trusted not to lose them. "Also, the ticket guy's new." He jerked his chin toward the counter.
Thame turned.
His brain stalled.
"Oh." He whispered.
The guys immediately noticed. They laughed and pushed him toward the hallway entrance. Thame glanced back once. The ticket seller leaned forward over the counter, short black hair falling into his face, cheeks faintly flushed.
"Come on, bro." Lao said, tugging Thame away. "Try not to imprint on the employee."
"Don't be an ass." Auto added. "Our boy is simply appreciating art."
He's cute, Thame thought as the theater doors swallowed them.
Next week, same time, same mall. Same smell of fried dough and floral lies.
Thame stood in the exact same spot by the snack machine, pretending this was coincidence and not ritual. He told himself he was there because it was close to the entrance. And because the floor tile made a good leaning angle. And because the ticket counter was directly in his line of sight.
"Don't stare." Lao muttered, nudging him.
"I'm not." Thame replied immediately.
"You haven't blinked."
Thame blinked once. "There. Satisfied?"
Auto stole a gummy from his pocket. "Bro, if you fall in love with a minimum-wage employee, that's between you and your therapist."
Thame ignored him. The ticket guy was there again. Same black hair. Same soft concentration face. Same sleeves pushed up just enough to show his wrists when he reached for tickets. He was counting something on the screen, lips pressed together like the world depended on correct math.
Thame's chest did something deeply inconvenient.
"Okay." Ton announced. "Same rules. Loser pays."
Rock-paper-scissors happened with far too much drama. Shouting. Accusations of cheating. Someone definitely used two hands.
When the dust settled, Auto stared at his fingers in horror. "Again?"
Kai patted his shoulder. "Consistency is a virtue."
"Statistically." Auto said weakly. "This is bullying."
The snack squad peeled off, and Thame found himself walking toward the counter with Auto.
He tried to act normal. He failed immediately. His stride was wrong. His arms didn't swing naturally. His posture felt like it belonged to a haunted mannequin.
Auto squinted at him. "Why are you walking like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you're auditioning for a toothpaste commercial."
Thame stopped, reset his body, and resumed walking. "Better?"
"You look worse."
They reached the counter.
The ticket guy looked up.
Thame's brain shut down.
Not metaphorically. Like hard reboot. Everything slowed. The mall noise blurred into static. He noticed details that had no business being noticed: the faint dimple when the guy smiled, the tiny mole near his jaw, the way his eyes softened when he saw them.
"Hi." The guy said.
It wasn't just hi. It was warm. Friendly. Soft like he meant it.
Thame almost died.
"Two tickets." Auto said, slapping money down like this was a hostage exchange.
The guy glanced at Auto, then back at Thame. And then, he lingered. Not long. Not obvious. But long enough.
Thame felt seen and selected. Chosen by fate and fluorescent lighting.
The guy's lips curved up a little more than last week. "Same movie?"
Thame nodded so fast his neck cracked. "Yeah. Uh. Same. Yes. The... the one."
The guy smiled wider.
Thame was in trouble.
Auto leaned over and whispered: "You're smiling like you won the lottery."
"I am." Thame whispered back. "He noticed me."
The ticket guy slid the tickets across. Their fingers almost touched.
Almost.
Thame would think about that moment for the rest of his natural life.
"Enjoy the movie." The guy said.
Something inside Thame snapped. It was not the brave thing. It was not the smooth thing. It was not even the logical thing.
It was the Thame thing.
"So." Thame leaned on the counter like a man who had never once seen a mirror. "Do the tickets come with your number, or is that extra?"
Auto made a choking noise.
The mall went quiet.
The smile on the guy's face dropped. Not dramatically or angrily; it simply vanished like someone turned off a light. "Oh."
Just oh. Professional, dead-inside oh.
"Next." He called, already looking past Thame to the woman behind them.
Auto grabbed Thame's arm and dragged him away. "What was that?" He hissed.
"I panicked."
"You flirted like a divorced uncle."
"I thought it sounded charming!"
"You said it like a dad at a barbecue."
Thame glanced back. The ticket guy was not looking at him. Not even a little. He typed something into the system with intense focus, like Thame no longer existed as a concept.
Thame's stomach sank.
The rest of the group met them by the hallway.
Lao took one look at Thame's face. "Oh no."
Ton crossed his arms. "What did you do?"
"I tried to flirt."
Kai winced. "Define 'tried.'"
"I implied tickets came with his number."
Silence.
Then Sumdong laughed so hard he had to bend over.
"That's it." Ton said. "You scared him away."
"I didn't mean to!"
They entered the theater. Thame walked slower than everyone else.
He looked back once.
The ticket guy still wasn't looking. He wasn't mad. He wasn't upset. He was... done.
Thame sank into his seat like someone who had lost a war he didn't train for.
Auto nudged him. "On the bright side?"
"What."
"You made eye contact."
Thame stared at the dark screen.
Next week, he thought, I'm not saying anything weird.
This time, Thame didn't wait for the game.
"I'll pay." He announced, already stepping forward. He told himself it was courage, not panic masquerading as confidence.
Auto blinked. "You don't have to-"
"I want to."
That was true, somehow.
He walked toward the counter, shoulders back, a grin stretched across his face that showed too many teeth. It felt glued on. The kind of smile people wore in family photos when they were trying very hard not to blink.
The ticket guy was there again. Of course he was.
Same counter. Same sleeves rolled just enough. Same quiet focus, eyes down, fingers moving fast over the screen.
Thame slowed without meaning to.
When the guy looked up, his face didn't change. It was polite. Professional. As if last week had never happened, as if Thame had never existed as anything more than a customer-shaped problem.
"Hi." The guy greeted. It was professional-hi. Receipt voice. Next-in-line energy.
Something twisted inside Thame anyway. He leaned on the counter, too casual, too close. "Hey."
The guy's eyes flicked to the screen, then back. "How many?"
"All of them." Thame said. "We're a tragic group."
No reaction. A small nod. Fingers typing.
Thame tried again, softer this time. "You always work Thursdays, or am I just lucky?"
Still nothing. Just the low hum of the printer warming up. It was ridiculous how much that hurt, because last week, the guy had smiled.
Thame shifted his weight. Rolled his shoulders. Let his posture loosen into something he hoped looked confident instead of desperate. He let his voice soften. "You look different today."
That earned him a glance. Brief. Careful. A reflex that got immediately shut down.
"Tickets?" The guy asked.
Thame nodded and slid the money across. He let his fingers brush the edge of the guy's hand, just enough that contact happened without being obvious; a whisper of touch that could almost be imagined.
But when Thame looked up, their eyes met.
Not polite. Not customer.
Something stalled.
The guy's mouth opened like he might say something, then didn't. His gaze lingered, searching Thame's face instead of skimming past it. And Thame, who had been grinning and flirting and trying so hard, felt the smile slip.
Not fall. Shift. Into something quieter, steadier. His shoulders dropped. Jaw unclenched. He stopped performing.
The ticket guy noticed.
It showed in the way his posture changed, the way his head tilted just slightly. He was suddenly seeing a person instead of a line in front of him.
For half a second, the world narrowed to the space between them.
Then the printer beeped.
The guy blinked, tore the tickets, slid them across. "Enjoy the movie." His voice rose a fraction of a pitch, just enough that Thame noticed. Of course he noticed. He wanted to.
Thame took the tickets, not flirting or joking again. He nodded and stepped back.
The bravado stayed behind at the counter.
He joined the others without looking back.
In the dark of the theater, he held the tickets in his hand, still warm, and found himself missing the way the guy had looked at him more than what made sense.
The movie started. Explosions, dialogue, someone laughing behind them. Thame saw none of it. All he could think about was how the guy's eyes had changed. How they had looked at him, really looked, as if trying to understand something.
He looks better when he smiles.
And somehow, that felt like a problem.
Thame hadn't given up. Not even a little.
If anything, he'd decided to continue last week's strategy, refine it like a science experiment. His theory was simple: be normal, but obviously flirting. Present. Familiar. Something the ticket guy might start to expect on Thursdays.
And once the guy started looking forward to it, Thame would vanish for a week. Just to see what would happen.
Ton had called the plan idiotic. Try-hard. Delusional, even. Thame had called himself a master of flirtation and refused to elaborate.
So when they reached the counter with Thame's arm thrown loosely around Lao's shoulders, he was already prepared. Smoothed out. Calm. His smile practiced into something easy and unforced.
The cute guy was already looking at him. Then his gaze slid to Lao instead. "Hi. Which movie?"
Thame smiled. Not sharp. Not teasing yet. Just... kind. Sweet enough not to look staged. "Hi." He said, stretching the word, letting it roll out slow and warm.
The guy blinked, just slightly. He's surprised, Thame decided, counting that as a win.
He dropped his arm from Lao's shoulder and leaned against the counter, close enough to be seen, not close enough to be rude. Lao handled the tickets. The money. The normal parts.
Thame did nothing.
Which, somehow, was doing everything.
He didn't speak. He let his face do the work.
His eyes lit up when the guy talked. His mouth curved into a soft smile that never quite faded. His fingers trembled faintly at his side, like they wanted to reach forward but were too polite to try.
He looked like a puppy waiting for permission to be touched.
The guy's eyes flicked to him. Once. Twice. Three times. Quick glances, as if expecting Thame to say something and didn't know what to do with the silence.
Thame stayed quiet.
When Lao finished paying and stepped back, Thame finally straightened. His smile widened just a little as he pointed at the guy's uniform; no longer black, now a deep, dark red.
"Compliments your pretty face." He was loud enough for the guy and Lao, soft enough that no one else in line could hear.
The guy startled. Eyes widening a fraction, his mouth parted, white teeth showing slightly. The reaction made Thame feel confident as he winked and walked away.
Halfway down the hallway, he caught a voice behind him. Older. Rougher. Teasing in the way only someone past their twenties could tease.
"He's handsome."
If Thame had turned around, he would've seen the small nudge that followed. The one aimed at the ticket guy's side.
"He doesn't mean it, Phi." The ticket guy replied. "He's teasing."
Thame's step almost broke.
Teasing.
That was how it sounded?
Maybe it was. In a way. He was flirting to be noticed. Playing with reactions. Watching for smiles. But he meant it. Even if not completely. Even if not fully understood yet.
Every compliment had been true.
At the counter, the coworker tilted his head and looked Po over slowly, eyes dragging from his hair to his shoes like he was reading a sign written too faintly. "Teasing?" He asked.
Po bowed his head as the next customer stepped up. His cheeks flushed, pink rising where his hair failed to hide it. He tried anyway: shifting his bangs, moving his hands, busying himself with the register.
It didn't work.
An older person could read it easily.
When the line thinned, the coworker didn't leave. He leaned against the counter instead, arms crossed, waiting.
Po stole a glance at him. Then another, toward the group of boys gathered by the couches down the hallway, loud and careless and waiting for their movie.
He swallowed.
When he spoke, his voice came out quiet. Almost secret. As if saying it too clearly would make it true.
"I think he... you know. Noticed it."
The coworker frowned. "Noticed what?"
Po hesitated. Then, softer: "That I..."
The coworker's brows pulled together. "That you're gay?"
He looked Po up and down again. Natural hair, plain face, red uniform shirt tucked into baggy beige pants that hid his frame completely.
"It's not obvious." He said. "Especially like this. You look... straight enough."
He gave Po's shoulder a brief squeeze.
Po let out a tiny laugh. "Thank you?"
The coworker smirked and went back to his station.
Po stayed where he was. Leaning on the counter. Watching the hallway where the boys had disappeared.
Po touched his own cheek without meaning to, where the heat still lingered.
"They did not." Lao argued with Ton.
"You blind?" Ton shot back. "Her chest was out every time he walked into the room." He grabbed Thame's arm and hauled him in at his side, like Thame was about to serve as living proof. Both of them turned to him at once, waiting for a verdict that no one had asked for.
"Come on, they didn't." Lao cocked a brow and tipped his head toward the spicy chicken stand nearby.
Ton, instead, pointed at his own wallet, as if it contained evidence.
Thame laughed and shook his head. "I'm out." He shrugged Ton's hand off and took a step back. "I'm seeing Jun."
"What?" Ton's jaw dropped. "Then why didn't he come if he's free?" His voice rose, sharp enough to turn heads.
Thame shook his head as everyone looked at him now. "He wasn't. I'm just crashing there."
"Thirdwheeling?" Kai asked.
"They threesome." Ton said, grinning.
"They do not." Lao shot back, smacking Ton's shoulder before bolting away.
Ton swore under his breath, seized by an ancient instinct to retaliate. "You're dead!" He yelled, chasing Lao between stores and people.
Thame waved at the ones left behind. His gaze drifted without permission to the counter on the other side of the lobby.
The cute guy was still there, talking with a coworker, looking comfortable in the space. He tilted his head, reached into the popcorn machine, and popped one into his mouth. As he chewed, his cheeks puffed slightly.
Thame couldn't stop watching.
He smiled until he remembered what he'd overheard. The guy thought he didn't mean it. Thought he'd been joking.
The smile slipped off Thame's face, and he turned toward the main entrance instead.
He pulled out his phone, fingers moving fast through Instagram DMs until he found Jun's name.
You home?
A minute later, a thumbs-up cat gif appeared. Thame liked it. Put in his earbuds. Let the music carry him the rest of the way.
He rang the doorbell. Ava opened the gate, her warm smile spreading wider when she saw him. "Hi, Thame. Long time no see."
She pulled him into a hug, gentle and firm in the way only a mother could manage.
Thame smiled into it. "How are you, mom?" He'd been calling Jun's mother that for years.
She laughed softly. "I suddenly have so many sons." She closed the gate behind him and led him inside, into a house that always felt the same. Quiet. Warm. Safe.
Jun's father was stretched out on the couch, phone in hand, glasses perched high on his nose.
"Hi, dad." Thame bowed slightly as he passed.
Jun's father looked up, eyes lighting with recognition. "Wow, Thame." He chuckled. "There's no chaos these days. Are you staying over? I need a reason to break Jun's door down."
Thame nodded. "If you want a reason, I can give you a dozen. Just wait."
Ava shook her head at him, already displeased with how quickly he was promising trouble.
Out of their sight, Thame exhaled. For a moment, nothing existed but the door at the end of the hall.
He didn't feel unwelcome. Just... aware. Aware of how long it had been since he'd come here. Since he'd belonged to this house the way he used to. Both parents had noticed. They were right to.
He pulled a grin onto his face easily and knocked like he was trying to break the door down. "Room service!" He shouted, pounding once more before shoving it open and barging inside.
Jun jumped, glancing at Thame before snapping his eyes back to the game. "Hey, man. Can't stop this." He muted his microphone and pulled one side of his headphones off.
Thame shrugged and dropped onto the bed. He lay back on Jun's pillow, staring at the ceiling. The room smelled different; sweeter than usual. Vanilla, maybe. Cinnamon. Something Jun would never pick on his own.
"Why doesn't it rot in here?" Thame asked.
Jun snorted and shot him a look. "Dylan."
Thame hummed, propping his head on his palm.
"So." Jun said, fingers still flying over the controller. "Why are you here?"
Thame sat up, then stood. "Do I need a reason? I haven't seen my pookie bear in weeks." He wiggled his brows.
Jun rolled his eyes, though a smirk tugged at his mouth.
Silence settled. Jun entered the last round of his game. Thame began pacing without noticing, eyes drifting to things that hadn't been there before. Objects arranged too carefully. Colors Jun wouldn't choose. Things that didn't quite belong to him, though maybe, in the past few weeks, they had.
Thame told him everything. How the guy looked. How his voice sounded. How his smile landed. Every detail he could remember. He reached the important part last: today, overhearing the guy say he thought Thame was just teasing.
Jun glanced at him, shaking a snow globe so hard the flakes went wild. "So... basically, you have a crush."
Thame slammed the snow globe down. "No." The word came too fast. "I don't. I'm not that type."
"You're overwhelmed because it's the first time you're actually serious about liking someone." Jun said easily. "And he thinks you're faking it."
Thame laughed and turned toward the closet, desperate to change the subject. He yanked the door open. The game ended behind him.
"Wow." He touched a blue hoodie. "You've got a lot of new stuff." He pulled out a striped pajama set with a dog on it and twirled the fluffy strings around one finger.
"Don't." Jun said, sharper than before.
Thame turned, brows lifted, mouth already opening until Jun spoke again.
"Sorry, man." He scratched the back of his neck. "Dylan's been putting some things here. I don't know if he's cool with you going through them."
Thame didn't answer. He looked around.
There were more things now. The room looked like two people lived there. Like two people had made space for each other without asking permission.
Then, for the first time in his life, Thame asked: "Can I sleep over?"
It used to be normal. They never announced it. Never planned it. Nights just happened; movies, games, talking until it was too late to leave.
But Jun's eyes dropped.
He hesitated.
"Sorry, bro. I only have one spot to share. And Dylan's coming over."
Thame nodded. "Whatever."
Their eyes met; Jun's apologetic, Thame's unreadable. The silence felt balanced between calm and wrong, heavy with something waiting its turn to break.
"So." Thame said lightly. "What's it like being a boyfriend? You say cheesy stuff now?"
Jun's eyes lit up immediately. He launched into it. Every sweet thing Dylan said, every small gesture, every way he made Jun feel seen and loved. The words poured out like he'd been waiting to unload them.
It went on a long time.
Thame's mind slipped away halfway through. He wandered slowly, pretending to listen. Jun was love-sick. Open about it. Proud of it. It was admirable. Annoying. Loud.
He wanted to ask about the Nemo plush sitting neatly on the bed when Jun used to hide it. He wanted to ask about the stickers on the console, the orange juice on the table, the contact lenses and glasses laid out together.
The door opened.
Wide. Quiet. Certain.
Dylan stepped in with a tray and two bowls of soup. They looked homemade, portioned exactly right. "Hi."
Jun smiled. "Hi, Cupcake."
"Don't call me that." Dylan muttered, glancing at Thame. The discomfort was obvious. "Sorry, Thame. I didn't know you'd be here."
Thame forced a tight smile. "It's fine. Wouldn't want to disturb the love nest." He laughed and headed for the door.
Jun took the tray and pulled Dylan into a side hug. "We can order."
That tone.
The polite one. The fake kind one.
Thame backed out and closed the door behind him.
Downstairs, Jun's father raised a brow. "Leaving already?"
Ava appeared and walked him out. She hugged him again at the gate before closing it behind him.
Thame's phone buzzed. A message from Jun lit up the screen.
Sorry, bro.
Thame didn't answer.
Streetlamps painted soft orange circles onto the charcoal pavement. He kicked an empty soda can ahead of him, the metal clinking too loudly in the quiet. Music blasted in his wireless earphones while a robotic voice kept interrupting, reminding him to charge them.
He kept walking.
The streets around Jun's house were burned into his memory. He could've reached the bus stop with his eyes closed. The metro without thinking. The front of Nanthan High without ever looking up.
He had no idea why he stopped there.
It was his school. Not Jun's anymore. Jun was finished with it. Now Jun was just a name and a small photo pinned to a board with others who had already escaped.
Thame's eyes drifted to the sign listing this year's graduates. Names stacked neatly, people who had once sat beside him in class.
Jun's name was there.
He couldn't be mad at them. Not when it had been his own choice to drift through lessons, to let things slide, to assume it would work out like it always had.
It hadn't.
He stood still, hands in his pockets.
Being left behind didn't feel like being alone. It felt like standing still while everyone else learned how to walk forward. Next semester, he'd be the only one passing through those halls again. The last chance. Unless he failed again.
The uniform would still fit. The faces inside it would be younger than his.
His stomach twisted.
He imagined the teachers talking. Laughing. The clown who passed without understanding how. The one who made jokes because he couldn't solve equations.
He dropped onto the bench in front of the gate.
Ton's name sat there too, beside Jun's. As if it were mocking him. Ton. Loud, careless, like him, had made it out. He was working from home now. He was free and responsible in a way Thame wasn't.
Like Jun. Like Dylan. Like the rest of the Cereal Chillers, who had thrown their textbooks away and stepped into lives they'd already decided on.
Thame swallowed.
These thoughts were new. Sharp. Annoying. Nobody had warned him about them. His parents never sat him down. He'd skipped past the TikTok stories that talked about fear and adulthood.
Now it was happening to him.
The worst part wasn't the fear. It was how much sense it made.
His parents weren't home much. They left money instead. He wasn't even sure they knew he'd failed once. Next birthday, he'd be legal, still wearing the same uniform as kids six years younger than him.
The idea tightened something in his chest.
Jun's house had always been loud. Warm. Full. Now his own felt... big. Too quiet. And his brain chose that moment to tell him something he didn't want to hear: that Jun hadn't only been a friend. That Jun's family had filled in shapes his own never had.
It didn't help.
Next year was fixed. Final. The last straight line before something else was supposed to begin.
He'd always been loud. Funny. Carefree. It wasn't an act. It was just him. He cared about happiness. Friends. Time.
Until thinking arrived.
Now, he saw things he hadn't wanted to.
Ton didn't date because a girl once broke him. Kai listened too much because his sister had needed him too early. Sumdong stayed quiet because silence was how he'd learned to survive. Dylan had burned and walked out knowing who he was.
Everyone laughed. Everyone moved on.
Everyone had a plan.
Time pushed forward without waiting, and Thame had walked to his school in the middle of summer for one reason only.
Comfort.
The walls were the same. Solid. Unmoved by who passed them. They didn't bend. Didn't care. They simply stayed.
And maybe that was why he'd always been loud. Why he'd joked the most. Why he'd failed and still shouted.
Because noise was easier than standing still.
Arriving home, the house waited, silent as a grave. He flicked the light switch. The entrance brightened at once, clean and pale and too wide for one person.
The walls felt closer than they should have, pressing in on the mess in his head.
The hallway stretched ahead of him, polished tiles reflecting his shoes like they expected something of him. The living room stood open to the left, untouched, arranged like it was still being photographed for a catalog.
With no one else in it, the space felt wrong; like his room was trying to compete with the rest of the house for proof that someone lived there.
He dropped onto the couch, fists tightening at his sides as he stared up at the ceiling. Tiny lights were scattered across it in a soft galaxy pattern.
Another night when he would have taken any sound over the low hum of machines and air conditioning.
He turned on the TV.
His earphones had died, and he needed noise to sleep. The screen filled with a basketball match of Thai celebrities against national-level juniors. The commentators were loud and excited, their voices bouncing off the walls.
With more air around him, sound felt smaller. The loudest things could drown. The quietest could sting.
Thame knew he was lucky. Everyone said so. Any kid would want his life. Even some people his age, the ones he watched and wondered what they had done to earn happiness, would trade places with him without thinking.
He was happy. Mostly.
The voices just made it harder sometimes.
His parents were home rarely and generous always. They left money and schedules instead of rules. There were no nannies anymore. No pets. No fur on the furniture. No muddy paws on marble floors. Trips mattered more than questions like Can I have a dog?
He remembered being thirteen, squeezed into the back of a rented Lamborghini while his parents talked about Italy. A week before that, he'd asked for a dog. Something to stay when they left. Something to wait for him after school. Something warm that didn't come in envelopes or bank transfers.
He hadn't known how to explain it then.
Now, he thought he'd only wanted something alive in the house.
The game droned on in the background. Sneakers squeaked. The crowd roared.
Just before sleep, his thoughts slipped somewhere he hadn't invited them.
The boy at the counter.
Dark eyes. Flat voice. A kind expression that vanished whenever Thame tried too hard. Someone who seemed to want quiet the moment Thame appeared. Someone who looked interesting. Cute. Untouchable.
Thame stared at the ceiling until the stars blurred. He fell asleep with the commentators still shouting and a small smile on his face.
Thame wouldn't have believed that a single week could tilt his life off balance so easily.
On the first day, his parents came back from a business trip with suitcases and energy and an agenda. They spread clothes across his bed like offerings: shirts still creased from packaging, jackets that smelled like expensive stores.
"Try this one." His mother said, already lifting her phone. "We need you for a photoshoot."
It was for a campaign about happy families.
Thame smiled at the camera when they told him to. He shifted when they asked. Turned his shoulders, lifted his chin, laughed on cue. When the photos were done and the lights went down, his parents asked him how he was doing.
It sounded like something learned from a script.
Thame stood behind the camera equipment and answered because that was easier than pointing out how strange it was; how parents could ask a question that should've come naturally.
On the second day, they took him to Icon Siam. They walked through stores without buying much, drank iced milk tea from plastic cups, wandered into a park nearby. The sun was hot and the benches were warm, and for a moment it felt like one of those early days Jun and Dylan used to talk about when they'd had nothing but time and nowhere special to spend it.
It was... fine. Almost normal.
The third day was chaos.
His parents told him to stay home. An interviewer was coming. Someone important, his mother said, handing him a button-down shirt that felt like a costume. Thame changed, then collapsed onto the couch and played video games with Auto online instead.
When night came, his parents told him it hadn't looked nice. Next time, they wanted him to be present. Involved. To act like a good son, even if it was just for show.
On the fourth day, he slammed the front door hard enough to make the walls vibrate.
His father had wanted him to come along to Singapore for four days. As if hotel rooms and room service could make him bear being in the same space as them for that long.
Thame said no. They insisted. So he grabbed his phone and called anyone who was free to exist with him.
The fifth day started on Auto's couch.
Auto's older brother was out, which meant the apartment belonged to them. Auto greeted him with a grin and too much food. They ate like they hadn't planned on surviving the afternoon and then went back to gaming, only pausing to throw half-finished thoughts into the air.
But Auto had work.
He dragged himself into the bathroom like a ghost, splashed water on his face, pulled on clothes, and left.
Thame didn't stay. He wasn't comfortable being alone in someone else's space.
He ended up in a café instead.
Dark chocolate milk. A chicken and spinach sandwich. Both perfect. He hummed quietly to himself while he ate, pretending the world was exactly how he wanted it.
Every so often, his mind offered something he didn't want to touch: that he was running from home, stretching time, avoiding the moment he'd have to go back.
That afternoon, no one was free.
The last two days passed without anything dramatic. They weren't bad. They were better than the first five, even. His parents filled the house with movement and voices, their presence replacing the noise he usually created himself.
He didn't feel sad. Just... off. A little worse than when he could roam the house in Spider-Man briefs and an oversized black shirt, yelling down the hallway to open the door for whichever friend showed up unannounced.
His parents weren't cruel. They weren't monsters.
They were an inconvenience. Sometimes small. Sometimes large. Depending on how perfectly they decided to play the role.
The mall looked the same as it had a week ago when Thame had dragged himself here with the guys. The same fluorescent light spilled from the high ceiling, washing everything in pale white. The same smell lingered in the air: fried chicken skin and synthetic air freshener fighting for dominance.
Footsteps echoed across tile, and pop music leaked from clothing stores like a distant argument.
Nothing had changed. Except him.
The week clung to his skin like damp fabric. He didn't want to talk about it. Didn't want to think about the uniform still hanging in his closet, waiting for him like a joke no one had bothered to explain.
He came early on purpose.
The plan was simple: arrive before the crew showed up, buy a ticket to whatever loud action movie was playing, and kill time by the snack machine like always. Lean. Stare. Let his brain wander. Be stupid in peace.
The boy at the counter had become the only constant lately. Dark hair falling just right when he focused, the half-second curve of his mouth before he said enjoy the movie. It didn't matter that it was one-sided. Didn't matter that he probably saw Thame as just another loud kid with too much free time.
It was something steady.
Thame pushed through the glass doors to the cinema level. Mid-afternoon on a weekday, half-empty. A few families were there, kids clinging to popcorn buckets. An older couple argued softly about seating. LED screens scrolled showtimes above the counters.
Thame's gaze went straight to the third counter from the left.
There he was.
Sleeves rolled to his elbows the way they always were, red uniform crisp despite the long shift, that thin silver bracelet glinting whenever he turned to scan a ticket. Calm. Collected. Utterly unaware of the quiet chaos he caused just by existing.
Thame’s chest gave its usual stupid, traitorous flip.
He slowed near the escalator, thumbing open his phone like it suddenly demanded his full attention. His palms were damp; his heartbeat felt embarrassingly loud in his ears. Pathetic, probably. But after the week he’d had, he didn’t care. Ten minutes of ridiculous, hopeless staring felt like the only thing he was allowed to want.
He watched the boy hand tickets over with that small, polite nod, the same one he gave everyone. The customer walked away. The boy exhaled softly and reached up to rub the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the counter for a single, unguarded second.
Tired.
Thame catalogued it the way he catalogued everything about him lately: the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders carried the weight of too many shifts, the tiny slump that only appeared when no one was looking.
And god, even tired he was stupidly cute. No... cuter. Like exhaustion had stripped away the last polite layer and left something softer and more real underneath.
Then the staff door behind the counters opened; the narrow one with faded red letters warning COLLEAGUES ONLY.
A man stepped out. Taller than the boy. Older. Black t-shirt, dark jeans, no uniform. Nothing said he should be back there. He didn’t glance at the customers milling in line. His eyes went straight to the boy behind the counter, like the rest of the lobby didn’t exist.
He said something low and quick. The words didn’t carry, but the tone did.
The boy’s shoulders tightened just a flicker, the kind of micro-movement most people would miss. Thame didn’t.
The man leaned one hip against the counter, close enough that his arm brushed the boy’s sleeve. Casual. Deliberate. The boy answered without lifting his head, voice too soft to reach across the tiles. The man smiled knowingly and murmured something else.
The boy glanced up then. A single, brief nod. Tight. Controlled.
Thame’s stomach twisted. It wasn't jealousy. Not quite. Just a cold, instinctive wrongness.
This man didn’t belong on this side of the counter. No badge. No red shirt. But he moved like the space had already been granted to him. Like permission wasn’t something he ever had to ask for.
The man reached out. Fingers grazed the boy’s collar, straightening it with practiced ease.
Casual. Familiar.
They lingered there long enough that the touch stopped being helpful and started being something else.
The boy froze. Half a heartbeat. Then he stepped back, small and sudden, breaking the contact.
The man laughed under his breath fondly, saying one last thing before turning toward the staff door. The boy watched him go, mouth pressed into a thin, pale line.
The door clicked shut.
For a moment the lobby noise rushed back in: footsteps, muffled conversations, the hum of the escalator. But Thame barely heard it. His eyes stayed on the empty space where the man had been, on the boy who was already turning back to the screen, shoulders squared again like nothing had happened.
Except it had.
Thame stared at the empty space like it had left a mark. His brain filled in blanks it had no right to fill.
Of course he had someone. Someone older. Someone who didn't have to linger by a snack machine just to be noticed. Someone who could touch him like it meant nothing.
The boy turned back to his screen. Work resumed. But his posture had changed; straighter, guarded. He rubbed his neck again, slower this time.
Thame swallowed. He should leave or wait outside, maybe pretend he'd arrived late. Instead, his feet carried him toward the snack machine. Coins in hand. Orbiting like always.
From here, he could see him better. The faint shadows under his eyes. The restless tap of his thumb against the counter.
Thame wanted to ask if he was okay. Wanted to say something stupid. Wanted to make him smile the way he sometimes did. But the image stuck: a hand on his collar. The way he hadn't pushed it away.
The vending machine swallowed Thame’s coins with a metallic gulp, clunked once, and spat out the cherry-lime gummies. He bent to retrieve them just as the boy behind the counter glanced over.
Their eyes met.
For one suspended second the lobby noise simply vanished. Recognition passed across the boy’s face, soft and fleeting. A question, maybe.
Then the professional mask slipped back into place: a small, polite nod.
Thame raised the packet in a half-wave, forcing his mouth into something that hoped to look like a grin. “My secret weapon for bad days.”
“Hope they help.” The reply came quiet, edged with fatigue.
Thame nodded once and turned away before the words could twist into something worse. The gummies crinkled uselessly in his fist; he hadn’t even wanted them.
His chest felt compressed, like someone had pressed a thumb against his sternum and left it there.
Delusion had been easy before. Comfortable. Now it had a crack running through it, shaped exactly like a taller man in a black t-shirt, fingers lingering on a collar, laughter that didn’t belong.
He slumped against the wall near the escalator, arms crossed tight over his ribs, and waited for Ton’s inevitable loud arrival to shatter the quiet. The packet stayed sealed in his hand.
Across the lobby, the boy glanced once toward the staff door briefly, then back to the counter. His shoulders squared as if to remind himself where he was.
Thame didn’t see it. But the weight of that glance settled somewhere deep in his own chest anyway, heavy and uninvited.