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It’s barely fifteen minutes after PP retreats to his room when the restlessness starts to kick in again. Without thinking, he throws himself face-down onto the bed, hands already fumbling to pull up his conversation with his fiancé. He idly scrolls through the messages he had sent earlier that evening, one following another in embarrassingly short intervals. Most were admittedly nonsensical, sent for no reason other than the excuse to flirt with his soon-to-be husband. But hey, it had been Billkin himself who insisted they text to survive this day apart.
His thumb hovers over the voice message clip, momentarily thinking that perhaps it will do the trick if he sends his usual whining plea. It’s the one he resorts to whenever he wants a cuddle and his fiancé is still buried in work and not in bed with him. He sighs then drifts instead toward the call icon—estimating its effect—only to retire the idea again. In the end, he does nothing, opting to stare once more at the thread, soon mentally wincing at the harsh blue light emanating from his device.
He tosses his phone to the side with a huff, reaching for a pillow and burying his face into the softness to muffle a frustrated scream.
“Stupid traditions,” he mutters.
PP rolls onto his back, hands resting loosely over his stomach as his eyes wander up to the ceiling.
He’s getting married tomorrow.
Most of the wedding had been planned along a more non-traditional route just the way he and Billkin want it to be, though his parents and in-laws have asked to keep a few traditions.
So far, it’s been nice to indulge in some of the wedding’s grander touches. PP has dreamed about this day since he was a kid, after all. However, what remains non-negotiable is that it stays a private beach wedding for only the people closest to them. That, at least, is easy enough to commit to. What PP has misjudged is agreeing to spend the day before their wedding apart from his groom.
It’s not as if it’s an impossible feat. They’ve already crossed the LDR threshold for couples, so this whole pre-wedding separation thing shouldn’t rattle him this much. But can anyone really blame him when the only person who could soothe his nerves tonight happens to be the very man he’s been told he cannot see?
It’s been a day of lounging around their assigned villa with his friends, taking full advantage of the beauty and wellness treatments they had pre-arranged, all with the thoughtful intention of making him look his absolute best for his wedding. PP couldn’t be more grateful for their efforts, but it was only a matter of time before he’s missing Billkin again. He could try to chalk this upsurge of clinginess up to the classic, inevitable wedding jitters, but see, there is something endemic about his husband-to-be that makes any attempt at self-preservation completely futile.
He wonders how the day had been for Billkin. They had managed some proper back-to-back conversation earlier, but since then, it had been little more than sporadic updates from his fiancé, the last of which had been a photo of him in pigtail braids. PP had been nagging him for weeks to cut his hair before the wedding, but Billkin had stubbornly refused every time. If Billkin is so determined to keep his hair long, PP maintains that the least he could do is take proper care of it. That’s how PP found himself gradually amassing all sorts of hair products for Billkin to use, until the latter’s usual ten-minute shower routine began taking nearly as long as PP’s own. And truthfully, PP cannot entirely fault him for leaving it at its present length, knowing it affords him the opportunity to braid or tie back his fiancé’s hair.
As the image begins to flood his mind, PP retrieves his phone from his side to open the photo now sitting in his gallery. He smiles at the sight of Billkin with two slightly wonky braids, a creation he correctly guessed was the doing of none other than the latter’s friends. He had joked that Billkin shouldn’t take them out and that he could just sneak into his villa so PP could see them in person. It had all been playful, flirty banter, but with the fanfare now over and him alone in his too-big-for-one room with only his thoughts for company, all he longs for is Billkin at his door and to shatter the contrived restraint he has so dutifully maintained throughout the day.
He clutches his phone to his chest, eyes beginning to sting.
The room is silent save for his occasional sniffles for several minutes until PP hears the faintest knock at the door. It’s not really in his current state to speculate who it might be. He supposes that if it were one of his friends, it wouldn't be so mortifying to be discovered like this when he made sure to relay the same endless loop of complaints the entire day: I miss Billkin. I wonder what Billkin is doing. I can’t wait to see Billkin.
He opens the door to an empty hallway and blinks. Concluding that he cannot bear a prank, he decides against peering down the corridor. Just as he reaches to close the door, a figure emerges beside the doorway and before he can even react, his fiancé is suddenly sweeping him off his feet, taking him to who knows where.
“Do you still remember how it began for you? Realizing you’re in love with me,” is the first thing Billkin asks when he sets PP back on his feet and once PP has adjusted from the shock of going from solid ground to air and now to the beach. PP tilts his face skyward, eyes scanning the expanse of ice crystals suspended in the atmosphere. The horizon stretches into a flawless midnight blue that, were he to meet Billkin’s gaze, he would see the same boundless panorama mirrored in his eyes.
“It’s been so long…” PP mumbles as a half-formed response, walking ahead of Billkin along the vast shoreline. A shiver runs down his spine when a little gust of wind brushes past. Billkin notices this immediately and steps up behind him, wrapping him in an embrace. PP briefly considers a more definitive answer if only to indulge Billkin’s version of events—how he, according to his fiancé's memory—had flitted in front of him during their tutoring sessions, goading the man into speaking to him first. But he thinks better of it, knowing too well how the conversation would spiral with PP deciding, no, actually, this is what really happened, only for his fiancé to counter yet again with his case, each retort tumbling into the next in quick succession.
To anyone else, it would’ve been easy to distill it as a lapse in their relationship because they kept getting the answers wrong—each overlapping, each fragmentary, each arguing for a different story until it becomes something else entirely. How could they ever land on the exact memory every time? There’s always more than one thing that comes to mind when asked how they became friends. There was more than one occasion on which they gave the slightest hint that they liked each other. There was more than one instance when they realized that perhaps that stupid infatuation was actually love.
But there’s always been a single thing that stays consistent in PP’s mind, too.
“I just remember it. In my memory,” PP starts, meeting Billkin’s eyes over his shoulder.
“You, with your short hair,” he continues, and any embarrassment the plain admission should’ve brought is delayed by the effort it takes to hold back a laugh at the way his fiancé’s face lights up at the mention of that relic of his teenage years—sweet, boyish St. Gabriel boy Billkin who had always been unfairly handsome to leave young PP a little too flustered for his own liking.
“It’s my favorite,” PP whispers softly.
It’s only when Billkin turns him fully to face him and his arms come up to wind around his fiancé’s neck that he feels his cheeks begin to burn. The collapsed distance makes him want to hide himself in the crook of his fiancé’s neck, despite how offensively obvious his fascination has always been, considering how often he has asked Billkin to cut his hair. Billkin is quick to soothe the heat anyway, thumb stroking gently across the soft apple of PP’s flamed cheek.
“Yeah? I knew you had a crush on me then,” Billkin quips pleasantly.
PP wishes his defensive face doesn’t look quite so incriminating. So he responds by pretending to bite Billkin’s finger because there’s no better answer than to dodge owning up to the confession and fall back on the kind of wordless understanding that has always come naturally between them.
“Everyone had a crush on you,” PP says pointedly. It comes out sounding more bitter than a recollection from over a decade ago should warrant. Leave it to Billkin to easily pick up on his poorly masked whiny, indignant tone.
“And I’m pretty sure you made it clear who I belong to,” Billkin says, equal parts smug and fond.
“Who would’ve known you’d look so hot after going for a buzz cut, too…” PP muses. “I thought that would’ve been a big turn off for your admirers.”
“I think a more plausible reason is that it was just my face doing all the work.”
PP withdraws slightly from where his chest is snug against Billkin’s, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his fiancé’s ear while his other hand drifts lazily over the loose end of one of his braids. At the contact, Billkin closes his eyes, leaning into the warmth of PP’s palm that accidentally grazes his cheek.
Up close, the braids have started to loosen, far more wonky than when they were first made. It's obvious Billkin’s friends hadn’t bothered to braid them properly, and even more obvious that his fiancé hadn’t cared enough to fix them at any point during the day. His hair looks ridiculous, period. By any objective standard, there shouldn’t be anything particularly visually appealing about his fiancé in his goofy state, in the midst of the topic they’re having. And somehow against all reason, it’s this sheer, charming absurdity that ensnares PP, leaving him soft and honeyed-eyed for the man before him. Because even after all these years, his dorky, unassuming high school sweetheart still lives on in the Billkin he will share his life with forever, tomorrow.
At the mere curve of Billkin's lips, PP is abandoning any semblance of retort, replying instead, “You’re so pretty.”
And he means it with total sincerity, even if it contradicts wholly the current scruffiness of his fiancé’s hairstyle. Billkin looks so fucking pretty even in the meager light, like finding a meek planetary body whose glow only becomes apparent to those who truly pay attention.
PP had been called beautiful in every conceivable way, but only a few realize just how competitive Billkin can be in the pretty department.
“I’m glad you think your husband ticks the looks category,” Billkin says, pretense of humbleness slipping too quickly as a smirk returns to his face.
“Say that again,” PP’s voice drops a little.
“That I tick the looks category?”
“Billkin.”
“Husband?” Billkin asks, behaving himself despite how clearly endeared he is and on the verge of combusting in a matter of seconds.
“Yeah, you’re my husband.” And PP is kissing him to his heart’s desire. His fingers weave through Billkin’s hair, tugging at it gently until he’s completely lax, head tilted further.
PP’s lips part in the narrowing space, stealing just enough breath to whisper once more, reverently, “My husband.”
To hell with pre-wedding traditions.
Not when Billkin is just as honest and enthusiastic like this, reducing PP’s legs to jelly in a heartbeat when it's supposed to be PP who is taking the lead. It’s enough of a reprieve for his husband-to-be to draw him close into the shelter of his arms, hold steady in contrast to the now ruffled situation of their robes.
It’s not so hard to be his world, his universe, when all Billkin does is love him with this kind of open earnestness, being exactly the person PP needs. It’s easy to settle there, to take root, when Billkin’s heart has always had room for more of PP than he probably understands.
“I love you,” PP ends up saying, dazed and breathless, as if he’s been underwater for years, when Billkin finally decides to give him peace.
Until.
“Will you cut my hair for me?”
PP bites his lip as he studies Billkin's reflection through the bathroom mirror. He looks way too calm for someone about to have his hair butchered by his life partner, who, for the record, holds no prior history of cutting another person’s hair—except for the many times in childhood when he massacred his own sister’s dolls. PP sighs and begins undoing his braids anyway, which takes little effort since the pigtails have already gone so loose from his own pulling just minutes ago. PP flushes violently at the memory.
“And you’re sure you really want me to do this?” PP chokes out.
Billkin nods, seemingly too excited.
“Your hair has gotten so long now, babe,” PP states the obvious. He takes a lock of Billkin’s hair around his finger and tugs lightly.
It’s definitely an upkeep. PP has insisted on a strict routine of twice-weekly hair masks, which Billkin has happily tolerated just to relish the intimacy of letting his fiancé run his fingers through his hair. He’s also allowed himself to be experimented on, from man buns to braids to whatever fucked-up hairstyle happens to pass by PP’s fyp.
PP gently works his fingers through the last of the knots of Billkin’s braids before combing through them with meticulous care. He’s careful not to pull too hard, simply taking his time until everything eventually smooths out.
“Don’t fall asleep on me now,” PP nags lightly when he hears no response. Billkin has his eyes shut, and while the hour makes drowsiness reasonable, the shadow of a grin playing at his mouth hints that he’s not dozing but simply basking in PP’s touch. The awareness that Billkin is indeed waiting for him to make a move makes PP self-conscious. But it only takes a feather-light kiss from his fiancé on the back of his palm resting on his shoulder for him to gather what's left of his nerves and finally reach for the scissors on the countertop. They are kitchen scissors, most likely a preamble to all sorts of things going wrong in what he’s about to commit.
“You know,” Billkin starts. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to cut hair.”
PP only hums as his eyes begin to scan the spread of hair before him, thinking too hard about where he should even start. Between the two of them, PP is a lot more unpredictable. Billkin has had to learn to pry into his mind, to understand what PP really wants, how he wishes to be loved. Billkin is every kind of opposite who has always known the measure of his strengths, confident in how to wield them. It’s the same self-assuredness that allows him to try new things anyway without much regard for how it will cost him, even when all it promises is the reward of killing curiosity itself. But damn if he won’t try his best.
“You can’t just fire your hairstylist like that. The economics are not good,” PP quips, toying idly with the ends of Billkin’s hair.
“Just in case we decide to have kids someday. But I guess I might have to leave it to you now."
PP halts at the statement, meeting Billkin’s unflinching gaze in the mirror.
“Why do you want to cut your hair?” He asks, probably for the nth time since they got into his room. He then supplements, “Why do you want me to cut your hair?”
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Billkin replies simply.
“I didn’t pressure you into it, did I?” PP scours for a reason at the back of his mind. Bangkok summers can be brutal, and Billkin’s hair has grown long enough that tufts now brush the nape of his neck in a way that irritates him so terribly in the heat. It’s mostly out of necessity that his fiancé is finally insisting it be chopped off. But certainly not by someone inexperienced, and certainly not on the night before their wedding. PP knows there’s only so much salvaging Billkin’s face could do if this ends up going horribly wrong.
“No, love. It’s just that…” Billkin hesitates, voice half-air, soft at the edges. “I think of my hair as a vessel. For everything we’ve lived through. From the first time you met me, when we became us. To all the moments we’ve shared since, all the milestones that brought us here. It has held it all.” Billkin’s voice fights to stay whole, resisting dissolution into yet another incoherent, fragmentary mess. PP, after all, has known his fiancé not to be the biggest fan of words. To anyone not privy to their relationship, it might easily come across as exactly that.
But PP understands it all.
“I want you to be the one to do it. I don’t care how short you wish it to be. As long as it’s you who shapes it for the next chapter of us. I trust you more than anyone to do it.”
PP lowers his head until his chin settles into the slope of Billkin’s shoulder. The proximity instinctively coaxes his fiancé into tilting his own head, angling just enough for his lips to reach the nearest point of contact—the side of PP’s nose—where he deposits the most tender kiss.
The first few cuts are a little nerve-wracking. It’s probably smartest to limit himself to only a handful of trims, especially if Billkin intends to look properly good for their wedding. The real fixing can happen first thing in the morning with his hairdresser. PP is just grateful they’re meant to stay apart tomorrow until the real thing. Otherwise, P'Dome would be scolding him too for going down this path with absolutely zero supervision.
There’s not much to work with anyway, except for the kitchen scissors and PP’s Hello Kitty comb. His fiancé’s hair is shorter than a typical girl’s length, so one bold snip already takes off almost an inch.
Billkin watches in the mirror with suspicious pride as PP holds up the evidence of their whim-driven decisions, on the night before their wedding, no less.
“You can’t back out now,” PP says, making a few more snips at the end before combing through the length several times and lining the strands carefully between his fingers.
“Never,” Billkin replies, all fond smiles.
PP eases out the sharper edges of the first cut with short, vertical snips. All the while, Billkin keeps his eyes closed, humming in approval and trusting him completely. It’s everything PP needs to summon the courage to continue.
The bathroom is quiet except for the gentle clipping of scissors and the faint, satisfied sighs of his fiancé every time his fingers ghost over the sensitive sweep of his nape. Soon enough, Billkin is peering into the mirror, ruffling through his freshly cut hair—admittedly uneven and certainly in need of immediate professional fixing—but perfect enough for tonight.
“Feels lighter now?” PP asks, eyes tracing Billkin’s reflection, chest swelling. Billkin is so beautiful.
“That will do for now, yeah?” He adds with a chuckle. His hands come up to smooth his fiancé’s hair down, setting the last strands in place.
Billkin doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he draws PP closer and kisses him—once, twice—slow and impossibly soft. As if he’s spent a lifetime learning how to hold PP gently against the world.
“It’s always lighter with you.”