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𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐾 🐻🐼 🐾𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ
The world was a soft woozy blur, tilting on a gentle axis that made the city lights outside the large condo window smear into golden streaks against the indigo night.
Pond was deeply and profoundly drunk. It was a state he occupied with the same passionate intensity he brought to everything else like a living monument to melodrama slumped against the expensive grey linen of his own sofa.
A half empty beer can dangled precariously from his fingers. He was a tragic hero in a three act play of his own making, the final act culminating in a low mournful whine that escaped his lips without his conscious permission.
“Mmmph… unfair…”
The soft shuffle of footsteps was the only warning before a figure appeared in the hallway’s archway. Phuwin, pulled from the depths of sleep, stood there blinking. His hair was adorably mussed, a dark crown of chaos, and his soft, worn cotton pajamas hung loosely on his frame. He rubbed a fist against his eye, his expression a familiar blend of fondness and profound exhaustion.
“Pond…” His voice was husky with sleep, a low comforting rumble in the quiet room. “You’re drunk again. Why are you crying?”
Pond’s head lolled to the side, his vision focusing with great effort on the man he loved most in the world. The sight of Phuwin walking toward him, sleep soft and beautiful, only amplified the tidal wave of emotion crashing inside his chest. With a dramatic shaky breath he reached out, his fingers clumsily finding and clutching Phuwin’s wrist. His touch was warm and insistent.
“Why don’t you want to marry me?” The words burst forth, laden with a heartbreak so raw and genuine it could have won awards.
Phuwin froze for a fraction of a second, a complex series of emotions flickering behind his eyes too quickly for Pond’s inebriated mind to catalogue. Then, his shoulders slumped in a deep weary sigh.
“We’ve talked about this,” Phuwin said, his voice low and measured, a calm anchor in Pond’s stormy sea.
But for Pond, who was already adrift, the dam had broken.
“But why?” he slurred, his grip tightening. “Am I not good enough? I’m… I’m a catch! Look at me!” He gestured vaguely at his own face with the beer can, nearly sloshing its contents onto the rug.
Phuwin deftly rescued the can and set it on the table. “You’re very handsome, Pond. Now, let’s get you to bed.”
“No!” Pond whined, the sound pitiful and childlike. “I can cook!”
Phuwin couldn’t help the tiny exasperated smile that touched his lips. “You set water on fire, Pond. Boiling water.”
“It was a passionate water!” Pond insisted, his brow furrowed. “It was too enthusiastic! That’s not the point! The point is… I’m handsome, and I… I have a good job! I’d be a great husband! The best husband! I’d… I’d remember anniversaries and carry you over puddles and kill all the spiders!”
He was working himself up, his voice rising in pitch and volume. Phuwin shushed him gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Pond, quiet down. The neighbors will think I’m murdering you.”
“You are murdering me!” Pond declared, his eyes wide and tragic. “You’re murdering my heart! With your… your rejections!”
Suddenly he lunged forward and wrapping his arms tightly around Phuwin’s waist, burying his face in the soft fabric of his pajamas. He held on with the desperate strength of the deeply inebriated, a limpet on the ship of his beloved’s patience. “I’m not letting go. You can’t make me. This is a protest hug.”
Phuwin stood there, trapped, his hands hovering in the air for a moment before he gave in, one hand coming to rest on Pond’s head, fingers gently carding through his soft, dishevelled hair. He was so used to this. It was a routine as familiar as the sunrise.
“It’s not a protest hug if you’re using it as a cuddle,” Phuwin murmured, his voice laced with a tired affection.
Pond tilted his head back, his ears and cheeks flushed a deep, charming pink, his eyes glassy with unshed tears and alcohol. “It’s a tactical cuddle.” Then, with the slow motion precision of a bad romantic movie, he brought Phuwin’s hand to his lips and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his knuckles. He looked up at Phuwin through his eyelashes with the picture of melodramatic devotion. Phuwin’s expression remained utterly and profoundly unimpressed. He’d seen this movie before. He’d starred in it multiple times.
After a long moment of the hand kiss not having its intended effect, Pond’s energy seemed to shift. The chaotic performative sadness bled away and leaving behind something quieter and more vulnerable. He loosened his hold on Phuwin’s waist but didn’t let go, instead leaning his forehead against Phuwin’s shoulder. The warmth of his tears seeped through the thin cotton.
His voice dropped to a whisper, so soft it was almost inaudible. “Why won’t you marry me…? I love you so much.”
The words, stripped of their earlier theatrics, landed differently. They were sincere and achingly sad. Phuwin stiffened, a sharp intake of breath his only response. He looked down at the top of Pond’s head and his heart clenched painfully in his chest. He brought his hand up, cupping Pond’s heated cheek and using his thumb to gently wipe away tears. “Pond, you’re--”
Pond suddenly pulled back just enough to look Phuwin in the eyes, his own filled with a devastation that seemed to hollow him out. “Do you hate me?” he asked, his voice cracking on the last word.
Phuwin’s expression softened completely, all the fondness and love he felt for this ridiculous, wonderful man surging to the forefront. He sighed, a sound of pure unadulterated surrender.
“If I hated you,” Phuwin said, his voice low and incredibly tender, “I wouldn’t be here, would I? I wouldn’t put up with your drunk ass at two in the morning. I wouldn’t know that you only get this weepy after three beers and a shot of whatever questionable whiskey you found. I wouldn’t be standing here.”
Pond seemed to absorb this, his lower lip still trembling slightly. The simple logic of it seemed to placate him for now. The emotional storm was passing and leaving behind a clingy cuddly aftermath.
“Hug,” Pond demanded, his voice muffled against Phuwin’s shirt.
“You’re already hugging me, you idiot.”
“A better hug,” Pond clarified, tightening his arms. “A ‘I’m sorry your boyfriend are so cruel’ hug.”
Phuwin snorted but complied, wrapping his arms properly around Pond’s broad shoulders, holding him close. He could feel the solid familiar weight of him and the steady beat of his heart. He smelled of beer, faint cologne, and home.
After a long quiet moment, Pond spoke again with small voice. “Forehead kiss.”
“What?”
“As compensation,” Pond explained as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “For my heartbreak. I need a forehead kiss. It’s in the rulebook.”
Phuwin massaged his temples with his free hand, a wave of exhaustion washing over him. “I am going to burn that imaginary rulebook.” But he leaned down anyway, pressing his lips gently to Pond’s warm forehead. The skin was slightly damp but soft. He lingered for a second longer than necessary, breathing him in.
Pond let out a contented sigh, then immediately ruined it. “See? You can be nice when you want to. You just don’t love me enough to marry me.”
That was the final straw. Phuwin’s patience, a deep but not bottomless well, finally ran dry. “I literally do everything for you,” he muttered, the words sharp with a frustration. “I manage your schedule when you double book yourself, I eat your failed culinary experiments so you don’t feel bad, I put up with your snoring, and I regularly have to peel you off the floor when you decide to reenact a telenovela after a few drinks. What part of that screams ‘I don’t love you’?”
Pond gave up on standing and simply let his body go limp, sliding gracelessly off, his head landing heavily on Phuwin’s thighs. He stared up at Phuwin, his eyes wide and watery, reflecting the dim light. “Then marry me.”
“Pond…” Phuwin’s voice was a plea now, a tired sigh wrapped around his name.
“Say yes this time,” Pond whispered, his expression so hopeful it was physically painful to look at.
Phuwin closed his eyes. “I can’t.”
The hope shattered. Pond’s face fell and he turned his head, nuzzling his face into Phuwin’s thighs. “You’re so mean to me,” he mumbled, his words beginning to slur with encroaching sleep. “So pretty and so mean.”
“Right, that’s it. Bedtime for dramatic drunkards,” Phuwin announced, his voice firming with resolve. He shifted, trying to maneuver Pond into a position where he could be hauled upright.
Pond, however, had the dead weight and stubbornness of a petulant starfish. “No,” he declared, limbs locking. “I’m not moving. This is my home now. The floor is my home. And I will not move from my home until you say yes.”
Phuwin grunted, heaving with all his might. “You are insufferable.” Phuwin deadpanned, finally managing to get Pond into a semi upright leaning position. “Now, walk. Or I’m leaving you here for the ants.”
“We don’t have ants.”
“We will if I start sprinkling sugar on you.”
Somehow, with a Herculean effort that involved a lot of stumbling, muttered curses, and near collisions with doorframes, Phuwin managed to half carry, half drag Pond down the hallway and into their bedroom. The room was bathed in the soft silver glow of the moon filtering through the blinds. Their bed, a large, inviting king sized, was a mess of tangled sheets from where Phuwin had hastily exited it.
Phuwin guided Pond to the edge of the bed and let him collapse onto the mattress with a soft groan. He positioned Pond on his side of bed. He working with practiced efficiency to open the shirt, which required wrestling a limp and uncooperative set of arms.
As he was trying to maneuver Pond’s second arm out of its sleeve, Pond’s hand shot out again, his fingers wrapping around Phuwin’s wrist with surprising strength. His eyes were heavy lidded, the fight and most of the consciousness seeping out of him but the one driving impulse remained.
“Phuwin…” he slurred, his voice barely a breath. “Please… marry me…”
Phuwin stopped. He looked down at the man in their bed. His love, with his flushed face and his messy hair. The frustration and the exhaustion replaced by a wave of such overwhelming fondness it made his chest ache.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He gently pried Pond’s fingers from his wrist, and he laced their fingers together. Then, with his other hand, he reached for Pond’s left hand, which was splayed out on the duvet.
“Pond,” he said, his voice soft but clear, cutting through the drunken haze.
“Listen to me. We’re already married.”
Pond’s brow furrowed. His bleary eyes struggled to focus on Phuwin’s face. “Huh?”
Phuwin lifted their joined hands. He tapped the simple platinum band that sat on Pond’s ring finger. Then he held up his own left hand, where an identical band gleamed in the moonlight. “See? We got married last year, you idiot. At the beach. You cried during your vows. So did I. We have the pictures framed in the living room. How many times do you want to get married, huh? Is once not enough for you?”
Pond squinted, his gaze dropping to the ring on his own finger as if seeing it for the first time. He turned his hand over, staring at it with a look of profound confusion. He then looked at Phuwin’s ring then back at his own. The gears in his head were turning slow and rusty, but turning nonetheless.
A long silent beat passed.
The only sound was their breathing.
Then, understanding dawned. It was a slow sunrise, spreading across his face, erasing the confusion and replacing it with dawning clarity, followed immediately by a goofy, triumphant grin.
“Oh,” Pond said, the single syllable packed with revelation.
He looked up at Phuwin, his eyes now sparkling with a different kind of wetness, of pure, unadulterated joy. Phuwin rolled his eyes so hard he was surprised they didn’t get stuck. He dropped Pond’s hand and poked him firmly in the chest. “You ask me to marry you every single time you get drunk. Without fail. It’s like a weird, romantic, amnesiac tick. I’ve said ‘yes’ to you a hundred times by now.”
Pond’s grin grew more proud and more insufferably pleased with himself. He looked up at Phuwin, his expression soft and full of a deep love. “Well,” he murmured, his voice sleepy and content, “it’s because I’d marry you again every day if I could.”
And just like that, with one sentence, he disarmed Phuwin completely. All the annoyance of the last hour evaporated and leaving behind a warmth that spread from the core of his being to the tips of his fingers. This was why. This was why he put up with the drunk proposals and the dramatic weeping. For this raw unwavering almost embarrassingly devoted heart.
Phuwin’s expression softened into something unbearably tender. He leaned over, brushing Pond’s hair back from his forehead, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the same spot he had kissed earlier.
“I know you would, you ridiculous man,” he whispered against his skin. “Goodnight, husband.”
The title spoken in Phuwin’s soft sleep rough voice seemed to be the final key that unlocked Pond’s peace. A deep, satisfied sigh escaped him, and his eyes fluttered shut, a small, serene smile playing on his lips as he finally, truly, surrendered to sleep.
Phuwin stayed there for a long moment and just watching him. He watched the even rise and fall of his chest, the way his long eyelashes fanned out against his cheeks, the complete and utter trust in his relaxed features.
He stood up, moving around the bed to his own side, his own exhaustion now hitting him like a physical wave. As he slid under the covers, he muttered into the darkness, “Next time, I’m taking the alcohol away. I’m hiding it. I’m pouring it all down the sink.”
From the other side of the bed, a sleepy, muffled voice responded, the words slurred but distinct.
“Husband privileges.”
Phuwin’s lips twitched. Without another word, he grabbed his own pillow and, with unerring aim, threw it directly at Pond’s head. It landed with a soft thump.
A sleepy chuckle was his only answer, followed by the sound of Pond snuggling deeper into the pillows, the smile still evident on his face as he drifted off, secure in the knowledge that he was, in fact, very, very married to the love of his life. And Phuwin lay in the dark, listening to the sound of his husband’s breathing, and knew, with absolute certainty, that he would say yes every single time, too.