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"I gave you an order. Put your foot on his face!" Prince Rachata barked.
Paytai could hear Ramil's cries over his own, and he knew what was coming. There was no way Ramil could disobey his own father even if it meant…
Ramil sobbed as his booted foot settled on Paytai's ear, holding him to the ground, and his heart broke. This prince was just like his father, after all. Even Paytai's love was not enough to stop him from becoming... this.
"Now you finally see who rules and who serves," Rachata spat before storming off.
As soon as Rachata was out of the room, Ramil got off of Paytai, walking away like he couldn't bear to see the man he'd pinned to the floor. But it didn't matter. Ramil might as well have kept his foot on him—crushed his skull, even. The damage had already been done.
Paytai sobbed against the carpet under his face, the little dignity he'd had left seeping into its fibers along with his tears.
Pain radiated through him, from the inside out and the outside in, as he dragged himself up to sit.
"You're pathetic," Paytai snapped, the harshness of his words juxtaposing the submission his pose. His legs were bend and tucked to one side, his position on the floor meaning he had to look up at Ramil when the prince knelt in front of him.
Ramil's attempt to kiss him felt like another betrayal—trickery to dull his anger, a snake oil sedative meant to mollify him into compliance.
Paytai pushed him away with all of his might.
"All this time, I've suffered. But I endured it all because–" Paytai sucked in a breath "–you were there with me."
The words were true, but something in them rung false. Because, despite Ramil being physically there…
"But I've always protected you, haven't I?" Ramil reasoned.
"But not from Prince Rachata!"
Ramil's care always came with caveats. There would always be someone, or something, more important. There would always be this darkness inside him that Paytai couldn't fix—that would surely cause his downfall if he stayed. There would always be expectations Ramil had to meet, whatever the cost. Even if the cost was him.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Paytai thought of the ball they'd attended at the King's palace. He thought of how Khanin had danced with his guard, Charan.
Ramil had never made such a gesture. Not so publicly or boldly. Paytai doubted he ever would.
On shaky legs, Paytai stood. His head throbbed as much as his heart.
"This… This thing between us… Please let it end here."
"Paytai…" The prince's voice broke.
"I should be allowed my dignity," Paytai sobbed. "And I wish to be honored as your lover, or else I can't be your lover at all!"
As soon as the words left his lips, he turned to leave, already reaching for the door handle. He had to get out or he'd suffocate.
"Where are you going?"
A hand was on his wrist. Unasked for. Like everything else in his life. And Paytai was expected to give in again. To give, and give, and give, until there would be nothing of himself left, receiving only scraps of affection in return.
But unlike every time before, Paytai didn't waiver in his resolve.
He left.
First the palace, then the region when catching even glimpses of Ramil became too painful to endure. That man had always seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and now without Paytai at his side, it seemed to be breaking him. But Paytai had broken first, and there was nothing and no one left holding him there.
Paytai only stopped his journey, his slow run away from everything he'd lost, when he reached the seaside.
For days, he did nothing but stare out into the ocean, the paradox of its nature feeling so achingly familiar. The waves, no matter how harshly they crashed upon the shore, were soothing to watch. The sea as kind as it was volatile, soothing each strike upon the sand with a tender stroke as it retreated.
"Maybe he was the sea," Paytai mumbled, water lapping at his feet.
The thought felt damning; that even here, far away from that bastard of a prince, every single thing reminded Paytai of him. The sea's all-consuming nature, its neediness approaching high tide, its cries as it collides with the shore. It was all he'd tried to run away from.
Tears were falling before Paytai could stop them.
His sobs were barely muted by the sounds of the sea.
He wished the tide would rise high enough to take him.
He wished Ramil would-
As if stung by his thoughts, he rose to his feet, blinking away tears as he fled from yet enough agony.
For all he ran from the physical reminders of his past, there was one thing he couldn't part with: his moleskin journal, a gift from Ramil.
The first dozen or so pages were filled with the elegant scrawl he'd used while in the palace, neat and orderly like he expected Ramil to read them.
The more recent entries were a chicken-scratch mess of haste, by comparison, the entry he was currently writing almost entirely illegible even to himself. But it didn't matter anymore. No one had to read it back. It was merely a practice of getting the words out—the best method Paytai had found so far for processing this mess of a situation. By putting his thoughts down on paper, making them real, he was starting to come to terms with all that had happened.
Whether it would actually help him move on was still to be seen, but it certainly felt like it helped more than it hurt.
That was all Paytai could ask for.
The locals started to interact with him, even if only out of worry. He could see it in their eyes when they began to bring him bottles of water and snacks after he'd been sitting on the beach too long some days, the crease in their brow just shy of pity. Perhaps they sensed something in the way he eyed the ocean, especially in the evenings. Perhaps they could see how its familiar darkness called to him, tempting him like a siren's song.
He had to find something else to do at night—something to stop himself from becoming the town's charity case. If he didn't, he could become their next tragic headline.
Paytai took to wandering down random streets after the sun started to set, under the guide of finding a decent place to eat or drink. The only necessity for somewhere to qualify as "decent" was for it to allow him entry. Food had no taste anymore anyway, nor did drink. No alcohol could burn his throat more than the pain of crying for someone who couldn't love him in the ways that mattered.
One such stroll allowed him to stumble upon this place.
It was quite, homey, with a miss-match of furniture that would surely tell a thousand tales if it could speak. Every table was full of food. Every chair occupied by someone laughing or eating, drinking and chattering. Even the spaces between the tables were full of merriment. It felt like how Paytai imagined family to feel. It felt full. Of joy, of life, of noise.
An older woman came to greet him and, without preamble, pulled him through the throngs of people to a miraculously empty chair.
"What can I get you?" she hollered as she pushed him down into the chair.
"Whatever's good," Paytai shouted back, his face probably showing his shell-shock at being in an environment so busy.
The food was fine when it arrived, but the real draw of the place became obvious just after that:
The stage.
A guy got up on the small platform at one end of the space, tapping the mic until he got people's attention.
"If you wanna get involved in tonight's karaoke, this is your last call to sign up! Sheet's nearly full for tonight so… get on with it. You've got five minutes to come find me and put ya name down."
Did Paytai put his name down? No. But somehow, an couple of hours and a few drinks later, he found himself screaming into that microphone. And there were arms around his shoulders, and he was swaying to the music, and he sung his broken heart out.
When he tumbled down from the stage, someone else's hands found their way to his waist, and he danced. He danced with someone. In public. Messy, uncoordinated, and joyous. Paytai didn't even know who we was almost grinding up against, but it didn't matter.
It was cathartic.
And after he found out that this place had regular karaoke nights, open mic nights, quiz nights… Paytai's empty social life started to look a little less barren. Even if he barely spoke to anyone there, it was nice to be around people. It was nice to be heard.
His writing was usually formless and wild, a stream of consciousness made flesh, but today was different. Today, the words had a semblance of rhythm as they fell onto the page. Even the scratching of the pen against the paper felt like music, the inexplicable flow present in the physical process of writing.
Looking at the first eight lines, the structure felt right. It didn't cage him in, or make him feel trapped in the way routine used to. This was merely giving his thoughts shape in a way they'd never had before. It gave the words a pattern—a story to tell. And even if the person he wanted to hear this story most couldn't, surely somebody could. He would make sure somebody did.
The notebook closed with an audible clap as Paytai stood, ready to run again.
He knew where he could go to be heard.
He just had to wait for the right night and put his name down.
Tracking Paytai down had taken awhile.
Finding an excuse of why he had to come here, without his father realizing it was to see Paytai, had taken even longer.
But Ramil was here, at last, and he knew where to go. He'd had enough people tailing Paytai over the past few weeks to have a good grasp on his routine.
So, cap and mask on, a plain clothes security guard by his side, Ramil shuffled into the already busy bar. It was more packed than one would expect for midweek, but apparently there was an event tonight—some sort of poetry open mi-
He spotted him. Across the sea of people. How could he not? That was the neck he'd kissed a thousand times, the shoulders he'd squeezed, the hair he'd tousled and pulled.
A lump immediately formed in Ramil's throat, and he'd swear it was his heart. There was no way that it was still in his chest. It longed to get out, to go to Paytai, to give itself to that man.
Ramil swayed on his feet, pulled towards him with an invisible force.
But he resisted.
He wasn't meant to approach him tonight. That's not what he was here for. He was just here to observe him—to confirm that he was okay—and then he would leave him alone, like Paytai so clearly wanted. There was no option for Ramil to be selfish anymore.
Someone started talking on the small stage, and the rest of the people in the bar went quiet. Ramil couldn't make sense of what was being said, though. He didn't even try. It was all static now that he was in Paytai's presence. Even his own guard's questions and comments about his safety fell on deaf ears.
And then Paytai, his Paytai, was getting up on that stage. There was a small notebook—one that Ramil had given him—in his hand.
Ramil watched on, intrigued. He'd never known Paytai to be much of a writer outside of the necessary.
There were cheers from the patrons before the room descended into a hush once more.
"I… um…" Paytai stammered, his Adam's apple bobbing. "This is the first time I've done t-this…"
The mic shrieked with feedback and Paytai grimaced. It was a look Ramil knew all too well—usually caused by a raised voice, a fist, a threat.
Paytai took a long breath, his shoulders visibly raising and falling with it, and tried again.
"I want to read you a poem. Well, I, uh... I think this classes as a poem. It's the first one I've really... I'm just very new to writing. So… thanks."
He took another breath and audibly gulped against the microphone, looking down at the open notebook in his hands, and began.
"I wish we could have danced.
Out there,
Without a care,
On that ballroom floor."
"I wish I could have held you.
Tight to my chest,
Our emotions allowed to crest,
Like the waves upon the shore."
Paytai's bottom lip began to wobble. Every word started to feel like a fight, and Ramil recognized himself as the opponent.
"I wish we could have talked.
Spoken plainly,
About you and me,
With no thought of everything that came before."
It hurt not to cry out, but the room was too silent for Ramil to allow himself to sob. Instead, he stifled his cried between gritted teeth.
"And–
And I wish you could have-"
His voice broke, and he had to clear his throat, starting the line over.
"I wish you could have loved me.
As I loved you.
As I still do.
Even if I wish I didn't anymore."
Roughly, Ramil wiped at his eyes, his body shaking with the force of his emotions. It felt as though he was moments away from shattering—falling to pieces under the damning weight of Paytai's words.
"But oh, just… how I wish we could have danced,
Just one time,
And that you would have be mine…"
A dagger through the heart would have hurt less than the moment their eyes met over the crowd, tears streaking down Paytai's cheeks as he delivered the final line:
"And I would have been yours."
Ramil was frozen with guilt.
Paytai crumbled on the stage, his grip on the mic stand the only thing keeping him from falling entirely to the floor.
Aof called cut.
Jimmy ran to Ohm's side, comforting him through the overflow of their character's emotions. He held him as tight as Ramil should have. Rubbed his quaking back through the sobs. Dried his eyes when it looked like Ohm was starting to pull himself together. Ohm dried Jimmy's eyes, too.
"You okay?" Ohm asked.
With a shaky breath, Jimmy replied, "Yeah… You?"
Arms snaking around Jimmy's waist, Ohm squeezed him, putting him back together again.
"Yeah."
They were okay.
They would always be there for one another.
They would.
And even if they stopped acting together someday, they would still hold each other like this.