Chapter Text
Chapter 01 | The Archer (The Cruel Summer Version)
Duang looked at the pink teddy bear that Tiw gave to Qin, resting on the fabric of the sofa like a silent, plush intruder. He let out a sigh—not the sharp, jagged exhale of frustration he’d used to release in the early days, but something deeper. A heavy, hollow sound. It felt like the final exhale of a runner who had finally realized the finish line was a painted mirage.
“I never gave up on you, you know,” Duang said. He stared at Qin, his eyes tracing the familiar lines of a face he used to dream of waking up to every single day.
His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t tremble, crack, or beg. It was stripped of the frantic energy that usually defined him—the need to be heard, the need to be validated. It was steady, eerily so, like a house that had already burned down and was merely waiting for the embers to cool.
Qin didn’t respond immediately. He stood by the kitchen island, his hand tightening around the cold marble surface until his knuckles turned a bloodless white. That pause, once a rhythm they shared, now felt like a canyon stretching between them.
“But when I’m with you,” Duang continued, his voice dropping into that dangerous, quiet register that made the air in the condo feel thin, “it feels like someone else already has your heart.”
Qin’s throat bobbed. He took a sharp, shallow breath, his gaze flicking toward the bear, then back to Duang. “Even if I chose you… would you still feel that way?”
The question was a reflex. A defense mechanism. It was the same loop they had been stuck in for months—the one where Qin asked questions he didn’t want the answers to, just to keep the conversation from ending.
Duang offered a ghost of a smile, sad and brittle. “I was worried we’d get stuck just talking, and that we’d end up as friends, and—”
“I never thought of you as a friend.” Qin stepped forward, his boots heavy on the hardwood. “I didn’t tell you everything about Tiw and I because I wanted to see what you’d do.”
Duang stopped pacing. He looked at Qin, really looked at him, and saw the jagged edges of a man who played games with hearts he didn't quite know how to hold.
“See what I’d do?” Duang echoed, the words tasting like ash. “Like I was an experiment? A control group for your feelings for someone else?”
“I admit it,” Qin said, his voice roughening, losing its usual polished composure. He stepped into Duang’s space, crowding him, trying to reclaim the intimacy that had been his safety net. “I used Tiw as a benchmark for you. I wanted to see if you could… if you would stay. But I admit, you went beyond that, Duang. You were always more.”
“More?” Duang laughed, a dry, humorless sound. He backed away, putting the sofa between them. He felt a sudden, frantic need to touch something solid that wasn't Qin. He gripped the back of a dining chair, his fingers digging into the upholstery. “You talk about me like I’m a performance you’re grading. ‘Beyond the benchmark.’ Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to be a placeholder for someone else’s ghost?”
Qin reached out, his hand hovering in the air—the classic, protective gesture that used to make Duang’s heart stutter. Now, it just made him feel cold.
“I’m not good with words, I know that,” Qin said, his voice dropping. He gestured vaguely at the room, at the life they had tried to build. “I’ll prove it to you. Just like you did for me. I’ll make it right.”
Before Duang could protest, Qin strode past him. He grabbed the pink teddy bear from the couch, his grip so fierce the toy’s stuffing seemed to groan. He marched toward the door, his movements stiff and performative.
“Watch,” Qin muttered, his jaw set. He yanked the door open and stepped out into the hallway, discarding the bear into the metal trash chute with a jarring *clatter* that echoed through the quiet floor.
He walked back in, chest heaving slightly, looking at Duang with an expectation of applause.
But Duang didn’t cheer. He didn't rush to hold him. He stood perfectly still, watching the space where the bear had been, then looking back at the man who thought that throwing away a toy could erase the history he had allowed to linger in their home.
“You think that’s it?” Duang asked, his voice barely a whisper. “You think you throw the toy in the trash, and the way you looked at him… the way you prioritized him over everything we were building… that just disappears?”
Qin stopped, his face falling. The bravado he had worn like armor began to slide, replaced by a raw, panicked confusion. “I got rid of it. I’m choosing you, Duang. I’m right here.”
“You’re here,” Duang agreed, his gaze softening into something far more painful than anger. “But I haven't been here for a long time, Qin. I’ve been disappearing. Every time you kept me in the dark, every time you let me wonder where I stood compared to him… I was losing parts of myself.”
Duang looked down at his own hands, then back at Qin. His fingers, usually so steady when he was focused on his work, were twitching, restless. He jammed them into the pockets of his jeans, trying to contain the tremors.
Qin took a jagged, stuttering breath. He felt the floorboards beneath him shift, as if the very architecture of his condo was rejecting this conversation. He reached out to grab Duang’s shoulder, but the movement was clumsy, desperate.
“That’s—that’s not fair,” Qin stammered, his eyes darting around the room as if he could find an excuse hidden in the clutter. “I didn’t keep you in the dark. I was… I was trying to figure things out. I was trying to protect—”
“Protect who?” Duang stepped back, out of reach. He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it, a sharp contrast to his usual, put-together appearance. “Protect me? Or protect the version of yourself that didn’t have to admit he was still anchored to the past?”
“I wasn’t!” Qin barked, the volume surprising both of them. He immediately winced, his shoulders sagging. He walked over to the kitchen counter and swept a stack of mail aside, creating a hollow, crashing sound that echoed too loudly in the quiet space. “I wasn’t using you, Duang. I thought… I thought if I just ignored the noise, if I just kept coming home to you, the rest of it would stop mattering.”
“But it didn’t stop, did it?” Duang’s voice was dangerously low, a stark contrast to Qin’s frayed edges. “You still had the bear. You still had the memories. And every time I walked through that door, I was competing with ghosts.”
Qin looked at his own hands—the same hands that had held Duang in the middle of the night, the same hands that had, just hours ago, been tangled in the complications of his history with Tiw. “I didn't think you noticed those things. You were always so… you were always the one holding it together.”
Duang let out a brittle, humorless laugh. He walked toward the window, looking out at the sprawling, uncaring lights of Bangkok. “That was the problem. I was so busy being the ‘easy’ one, the ‘steady’ one, that you stopped checking to see if I was still whole.”
“Duang, please.” Qin moved toward him, hovering just a foot away, terrified to bridge the gap. “If you’re unhappy, tell me. Tell me what to change. I’ll change it. I’ll—I’ll block him, I’ll never go back to that bar, I’ll—"
“You’re still doing it.” Duang turned, his eyes wet but his expression unmoving.
“Doing what?”
“Trying to solve this like it’s a logistics problem. Like you can just rearrange the furniture and the house won’t be haunted anymore.” Duang stepped closer, invading Qin’s space for the first time that night. He reached out, his thumb ghosting over the pulse point at Qin’s throat, feeling the frantic, erratic beat against his skin.
“I don't need you to change your schedule, Qin. I needed you to change your heart. And I think… I think that’s the one thing you can’t give me.”
Qin felt the air catch in his throat, a sharp, stabbing sensation. “I’m trying,” he whispered, his eyes searching Duang’s for a flicker of the old warmth. “I really am trying.”
“I know.” Duang pulled his hand away, the sudden lack of contact feeling like a physical void. “That’s what makes this so miserable. You’re trying, but you’re trying for the wrong person.”
Duang turned his back, staring at the muted television screen. A commercial played—something bright, colorful, and utterly disconnected from the suffocating pressure in the room. He reached out and clicked the remote. The silence that rushed in to fill the gap was heavy, textured with the ghost of every conversation they’d ever avoided.
“The wrong person?” Qin’s voice rose, cracking. He took a step forward, his boot scuffing against the rug. “Duang, stop. Look at me. How can you say that after everything? After the trips, the—the way you were always the first one I called whenever—”
“Whenever you were lonely? Whenever Tiw didn't answer?” Duang spun around, his patience finally fraying. “Don’t dress it up as something grand, Qin. It’s not a romance if one person is keeping a scorecard.”
Qin flinched as if slapped. He paced the small space between the couch and the kitchen island, his hands running frantically through his hair. “That is not—I didn't keep a scorecard. I just… I had history. You knew that. Everyone has a past, Duang, you can’t just—”
“I didn't ask you to delete your past!” Duang cut him off, his voice finally sharp, finally biting. “I asked you to be present! There is a massive, gaping difference.”
“I am present!” Qin gestured wildly at the room, at the half-empty water glass on the table, at the clothes of Duang’s still hanging in the closet. “I’m right here! I’m standing in front of you!”
“Are you?” Duang walked over to the coffee table, picking up a small, framed photo of them—a memory from months ago when things were simpler, before the bar, before the overheard secrets. He traced the glass with his thumb, then set it face down on the wood. “Because I don't see it. I see a man who is so terrified of being alone that he’s holding onto me just to keep the chair warm until the real choice comes back around.”
Qin’s breath hitched. He lunged forward, grabbing Duang’s wrists—not with aggression, but with a desperate, crushing need to keep him from drifting away. “You are not a placeholder. Do you hear me? You are not a—you were never a choice I made by accident.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m constantly being measured against someone I never agreed to compete with?” Duang pulled his arms back. He didn't fight; he just created space, and that was somehow worse.
Qin’s hands fell to his sides, limp. He looked at Duang, really looked at him, and for the first time, he saw the exhaustion etched into the corners of Duang’s eyes. It wasn't the tired of a long work week. It was the bone-deep weariness of a man who had stopped fighting a war he was never going to win.
“I was scared,” Qin whispered, the confession so quiet it barely registered. “I was scared that if I let you in fully… if I actually gave you everything… I’d be giving away the only thing that still connected me to who I was back then.”
“And there it is,” Duang said, a sad, hollow smile tugging at his lips. “You didn't want a partner, Qin. You wanted a museum curator for your own regrets.”
Qin reeled back as if he’d been struck. The air in the condo felt heavy, pressurized, like the atmosphere before a monsoon. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his fingers curling into tight, trembling fists. He wanted to scream—to deny it, to shatter the calm, to make Duang look at him with the same messy, desperate intensity he felt surging in his own chest.
“That’s—that’s not how it works. You don’t get to define what I feel,” Qin countered, his voice cracking on the final syllable. He paced the length of the rug, his footsteps erratic and loud against the silence. “I gave you everything. Everything I was capable of giving, I gave to you.”
“And it was never enough, was it?” Duang didn’t move. He stood anchored in the center of the room, looking at Qin with a clarity that terrified him.
“Because you were never actually present to receive it. You were always living in the past, measuring me against the ghost of what you and Tiw used to have. And I… I sat here. I waited. I kept hoping that if I just loved you hard enough, if I was just quiet enough, if I was just enough, you’d finally wake up and realize I was standing right in front of you.”
Qin stopped pacing, his chest heaving. He looked at Duang, really looked at him, and saw the version of his partner that he had slowly, piece by piece, eroded. The spark was gone, extinguished by months of doubt and cold, silent nights.
“I didn’t know,” Qin whispered, the honesty of it carving him out from the inside. “I didn't know you felt like you were… disappearing.”
“That’s the tragedy of it, isn't it?” Duang walked toward the entryway, his movements slow, deliberate, like he was moving through deep water. “You didn't notice because you were too busy looking over my shoulder, waiting for someone else to step into your life.”
Qin followed him, his movements frantic and clumsy. He reached out, his hand hovering over Duang’s shoulder, then falling away. “Don't go. Not like this. We can—we can fix this. I’ll make time, I’ll be better, I’ll—”
“You can’t fix what’s already run out of fuel, Qin.”
Duang stopped, but he didn’t turn around. He stared at the brass deadbolt, his knuckles ghost-white. He felt the phantom weight of the past year pressing against his spine—all those nights he’d sat on this very sofa, nursing a glass of wine that went warm while he waited for a text that only ever mentioned Tiw, or work, or excuses.
“I—” Qin’s voice broke. He grabbed the edge of the door frame, his nails digging into the wood. “I never meant for it to be a competition. I thought… I thought you knew. I thought you saw the way I looked at you when you didn't think I was watching.”
“That’s the thing, Qin.” Duang finally turned, and his eyes were devastatingly calm. “I did see. I saw the way you looked at me, and I saw the way you held onto him. You were looking at me with affection, but you were looking at him with history. And you never, ever let me be more than a footnote in that story.”
Qin felt the walls of the condo closing in. He felt stripped of his polished exterior, the cool, collected persona he maintained at the office dissolving into someone small, desperate, and utterly terrified.
“You’re talking like you’re already gone,” Qin whispered, his eyes searching Duang’s face for a crack, a sign of hesitation. “Like I haven’t given you everything.”
“You gave me pieces, Qin. Fragments.” Duang shifted his weight, his coat heavy on his shoulders. “I wanted a home. You gave me a guest room and called it a relationship.”
Qin felt a flash of old, hot-blooded protectiveness, a spark of the possessiveness that usually defined their better moments. He stepped forward, trying to bridge the distance, to pull Duang back into the orbit of his life. “I’m not letting you walk out of here because of a misunderstanding. Not after everything we’ve done. Remember last month? That weekend in the mountains? You were so happy, Duang. You told me you felt safe.”
Duang’s expression fractured. He looked down, his lips trembling before he caught them. “I was happy. I was happy because for forty-eight hours, you didn't have his ghost in the room with us. I was happy because, for once, I was the only person in your world. But the second we got back to Bangkok? You checked your phone, you saw a notification from him, and I saw you shut down. You went back to being a closed door.”
Qin’s hand dropped. He had no defense. He remembered that moment vividly—the way the oxygen had left the room the second he saw Tiw’s name, the way he had instinctively pulled away from Duang’s touch to respond. He had justified it as simple obligation, but watching Duang now, he realized it had been a betrayal of the quiet, fragile trust they had been building.
“I didn't mean to,” Qin choked out, the words feeling like jagged glass in his throat.
“I know.” Duang’s voice was a soft, final ache. “And that’s why I have to go. Because if you were doing this on purpose, I could hate you. I could be angry. I could fight you.”
Duang reached out, his fingers grazing Qin’s forearm for one last, agonizing second. It was a touch that used to ignite everything—a spark that could ground them both in the middle of a storm—but now, it just felt like a goodbye.
“But you aren't doing it on purpose, Qin. You just… you just don't love me enough to let him go. And I can’t live in a house built on the hope that one day, I’ll be worth more than a memory.”
Qin’s breath hitched, a harsh, rattling sound. He didn't let go of the doorframe. He couldn't. “If you walk out,” he began, his voice dropping into a register so raw it felt like a violation of the silence, “you know I’m not going to come find you. You know how I am. I won’t—I can’t be the one to beg.”
“I know.” Duang’s voice was steady, so terrifyingly calm that Qin felt the room tilt on its axis. “That’s the difference between us. You’re waiting for me to break so you can put me back together on your terms. And I… I’m finally realizing I’d rather be shattered.”
Qin’s vision blurred. He watched Duang’s throat move as he swallowed, a small, human detail that suddenly felt monumental. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that like it’s noble. It’s not noble to just give up.”
“Giving up?” Duang let out a sharp, incredulous laugh that withered before it even reached the hallway. “Qin, look around. Look at this place.” He gestured to the pristine, minimalist living room—the space they’d designed together, the space that now felt like a mausoleum of things left unsaid. “I haven’t been 'giving up' for months. I’ve been fighting a war in my own head just to stay present in a room with you. I’ve been shrinking myself, editing my needs, softening my edges—just so you wouldn't have to feel guilty about who you were still looking for.”
Qin stepped toward him, driven by a primal, desperate instinct to anchor Duang to the spot, but his foot caught on the edge of the rug, and he stumbled. He didn't regain his balance. He just stood there, caught in the wreckage of his own hesitation.
“I chose you,” Qin insisted, though the words sounded hollow even to his own ears.
“You chose me when it was convenient,” Duang corrected him softly. “You chose me when you were tired, or lonely, or when the version of Tiw in your head didn’t match the reality of him. But you never chose me first. Not once.”
Duang pulled his arm back, sliding his hand down until their fingers unlinked—not a clean break, but a reluctant, slow separation.
“I need one thing from you, Qin,” Duang said, his gaze fixed on the floor, unable to look at the man who had been his entire world.
“Anything.” Qin’s voice was a whisper, a frantic, pathetic promise.
“Don’t apologize.” Duang looked up, and for the first time, his eyes were hard. “Don’t you dare apologize, because that would mean you knew all along what you were doing to me. And if you knew… if you knew, and you let me keep trying anyway…”
Duang trailed off, the implication hanging in the air, heavy and suffocating. It was a mirror held up to Qin’s soul, and for the first time, Qin couldn't look away.
“I didn't let you try,” Qin stammered, his fingers clawing at the doorframe until the wood bit into his skin. “I loved you. I—I just didn't know how to let go of him. They aren't the same thing.”
“To you, maybe.” Duang stepped backward, his silhouette framed against the hallway light. “But to me? They were the same thing. Because every time you chose to keep a secret, every time you let me wonder, every time you let me feel like a temporary comfort… you were choosing him. You were just choosing me to keep you company while you did it.”
Qin’s throat worked, a dry, painful motion. He wanted to reach out, to pull Duang back into the apartment, back into the safety of their routine. He wanted to promise him the moon, a new beginning, anything to stop the cold, steady resolve in Duang’s eyes. But he couldn't find the words. The truth, stripped of all his usual charm and careful deflection, felt like a lead weight in his chest.
“If I tell you I’ll change,” Qin started, his voice barely a breath, “if I promise you that tonight is the night it actually—actually stops… would you?”
Duang didn't answer right away. He looked at Qin, really looked at him, and for a fleeting, heartbreaking moment, the old warmth flickered in his expression—a ghost of the man who had loved Qin with everything he had.
“I used to know who I was before I started loving you like this,” Duang said, the words falling like stones into deep water. “And I’m going to go find him again. I’m not saying goodbye to who we were, Qin. I’m saying goodbye to who I became while I was waiting for you to see me.”
Duang reached for the handle. The click of the door unlatching sounded like a gunshot in the quiet condo.
“Duang, wait—I—”
“Don't,” Duang interrupted, his voice dropping to a whisper. “The only thing you can do for me now is let me walk out the door.”
He stepped into the hallway. The door swung shut, the latch sliding home with a heavy, final *thud*.
Qin stood alone.
He didn't move for a long time. The condo, once filled with the warmth of their shared life—the scent of Duang’s coffee, the sound of his laughter, the comforting presence of his things—suddenly felt cavernous and freezing. He looked down at the floor, expecting to see a sign of the struggle, a trace of the life they had just dismantled. But there was nothing.
The living room was pristine. The pink teddy bear was gone. The silence wasn't just quiet; it was deafening.
Qin walked over to the spot where Duang had been standing. He looked at the armchair where Duang spent his evenings reading, the blanket still folded neatly over the back. He touched the fabric, his fingers trembling. He had won the argument—he had managed to keep his secrets, his history, his complicated, tangled attachments—and yet, as the realization of what he had truly lost began to sink in, it felt less like a victory and more like an execution.
He reached for his phone, a reflexive, desperate move. He typed Duang into the search bar, his thumb hovering over the call button, before he realized that calling him would only prove Duang’s point: he still didn't know how to exist without using someone else as an anchor.
He lowered the phone, the screen dark and mocking.
Outside, the rain began to lash against the glass, a rhythmic, lonely sound that punctuated the emptiness of the apartment. Qin sat on the sofa, pulling his knees to his chest, and for the first time in his life, he didn't have anyone to call. He was finally, utterly, and devastatingly alone. And for the first time, he realized that he had been the one who had built the wall all along.