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[My hands have a mind of their own. They reach for you before I even realize it.]
Qin likes to think that his hands fell in love with Duang long before the rest of him did. There is no other better explanation for it. Sometimes, he thinks that his hands know something his heart is still trying to understand.
They reach for Duang instinctively, almost desperately, as though they were created with the sole purpose of finding him. In crowded places, his fingers search for Duang’s without thought. During quiet conversations, they drift toward his wrist, his palm, the spaces between his fingers. Even in sleep, Qin wakes to find his hand curled tightly in Duang’s shirt or resting over his heartbeat like it belongs there.
And maybe it does.
“My hands have a mind of their own,” Qin told Duang once, voice softened by the dim evening light. “They long to touch and hold yours in every possible situation. I’m addicted to the way your hand perfectly fits in mine.”
Duang laughed softly at first, thinking Qin was pulling his leg. Because Duang was always the sappiest of among the two.
But Qin wasn’t joking.
Loving Duang had never felt loud inside him. It did not arrive like a storm tearing through his life all at once. It came like a gentle tide–washing and slipping into the empty spaces Qin spent years convincing himself would remain empty forever.
Like the first ray of sun, searing through the grey settled on him like a second skin.
Like warmth returning to a body that had already accepted the cold.
Like drop by drop, this love filled Qin's barren heart and converted into an ocean.
Somehow, all of these things collectively made it far more dangerous. Because all his life, Qin had always survived by expecting less in everything: less kindness, less softness, less permanence.
You cannot lose what you never allow yourself to fully hope for, right?
Yet Duang, who arrived in his life not once but twice—once without his aware, once fully aware of his presence—ruined that careful way of living simply by loving him gently.
If anyone asks Qin why he loves holding Duang's hands so much, he can give you ten, no hundred, maybe even thousand reasons on the spot.
And the topmost reason he'd always give will be: “I love holding his hands because they have known and held every version of me.”
Qin loves holding Duang’s hands when the world becomes unbearable.
On the days when the noise of the world sits heavily on his shoulders, the exhaustion of constantly carrying versions of himself others demanded to see. The unbearable feeling of existing inside his own head.
Or when the old wounds he pretends no longer ache, surfaces out of nowhere. The kind of pain that doesn't soften with time but instead stays inside the ocean of heart until it decides one day to bring it back to the shore.
On such days, Qin says very little. Sometimes nothing at all.
But Duang is always the first one to notice. He notices it in the way Qin’s jaw tightens. In the way silence settled like a dark spirit around him. In the way his eyes stop focusing on the present and drift somewhere farther away.
And without forcing Qin to explain things he cannot untangle into words, Duang simply reaches for his hand and holds it in his own.
That’s all.
Just warmth against warmth.
And somehow, somehow, Duang's thumb rubbing slowly against his knuckles feels like someone turning the volume down on the universe. It feels like Duang is pulling Qin back toward himself piece by piece, no matter how far he drifts into himself. No matter how difficult he could get during these situations.
As though Duang’s hands know how to hold not only his body, but every unspoken ache living beneath it.
As though his hands are saying—
Thank you for enduring till now. But you don't have to suffer alone from now on. Let me carry it with you until you feel better.
And Qin thinks that is what love truly is.
Someone learning the shape of your suffering, someone putting efforts in learning the language of your pain and answering it with tenderness instead of turning away from it.
He loves Duang’s hands because they touched him gently before he even believed gentleness could belong to him. Because they were the first ones that touched him without trying to take something away.
The first time Duang held his face, Qin nearly flinched. Because he didn't understand what it was. The warmth engulfing him, both physically and emotionally. It was foreign to him.
Duang’s palms rested against his cheeks with impossible care, fingers spreading softly near his ears as though he could never bring himself to be rough or harsh on Qin. His fingers shielded Qin's face in such a way that felt like he could shield him from every cruel thing the past had ever left behind.
There was no exaggeration in the way he touched. No hidden cruelty disguised as affection. Neither his gaze held pity when he looked into those.
The only thing Qin could feel from that touch and gaze was warmth and a patience of a sage. And love so sincere that Qin did not know how to stand in front of it without feeling exposed.
Duang looked at him as though hurting Qin had never once crossed his mind. As though he could fathom not comprehend why someone would ever treat Qin recklessly.
As though tenderness toward Qin was the only acceptable thing in this world they lived in.
And Qin remembers thinking—
So this is what safety feels like.
The kind of safety that came from not from the absence of danger but from the presence of someone who would never willingly become it.
After that, Qin started craving Duang’s touch in ways that shocked him with their intensity.
It was rooted in neither greed nor possessiveness. But with the desperation of someone starved for years finally realizing what hunger was.
Sometimes Qin thinks people underestimate what a simple touch can heal.
The way Duang's palm automatically shields Qin's head when he nearly bumps into something. Or how they brush hair away from his eyes while he is working on his new music. Or how his fingers loop around Qin's back softly while leading him through crowds, careful not to lose him. Or in the way it waits patiently for Qin to speak. Or in gentle fingers threading through his hair after nightmares. Or in palms warming his freezing hands during rainy evenings. And also in the absentminded habit of rubbing circles against Qin’s wrist whenever he sensed anxiety building beneath his skin.
As though loving Qin was not something Duang needed to think about.
And maybe that is what ruined everyone else for Qin.
The realization that Duang’s tenderness was never forced and his care towards him didn't born out of obligation. He simply loved Qin enough to treat every vulnerable part of him gently.
Even the parts Qin himself struggled to love.
Sometimes, while talking absentmindedly, Duang traces the small moles scattered across Qin’s face.
One beneath his eye.
One near his jaw.
One beside the corner of his lips.
He counts them slowly with the pad of his finger, memorizing them with the same care people reserve for constellations.
“You know I love the moles on your face,” Duang whispered once, touching the tiny mole near Qin’s cheekbone.
Qin frowned faintly. “Why?”
Duang smiled softly. “Because it belongs to you.”
Such a simple answer. Yet it lodged itself somewhere deep inside Qin’s ribs and stayed there even after the moment ended.
There was one thing about Duang that always stood out to Qin. The way he says or does things for him so naturally, as though loving Qin is the easiest thing he has ever done. As though every part of Qin deserves affection simply because it exists.
And Qin who had led a life devoid of such things—was pretty much left speechless under the presence of such a kind of love.
Sometimes he thinks Duang does not understand the magnitude of what he gives away so casually.
And other times he watches him and feels grief alongside love.
Grief for the version of himself who lived so long without this. The version who thought surviving is the same as living. The version who became so accustomed to emotional distance that tenderness now feels almost unbearable to receive.
Because Duang does not merely touch Qin. He shows his everything through those touches and gazes alone.
And Qin does not think people understand how life-changing that can be.
“Why do you like holding my hands so much?”
Duang was half-laughing when he asked it, fingers tangled loosely with Qin while they sat on the balcony of Qin's apartment. The city lights reflected softly in Duang's eyes, warm and gold like they belonged there.
Qin remembers staring at their joined hands for a long time before answering.
When he finally spoke, his voice sounded quieter than usual. Honest in the way only exhausted truths can be.
“Because they hold my heart with love,” he said softly. “They caress my face with affection like no one else’s. They thread through my hair with care I never believed I deserved. They touch my skin with such sincerity that it makes me greedy enough to hope for more.”
His fingers tightened slightly around Duang’s. He remembered all the times he stared at Duang's hands longer than he should.
At the faint scars across his knuckles. At the veins beneath warm skin. At the fingers that have held mugs, steering wheels, grocery bags, books, pieces of Qin himself.
And every time, Qin just thought—
These hands have loved me more sincerely than I ever thought possible.
“That’s why I want to hold those hands,” Qin whispered. “Because when I do, it feels like the love inside you flows through your fingertips into mine. And it fills the endless emptiness inside me.”
And that’s also one of the reasons why I always love holding them.
And because loving Duang feels impossible to contain inside, it spills into Qin’s touch instead. Into intertwined fingers. Into soft gazes. Into the late night brush of lips. Into body on top of body worshipping each other. Into lingering touches. Into brushing thumbs. Into pulling Duang's hand into his lap absentmindedly. Into kissing his knuckles during moments where words fell short.
Duang’s eyes softened with something devastatingly tender at the response. Then a soft smile like the bloom of a jasmine stretched on his lips.
The one that feels like home opening its door waiting with its arms wide open.
Duang lifted Qin’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles one by one.
“You always call me sap. Ever realised you are the biggest sap among us two?” Duang murmured.
Qin pursed his lips into a small pout. “I’m only telling the truth.”
“I know,” Duang whispered. “It's one of the countless things that I love about you.”
And those words carried the weight of endless devotion, Duang carried.
Again, those hands. Qin would never get tired of holding those hands.
When nights fall, some parts of Qin still expect warmth to disappear eventually. Still wait for gentleness to grow tired. Still brace himself for abandonment even in the middle of being loved.
But like Qin said, Duang’s hands have a way of touching his heart that his fears lose their grip on him. He holds every single version of him with the same softness: The angry one. The exhausted one. The silent one. And even the unbearable one.
And to someone like Qin, someone ruptured by traumas and pain, this was nothing short of healing.
The kind built through repeated softness.
Through consistency.
Through hands that never let go when things become difficult.
Qin throws a final glance down at their intertwined hands—fiddling with each other's fingers—and with all the honesty his heart can hold, he thinks—
If love has a shape, then surely it must look something like this.
End.
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