Chapter Text
Qin wasn't entirely sure when he'd gotten used to being married.
Maybe it happened gradually. One day Duang had been his boyfriend. Then his fiancé. Then his husband. Then somehow five years had slipped by without asking permission.
Twenty-eight years old.
Five years married.
And Qin could no longer remember what it felt like to live alone.
Not because Duang was loud. Though he was. Not because Duang somehow managed to fill every room he walked into. Though he definitely did that too.
It was simply that Duang had become part of everything.
Morning coffee already waiting beside Qin's laptop before he remembered he wanted one. Shared grocery lists stuck to the refrigerator. Laundry folded together on lazy Sunday afternoons. The familiar weight settling beside him every night in bed. The sound of Duang talking about absolutely nothing while Qin worked, somehow carrying entire conversations by himself and never seeming bothered by the fact that Qin mostly answered with hums.
None of them remarkable on their own.
But together, they had become the shape of Qin's everyday life.
He still noticed the coffee that appeared beside his laptop before he thought to make it himself. Still noticed how Duang reached for the heavier grocery bags without asking. Still noticed the quiet habit of checking whether Qin had eaten whenever they got busy.
They were small acts.
Almost ordinary.
Yet Qin found that he never quite stopped appreciating them.
Perhaps that was what five years of marriage really meant.
Not that the gestures became invisible.
Only that they became inseparable from the feeling of home.
The thought made Qin smile to himself as he stood in the kitchen one morning, watching Duang enthusiastically explain some completely unnecessary fact he'd learned online.
"...and apparently octopuses can punch fish."
Qin looked up from his coffee.
"They can what?"
"PUNCH fish."
"...why?"
"I don't know."
"You brought this information to me without knowing why?"
"I thought you'd appreciate it."
Qin stared at him for a moment before shaking his head.
Duang beamed.
Apparently that counted as appreciation.
Marriage had changed other things too.
Qin still preferred quiet. Still preferred observing rather than speaking. Still preferred smaller crowds whenever possible.
But somewhere along the way he'd become softer.
At least where Duang was concerned.
Leaning against him during movies. Falling asleep on his shoulder during long drives. Reaching for his hand without thinking about it. Looking for him automatically whenever he entered a room.
Things Qin would've found embarrassing years ago.
Things that now happened naturally.
Without effort.
Without fear.
Simply because Duang was Duang.
And after five years, loving him felt as natural as breathing.
A few weeks later, Loy Krathong arrived.
The riverside glittered beneath thousands of lights, reflections dancing across the water like scattered stars. Music drifted through the evening air. Vendors lined the streets with flower-filled krathongs, candles, and enough food to completely destroy any reasonable plans for dinner.
Dangerous.
For both of them.
"That looks good," Qin said, pausing beside a stall.
Duang followed his gaze. "Hm. It does."
Five minutes later they were carrying grilled squid.
Ten minutes after that came coconut pancakes.
Then grilled pork skewers.
Then mango sticky rice.
Then something Duang wanted to try.
Then something Qin wanted to try.
Then another thing because they were already there anyway.
By the time they finally reached the riverbank, both of them were pleasantly full and carrying absolutely no regrets.
The atmosphere had softened as the night deepened. Families gathered near the water. Children held candles carefully between their hands. Couples stood shoulder-to-shoulder as krathongs drifted downstream, their tiny flames floating against the darkness.
Duang slowed to a stop beside the river.
"Ter, wait here for a second."
Qin nodded.
He already knew what Duang was doing.
Every year was the same.
Couples shared one krathong.
They always had.
A minute later, Duang returned carrying a single flower-filled krathong, its candle already lit, the flame wavering gently in the evening breeze.
Without needing to say anything, they crouched together at the river's edge.
Duang lowered the krathong until it rested on the surface of the water but didn't let go.
"Together?" he asked.
Qin simply placed his hand beside Duang's.
Their fingers brushed against the woven banana leaves, steadying the little raft against the current.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Duang closed his eyes.
The candlelight flickered over his face as he silently made his wish.
When he opened them again, Qin wasn't looking at the river.
He was quietly watching Duang instead.
Duang smiled.
"Terrrr."
"Hm?"
"Make a wish too."
Qin looked down at the tiny candle.
Years ago, he probably would've.
Years ago, he always had something to ask for.
Mostly practical things. His family's health. Fewer headaches during exams. A little luck when he needed it.
And somewhere along the way, another wish quietly joined the list.
That he and Duang would simply... keep being happy together.
But somewhere along the way, those wishes had quietly become his life.
He had the home he'd never thought he'd have.
The family he'd chosen.
The person he'd once been too afraid to hope would stay.
He couldn't think of anything else to ask for.
So he looked back at Duang and shook his head.
"I don't have one."
Duang blinked.
"What do you mean you don't have one?"
"I mean exactly that."
"Everyone has one."
Qin smiled, small but unmistakably content.
"Not anymore."
Duang frowned as if Qin had just said the sky was optional.
"Terrrr. Just make one."
"I don't need to."
"Come on."
"Duang."
"Just one."
Duang raised one finger, giving it an exaggerated little shake.
"One tiny wish."
Qin let out a quiet sigh that wasn't annoyed so much as fond.
"What exactly am I supposed to wish for?"
Duang shrugged.
"Anything."
"Anything?"
"Anything."
"That's a very broad category."
"That's the point."
"No, the point of a wish is that it's realistic enough for heaven to consider."
Duang gasped dramatically.
"You can't put conditions on heaven."
"I absolutely can."
"No."
"Yes."
Duang pointed at the little candle floating between their hands.
"Loy Krathong wishes are special, Ter. Even the mot impossible ones come true."
Qin raised an eyebrow.
"You really believe that?"
"I do."
"Anything?"
"Anything."
"Even the most impossible ones?"
Duang smiled, completely convinced.
"Even the most impossible ones."
Qin hummed quietly.
"Hmm."
A beat passed.
"Okay."
Qin closed his eyes.
For a few quiet moments, he stood there in silence, fingertips resting lightly against the edge of the krathong.
When he opened them again, Duang immediately broke into a grin.
"Yeyyyyy!"
"See? I knew you'd make one."
Together, they gave the krathong a gentle push.
It floated away, the candle bobbing steadily with the current.
Qin watched it drift for another second.
Then he glanced sideways at Duang.
"I wished we have a child."
Duang's smile froze.
"...Ha?"
Qin's lips curved into a small, thoroughly satisfied smile.
"Let's see if even the impossible ones come true."
"A child?"
"You said anything."
"I did, but..."
Duang gestured helplessly toward the water.
"...that's a child."
"Exactly."
"A whole person."
"Exactly."
"So?"
Qin looked up at him.
Calm.
Certain.
Entirely too pleased with himself.
"If heaven can grant that wish, maybe you're right."
Then he stood, leaned forward, and pressed a quick kiss against Duang's lips.
A pause.
"Otherwise," Qin continued, "I'm right and there are limits."
Duang stared at him.
Then burst out laughing.
Because somehow Qin had managed to turn a beautiful cultural tradition into a debate.
Again.
"You made a wish just to prove a point?"
"Yes."
"That's ridiculous."
"Hm."
"You don't even want to know if it comes true."
"It's not going to come true."
"Because?"
"There are limits."
"You literally just wished for it."
"To prove there are limits."
"That's not how wishes work."
"Duang."
"Qin-cha."
"Ter."
For a moment they simply stared at each other.
Then Duang sighed dramatically.
Already surrendering.
As usual.
"Fine."
"Thank you."
"I still think heaven can do anything."
"And I still think you're wrong."
"Okay."
"Okay."
The discussion ended there.
A few minutes later they were debating desserts instead.
And by the next morning, neither of them remembered the conversation at all.