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Daotok trusted ghosts more than audio files.
This was not an exaggeration.
Ghosts were rude sometimes, yes. Inconvenient. Dramatic. Prone to standing in corners and pretending they were not standing in corners, which Daotok found personally offensive because if someone wanted to haunt, they should at least commit to the aesthetic.
But ghosts were usually honest about what they were.
A ghost at the foot of the stairs was a ghost at the foot of the stairs. A grandmother in the old music building who kept complaining about students leaving windows open was, in fact, a grandmother in the old music building complaining about students leaving windows open. A child-shaped shadow near the campus pond who only appeared when it rained did not pretend to be a legal representative, a media assistant, a charity liaison, or a concerned adult with a file name.
Ghosts did not usually edit themselves into something else.
Audio files did.
That was the problem.
Daotok stood outside Arthit’s studio with one hand on the strap of his bag and the other around a cup of iced coffee he had not yet touched. The studio door was painted dark blue. Someone had stuck a small sticker of a sun near the handle, probably one of Arthit’s younger students, because Arthit somehow collected admiration from every age group without trying.
Daotok hated that.
He loved that.
He stared at the sticker.
The sun smiled back at him.
“Unnecessary,” Daotok muttered.
The door opened.
Arthit looked at him from inside the studio, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy, one pencil tucked behind his ear. He looked warm and tired and unfairly real under the studio lights.
Daotok immediately wanted to leave.
Not because of fear.
Because of feelings.
Worse.
“Nong Dao,” Arthit said, voice soft.
Daotok narrowed his eyes. “You opened the door before I knocked.”
“You were standing outside for four minutes.”
“That is a normal amount of time to inspect a door.”
Arthit’s mouth curved. “Is it?”
“For people with taste and trauma, yes.”
The smile softened but did not disappear. That was one of Arthit’s worst qualities. He could hear the hurt inside a joke and still let the joke live.
He stepped aside. “Come in?”
Daotok looked past him.
The studio was not large, but it was carefully arranged. Keyboard against one wall. Guitar stands near the corner. A desk with sheet music, speakers, notebooks, cables, two cups, and a small bowl of candy North had apparently contributed because the sticky note on it said FOR EMOTIONAL MUSIC EMERGENCIES in North’s handwriting.
Daotok recognized North’s handwriting because it looked like someone cheerful had fought a pen and won by enthusiasm.
There were no cameras.
No recording lights on.
No laptop open.
No microphone set in the center of the room like a trap.
Only Arthit, the instruments, warm light, and a quietness that did not demand anything.
Daotok hated that too.
It made him want to cry.
So he looked at the candy bowl instead.
“Why is North allowed to contaminate your studio?”
“He said the room needed morale.”
“The room is a room.”
“He also said you would say that.”
Daotok stared at him.
Arthit’s smile deepened.
Daotok entered the studio because standing in the hallway any longer would make the sun sticker look smug.
Arthit closed the door behind him, but not fully. He left it slightly open, the way he had started doing after everything. Not because Daotok had asked. Because Arthit noticed that doors closing too firmly still made Daotok’s shoulders tighten sometimes, even when Daotok pretended he was only offended by hinges.
The gap was small.
Enough.
Daotok placed his coffee on the desk and looked around with deliberate casualness.
“Nice room.”
“You’ve been here before.”
“I am re-evaluating after surviving a media conspiracy.”
“That is fair.”
“It needs a ghost.”
Arthit blinked. “Does it?”
“Every respectable music room needs one. Preferably an old pianist with opinions.”
Arthit looked around, almost automatically.
Daotok clicked his tongue. “P’Thit.”
Arthit looked back at him.
“You still look when I say ghost.”
“I believe you.”
“That is not the point. You look like you are ready to apologize to the ghost for inconveniencing it.”
“If there is a ghost, maybe it deserves politeness.”
Daotok stared.
Then sighed.
“You are impossible.”
Arthit’s voice softened. “You came anyway.”
Daotok looked away too fast.
Dangerous man.
Warm man.
Man who could say something very simple and make Daotok feel like all the locked drawers in his chest had handles again.
He moved toward the keyboard to avoid answering.
There were pages spread across the music stand.
Handwritten.
Not printed.
Daotok stopped.
Arthit noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
“It’s not a recording,” Arthit said.
Daotok’s fingers tightened on his bag strap.
“I can see that.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you saying it?”
“Because you also saw the speakers and stopped breathing.”
Daotok’s mouth opened.
Closed.
Rude.
Accurate.
Unforgivable.
Arthit moved slowly, not closer, only toward the desk. He turned one speaker slightly away from Daotok, not because the speaker was dangerous, but because Daotok’s body had already decided it might be.
“I didn’t set up recording,” Arthit said. “No session file. No microphone. No live capture. Nothing saving.”
Daotok stared at the handwritten sheet music.
His throat felt tight.
“I’m not scared of music.”
“I know.”
“I’m not.”
“I know.”
Daotok turned sharply. “You keep saying that like you don’t believe me.”
Arthit met his eyes calmly.
“I believe you are not scared of music.”
Daotok’s chest hurt before Arthit finished.
“I think you are scared of music being taken away from itself.”
Daotok hated him.
Only a little.
Only in the way people hated mirrors for being clean.
His hand loosened on the bag strap.
The room felt too quiet.
Outside, somewhere down the hall, someone laughed. A student, maybe. A normal sound. The studio door stayed slightly open. Warm air moved through the gap.
Daotok looked at the pages again.
“What is this?”
Arthit picked up the pencil from behind his ear and set it on the desk.
“A song.”
Daotok gave him a look. “Yes, P’Thit. I assumed it was not a soup recipe.”
The corner of Arthit’s mouth moved.
Daotok immediately felt better.
Annoying.
“For you,” Arthit said.
Daotok stopped feeling better.
His heart did something stupid. Tripped, maybe. Fell down stairs. Filed a complaint.
“No,” he said.
Arthit blinked once. “No?”
“No.”
“You don’t know what I am asking.”
“You said for you. That is usually when people attack.”
“With songs?”
“With sincerity.”
Arthit’s face softened.
Daotok lifted one hand. “Do not make that face.”
“What face?”
“The P’Thit face.”
“I only have one face.”
“That is a lie and you know it. You have normal face, music face, worried face, gentle face, and the face you make when I say I’m fine and you think I am an emotionally dishonest raccoon.”
Arthit was silent for half a second.
Then he laughed.
Soft.
Real.
Daotok wanted to put the sound in a jar and then accuse it of being illegal.
“That last one is very specific,” Arthit said.
“It is very visible.”
“I’ll work on it.”
“You won’t.”
“No.”
The laughter faded, but the warmth stayed.
Arthit looked at the pages.
“I wrote it after the hearing,” he said. “Not immediately. A few weeks later.”
Daotok did not speak.
“I didn’t know what to do with all the silence after the case stopped needing us every hour.”
Daotok looked at him then.
Arthit’s hand rested near the sheet music, not touching.
“It was strange,” he continued. “During everything, there was always another call, another file, another response. Even fear had a schedule.” His voice lowered. “Then one morning there was nothing urgent. And I realized I had forgotten how to let music be music.”
Daotok’s chest tightened.
That was unfair.
He had thought he was the only one.
Not about music specifically. About silence. About what happened after danger no longer gave the day its shape. People kept saying it was over, or almost over, or legally contained, and Daotok kept waiting for his body to believe them.
It had not, at first.
Sometimes it still had questions.
“What did you do?” Daotok asked.
Arthit smiled faintly. “I made coffee. Badly.”
“Tragic.”
“Very.”
“Then?”
“Then I sat here and played one note for almost ten minutes.”
Daotok stared. “That sounds like supernatural punishment.”
“It felt like it.”
“What note?”
Arthit reached toward the keyboard, then paused.
He looked at Daotok first.
Asking.
Always asking now.
Daotok swallowed.
Then nodded.
Arthit pressed one key.
Middle C.
Nothing dramatic.
A simple note, warm and clear in the studio air.
Daotok’s body went tense anyway.
Not because the note hurt.
Because his body remembered the sound of edited audio opening on an isolated device. Mira’s voice cut and rearranged. Daotok’s own breath turned into evidence of instability. Silence between clips. Sound becoming something someone could hold wrong.
Arthit let the note fade.
He did not play another.
Daotok stared at the keyboard until the air stopped vibrating.
“I hate that,” he whispered.
Arthit looked at him.
“The note?”
“No.” Daotok’s fingers curled and uncurled. “That my body reacts before I decide.”
Arthit’s eyes softened. “That is not a failure.”
“It is inconvenient.”
“Yes.”
Daotok blinked.
Then glared. “You’re supposed to comfort me.”
“I am comforting you honestly.”
“That is worse.”
Arthit smiled a little. “I know.”
Daotok laughed despite himself.
The sound came out thin, but it came out.
He sat on the chair near the keyboard because standing had become too dramatic, and he preferred to sit before anyone could interpret him into needing it.
Arthit moved to the other chair, not too close.
The space between them held the fading note.
Daotok looked at the sheet music again.
“For me,” he said, trying the words like they were suspicious food.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Arthit answered too easily. “Because I love you.”
Daotok’s entire body objected.
He looked at the ceiling.
“P’Thit.”
“Hm?”
“You cannot use direct statements in a music room. There are acoustics.”
Arthit’s mouth curved. “The acoustics are good.”
“That is exactly the danger.”
Arthit leaned back slightly, giving him air.
Daotok looked down at his hands.
Because I love you.
There had been a time when hearing love made him want to hide.
Not because he did not believe it.
Because believing it made everything more frightening. If someone loved him, then someone could use him. If Arthit loved him, then Mira could point at him and say he did not belong. If he appeared beside Arthit in public, someone could crop the picture. If his voice shook backstage, someone could make it sound like proof he was unstable.
Love had become a visible thing.
Visible things could be targeted.
But Arthit had never stopped saying it softly.
Never as a claim.
Never as a performance.
Never as a counterargument to fear.
Only as truth.
Daotok rubbed his thumb against his palm.
“What is the song called?”
Arthit hesitated.
That made Daotok look at him immediately.
“What?”
“It doesn’t have a title.”
“Suspicious.”
“I wanted you to choose one if you wanted.”
Daotok stared.
“No.”
Arthit blinked. “No again?”
“You cannot give emotionally significant naming rights to a person before lunch.”
“It’s almost four.”
“Emotionally before lunch.”
Arthit’s smile returned.
Daotok looked at the pages. “Is it good?”
“I don’t know.”
That surprised him.
Arthit was not arrogant about music, exactly, but he knew what he made. He had the kind of quiet confidence that came from work, not ego. Hearing uncertainty in his voice made Daotok sit differently.
“You don’t know?”
“I know it is honest.”
Daotok swallowed.
“That is not the same thing?”
“Not always.”
Dangerous room.
Dangerous man.
Dangerous song.
Daotok looked toward the slightly open door.
No ghost.
Not even a dramatic shadow.
Typical.
The one time a ghost could helpfully interrupt, the spirit world decided to practice boundaries.
Daotok took a breath.
“Play it.”
Arthit did not move.
“You don’t have to decide now.”
“I decided.”
“You can change your mind.”
“I know.”
“If you want me to stop, say stop.”
Daotok looked at him. “P’Thit.”
Arthit waited.
Daotok’s voice came quieter. “If I can’t say stop fast enough, will you see it?”
Arthit’s expression changed.
No pity.
No panic.
Only tenderness sharpened by attention.
“Yes,” he said.
Daotok believed him.
That was terrifying too.
He nodded once.
Arthit turned to the keyboard.
No recording light.
No laptop.
No microphone.
Only his hands settling over the keys.
The first notes were simple.
So simple Daotok almost felt tricked.
A low chord, soft as morning before anyone checked their phone. Then a higher line, hesitant, stepping forward and back like someone approaching a door they were not sure would open. The melody did not rush. It circled. Waited. Returned to the same note once, twice, each time with a different harmony beneath it.
Daotok’s throat tightened.
He hated music.
No.
He hated that music could walk past all his jokes without asking permission.
Arthit played quietly, shoulders relaxed, eyes on the keys. Not performing. Not proving. Not trying to make Daotok react.
That made it worse.
Better.
Worse.
The melody shifted halfway through. A darker chord entered, not dramatic enough to be a villain, only enough to say something had happened and could not be removed from the song without lying. Daotok felt his breath catch.
Arthit’s left hand softened immediately.
Not stopping.
Adjusting.
He had seen.
The darker chord returned, but this time it did not stand alone. Another harmony answered it. Warm. Steady. Not erasing. Holding.
Daotok looked down at his own hands.
They were shaking.
He let them.
The song moved toward a section that almost sounded like a question.
Not “are you okay?”
Daotok hated that question.
This was different.
This was, “Are you here?”
Then the answer came, not loud, not triumphant.
A small return of the first melody.
Changed.
Still itself.
Daotok closed his eyes.
The studio disappeared behind sound.
For a moment, he saw things he did not want to see.
The backstage corridor. Mira’s smile. Audio cut into pieces. Hill’s apartment at night. The private file title with his name and crying turned into a label. His sketchbook closed under both hands. Arthit crouched beside him. Arthit asking consent before anything became record. Arthit saying, “It makes you sound edited.”
Edited.
Not weak.
Not unstable.
Edited.
The melody thinned until only one note remained.
Not middle C this time.
Higher.
Clear.
It faded slowly.
Daotok opened his eyes.
Arthit’s hands stayed on the keys, but he did not play.
The door remained slightly open.
The room stayed warm.
No one had recorded anything.
The song existed only in the air and in Daotok’s chest, where it had no permission to hurt so beautifully and did anyway.
Daotok stared at the keyboard.
Then said, “Rude.”
Arthit looked at him.
His eyes were soft. “The song?”
“You.”
Arthit’s mouth moved faintly.
Daotok wiped one cheek with the heel of his hand, irritated to find it wet.
“Very rude,” he added.
Arthit turned fully toward him. “Status?”
Daotok laughed once, shaky. “Everyone in this family is infected.”
“Status,” Arthit repeated gently.
Daotok looked at him.
The old instinct came first.
Fine.
It pressed against his tongue.
He almost said it.
Then he remembered Nao translating fear into something people could sit beside. Typhoon saying the photos felt like his again. Easter holding his volunteer pass and saying he was angry. North crying over pancakes and calling it emotional attack. Tiger placing a key on the table.
Daotok breathed.
“Crying,” he said.
Arthit nodded.
“Annoyed.”
A small smile. “Accepted.”
“Moved against my will.”
“Accepted.”
“Still a little scared.”
Arthit’s eyes softened further.
“Accepted.”
Daotok looked away.
“And I want you to play it again.”
Arthit went very still.
Daotok looked back at him quickly. “Not now.”
“Okay.”
“Later.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe after I insult it properly.”
“Okay.”
Daotok swallowed.
“And I don’t want it recorded yet.”
Arthit’s voice stayed quiet. “Then it won’t be.”
“Not even as a demo.”
“No.”
“Not even for backup.”
“No.”
“Not even because you will forget.”
Arthit looked at him.
“I won’t forget.”
Daotok’s chest hurt again.
He pointed at him. “That sentence is also rude.”
Arthit smiled.
Daotok took the iced coffee at last and drank it mostly to have something to do with his mouth besides making more emotional mistakes.
It had melted.
Disgusting.
He drank it anyway.
Arthit watched with fond concern. “That cannot taste good.”
“It tastes like survival and poor timing.”
“Do you want another?”
Daotok hesitated.
Normal question.
Small question.
Would you like another coffee?
The kind of question that belonged after a song, after tears, after fear did not win the whole room.
“Yes,” he said.
Arthit stood. “Same order?”
Daotok looked at the sheet music.
At the pages that held something for him but did not own him.
Then at Arthit.
“No,” he said. “Something warm.”
Arthit’s face softened.
“Okay.”
Daotok glared. “Do not look proud because I chose a sensible drink.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
“I am.”
“At least lie better.”
Arthit laughed and opened the studio door wider.
Daotok stayed seated while Arthit stepped into the hallway to get the drinks from the café downstairs. The door remained open. The studio felt different without him in it, but not unsafe.
Daotok looked at the sheet music.
His fingers itched.
Not to play.
To draw.
He pulled his sketchbook from his bag, opened to a clean page, and stared at it.
For a while, nothing came.
Then he drew a door.
Not closed.
Not fully open.
A little open, with music notes slipping through the gap like small, nosy ghosts.
He added eyes to one of the notes.
Then tiny hands.
Then a speech bubble.
Rude.
He stared at it.
Then laughed softly by himself.
A sound came near the corner.
Daotok looked up.
An old man stood by the guitar stands, wearing a pale shirt, one hand lifted near his ear like he was listening to something far away.
Finally.
Daotok sighed. “You waited until P’Thit left?”
The ghost blinked at him.
Then looked toward the sheet music.
Daotok pointed his pencil. “Do not touch that.”
The ghost looked offended.
Daotok looked more offended back.
The ghost pointed at the keyboard.
“No,” Daotok said.
The ghost pointed again.
Daotok narrowed his eyes. “Are you the respectable old pianist I requested?”
The ghost lifted his chin.
Daotok looked him up and down.
“You are late.”
The ghost’s mouth moved.
No sound.
But Daotok understood enough.
Music rooms keep what is played.
Daotok’s fingers tightened around the pencil.
He looked at the sheet music.
Then at the ghost.
“Not this one,” he said quietly.
The ghost watched him.
Daotok’s voice grew steadier. “This one does not belong to the room yet.”
The ghost tilted his head.
Daotok looked down at his drawing.
“It belongs to me first.”
The ghost’s expression softened.
That was worse.
Daotok pointed at him again. “Do not be kind. I will cry again and that is repetitive writing.”
The ghost smiled.
Then vanished.
Typical.
Arthit returned five minutes later with two warm drinks and a small packet of cookies.
Daotok eyed the cookies. “North?”
“The café.”
“Lies. They have his energy.”
Arthit smiled and set the drink beside him. “Honey milk.”
Daotok stared. “I am not Phoon.”
“No. You are you.”
“Then why honey milk?”
“Because you asked for something warm, and coffee will make your hands shake more.”
Daotok looked at his hands.
They were still a little unsteady.
He hated being noticed.
He loved being noticed.
Tragic.
He took the cup.
“Fine.”
Arthit sat beside him, not at the keyboard now.
Daotok looked at the open sketchbook.
Then pushed it toward him.
Arthit looked down.
The door.
The musical ghost notes.
The rude speech bubble.
His face softened.
Daotok braced himself.
Arthit said, “This is very you.”
Daotok blinked.
Then looked away, ears hot. “That is acceptable.”
Arthit touched the edge of the paper, not the drawing itself. “Can I keep a copy?”
Daotok’s head snapped back. “A copy?”
“If you want.”
“No.”
“Okay.”
The answer was immediate.
No disappointment.
No persuasion.
No why.
Daotok looked at him.
Then down at the drawing.
Then back at him.
“I mean…” He hated this. “Not now.”
Arthit waited.
Daotok’s voice lowered. “Maybe later.”
Arthit nodded. “Maybe later.”
“Stop being so good at consent. It makes it hard to be difficult.”
Arthit smiled. “You manage.”
Daotok gasped. “P’Thit.”
“What?”
“That was almost mean.”
“It was accurate.”
Daotok stared at him.
Then laughed.
This time, the laugh did not shake.
They drank in the studio while the hallway stayed visible through the open door. Arthit did not ask if Daotok wanted to talk about the song. Daotok did not ask why Arthit wrote it in pencil instead of ink. The quiet sat between them comfortably now, no longer the kind that hid things, only the kind that let them breathe.
After a while, Daotok asked, “Did you write lyrics?”
Arthit looked at the keyboard.
“Some.”
Daotok’s stomach dipped. “Oh.”
“I won’t sing them unless you ask.”
“Are they embarrassing?”
Arthit looked at him. “Probably.”
“Romantic embarrassing or emotionally devastating embarrassing?”
“Both.”
Daotok put his cup down. “Illegal.”
Arthit’s mouth curved.
Daotok leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling.
“Give me one line.”
Arthit went still.
“One?”
“One. If I hate it, I reserve the right to leave dramatically.”
“The door is open.”
“Good. I planned my exit.”
Arthit looked at the sheet music.
Then at Daotok.
His voice was soft when he spoke, not singing, only offering the words into the room like something held carefully in both hands.
“I will not make a stage out of your hurting.”
Daotok stopped breathing.
The line landed too close.
Not loud.
Not decorated.
Just there.
I will not make a stage out of your hurting.
His eyes burned again, and this time he did not even try to pretend it was the honey milk.
“Rude,” he whispered.
Arthit’s eyes softened. “Yes.”
Daotok laughed through the tears. “At least you admit it.”
“I wrote more.”
“I hate that I want to know.”
“You don’t have to know today.”
Daotok looked at him.
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
“If you want.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe.”
Daotok picked up the sheet music carefully.
Arthit did not stop him.
The notes meant nothing and everything. He could not read music the way Arthit could, not properly, but he could see the shape of the song. The rise. The pause. The return.
Something honest.
Not public.
Not private because shame demanded it.
Private because they chose the room where it could exist first.
“What folder does this go into?” Daotok asked.
Arthit blinked.
Then understood.
Their whole family had folders now.
Evidence.
OURS.
HOME.
FOUREVER.
Private first.
Shared by choice.
Arthit looked at the song.
“Yours,” he said.
Daotok swallowed.
“Not ours?”
Arthit’s gaze met his.
“If you want it to be ours, it can be.”
Daotok hated that answer most of all.
Because it was perfect.
He looked down at the pages.
“Mine first,” he said.
Arthit nodded.
“Mine first,” Daotok repeated, quieter. “Then maybe ours.”
Arthit’s voice softened. “Accepted.”
Daotok closed his eyes for one second.
There it was again.
That word.
A blanket and a key and a front door and a song all at once.
Accepted.
He opened his eyes and held the pages out.
“Keep it here.”
Arthit took them carefully.
Daotok pointed at him. “But not recorded.”
“No recording.”
“Not performed.”
“No performance.”
“Not shared with North. He will create a pancake-based interpretation.”
Arthit’s mouth twitched. “No North.”
“Not shown to Dao’s future self without consent.”
Arthit paused.
Then smiled softly. “Noted.”
Daotok looked away.
Future self.
That was a strange thought.
A future self who might hear the song and not feel the old edited audio crawl under his skin. A future self who might let Arthit sing the embarrassing devastating lyrics. A future self who might draw the rude musical ghost on proper paper and let Arthit keep it.
Maybe.
Later.
Not now.
Now was enough.
The studio door moved slightly.
Daotok looked up.
No ghost.
Only air.
He smiled faintly.
Arthit noticed.
“Ghost?”
“Maybe.”
“Respectable old pianist?”
“Unclear. Poor timing.”
Arthit looked toward the corner with sincere politeness.
Daotok pointed at him. “Do not greet him.”
“I was not going to.”
“You absolutely were.”
Arthit’s smile gave him away.
Daotok laughed and stood, taking his warm drink with him.
He moved toward the studio door.
Then stopped.
The hallway outside was ordinary. A poster for a student recital. A scuffed wall. Someone’s umbrella leaning near the stairwell. A world that did not know he had just survived a song.
Arthit stood behind him.
Not too close.
“Nong Dao.”
Daotok did not turn. “Hm?”
“Thank you for hearing it.”
Daotok’s throat tightened.
Dangerous man.
Warm man.
His.
He looked back over his shoulder.
“Thank you for not keeping it.”
Arthit’s eyes softened.
“I’ll keep the memory.”
Daotok nodded.
“That is allowed.”
They left the studio together through the open door.
No dramatic ending.
No perfect healing.
No sudden ability to listen to old recordings without flinching.
But Daotok had heard one song.
Unrecorded.
Unreleased.
Unstolen.
A song that had existed in the room and then stayed inside him because he chose to carry it.
Outside the building, the evening sky was turning gold.
Typhoon would have taken a photo.
North would have called the clouds emotionally suspicious.
Nao would have said the light looked gentle.
Tiger would have checked the parking area once and called it enough because Nao was watching.
Easter would have asked if everyone had eaten.
Hill would have already known the answer.
Johan would somehow have booked dinner.
Their ridiculous family existed in Daotok’s mind so clearly that he almost checked the group chat.
Before he could, his phone buzzed.
Of course.
North:
Pancake Clause emergency: do songs count as private first or ours first?
Daotok stared.
Arthit leaned closer. “What is it?”
Daotok turned the phone toward him.
Arthit read it.
Then laughed quietly.
Daotok typed back:
If you ask about my song before I mention my song, I will haunt you while alive.
North replied immediately.
SO THERE IS A SONG.
Nao:
Private first.
Easter:
Only if Dao wants.
Typhoon:
Does the song have a photo?
Tiger:
Songs do not have photos.
Typhoon:
Sheet music does. If Dao wants.
Hill:
Dao chooses.
Johan:
North, stop guessing.
North:
I am supporting.
Daotok stared at the messages.
Then, without quite knowing why, smiled.
Arthit watched him.
“What?” Daotok asked.
“Nothing.”
“That face is something.”
“It is me being happy.”
Daotok looked down at the chat again.
At the way they all knew the rule now.
Private first.
Dao chooses.
Accepted before explained.
His chest felt strange.
Full in a way that almost hurt.
He typed slowly.
Mine first. Maybe ours later.
The replies came softer this time.
Nao:
Accepted.
Easter:
Accepted.
Typhoon:
Accepted.
Hill:
Accepted.
Tiger:
Accepted.
Johan:
Accepted.
North:
Accepted but emotionally impatient.
Daotok laughed.
Arthit looked at him with the P’Thit face again.
Soft.
Proud.
Unfair.
Daotok slipped his phone into his pocket and reached for Arthit’s hand before the feeling could scare him out of it.
Arthit’s fingers closed around his.
Careful.
Certain.
They walked toward the parking lot under a sky that did not need to be recorded to be real.
Daotok glanced at him.
“P’Thit.”
“Hm?”
“One day, maybe you can sing it.”
Arthit’s hand tightened very slightly.
“One day.”
“Not on a stage.”
“No.”
“Not to prove anything.”
“No.”
“Maybe in the kitchen.”
Arthit’s mouth curved. “The kitchen?”
“Yes. Places with snacks are emotionally safer.”
“I see.”
“Or Hill’s apartment. But North cannot harmonize.”
“I will remember.”
“Or maybe just for me.”
Arthit stopped walking.
Daotok stopped too.
The evening moved around them, students passing, cars pulling away, someone laughing near the gate. Ordinary life, shameless and loud.
Arthit looked at him.
“Just for you is enough,” he said.
Daotok’s eyes burned again.
He glared because that was easier than melting in a parking lot.
“Rude,” he whispered.
Arthit smiled.
Daotok squeezed his hand.
The song stayed between them.
Not trapped.
Not hidden.
Waiting.
And for once, Daotok did not mind that something beautiful had no witness except the person he chose.