Chapter Text
Faifa knew the cake had milk in it before Wine asked.
That was the worst part.
He knew from the soft cream at the edge, from the sweet smell that always made his throat feel careful before his brain caught up, from the way the junior in front of him held the little paper plate with both hands like Faifa’s approval might decide whether the whole faculty welcome booth had been worth the effort.
He knew.
Still, Faifa smiled.
“P’Faifa,” the junior said, voice bright and nervous at the same time, “please try this one. Our group made it ourselves. We stayed up until two in the morning.”
Two in the morning, Faifa thought, and immediately felt something in his chest soften.
The booth behind the junior was messy in the way all student booths were messy. A plastic banner taped slightly crooked. Paper cups stacked too close to the edge of the table. Three other juniors pretending not to watch but very obviously watching. Someone had drawn a cartoon gear wearing a chef hat on a piece of cardboard and written WELCOME ENGINEERING FRESHIES in letters that were too big at first and too small at the end.
It was the kind of effort Faifa always loved.
People trying. People hoping someone would notice.
So he noticed.
He took the plate.
The juniors lit up.
Wine, standing beside him with a bottle of water in one hand and a stack of event stickers in the other, went very still.
Faifa felt that stillness before he looked at him. He always did. Wine was quiet by nature, but Faifa had learned that Wine’s silence had different shapes. There was the sleepy silence when he was tired after class. There was the shy silence when Faifa teased him in front of too many people. There was the soft silence when he was trying not to smile.
And then there was this silence.
Careful.
Sharp.
Already worried.
Faifa turned his head just enough to meet Wine’s eyes.
Wine did not say anything at first. He only glanced at the cake, then back at Faifa.
Faifa smiled wider.
Wine’s mouth tightened.
“P’Faifa,” Wine said softly.
That was all.
Just his name.
It was not even an accusation. It was not scolding. It was not dramatic. But Faifa heard the meaning anyway.
Do you know what’s in that?
Are you sure?
Please don’t.
The junior was still standing in front of them, eyes wide and hopeful, and Faifa could already feel the shape of disappointment before it happened. He could imagine the junior’s shoulders dropping if he refused. The quick embarrassed apology. The way the other students would start panicking, asking if they had done something wrong, if the booth was bad, if they should throw everything away.
It would become a problem.
Faifa hated becoming a problem.
So he lifted the tiny fork.
“It looks delicious,” he said.
Wine’s fingers tightened around the water bottle.
“P’Faifa.”
This time, Faifa laughed.
Light. Easy. Bright enough to smooth the moment over before it could wrinkle.
“Just one bite, Nong Wine,” he said, tilting his head. “Don’t look at me like I’m committing a crime.”
Wine did not laugh.
That should have stopped him.
It almost did.
But the junior was smiling now, looking relieved, and the booth behind them had gone quiet in anticipation, and Faifa had been smiling through worse things than a bite of cake for most of his life.
So he took the bite.
The cream touched his tongue first.
Sweet. Soft. Too familiar.
His throat did not close. His chest did not tighten. Nothing terrible happened in that exact second, which made it easier to pretend nothing terrible would happen later.
The juniors cheered like he had just approved their whole future.
“Good?” one of them asked.
Faifa nodded, swallowing carefully.
“Very good,” he said, because it was. Because it had probably taken them hours. Because the cake was pretty and the booth was sweet and they were looking at him like his praise mattered.
Because saying no had always felt harder than enduring the consequences of yes.
Beside him, Wine was quiet.
Faifa did not look at him.
He took another smaller bite, just enough to make the juniors happy, then handed the plate back with an apologetic smile disguised as charm.
“I have to continue helping at the main table,” he said. “But you all did well. Don’t forget to eat something yourselves, okay? Staying up until two and then running a booth all day is how people faint in front of seniors, and then P’Arc will scold me for not supervising properly.”
The juniors laughed.
One of them clutched the plate to their chest like Faifa had given them a blessing.
“We won’t, P’Faifa!”
“Good.” Faifa pointed at the water container on their table. “Drink water too. Not only sweet drinks.”
“Yes, Phi!”
He left them smiling.
That made it worth it, he told himself.
It was just a small bite.
Two small bites.
Maybe there had not been much milk in it. Maybe the cream was fake cream. Maybe his body would be kind today. Maybe Wine would forget if Faifa distracted him fast enough.
Wine did not forget.
He waited until they were a few steps away from the booth, far enough that the juniors would not hear, before he moved in front of Faifa.
Faifa nearly walked into him.
“Nong Wine,” he said, cheerful as ever, “if you wanted me to bump into you, you could have just asked. I’m very generous with boyfriend privileges.”
Wine looked up at him.
Faifa’s joke fell into the space between them and did not land.
Around them, the welcome event carried on in full chaos. Seniors shouting instructions. Juniors lining up to collect name tags. Someone from another booth yelling that they needed more ice. Arm’s voice, loud and unmistakable, rose above the noise somewhere near the registration table.
“Who put the sticker rolls next to the curry puffs? This is a crime against administration!”
Then Arc’s voice, lower and stricter. “Arm. Focus.”
“I am focused, P’Arc. I am focused on justice.”
Faifa would have laughed on any other day.
Wine did not even blink.
“Did that have milk?” Wine asked.
Faifa widened his eyes with exaggerated innocence.
“Nong Wine, are you interrogating me in public?”
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly.
Too honestly.
Faifa’s smile faltered for half a breath before he fixed it.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe. It’s cake.”
Wine stared at him.
Faifa tried again. “It was just a small bite.”
“Two.”
“Were you counting?”
“Yes.”
That, for some reason, made warmth spread through Faifa’s chest. Not the dangerous kind. Not the allergy kind. Something softer. Something that always happened when Wine loved him too carefully.
Faifa reached out and tugged gently at the edge of Wine’s sleeve.
“Nong Wine,” he said, lowering his voice into something coaxing, “it’s okay.”
Wine’s expression changed.
Not much. Wine was still Wine. He did not shout in the middle of a faculty event. He did not make a scene unless he had to. But Faifa had learned to read him, and right now the hurt was clear.
Wine hated those words from him.
It’s okay.
Faifa used them too often.
When he was tired. When he was uncomfortable. When something hurt. When a memory opened its teeth. When someone forgot. When someone asked too much. When he gave more than he should have and then pretended his hands were not empty.
It’s okay.
Wine looked at the hand holding his sleeve.
Then he said, very quietly, “You’re allergic.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
Faifa could have answered honestly.
Because the junior looked nervous.
Because everyone was watching.
Because it was easier to be the senior who smiled than the senior who made a first-year panic over cake.
Because I don’t know how to say no without feeling like I’m hurting someone.
Because I’m used to swallowing things that are bad for me if it keeps the room comfortable.
Instead, he said, “Because it looked delicious.”
Wine’s eyes narrowed.
Faifa smiled.
Wine did not smile back.
Before the silence could become too heavy, someone called Faifa’s name from the main booth.
“P’Faifa! We need you here! The speaker isn’t working!”
Saved by bad university equipment, Faifa thought, and lifted his hand.
“Coming!”
Wine stepped aside, but not before catching Faifa’s wrist.
It was not a tight grip. Wine never held him like he was trying to trap him. He only wrapped his fingers around Faifa’s wrist, thumb resting lightly near his pulse, and looked at him with that steady seriousness that always made Faifa feel more seen than he knew what to do with.
“If your throat feels weird, tell me,” Wine said.
Faifa opened his mouth.
Wine’s grip tightened a little.
“Don’t say it’s okay.”
Faifa closed his mouth.
For a second, the event noise blurred around them. The laughter, the shouting, the music from someone’s portable speaker, Arm arguing about sticker placement, Arc telling him to stop arguing and do his job.
Wine stood there with his fingers around Faifa’s wrist, eyes serious, mouth stubborn, and Faifa felt something inside him ache in a way that had nothing to do with milk.
He wanted to joke.
He wanted to kiss Wine’s forehead and say his Nong Wine worried too much.
He wanted to be easy.
Instead, because Wine was still looking at him like he would know if Faifa lied, Faifa softened his smile.
“I’ll tell you,” he said.
Wine studied him for another second.
Then he let go.
Faifa immediately missed the warmth of his hand.
The main booth was a disaster in the way all volunteer-run faculty events became disasters after the first hour. The microphone cable had disappeared. The sign-in sheet for Group C had been used by Group A because someone did not read the label. The juniors were asking where to gather for the campus tour, but the seniors assigned to campus tour duty were missing because they had gone to buy more drinks.
In other words, exactly the kind of problem Faifa loved.
Problems with clear solutions were a relief.
Find the cable. Move the sign-in sheet. Tell Group C to wait near the faculty steps. Send someone to drag the missing seniors back before Arc found out and turned into a walking disciplinary committee.
Easy.
Much easier than Wine’s eyes.
Faifa slipped into motion with practiced brightness.
“P’Arm,” he called, catching the sticker rolls before they rolled off the table. “Your admin kingdom is collapsing.”
“My kingdom is under attack,” Arm corrected, appearing from behind a stack of tote bags. His hair was slightly messy, his expression betrayed, and he had three stickers stuck to his sleeve. “By people who do not understand systems.”
Arc walked behind him carrying a box of water bottles like it weighed nothing.
“Your system was five piles on one table.”
“It was organised chaos.”
“It was chaos.”
“It had categories.”
“It had curry puff crumbs.”
Arm gasped. “You wound me.”
Faifa laughed, and the laugh came out normal enough that everyone believed it.
Wine, who had followed him back to the booth, did not.
He stayed close but not too close. That was one of the things Faifa loved about him. Wine never made his care loud unless he had to. He simply existed within reach, handing Faifa things before Faifa asked, taking a marker from his hand when someone else needed it, sliding a bottle of water in front of him without interrupting the conversation.
Quiet care.
The dangerous kind.
The kind Faifa did not know how to dodge.
“Drink,” Wine said.
Faifa looked down at the water bottle.
Then at Wine.
“My Nong Wine is ordering me around now?”
“Yes.”
“Very fierce.”
“Drink.”
Arm looked between them with bright interest.
“Oh?”
Arc immediately said, “No.”
Arm looked offended. “I didn’t even say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to admire young love.”
“You were about to make it everyone’s business.”
Arm pressed a hand to his chest. “P’Arc, your lack of trust hurts me deeply.”
Arc peeled one of the stickers from Arm’s sleeve and stuck it onto the correct sign-in folder. “Work.”
Faifa laughed again.
This time, something tickled at the back of his throat.
It was small.
So small he could ignore it.
So he did.
He twisted open the water bottle and drank because Wine was watching, because it was easier to obey than argue, because water might help, because maybe if he acted normal long enough his body would accept the instruction.
Be fine.
He swallowed.
His throat still felt careful.
Not bad. Not dangerous. Just aware.
Faifa hated that feeling. The early warning. The tiny shift inside his own body that reminded him there were limits he could not charm his way past.
He handed out name tags. He answered questions. He corrected a junior who nearly directed the new students to the wrong building. He found the missing microphone cable in a box labelled DECORATIONS for reasons no one could explain. He told Arm before Arm could suffer a full administrative breakdown.
The event moved around him.
He moved with it.
And for a while, it worked.
By noon, the welcome event had settled into something almost successful. Juniors were laughing more than panicking. Seniors were pretending they had been organised the whole time. Someone had fixed the speaker, though it occasionally produced a terrifying crackle that made Gun jump every time.
Yotha noticed.
Of course Yotha noticed.
Faifa watched from the main booth as his brother moved one step closer to Gun after the second crackle. Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just close enough that when the speaker popped again, Gun’s shoulder brushed Yotha’s arm instead of empty air.
Gun looked up at him.
Yotha looked away.
Gun smiled.
Faifa’s chest warmed.
Love, he thought, was funny like that.
Sometimes it looked like someone moving closer before you asked.
Sometimes it looked like a water bottle appearing beside your hand.
Sometimes it looked like Arc standing behind Arm with a permanent frown, silently fixing every disaster Arm created and every disaster Arm prevented.
Sometimes it looked like Wine watching Faifa from across the booth as if Faifa’s body was a language he was determined to learn.
That last one was the problem.
Faifa was used to being loved loudly. Teased loudly. Needed loudly. Praised loudly. He could handle that. He could laugh it off, flirt around it, return it twice as bright until no one could see the soft parts underneath.
Wine’s love was quiet enough to get under his skin.
Literally, apparently.
Faifa lowered his hand from his wrist.
He had not realised he was scratching.
The skin there looked a little red.
He stared at it for one second too long.
Then he dropped his arm.
“P’Faifa.”
Faifa looked up.
Wine was beside him.
When had he crossed the space between them?
“Hm?” Faifa hummed. “Yes, Nong Wine?”
Wine’s gaze dropped to his wrist.
Faifa slipped that hand behind his back.
Wine’s expression did not change, but his eyes did.
Caught.
Faifa smiled before Wine could speak.
“Don’t look so serious,” he said. “You’ll scare the juniors.”
“I’m not looking at the juniors.”
That was unfairly difficult to answer.
Faifa reached for the nearest stack of event maps. “Can you help me pass these to Group D?”
Wine did not take them.
“P’Faifa.”
“Wine.”
The name came out gentler than he meant it to.
Wine heard it. Faifa knew he did because his face softened for half a second before the worry returned.
“Are you itchy?”
“No.”
Wine looked at his wrist.
Faifa sighed with exaggerated drama and held it out. “A little. Maybe the paper from the sign-in table scratched me.”
Wine looked at him.
Faifa smiled.
Wine did not.
For someone so quiet, Wine had a terrible way of making silence feel like a mirror.
Faifa lowered his wrist.
“It’s not bad,” he said.
Wine’s jaw tightened.
“It started?”
Faifa could feel the moment balancing between them.
He could still lie. Softly. Gently. In a way Wine might not challenge in public.
Not because Wine would believe him.
Because Wine would not want to embarrass him.
That was the thing about being loved by someone kind. It made hiding easier sometimes.
Faifa looked past Wine’s shoulder.
A group of first-years were gathering near the faculty steps, laughing around their welcome bags. Arm was trying to convince Arc to wear a ridiculous headband shaped like a gear. Arc looked like he would rather fail three major subjects. Gun was offering Yotha a cup of something, and Yotha was sniffing it suspiciously before letting Gun drink first.
Everyone was fine.
The event was fine.
The day was fine.
Faifa could be fine too.
“It’s just a little itch,” he said.
Wine’s eyes closed briefly.
Not in anger.
That would have been easier.
He looked tired.
Hurt.
Like Faifa had placed something heavy in his hands and then smiled as if he had given him a flower.
“Okay,” Wine said.
Faifa blinked.
Wine opened his eyes again. “Give me the maps.”
The sudden surrender should have relieved him.
It did not.
“Nong Wine—”
“Give me the maps,” Wine repeated. His voice was calm. Too calm. “I’ll pass them out. You drink water.”
Faifa hesitated.
Wine took the maps from his hand before he could decide whether to argue.
Then Wine turned away and began handing them to the juniors with perfect politeness, soft voice, serious face, no trace of the hurt except in the careful way he did not look back at Faifa.
Faifa stood there with an unopened bottle of water beside his hand and an itch crawling slowly under his skin.
He had made the junior happy.
He had kept the booth cheerful.
He had not caused a problem.
So why did it feel like he had done something wrong?
“Faifa.”
This voice was lower.
Faifa turned.
Yotha stood at the side of the booth, arms crossed, eyes already on Faifa’s wrist.
Of course.
Faifa immediately smiled.
“Yo,” he said. “If you came to help, you’re late. If you came to judge, please take a queue number.”
Yotha did not smile.
Faifa hated when people refused to follow the script.
“What did you eat?” Yotha asked.
Straight to the point.
No warm-up. No small talk. No mercy.
Faifa’s smile twitched. “Wow. No hello?”
“What did you eat?”
“Do you ask Gun that every time he looks suspicious too?”
“Gun tells me when something is wrong.”
That landed too close.
Faifa looked away first.
Yotha’s silence changed.
Faifa did not need to look at him to know. He could feel his brother’s worry turning sharper, heavier, older than this event, older than this campus, older than both of their current lives.
Yotha had always been quiet, but quiet did not mean careless.
Sometimes Yotha’s silence was full of things he did not know how to say.
Sometimes Faifa’s smile was full of things he did not want anyone to hear.
What a pair they made.
“It was cake,” Faifa said lightly. “A little cake.”
Yotha’s eyes narrowed.
“Milk?”
“Probably.”
“Faifa.”
There it was.
Not P’Fa. Not teasing. Not annoyed.
Just his name, flat with disbelief and fear.
Faifa rubbed the back of his neck.
“It was from the juniors.”
Yotha stared at him as if that explained absolutely nothing.
Which, to Yotha, it probably did not.
To Yotha, danger was danger. If something could hurt Gun, he moved it. If something could hurt Faifa, he wanted it gone. He did not understand the complicated mathematics of other people’s feelings, the way Faifa calculated embarrassment against discomfort, disappointment against risk, a room’s happiness against his own body.
Or maybe Yotha understood too well and had simply grown tired of pretending it made sense.
“Don’t tell Wine,” Faifa said before he could stop himself.
Yotha’s face went colder.
Faifa winced internally.
Wrong thing to say.
“He knows,” Yotha said.
“Then don’t make it worse.”
“I’m not the one making it worse.”
Faifa looked at him.
For a second, he wanted to snap.
Not because Yotha was wrong.
Because he was right, and Faifa did not like the shape of that truth in his brother’s mouth.
Before either of them could say more, Gun appeared beside Yotha, carrying two paper fans and one bottle of water.
“P’Faifa,” Gun said warmly, though his eyes moved between the brothers with careful concern. “Do you need to sit down?”
Faifa immediately brightened.
“No, no. Why is everyone asking me that today? Do I look that old?”
Gun’s eyebrows pulled together.
That was worse than Yotha’s stare.
Gun’s worry always looked soft enough to make people honest.
Faifa had to escape before he accidentally became one of them.
“I’m fine,” he said, picking up the water bottle. “See? Drinking water. Very obedient. Nong Wine trained me well.”
Gun did not laugh.
Yotha definitely did not laugh.
Faifa took that as his cue to walk away.
“I’ll check the tour group,” he said. “Before P’Arc starts breathing fire.”
“Faifa,” Yotha warned.
Faifa lifted the water bottle in salute and turned before his brother could stop him.
It was not running away.
It was event management.
There was a difference.
Probably.
He found the tour group near the faculty steps. They were too many people in too little shade, which gave Faifa something useful to do. He moved them closer to the covered walkway, split them into smaller groups, assigned seniors properly, and made sure nobody looked too lost.
He was good at this.
He was good at being needed.
A junior asked where the toilets were. Another asked whether seniors were really as scary as people said. Someone whispered very loudly that P’Arc looked scary but handsome. Faifa pretended not to hear because Arm absolutely would weaponise that information if given the chance.
“P’Faifa,” one junior asked shyly, “is engineering really hard?”
Faifa smiled.
“Yes.”
The junior paled.
Faifa laughed and softened it. “But hard doesn’t mean impossible. You’ll be okay if you don’t try to survive alone. Ask your friends. Ask your seniors. Eat properly. Sleep when you can. Don’t pretend you’re fine when you’re not.”
The words left his mouth easily.
Too easily.
Wine, standing a few steps away with the maps, looked at him.
Faifa pretended not to notice.
The junior nodded seriously, as if Faifa had given him precious life advice.
Faifa smiled back and ignored the itch spreading from his wrist toward the inside of his elbow.
By the time the tour groups moved out, the sun had shifted higher and the heat had started clinging to the back of Faifa’s neck. His throat still felt strange, but not worse. His skin itched, but not badly. He could breathe. He could talk. He could stand.
Everything was manageable.
That was the word he liked.
Manageable.
Not good, but not bad enough to stop.
Not safe, but not dangerous enough to worry everyone.
Not painless, but not painful enough to admit.
Manageable was a useful word. It let him keep going.
He returned to the main booth with two empty water bottles, a stack of corrected maps, and a smile that had convinced at least ten juniors he was the most relaxed senior in the faculty.
Wine was waiting for him.
Of course he was.
This time, he did not look angry.
That scared Faifa more.
Wine only took the empty bottles from his hand and replaced them with a new one.
“Sit,” Wine said.
Faifa glanced around. “I have to—”
“Sit.”
Arm, who had been arranging stickers by colour, looked up with great interest.
Arc put one hand on the back of Arm’s head and turned it back toward the table.
“Don’t,” Arc said.
“I was only observing,” Arm whispered.
“Observe the stickers.”
“But young love—”
“Stickers.”
Arm sighed dramatically but obeyed.
Faifa tried not to smile.
Wine did not give him the chance.
He took Faifa’s hand.
Not his wrist this time. His hand.
Then he turned it palm-up and looked at the red marks near the edge of his sleeve.
Faifa stopped smiling.
Wine’s thumb hovered near the irritated skin without touching.
“When did it spread?” Wine asked.
Faifa’s first instinct was to say it had not.
His second was to say he had not noticed.
His third was to make a joke about Wine inspecting him like a faulty machine.
Wine lifted his eyes.
Faifa swallowed all three.
“A little while ago,” he said.
Wine breathed in slowly.
The sound was quiet, but Faifa heard it.
He hated that he had caused it.
“I’m okay,” Faifa said automatically.
Wine’s face closed.
Faifa realised too late.
Wine let go of his hand.
Not harshly. Not angrily.
Just enough distance to make Faifa feel the absence.
“I told you not to say that.”
Faifa’s chest tightened.
Not allergy.
Guilt.
“Nong Wine…”
Wine turned away and reached into his bag. He pulled out the small pouch Faifa had seen before but had never asked about. The one Wine had started carrying after the last time Faifa had eaten something he should not have, the time Faifa had laughed it off and Wine had gone quiet for almost an entire evening.
Faifa had thought it was just tissues.
Maybe candy.
Maybe one of Wine’s little private things.
Wine opened it.
Inside were antihistamines, a folded allergy information card, wet wipes, and a small packet of plain crackers.
Faifa stared.
Something in him went very still.
Wine had made a Faifa kit.
A careful, quiet, serious little kit.
For him.
Faifa did not know what to do with that.
It was one thing to be loved in big moments. Big moments were easier to understand. People rushed. People panicked. People said dramatic things because fear made everything louder.
But this was not loud.
This was a pouch packed in advance.
This was Wine thinking of him before anything happened.
This was care folded neatly into a bag and carried around campus without complaint.
Faifa’s throat felt worse suddenly, but this time he was not sure milk had anything to do with it.
“Nong Wine,” he said softly.
Wine did not look at him as he took out the medicine.
“Take this first,” Wine said. “Then we’re telling P’Yotha.”
Faifa winced. “Do we have to?”
Wine looked at him.
“Yes.”
“Can we not make it a big thing?”
Wine’s hand froze.
For one second, Faifa thought Wine might finally raise his voice.
He did not.
That made it worse.
Wine placed the medicine in Faifa’s palm.
Then he said, very softly, “P’Faifa, you already made it big when you decided my worry mattered less than that cake.”
Faifa could not answer.
Around them, the event continued. Someone laughed. A junior shouted for tape. Arm complained that his sticker categories were underappreciated. Arc told him to drink water. Gun’s voice floated somewhere nearby, gentle and warm, asking Yotha not to glare at first-years because they looked frightened.
Everything was normal.
Everything was not.
Faifa looked down at the medicine in his hand.
Such a small thing.
A tablet. A bottle of water. Wine’s pouch. Wine’s worry. Wine’s eyes.
All of it felt heavier than it should have.
“I didn’t want the junior to feel bad,” Faifa said.
The honesty slipped out before he could make it pretty.
Wine’s expression softened, but only a little.
“I know.”
“They worked hard.”
“I know.”
“They were watching.”
“I know.”
Faifa looked up at him. “Then you know why I couldn’t just say no.”
Wine’s mouth trembled almost imperceptibly.
Not with weakness.
With restraint.
“No,” he said. “I know why you thought you couldn’t.”
Faifa went quiet.
Wine stepped closer.
His voice stayed low enough that no one else could hear.
“But P’Faifa, their feelings are not more important than your body.”
The words were simple.
Too simple.
So simple Faifa wanted to reject them on instinct.
Because of course they were. Of course his body mattered. Of course he should not eat things that hurt him. Of course he should say no. Faifa knew all of that. He was not stupid.
Knowing had never been the problem.
Believing it in the moment was harder.
Especially when someone looked at him with hope.
Especially when the room was happy.
Especially when refusing felt like turning himself into a sharp edge.
Faifa curled his fingers around the medicine.
“Okay,” he said.
Wine watched him.
Faifa gave him a small smile. Not the bright one. Not the performance.
Just something tired and honest.
“I’ll take it.”
Wine nodded.
Faifa swallowed the medicine with water under Wine’s watchful eyes. The tablet went down easily. Too easily for something that felt like surrender.
Wine took the bottle back and capped it.
“Sit for ten minutes,” he said.
Faifa started to protest.
Wine lifted one eyebrow.
Faifa sat.
Arm, still pretending not to observe, immediately slid a chair closer with his foot.
“I saw nothing,” Arm announced.
Arc sighed.
“Arm.”
“What? I am respecting privacy loudly.”
“That is not how privacy works.”
Gun arrived then with Yotha beside him, and Faifa briefly considered standing up and running. Unfortunately, Wine placed one hand on his shoulder before he could move, not pushing, just reminding.
Stay.
Faifa stayed.
Yotha’s eyes went straight to the red marks.
His face did something complicated.
Anger first.
Then fear.
Then the kind of sadness Faifa hated most because he knew Yotha would rather swallow glass than show it.
“What did you take?” Yotha asked Wine.
Wine answered before Faifa could. “Antihistamine. He says his throat feels okay, but he has itching and rash.”
“He says?” Yotha repeated.
Faifa lifted one hand. “I am present at this meeting about my own body.”
Yotha looked at him.
Faifa slowly lowered his hand.
Gun sat on Faifa’s other side, close enough that his shoulder pressed lightly against Faifa’s arm.
“You scared Wine,” Gun said gently.
Faifa looked away.
That was worse than Yotha’s anger too.
Everyone had found new and creative ways to be impossible today.
“I’m sorry,” Faifa said.
Wine made a small sound.
Faifa looked at him immediately.
Wine’s eyes were on the ground.
Not angry.
Not exactly.
Just tired in that same careful way.
Faifa realised, with a strange sinking feeling, that Wine did not want his apology.
Not like this.
Not quick. Not automatic. Not used as a bandage over something still bleeding.
For the first time that day, Faifa did not know what else to offer.
The event loudspeaker crackled.
Everyone at the booth flinched except Yotha and Arc.
Arm pointed at it. “That thing is possessed.”
Arc said, “It’s a speaker.”
“A possessed speaker.”
Faifa laughed softly before he could stop himself.
The laugh scratched his throat on the way out.
Wine noticed.
Of course Wine noticed.
His head turned immediately.
Faifa pressed his lips together.
Wine’s hand found his again under the table.
This time, Faifa did not joke.
He let Wine hold him.
The medicine would help. The itch would pass. The redness would fade. By evening, maybe everyone would stop looking at him like he was something breakable.
Maybe Wine would forgive him.
Maybe Yotha would stop glaring.
Maybe Gun would stop looking sad.
Maybe Arm would stop pretending not to spy.
Maybe Arc would stop pretending he did not care while silently moving the snack table farther away from Faifa’s chair.
Maybe all of it would become just another small thing.
A small mistake.
A small reaction.
A small bite of cake.
Faifa wanted it to be small.
He needed it to be small.
Because if it was not small, then he would have to admit Wine was right.
That maybe this was not only about milk.
That maybe the problem was not the cake, or the junior, or the booth, or the event.
Maybe the problem was the way Faifa had known something would hurt him and taken it anyway because someone else was smiling.
His wrist itched again.
Without thinking, he lifted his free hand to scratch.
Wine caught his fingers before they touched the red skin.
Faifa looked at him.
Wine’s eyes were dark with worry.
“Don’t,” Wine said.
One word.
Quiet.
Careful.
Almost pleading.
Faifa’s smile rose out of habit.
It was softer this time.
Weaker.
Still there.
“I’m okay,” he almost said.
The words reached the back of his teeth and stopped.
Wine was still holding his hand.
Yotha was still watching him like anger was the only shape his fear knew how to take.
Gun was still sitting close.
Arc was still moving unsafe food away without announcing it.
Arm was still pretending to organise stickers while clearly listening for every breath.
Everyone was there.
Everyone was watching.
Not because Faifa had failed to be easy.
Because they cared.
The thought made his chest ache.
Faifa lowered his hand.
He looked at Wine and tried to make his voice light.
“I won’t scratch,” he said.
Wine did not smile.
But his grip loosened just enough.
Faifa turned his wrist palm-up on his lap.
The red marks looked brighter under the noon light.
Small.
Manageable.
Obvious.
Beside him, Wine’s thumb brushed once over the safe skin near his knuckles.
Faifa kept smiling for the juniors passing by the booth.
And under the table, where only Wine could see, his fingers trembled.