Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Long before Pik gave it a name, it was just endless, sun-drenched summers, the low, static hum of the television, lying on the floor next to the electric fan, and the unshakable certainty that if Pik ever turned his head, Jai would be there.

Not in the way storybooks like to make it seem, no sudden, world-shifting realization. It was smaller, a subtle detail you could only catch by holding your breath and squinting. The kind of feeling that emerged from ordinary moments.

Late evenings at convenience stores, where Jai would sigh like he was being personally wronged, but still hand over his carefully saved birthday money anyway. Every year, the same thing—an overpriced tub of ice cream, just because Pik refused to settle for anything else.

Then the race home with shoes kicked off and carelessly abandoned by the door, both of them scrambling to reach the couch first. Or long Songkran dinners that stretched on too long, the air thick with conversation that didn’t belong to them. 

It’d lead to them slipping away quietly, shutting the door behind them, feeding a DVD into Jai’s brother’s computer like it was some escape plan. Laughter pressed into their hands to keep it quiet. The bed creaked under them as they jumped anyway, even when they knew they weren’t supposed to.

Point being, Jai was always there. One of the peas in a pod. Thing 1 and Thing 2. The Robin to his Batman. Wherever and whenever, Pik was pretty sure Jai was there. Even came up with a theory that Pik was his secret conjoined twin. Pik’s sure he’s asked his mother at least once about it, though it didn’t come into fruition like he wanted.  

Weekends blurred together between their houses. One moment, Pik was in Jai’s pajamas, and the next, Jai was halfway through Pik's fridge like he bought the groceries. Well, eggs, to be precise. He wasn’t a good cook, but Jai swore he could make the best omelet. 

It wasn’t all that impressive, but it was the best omelet Pik ever ate, so who's he to critique? There’s a crumpled note of Jai’s ‘secret’ recipe somewhere, used as a bookmark in a comic Jai got from Pik as a gift when he was thirteen.

Their families had always been stitched together in that loud, cartoonish way that made it impossible to tell where one ended, and the other began.

Their parents spoke in easy familiarity, not the kind where you raise your voice two octaves to pretend you like the other, but with voices overlapping in the background as a constant soundtrack, sharing stories they’d already told a hundred times before. A few thousand, but Pik stopped tracking. 

There were no formal invitations; there wasn’t even a need to knock. Just the creak of the door, a voice calling out from somewhere deeper in the house, and the certainty that they would find each other eventually. 

Whether they were curled up on the couch during winter, sprawled across the floor during summer, or arguing over something that didn’t matter enough to remember later, Jai’s brother usually forced them to reconcile, something along the lines of “let’s not say things we don’t mean, we’re family.”

Jai’s brother was many things. His name was Duang, and he was cool. Kind of. He was funny, but in a cool way, if that makes sense. He was also smart, aced every test, or so he claimed. Plus, he was tall, too. 

Jai insisted Duang was a freak of nature. Pik suspected he was just tall, but in Jai’s eyes, the man was nothing short of a giant. 

If Pik had to describe Duang with just two adjectives, he would have been loud and kind. Duang felt like a true older brother. The exemplary kind that everyone in the neighborhood always praised and checked up on. 

Duang existed as someone who drifted in and out of Jai and Pik’s shared orbit. He’d ruffle their freshly gelled hair, laugh too easily at jokes he didn’t understand, and call them kids when they reached middle school, even when Jai insisted they weren’t. 

Though Duang was already past whatever stage they were in, he was still close enough to reach back. He wasn’t around all the time. But when he was, Duang didn’t talk over them like the adults did. He didn’t ignore them either.

He paid attention. One could say he was the brother Pik never had. 

“Don’t run in socks,” he’d say lightly, catching Pik by the collar before he slipped on the tile.

Or he’d crouch down just enough to be level with them, holding out something—candy, chips, sodas, something Jai would’ve grabbed without being asked.

“Make sure to share.”

Jai would then roll his eyes. Then take more than half anyway. Though he always ended up giving Pik more midway, he complained, “I shouldn’t eat too much. I’ll get a stomachache.” Jai’s never gotten a stomachache before, so Pik found that a little funny. 

Duang just smiled, as if he expected Jai's reaction.

Regardless, Pik never complained. 

It never felt like anything could change.

Because Jai’s habits never changed. 

Pik knew all the little things about Jai, like how he pretended to be brave every doctor’s visit but walked out teary-eyed. 

That, and the fact that Jai never sat still. 

He would wander, drift from room to room, complain loudly enough for someone to hear but not enough to get scolded. Pik followed without thinking. Not because he had to—but because he always did.

Sometimes Jai glanced back to check.

Pik was always there.

It became something of a rhythm.

Jai is moving ahead.

Pik is catching up. 

Duang was always there, but every exam season, he’d disappear again into his own world, leaving Jai and Pik to theirs. Duang said high school was probably a newly invented evil.  

They’d come to find out because sooner or later, high school came without asking.

Things didn’t change all at once. They just…shifted.

Jai became sharper in his looks. Faster with his words, quicker in his response. As if someone pumped him full of caffeine. He also became harder to pin down when Pik tickled him. He laughed louder, argued quicker, and walked ahead without checking as often. Sometimes with his friends. 

But Pik still followed. Not as obviously. Not always right behind him. But close enough.

Jai started drawing attention without trying. Or maybe he was trying. Pik couldn’t tell. Either way, people liked him. Or were pulled toward him. Perhaps they got caught in whatever spatial suction machine he created. Pik thinks he got it from Duang. Maybe Duang invented it and lent it to Jai. 

It didn’t matter because at the end of the day, Jai still ended up next to Pik.

Still took snacks from his hands without asking. Placed his head on his shoulder during movies. Borrowed his erasers in class even though others offered first. Fell asleep hugging Pik after playing with his hair.

Pik realized Jai was still a creature of habit, more so than anyone else he’d ever met in school. Maybe that’s why he’s susceptible to new habits. Jai made sure to shout out his name during soccer matches whenever he scored a goal. Or when he entered the field. Or anytime for that matter. Guess he was proud of their friendship; probably an achievement of some sort. 

Even outside of the matches, Jai still called his name as if it were a magic charm, something magical.

“Pik.”

Just that.

And Pik would look up, every single time.

Duang hadn’t changed much; he just showed up less. Maybe he just existed somewhere else now—older, busier, already moving toward something neither of them had reached yet. He went to college for music, Jai said. Since Duang was in a band, their Facebook feeds were constantly flooded with photos of him and the other bandmates. Plus, it was nice seeing Duang doing what he loved. That, and the aunties talking about him in the LINE group chats. Jai said he left those, but Pik thought it was nice to stay up to date. 

One time, they sent a photo of a lost kitten, and Pik ended up feeding it every morning before school. He named it Jaijai, a play on Jai’s name. It translates to "pay, pay," since Jai once asked Pik to pay for him and his friend because he forgot his wallet. Call it petty revenge. Pik was fine with paying for Jai, but it doesn’t mean he wanted to pay for Jai’s friend, too. It just felt weird. Pik didn’t tell Jai about this. It was the first secret he ever kept from him. 

Duang still showed up for dinners every weekend.

“Who missed me?” he’d ask with jazz hands while he quirked an eyebrow. Jai would groan, and Pik would nod. Then Duang would laugh before ruffling their hair. Duang is arguably louder than Jai at times, which makes him seem younger than they are. That and the fact that he’d still sit with them at the ‘younger kids’ table every New Year. 

By senior year, things had stopped being simple.

Not obviously. Not in ways anyone could pinpoint. Well, not everyone, but Pik could. And in Pik’s diary, that’s pretty much everyone. Well, Jai, if you count the times he scribbled doodles in it. 

During their walks to class, Pik started noticing things he hadn’t before. 

Like how Jai’s attention moved. How it lingered on other people—briefly, intensely—before looking at Pik again. How Jai could be close one day and distant the next, without explanation.

Pik never asked why. Instead, he read up on it; it’s most likely puberty. 

Turns out, puberty made Jai a little different. And a little was somehow a lot, especially after Jai started dating. The internet forums claimed the likely culprit to be puberty again. Duang was right, high school really was evil. So, Pik declared war on high school and puberty in his journal. He calls it a journal now because apparently, boys can’t have diaries.

It feels as if Jai started dating and never stopped. 

Not seriously, at least. Never seriously.

It would be someone one week, someone else a few months later. Names that came and went. Girlfriends who became passing stories. Stories that didn’t stick because he’d forget. Because Jai never remembered the details.

Not small, at least. Not the ones that made a person feel more than just a phase.

He’d forget their favorite color—mixing it up with someone else’s, or guessing and getting it wrong without noticing. He’d hesitate when asked what drink they liked, defaulting to something generic because it was easier than admitting he didn’t know. When it came to food, whether it was sweet or salty, spicy or mild, he’d always get it almost right. Close enough that no one could really call him out on it. 

Every time Jai introduced his girlfriend to the group, Pik couldn't help but notice the same tired script playing out. Jai would ask the same questions over and over, as though his mind was a dry sponge that simply couldn't hold the answers. When Jai couldn't remember which fast-food spot his girlfriends liked, or the same order they always got, Pik stepped in and reminded him. 

Pik became, undoubtedly, the ‘best wingman’ according to his friends. 

Jai didn’t remember how his girlfriends drank coffee. Sometimes, bringing them a drink they would’ve never drunk unless Jai kissed them on the cheek as an apology. Their favorite band would become just a genre. Their favorite movie was reduced to “you know the one we watched before.” 

Pik would notice how he’d ask them twice, sometimes three times, over the course of a month, but the answers didn’t settle anywhere permanently. Not to mention, he had to be reminded of their birthdays. Pik would help him mark them down in his calendar even if the anniversaries barely existed long enough to matter.

Pik noticed because Pik remembered everything.

Not just about Jai, but about them, too.

Every name. Every face. Every small, passing detail Jai let slip without thinking, Pik caught and kept without meaning to. Not because he cared—he didn’t—but because they were attached to Jai, and that made them impossible to ignore.

They lingered like loose threads at the seams you couldn’t ignore once you noticed.

Clung to him in ways Pik couldn’t unsee.

Fruity perfumes that stayed on Jai’s clothes longer than they should have. Sweet, artificial, the kind that sticks in the back of your throat. Lip gloss smudged faintly at the edge of a sleeve. Strands of hair that didn’t belong to him caught in the fabric near his collar.

Different voices, different laughs—some too loud, some too soft—all blending until Pik couldn’t separate one from the other anymore.

Names saved in Jai’s phone with emojis that Pik’s contact didn’t have.

Inside jokes Pik hadn’t been there for.

Photos flashed briefly across Jai’s screen with faces smiling up at him.

And the worst part was that Jai never held on to any of it. Every breakup meant Pik had to watch Jai delete photos from his gallery every lunch break. Let the memories slide off him as if they had never mattered in the first place.

But Pik, Pik always remembered.

Held onto things that weren’t his to keep.

Collected pieces of people he didn’t even like, just because they had, at some point, been close enough to touch Jai.

Jai forgot a lot of things. Names. Favorites. Information that seemed important at the time and then…wasn’t. But Jai remembered details about Pik every time.

And somehow, Pik realized at the age of seventeen that this felt worse than not knowing at all.

It made something twist around his stomach, quietly, every time.

Because Jai never forgot Pik’s favorite anything.

Not the exact brand and flavor of chips he liked. Not the way he’d push away drinks that were too sweet unless they were watered down with melting ice. Not his order of a double cheeseburger, extra sauce, less onions, no pickles. Jai repeated it so often that Pik didn’t even need to order anymore.

Frankly, Jai did many things for Pik. 

Bring the plants indoors when the summer sun gets too harsh. Or remember not to water the cacti too often, even when Pik wasn’t there to remind him twice. 

Regardless of how mundane the tasks were, Jai did them anyway.

Jai remembered these things. Without effort. Without asking twice. 

Like it was instinct, like it mattered; maybe that was worse.

Because it meant Jai knew to remember details; he just chose not to when it came to his girlfriends.

Pik learned how to fill his role as a friend.

He learned how to sit next to Jai and pretend nothing felt different. Understood what it meant to jab at his eraser, feign casualness, and reply with “Oh, I can’t believe that happened.” Accepted Jai’s complaints about his girlfriend without asking questions. 

Because that part never changed.

No matter who Jai was with, no matter how things shifted, Jai always came back. He would show up as if nothing had happened.

Lean into Pik’s neck; his personal headrest. Talk like there hadn’t been an obvious twenty-four-hour and thirty-five-minute gap between their texts. Show up one day wearing Pik’s red jacket. Naturally, wear Pik’s gym clothes when he forgot his own. They traded clothes as if they shared a laundry basket. 

And Pik would let him.

Because it was easier than asking for something else.

And that had to mean something.

Right?

On Jai’s eighteenth birthday, Pik gave it a name. Not out loud, not even properly.

It wasn’t the movies, where everything clicks into place, and suddenly the world turns into a flurry of grainy pink. It didn’t feel special or anything worth admitting. Like realizing you’ve been doing something weird for years, and no one told you to stop. It started small.

They were sitting too close on the edge of the bed, knees knocking every time someone laughed too loudly in the living room. Voice overlapping as music bleeds through the air. 

Jai leaned into him again.

Casual, as always. Shoulder to shoulder. 

Jai had pulled Pik aside, told him the party was too loud.  Listening to Jai talk, and that’s when it clicked. Not cleanly, of course, and definitely not all at once.

Not all at once. Just in fragments. Random, inconvenient pieces that didn’t seem important on their own, but somehow refused to leave him alone like broken pottery he kept stepping on, no matter how carefully he walked.

It felt embarrassing with the way Pik noticed Jai’s hands more. Not in a normal way. Not in a “that’s just a hand” way. He noticed the shape of his long fingers, knuckles always a little tan and scuffed at the end like he’d hit something without thinking. The faint lines of veins that ran up his wrist and disappeared under his sleeves. Remembered how they were more visible when he stretched or leaned forward during art class, sunlight catching on his forearm.

Realized how this wasn’t just friendship anymore. How it wasn’t just Jai being Jai. Not the same boy who used to sulk for an hour when Duang forgot his extra drink, eyes glassy and voice small like it was the worst betrayal imaginable. 

This was different now, something heavier. 

“Helloooo? Did you even hear what I said?”

Pik blinked once. Then twice.

The world snapped back into place, too loud, too bright.

“Sorry—I need to use the restroom,” he muttered, getting up and skipping past Jai’s feet.

He didn’t wait for a response.

Didn’t look at Jai.

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

Silence.

Pik stared down at his hands, fingers curling slightly like they didn’t belong to him.

It was stupid. Worse than stupid. It felt immoral to view Jai in that way. 

Like he’d crossed something without meaning to. Like just thinking about Jai that way—looking at him like that—was enough to ruin something that had always been simple.

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling slowly.

That night, Pik slept beside Jai, nothing out of the ordinary. 

Repeated to himself that nothing had actually changed. Reminded himself that Jai was still Jai. 

So why did it feel like everything had?

Sixteen-year-old Pik still recalls how Jai had grinned when he said it, as he’d just come up with something brilliant. “We should make this a tradition,” he’d added, already halfway under the covers before Pik could argue.

Pik lay stiff at first, staring up at the ceiling while Jai shifted beside him, restless in that familiar way.

A turn.

Another.

Maybe a leg flung over his.

Jai settled almost immediately after that, breathing evened out, body warm and solid against his.

Pik didn’t move.

Just thought about how to fix this. 

His mind wandered across his memories of Jai, wondering where it began. All the ways Jai became someone familiar, yet different.

The way Jai would push his hair back while he huffed out in frustration, fingers dragging through it absentmindedly, leaving it messy in a way that looked intentional even when it wasn’t.

During soccer, when Jai’s shorts would ride up just enough to expose the band of his briefs, Pik would catch it without meaning to. And then he’d keep catching it. Where his eyes had decided that was something important now. 

The way his legs moved when he ran was a regular action that became suddenly too noticeable. Perhaps how his muscles contracted with each step as Jai ran towards him, celebrating each game. Pik could smell the faint smell of cologne mixed with sweat, maybe, or just the leftover heat from running around the field. Or the way his shirt would cling slightly to his heated, reddened skin, littered with evidence of sweat. It was just enough to make Pik aware of the shape of his lean chest, shoulders broader than he remembered, thighs more curved than they used to be.

Once Pik started noticing, everything else became noticeable.

Like Jai grabbing Pik’s sleeve without thinking, tugging him along to every match, even if others poked fun at Pik as his “little cheerleader.” 

Jai usually celebrated with his team when they won.

Loud, crowded things like music, shouting, too many people packed too close together. Teammates slinging arms over his shoulders, dragging him from one place to another, as he belonged to everyone at once.

Pik didn’t usually tag along.

He told himself it was because it wasn’t really his space. Because he didn’t know half the people there, he didn’t care to. Because Jai, in those moments, felt just slightly out of reach— someone shared instead of someone who was his friend. Just his friend. 

So Pik stayed behind at Jai’s house.

Waited for things to settle.

For Jai to come back.

But when they lost, that was different.

Quieter. The energy drained out of everything, leaving something softer in its place.

And Pik hated that a part of him preferred it. Hated the way guilt crept in, slow and uncomfortable, every time he realized it.

Because losing meant Jai would end up in their little bubble, again.

After one of the games, Pik remembered it clearly. 

He remembers a freshly showered Jai dropping down beside him like he always did, except this time he complained like he was twelve again. Threw a small tantrum until he was close enough that Pik could feel the tickle of the warm shower heat from him before anything else. Close enough that warmth danced along his skin without asking as the faint, floral smell of shampoo filled his senses. He isn’t sure why Jai used floral shampoos. He probably liked how they smelled on his girlfriends.

They turned on the computer and plopped in the new DVD they rented. Jai leaned over his shoulder, saying something Pik doesn’t remember even now, his voice lower than when they were kids, breath grazing against Pik’s ear. 

During a particularly close match that they won, Jai decided to take Pik home rather than celebrate with his friends. Didn’t ask, didn’t make a big deal out of it, just slung an arm around his shoulders on the way out, still buzzing from the game, and said, “Come on, Pik, let’s go!” like it was already decided.

Pik went. Of course he did.

Jai was still running on leftover energy the entire way back, talking too fast, replaying moments out loud, laughing at things that Pik didn’t fully understand. His hands moved when he spoke, quick and animated, like he was still on the field, like the game hadn’t quite left his body yet.

Pik stayed a step behind, listening.

Watching Jai turn his body, energy too high for the quiet of the evening.

When they got inside, the energy had shifted. It always did once they arrived home.

It wasn’t that Jai became completely unrecognizable; he was just different. 

Jai disappeared to shower, leaving the door half-open, steam slowly curling out into the hallway. He always left it like that. Just in case Pik needed to tell him something.

Pik sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone without really reading anything, the quiet hum of water filling the space between seconds.

When Jai came back, he didn’t even bother drying his hair properly.

He never did.

Pik usually did it for him.

Jai just shook it out once, droplets catching briefly in the light before sprinkling into the air, slipping away to the kitchen for a glass of milk.

Later, after Pik took his own shower, he came back out, still rubbing at his hair with a towel, the room warmer now, heavier with leftover steam.

Jai would already be sprawled across the bed, glancing at Pik before he shifted enough to make space—if it could even be called that—before reaching out without thinking.

Pik had barely settled before Jai pulled him down the rest of the way.

Habitually, he’d dropped his head across Pik’s legs, arms stretching out, settling in as damp strands brushed against Pik’s skin, cool at first, then slowly warming.

Head and arms stretched across Pik’s legs until he found a position he liked, much akin to a cat.

Jai liked to let out a long breath, sinking further into him as if Pik were a pillow, completely at ease.

This time, even though he sounded half-asleep when he said it, “I think you’re my lucky charm,” he murmured. The voice was softer now, perhaps worn down by the day. “My winning streak, or something.”

Pik stared down at him, heart doing something uneven in his chest.

Like it didn’t mean anything.

Like it meant everything.

Conflicted, “Yeah?” he managed, quieter than he intended.

Jai hummed in response, already drifting, shifting just enough to face Pik—like Pik was something steady. Something familiar. Something he didn’t have to think about.

And maybe that was the problem, because Jai didn’t think about it.

Didn’t think about the way he fit there so easily.

Didn’t think about the way he reached for him without asking.

Didn’t think about how close was too close.

Pik wouldn’t move. Just sat there, staring at his phone screen while being acutely aware of every small, unnecessary detail like the weight of Jai’s head, the way it shifted when he laughed at a memory. Mind all fuzzy, muscles aching, he’d then ask without fail, “Can you dry my hair for me?”

Drying Jai’s hair usually takes forever.

An hour, maybe.

Pik wasn’t counting.

Pik would sit up, albeit struggling since Jai didn’t move. He’d roll Jai onto his lap before opening his personal salon. Just the steady pace of the towel in his hands, damp strands slipping through his fingers, the occasional drop of water trailing down and disappearing into the bed before he could catch it.

Jai never stayed still.

His head would shift without warning against the fabric, his lap, then stomach, then back again, like he was chasing whatever position felt most comfortable, completely unconcerned that Pik had to adjust around him every time.

To be fair, Pik never complained.

Never told him to stop moving. Likewise, Jai never told Pik to hurry.

Just let Pik take his time like it was something expected. Something routine. Pik felt like his personal coach. 

Afterward, they’d get up for late-night snacks. Pik would ask for Jai to sleep first, but Jai would insist, “Nah, I’m good to go for another hour!”

Same as always. He’d sit on the couch while Jai set up the snacks and television.

Jai handed him things without asking—a drink, candy, a bag of chips—like he already knew what Pik would want before he said it. 

Their fingers brushed sometimes.

Pik considered it too quick to mean anything, yet too noticeable to ignore.

That night, Pik decided officially that he hated Jai’s sleepwear. 

As always, Jai shifted beside him, getting comfortable, completely unaware or maybe just not caring how little space he was leaving between them.

His shirt hung loose, slightly twisted from the way he’d slumped down into the couch. Every time he moved, the fabric stretched just enough for Pik to notice things he hadn’t noticed before. 

From the faint line of tanned skin just slightly beneath Jai’s collarbone, where his shirt dipped just enough to show the difference between sun and skin that hadn’t seen it. A contrast that didn’t mean anything. Shouldn’t mean anything. Except Pik kept noticing it.

The way his stomach peeked when the hem of the shirt shifted, allowing just a glimpse, was gone as quickly as it appeared. Not enough to stare at, just enough to register. The way Jai’s body had changed without announcing it, and now it was too late to pretend he still wasn’t. The kind of thing your brain files away without permission and then, for some reason, brings back later. 

Pik swallowed, eyes fixed stubbornly on the television.

He didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. 

Just reminded himself that Jai was just… Jai. The same boy who used to forget to wipe his nose in the winter, sniffling through runny colds until Pik shoved tissues at him in false annoyance.

Nothing had changed.

But then there were his arms, more defined than before, like everything about him had settled into a confident, easy strength, making Pik feel painfully average by comparison.

“Here—feel it.”

He’d say it out of nowhere, grabbing Pik’s wrist before he could react, pressing his hand against his arm.

“See? There’s a difference, right?”

Or his shoulder. His thigh. Anywhere, really, wherever he’d decided had improved since last week.

Pik never knew what to say.

Just nodded.

Pulled his hand while Jai tried to keep it there.

“Yeah,” he’d manage, trying to sound normal. “I guess.”

Jai would grin as if that were the best validation; that was confirmation. Then move on, already talking about something else, completely unaware of the way Pik had gone quiet.

Completely unaware of how long it took for those moments to leave his head.

Because for Jai, it was nothing.

Was this what dating did to people? Was that it?

Something just switched on one day, and suddenly everything worked differently?

Pik frowned slightly, staring a little too hard at the television till the visuals on the screen blurred into a stillness. 

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he just needed a girlfriend.

The thought landed awkwardly, like a solution that didn’t quite fit the question. Because if this was normal, if this was just what happened when you got older, when you started dating, then he was just late to it. Behind. Catching up as always.

That had to be it. It made sense. It almost made sense till an uninvited thought barged in, as if it were an assassin.

Then, what about Jai?

Pik’s stomach flipped inside out.

Jai, who had a girlfriend.

And Pik, Pik who was just here. Noticing things about Jai that someone else touched. Things exclusive to him that someone else knew about.

He tried to stop the festering infection of such thoughts, sharper this time, by hammering a door shut before something or someone could open it.

Jai, who had probably already gone through whatever this was and came out the other side like it was nothing. Jai, who dated other people like second nature, easily. Casually. 

His jaw tightened, eyes fixed forward.

Right.

Girlfriend.

That same night, Pik decided that was the solution.

That had to be the solution. To end this, even if it was one-sided. 

To be normal. To act as Jai did.

Because the alternative meant Pik was—

Pik didn’t even let himself finish the thought.

Yes, maybe he needed to act like Jai.

Jai, who didn’t hesitate. Didn’t notice Pik’s hands during art class. Didn’t pull away from cuddles that felt too long. Didn’t worry about the time it’d take for Pik to deliver Jai’s favorite porridge from the auntie down the street when Jai got sick.

The following month, when Pik turned eighteen, he got a girlfriend.

Well, somewhat of a girlfriend.

Someone from school. Easy to talk to. Pretty in a way that made sense. The kind of choice that felt correct on paper. They texted. They sat together. Once, she held his hand, and Pik let her, because that was what you were supposed to do.

It didn’t feel wrong. It just didn't feel like anything. Which, he figured, was close enough.

Because this was normal, this was what he was supposed to be doing. Moving forward, catching up. Fixing whatever had gone slightly off-track in his head.

When Pik’s birthday came around, he told Jai after the party ended.

Not in a big way.

Not like it mattered. Similar to Jai’s introductions. Mirrored him, really. 

As always, they were sitting side by side on the floor of Jai’s room, backs against the bed, half-finished cake between them, and a mess of opened wrappers scattered around like it had gotten out of hand somewhere along the way.

Jai had frosting on his thumb.

Didn’t seem to notice.

“I think I’m dating someone,” Pik said.

Casual.

Like he was mentioning the weather.

Jai stilled.

Just for a second.

Then, “You think?” he asked, glancing over with a small, confused huff of a laugh.

Pik shrugged. “I mean—yeah. We’ve been… talking. In a talking phase. Whatever you want to call it.”

“That’s not the same thing,” Jai said, frowning slightly. “Do you even like her?”

The question came too quickly, too straightforward.

Pik looked down at the cake instead. “She’s nice.”

Jai didn’t respond right away.

Pik could feel it in that pause again. The kind that stretched just enough to mean something.

“What’s her name?” Jai asked finally.

Pik told him. 

Jai repeated it once under his breath, like he was trying to place it somewhere, then nodded.

“Okay,” he said. He reached for another piece of cake afterward, as nothing had shifted, like it didn’t matter.

But he didn’t say anything else. Didn’t tease him as regular friends would. Didn’t ask for pictures as regular friends should. Didn’t push. Which, for some reason, felt worse.

Pik nudged his shoulder lightly. “What?”

“Nothing,” Jai said, too quickly. Then, after a second, quieter—

“Just didn’t think you’d… I don’t know.”

He trailed off.

Pik frowned. “Didn’t think I’d what?”

Jai shook his head, already dismissing it. “Forget it.” Like it wasn’t worth saying, like it wasn’t important. 

Pik didn’t bring it up again after that.

And neither did Jai.