Work Text:
nothing's working anymore.
the gush of cold water, like niagra to the sahara in the throat, washes the discomfort for only a brief; as he tends to the monsters twisting his wrist and bending his legs into this pathetic position, a failure in the making, knees adamant on the floor even when he wants to arise and repeat the routine all over again, until he gets it right, until the devils leave his sight.
but the courage disappears the second he closes his eyes.
badwill rolls from his mouth in devious profanities and snarky curses.
by then, he crashes.
remember, this is what failure feels like: this bone-crushing anger that makes you breathless. senseless. mindless. you lose control of everything. you want to punch the walls. you want to rip your hair out. you want to scream. but if you do, what does it mean? you're a coward for letting your feelings overpower you. and whose fault is that?
it's devastating, to say the least, that he's in the middle of the practice room, huffing hot breaths, suppressing acid rain from falling, tainting the slippery wood underneath his pliant body, after an intense knockout, after rounds and rounds of tackling and holding onto remnants of belief that he still has it in him—he still could be the champion he hungers of being, a filial child that should make his parents proud, a son that his father would look at with a loving smile.
what a dream.
but it's heart-wrenching, to say the most, that the tears fall anyway, pathetically, one at a time, as the solemn heaves are no longer clobbering riptides against the current-high chest—now ceasing into a calm storm, dulling around the edges, as he breathes underwater, and dwells there, same old, same old. just enough to live another day thinking, self-destructing, contemplating, if he would be someone else other than a sore loser, a mere disappointment, an aberration, so abysmally so.
remember, this is what defeat looks like: you on the ground, writhing in pain. sweaty. bruised. not only your body, but your pride too. what's the view from beneath there? shameful? miserable? so stand up if you feel violated. get back up if you think you could win against them. winners don't stay down even for a second.
but he can't.
what a nightmare.
using the last ounce of strength left, his elbows press hard onto the mattress, trying to support his weight as he attempts to stand, but there's a pulverising jab directly at the stomach, a killer punch near the ribs, that propels him to fall back, so helplessly, to where he was then, to where he seems to be now.
he can't move.
a wince escapes his purple-blue lips. he might've dislocated his shoulder, again, or somewhere he's too scared to admit. for the second time this month. and it kills niran, so profoundly, so agonisingly, that he surrenders to the damage that gnaws inside of him, that grows like roots and shoots of the most poisonous flower—as he coughs petals upon petals of sorrow, for what he could have, for everything he never did. because this contusion, that blooms all over him, is a mark he can never erase, not even with a title or a medal—it's a forever tattoo, an emblem of the ruins he lived, endured and nurtured, for as long as he can recall.
when a sob spears into the wretched soul, an earth-shattering wail that niran never allows to flee from the captivity of his throat, snaps the last thread of sanity in him, he cries. and cries. and cries. until he can't—but that's a long time coming, as he never stops, even when the fitful shadows disappear with the late-evening sun, now a secrecy of the twilight sky, blanketing him from the greed of this obnoxious misery.
he's only skin and bones and nothing more.
he should be more than skin and bones and wounds and scars and this foolish childlike pettiness.
he's just 17, but why does he carry everything?
what is he now, when he dares himself to look up and gazes into the vast mirror in front of him? a comatose of a being, a lonesome tragedy, trapped in this judo attire, the black belt around the waist, strangling hands shrouding the neck, until he's pale, until he's used—but is this only in his head? is it never true?
expectations are a bane to his existence, but no expectations lead niran astray, so misplaced in dismay that he sees the disarray, of happiness changing overnight, from thinking if he should continue walking on this trajectory, if he's still standing on the right side of the choices he made, now that he's older, now that he understands the weight of adult responsibility, now that he has so much to lose with just a yes or a no—and it scares him.
it's no longer just mere youthful desires; i want to win this—it's a matter of i have to win this.
because his father looks at him with eyes no longer sparkling with hope, void of pride or even acknowledgement, only tiredness and the exact bruise near the heart, similar to the warping hollowness on niran's chest, that he would win another championship, that he would walk through the door with a trophy in hand, one that he rejoiced in so ferociously, now a distant memory in the mind.
where did it all go?
is niran not worthy of such love?
did it follow in his mother's footsteps, becoming outlying stars in the sky, only seen when the canvas is dark enough to withhold their shine? did his father's soul wither when the last farewell was bestowed on a figure niran calls mae, so tenderly, so lovingly, in the graveyard, reeking of wilting plumerias?
it was raining then.
today, it isn't.
but the emotion he experiences now is so disturbingly identical to that faithful day. and it's a bittersweet reconciliation, niran reckons, that this will torment him, even when the spirits find their home somewhere in the afterlife—yet niran still wishes they'll accompany him, even to the high ceilings and shallowest closets, until he becomes mere skeletons, until he's better at letting go of the certain.
and what should niran do, other than to cling onto those fever-dream recollections, before they gather dust, before they become meaningless, before they would never slip from his mouth in random conversations between a father and a son, finally having matching grey hairs, taking sips of alcohol after a long day, sharing the same trauma of sailing the rundown ship, laughing at the punctured holes and the thought of sinking deep—because those are only notions that reside someplace in the veins. it will never be a concern. at least, not in this lifetime. and they hum underneath the skin, sing beneath the garment, and niran closes his eyes—before words appear in lyrics and poetry, a confession he doesn't dare to recite.
it's cold.
niran hugs himself tightly, rubbing his damp palms along his arms up to his biceps, before he stops in another spinning motion, as the room falls into a dizzying standstill; this sheer loneliness will never be cordial. he will never get used to this. it's always going to munch on his flesh like fleeting maggots. and niran can only watch as he rots, slowly but surely, with time that never ceases for someone like him—a runner from reality, a stopper from clarity.
his phone buzzes.
parncheewa (^///^) [5:01 pm]
phi niran...
where are you?
are you still at the practice room?
i didn't see you all day at school.
it has been a week now...
are you okay?
i... i miss you...
can i come over?
it's so visceral, the goosebumps prickling his skin right now, the sting in the eyes, the chowdown bite on his lower lip, only to contain the groan from erupting, only to stop the blood from oozing.
niran can't bring himself to type a reply.
because he thinks of cheewa and his biggest heart and questions, again, in this reckless stupor: how could someone as bright as the sun, love the dimmest moon that niran will always be? he keeps stealing cheewa's light, sucking the healing exuberance out of his eyes, and besmear nothing but poisonous gloom all over him, waiting for the day it'll consume cheewa's entirety—and by then, will the younger finally hate him?
another buzz. the screen lights up. a string of one-sided conversation. it eventually stops when he prays hard enough. don't. please, don't. the group chat with his best friends blows up too, all unread. shia. niran doesn't dare to spare a glimpse, not when there's a muggy blob in the threshold of his throat, climbing to the roof of his mouth, awaiting to spill the truths that will always impair, the cut that never stops bleeding—i miss you too, cheewa. puen, i'm sorry for being a dick.
but he thinks of cheewa again, and niran fists on the uwagi, knuckles white and cold as ice, so tight that he wants to throw himself down—so that the hurt will replace this shitty feeling he can't mislay.
he repeats, "i miss you," only for his ears to catch, these harmonies of a forlorn explorer, only for his heart to remember, the sound of cheewa's name rolling from the tip of his mouth, swirling with the tongue, a kept secret between the sun and niran and the garments in the room, and no one else.
and it still, hurts him more than losing a match.
because this shouldn't be a riddle he keeps in broad daylight, not when he promised he would be more honest—ah, niran is always the worst at keeping it.
"i want you here, but i don't want you to see me like this..." because it's a different horror, to allow your beloved a full-access into this self-loathing space, especially not when he isn't in the best headspace, to let cheewa witness how terrorising it is—to exist as phiangniran, surviving in an adrift, living in a mobile armoir, functioning in adrenaline and nothing substantial—just so he could be someone he should be, not who he has to be.
it shouldn't be this dramatic.
he's only 17, for god's sake.
but he cries still, and it feels a lot like seven and 10 and 13—with the anguish that never dissipates, even where there's a house awaiting outside, wishing to turn those walls and rooms and roofs into a home, or a spaceship to outerspace, anywhere but here—everywhere but in his own prison of the mind.
and he's only 17.
and it feels like the world's ending—just because he's 17.
perhaps, niran is avoiding him.
but it's never a concern: niran didn't know he existed way before he started making a move, before courage became the air he respired, before bravery blindsided the doubt in wanting this to be more than just a hopeful crush. it was never a curse he had to live with, because having niran in hindsight, just a few metres away, wandering off with his circle of friends, smiling and laughing and brimming with the most addicting ardour, was always enough. he still orbited his sun like the starshine he is, even when he was only reflections on the ground during the brightest of days, shining only from niran's clemency.
he isn't being himself lately, thara said to him during lunch. lines of worry adorned his forehead, too many questions even he couldn't answer. he didn't know. and it was his fault for not knowing niran the way he thought he did. cheewa swore he wasn't breathing, not until now, when hemmarach and thipok chimed in, draping their arms around cheewa's shoulder as they added, we tried to make him talk, but it was no use. so we're counting on you, nong. maybe he will tell you something. maybe you can help him open up.
and it made cheewa ponder, if niran would ever be comfortable stripping himself into canvases and ashes, the prettiest facades, now glass shards on the floor, as he bled in front of him—because cheewa would embrace niran even when drenched and soaked with the putrid scent of heartbreaks and serendipity, only because, it would kill him more if he didn't hold onto this. he would despise himself for letting niran drift away.
it's nowhere close to an attempt at salvation; rather, it's a petulant amalgamation of being a bystander to niran's every problem, witnessing the ticking time bomb destructing, as the spark for judo begins to fade in its vibrancy, losing the once vigorous intensity, whenever he's on the floor, crying in deafening quietude.
yet cheewa's only 16, and he only understands that it's brutal regret, to let niran consume the pain all alone, when he's still as young, still as naive, about the world that never stops rotating, even when the dizziness kicks in.
but it hurts, now that they share something special; a bond that ties their hearts together in intangible knots, that they know the taste of each other's lips, that they remember the zeal of their bodies pressed against one another—yet, when niran's suffering from the emotions he wouldn't name, the thoughts he couldn't address, he's alone at sea, a lost wayfarer amongst the splattered constellations, and cheewa doesn't know what to do.
why doesn't he know anything when niran needs it the most?
he's foolish, for describing himself as the mr-know-it-all to niran, because now, he is anything but all-knowing.
because his gaze lands on the windows from a distance, leaning against the wall, as he watches niran sitting on the floor, hugging himself tightly, knuckles turning white, shoulders shaking when the earthquake distress strikes, the last remaining pieces of his composure now crumbling helplessly to the ground.
he can almost hear niran's cries from here.
the first instinct is to run over and cradle niran in a bone-crushing hug. cheewa wants to whisper sweet everythings to niran's hair, let these praises and well-wishes seep into his skull, so he will remember how precious he is, how amazing and talented he truly is, especially when he believes he has nothing, when he could have all things, if he has the slightest faith in himself. he will repeat them until niran calls him annoying, until the senior tackles him to the floor and steals a kiss or two because it's the only way to make you stop—and niran will laugh when cheewa changes the position, him being on top now, kissing him all over the face, in places that elicit the heartiest laughter, so niran could forget the damning weight of the universe on his aching shoulders.
but the second instinct kicks in, and it always puts a stop to his tracks, because cheewa knows, he has to depend on this decision for today.
niran's vulnerability is never an open door. cheewa witnesses the crashouts and breakdowns from afar, just like this moment, because they don't happen often—because niran never lets him into this other side of his world. locked doors and unopened chambers. he doesn't have the key. even if he does, cheewa won't enter without niran's permission.
but he wants to, sometimes.
cheewa harshly wipes the stream of frustration from his face with furious gusto, because he has to be strong for niran—the way niran always stands up for him when oil and now threatens and beats him in the isolated hallways. he can't be weak. he just can't. not when niran needs a shoulder to lean on.
so he locks his phone after getting no replies. there's no use in pushing when the pull isn't there. cheewa understands, but comprehending this situation doesn't ease the turmoil that wraps his ribcage in tendrils of hopelessness, because he should do something; he has to comfort niran, yet he knows better not to, not with physical touches or encouraging phrases or breathless kisses on the forehead, the tip of the nose, the corner of the mouth, just the way niran likes it.
cheewa feels undeniably defeated.
he doesn't leave the spot, not even when the sun glints from the horizon, churning rays of the softest blood orange against the transparent blinds, as they trail niran's lonesome steps with identical remorse, before he disappears into the awaiting night.
by then, cheewa finds himself sprinting, crossing the walking pedestrian and running towards the finish line, almost knocking people down with him, against the clock and all the odds, until he reaches home with beads of sweat trickling down the sides of his face, glasses almost slipping, when he opens and closes the door shut, a loud thud resounds.
he screams a sincere sorry! to his parents as he climbs the stairs, frantically twisting the knob and retrieving stacks of papers and boxes of coloured pens from the shelves. the goal is clear in his head, and he only has to shoot the shot before he misses again. cheewa gathers the stationery and sits cross-legged on the floor, breathing in and out, before he begins writing words upon words that carry the meaning of love and admiration. some might be meaningless; others sound a bit too cheesy, but cheewa doesn't hinder himself from pouring his heart into every strip of paper. he changes the pen, from blue to pink to green to purple, all colours of the milky way, now on these papers, bearing cheewa's heart and soul onto every little beam of hope, wishing that niran will understand, just how much he cares.
when he's pleased with the handful of notes spattering everywhere, he folds them neatly into the prettiest stars—from one to 10 to many to cheewa loses count. but it's enough for now, hopefully.
there's an unused jar he eventually finds, when he scours for glue and ribbons, sitting with other leftover decorations from the astronomy club, calling for cheewa to house it in a new galaxy. it's perfect for the trinkets he folded so carefully, with such precision, of a magician creating art out of thin air, bewitching the audience with its trickery—but these are pendants of sincerity cheewa couldn't say aloud; the affection he harbours fills the entire sea-sky with glitters and warmth, all for niran.
when he finishes with this little project, colourful blisters paint his hands and elbows, the drying glue sticks to the ends of his hair, smudging one of the lenses, and the mug of hot chocolate his mother left on the carpet is now half empty; the feeling of utter completion brings tears to his eyes somehow, in the most unexpected reverie, as he observes the rainbow stars in the clear jar, adorned with ribbon ruffles around the black lid, hiding the secrets safe in their enclosures, waiting for someone to discover its wonder.
it's nighttime, and cheewa can't possibly wait until sunrise greets him from the outside windows—he has to do it tonight. if he doesn't, then there shall be no sleep accompanying his weary heart; his weekend will be depressing, mundane and dull, and the weather forecast will predict only the heaviest rain and the deadliest storm to hit bangkok. it won't happen, because cheewa swears it'll be sunny and bright and beautiful—only the clearest skies should hover above niran's head, he promises.
a mission it is: to deliver these stars to the rightful owner tonight.
another rush into the bathroom, another deluge of getting ready, putting on the comfiest shirt and a hoodie; cheewa stores everything he needs into his trusty bag, not forgetting the box of cookies his father had freshly baked for niran, along with a smile that crinkles his old eyes, he might need some sugar in his system. the glimmer that speaks assurance only a father could give to a son. he hopes, by giving this to niran, he'll feel it too, the confirmation that he's never unworthy of expectations and pressures and obstacles. he deserves them as much as every child in this world does.
cheewin stops him before he exits the door; worry laces his eyes when he asks, like the caring big brother he always is, "nong, where are you going? it's already late."
and cheewa doesn't know what excuse he should say other than the utter truth, "i... i want to see phi niran, phi. i need to see him now. i—"
maybe cheewin notices the desperation and eagerness, the fervour in his trembling hands and the gloss in his own gaze, and he softens immediately, stepping away from the door and says, knowingly, "okay. but be careful. call me if anything happens, alright?"
the brothers are never really physical with their affection, absolutely shy with public declarations of love, but at these rare instances, cheewa adores cheewin even more than he truly admits aloud; so he hugs his big brother, the pads almost poke his eyes but he laughs anyway, and cheewin echoes the glee, running his hands through cheewa's hair, gripping onto them teasingly, just enough force for this to be real, "you got this, nong. good luck."
he's thankful—for all the luck cheewin prays upon him, because he needs it more than anything now.
and he runs.
cheewa doesn't look back.
he protects the jar of stars safely in his hold. if it breaks, then so will cheewa. he won't let it happen. it's a promise.
alone again.
it's a feeling niran will never get used to. not even when it's already so deeply embedded in his everyday life, that he can hardly remember the beginning. will he live long enough to witness its end?
there's never a chance to adjust, when he's forced to adapt to it from such a young age. it just happened, and it happens, and niran doesn't question. he can't bring himself to.
fatigue from not getting enough sleep is taking its toll on him now, as he gets drowsy even when he stands near the kitchen sink, making himself a bowl of instant noodles for dinner. injuries damage the soul more than the body can take. but niran breezes through it, toughens the muscles with a long sigh, as he holds onto the tabletop for leverage.
he's sweating even after a long cold shower. niran's hyperventilating, but he remembers the breathing exercises, and he takes it slow, one at a time.
when the ringing sound quietens, niran is finally brave enough to release the deathly grip. for a change, he's shivering, not from the cold, but the emptiness that seeps into the captivity of his chest. but it's welcoming, this time around.
once he opens his eyes, he sees the outside world in blue hues, not bothering to turn on the lights, as he relishes the darkness, greeting them like an old friend.
he pours hot water, just enough for the noodles to sink and swim, and retrieves another plate as a makeshift lid. niran leans in; the cabinet holds his weight with all its might, as he gazes at the window, thinking thoughts that don't make sense, because nothing comes to mind but murky waters and overdue injuries and a whole day of crying. and they stay for a long time there. and they don't go, unless asked.
niran wipes the corner of his eyes immediately. he can't afford to forfeit again. he's too tired to pick the broken pieces on the floor tonight.
get it together, you idiot.
there's a knock on the door, one that stops his heart from beating remorse, as he gulps anxiously, not expecting a visitor at half past nine. he wishes there were a peephole, so he could prepare for the worst-case scenario, of a possible burglar or the ghost of his beloved mother by the doorstep, looking over her son who's barely holding on. but there's none, so he has to wing it—niran takes a sharp breath, punctured holes now on the lungs, deflating the despair into another strain of fear, as he opens the door with a swift swing, betting his life there and then, only to find—
"...cheewa?"
he can't feel his knees.
he's numb everywhere.
and he doesn't expect the tightest hug from the younger, a saviour barging in with massive force against him, as cheewa lunges himself forward, and niran almost plummets to the floor, like a tackle from his opponents, attacking him when he's distracted, taking advantage of his drawbacks.
but it doesn't feel that way with cheewa. not at all.
he's the safest he has ever been; when familiar arms circle his waist, resting at places only cheewa knows, poking dents and tracing aged scars, as he noses near niran's pulse point by the neck, a soft kiss blossoms there, the fondest hello.
niran can't breathe now that he has all the reasons to stay alive. it makes him fearful, for everything he can lose.
yet he questions, over and over, "why are you here? what are you doing here?" when he swears he has been an asshole to the younger all week, every day, because of the voices in his head, because he couldn't face cheewa in this state. but cheewa is still here. he never leaves. he only enters when niran opens the door.
oh.
"i... i meant it when i said that i missed you, phi..." cheewa hesitates to say the things he means. but with just one look from niran, he's always ready to wear his heart on his sleeve. "i was worried. but i... i know you needed time to figure things out. so have you... have you gotten the answers, phi?"
it's cheewa's voice; the honey-sweet timbre, a lull of repose whenever he speaks random facts about space and unassuming confessions of a loverboy during those serenest days, sends a shiver of surging thrills to the spine.
niran's the beach, the sand and the yearner, as he waits for cheewa's ocean to carry him to places, away from anywhere but here. he always will. he is. and cheewa's the ocean, the sky and the believer, as he welcomes niran to fights worth risking—the bravest he could be, so that he can be who phiangniran really is.
"it's okay if you haven't, phi. it's really okay..."
cheewa breaks the hug to find niran's eyes. desperate, he seems, to set things right. but niran figures, he doesn't mind life turning left or sideways or any other direction, as long as he gets to have cheewa like this; close enough for his moon to yearn for cheewa's sun.
possibly, it's okay, not to care anymore.
he's hovering above him, like planets colliding and asteroids ricocheting along the innerspace of niran's imagination, a vista so ravishing that niran can't look away, not when those hands find a place on the sides of his face, thumbs brushing the fallen tears away. and this time, niran doesn't stop them. cheewa will.
"phi, i'm sorry that i came here without telling you. but i couldn't just stand there and watch you like this. i asked your friends, and they advised me to talk to you. i would've gone here even without consulting them. i contemplated, because i wanted to give you space..."
the younger's spewing sincerity, like gurgling current across the stillwater, weary eyes never leaving niran as he tries to console him, stating his side of the story. niran finds it funny, jarringly heartbreaking, that cheewa has this urge to stand for what he feels, when niran's the advocate of never keeping secrets between one another. yet he's the backstabber in their story. what a loser, he is.
when niran doesn't say anything, only staring holes into the void, into everything cheewa is, the younger continues, more cautious with his words. "i know you wanted space... but that space suffocated me too, so i have to occupy it, with you. i have to be here with you, or else i'll regret it. i'll regret it for the rest of my life. so maybe... maybe... with me being here, it'll be easier for you to breathe, phi niran? i hope it will, even just the slightest relief..."
and it's enough, it's always more than enough, for niran to pull cheewa down with him, into the gutter, into this gloam, all over the carpeted floor, as he embraces the sun, burning his flesh, scalding his skin, with cheewa's never-ceasing radiance, succumbing to the perishing light.
the darkness in him bellows in grotesque pain, as pathetic sobs slip from pale lips; nothing else occupies the distance between two bodies plastered together—an astronomical sensation, it is, to cave in, to lean onto someone this special for a change, a reminder that he is never alone after all. he always has cheewa. always will.
cheewa listens to his cries. every one of them. unspoken. silent. but he understands. niran doesn't know how, but cheewa just does. he wipes the tears, dries the snot with bare hands, and niran might have laughed a little, scolded him a lot; it's gross! and cheewa should be disgusted, but i'm not. and that paralyses his system, ravages his soul, smashes his heart, again and again, for a million different reasons.
it's a pacifying blur. at one point, they're already on niran's bed, huddled in a jumble of a mess, limbs against limbs, arms scooping cheewa's body close and closer and the closest they have ever been. he savours the kiss on the forehead that never stops beseeching; another ghost that haunts and hunts the devils and monsters and creepy crawlies everywhere in the room, exorcising them to their demise. he mutters the faintest thank you, near cheewa's heart, and catches the pause, the jolt of the younger's heartbeat, when niran's palm lies flat there, feeling him again, just so to assure he's not hallucinating the better ifs.
and another spur in the haze, when cheewa releases the hold around his waist, and niran grabs the fabric of the hoodie, afraid if his knight in shining armour will leave with the moonlight—only to receive another kiss on the cheek, a plea, "i... i have something for you, phi."
so they sit on the bed. cross-legged, facing each other. knees to knees. tear-stricken, eyes swollen, but cheewa smiles at him as if he's the most beautiful, a similar visage when the younger gazes upon the stars that unforgettable night—when the gravity was impossible to ignore, and niran admitted that he adored, cheewa, for the very first time.
"phi, i actually came here to give you this." the zip opens, unveiling a small jar filled with—
"...stars?" niran doesn't breathe when cheewa smiles, fixing his glasses from slipping, nodding, cheeks now the prettiest scarlet. is it so hopeless, for niran to pray, that this will be the last thing he sees sometime in the future, when his time is up in this world, the carriage that carries him to someplace faraway rings the bell of fate, announcing its arrival?
what a sight; niran's heart races. and once it reaches the finish line, he's already a goner.
the younger meets niran halfway, reading his thoughts so meticulously, holding up the jar to the air, where the moon lights up the dusted sparkles and sticky fingerprints on the glass—by then, niran sees it: neatly folded paper stars, many of them, in colours and glitters, all for him.
cheewa avoids niran's eyes when he explains, putting down the jar onto his lap, careful of holding a gift so sacred. "these are shooting stars. when things get difficult, or when you want to make a wish, take one and read it aloud. close your eyes and cross your fingers. maybe it'll come true, because i'll be praying with you too, from afar."
broken gasps take the shape of a coherent reply; the overwhelming sense of love flows in the river veins of his malfunctioning system, throwing a tantrum, pounding with the metronome of his unsettling heart. soon after cheewa presents him the jar anew, now nestled safely across his open palms, niran experiences another fission in the tightening bosom, like cosmic splits into metals and something only the younger understands, something scientific and euphoric and electric; he crashes onto cheewa, and burns along with him.
"do you not like it, phi? i... i'm sorry—"
"i love it, cheewa," niran smothers his face onto the nooks and crannies and places he could mark cheewa with, his mouth and fingers and anything he owns, mine, mine, mine, before he reiterates, "i love it so much," light-headed and sated, in love and will always be in love.
he feels cheewa's body relax, cushy against the wall, as he envelops all of niran's weight with the similar welcome; arms around the waist, soft kisses on the crown of his head. "i'm glad that you liked it, phi. wow... i'm so happy right now. i feel like i can touch the moon. i think i can do so many things. this is... this is everything i've ever dreamed of. wow..."
niran laughs. shia, how adorable. he takes cheewa's hand and navigates its route to his chest this time, saying, hoping it won't stray from this lovepath, "you've touched me. aren't i your moon?"
he has never seen cheewa turn this bright red. it's the most endearing catastrophe niran seizes the chance to bear, like a solar eclipse or the eternal sun—niran is greedy, to ruin himself, to go against the laws of physics, only to see all of cheewa's beauty, for as long as the world allows him.
cheewa laughs, and niran chuckles; this parallel bemusement sets the whole room on a waltzing tangent, like fire and ice clashing at the threshold of north and south, meshing together, even though considered impossible, a new phenomenon no scientist has ever discovered.
"i have. i did," abashed, the younger scratches the back of his head, down to the nape, red, red, red. "yeah... i touched you. i touched you, phi. my forever moon. my prettiest moon," cheewa whispers, breathless this time, and it's a temptation niran almost yields to—breathing air into cheewa's lungs when he's in need. so he grips onto cheewa, everywhere his fingers can reach, nuzzling and leaving invisible territories all over the younger, just so the eight planets will know who niran's heart belongs to.
the whole solar system will be jealous of their love—and so be it.
it's almost blasphemous—to confess such radical professions, when emotions are heightened, when nothing is certain. tomorrow's a different story; another page awaits for a hopeful turn. yet, he's powerless to win against love, because it's always the greatest of it all. as promised. as spoken. as written. in books of love and the splendour of the galaxies.
"you pulled me in like gravity. i don't think i can ever resist you."
cheewa blinks slowly, like a cat ogling at its owner, highly expectant, hyperaware of this agonising anticipation, after a new can of wet food opens. it's a nonsensical metaphor, niran knows, but he swears that cheewa purrs whenever he plays with the overgrown hair on his nape. he allows himself to entertain these weird thoughts, so that they can purify the ugliness, the dehumanising nature of them all, with a bit of childish whimsy.
and when he draws circles and shapes of his devotion on cheewa's cheek, he asks, another whisper to the lover and the stars, "can i... can i kiss you, cheewa?"
cheewa lights up, akin to the auroras teacher boribun showed during one of the astronomy club's meetings; the green, blue and silver drown the younger in the dreamiest hues of an unforgettable afterglow. his voice is as tender as the night breeze meandering from the slightly opened windows, saying, "yes, phi. please. if that can make you feel better."
"i'm not kissing you because i want to feel better. it's because i want to. i want you."
"okay, phi. okay... i understand. and i want it too, because i'll always want you."
whatever reason cheewa has, to plaster those full lips on his, niran never cares, never dares to think of any other possibility but one—that the younger feels this too: love.
it's easier to breathe, now that he steals the air from cheewa's exhales, slow huffs dense with feelings so overdriven—yet cheewa never pushes him away, not when niran doesn't pull apart.
he doesn't know what happens next, what occurs the following second. but now, when he closes his eyes, he feels cheewa against him, all over him, stagnant and real and here—it's no longer terrifying, to melt and shatter and break and collapse—not when cheewa catches him, every single time hell happens, whenever earth glitches from its orbit. and what he sees now, is a fragment of heaven from cheewa's merciful love. the north star that shows him the right way home.
and niran lives in it. and stays. and remains. and he makes another oath, that he'll be better. for himself, and for cheewa too.
he wears a smiley face that doesn't feel manufactured, not anymore, and looks at the mirror. for the first time in a while, niran doesn't hate the reflection giving him a thumbs-up. instead, he chortles.
"you got this, niran. you're a fighter. you can do this. you can!"
he fixes the strap across his body, careful not to put too much pressure on the healing shoulder, and breathes.
before he exits the room, greedy hands reach for the jar on the shelves. he opens the lid, and niran gambles with destiny, closing his eyes as he grabs a random star, makes a wish—may this day go well for me and my beloveds—and carefully unfolds it.
a blue star.
phi niran, do you know that blue is a relaxing colour? it also helps regulate breathing and heartbeat. do you know that this colour reminds me of you? because whenever i see you, i feel calm. your presence soothes me. i'm thankful that i met you, because you're the only person who could make me feel this safe. so, thank you, phi niran. thank you for existing.
niran laughs at the younger's attempt to fit these sentences in such a limited space. but he remembers cheewa's words, that he wished to reside in that space with niran, no matter how deadly or troublesome it was, so that he wouldn't be alone anymore—and his heart aches, for many different wonderful reasons.
he tries to fold the star to its original shape, failing a few times before he gets it right, and keeps it in the drawer of his study table. niran gazes at the true blue one last time—and convinces himself that nothing is ever a dream when cheewa is here with him, always. stars and sun and moon and all.
and everything's working into place. finally.