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Sky had always considered himself a reasonably responsible person.
Not perfectly responsible, obviously. Nobody who had Rain as a best friend could maintain perfect responsibility for very long without eventually developing either high blood pressure or homicidal tendencies, and Sky had long ago accepted that his life included a certain amount of preventable chaos simply because Rain existed somewhere within a five-kilometre radius. Still, Sky attended his classes, submitted his assignments, remembered deadlines, kept enough painkillers and cold medicine in his room to survive a small apocalypse, and—most importantly—understood basic rules of human civilization. He knew that knives were sharp, boiling water was hot, motorcycles should not be ridden by idiots who believed immortality was a personality trait, and people operating several tons of metal at high speed should generally keep their eyes on the road.
This was why, sitting in the passenger seat of Prapai’s car on what had originally been advertised as a perfectly ordinary drive back to his dorm, Sky had begun to reconsider whether dating Prapai counted as a failure of personal responsibility.
“Pai.”
“Hmm?”
“Road.”
“I’m looking at it.”
Sky turned his head slowly.
Prapai was not looking at the road.
Prapai was looking at Sky’s thigh.
More specifically, he was looking at the small strip of skin revealed where Sky’s shorts had ridden upward when he crossed one leg over the other, and there was an expression on Prapai’s face that Sky knew far too well by now. It was not even properly lustful yet. Lust would have been easier. Lust could at least be blamed on hormones. This expression was the irritatingly thoughtful one Prapai sometimes wore when apparently considering whether something belonged to him, could belong to him, or should immediately be dragged home so he could spend several hours proving that it belonged to him.
Sky pulled the hem of his shorts down.
Prapai’s mouth curved.
Sky pulled it down harder.
Prapai’s smile widened.
“You’re disgusting.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t need to.”
“That means you know me very well.”
“That means you’re predictable.”
Prapai finally returned his attention to the road, visibly pleased with himself in a way that made Sky immediately suspicious. There were many things Sky had learned since allowing this shameless man to force his way through every wall Sky had carefully constructed around his life, and one of the most important was that Prapai considered almost every insult some form of intimacy. Call him annoying and he heard affection. Tell him to go away and he asked whether that meant before or after dinner. Threaten to kick him out of bed and he usually stretched across more of the mattress.
It should have been unbearable.
It was unbearable.
The unfortunate part was that Sky had somehow become fond of unbearable things.
He looked out of the window before Prapai could catch the thought on his face.
Bangkok moved around them in thick evening traffic, headlights and shop signs blurring together behind the glass, motorcycles slipping through narrow spaces between cars with the confidence of people who had made private arrangements with death. The air-conditioning hummed softly. One of Pai’s hands rested loosely on the steering wheel while the other lay near the gear selector, fingers relaxed.
Sky stared at that hand.
Then immediately hated himself for staring.
Prapai’s hands were unfair.
They were large without being clumsy, always warm, always too confident. Sky knew exactly what those fingers could do when they curled around his waist, around his wrist, around the back of his neck. He knew how gentle they could become when he woke from a nightmare and how much less gentle they could become when Sky deliberately provoked him in bed and then pretended surprise when Pai reacted exactly as expected.
His gaze lingered for perhaps two seconds too long.
The hand moved.
Prapai placed it on Sky’s knee.
Sky looked at him.
Pai continued staring forward, the picture of innocence.
“Move your hand.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re driving.”
“My left hand is driving.”
“That is not how driving works.”
Prapai’s thumb stroked once over the inside of Sky’s knee.
Sky’s jaw tightened.
“Pai.”
“Yes, baby?”
“Both hands.”
“On you?”
Sky inhaled slowly through his nose.
There were moments in life when violence was not only understandable but spiritually necessary.
“On the steering wheel.”
Prapai sighed with exaggerated disappointment but obeyed, and Sky should have felt victorious. Instead, he felt an irritating trace of cold where Pai’s palm had been.
He ignored it.
He was very good at ignoring things.
He had built half his adult personality around ignoring things.
Unfortunately, Prapai had spent months becoming extremely good at noticing exactly what Sky ignored.
“You miss my hand.”
“I miss the version of you that knows how traffic laws work.”
“You love every version of me.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“I have excellent luck.”
“You met me. Your luck peaked. Everything afterwards is decline.”
Prapai laughed, warm and delighted, and Sky felt the sound settle somewhere beneath his ribs before he could stop it.
That was another terrible habit he had developed.
Collecting Pai’s happiness.
Not deliberately. Never deliberately.
But his mind had begun storing tiny things without permission: the particular laugh Pai made when Sky genuinely surprised him, the softness around his eyes when he thought Sky was asleep, the ridiculous little satisfied noise he made whenever Sky voluntarily reached for him first. Sky remembered all of it. His brain, traitorous organ that it was, had apparently decided this information was more important than useful things like structural calculations and exam schedules.
Sky shifted in his seat.
Prapai looked at him again.
That was the problem.
Pai always looked.
Not glanced.
Looked.
As if Sky were something worth examining, something worth memorizing.
There had been a time when being watched made Sky’s muscles tighten, when attention felt like warning rather than affection. Prapai’s attention had changed slowly, almost annoyingly, into something else. Something warm. Something that no longer made Sky search for exits.
That did not mean Pai should stare at him while operating a moving vehicle.
“Eyes forward.”
“They are forward.”
“They were on my mouth.”
“Your mouth is very attractive.”
“Pai.”
“And you bite your lower lip when you’re annoyed.”
“I’m going to bite you.”
“You promise?”
Sky turned his face toward the window again before the heat climbing into his cheeks could betray him.
He made it approximately twelve seconds.
Then Prapai said, very casually, “You know, if you keep wearing those shorts, I’m going to have trouble getting you upstairs before—”
A horn exploded beside them.
Sky jerked.
Prapai swore and hit the brakes.
A motorcycle shot past the front of the car, its rider turning his head long enough to shout something that Sky was fairly certain included several insults involving Prapai’s ancestors.
For one stunned second, silence filled the car.
Sky slowly looked toward the intersection.
Then toward the signal above them.
Red.
Very, unmistakably red.
Sky closed his eyes.
“Pai.”
“Baby—”
“Do you see that?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
Prapai’s mouth twitched.
Sky’s eyes opened.
“Do not smile.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m trying not to.”
Sky pointed through the windshield with terrible calm.
“What. Is. That.”
Prapai glanced upward.
“A Traffic light.”
“And what color is it?”
“Red.”
“And what does red mean?”
Prapai looked at him.
Sky stared back.
Prapai’s smile became helpless.
“Apparently it means stop staring at my boyfriend.”
Sky wanted to murder him.
Unfortunately, before Sky could explain exactly which body parts he intended to remove first, flashing lights appeared in the rear-view mirror.
Both of them went silent.
Sky turned very slowly.
A police motorcycle had pulled behind them.
“Oh,” Prapai said.
Sky stared at him.
“Oh?”
“I think we’re being stopped.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I refuse.”
Prapai blinked.
Sky pointed at him.
“I refuse to participate in this humiliation. Drive away.”
“That would probably make it worse.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because if that policeman asks why you almost drove through a red light, I am getting out of this car and pretending I’ve never met you.”
Prapai looked delighted.
Actually delighted.
“Are you embarrassed because I was distracted by you?”
“I’m embarrassed because apparently I’m dating a man who can afford three vehicles but cannot identify the color red.”
“That’s unfair. I identified it correctly.”
“After nearly killing us.”
“I would never kill you.”
“That is not reassuring when you say it like that.”
Prapai obediently pulled over.
Sky sank lower into his seat.
The officer approached the driver’s side and tapped on the glass.
Prapai lowered the window.
“Good evening, officer.”
Sky hated how respectable he sounded.
The officer looked inside, then toward Prapai.
“Do you know why I stopped you?”
Prapai hesitated.
Sky turned his head sharply.
Do not.
Prapai looked at him.
Do not you dare.
Pai’s lips twitched.
Sky narrowed his eyes.
“I failed to notice the red light.”
The officer nodded.
“And why did you fail to notice it?”
Sky closed his eyes.
He knew.
He knew exactly what was coming.
There were moments when human beings could sense disaster before it happened. Ancient instincts, perhaps. The same mechanism that told prey animals when predators approached.
Sky had that feeling now.
Prapai answered with complete sincerity.
“My boyfriend was distracting me.”
Sky opened his eyes.
The officer looked at Sky.
Sky looked at the dashboard.
He had never been inside this car before.
He did not know this man.
He was merely an innocent citizen kidnapped by a dangerously horny stranger.
The officer’s mouth twitched.
Sky wanted the road to open beneath them.
Prapai, because God had abandoned Sky long ago, continued.
“He was sitting there.”
“Yes,” Sky said coldly. “That is generally what passengers do.”
The officer coughed.
Prapai looked offended.
“You were doing more than sitting.”
“I was breathing.”
“In those shorts.”
Sky turned.
“You are going to die.”
The officer stopped pretending not to smile.
Prapai finally seemed to realize that perhaps public self-preservation should begin before Sky strangled him with the seat belt.
“I understand. I was careless. It won’t happen again.”
That, at least, sounded sincere.
Sky glanced at him.
Pai’s expression had changed slightly. The humor remained, but underneath it was genuine embarrassment. He knew he had made a mistake. More importantly, Sky knew Pai understood that this particular mistake had scared him.
The officer checked his documents, gave him a warning that sounded suspiciously amused, and eventually walked back toward his motorcycle.
Prapai waited until the officer was gone.
Then he turned to Sky.
“I’m sorry.”
Sky folded his arms.
“You should be.”
“I really am.”
“I know.”
Pai blinked.
Sky sighed.
That was another thing he hated about love.
It made anger inconvenient.
Pai reached carefully toward him but stopped before touching, waiting.
Sky looked at the hand.
Then at him.
Then, because he apparently had lost all dignity somewhere around the time Prapai started bringing him breakfast, Sky caught his wrist and pulled the hand onto his thigh.
Prapai’s eyes widened.
“Keep your eyes on the road.”
A slow smile appeared.
“Yes, baby.”
“And if you miss another light because you’re staring at me—”
“I won’t.”
“—I’m tying your hands to the headboard tonight.”
Prapai went completely still.
Sky immediately realized his mistake.
Very slowly, Prapai looked toward him.
Sky pointed forward.
“Road.”
“But—”
“Road.”
“Sky.”
“Drive.”
Prapai swallowed.
Then obediently placed both hands on the steering wheel.
Sky turned toward the window to hide his smile.
For the rest of the drive, Prapai did not miss a single light.
In fact, Sky had never seen anyone concentrate so hard on traffic in his entire life.