Archive of Our Own

Pran can’t believe he’s willingly brought himself here again. 

(He can, but he’d like to believe he has the ability to look inward enough to acknowledge when he makes questionable decisions.) 

The bus tumbles into a slow stop. Pran is only one of a few passengers left. No one but him stands to get off. He can almost see the coastline from here, blue and hazy and indistinguishable from the distant sky. 

He hopes it doesn’t rain. 

He gets a couple of looks from the small handful of people still on the bus, waiting for him to make his way off so their ride can continue. He glances up apologetically when he can’t get his oversized bag to squeeze past the seats, the guitar case slung over his back not making anything easier. When he finally yanks it free, it knocks him back a little bit before he regains his balance. Someone clears their throat, and for all the bile-inducing anticipation he felt on the way, he suddenly cannot get off of this bus fast enough. 

His feet land on the graveled ground with two short sounds, rocks crunching under his shoes. He drags his luggage in front of him. The bus rolls away and down the road, kicking up sand and sea air under the engine as it drives off and out of his sight. He’s really doing this. 

He breathes in and there’s no mistaking it. The scent of the air was always more distinct by the ocean. Salty and carrying that undertone of the plants that washed up on the shore when the water receded. It is a kind smell, despite everything. It certainly reminds him that he’s not home. 

He releases that same breath and with a start he begins walking. No use in idling around now, it would just give him too much time to think. 

He pulls out the folded piece of paper from his pocket. Two, actually. One folded within the other. On top is the original paper that had gotten him here in the first place ( Live Music Wanted, Seaside Bar, Quaint Area, Fair Pay, Send Us Your Sounds! it says, cheesy cartoon palm trees and music notes to boot.) Tucked inside is his own grid-lined paper, handwriting messier than he would’ve liked as he’d tried to write down the directions while the guy spoke simultaneously over the phone. 

He pulls that one free and puts the flyer back into his pocket. 

“‘Follow signs for the sustainability trail…’” He reads out quietly to himself, glancing around, “‘Head east when you start to see the pier…’” 

Normally, Pran wouldn’t be so haphazard in his planning. He liked to know when, how, and why he was going to be doing anything, especially for work. Except. Well. This was what he was referring to as his one-time spontaneity pass, non-refundable. 

The decision to offer himself up as the nightly entertainment for a bar, here , of all places, was done almost out of spite and with very low confidence in the fact that he’d actually get it. Then they called him back. 

“We really like your style,” the guy on the phone had said, “If you can be here next week we can even arrange your housing while you’re in the village.” 

Pran had been so caught off guard that he was saying “Okay,” before he actually soaked up what was said to him. 

“Glad to hear it!” The voice boomed afterwards, “So you’re gonna wanna catch the A1 bus, the one with the loop? When you get there you’re gonna walk towards the sustainability trail—”

The gap between Pran staring out his window and hearing the voice over the phone zeroed in all at once, realizing he’s missing valuable information. “Wait! Wait, wait, wait, let me grab a- a pen—” He clambered across his desk, why the hell was he doing this, “Okay, can you start over?” 

One could call it a dream come true. Pran is hesitant to do so, when so much factors into such things, but there was no denying the truth that being a musician was one of his earliest and most sustained desires. They were fleeting things, the daydreams he’d have when he played alone in his room, envisioning a small crowd that would clap when he finished, and would sing along if he was really lucky. Musician for him was like when kids said astronaut. 

The bar surely wasn’t the moon, but he had to hold out some hope that at least part of a dream he’d squashed could be salvaged. 

He just had to clear his head. Sustainability trail. 

He comes upon a sign with several pointers. He remembers from the last time he was here that most of the activity-related setups of the town camp were in the other direction, while general traffic of the locals tended towards where he’s headed. If all he had to recall from then was object orientation he’d consider himself lucky. 

Sustainability Trail points him to the right. He liked the on-the-nose atmosphere. It didn’t pretend to be something it wasn’t, it was clear as day. The fisherman reigned in their evening catch, they hung their clothes out to dry on long lines that connected between window sills. Sometimes a flat rock would do. It was enchanting. 

Pran sees the pier and keeps walking. Despite the calming essence in the air and the thrum of waves, he couldn’t find anything within himself that made hauling his bags in this kind of humidity pleasant. 

He feels a frown stretch his mouth at the familiarity of the feeling. He really needs to get it together. If everything he does is going to bring back memories, he should’ve really rethought spending the next ten weeks here. He’s not that pathetic; he can get a grip. He just needs to settle in. 

Once he’s well past the pier and making into a clearing in the trees that lined his path, he goes back to consulting his note.

“Once past the pier…’” He mumbles, readjusting the strap of his guitar case in the pause, “walk about two hour’s distance towards the main road, keep left at the blue-colored house’…. two fucking hours?” 

Pran huffs, sticking the paper back into his pocket. He must’ve missed that little detail in his rushed transcribing efforts. He sticks in his (replaced) headphones and turns on something that’ll keep the space between his ears busy as he treks on. 

— 

The blue house looks so much like an oasis in the desert that Pran double-checks that it is not, in fact, an exhaustion-constructed vision. 

He wonders if he really needs his bags the rest of the way. The guitar is what’s important, right? He can ditch the rest and be fine. 

At this point, though, he’s almost there, so he may as well grit and bear it. Aforementioned blue house in sight, he consults his note again. “‘Accommodation is three blocks from blue house… turn left on the first road…’” It’s relatively smooth sailing from here. 

He didn’t see much of the actual houses the first time around. Everything was very structured, educational. No time for fooling around, of course. The actual residential areas weren’t explored. It was pretty, the way it was at the base of the hillside. Things grew freely, not in the well-clipped and polished presentation his mother liked to keep in their front yard. He’d always preferred it this way, the more natural way, though he supposes as an architecture student he should be more admirable of landscaping. In the same breath, he could say that everything has a place that it just fits. Where it makes sense. 

“1809…1809…” He keeps repeating it to remember, peering at each number so he doesn’t walk right by. The man on the phone had said someone would wait for him to get him settled in, and he can only hope they haven’t gotten impatient waiting for him to find his way here. The only thing he can be grateful for is the sudden breeze that’s taking some of the oppressive heat away. “1806…so it must be–”

He finds it at the end of a dip in the walkway. ‘1809’ is painted and fading across an old mailbox by the door, fish and anchor decorations dangling from it and swaying lightly with the wind. The front door is on lower land than the road, several steps leading down to it on an incline covered in tall grass, its blades curling to greet the stairs. The house itself is a small bit larger than the room that hangs off with the door, but it seems detached from its foundation, like an afterthought. 

Pran begins to descend the stairs, the clunk of his bags following each step. Maybe it’s unlocked, or there’s a key under a mat, because it doesn’t look particularly occupied. When he reaches the door, he slumps his bags to the side, keeping the guitar around his shoulder. First thing’s first is to check if he can even get inside. He extends his hand to the doorknob. 

He’s this close to falling into the room as the door swings open, his hand catching nothing but air. His head thunks into his guitar case as he flinches backwards, rubbing his head when he’s right again. God. 

Standing in the doorway now is an older man, glasses on his creased face, shorter than Pran by a head. The sun’s lowering a bit by now, but the silver in his hair catches its light. He looks startled. “Goodness! You can’t scare an old man like that!” 

Pran holds back the “ I startled you?” that’s somewhere within him, straightening up and bowing. “I’m sorry.” 

The old man just chuckles as Pran rises. “No need. Finally, you’re here. The guitarist.” 

“Yes, sir.” Pran nods. 

“I hope the trip wasn’t too bad for you?” The man says like a question. 

“It’s been… fine,” Pran says lightly. Bus fare, jostling recollections, and two-hour walks were not on his list of favorite things he’s ever done, but he made it here in one piece. So far. 

“No it wasn’t,” the man smiles, “That walk from the bust stop is brutal.”

“Yes, sir,” Pran responds with a small nod and chuckle, unsure of what else to say. “Are you–”

The old man bangs the door frame, “Yep, Uncle Yod told me he’d have new live entertainment. I’ll tell you I was really shocked by that one. He had the same fellow coming up here for years, a local, but when he moved away they didn’t really try to find anybody else. Not sure what convinced him to finally do it again. Maybe the frequenters complained. Everyone knows drinking’s no fun without music.” The man seems to think this is incredibly funny, laughing at himself until he clears his throat. 

“Sure isn’t,” Pran agrees, watching the shiny metal fish on the mailbox twinkle despite losing most of their luster. 

“Okay,” the man claps his hands together with finality, “I apologize for my rambling. Happens when you get old. You can call me Uncle Pian. I’m a fisherman, I work down at the docks and toss nets all day and it’s all very, very fun. I’m a good friend of Uncle Yod, he’s the guy who runs the bar, I’m sure you’ve spoken with him,” Uncle Pian pauses like Pran is meant to say something. 

Pran honestly couldn’t say who he’d spoken to or about what. To be honest, he’d been so uncharacteristically impulsive about this that he wouldn’t be too surprised if he’d gotten himself into a pyramid scheme. “I think I have,” he responds with half-confidence. He quickly adds, “And my name is Pran.” 

Uncle Pian simply looks at him for a moment, then claps again and resumes, “Right. Okay. Good to meet you, Pran. Really glad he’s going to have live music again. Anyway. I’m sure you want to see the place, so let’s grab your stuff and you can come in.” 

Thank heavens . Pran grabs one bag while Uncle Pian grabs the other with ease. It’s no mistake that he’s a fisherman and still has his wits about him. He carries it much like boat loads at his shoulder. 

Once inside, Pran follows suit in setting his stuff down on the floor against the bed as Uncle Pian has done. He finally hoists the guitar case up over his shoulders and sets it gently against the wall. He could practically fall over limp, he’s so happy to not be carrying anything anymore. 

“The decor’s a little outdated,” Uncle Pian chuckles from in front of him. Pran scans the room. It’s certainly…maritime. The anchor and fishhook imagery leave nothing to be desired. It’s not how Pran envisions his own interior design career panning out once he graduates, but he’s in no position to complain. Maybe it will unknowingly spark inspiration. He could find the lamp shaped like a helm to be charming, if he thought really hard about it. 

“I originally had this room built off of the house when I had fisherman workers coming in from other provinces,” Uncle Pian explains further, turning to face Pran, “It hasn’t been used for that in a long time though, and I live in a different house closer inland with my family. You’re a special case, guitar boy!” 

That explains why the room doesn’t look like it belongs to the rest of the house, though it doesn’t seem particularly large in its entirety. “I’m honored.” 

“Sure you are,” Uncle Pian laughs, “So. Stove,” he points to the stove. “Sink. Cupboards. Refrigerator. Any questions so far? You do know how to use a sink?” 

Pran feels a small laugh bubble up. “I think so, Uncle.”

“Magnificent,” Uncle Pian continues. “This table folds out for eating. There’s a closet right here. No laundry machines, we tend to hang dry around here. Back here is the bathroom.” 

Pran watches over his shoulders (not difficult to do, as short as he is) as he flicks the light on. No less nautical than the rest of the place, beachy boat shower curtains and all. He appreciates artistic consistency. 

“Don’t run out all the hot water. This is a green-thumb village, you know? Take lukewarm if you can help it,” Uncle Pian explains. 

Pran already had this in the back of his mind somewhere. He nods, “Understood.” 

Meandering back into the general openness of the room, Uncle Pian takes one final sweep before coming back to Pran. “Alright. This is the place. Hope it’s comfortable for you. It’s only a ten minute walk from here to the bar, you shouldn’t have any trouble finding it. And only fifteen to the dock, for when you help me fish.” 

Pran’s eyebrows fall, “I’m sorry?” 

Uncle Pian laughs at this heartily. “You’re not paying me your bar money for rent, guitar boy. That’s all yours. But a hand catching fish on my boat a couple days a week… that can do as payment.” 

Pran is more open to the idea than he would’ve expected. What’s the saying? When in Rome, do as the Romans do. He didn’t fish when he was here before, mostly just walked and built compost boxes and…walked. But he did see a lot of the fisherman out when they passed the beach. It could be fun. “That sounds pretty fair. Can I keep a fish?” 

Uncle Pian grins, “The smallest catch, maybe,” he winks to allude to his not being serious, and Pran grins back. “Right, almost forgot. Here’s your key.” 

He hands Pran the key, small and gold. “Thanks.” 

“I’ll let you get settled in, then. Maybe take a nap before you go meet Uncle Yod and the other new kid. He’s a funny guy, that one. I mean, seriously, what’s up with all the new young hires? Yod’s nowhere near as old as me to be worrying about this… anyway. I’ll get out of your hair. I’ll come fetch you after this weekend for your payment.” With a small touch of his hands together and a nod, Pran making a mutual gesture, he makes his way out the door. 

“Thanks again!” Pran calls one last time before the door shuts. 

It’s suddenly very quiet. Pran glances around again, familiarizing. Unlike the bunks they stayed in when they visited last year, this is all to himself. It’s not unlike his room near campus, though he’d argue he has better decorations. 

Those bunks were smaller, too. And stupid. 

He decides to go ahead and take Uncle Pian’s advice, shifting his things aside and setting an alarm before flopping onto the bed. He could worry about his stuff tomorrow. He needs some shut eye before he checks out the bar later. 

—

Pran’s shoulder pops when he lifts it over his head. He groans, reaching over to turn off his phone. Luckily, he feels well rested, at least enough to haul himself over to the bar if for nothing more than a scope out and to meet the other people there. 

Uncle Pian had said something about another new worker. Seemed like it was someone around his age. It would be nice if that’s true. Pran doesn’t always make friends quickly, but just the idea of someone who could have anything in common with him to talk to while he’s here is a comfort. He’s sure fishing with Uncle Pian will be great, but he doubts they can bond over the music they like or what movies they watch. 

The other new person also must not be a local, since Uncle Pian didn’t know them well or say their name. That could be another fair talking point, being new to the town. If they’ve never visited before, Pran could show them the hiking trails. Or maybe that would be a bad idea. For sure a bad idea. He shakes himself loose and gets up to get changed. 

It feels nice to take off the clothes he’d been wearing all day (and slept in, he never does that), replacing it with a new overshirt, something presentable but not particularly professional. He’s working at a beach bar, after all. 

He slips his guitar over his shoulders, double-checks that he has the key in his pocket, and makes his way towards the beach. 

It’s dark now, the air sultry. It’s easier to see celestial objects out here than back home, that he already knew. During camp he liked to go outside at night, watching them and trying to write something, making up an eighth note pattern that looked like a constellation if he was desperate enough for something to come out. He didn’t end up finishing any songs. 

The walk to the bar is about as painless as Uncle Pian had made it out to be. It’s a relatively well-lit path, tree-lined and simple, humming with summer sounds like bugs in the leaves. The path turns into firmly packed sand the closer he gets, and the bar can’t be missed. It’s bright and almost sparkly, strung up with bulbs of light and colorfully painted poles. A few people sit in low beach chairs on the sand, sharing a drink. There are paths laid out with tiny torches, flickering low fire. Pran smiles to himself as he approaches. 

He turns the corner to where the actual bar is, though no one is sitting there right now or even working behind it. It’s not surprising; he’s arrived on a Thursday and the night is still young. He glances around, more lights and hand-painted decor wrapped in naturally growing vine to behold.

There, his eyes land on it: that’s what he’s here for. It’s certainly nothing extravagant, but his face breaks out into a grin without any effort when he sees it. A simple wooden stool, a microphone stand, and a speaker. A place for sheet music. Modest and to the point, sitting on the edge of a stage that faces the water. It comes out onto the rocks that separate it from the beach. One floodlight beams down onto the spot he’d be sitting in through the trees. 

He startles, a hand on his shoulder breaking him from his staring. He grasps at his guitar strap out of reflex, turning to look to his side. 

“Oh! Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you,” the man says, smiling with kind eyes, “You were locked in quite the romantic gaze with our stage set-up. I take it you’re Pran.” 

“Yes,” Pran answers quickly, lowering himself once, “I’m Pran. I was admiring the– it’s a really nice bar. It’s really peaceful.” 

The man smiles. He adorns a stiff fedora hat, one small earring and a groomed mustache. He undoubtedly looks like he lives on the beach. “I can tell you’re not just saying that, either, because you don’t know that you’re talking to the owner.” 

Pran gets flustered. “So you’re-”

“Call me Uncle Yod,” he smiles again, or maybe he never stopped smiling, “I’m really pleased to have you here. You know, atmosphere is one thing, but we just aren’t complete around here without some live music. I’m hoping you can breathe a little life into the place with that guitar of yours.” 

Pran smiles back, giving a humble nod. “I‘ll try my best.” 

“Did you get settled in okay in Pian’s place?” Uncle Yod asks.

“I did. It’s cozy,” Pran answers honestly. His one nap on the bed was enough to prove it. Either that or he’d been even more tired than he thought. “And I guess I’m paying rent by fishing with him.”

Uncle Yod laughs at this, splintering his eyes in crow’s feet. “That sounds like Pian. If that’s really not your thing, you don’t have to. He’ll let up. Though I’m sure he could use the help.” 

Pran shakes his head, “No, I mean, I’d be happy to help. And it’ll be good to keep me occupied when I’m not working.” 

Uncle Yod seems pleased, hugging his arms together. “Speaking of that! Let’s get you acquainted with the bar, shall we? So you already saw the stage, that’s where you’ll be playing. We open up just before the sun sets at seven, basically go until everyone’s heading home. Nobody around here stays out until almost morning drinking, so you can expect to wrap up by midnight or earlier.” 

Pran nods along, following Uncle Yod as he begins walking towards the bar itself. “Okay.” 

“And you don’t have to play the whole time. You can stop, have a drink, mingle. Skinny dip in the ocean for all I care. Just have a good time and play some good music is all I really ask. I’m paying you regardless,” Yod props himself up against the bar, opening up into a back wall covered in cases holding the bottles and spirits behind lightly frosted glass. “There are open markets for the local farmers and the fisherman like Uncle Pian on weekend mornings. That’s where most people stock up on food for the week, if you prefer to cook. There’s some places to eat too. You should take the next few days to do some exploring.” 

Pran takes a seat at the bar when Yod motions for him to with a tilt of his head and light smile. “I was planning on it. I was hoping there was bike rental somewhere around here.” 

“Oh, yeah, you should be able to find something. Don’t know of too many people around here besides Tong who even own cars.” Uncle Yod’s eyes light up and he snaps lightly like he’s just remembered something. “That just reminded me. You’re not the only newbie around here. I also just hired a new bartender. I think you two are the same age. He’s a nice kid, really funny. Also from the city. You’ll get along swimmingly, I’m sure.” 

Pran taps his fingers together, looking around with anticipation. He really can’t get his hopes up. But, well, they’re going to be seeing each other almost every night for the rest of the summer. It’s not out of Pran’s grasp to hit it off with someone. He can manage. 

“We can go over some more logistics tomorrow, and you can actually start playing. Tonight, you can just get familiar with the bar, get to know the people who come here and your coworkers. Well, Pat and I are basically your only coworkers, except for when Lek decides to show up–”

Pran’s blood is like ice and he feels horrible for interrupting but can’t help himself as his mouth utters, “Pat?” 

Uncle Yod pauses, observing him momentarily before nodding, “Yeah, that’s my new bartender’s name. Sorry, I didn’t mention it before. Actually, let me go get him. I’m not even sure why he’s not out here yet.” 

Pran swallows past a lump of anxiety that’s gotten stuck in his throat, trying not to look absolutely freaked as he nods politely to Uncle Yod before he walks around the counter and into the bar. 

He needs to be rational. Pat isn’t that uncommon of a name. Other people his age who knew of this village could be named Pat. It’s not completely out of the realm of possibility. Sure, it’ll be strange to call someone else Pat, but it’s not anything he can’t handle. It’s just a coincidence. 

He hears voices talking, a couple of exchanged laughs before Yod’s hat is peaking out of the door. He looks away quickly so it’s not obvious that he was watching. 

“But I told you we found ourselves a good musician,” Uncle Yod is saying, “Let me introduce you to–”

A sharp intake of breath, not Yod’s, and then, “Pran.” 

Pran’s heartbeat falls into his stomach. Shit. 

He turns slowly, still hoping that by some miracle he’s wrong. But in front of him now is a tropical button up, sun-kissed skin, creased cheeks and eyes that held no secrets like open windows. Either this guy was a really convincing clone, or coincidences really don’t work in Pran’s favor. 

“Pat.” Pran doesn’t even mean to say it. His voice is quiet. They look at each other for a long time, long enough for Uncle Yod to seemingly become concerned. 

“Oh, do you two… know each other?” He asks cautiously from the side. 

Neither of them answers right away. They’re practically boring holes into each other. Pran’s the first to turn his face away wordlessly towards the water. 

He’s screwed. 

— 

Last year. Summer. 1:27 pm. 

For a kid who was captain of the academy’s football team, Pat hated long walks with a passion that burned red hot. 

“How much longer?” He whines out, tucking down his floppy tan hat with one hand, feeling the way it presses his hair into matted sweat collecting at his forehead. This was miserable. 

Pran turns and looks at him like he’s just squawked like a parrot, nose scrunched and upturned with annoyance. “Quit complaining, will you? It won’t make this end any quicker.” 

“Complaining helps me cope,” Pat says as he picks up an abandoned stick and starts whacking things with it in his path, watching the palm leaves sway with the crack of wind against them. “Deal with it.” 

Pran is silent now, only shaking his head. He trains his eyes on the path in front of him, jacket he’d adorned on their set-off now wrapped neatly around his shoulders, too hot to be worn. It was a habit of Pran’s. Pat had tried the look once in his bedroom mirror, turning and observing himself from different angles, but it was no use. Only Pran could make it look good. 

Or something. Not good. Decent. It just didn’t work on him. This heat was starting to melt his brain. 

“Why is it so hot?” He cries out, carrying out the last syllable as he drags the stick in his hand along the spines of tree bark. He flips his hat back, the cord of it catching around his neck. 

“We live in Thailand.” Pran answers him, not looking at him. Hands tucked in his pockets. Pat wants to ask if he’s absolutely crazy to be covering any body part with fabric right now. Pat wants to walk around this forest naked, a free man in the wild. Maybe then he wouldn’t be sweating so much. 

“If you look to your right,” He hears the distant voice of one of the tour guides ahead of them, where most of their peers were clustered with tote bags and cameras and portable fans, “you’ll see lots of frangipani flowers in bloom, which happen to be-”

Pat ditches the stick and picks up a half-broken palm leaf that had trampled to the ground, closing his eyes and holding it outward to fan himself. 

He hears a pronounced snort, cracking one eye open to see Pran watching him over his shoulder, only to skitter his eyes away when he’s caught. 

“What’s so funny? If you want a fanning too, just say it,” Pat says as he flips the leaf over and wafts it violently up and down in Pran’s direction, the hair that wasn’t damp flying back from his head. 

“Stop that, asshole!” Pran holds his arms up in a cross, clambering backwards, but Pat can tell he’s laughing. 

“Don’t you want to get fanned, your highness?” Pat asks with a ring in his voice. “You could faint!“ 

“You’re a royal pain in my ass,” Pran answers, picking up a fallen palm leaf of his own, swinging it back at Pat until they’re practically battling with them. 

Pat laughs at the way Pran’s face goes all stern and serious, like he’s taking this as a genuine jousting match. 

“Hey, Pat, Pran!” Pat hears someone call, both of them lowering their leaves and glancing over. P’Nam from their other class is looking back at them, so far away that it took him a minute to realize it was her. “What the hell are you two doing? If you’re not going to keep up, at least go five minutes without fighting.” She turns and continues to follow the group, almost out of sight in the trees by now. 

Pat watches Pran toss the leaf to the ground and straighten his shoulders. Pat snickers. 

“Shut up,” Pran says, but it’s just not as intimidating as Pat thinks he wants to sound. 

“Is your class president ego ruined?” Pat asks in a taunting tone as he rips off a small piece of the leaf to keep, continuing to fan himself and discarding the rest. 

Pran rams a shoulder into Pat’s. Pat grits his teeth and rams into him back. He’s smiling, though. Messing with Pran is fun. 

“We should probably try to catch up,” Pran mumbles, loosening the knotted shirt sleeve across his shoulders. 

Pat ignores that suggestion, “Do you think people are on to something when they say aliens made these rocks?” 

Pran casts an irritated glance at him. Pat just continues to smile back. “If I knocked on your head it would echo.” 

Pat snorts at that. “I got better grades than you in science last semester.” 

Pran rolls his eyes. Irrefutable. 

“But you did better in history,” Pat adds, glancing carefully at Pran as the other boy watches the trees and path and anything but him, “We always come out even somehow.” 

Pran doesn’t respond verbally but Pat’s observant enough to see his mouth curl up faintly. 

They continue walking in silence for a few more minutes. The rest of their group are almost dots now. He knows they should get closer. He can’t believe that Pran has allowed himself to be separated from the group for so long, with him, without throwing a fit or running to catch up and leaving Pat behind. Usually Pran would want to soak up all the knowledge he could get from something like this. Maybe something’s on his mind. 

“So,” Pat starts, voice suddenly unsure. He clears his throat and starts again. “I saw you leave the bunks last night. With your notebook. Were you trying to write or something?” 

The look on Pran’s face tells Pat that he’s startled to have been caught in the act. It wasn’t the first time, either; they’ve been on this trip for five nights now, and four of them Pran has snuck out. The only reason he didn't one night was because he was playing by the campfire with a guitar one of the counselors let him borrow. 

“I’m writing a song, I guess,” comes Pran’s answer a few moments later. “Or trying to. Or it might not even be the same song, but, like, multiple songs. I’m not really sure.” 

“Not going well?” Pat asks, “Maybe that’s because you’re trying to use a school volunteering trip as your muse. Shouldn’t you be writing about love or something? All you’re gonna end up with out here is a jingle on how to properly sort recyclables.” 

He watches Pran, who gives him a strange look before swallowing and looking at his feet. Okay, so Pat said something wrong. He can fix this. 

“Which could definitely make you rich and famous! Kids love to sing songs about recycling!” He tries. 

Pran does the thing where he breathes out his nose and smiles just a little. He still looks a bit distant as he says, “I mean, it’s less about the trip and more about the environment. Something about being out here, living for something simpler but still bigger than you are. Caring about something without worrying about if it’s returned.” 

Pat’s eyebrows bunch up. He thinks maybe Pran’s lost him. Or like Pran is saying one thing but Pat is hearing something entirely different. “Like with the zero-waste thing they’re doing?” 

Pran rolls his head around on his neck, “Yes? But not just that. It’s like, the feeling behind it. It’s not— don’t worry about it.” 

“But I want you to–” Pat stops frozen in his tracks. “Wait. Stop.” 

Pran gives him a concerned look, stopping and waiting for Pat to explain himself. Pat holds a finger up to his lips, indicating for Pran to be quiet. Pran nods lightly. Pat grabs Pran by the shoulders, turning him so he’s facing the other direction. “Deer,” he whispers next to Pran’s shoulder, “Looks like a mom and a baby.” 

They both watch in silence, Pat still clinging to Pran’s shoulders from behind. He should probably let go, but he doesn’t want to make any sudden movements. They’re nestled in between a clearing and a tree line, chewing on clovers. He glances over just briefly to see Pran smiling. Satisfied, he watches the deer again. 

“The baby has such big ears,” Pat chuckles, still trying to stay quiet. Pran is almost inhumanly still in his hold, until his elbow presses into him. 

“Yeah, meaning they can probably hear you,” Pran grits under his breath. They pause a moment, watching, until Pran says quietly, “Sambar deer. They’re a vulnerable species.” 

Pat turns to look at the side of Pran’s face. “How the hell do you know that?” 

Pran looks at him impatiently, “Do you even read the manuals they gave us? It talks about the local wildlife.” 

Pat frowns. “I skimmed.” He says with a little bit of guilt, and then he’s registering just how close they are. He glances around Pran’s face. Pran’s not bad. Not bad at all. 

Pat turns away suddenly with the thought, perturbed. He lets go of Pran’s shoulders. When he backs up, his shoe cracks on a twig, and just like that the deer have disappeared back into the forest. 

“Nice going,” Pran turns to him, accusatory. 

“My bad,” Pat says, out of it. Being alone with Pran was always so weird. “But it’s thanks to me we even got to see them in the first place!” 

Pran shrugs and continues walking, “Yeah, you’re a hero.” 

“Let’s just catch up with the others. They’re almost gone.” Pat says. 

Pran looks back at him, hair in his eyes, “I’m literally walking ahead of you.” 

Damn him. 

—

“We, uh. We went to high school together. Our families know each other.” Pran hears Pat say to Uncle Yod. 

There’s the summary, Pran thinks weakly, still watching the waves meet the shore. He doesn’t know what to do. He feels paralyzed on his barstool, teetering between fight or flight, between pretending everything is fine or admitting this was all a mistake and taking the bus back home. 

It can’t be a good look for him to be completely avoiding eye contact, so he turns back around, mostly to face Uncle Yod. “We both did the volunteer camp here before we graduated last year,” Pran adds calmly. He can feel Pat’s eyes watching him but doesn’t glance over no matter how badly he wants to. 

He feels bad for Uncle Yod. It’s obvious he can feel the tension straining in the air, and none of this is his fault. He looks between them again, nodding slowly. “Oh, so you both know Uncle Tong, then. Pat’s staying with him, so I figured he knew him from somewhere. Tong asked with Pian about your arrangements, too.” He says the last part directly to Pran. 

“I remember him. That was kind, please thank him for me,” Pran tells him, sincere despite the tonal shift he’s sure is present in his voice. 

“Of course. Or Pat can tell him! He lives there,” Uncle Yod laughs awkwardly. Pran glances at Pat by accident. He’s making that face, the worst expression Pran’s ever seen on him, like a kicked puppy. He swallows and looks for patterns in the wood the bar is made out of. 

“I will tell him,” Pat says, and Pran knows he’s talking to him and not Yod. Or trying to. 

“Pran, would you like Pat to make you a drink? He’s really quite good at it. I couldn’t believe it when he told me he’s never mixed before he got here,” Uncle Yod suggests, clearly trying to do damage control for something he doesn’t even know about. 

“Can I test your speakers, actually?” Pran asks lightly, trying his best to divert in a way that won’t make Uncle Yod feel any more wedged in than he already must. 

Uncle Yod glances at Pat, then nods. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Knock yourself out. Gotta make sure they sound good.” 

Pran excuses himself with his guitar and walks over to the stage. He feels almost nauseous, trying to ground himself as he sits on the stool and toys with the speakers, hoping to look busy and intrigued. 

He strums a few quiet chords and hears them come out louder from the speaker. A few people glance at him from their seats on the beach like they’re expecting him to play. He finger picks a little bit to create the illusion of a decent song, putting everything into the guitar that he can possibly exile as music notes. 

He just plays by ear, for how long, he’s not sure. It’s probably at least twenty minutes that he’s up there, simply creating melodies that are whirling through his head to get it to quiet down in there and go somewhere more useful. When he stops playing for long enough to give the impression he’s finished, a couple of people clap. 

“That was technically my first gig,” Pran says into the mic, voice shy, “But I’m not going to count it because it’s my first day. So come back tomorrow night and I’ll play an actual song for you.” 

The few people sitting across the beach area laugh a little before going back to their drinks and light chatter. 

As much as playing helped him get away for a minute, he knows when he turns around, Pat will still be there, and the reality is that Pat will be here with him probably every night until both of them are done with their jobs. And Pran is many things that he can admit. He’s stubborn, he’s a neat freak and sometimes he thinks his understanding of his own emotions is on par with his understanding of quantum physics. But he’s not immature, and he’s not unprofessional. He came here to play his music. He’s going to see it through. 

He puts his guitar away and slings it back over his shoulders. He finds Uncle Yod and Pat behind the bar. They’re both cracking up, and he can only imagine it’s something Pat said. Pat is cleaning out a glass with a small rag and he’s got a pencil tucked behind his ear. He’s the picture of his new place, already fitting in, always more adaptable than Pran ever was. A year has only made him more handsome. His eyes still crinkle when he laughs. 

He looks away for a moment, tugging at his ear and biting the inside of his cheek. 

“Pran!” He faces the beckoning and sees Uncle Yod waving him over. 

He approaches, not missing the way Pat’s eyes follow him. It’s like Pat thinks he could get Pran’s eyes on him with telekinesis if he just tries hard enough. Pran also doesn’t think that would be a complete crapshoot, but he pushes the thought away. “Yes?” 

“I liked what you were doing over there,” Yod motions to the stage, “Sounds like the guitar goes over the speakers just fine.” 

Pran waves it off, “Oh, I was just making sure it was in tune and everything. I’m going to play something real tomorrow night.” 

“Well, even your soundcheck is better than anything I could do, and that’s about all I can ask for,” Uncle Yod smiles before placing a drink in front of Pran. “On the house. Tell me what you think.” 

Pran inspects it only enough to take in the vibrant yellow color before he brings it to his lips. It’s fruity and sweet and there’s something salty in it as well, chased unsurprisingly by the sharp warmth of alcohol. He nods with a small smile. “Mm. That’s really good. Is it mango?” 

“Ask Pat,” Uncle Yod encourages, gesturing to him with grandiosity. “He made it.” 

Pran has just enough time to think to himself that Yod’s a little slick before he finally looks over to Pat. He raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Well?”

“Close. Mango and papaya,” Pat answers. His eyes shine in the bar lights, his look always soft but still shrouded in uncertainty, and Pran looks away to take another drink. It’s tasty, he’s not above admitting it. 

“If it’s alright, I think I’ll go back to my place,” Pran says as he finishes the drink, “Or I can help clean up?” 

Uncle Yod shakes his head, “You’ve had a long day of travels. Go rest. Pat, you’re good to go too. I’ll take care of it tonight. See you both tomorrow.” 

Pran thanks him and bids him goodnight before he sets off as fast as possible without drawing attention. He presses on up the road, willing the last of his adrenaline to just make this ten minute walk so he doesn’t have to worry about— 

“Pran!” 

Nevermind. 

“Pran! Wait up!“ 

He doesn’t wait up. Still walking, he starts counting, or naming colors, doing anything he can think of. 

A hand on his shoulder. That he can’t ignore. 

He stops and turns to face Pat, who’s catching his breath. Pran’s chest twinges. 

“How do you always walk so fast?” Pat asks. 

“Did I leave something back there?” Pran asks instead of answering. 

“No?” Pat seems confused, then alarmed. “But—”

“Goodnight, then,” Pran sets off again. 

Another hand grabbing him, his inner elbow this time. He stops and makes a point to yank it free. 

“Pran,” Pat starts, breathes in like he’s trying to orient himself, to find his words. “You can’t ignore me.” 

“Considering we work together, that’s probably true,” Pran agrees. 

“So then why are you trying to?” Pat asks and his voice sounds sad and Pran really, really can’t do this. 

“We’re not at work right now, are we?” Pran clarifies. 

Pat frowns at him. “Pran, come on–” 

“We don’t have to be friends, Pat,” Pran says before Pat can say anything else that’ll make his heart hurt. 

“Again,” Pat corrects, “We don’t have to be friends again, that’s what you mean.” Well, so much for that. Pran sort of wants to cry. 

“Sure,” Pran just wants to stop having this conversation. “Look, we can just be coworkers and be professional and spend the rest of the summer here and go home.” 

“Is that what you want?” Pat asks. 

Pran observes him. He buttoned his goddamn shirt wrong, one button off. His fingers itch to fix it for him. He looks away. “What I want is to go to sleep. I’ve had a long day.” 

“Okay,” Pat says easily, voice falling gentler. Backing down. God. “Okay, yeah, I hope you get some rest. I just. I’m really happy to see you again. I want you to know that.” 

A year and it’s clear Pat still holds Pran’s heart in his hands. It’s ridiculous, really.

Pat sets off in the other direction, and Pran watches him for a few short moments before he restarts his own walk back. 

Do not cry, he wills himself when he feels it coming on, pinching the bridge of his nose against his eyes, don’t. 

He doesn’t, by some miracle, but it takes forever to finally get to sleep. 

— 

A small part of Pran had wondered if, maybe, when he approaches the bar for his actual first night at work and peers behind the counter at the person preparing drinks, that it will be someone tall, handsome, dark hair and eyes, but decidedly a stranger, just close enough to Pat that it could appear so in a hallucination. 

But the boy there is Pat, and he smiles at Pran when he makes his way towards the stage. He smiles at him while he puts one of those tiny umbrellas in a cocktail and slides it to the patron across from him. That’s what he does.

Pran wonders what he’s done to deserve this. Maybe this was his sacrifice, to live on his own terms for once and follow his dreams if only for one summer out of his whole life, but have to face Pat every single night like Sisphyus pushing his boulder. 

If his dream wasn’t also Pat, he’d be able to justify that being true. 

He’s a complete idiot. 

Pat smiles at him and that’s when it really sinks in. 

Pat. Pat. Who he’d somehow managed to avoid since last summer every time he visited home for the holidays, every time he went on social media (almost. Almost every time), every time he picked up groceries for his parents. And this job playing guitar at a bar in a village that needs hours on a bus to get in and out. That’s where he can’t be avoided. 

He averts his gaze from Pat without acknowledgement, moving to set up his things. 

It’s Friday night, so there are more people coming in now than there were last night. A few larger groups, people who might be friends or work colleagues. He even sees Uncle Yod sitting with someone who looks not-so-vaguely familiar, a kind face and glasses and a bandana pushing back the hair from his forehead. Uncle Tong.

Pran tries to get situated with his guitar, adjusting the microphone to the correct angle. Uncle Yod tilts his hat to him from his seat, smiling. 

He clears his throat too close to the mic, sending a small squeak of feedback out into the crowd. He clutches the mic with a wince, waiting before he tries again. “Hello, hello, everyone. Um. My name is Pran. I’m an architecture student who’s from the city and hates getting sand in his shoes,” Pran smiles faintly, nervous all over, “So you might be wondering why I’m even here. And uh- and the answer is that I really love music. It’s always been my dream to play for others. I used to want to go all over with my guitar, going to places like this… well, anyway, this is a start, right?” 

It earns him a few small laughs and quiet but earnest claps. 

“So thanks for letting me sing for you all tonight. I hope you like it.” He shifts slightly to face his music and starts to play. 

There’s something about observing when he sings that he enjoys. The words and the chords require his focus, of course, but his eyes naturally wander as he does, watches the ebb and flow of people leaving their seats to grab more drinks, the ones that stop and look at him for a second while they listen before they resume their conversation, when people leave for the night but smile at him before they do. 

He finishes his first song and there’s a steady string of claps that follows, and a couple of whistles. Warmth fills him. There’s no mistaking that this is what he loves. 


He lowers his eyes to find Pat at the edge of the stage, clapping along right until it dies out. 

“Do you take requests?” Pat asks him when it quiets down again, the thrum of voices filling in the gap of music. 

“Are you not working?” Pran inquires, taking a drink of water. 

“I am,” Pat answers, and he looks like he’s preparing himself to say something else, but doesn’t get the opportunity as an arm pats his shoulder and it’s no longer just them. Uncle Yod and the man Pran recognized to be Uncle Tong approach them, standing on either side of Pat in front of Pran. 

“Pran, this is Uncle Tong,” Uncle Yod introduces, “You remember him from when you did the volunteer camp last summer. He’s one of the main coordinators.” 

Pran looks over to him and smiles, “It’s nice to see you again, Uncle Tong, thank you for listening to me play.” 

Uncle Tong smiles at him and nods his head down slightly. “I was happy to listen. I remember both of you from my camp last year. Troublemakers,” he says it with a sarcastic squint of his eyes and the air of someone who’s teasing, but it makes Pran squirm in his seat. “But that’s why I was happy to let Pat stay at my place while he works at the bar. Any volunteer for the village is a friend of mine.” 

“Oh! That reminds me, thank you so much for having Uncle Pian give me somewhere to stay. I really appreciate it,” Pran tells him, shaking off the rest of his reservation, or maybe embarrassment. 

“Pat has already told me how grateful you are,” Uncle Tong laughs, and Pran’s eyes flicker to Pat, who’s already watching him. “But it’s nice to hear it from you too. It’s no problem at all.” 

Pran needs to change the subject. “Are you still doing the volunteer camp, Uncle?” Bad choice, maybe, but he’s already made it. 

Uncle Tong tucks his hands behind him with a wide grin. “Every year. The last group actually just left a few days ago. We’ve been thankful for good weather and really passionate kids. Now is my downtime. Except it’s not actually my downtime, because my nephew Junior stays with me over the summer, and kids are not notorious for letting you rest.” 

“Junior is a good kid,” Pat chimes in, “But he told me yesterday that I make my bed like I’m ‘trying to hide raccoons in it’. Real quote.” 

Uncle Yod and Uncle Tong laugh at this, and Pran bites at his lip to stop himself from joining along. He busies himself with a guitar string. 

“That sounds like Junior,” Uncle Tong muses, “He’s a wisecracker. But you’re right, he’s a good kid.” 

“Pran,” Uncle Yod addresses him, causing him to look back up, “Have you had the chance to go to the market yet?” 

“No, sir,” Pran answers sheepishly. The truth was that he ate a granola bar from the front pocket of his bag that he’d almost forgotten about for breakfast, and before he’d gotten the chance to try to look for something for lunch, Uncle Pian had stopped by with some pre-cooked fish. 

“Well, if you need someone to go with,” he slings an arm around Pat’s shoulder, “Pat here can take you. He’s already picked up a few things. He can even get you there quicker using Tong’s truck.” 

Pran looks down at Pat, who’s wearing a bashful grin and looking back at him expectantly. Pran should say no. But it was essentially Uncle Yod who had offered, not Pat, and it wouldn’t be a good look for him to shut it down to his face. 

“Yeah, alright,” he says in a composed tone. 

“Great,” Uncle Yod sounds pleased, “You two can work out the details then. But Pran should get back to singing and Pat should get back to making drinks and Tong and I should get back to drinking them.” 

Pran nods politely to them as they walk away. Pat, however, stays standing there, drawing in the sand with his foot. 

“I believe he said ‘should get back to making drinks’,” Pran reminds him, curt. 

“Tomorrow morning,” Pat says, and Pran makes a face, not following, “I’ll come get you in Uncle Tong’s truck tomorrow morning. It’s not a far drive.” 

Pat begins to walk away, leaving Pran to be both flustered and frustrated by his ability to just leave him out of it altogether. “You don’t even know where I’m staying!” 

Pat looks back at him with a grin. “You think Uncle Yod won’t tell me?” He winks, turning and resuming his position at the bar. 

After Pran expels the steam from his ears, he swivels back around on his stool to face the microphone. Whatever. Nothing he couldn’t handle. He starts his next set and watches the flickering lights closely, trying to be nothing but a voice and a song. 

—

Pran is pacing the room built off a house belonging to a fisherman with the intensity of someone waiting for the biggest phone call of their life. 

He’s biting his thumb again too. Stop it. He pushes the hand into his pocket. 

So what. It was just going to be the first time Pran’s been alone with Pat in over a year. That’s all. Nothing. 

Pran almost laughs at himself. It’s amazing what you try to convince yourself is true when you’re scared. It’s not nothing, even a little. 

A horn honks outside. Shit. Pran thought maybe he would have a little more time to walk hopeless circles in his room, but he’s being summoned. He stares at his door. 

Fine. Fine. He grabs his tote bag and walks outside. 

It’s hot as usual, but the wind is blowing steadily. Up the overgrown stairs and on the street is a classic yellow pickup truck, engine humming, with Pat in the driver’s seat. He’s tapping the steering wheel and wearing sunglasses. What an ass. 

As Pran makes it to the top of the steps, Pat looks over at him through his open window. He slides the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, regarding Pran thoroughly with a smile. “Good morning,” he greets jauntily, “Sleep well?” 

Pran ignores him, walking around the back of the truck bed and to the passenger side door. He opens it and sits down in silence, fastening his seatbelt and then looking out the window. 

“Wrong side of the bed,” Pat mumbles as he shifts the gears from park to drive. “You don’t happen to have cassette tapes on you, do you? That’s all this thing can play.” 

Pran continues to look out the window, watching the clouds drift slowly. 

“Right,” Pat sighs a moment later, “You’ll just have to deal with Uncle Tong’s folk rock from twenty five years ago, then.” 

The music starts to play as Pat hits the gas and drives down the road. Pran goes to roll down his window, the kind with the rolling crank, but it doesn’t budge. 

“You have to push really hard,” Pat fulfills from next to him. Meaning he was watching him long enough to notice. 

Pran does as he says and pushes until it finally comes loose, rolling until the window is down halfway, the breeze jostling his hair. The old guitar coming through the speakers combined with the fresh air feels peaceful. He moves his eyes to watch the beads hanging from the rearview mirror swing back and forth with the motion of the car. He then moves his eyes to Pat. 

He’s since slid his sunglasses up past his forehead and into his hair, pushing back some strands while others go free. Today’s shirt is a dark blue with pink hibiscus flowers. His eyes scan Pat’s mouth while Pat’s eyes scan the road and his heart jumps. 

Pat barely moves his head in Pran’s direction, scaring Pran into hastily turning away and looking out the window again. He prays Pat doesn’t say anything. 

“Is there something on my face?” Pat sounds amused. Of course. 

Pran furrows his eyebrows as he looks out the window, like he’s really trying to concentrate on the trees and shoreline they’re passing. 

Suddenly, the car stops.

Pran involuntarily slumps forward a little before his back lands against the seat. 

“Are you actually giving me the silent treatment?” Pat cries. 

Pran slowly turns his head towards him. He shifted in his seat, his whole torso turned to face Pran, one hand still on the wheel while the other held him up in the space between them. 

Pran feels like an idiot for still being silent after being asked that question, but all his words are lost on him as he watches Pat’s eyes. 

“The last time I remember you giving me the silent treatment was in eighth grade, and that time I definitely deserved it for tying your shoelaces together,” Pat takes a breath, “But this? I don’t think I deserve this.” 

Pran swallows. Do you know how hard this is? he wants to ask, but doesn’t. Pat’s eyes are large and round as they watch him now. Pat has always had the type of face that’s hard to be mad at and impossible to hate. Pran feels the mold cracking already. He’s ruined. 

“No,” he says honestly, watching the road in front of them, “You don’t.” 

Now Pat is silent, like he hadn’t expected that to be Pran’s answer. Pran meets his eyes again. 

“This whole thing caught me off guard,” Pran admits. 

“You don’t think it caught me off guard?” Pat asks, mouth half-open and finger pointing to himself. 

He’s cute. Pran is ruined. 

“I don’t know what I think,” Pran says, and that might be the most honest thing he’s said so far. 

Pat searches his face. “That’s fine,” Pat says to him slowly, “We’re just coworkers going to the market. That’s what we are if that’s what you want.” 

Hearing that makes Pran ache enormously, because that’s not what he wants. But it might be what he needs. It might be where he has to start. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” Pat gives him a little grin. Then he turns and points a stern finger at him, “So no more ignoring me!” 

Pran agrees reluctantly. “Deal.” 

—

Pran is ignoring Pat. Not for his own unresolved emotional turmoil reasons, but because Pat is annoying. 

“Kumquat… no, dragon fruit. Kumquat. Dragon fruit.” He keeps saying, holding them up at the same stand at the market for ten minutes. 

“They’re not even the same at all.” Pran remarks. When it doesn’t spur Pat to make a decision, he walks away. 

He begins to try and sort out his own essentials. Fish and chicken, vegetables, rice and stock. The market is bigger than he’d envisioned, a lot like the ones at home but with more direct access to the seafood. Lights hang in between the different booths. Drying spices. White boards with quick handwriting to display the day’s specials. 

He’s almost finished picking out some fresh tomatoes and putting them in his bag when he’s caught up with. 

“You snuck off,” Pat says as he approaches behind him, causing Pran to jump slightly, “Way to worry a guy.” 

Pran hardens his jaw. Pat wasn’t helping anything. “Did you pick kumquat or dragon fruit?”

Pat holds up his selected fruit proudly. “Papaya!” 

Pran rolls his eyes, brushing him aside to pay for his tomatoes and toss them into his tote with the rest of his things. 

“Plan on making something?” Pat asks as he trails along, feet slightly off sync with Pran’s as they walk forward. 

“No, I’m getting ingredients because I plan to go toss them off of a cliff into the sea,” Pran responds blankly. 

“A year doesn’t necessarily make someone less crotchety, I see,” Pat frowns, rolling the papaya over in his hand. 

“I’m not crotchety,” Pran claims, though it lacks conviction. 

“You very much are,” Pat says back. 

“I’m just getting all the essentials my mom keeps in her kitchen. I didn’t get to cook much at school last year since I was so busy, so I want to try it again.” He decides to go ahead and answer Pat’s question in retrograde. 

“What are you studying, by the way? Did you still pick architecture?” Pat asks. 

Pran had almost forgotten that Pat knows things about him and it’s jarring. As if Pat hadn’t been the most pivotal person in his life until last summer. “Yeah.” 

“Do you like it?” Pat follows up. 

“I do. A lot, really,” Pran answers, then asks, “Did you do business?” 

He remembers Pat’s dad always pushing that one. He wanted Pat to get an education in business so he could take over and expand the family company. Pat had never seemed eager about it, but he also never indicated that he would do anything else. 

“Engineering, actually,” Pat corrects. 

Pran holds back a smile at that. He suddenly has a lot of things he wants to ask, but no leverage to stand on to get himself to ask them. 

“Did you end up–” Pat starts, but doesn’t get to finish. 

“Hey there!” A lady with a kind smile waves at them from her booth, “Are you boys visiting? I didn’t think any more volunteers were coming this month.” 

As they approach her stand, Pat says with a charming smile, “Good morning, miss. We’re working, actually.” 

“Oh, that’s good to hear. Whereabouts?” 

“The bar by the beach,” Pat elaborates. 

“Uncle Yod’s place?” She asks, earning nods from both of them, ”Both of you?” 

“That’s right,” Pat smiles with a quick nod, “But I’m the bartender. He’s the live music,” he motions to Pran. 

“That’s nice. I’ll have to come by one of these nights, it’s been so long. Why don’t you take some roasted peanuts with you? On me. Give some to Uncle Yod, too.” 

She fills a couple of sachets for them, placing them in their hands gently. They press their hands together and thank her as they make their way towards the market’s exit. 

“Hey,” Pat says as they’re about to walk back into the open air to go find the truck, “I have a proposition.” 

Pran eyes him skeptically, a nonverbal question. 

“Can I show you something?“ 

Pran still doesn’t answer. He really isn’t sure this is a good idea. 

“Come on. We still have all the rest of this afternoon before we have to go to work. Don’t you want to kill some time?” 

That, Pran couldn’t argue with. He just hopes he’s not in over his head. “Alright.” 

— 

Last year. Summer. 1:45 pm. 

“Pran, can you wait up?” Pat begs, landing his palms on his knees as he takes in a few deep breaths, “You walk like someone’s gonna give you a million bucks down there.” 

Pran turns to him, hand on his waist. “You’re the one who got us this far behind. We’re almost there, I can see them by that tree.” 

“Yeah, yeah, just…” He stands up, takes a swig from his water and slides it back into his backpack. 

Pran makes a funny face at him. “I almost feel like you’re messing with me. How is someone as athletic as you struggling this much?” 

“This is not the football field, Pran, this is dangerous terrain!” Pat declares, walking up to him so they’re even. 

“Right,” Pran drones. 

They keep walking. Pat likes the volunteering trip, of course. Although he liked the part where they ate dinner on long wooden picnic tables and messed around playing beach volleyball a lot more than the daytime hikes, sue him. Pran seemed to take on the opposite stance; kept to himself at dinner, and for all the goals he could snake past Pat in football, he couldn’t play volleyball to save his life. It got so bad that his teammates made him keep score. Pat smiles fondly to himself. 

“What are you grinning for?” Pran asks from next to him. 

“Oh, nothing,” Pat answers. The grouchy look he got when he changed the number card from two to three. Good stuff. Pat holds back a snicker. 

“What?” Pran sounds alarmed. “There’s something on my face, isn’t there?” 

“Just your face,” Pat frowns as though this is tragic, and Pran hits his arm with the back of his hand. “Why the hell is that jacket still on your shoulders, dude? I feel like I’m in a volcano.” 

Pran tugs at it, “Where else am I supposed to put it? It could come in handy, anyway.” 

“I bet you read survival 101 lists before you came out here,” Pat taunts. 

“When you eat unidentifiable berries and your throat closes you’ll be so regretful that you made fun of me,” Pran retorts. 

Pat laughs. 

Suddenly, something comes into his view that draws his attention. Up the trail  somewhere between them and their almost invisible group is some sort of structure, like a hut or an awning. “Pran, what is that?“ 

“What’s what?” 

“Up there, off the trail a little. It’s like a box or something.” 

“Looks like one of those observation shelters, the ones they set up for a vantage point of the trial. They build them in places like these,” Pran answers expertly. When Pat just looks at him, Pran simply says, “Manual.” 

“Huh. Pretty cool.” 

“Shit. I can’t even see the group anymore, we need to get going,” Pran says. 

“Yeah, I’ll race you if–” Pat gets cut off by one of the loudest cracks of thunder he’s ever heard in his life. 

In absolutely no time, dark clouds are rolling in above them like the sun hadn’t been there at all. 

“Oh-” Pran starts. 

“–shit.” Pat finishes for him. 

Like a dam bursting open, the rain begins to pour down on them suddenly and mercilessly. Pran quickly undoes his jacket from around his neck and holds it over both of them as they run forward. 

“Let’s go over to the observation shelter,” Pran says to him, and Pat nods as he holds up the end of Pran’s sleeve. 

The ground is already soaked as they go off trail to get to it, splotches of mud on the bottom of their shoes. Pat holds the jacket up for Pran as he fiddles to get the door open. 

They get inside, but the damage is done. They’re both soaked from head to toe. Both a little out of breath from the run, they collapse onto the floor, Pran against one wall while Pat sat against the one perpendicular to him. 

“Thailand summers,” Pat says with a short laugh. 

“Not making fun of my jacket now, are you?“ Pran asks with a raised eyebrow, holding up the jacket that’s now heavy and dripping with rain. 

“Yes, because the jacket did us so much good,” Pat points out as he stretches his soaking shirt from his chest with a slosh sound. 

Pran huffs without a response. Pat takes a look at their surroundings. Windows cover each side, all closed but seemingly easy to open. A few binoculars sit attached and fastened to the window sills. A map of the trails on the wall. The rain is pouring, hitting the roof and making a large thrumming sound all around them. 

Wherever the group is, it’s decidedly not here. They probably found their own shelter or even kept walking straight back to camp. Who knows how long it’ll be for them to realize Pat and Pran aren’t with them, let alone come looking. 

“Well,” Pat breathes out, running a hand through his damp hair, “Now what?” 

—

Pat’s been driving them somewhere for a while. Pran isn’t actually sure he has a good perception of how far away anything should be, though. His two-hour walk from the bus stop to his room really threw him off of how far a moving vehicle could take him. 

“Are you trying to make me worry that I’ve been kidnapped?” Pran asks as he leans against the window, watching the trees above him blur into green while the sky beyond remained contrastively still. 

“My plan was to actually ditch you so that I could become the new singer at Uncle Yod’s,” Pat says, “I’ve really been working on my vocals.” 

“Stick to percussion, please,” Pran pleads in a quiet voice. He hears Pat laugh. He missed making Pat laugh. He thumps his head lightly on the glass. 

“We’re almost there,” Pat says a moment later. 

Not long after, Pran can feel the car take a turn off of the road, their trail suddenly bumpy, the sound of the tires scratching on loose rocks getting him to look up. 

The area feels familiar. The beach is in the distance, as it always is, but up closer to the truck is grassy land covered in high shady trees. Pat shuts off the car and gets out first, and Pran stalls a moment before following. 

“Do you remember this place?” Pat asks as Pran catches up with him, his short sleeved button up blowing back in the wind. 

Pran looks around. He knows he does, somewhere in his mind, but a lot of that trip became so muddled and overshadowed in his mind. Pushed aside to make room for the biggest thing that’s existed in his brain since then. 

“Maybe,” he mutters, looking up at the trees. 

“Wrong way,” Pat tells him, “Come here.” 

Pat keeps walking past the trees. Past the shade, there’s a long box filled with dirt. Plants are growing tall out of it, some flowering, others just crowning with buds. A few rods have been stuck in the fertilizer to keep the plants upright, or to grow around. 

“Remember these?” Pat asks as he crouches down near the planer, gently holding a leaf against his fingertips. 

It comes back to Pran. They’d planted these as one of the camp activities last year. At the time, they were only seeds in the dirt, no way of telling where one plot ended and another began or what the plants would look like once they sprouted. 

Now the plants spill from the sides, green and healthy. “They’re huge now,” he remarks, still standing over them. 

Pat looks up at him from his place closer to the earth. “A year will do that.” 

“I wonder who takes care of them,” Pran wonders aloud. 

“Uncle Tong told me he sometimes does,” Pat says, “Or the new volunteers will. We were actually lucky to plant the brand new seeds that year.”

Pran watches Pat poke through the plants gently, looking for which ones have blooms, eyes concentrated but mouth smiling. Pran is suddenly struck with the daunting feeling of reminiscence. Watching Pat last summer, cheeks bright from days under the hot sun, as he shoveled through dirt and shook his gloves clean. When he lifted an earthworm with his bare hands and dared Pran to touch it as Pran squirmed away. 

It was easier, back then, to look at him and be heartbroken. It was hope that became the nail in his coffin. 

He stops his thoughts for fear of making things worse. Pat already told him, accommodated him, even. We’re just coworkers going to the market. That’s what we are if that’s what you want.

“Do you remember which ones are ours?” Pat asks him suddenly. 

Pran scans the planter but he really has no idea. At the time he’d been too busy looking at Pat to pay where his specific seed was planted any mind. “Not a clue.” 

“I think…” Pat trails off, searching with his lip tucked under his teeth. “Mine was somewhere in the middle. Maybe here?” 

He’s pointing to a general mishap of stems and leaves. 

“If you say so,” Pran tells him. He turns to face the ocean. He can hear the waves crashing. 

He glances over when he can see Pat stand up out of his periphery. 

“I just wanted to show you that,” Pat tells him. 

Pran’s heart is definitely going to fall to pieces because of Pat, if it hadn’t already. 

“Think I can get to the water first?” Pat asks after Pran’s notable silence, raising one eyebrow. This was how he always got him. Like a mouse to its cheese in a trap. 

“Absolutely not,” Pran answers, and they both go so fast they kick up sand behind them. 

—

When they sit back in Uncle Tong’s truck they’re getting the seats wet with seawater. 

“I hope Uncle Tong doesn’t get mad at me,” Pat says remorsefully. 

“He seems like he practices inner peace,” Pran says to him, “This car isn’t in tip top shape anyway.” 

Pat laughs as he clutches the wheel and backs the car onto the road once again. Pran can’t look at Pat the rest of the ride. Not with damp clothes. 

—

Pran plays guitar at Uncle Yod’s bar for a week before Pat asks him a question that he’s surprised took him so long to ask. 

He’s sitting on a rock a little further from the bar, watching the dark water in the distance. The light from the bar only extended so far onto the sand before fading out, but the moon has been getting bigger and bigger every night he’s been here, its light getting bright enough to reflect off of the waves now. He likes these moments in between playing, where he can just take it all in. 

Pat enjoys ruining them. 

He appears next to him but doesn’t say anything for a moment, so Pran lets him. 

“Do your parents know you’re here?” Pat asks after a stretch of mutual silence. 

He’s not surprised that this is on Pat’s mind. It didn’t seem altogether Siridechawat-like to encourage Pran to set off for playing music at a bar his first summer out of college. But things could be unexpected. “They do. I told them about it.” 

Pat’s eyes widen. “Seriously? And they’re cool with it?” 

Pran shrugs. “They basically told me they support me following my passions, but also that they feel better knowing I’m doing it while I still have less going on and I’m not being flooded with internship opportunities,” Pran explains, then adds, “They’re actually quite supportive of anything you’re not involved in. How ironic.” 

Pat is silent at that and Pran regrets saying it. It’s not Pat’s fault. It never was. 

“I’m glad, though. That they’re supportive.” Pat says quietly. 

“What about your parents?” Pran asks warily. 

Pat shrugs. He has moonlight-blue on one side of his face and bonfire-orange on the other. He just can’t not be captivating for anyone’s sake. “I guess they were confused more than anything. Dad was already touchy that I didn’t choose business to study at university, so me not choosing to spend my summer working under him at a construction site was salt on that wound. They’re over it, though. Or they’ll get over it. I’m here, aren’t I?” 

“Yeah,” Pran says lamely, no comforting words at his disposal. They look out at the beach for a few more moments before Pran says, “I guess I should get back to…the music stuff.” 

Pat makes a face like Pran’s said something funny, “And I should get back to the beverage stuff.”

He watches Pat walk ahead of him, feet sinking in the sand. 

—

Days roll by, and then Uncle Pian is fetching him for fishing. The first time had been a bit of a disaster; Pran tangled the rope so badly Uncle Pian had to cut it free to be reused later. He also discovered he can get a little seasick. 

Uncle Pian had promised him that next time would be better though, and Pran had believed him. Until he showed up and Uncle Pian had also apparently invited Pat to tag along. 

Pat smiles wide and waves his arms in the air when he sees Pran approaching the dock. Pran looks at his feet to hide the smile that stretches his face. 

“Good morning, Uncle,” He says as he leans down to Uncle Pian, before he glances at Pat. “Morning,” he says to him, voice quieter like it’s only meant for them. 

“Morning,” Pat says back with some kind of lingering gaze that Pran can’t hold onto if he wants to maintain any fragment of sanity. 

“I’m glad you boys could both make it to the dock today,” Uncle Pian says, an unknowing interruption, “Pat seemed really eager when I told him you don’t do so well on the water, Pran.” 

Pran frowns over to Pat, who’s grinning wildly. 

“Alright,” Uncle Pian says as he places one foot in the boat, “Ready to set off. Get in before it floats away.” 

It’s a joke, considering Uncle Pian still has to unravel the large rope that’s anchoring them to the dock, but Pat and Pran hurry to get on anyway. 

The boat is large enough for Pat and Pran to sit on either side of it, but when Pran takes a seat, Pat elects to take the one right next to him. Their knees are close under the warmth of the sunshine and Pran might be getting seasick again. They’re not even moving yet. 

“Clouds are far out,” Uncle Pian observes, “Should be a good catch today.” The boat is undocked, swerving a little as Uncle Pian takes his seat at the head of it. Pran balls his hands into fists with the motion, keeping himself still. 

“You alright?” Pat asks him lowly.

“Never better,” Pran tells him, taking a deep breath. 

“You can hold onto me if you need to,” Pat suggests. 

Pran eyes him from the side. “Better idea, I toss you overboard.” 

Pat grins as the wind catches his hair. It momentarily distracts Pran, before Pat is turning around to face Uncle Pian. “Uncle, what do you want us to do?” 

Uncle Pian lifts his head from where he’s detangling the ropes, reaching over to grab a box. “You’re bait and tackle duty today.” 

Pran scrunches his nose. Pat bumps his arm. “Not a fan of this either?” 

“I’d prefer having gloves,” Pran admits, and Pat’s looking at him with this look in his eyes that could pass for endeared, so he grabs the box. “I’m fine. Let’s just do it.” 

Pat chuckles at him, “Okay, boss.” 

Pran is loath to admit it, but it’s better having Pat here. The bickering back and forth about who put what on the hook is enough to take Pran’s mind off of the vast and ever-moving water around them. Pat will push the side of Pran’s foot with his when Pran gets too domineering, and the distant familiarity of it is both comforting and sad. He used to do that in school, grounding him when a debate was spiraling into being serious. Pran used to hate it so much because he liked it so much. 

He missed Pat. That was the core of everything, no matter what happened back then or what will happen in the future. That was reality. 

Catching fish is far from being in Pran’s wheelhouse, and though he’s never known Pat to do it, he takes to it pretty well, helping Uncle Pian reel and lift. When Pat thinks Pran isn’t looking, he flicks Pran with the water on his hands. Pran scoops his hands through the water to retaliate until Uncle Pian tuts at them. 

Uncle Pian tells them stories in their idle time. He talks about where he used to live, when he started to fish. He talks about his kids who’ve grown up and married. He speaks fondly of them in a way Pran envies. Or admires. 

The fishing outing takes them into mid afternoon, the sun in the center of the sky. 

Pran is happy to be back on the dock, feet secured to the ground. He watches as Pat helps Uncle Pian tie it off. He hears Pat say to Uncle Pian, “Uncle, you’ve lived a long life and you’re wise. Have you ever been in a situation where someone didn’t want to address the elephant in the room?”  

Pran bites into the inside of his cheek. He can’t tell if Pat wants him to be listening. 

Uncle Pian makes a face of agreement and nods. “Sure, many times.” 

“What do you do in that situation, then?” Pat asks. 

“Well, then I would address it.” Uncle Pian declares like that’s the clear answer. 

“Is that so?” Pat starts to walk with him up the dock, and Pran scratches at his head and checks his watch as they walk up as though he hadn’t heard a thing. 

“Well, thank you boys for all your hard work today,” Uncle Pian says, and then extends his hands out them, a fish in each hand tied off at the tail. “Your generous recompense.” 

“Thank you, Uncle,” they both say, turning to head back towards the village. 

As they walk, Pran can feel the weight of Pat watching him. 

It’s possible Pran had gotten it all wrong. But when the elephant had been in the room for so long, he’d thought it best to live alongside it. Make the room big enough for two. 

— 

There’s only one young couple at the bar tonight. 

(Well, save for Uncle Yod and Uncle Tong who are conversing over a small game of checkers, but they were always doing that, so it didn’t count.) 

Pran plays absently in between songs, searching for a melody. It doesn’t feel like an evening that needs anything particularly upbeat or complicated; he could probably just get away with some mindless, peaceful strumming. 

What comes naturally to him when he leaves his fingers to their own devices makes him pause and look up at the bar. More precisely, the boy behind it. 

Pran watches as Pat cleans a glass and then sets it down, fiddling with the pictures on the wall when there’s nothing else to do with his hands. He doesn’t have anybody to serve right now, the bar as empty as it is. He smiles lightly to himself at the way Pat passes the time; making faces, swirling the dishrag around above his head like a lasso, making drum beats on the bar with flattened fingers. 

Pran plays without thinking the whole time he watches. There’s no excuse to be made about it— Pat gets music out of him. 

Then Pat does something even worse, which is look up and notice Pran is watching him. 

The guttural urge for Pran is usually to look away, but now, the urge doesn’t come. Maybe it’s something in the way Pat had been humming or moving or doing some other ridiculous thing up until the moment their eyes locked, and then his shoulders dropped and he went still. Something in the way Pat looks at him, the faintest of smiles to his lips. Something in the way he leans on the counter that gives the rawest bodily display of play for me. I’m listening. 

So Pran plays. He strikes the notes that come out of him without thinking, memories of something scribbled under moonlight. It made no sense when he wrote it, not really, but it’s what was real. It’s not cohesive, it has no words, there’s no fine tuning. But he plays it while staring into Pat’s eyes from his place on the stage and he hopes it’s enough. He hopes Pat can feel that it’s for him. 

A wet spot lands on Pran’s cheek. 

The feeling startles him enough to stop playing, the momentary spell between them broken. He wipes at his cheek, squinting, and then he feels another land on his head, and then in the palm of his hand. It’s starting to rain. 

Uncle Yod and Uncle Tong are walking back up to the bar. Uncle Yod leans in to the couple sitting to the left of Pran’s stage, saying in a gentle tone, “It seems like it’s going to rain. You can come inside or get under the awning.” 

They nod and thank him, standing to follow. Uncle Yod faces him next, walking up to the stage, “Let’s get this equipment inside.” 

Pran helps him by taking the microphone stand and a small speaker, hustling under the roof just as it starts to get steadier. Once everything is secured in the storage closet, Pran leans his shoulder in the doorway. He watches Pat from behind, who’s leaning against the bar with his chin in one hand, looking out. It really starts coming down then. Maybe the rest of the village had gotten a different memo. 

He wonders if Pran is thinking the same thing he is. 

Like his thoughts are loud enough to be heard, Pat cranes his head over his shoulder to look back at him. Thunder sounds distantly, further inland. 

“Care to join me?” Pat offers. 

Pran lifts himself from the doorframe and walks over, leaning with his forearms in front of him on the counter much like Pat is. “Now we just have to hope it doesn’t get windy.” 

Pat grins lightly. He’s thinking, Pran can tell. 

There’s silence (or not silence, but tumultuous white noise) for a good while before Pat says, “I think we should talk,” he glances over like he’s checking, and Pran knows he looks tense because he feels tense, “Not now, if you don’t want to. But we should.” 

Pran breathes out. Pat is right, as he often is, no matter how much it always pissed him off throughout their lives. But Pat is extending him an olive branch in the form of time, so he’ll take it. “Okay.” 

Pat correctly absorbs this as later. He doesn’t say anything else, only nods. Pran thinks about touching him, somewhere; a pinky overlaying his, a press of their shoulders. To absolve Pat of his unease. He’s not sure that would help, though. Maybe that’s the last thing Pat wants right now. He loops his own fingers together instead, watching the water that falls harshly as runoff from the roof.

Pran doesn’t conceptualize how long they actually stand there, just watching and listening. He thinks it’s a pretty long time. Long enough for the rain to start to slowly lull, for the sheets to become lighter until it’s hardly anything but a drizzle. 

“Pran!” A voice sounding like Uncle Yod’s calls out from behind him, shifting the moment. Both he and Pat turn at the sound. 

Uncle Yod and Uncle Tong both walk out of the indoor part of the bar. “Everything alright?” Pran asks. 

“Not really,” Uncle Yod says too quickly, causing Uncle Tong to make a face at him and disquiet to begin in Pran’s chest. Uncle Yod corrects urgently, “I mean, yes, everything is fine in the grand scheme of things! But Uncle Pian just called me to tell me that his room you’re staying in got flooded from this rain.” 

Pran feels his eyes go wide. “Shit, is it bad?” 

“He said it was only a couple of inches on the ground. Probably flooded down from the road since it’s on a decline. Nothing of yours was damaged and overall the place will be fine. It’s just that it’s going to take some effort to clean up and dry properly, and it takes those companies a while to drive all the way out here. It’s probably going to be out of commission for at least two weeks.” Uncle Yod explains apologetically. 

“I’m glad it’s not too bad,” Pran starts, “but where am I going to stay?” 

Uncle Yod and Uncle Tong share a pensive look. Uncle Tong motions to Pran, “You’re more than welcome to stay with me for the time being. The only thing is, I just have one guest room. It’s the one Pat’s in. If you’re willing to share, we can certainly make it work.” 

“I’m more than happy to share,” Pat says resolutely from Pran’s side. 

Pran is thinking about how the universe is a funny, funny place. 

“Pran?” Uncle Tong prompts him. 

He lifts his head, sucking in a quick breath. “Sure. No problem at all.”

—

Uncle Tong’s guest room only tones down the seaside theme slightly. Pran kind of likes his lighthouse figurine, though.

The problem is he’s spending far too much time analyzing the decor as Pat stands awkwardly on the other side of the bed, watching him as he puts down one of his bags. The bottom is still soggy, and he’s going to have to rewash most of his clothes in the morning. 

“I can help you dry your stuff tomorrow,” Pat pipes up like he’s reading Pran’s mind again, “And Junior can help, he needs to be occupied.” 

“Thanks,” Pran says, meaning it despite the lack of strength in his voice. He just keeps staring at the one bed and Pat’s legs and the lighthouse figurine. 

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Pat announces. 

Pran’s eyes flick up to him, “Huh?” 

“You look like you’re going to burst a blood vessel over there about the bed, so I’ll sleep on the floor, it’s not a problem,” Pat says, smiling earnestly at him. He starts to walk like he’s going to pass Pran. “There’s some extra pillows and stuff in the other room, I’ll just-” 

Pran stops him with a foot against his ankle. Pat freezes and looks at him, eyes anticipatory. This might be the closest they’ve been for a long time. Pran reminds himself to speak. “You’re not going to sleep on the floor. Just lay down, will you? I’m tired.” 

Pat keeps his eyes on him almost like he doesn’t believe him as he nods and goes to lay on the bed. Pat was smart enough to be in sleep-able clothes since earlier, but Pran is still in jeans. 

He huffs, turning away to grab the one salvaged pair of pajama pants out of his bag. It’s not as though he’s never changed in front of Pat before, but no amount of times doing it made it any less unbearable. He does it as quickly as possible, folding his clothes onto a chair to be added to the laundry tomorrow. 

When he turns, Pat is sitting against the headboard, watching him. He clears his throat with an obvious lift of his closed fist to his mouth. “Nice, um. Nice pants.” 

Pran glances down, assessing. The ones with smileys all over them. “They’re my favorite pair, thank you very much.” 

Pat gawks, “I was being genuine!” 

“So was I,” Pran retorts. He stands on the side of the bed like he can’t figure out what he’s supposed to do there. As if this wasn’t his insistence. 

“I don’t bite,” Pat says gently. Pran makes a face. That wasn’t exactly the kind of well-worded reminder he needed at the moment. 

He lifts the comforter and lays down with one leg at a time. When he’s finally under the covers, they’re hoisted up to his chest and tucked under his armpits, laying flat on his back with his hands folded on top of them. He looks like someone pretending to be asleep. 

“I’ll turn the light out,” Pat says, turning over, and then the room is dark blue.

It’s painfully quiet, the only sounds are the sound of summer humming outside, and maybe Pat’s breathing. 

Suddenly Pran feels a shift on the bed, like Pat is turning over on his side. He glances over, thinking he’ll see the back of Pat’s head, but instead it’s his face turned to him against the pillow, barely enough light from the window to see him. 

Pran quietly sucks in a breath. 

“Do you remember,” Pat starts, “that time when we were twelve or something, and you got sick and couldn’t come to school, so I brought you the assignment you missed?“ 

Pran nods. 

“And you were so mad at me,” Pat laughs quietly, a sound that gets lodged in Pran’s chest, “Because your mom hadn’t left you alone all day and you thought she’d come in any minute. It was dark like this.” 

Pran squeezes his eyes closed for a moment, before he shifts so he’s on his side too, facing Pat. “You were being dumb.” 

“I was being helpful,” Pat shoves lightly at Pran’s shoulder. 

“I was going to get it excused,” Pran shoves at Pat’s shoulder back, feeling a grin grow on his face. 

“Because you were a teacher’s pet,” Pat shoves again, leaning up slightly on his forearm as he laughs through his words. 

Pran wants to retaliate, poke fun at Pat again back and forth until they run out of things to say. But the position Pat has put himself in makes him lose his words, almost leaning over him now that he’s sitting up against his elbow, looking down at Pran with shaded eyes. 

The moment comes without Pran realizing it. It covers them without conscious effort. Pat’s eyes are everywhere on his face at once. On Pran’s mouth, mostly. Pran can’t help it; he returns the attention in kind, fascinated by the way his lips are parted to breathe. He feels weighted. 

Pran’s blood is pumping under his skin with the sudden realization. Is he actually going to–

“Let’s do this,” Pat’s voice isn’t a whisper, but it’s quiet and has the carefulness of one, “Let’s each say one thing that’s on our mind. One thing we’re thinking, right now.” 

Pran swallows harshly. He doesn’t like this idea. His thoughts are those that should be spared from other human ears. 

The way Pat is looking at him, though. He certainly doesn’t like to make things easy for him. 

“Only if you go first,” Pran lays out his conditions. Old habits die hard. 

Pat glances to the side exasperatedly, before coming back to Pran’s face. “Alright,” he says, now sounding so sure of himself, and Pran might’ve made a mistake. He leans in closer, mere inches away, just on the outskirts of making Pran go cross-eyed. “I’m thinking about kissing you. I think about it every time it rains.” 

—

Last year. Summer. 2:23 pm. 

Pran’s answer to Pat’s question had been to get his headphones out of his backpack, put them in, and proceed to ignore him. 

“You brought headphones with you?” Pat had shrieked when he got them out, less out of disbelief that Pran did it and more out of frustration with his own lack of foresight. 

“Essentials only,” Pran shrugs, before popping them in, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall. 

He’s been like that for twenty minutes. 

Pat had remained sitting on the ground for approximately five of those. Then he got up and walked over to the binoculars by the windows, but the rain and the condensation fogging everything up made it too hard to see anything interesting. The map told him nothing other than that they weren’t ridiculously far from camp, but far enough to warrant waiting out the rain before they started walking again. That was the other thing; it was ceaseless. Just when the pattering on the roof would lighten up, a crack of thunder would bring more. 

There was no more to look at in the observation shelter, so Pat resorts to whistling. He whistles and drags his feet across the floor. It even starts to make a pretty good beat. He leans against one of the wooden beams and hits his palms against it to emulate his drums, whistling along. It’s actually getting somewhere when Pran rips out an earphone and looks at him with murderous intent. 

“Could you be any more annoying?” Pran asks him. 

“Could you be any more boring?” Pat asks, motioning to their surroundings, “This is boring. I am bored.” 

“I didn’t know I was supposed to entertain you,” Pran raises an eyebrow, “We got separated from our group and are waiting out a thunderstorm. Is that not thrilling enough for you?” 

Pat gasps at him. “Pran, do you think they realize we’re gone? What if they don’t come back for us? What if we get taken under the motherly wing of a bear and live out the rest of our lives in nature?” 

Pran rolls his eyes at him, not playing along. “First of all, I think you’d last, speaking generously, about four hours in the actual wilderness. Second of all, even if they somehow don’t realize we’re gone, there is a map literally next to your head, and we would just walk back ourselves.” 

Pat is offended by the four hours comment, he thinks he’d last a week at least. “You are no fun.” 

“I’m going to listen to my music now,” Pran says conclusively. 

“How are you listening to music anyway?” Pat asks, trying to keep him talking, “We get zero cell service out here.” 

“Ever heard of downloading, genius?” Pran wiggles his phone at him. 

Okay, Pat did forget that was a thing. “What are you listening to?” 

“Nothing you’d know,” Pran answers. He already closed his eyes again. Pat has to do something. 

“Alright,” He plops himself down, criss crossing his legs in front of Pran and propping up his hands on his knees in a stance of serious business, “We’re going to play a game.” 

Pran lifts one eye open with a questioning frown. “A game?” 

“Yes,” Pat says, motioning to him with his eyes to get prepared. 

Pran sighs and moves his gaze to the ceiling before taking out his other earphone and putting them back in the case, sitting them down on the floor next to his hip by his backpack. “What kind of game?” 

Pat hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I don’t know? Charades?“ 

“Okay, I’ve got one,” Pran gives him the bird with a silly grin on his face, “Two words, two syllables.” 

Pat bats his hand away and Pran laughs, which is a good sign that he’s warming up to this and just likes to feign opposition. 

“How about truth or dare?” Pat proposes. 

Pran doesn’t immediately object, silent and pursing his lips like he’s thinking, so Pat runs with it. 

“We’re playing truth or dare. You do me first.” Pat says, sitting up to ready himself. 

Pran readjusts himself to hook his ankles and hold his knees as he looks at Pat, tilting his head like he’s weighing his options. “Truth or dare?” 

“Dare,” Pat says quickly, surely. He always picks dare. 

“I dare you to…” Pran takes a look around them, gnawing at his lip, “I dare you to go stand outside for ten seconds.” 

Pat dusts his shoulders as he stands. “Easy.” 

He’s not particularly excited about getting wet again after he’d just started to dry off, but he has already chosen his fate. He opens the door, letting in the rushing sound of rain that was previously dulled by the barrier. He walks out and stands there and counts it out verbally so Pran can hear him. Then he steps back inside, hair dripping, having completed his monumental task. 

“How was that?” Pran asks, looking like he’s holding back a grin. 

“Refreshing,” Pat answers, sitting back down, his shoes squeaking as he does. “Alright, Mr.Pran. Truth or dare?” 

Now, Pran was a bit more of a mysterious case. He could pick dare because Pat picked dare, and he doesn’t shy away from meeting and exceeding. He could also pick truth, because someone quiet like Pran always does, figuring no answer to a question they’re asked could be all that interesting anyway. Pat eagerly awaits his answer, watching Pran think. 

“Truth,” Pran finally decides on, and one side of his face goes hollow like he’s biting it. He did that sometimes, like on exam day. 

Pat lights up with quick excitement. Truth. Oh, he had to make this good. Sometimes Pat just wanted to open up Pran’s brain and poke around in there, try to understand him a little better than he already did. Pran was both straightforward and an anomaly and Pat couldn’t quite figure out how that could be. 

What did he want to know about Pran? He could ask more about what he’s writing about when he sneaks out of the bunks. That’s been eating at him. Or he could ask why Pran always looks around all funny when the football team has movie nights and the main couple shares a kiss. He could prod for what makes him blush –

Pat is so smart. “Hmm,” he draws out, holding back a smile like a kid, “Do you like anybody?” 

Pran sputters at this. A direct hit. “What?” 

“That was such a simple question,” Pat says smugly, “Do you like someone? Like, do you have a crush?” 

Pran swallows deeply and won’t meet his eyes. He also won’t answer. 

“Holy shit, you so do,” Pat bellows, absolutely in stitches over it, “You like someone! Class president Pran is not immune to the hunger of the heart.“ 

Pran looks about as annoyed as Pat could expect. “I didn’t even say yes.” 

“Yeah, but not saying anything is the same as yes,” Pat points out, and Pran shakes his head solemnly but doesn’t argue, “So you do. Tell me who.” 

“That’s not how the game works,” Pran says all panicky. 

“Okay. Truth or dare?” Pat asks, before saying in a changed voice to mimic Pran’s, “I pick truth,” then he switches back to his own, “Oh, truth again, Pran? Thanks for being so honest. Who is it?” 

Pran glares at him. “It's not my turn anymore.” 

“I skip my turn,” Pat says, unable to let this go, “How come you’re not telling me? Don’t tell me it’s… oh my god, it’s somebody on this trip, isn’t it?” 

“Pat,” Pran sounds serious, “Drop it.” 

“Fine, fine,” Pat surrenders, if only to not completely piss off Pran to the point of ignoring him again, “Go ahead.” 

Pran shifts again, stretching his shoulders. “Truth or dare?” 

“Truth,” Pat says. He almost always picks dare. 

Pran frowns like this isn’t what he wanted Pat to pick. He probably has limitless arsenal for embarrassing things he’d have Pat do for a dare, but his genuine question-making is lacking temerity. “Fuck, I don’t know? What’s your…favorite color, I guess.” 

Pat scoffs. “That’s an offensively lame question. Chartreuse. Your turn. Truth or dare?” 

Pran scrunches his nose. “Your favorite color is not chartreuse.” 

“Why’d you ask if you know the answer?” Pat prompts him rhetorically, “Come on. Truth or dare?”

Pran sighs, crossing his arms, “Dare.” 

You’re shit out of luck either way, Pat thinks mischievously. “I dare you to tell your crush you like them.” 

Pran’s jaw clenches, “Pat—” 

“Before we leave the camp!” Pat adds on. 

“Yeah, playing this was definitely stupid, I’m not going to—” 

“You’re a wuss!” Pat exclaims, “So what if you get rejected? I get rejected all the time. You just need to rip off the bandaid and–” 

Pat cannot keep berating Pran because his lips get trapped under Pran’s mouth. It’s over so quickly Pat almost wonders if it all happened in his head. He sits there, stunned, wordless. His lips still feel the phantom sensation, a warm hum. He knows it’s real because when he meets Pran’s eyes, he looks like he just saw the scariest thing in all his life. And he’s red in the face. 

Oh. Oh. Shit. 

For a moment, neither of them does anything. Pat’s heart is beating so fast he can feel it on the side of his throat, the spot where he touches to check his heart rate after a workout. It was over so fast. Too fast. He has millions of thoughts racing through his head, but one keeps hammering him and won’t let up. Try again.  

“You call that a kiss?” Pat asks, sliding a hand up to Pran’s jaw and connecting their mouths again, trying to be gentle. 

Pat’s only kissed another person like this twice. Both were just okay, awkward but okay. This is awkward too, this is definitely awkward, but it’s also okay. A little more than okay, maybe. He leans into it, brushing his mouth to the side. Pran starts to kiss back. He’s thinking he has a statistically high chance of being correct when he guesses Pran hasn’t done this before. It doesn’t bother him any; it makes his chest flutter a little, the way Pran’s lips have a hard time finding where to be. 

He presses. He wants to see if Pran will keep kissing him like this. He didn’t know his heart could beat so fast while barely moving. His thumb traces along Pran’s cheek, still damp from his wet hair and warm, maybe from the kissing, and Pat likes that thought. Pat likes all of this, and maybe that should be more earth-shattering, or terrifying, or existential. Or it is, but it’s easier to forget that when he’s busy liking it. 

Pat shifts up on his knees, cradling the back of Pran’s head. It’s not particularly comfortable but it makes the kiss better. He wants to open his mouth a little but he’s intensely worried that it will be too much. It’s hard not to want to, though; Pran smells nice. Wet warm summer earth clung to him, that was to be expected, but underneath it all was something that wasn’t a day’s hike, but just him. Pat actually makes a sound from it. He feels it vibrate. That’s so embarrassing. 

Pran responds to it, though, coming to hold Pat’s sides. His hands are so warm compared to how cold his wet shirt was making him, all clammy and heavy. He runs a curious finger down Pran’s scalp and then it’s Pran’s turn to make an embarrassing noise. He’d call it even except the sound is– it’s crazy to him, unfathomable, that that was Pran, and he caused it. Pat wants to push closer, he wants more. 

Synapses are firing in his brain and every loose end that’s been sitting neglected in his mind is finally finding its place. Pran. Of course, Pran. 

Pat actually thinks, like Newton’s first law, that he wouldn’t stop unless something stopped him. Just like that, a violent crack of thunder rips them apart, causing them to jump back from the abruptness of it. 

Backed away, Pat realizes he needs to catch his breath. Breathing harder than when they’d landed in here after running to escape the storm, or it felt like he was, because the air kept traveling over kiss-sheen lips and reminding him. 

He realizes that despite the thunder the rain has stopped, a strange vacancy filled with the calling of after-storm birds. When Pat looks over, Pran is also breathing heavily and looking somewhere near his feet out in front of him like he’s light years away. 

Pat starts to laugh, giggling, maybe from the nervous not-silent silence, or the way he’s giddy with the excitement of what just happened, because he doesn’t know what else to do, all of it at once. 

He keeps laughing and Pran is staring at him, alarmed, face carrying something heavy, and Pat clears his throat to stop the laughter. 

He’s about to say something, something that sounded a lot like, kissing you was really nice and I want to do it again very soon maybe even right now. Why didn’t you ever tell me you wanted this? Sorry it’s taken me this long to realize it but I think I really like you.

He doesn’t get the chance to, because Pran is shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” 

Pat deflates, feeling his grin falter. He doesn’t get the chance to say anything before Pran keeps going. 

“I really shouldn’t have done that,” his voice is shaking, and Pat is confused, “What was I thinking? If our parents ever—”

Pran doesn’t finish that thought but he doesn’t have to. It clicks, at least partially, as to why he sounds so frightened. 

“Pran–” He starts. 

“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” Pran interrupts, “Just. Pretend it didn’t happen.” 

I don’t want to is about to leave Pat’s lips, but there’s knocking on the door of the shelter that hinders it. 

“Pat? Pran? Are you in there?” It sounds like one of the camp counselors. 

“We’re in here!” He calls, and the door opens, one of the counselors and two of their classmates standing there. 

“Oh, good. Glad you two are safe,” the counselor says, “That was a nasty storm. We’ll discuss you two getting separated later. Come on, let’s head back to camp.” 

Pat has never seen Pran move so quickly. He grabs his backpack and hoists it onto his shoulders, barreling through the door and walking alongside one of their classmates back down the trail. 

Pat glances over helplessly to where Pran was sitting. A small black container sits there. He squints at it. Shit, he left his headphones. He picks them up and speeds over to the door, “Pran, you forgot your-”

Pran is already halfway down the trail with P’Nam, eyes fixed to the ground. 

“You can give it back to him later,” his other classmate says, “I’m sure it’s just been a long day.” 

“You could say that,” Pat says absently. 

Pat frowns and drops the headphone case into his shorts pocket. But the weight all over him feels far too heavy to attribute to a plastic box. 

—

Pran is almost sure that his brain waves have fizzled out. 

It’s not as though the sentiments aren’t shared. Pran thinks about the kiss every time it rains. Every time he showers. Every time his mind sits unoccupied long enough for it to zip through his thoughts in a white-hot flash. It absolutely tormented him. 

Pat is watching him carefully. He wonders if he can see the way it’s replaying now from behind Pran’s irises. The eyes are the window to the soul, they say. 

He’s still and silent long enough for Pat to let out a sigh. Pran tenses up when he feels one of Pat’s fingers touch his face, pushing hair that wasn’t even in the way back from his forehead.

“I’m not sure that you’re comprehending—” Pat starts to say in a tone that’s something like melancholy and fond. He knocks at Pran’s forehead gently with his knuckles, like someone standing at a half-open door,  “—how badly I would like you to kiss me.” 

And Pat is right. Pran doesn’t comprehend it. Hasn’t been able to comprehend it despite being given ample time to do so. He’s been able to come up with every excuse in the book as to why he can’t comprehend it. It’s futile. It was the heat of the moment. Maybe it all didn’t mean anything. What does it matter if it meant something, anyway? It’s not a good idea. You’ve always known this. 

Another thing he knows, though, is that Pat has no motivation to ever lie to him. He’s as truthful as he is insufferable, and it makes Pran’s heart melt. 

So he leans up and gives Pat what Pat is telling him irrefutably that he wants. 

This kiss is already different, that much is painfully clear. It’s not like Pran could’ve gotten any better at kissing; Pat was his first and only. But there’s pure pyretic emotion in this kiss. It trembles through him like the peak and crash of a wave. 

“Fucking finally,” Pat says to Pran’s upper lip as he moves his body so he’s more unquestionably above him. He tosses a leg over Pran’s torso and kisses him again, again, again. 

I’m sorry, Pran tries to say by sprawling his hands on Pat’s back and pushing to get him closer. I always wanted you, he tells him by kissing the corner of his mouth instead of right on the lips. 

Except he knows these are things he has to say out loud. Not for his own exoneration, but because Pat deserves to hear them. So when Pat gives him an open-mouthed kiss that’s positively toe-curling and stomach-clenching, he pushes gently at his shoulders to create space. 

“I’m not stopping you because–” Pran tries to breathe, tries to say what he really means, “It’s not that I don’t want to. I think we should– before we– damnit, why is it so hard to speak real words right now?” He flops his head against the pillow in frustration. 

“I’m just that good, I guess,” Pat jokes, though his voice is laced with uncertainty of whether or not it’s appropriate to. 

That wasn’t even a little bit untrue, though Pran’s pride will not allow him to qualify it. “You told me you wanted to talk,” Pran says, like a reminder and sort of like a question. 

“I did,” Pat confirms. 

“So I think we should… do that,” Pran realizes he’s doing his nervous tapping on Pat’s shoulder blades and that’s mortifying, so he wills himself to flatten them. Pat seems to smile at that, but Pran chooses to believe he didn’t notice. “Before anything else I think we should talk.” 

“You’re right,” Pat nods, then glances down at the way he’s practically straddling him. He laughs awkwardly as he lifts his leg up and removes himself from above Pran. “Got a little carried away,” he mutters as he lays back down on his side of the bed, hands at his sides. He ruins Pran. 

Pran is just trying to catch his breath and collect himself, and despite all the overthinking he could be burying himself in right now, he feels relatively at peace. 

“So, did you-” Pat stutters next to him, “Did you want to talk now? Or–” 

“Tomorrow is okay,” Pran answers him. He really is so tired. Hauling bags from a flooded room only to be housed with the longest-running object of one’s desires can take a lot out of a person. He already feels heaviness in his eyelids. 

“Okay,” Pat says, curling up in the covers. “Goodnight, Pran.” 

“Goodnight, Pat,” Pran whispers back, smiling and almost dreaming. 

—

Pat isn’t in the bed when Pran wakes up. 

Pran is almost glad that he isn’t, because the way Pran’s hand searches for him in his half-awake state would’ve killed him from embarrassment if Pat actually had been there. Still, there’s the sourness of disappointment.

He sits up, yawning and stretching his arms over his head. Memories come flooding back to him from last night and he smothers his face in his blanket. He’d kick his feet if he had no sense of decency. 

Collecting himself, he slides out of bed and walks over to his stuff. It’s been tampered with; his clothes he’d changed out of and put on the chair are gone, and his bag is unzipped and open, more than half of its contents missing. Scratching at his head, he opens the door and leaves the bedroom. 

Something smells good. His stomach rumbles as he walks closer and closer to the source; he didn’t even eat dinner last night. 

Turning the corner, he sees Pat and Uncle Tong in the kitchen. Uncle Tong is making something on the stove while Pat washes hot water over something in the sink. 

Before he can say anything, a young boy comes in from outside through the door connected to the kitchen. He stops when he sees Pran. Pran gives a small wave; this must be Junior. 

Junior does not reciprocate the wave. “Pat, your maybe-friend is awake.” 

Pat turns around from the sink, smiling widely with his eyes just as much as his mouth. “Good morning,” Pat says all chipper, “Sleep well?” 

The last time Pat asked him that question, he ignored him. He sighs through his nose. “Really well. Did you?” 

“Mhm. I had lots of dreams,” Pat keeps smiling as he returns to the sink and leaves Pran to blush. 

Junior appears next to him so suddenly Pran would’ve thought he teleported. “I think you should be extra nice to Pat today, because he made me get up even earlier than the time I get up for school just to help him do your laundry.” 

Pran’s heart does a little trill as he watches Pat from behind. Then he glances at Junior, “Did Pat tell you to say that?” 

“No, but I needed you to know that I’ve been inconvenienced,” Junior tells him. 

Pran’s eyes widen, “How do you even know that word?” 

“What do you think they teach us in the fourth grade? The alphabet?” Junior asks him. Pran is stunned into silence for a moment before Junior asks, “Are you Pat’s friend?” 

Pran coughs. “Why do you ask?” 

“Because when I asked Pat, he told me ‘maybe’, and I don’t know what that means. I thought people were just friends or they weren’t,” Junior elaborates. 

Pran watches Pat cut basil on the wooden cutting board. “It’s not always that simple,” Pran explains, “Especially when you grow up.” 

Junior looks pensive for a second before he goes, “Oh, so are you more than friends like my maw and paw?” 

Pran nearly chokes, “We, uh—” 

“Junior,” Uncle Tong says in a scolding tone, “Stop interrogating our guest. Come, make sure this water doesn’t boil over for me.” 

“Fine,” Junior says in the kid way, slumping over to the stove. He’s got a stool that he stands up on to watch the pot. 

Uncle Tong turns to Pran, smiling at him and motioning for him to follow. “Pran, join me outside, will you?” 

“Sure, Uncle,” He says, glancing at Pat as he leans over the pot and helps Junior grab something off of the shelf. He grins before he keeps walking, meeting Uncle Tong on the porch. 

There’s wind chimes dangling all across the awning. Upon inspection, Pran finds that they’re made of all kinds of things: shells, broken bottles, sea glass, coins. Still, the sound they make is pretty. 

“Like them?” Uncle Tong asks, “I make them myself. Well, Junior helps sometimes too.” 

Pran smiles and nods, still looking at the way they catch the light and breeze. 

“They’re made of things I find on the beach,” Uncle Tong explains, “Everything can always be repurposed, changed into something else.” 

Pran turns to look at him, “I remember your speeches from the volunteer camps last year. It’s really inspiring.” 

Uncle Tong bows his head to the ground, grinning, “I’m not sure that I intend for them to be all that inspiring. Not preachy, anyway. More so that I just want people to know that they’re capable of more change than they think they are.” 

Pran nods, internalizing Uncle Tong’s words. “Yeah.” 

“Your clothes are over there,” Uncle Tong points in the distance, and Pran turns, seeing familiar striped shirts and khaki wide-legged pants drifting on the clothesline, fastened to wooden pins. “Pat said you had more but that he’d take care of it after breakfast when those are dry.” 

Pran huffs, “I can do it, no need to burden anybody.” 

Uncle Tong clicks his tongue, “He didn’t seem particularly burdened to me. He’s a kind kid. Reminds me a lot of Junior, a little spunky.” 

Pran smiles to himself, “Still-” 

“He talks very highly of you,” Uncle Tong says, a good-natured cut into Pran’s words, “He respects you, I think. One of the most fundamental things we can give each other is respect. It’s nice to see someone care for another person. Reminds me that that kind of admiration still exists.” 

Uncle Tong’s words are sending Pran into goosebumps. It can’t just be the clothes. Pat must’ve said something to Uncle Tong, something that would definitely send Pran into an uproar if he’d heard it, in order for him to say these things. Composing himself, he says to Uncle Tong, “I also care for him,” and he’s telling the wholehearted truth. 

Uncle Tong smiles, “That’s very good to hear. I do hope you tell him that too.” 

Pran nods, a small but sharp sting of guilt firing up in him. “I will.” 

“Hey, sorry to interrupt, but the food’s ready!” Pat calls as he brings out plates and utensils, Junior following behind holding a large pot between two oven mitts that are too big for his hands. 

Uncle Tong smiles at Pran and extends a hand out to him, urging him to go first. 

—

“You didn’t have to do my laundry earlier,” Pran tells Pat as they fold his first load to prepare the line for the second one. Junior had been helping, but got distracted by a squirrel he had sworn up and down was ‘basically almost his pet.’ Pran had assured him he’d take care of it. 

“You are correct, intellectual Pran,” Pat answers him in a voice like he’s giving a lecture, “But have you considered: I wanted to?” 

Pran busies himself with a pair of shorts, flustered. 

Pat shakes out one of Pran’s sleep shirts and inhales it, “And despite the wash it still has a bit of Pran in there. It’s amazing, really,” and while Pran is busy trying to keep his heart from coming up into his throat, Pat expertly folds the shirt as he had done with all the previous ones, tucked underneath his chin. 

“You’re disturbed,” Pran mutters. Be in my life always is hidden somewhere in there. 

“Did you enjoy breakfast?” Pat asks out of left field, grinning at a pair of Pran’s socks. 

“I did,” Pran hums his approval, “Junior really knows how to cook.” 

“Hey!” Pat whines. 

“Ah, so you admit you were fishing for compliments.” 

“Is that so wrong?” Pat inquires with the clothes basket. “Am I wrong to seek verbal affirmations?” 

“I hope that basket gives you the answers you’re looking for,” Pran teases, though he thinks briefly about what Uncle Tong had told him earlier. He watches Pat (cream-colored with palm trees and sharks today) and it’s really a marvel, him, and them, both here at the same time. Something not so far removed from two clueless boys who kissed while lost in a rainstorm. 

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but no words come out. He just watches him a little longer. 

A moment later, he hears their names being called from over on the porch of the house. 

Uncle Tong stands there, waving them over. They both finish with the last of Pran’s things before trotting over, standing in front of Uncle Tong on the sandy grass as he leans against the porch railing and looks down at them. 

“So listen,” Uncle Tong starts, “Yod had to unexpectedly grab something from the town over today, so he’s not opening the bar for usual business,” he explains, then holds up a finger, “But. He told me the two of you are more than welcome to go there yourselves at some point today. If you’re interested.” He dangles a key with a keychain shaped like the Earth hanging from it. 

Pat takes it from him with a big grin, “Thank you, Uncle Tong.” 

“No need to thank me,” Uncle Tong says, then motions to the basket, “Just make sure you finish your laundry first. Work and play make a balanced life.” 

Pat and Pran both laugh, Pat saluting him.

—

It’s sunset, the sky set alight with a deep springy orange that morphs into pink and blue the further it stretches the horizon. Pran had gotten a great look at it until he was blindfolded. 

“There’s no way you’re going to get this one,” Pat is saying, and Pran smiles as he hears the clinking of glass and its reverberations on the wooden counter. 

“I’m o-for-three,” Pran reminds him. He wants to peek, not to cheat, but to see Pat’s face as he makes his concoctions. 

“Your reign is coming to an end,” Pat says ominously, before Pran feels him grab his hand and wrap it around the glass for him. 

He brings the drink to his lips, taking a sip and smacking his tongue to savor it. There’s basically no flavor, just carbonation and maybe the subtlest of citrus. 

“This is literally just club soda,” Pran drones, not feeling well challenged, “With a squeeze of lime.” 

“Incorrect!” Pat exclaims, making the sound of a buzzer when the timer runs out. 

Pran rips the bandana from his eyes, Pat smiling wide coming into his full view. “What the hell do you mean? That’s literally all it is!” 

“That is where you’re wrong, my dear Pran,” and though Pat is messing with him, the title makes Pran feel that pleasant tremor in his spine, “It is club soda and lime, but it also has one other special ingredient,” he lifts a cup of a pinkish orange liquid, grinning, “the smallest dash of papaya juice.” 

“What’s up with you and putting papaya in everything?” Pran crosses his arms, defeated. 

“You just can’t seem to taste it–” Pat begins to argue. 

“Drink this and tell me you can taste the papaya in that!” Pran holds out the drink Pat made back out to him with his arm fully extended. 

“No, no,” Pat shakes his head, pushing at the glass, “I made this just for you, how could I drink it?” 

Pran sits the glass down with a thunk, frowning at Pat. 

“Seeing as I have gotten the better of you,” Pat starts with a teasing lilt, “why don’t we go take a stroll on the beach?” This, he asks sincerely. 

Pran scrunches his nose, “I want a rematch.” 

Pat makes a frustrated little sound, tapping once at the bar with his finger tips. “I’m going for a stroll on the beach. You are welcome to sit here and try to find the papaya in that drink until I get back,” he circles the bar and deliberately walks right behind Pran, shoulder tracing lightly against Pran’s back, before he’s off and whistling unsuspectingly. 

Pran runs his teeth over his bottom lip, catching on and half-jogging to catch up with him. 

“How nice of you to join me,” Pat acts delighted as Pran makes pace with him. His face is reflecting the quickly lowering sun. 

“Wanted to see the sunset,” Pran tells him, not looking at the sunset but at him. 

They walk for a while without speaking, the breeze carrying the higher tides to shore for the evening. The sun is almost only a semicircle in the distance, red and fading. 

With seemingly no particular motivation other than wanting to do it, Pat then sits down in the sand, pushing his knees up to his chest. He looks up at Pran, his face telling him to sit as well, so he does, carefully placing his hand behind him as he lowers himself down. 

This is where everything Pran’s been thinking sinks into him fast and heavy and he needs to say it or he’ll deteriorate. 

“So–” Pat starts calmly, before Pran is saying, “I’m so sorry.” 

Pat blinks at him. Pran continues. 

“For everything, for avoiding you, for making that kiss seem like a mistake, for making you believe–” he swallows, “for making you think that I didn’t–that I didn’t care about you more than almost anyone else.”

Pat is shaking his head, making an even-tempered expression, “Pran–”

“Pat, I had been in love with you for years, and then all of the sudden you’re telling me to just go for it and I do, even though I had every intention of never telling you ever, and then you kissed me–” he pauses, redirecting himself, “I was scared. Because of our parents, because I thought I was an idiot for feeling that way about you. That’s really the only explanation. But you didn’t deserve it and I’m sorry. So that’s that.” 

Pat is quiet, and when Pran looks over, he can’t read his face. There’s something indiscernible in his features.  

“Okay,” he breathes out eventually, “I’ll say my piece, then. I think one of the worst feelings I’ve ever known is thinking you never wanted to speak to me again.” 

Pran bites back a stinging in his eyes. 

“I was kind of catapulted into a lot of realizations at once, that I liked you, that I didn’t just like girls, in general, and I know why you felt the way you did. And I should’ve explained, but I figured you wouldn’t want to talk about it. And then I didn’t see you for a year. I mean, you— you’re the most important person in my life. You’ve always been there. You’re my best friend, even though you’re not supposed to be. Even when we acted like we weren’t. I didn’t want to lose you.” Pat inhales, “And apology accepted, by the way.” 

Pran is no hugger, but he practically tackles Pat, holding him tightly. Pat laughs at him, taking a moment to hug back. 

“What is this?” Pat hums, “Pran, ex-class president and ex-arch nemesis, displaying affection?” 

Pran laughs wetly into his shoulder and hugs tighter. 

He pulls away gently after a moment, rubbing his eyes angrily like he’s mad at them for getting teary. “Okay, that was a lot.” 

Pat smiles sheepishly, “Can I make it a little worse?”

Pran flickers his eyes at him, “Huh?” 

“I have something for you,” he says, sticking his hand in his pocket. He holds it out and for a moment Pran has a hard time even identifying it. It’s just a black square–

His missing headphones. 

He takes them from Pat’s open palm, “What the hell? Where did you find these?” 

“You left them,” Pat says, clearing his throat lightly, “that day. In the shelter. You left so fast that you forgot them.” 

Pran looks at him, “You kept them?” 

“Sure,” Pat shrugs, “just in case I ever had to give them back to the rightful owner. Like the good samaritan that I am.” 

Pran wants to knock him upside the head and so he kisses him. 

—

Uncle Tong’s guest room is dark again. They lay facing each other, talking in low voices. 

“And Pa?” Pran asks, a foot to Pat’s shin, “How is she?“ 

Pat cracks into a wide grin. “She’s really great. She actually asked about you, a couple times. She’s been hanging out a lot with Ink lately, you remember Ink, right?” 

“Of course I remember Ink,” Pran confirms fondly, “I want to see them again. I miss them.” 

“I think they’d like that,” Pat says, scooting his head closer to Pran’s. “And for the love of god, do not tell Pa I did your laundry, she’d never let me live it down.” 

Pran chuckles at this, pushing his head closer in turn. 

“What were you writing about?” Pat asks with a suddenly whimsical tone, “When you snuck out of the bunks during camp?” 

No room for dishonesty, not now, no matter how humbling the opposite is. “You. Always you.” 

A small moment of silence, and then, “What are we going to do? About this? This us thing.” Pat asks, insecurity lining his voice. 

Pran breathes steadily. “We’ll just be us. Take whatever comes at us and do it together. That’s pretty much our only option.”

Pat kisses him gently, almost a peck but hard enough to be promising, “Is there a light over there by you? I want to see your face better.” 

Pran squirms and makes a fake sound of being nauseated, turning to look. 

Fiddling around, Pran taps a button connected to the outlet next to the bed. Suddenly, a light beam shoots out from the lighthouse figurine. It even spins around like a real lighthouse would. 

“Oh, no fucking way ,” Pran exclaims excitedly, turning to Pat on the bed, “Did you know it could do this?“ 

Pat shakes his head, tugging at him. “I’m obsessed with you,” he says, beaming, “Kiss me now.” 

He drags Pran down with a hand to his neck then one to his side, pulling him in. Dark except for the spinning mini lighthouse, Pran feels a shift. 

Pran can feel it all around them. The fluttering nervous tension. The need to touch. 

Pat sighs into their next kiss, causing Pran to part and get a good look at him. They stare into each other’s eyes for a moment, almost a kiss in and of itself. 

Pat leans forward and kisses his forehead, which feels too tender and so it’s perfect. Pran laughs a little. 

“I know I’m not flooring anybody with my kissing skills—” Pran starts. 

“I beg to differ, I happen to like that skill you possess very much,” Pat cuts in to argue, pressing mind-numbing circles into Pran’s lower back just a hair above the waistband of his pants. 

“But,” Pran emphasizes the incompleteness of his sentence, “and I’m just saying this based on solo endeavors, but–” he slides a hand down Pat’s torso, hears his breath stutter, “I’d say I won’t be half-bad at this.” He curls his hand. He drinks in watching Pat gasp and struggle to keep his eyes open. Pat’s exquisite. Ruinous. 

“Well,” Pat whispers, pulling Pran in closer by the waist, kissing him gently again, “I’m more than happy to evaluate that.” 

—

It happens like this: Uncle Tong is asking them about their studies at breakfast, their plans for when they return and after they graduate. He asks what school they each attend, and when they answer at the same time, they look at each other with wide eyes. 

“Are you serious?” Pran asks him incredulously, “Tell me you’re not being serious.” 

“I am being so serious,” Pat says seriously.

“We go to the same college?” Pran cries, looking at his egg in despair, “How did we–” 

“Different faculties, huge campus…” Pat says quietly, trailing off. “Zero communication helps too.” 

“Oh my god,” Pran buries his face in his hands. Uncle Tong is laughing. 

“You two aren’t very good maybe-friends,” Junior observes from the other side of the table, “How did you not know you go to the same school?” 

“Butt out, Junior, this is an adult situation,” Pat points a fork at him. 

—

When Pran finishes his first set of songs for the night, Uncle Yod comes up to him with a drink. 

“Here,” he hands him one and keeps one for himself, sipping lightly. 

“Thank you,” Pran says, taking a sip of his own. 

“Uncle Pian told me the room is finally livable again. I know it took a while, but it’s still there if you want it. I know you… might be more comfortable at Tong’s place,” Uncle Yod explains gingerly. 

Pran thinks about Pat kicking him in his sleep. Thinks about spooning him, and biting him, and hitting his face with a pillow. “I would prefer to stay at Uncle Tong’s, if it’s alright with everyone.”

“Tong loves guests, maybe even more than he loves the environment,” Uncle Yod laughs, “It’s no problem.” 

Pran smiles, taking another drink. They remain in comfortable silence for a moment. Pran hardly notices the sound of waves anymore, as constant as anything else. 

“Will you still play music?” Uncle Yod asks him like the thought just occurred to him, “After you leave here.”

Pran is quiet in thought. Instinctually, he looks up at the bar. Pat is there, pencil behind his ear, talking with someone and laughing beautifully. Uncle Yod turns to see what he’s looking at, then looks back at him with a looming smile. 

Pran rings out a little familiar tune as he watches Pat and answers Uncle Yod’s question, “If I have him, I play music.”