Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Phuwin

The air in the nightclub was a thick, living entity, a cocktail of chilled sweat, spilled sugar, and the pervasive, ozone-charge of a hundred pulsing bodies. Strobing lights sliced through the synthetic fog, catching the arc of a raised glass or the glitter on a collarbone, turning them into fleeting, crystalline moments before plunging them back into the rhythmic dark. 

Behind the long, luminous slab of the bar, Phuwin existed as the event’s calm, magnetic nucleus. He wasn’t just working; he was performing a kind of kinetic ballet. He seemed to levitate from the counter to the cash register, a smooth, continuous glide that defied the sticky floor and the press of the crowd. His hands, delicate and almost too elegant for the environment, were a study in efficient motion. They never fumbled, only flowed—scooping ice with a percussive crack, slicing a citrus twist with a flick of the wrist, layering liqueurs into a gradient sunset within a chilled glass. Each drink was a small, vibrant universe, crowned with smoked herbs or a precisely placed flower petal.

A woman with silver-dusted eyelids leaned in, shouting a request over the music. He caught her words, tilted his head, and a quick, devilish smile played on his lips. "For you? Too predictable," he teased, his voice cutting through the noise without strain. "You look like a 'Midnight Monsoon.' Stormy, a little sweet, with a thunderclap at the finish." She blushed, nodding, and watched, mesmerized, as his hands became a whirl of indigo syrup, ginger liqueur, and a final, dramatic shake that ended with a sprig of rosemary set aflame for a second before he extinguished it in the glass.

Further down, a group of regulars—three men in rumpled, expensive shirts—rapped their knuckles on the bar in a syncopated rhythm they’d perfected. Phuwin was already there, not even needing their order. "The vultures have returned," he announced, a glint in his eye. "One Old Fashioned for the gentleman who thinks he is, one Vesper for the gentleman who wishes he was, and a cosmopolitan for the one secure enough in his masculinity to drink pink." They roared with laughter as he met their banter shot for shot, his retorts sharp but never cruel, a familiar dance of insincere insults and genuine camaraderie. As he slid their drinks across the polished surface, his fingers brushed against one man’s hand, a contact that was a fraction too long to be accidental, and he winked before turning away, leaving a trail of easy laughter in his wake.

For a moment, he’d pause, a dry towel in his delicate hands, and survey his domain. His gaze swept over the sea of strangers and familiars, a conductor observing his orchestra. Then, catching the eye of a new customer looking lost, he’d float to them, his whole demeanor shifting to one of inviting conspiracy. "Alright," he’d say, leaning in just close enough to be heard, his voice a confidential hum. "Tell me what you hate, and I'll tell you what you'll love." It was less a question and more a promise, the start of another small, flirtatious transaction under the throbbing, neon-soaked night.

His gaze, sharp and accustomed to tracing the wants in people’s eyes, snagged on a figure tucked into the corner where the bar curved. A man, sitting with a stillness that was alien to the room’s feverish energy. His plain white shirt and dark jeans were a study in simplicity against the sequined and leather-clad crowd. He was handsome in a way that seemed almost accidental, with a quiet intensity in his downcast eyes, his fingers tracing the grain of the wood as if seeking an anchor. He looked profoundly out of place, a still life in a room of frantic motion.

A different instinct, one honed over years behind this very counter, clicked into place. Phuwin dialed down the voltage of his own presence. The electric, flirty energy he’d exuded moments before softened into something more approachable, more grounded. He had started here at sixteen, all sharp angles and desperate need, a kid the owner had found scrounging for empty bottles to return for coin. The man had seen something—not just a stray, but a potential—and taught him not just how to mix a drink, but how to read a room. Now, Phuwin considered himself an expert in the silent language of patrons. He knew when to pull with a cheeky comment, when to push with a stronger pour, when to step back and give space. He could distinguish the thirst for conversation from the thirst for something more.

He moved to the man not with his usual glide, but with a deliberate, calm walk. He didn't lean in with conspiratorial energy, but simply stood opposite him, wiping the already-clean spot on the bar with a cloth.

“Not your usual scene?” Phuwin asked, his voice lowered, the teasing edge replaced by a simple, genuine curiosity.

The man’s head lifted, his eyes a little wide, as if surprised to be addressed directly. He gave a quick, sheepish shake of his head. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to the trained eye,” Phuwin said, a small, reassuring smile playing on his lips. “It’s a lot. Can I get you something to take the edge off? Something simple?”

The man hesitated, then gestured vaguely. “Just a beer, please. Whatever’s on tap.”

No fuss, no pretense. Phuwin gave a single nod, his movements quick and quiet as he pulled the lager. He set the frosty glass down on a fresh coaster. “On the house for your first time braving the chaos.”

A genuine, surprised smile broke through the man’s awkwardness, transforming his face. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Phuwin said, resting his elbows on the bar, closing the distance just enough to be heard without invading. It was an invitation, not an advance. “Consider it a welcome gift. I’m Phuwin.”

“Pond,” the man replied, his shoulders relaxing a fraction.

Phuwin didn’t press. He gave another small smile, a silent acknowledgment, and then moved away to attend to a waving customer, giving Pond the space to simply be, to observe, to sip his beer without the pressure of performance. He knew the value of a quiet landing spot in a storm. 

A while later, the same figure reappeared at the edge of the bar, but the quiet stillness had been shed. Pond leaned against the polished wood, his breathing slightly elevated. A sheen of sweat glistened at his temples, and a dark patch stained the front of his plain white shirt, the fabric turned translucent from a spilled drink, clinging to his chest. The transformation from shy observer to a participant of the night was both awkward and endearing.

“Back for another beer?” Phuwin asked as he approached, his tone neutral but his eyes crinkling with amusement.

Pond shook his head, a little too vigorously, and braced his hands on the bar. “No. I think… I think I need to upgrade. Something with… more of a point.” His words were slightly slurred, but his intent was clear. He was tipsy, the initial nervousness melted away by the beer and the atmosphere, revealing a bolder, if uncoordinated, version of himself.

Phuwin leaned in, the noise of the club forcing an intimacy he carefully curated. “A point, huh? Sharp or blunt?”

Pond’s focus was admirable, his brows knitting together as he considered the question with drunken seriousness. “Blunt. I think. But… sweet. Definitely sweet. A surprise.”

“A sweet, strong surprise,” Phuwin mused, his gaze flickering over Pond’s flushed face, the damp shirt, the way he seemed both overwhelmed and exhilarated. He saw the story: a man stepping out of his comfort zone, getting knocked about a little, but deciding he liked the thrill. Phuwin’s hands began to move, pulling bottles without a second glance. “You look like you’ve had enough tart for one night. We’ll go for sunshine.”

He poured a generous measure of golden rum, the base note. Over that went a splash of apricot liqueur for its round, stone-fruit sweetness, and a touch of ginger syrup for a hidden, warming kick. He shook it with ice, the sound a sharp, violent rattle that contrasted with the smooth, swirling pour into a coupe glass. The liquid settled, a vibrant, opaque yellow, like liquid marigold.

Then came the final, whimsical touches. From a small canister, he tapped a pinch of edible gold glitter into the center, the particles swirling and dancing like captured fireflies. Finally, with a flourish, he speared a maraschino cherry and perched a ridiculously small, bright pink paper umbrella on the rim of the glass.

He slid the concoction across the bar. “For the man who decided to jump into the deep end. It’s called a ‘Sunshine Leap.’”

Pond stared at the drink, a slow, wonder-filled smile spreading across his face. He looked from the cheerful yellow liquid to the silly umbrella, then up to Phuwin’s expectant face. “It’s… it’s ridiculous,” he laughed, a genuine, unguarded sound. “I love it.”

He took a careful sip, his eyes widening slightly at the potency hidden beneath the sweet, fruity veil. “Wow. You weren’t kidding about the point.”

“I never do,” Phuwin said, resting his chin on his hand, watching the gold glitter slowly settle at the bottom of the glass. He didn’t move away, allowing the moment to stretch, a quiet bubble in the roaring club where a shy man in a damp shirt enjoyed a sweet, strong surprise made just for him.

The next time Phuwin’s gaze found him, Pond was less sitting and more spilled across the far end of the counter, his head propped up by an elbow that seemed perilously close to buckling. He looked like a melted version of his former self, all loose limbs and soft focus. He tapped the wood with a clumsy finger.

“Anoth’r one,” he slurred, the words blending into a single, drawn-out sound. “The… the yellow one. The sweet one.”

Phuwin felt a genuine, warm smile spread across his face. He saw every variety of inebriation humanity had to offer: the sloppy, grabby ones; the morose, weeping ones; the belligerent ones spoiling for a fight. Pond, however, had graduated from a tipsy sweetheart to a full-blown, cherubic drunk. They were Phuwin’s favourite—the kind whose worst crime was whining and pouting.

He drifted over, his movements still fluid against Pond’s liquid posture. “I’m afraid you’re cut off, love,” he said, his voice gentle but firm.

Pond’s head lolled up, his eyes struggling to focus. “Whaaa? No. ‘M not cut. ‘M fine.” He attempted to straighten up, a failed enterprise that ended with him leaning more heavily on the bar. “Jus’… thirsty. So thirsty.”

“Sorry, sweets, I can’t in good conscience give you any more to drink.”

“But why?” Pond whined, his voice taking on a plaintive, childlike tone that was utterly disarming. “The yellow one… it tastes like… like sunshine. I need sunshine. ‘S very dark in here.”

Phuwin’s smile turned into a soft chuckle. “It’s definitely dark. And you’ve had enough sunshine for one night. How about a water? Nice, cold, sobering water? It’s on the house.”

“Water’s boring,” he declared, with the profound seriousness of the deeply inebriated. “Water is for… for plants. ‘M not a plant. ‘M a… a party… animal.” He tried to snap his fingers to emphasize this, but his thumb and middle finger slid past each other silently.

“You’re definitely something,” Phuwin said, his smile widening as he filled a tall glass with ice and crisp, clear water. He slid it across the bar with a precise push, and it landed perfectly in front of Pond’s tapping finger. “Here. Drink this. For me. Then we’ll talk about your party animal status.”

Pond stared at the water glass with deep suspicion, as if it had personally offended him. He looked back at Phuwin, his expression one of profound betrayal, but something in the bartender’s unwavering, amused gaze must have convinced him. With a sigh that seemed to deflate his entire body, he wrapped both hands around the glass and took a grudging sip.

“See?” Phuwin encouraged, leaning closer. “Not so bad. I see you kept the umbrella from the last one as a souvenir. A token of your wild night?” He watched as Pond, with drunken, meticulous care, patted his chest pocket where the tiny pink umbrella was safely tucked away. The gesture was so unexpectedly tender that Phuwin felt a strange, protective warmth bloom in his chest.

For a while, Phuwin let Pond stew in his watery misery, turning his professional attention to the rest of the thirsty ecosystem. A man with slicked-back hair and a too-confident smile leaned in, his eyes dropping to Phuwin’s lips. “How about a drink for you, gorgeous? Whatever you’re having.”

Phuwin’s smile was a polished shield. “I’m working, but I can make you a ‘Boundary Line’—it’s bitter, with a sharp finish.” He mixed the drink without waiting for an answer, and the man, suitably deflected, took it with a muttered thanks.

Next, a woman with wide, nervous eyes asked for a recommendation. “Something brave,” she whispered. Phuwin leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial hum. “For a brave soul? A ‘Dragon’s Kiss.’ It’s all smoke and fire, but sweet underneath.” He set the flaming cinnamon-speared orange peel atop the glass, and her blush was immediate and vibrant, a flush of pleasure at the tailored attention.

Through it all, his gaze was a lighthouse beam, periodically sweeping back to the slumped form in the corner, ensuring the poor, sun-deprived party animal hadn’t face-planted into the wood.

When he finally circled back, a clean towel in hand, Pond didn’t lift his head from the bar. The words were muffled but clear, an accusation soaked in self-pity. “You served them,” he slurred. “You serve… everybody. But not me. ‘S not fair.”

Phuwin leaned against the back counter, arms crossed, watching him with a mix of fondness and pity. “I served you water. That’s what you need right now.”

Pond’s lower lip trembled. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, as if gathering courage, before blurting out, “Is it ‘cause I’m dull?” The words were slurred but stark, a raw nerve exposed in the noisy dark. “’M I borin’? Is that why you won’t give me the sunshine drink?”

The professional amusement evaporated from Phuwin’s face. His relaxed posture shifted, and he uncrossed his arms, leaning forward over the bar to close the distance between them. “What? No. That’s not it at all.”

“It is,” Pond insisted, his voice cracking. He pushed himself up slightly, his eyes big and shiny with unshed tears and alcohol. “Two months ago my… my boyfriend. He said… he said I was dull and boring. That’s why he…” He trailed off, the sentence too painful to finish. “He found someone better. ‘Cause I’m dull.”

The thumping bass of the club seemed to recede, the cacophony fading into a dull roar as Phuwin processed this. He saw the entire night now in a new, heartbreaking light: the shy arrival, the forced bravery, the desperate need for a "sunshine" drink. It wasn't just a night out; it was a rebuttal.

Phuwin’s voice was low, stripped of all its earlier cheek, leaving only sincerity. “Listen to me,” he said, his gaze locking onto Pond’s watery one. “The man who said that is an idiot. And a liar.” He reached out, not to touch, but to tap the glass of water. “Dull people don’t ask for ‘sweet surprises.’ Dull people don’t tuck pink umbrellas into their pockets like treasures. And they certainly don’t have the guts to come to a place like this alone to try and feel less dull.”

Pond stared at him, his drunken brain slowly processing the words.

“I cut you off,” Phuwin continued softly, “because you’re interesting. And I’d like you to remember this conversation tomorrow. Now, drink your water. The party animal needs his hydration.”

The rhythm of the night demanded Phuwin’s attention, pulling him away from the heartbroken, inebriated man at the end of the bar. He became a whirl of motion again, a sociable ghost floating between patrons. He crafted a smoky cocktail for a group with artfully torn jeans, deftly deflected a second, more insistent advance from the slick-haired man with a perfectly timed "I value my job too much," and made a round of vibrant shots for a bachelorette party, the bride-to-be giggling as he crowned her glass with a gummy ring.

But his trajectory was a lopsided orbit, and his center of gravity remained the slumped form of Pond. Every few minutes, he would glide back, his presence a quiet checkpoint.

On his first return, Pond had his forehead pressed against the cool wood. He didn’t look up, but mumbled, "The ice cubes... they're whispering secrets. But they're in a language... a language of clicks."

Phuwin, refilling the water glass from a pitcher, didn't miss a beat. "They're gossiping about the lemons. Don't listen to them; they're notoriously sour."

The next time he passed, Pond was squinting intensely at his own hands, turning them over as if seeing them for the first time. "How do they... how do they know what to do? My brain says 'scratch your nose' and they just... do it. It's weird. Are they magic?"

"They're highly trained," Phuwin assured him, deftly catching a falling napkin before it hit the floor. "Mine are very skilled."

Later, Pond had progressed to philosophical inquiry. He looked up as Phuwin wiped down the area, his eyes wide with drunken wonder. "Do you think... do you think clouds get lonely? They're so far apart. And they can't... they can't hold hands."

Phuwin paused, the towel still in his hand, and gave the question genuine consideration. "I think they talk with lightning," he said softly. "And they hug the whole sky at once when it rains."

A slow, beatific smile spread across Pond's face. "Oh," he breathed, as if this was the most profound wisdom he had ever heard. "That's nice." He then laid his head back down with a sigh of contentment.

Each nonsensical declaration, each slurred observation about the fundamental strangeness of existence, only solidified Phuwin's initial assessment. Pond was a catastrophic lightweight, but he was a sweetheart in his intoxication. There was no malice, no sadness now, just a childlike rediscovery of the world.

As the night began its slow crawl towards last call, Phuwin found himself smiling each time he drifted back to his corner. The other drunks were problems to be managed, but Pond… Pond was a delight. A messy, confusing, and utterly endearing delight who made the relentless grind of the night feel just a little bit lighter.

The frantic pulse of the club began to slow, the music shifting to a mellower tempo as the house lights brightened a fraction. A universal signal: the party was over. Patrons, now moving with the heavy reluctance of the over-served, shuffled toward the exits. Phuwin began his closing ritual, a well-practiced ballet of wiping down surfaces, collecting empty glasses, and stacking stools.

His orbit inevitably brought him back to Pond, who was now propped upright, watching the exodus with the confused fascination of a goldfish observing a water change.

“Where’s everybody going?” Pond mumbled, his brow furrowed. “The… the whispering ice cubes said the party was just getting started.”

“The ice cubes are liars,” Phuwin said amiably, stacking a tray of glasses. “It’s time for everyone to go home.”

Pond considered this, his head tilting. “Home. That’s where my bed is. It’s very… horizontal.” He blinked slowly, then his gaze sharpened—or at least, attempted to—on Phuwin. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

The question was so sudden and direct, cutting through the drunken haze. Phuwin didn’t look up from his wiping, his tone casual. “Not really. I've been seeing a guy for a few months now, but it's nothing serious. We are not exclusive.” It was the truth, a simple fact of his life he offered without weight.

Pond absorbed this, his expression unreadable. Then, as quickly as the thought arrived, it drifted away. “My bed has blue sheets,” he announced solemnly. “Like a… a sleepy sky. Do you think birds get jealous of beds?”

Phuwin chuckled. “Probably. Beds don’t have to worry about worms.”

“True,” Pond conceded, his eyes drifting shut for a moment before snapping open. “Is your boyfriend nice? Does he bring you… sunshine drinks?”

Before Phuwin could formulate a response to this new, alcohol-logic tangent, a large shadow fell over them. Beck, the head bouncer, stood there, a mountain of muscle and quiet concern. His eyes, sharp and clear amidst the lingering haze, were fixed on Pond.

“Everything alright here, Phuwin?” Beck’s voice was a low rumble. His protective nature was a known quantity. He’d been the one to physically escort more than one persistent admirer out the door, and he’d developed a habit of lingering near the bar during closing, his watchful gaze ensuring no one waited a little too eagerly for Phuwin to finish up.

“We’re fine, Beck,” Phuwin said, his voice warm with reassurance. “Just having a deep philosophical discussion about avian furniture envy.”

Beck’s stern expression didn’t crack, but his shoulders relaxed slightly. He gave Pond a long, appraising look. Pond, for his part, seemed utterly unfazed by the giant. He offered Beck a wobbly, peaceable smile.

“He’s a good one,” Pond confided to Beck, pointing a wobbly finger at Phuwin. “He knows about the clouds. And the hugging.”

A flicker of confusion crossed Beck’s face. He looked at Phuwin, who just gave a small, definitive nod. 

“Alright,” Beck rumbled, not entirely convinced, but trusting Phuwin’s judgment. “I’ll be by the door. Call if you need anything.”

As Beck retreated, Phuwin turned back to find Pond had laid his head back on his arms, his earlier energy spent. “He’s big,” Pond murmured into the wood. “Like a friendly mountain. Do mountains have boyfriends?”

Phuwin finished wiping down the section, a soft smile on his face. “I’m sure they do,” he said softly, looking at Pond. 

The final patrons had been gently herded out by Beck, and the oppressive thump of the music was replaced by the sterile hum of industrial cleaners. Phuwin finished locking the cash register and turned his attention to his sole remaining problem: the sleeping poet at the end of the bar.

"Alright, sunshine," he said, gently shaking his shoulder. "Time to go. Let's get you a taxi. What's your address?"

Pond stirred, lifting his head with great effort. His eyes were glazed, but a flicker of profound, drunken seriousness ignited within them. "My address?" he repeated, as if Phuwin had asked for the nuclear codes. "No. Can't. 'S dangerous. Stranger danger." He nodded to himself, immensely proud of this responsible decision.

Phuwin bit back a laugh. "I'm not a stranger, I'm your bartender. The one who denied you sunshine, remember?"

But Pond was resolute. He shook his head, the movement causing him to sway precariously on the stool. "You could be... a serial killer. A very pretty one. But still." He then, with the exaggerated slowness of a stop-motion animation character, began to slide off the stool. He planted his feet wide, steadying himself, and took one deliberate, teetering step away from the bar.

A burst of laughter escaped Phuwin. "What are you doing?"

"Slipping away," Pond whispered loudly, not looking back. "Without you noticing."

"You're doing a terrible job. I'm definitely noticing. Why are you slipping away?"

"Because," Pond said, pausing his escape to deliver the logic with utter sincerity, "you want my address." He took another wobbly step, his balance failing as he moved. He listed sharply to the side, and Phuwin was there in an instant, sliding a firm arm around his waist to catch him.

Pond stiffened for a second, then leaned heavily into the support. He turned his head, his lips nearly brushing Phuwin's ear. "Are you kidnapping me?" he whispered, a mix of fear and intrigue in his slurred voice.

Before Phuwin could answer, the stockroom door swung open and Sky, another bartender, emerged with a bin of empty bottles. "Phu, we're done back here. I'm heading out. You need help with... that?" He gestured with his chin at Pond, who was now leaning his head against Phuwin's shoulder, his eyes closed again.

"I've got him," Phuwin said, adjusting his grip. "See you tomorrow."

With Sky gone, Phuwin half-guided, half-carried Pond toward the back exit. "I'm not kidnapping you," he murmured, hefting the dead weight. "I'm ethically relocating a public nuisance."

He pushed the heavy door open, stepping out into the cool, quiet alley behind the club. Beck was already there, doing a final sweep of the area. Without a word, the large man moved to Pond's other side, effortlessly taking most of his weight.

"Come on, sunshine," Phuwin said, his voice soft in the dim alley. "Let's get you home. You can give the address to the taxi driver. I promise I won't listen.”

The 6 a.m. air was a cold, clean slap after the club's feverish atmosphere. The parking lot was vast and empty, washed in the pale, gray light of dawn. A lone taxi idled by the curb, its driver looking bored. But Pond, propped up between Phuwin and the ever-patient Beck, dug his heels in.

"No," he stated, his voice thick but firm. "Not getting in a car with a stranger."

"The driver's licensed, Pond. It's his job," Phuwin reasoned, trying to guide him forward.

"Exactly! A professional stranger!" Pond argued, his eyes wide with alarm. "That's even worse. He knows all the tricks. He could be taking me to a... a secondary location."

Beck let out a low grunt that might have been a stifled laugh. Phuwin ran a hand through his hair, exasperated but amused. "Then give me your address. I'll tell him. You don't have to say a word."

Pond shook his head with tragic solemnity, nearly overbalancing. "Can't. You're a… a bartender stranger. You have my DNA on that glass. It's a whole… a whole conspiracy."

They went in circles for another ten minutes. The taxi driver, after a frustrated wave from Phuwin, finally drove off, leaving them in the vast, silent lot. The sky was lightening, turning from gray to a soft, bruised purple. Phuwin looked at Beck, who just shrugged his massive shoulders.

"I've got a shift at the gym in an hour. Can't babysit," Beck said, his tone apologetic but final. He clapped a hand on Phuwin's shoulder. "You sure you're good?"

Phuwin looked at Pond, who was now staring with rapt fascination at a pigeon pecking at a discarded chip. He was a disaster, but a harmless, strangely charming one. Leaving him here wasn't an option.

"Yeah," Phuwin sighed, a decision crystallizing. "I'm good. Thanks, Beck."

As Beck lumbered away, Phuwin turned back to his charge. "Alright. New plan. You're coming with me."

Pond’s focus shifted from the pigeon to Phuwin. "Where?"

"My place. You can sleep it off on my couch.. It's very horizontal, I promise."

Pond considered this for a long moment, his cognitive gears visibly turning. "Do you have a cat?"

"No."

"A dog?"

"No, Pond. Just a couch."

This seemed to satisfy him. "Okay. But no funny business."

Phuwin burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the empty lot. "You have my word. No funny business." He slid his arm back around Pond's waist, his grip firm and steady. "Come on, you ridiculous man."

He led the wobbly Pond across the sea of asphalt toward a single, vibrant spot of color: his bright red Mazda. In the stark, monochrome light of dawn, it looked like a drop of fresh blood, impossibly vivid and alive.

Pond stopped a few feet away, blinking at the car. "It's very red," he announced.

"It's a Mazda," Phuwin said, digging in his pocket for the keys.

"It's the color of... of a warning," Pond mused, his head tilting. "Or a strawberry. A warning strawberry." He let Phuwin maneuver him into the passenger seat, his body going limp with compliance now that the negotiation was over. As Phuwin leaned across him to buckle the seatbelt, Pond’s eyes fluttered closed.

"Warning strawberry," he mumbled once more, already half-asleep as Phuwin closed the door and walked around to the driver's side, wondering what on earth he was going to do with this man on his couch.

The engine of the red Mazda purred to life, a soft, domestic sound after the club's industrial roar. Phuwin pulled out of the parking lot, the city streets stretching before them, quiet and slick with the residue of a recent rain. The world was hushed, existing in that liminal space between night and morning.

For a few minutes, the only sound was the hum of the tires. Then, Pond stirred.

"Your car smells nice," he announced, his voice drowsy. "Not like a stranger's car. Stranger cars smell like... regrets and old fries."

Phuwin chuckled softly. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Pond nodded, his head lolling against the headrest as he watched the sleeping city slide by. "The lights are like... fallen stars. On wires. Do you think someone collects them in the daytime? Puts them back up for the night?"

"Maybe," Phuwin said, glancing at him. The intermittent glow of the streetlights washed over Pond's face, painting him in strokes of gold and shadow. In these fleeting moments of illumination, Phuwin could see the sharp, elegant line of his jaw, the high cut of his cheekbones—architecture usually softened by shyness, now rendered stark and beautiful by the passing light.

Then, Pond's hands wandered, patting down the console between them. His fingers found a button and pressed it.

With a quiet, mechanical whir, the panoramic roof of the Mazda slid open.

A rush of cool night air flooded the cabin, swirling around them. Pond gasped, a sound of pure, unadulterated delight. Then he laughed—a loud, unreserved, and joyful sound that seemed to shatter the quiet of the car and the sleeping street. He tilted his head back, his eyes squeezed shut in happiness as the wind whipped through his hair, turning it into a chaotic, dancing mess.

Phuwin’s breath caught. Illuminated only by the rhythmic pulse of the passing streetlights, Pond was a vision of transient grace. The wind carved the lines of his face into sharp relief, each flash of light highlighting the laughter lines around his eyes, the strong column of his throat. It was a face made for intensity and passion, yet the expression it wore was one of utter, childlike sweetness. The contrast was breathtaking—the sharpness of a statue brought to life by a spirit of pure, uncomplicated joy.

"Feel that?" Pond shouted over the wind, his voice giddy. "It's like... it's like the night is giving us a bath! A cold, fast bath!"

Phuwin couldn't help the wide, genuine smile that spread across his own face. He didn't close the roof. He just drove, stealing glances at this man who, in his drunken, poetic stupor, was finding rapture in the simple sensation of wind on his face. It was the most beautiful thing he'd seen in a long while.

"The warning strawberry is my favorite car," Pond laughed.

The cool stillness of the parking garage wrapped around them after the wind-whipped joy of the drive. Pond was quiet for a moment, lulled by the engine's stop, before he turned his head against the headrest, his gaze hazy but fixed on Phuwin.

“You and your boyfriend,” he slurred, the words soft in the concrete space. “What do you do for fun?” A slow, dreamy smile spread on his face. “I bet… I bet you sneak into the supermarket after it closes. And you dance… in the frozen food aisle. Under the… the refrigerator light. It’s green. It makes your skin look like aliens.”

Phuwin let out a real, unguarded laugh, the sound bouncing off the parked cars. “No, we’ve never done that.” He unbuckled his own seatbelt, turning slightly to face Pond. “Also, I said I don't have a boyfriend. But once, we rented a hotel room for a night and filled the bathtub with the cheapest champagne we could find. Just to see what it felt like to bathe in it.”

“Another time,” Phuwin continued, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “we almost got arrested because of a giant inflatable swan.”

Pond blinked. “A swan?”

“Yeah. One of those oversized pool floats. Except we didn’t have a pool. What we did have was a friend with a rooftop and a portable air pump we probably shouldn’t have trusted.”

Phuwin ran a hand through his hair, laughing at the memory. “So there we were, inflating this ridiculous six-foot swan at two in the morning. The pump was loud, like ‘wake-up-the-whole-neighbourhood’ loud. Apparently someone called security because they thought we were trying to set up some kind of illegal rooftop party.”

Pond was already laughing. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes. And when security showed up, the wind picked up at the worst possible moment. The swan lifted and nearly pushed me off the edge. I grabbed its neck, it spun, I spun, everyone screamed, and then it launched off the building and landed in the street.”

Pond covered his mouth, horrified and thrilled. “Did it hit a car?”

“Thankfully, no. But the security guards were convinced we were causing public danger. We had to chase the swan down three blocks while trying to explain that it wasn’t part of some rooftop protest or art installation.” He shrugged. “Eventually they let us go with a warning”

He got out and came around to Pond’s door, opening it. “Alright, come on. Almost to the couch.”

Pond unfolded himself from the seat, his legs buckling the moment he put weight on them. He stumbled forward with a gasp, but in a surprising flash of drunken instinct, he twisted his body, taking the brunt of the impact on his own shoulder and hip rather than pulling Phuwin down with him.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Phuwin,” he babbled, his voice tight with panic as Phuwin hurried to help him up. “Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?” He was more upset about the potential harm to Phuwin than his own jarring fall.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. You’re the one who hit the ground,” Phuwin said, his voice gentle as he checked him over.

Pond shook his head, the earlier joy from the car ride completely evaporated, replaced by a raw, aching shame. “It’s because I’m so… dull. So boring.” He looked up at Phuwin, his eyes glittering with unshed tears. “I planned all our dates. I wanted them to be comfortable. Sweet. I made picnics. I remembered his favorite coffee order. And it was all just… boring to him. I’m not like you. I'm boring.”

He clung to Phuwin’s arm, his grip desperate. “Please,” he begged, his voice cracking. “You have to teach me. Please, Phuwin. Teach me how to have fun. Teach me how to be fun. Like you.”

Phuwin’s heart ached. He saw the genuine hurt, the deep-seated belief that he was fundamentally lacking. He cupped Pond’s face, forcing the drunken man to look at him. “Listen to me. There is nothing, nothing, better than a reliable boyfriend. A man who plans a picnic because he wants to make you happy. A man who remembers how you take your coffee because he actually listens.” His voice was firm, imbued with a conviction that surprised even himself. “You can have fun and be crazy with anyone. That’s easy. That’s cheap. But someone who truly cares? Who wants to spend time with you just to be with you? That’s everything. That’s not boring. That’s rare.”

But the pain in Pond’s face was a physical force. The plea was not a drunken whim; it was a cry from a wounded heart. He shook his head, fresh tears escaping. “It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t. Please. Just… show me.”

Looking at him, at the utter vulnerability and the profound need for validation, Phuwin felt his resistance crumble. This wasn't about flirting or bartender-customer etiquette anymore. This was human.

“Okay,” Phuwin said softly, the word a surrender. He pulled Pond to his feet, wrapping a steadying arm around him. “Okay, I’ll show you. But lesson one is getting you to bed without further injury. Can you manage that?”

Pond nodded, a fragile hope breaking through the misery on his face. “Yes. I can do that.”

Leaning heavily on Phuwin, he managed the slow, shuffling journey to the elevator and down the sterile hallway. Phuwin fumbled for his keys, the metallic jingle loud in the quiet corridor. He shouldered the door open, revealing a small, tidy apartment that smelled faintly of clean linen and the lingering scent of his favourite rose candle he’d extinguished before work. Moonlight filtered through the slats of the blinds, painting silvery bars across the dark wooden floor.

Pond was a heavy, warm weight against him, mumbling something incoherent about the floor being a "slow river." Phuwin guided him past the small, tidy living room, his eyes automatically skipping over the couch. It was perfectly comfortable, but the idea of leaving this shattered, trusting man curled up on a short piece of furniture felt inexplicably cruel. Without a second thought, he steered them toward his own bedroom.

"Almost there, just a few more steps," Phuwin murmured, his voice a low hum in the silence. He nudged the bedroom door open with his foot and led Pond to the bed, where the man collapsed with a soft, grateful groan, his body sinking into the mattress as if he were melting.

Phuwin knelt, the floor cool through the fabric of his jeans. "Alright, let's get you sorted," he said, more to himself than to Pond. He worked first on the shoes, untying the laces with efficient tugs and pulling them off, setting the scuffed sneakers aside neatly. Then his hands moved to the belt buckle.

He was focused on the task, his fingers working the leather through the metal loop, when Pond’s head lolled to the side. His eyes, glassy and half-lidded, watched the process with drunken fascination.

"Are you... undressin' me, Win?" Pond slurred, a slow, silly smile spreading across his face. "S'our first date. You move fast."

A burst of laughter escaped Phuwin before he could stop it, the sound warm and genuine in the quiet room. The sheer, absurd innocence of the comment, so perfectly juxtaposed with the situation, was utterly disarming. "I'm just taking off your belt, you ridiculous man. So you don't hurt yourself in your sleep."

"Okay," Pond agreed amiably, his smile softening. "You're good at it."

Phuwin shook his head, still smiling, as he slid the belt free and tossed it onto a nearby chair. "There. Now lie down properly."

Pond attempted to shuffle upwards, but his movements were uncoordinated and heavy. He let out a little whine of discomfort. "M'jeans. They're... they're too tight for sleeping. They're angry jeans."

Phuwin sighed, a fond exasperation washing over him. "Then take them off."

"Don'wanna move," Pond pouted, his lower lip jutting out in a way that was both childish and endearingly plaintive. He looked up at Phuwin with those big, pleading eyes, a master of helplessness in his inebriated state.

Phuwin ran a hand through his own hair, a short, sharp exhale of mock frustration. "You are the most high-maintenance disaster I've ever met.” 

There was a strange, quiet intimacy in the caretaking. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Pond's jeans, finding the button and zip. "Lift your hips. Come on, just a little."

With a grunt of effort, Pond obliged, and Phuwin tugged the stiff denim down his legs, pulling them off in one smooth motion. He tossed the jeans onto the chair with the belt, and when he turned back, the air left his lungs in a shallow, almost soundless rush.

Pond lay sprawled across his bed, the picture of debauched innocence. His dark hair was a disheveled mess against the pale pillowcase. A faint flush painted his cheeks, a rosy hue from the alcohol and the exertion. His lips, naturally full, were slightly parted as his breath evened out. The hem of his white shirt had ridden up, revealing a pale strip of his stomach and the sharp V-lines leading down. But it was his legs that held Phuwin's gaze—the stark white of his thighs against the dark sheets, strong and smooth, one slightly bent as if inviting a touch.

It was all a little bit too much. The trust, the vulnerability, the sheer, unadulterated beauty of him in this unguarded state. A heat that had nothing to do with the room's temperature prickled under Phuwin's skin. He shook his head, a sharp, physical rejection of the direction his thoughts were taking. He's drunk and heartbroken. The reminder was a bucket of cold water, dousing the sudden, unwelcome flare of attraction.

He moved quickly, almost abruptly, snatching the comforter from the foot of the bed and draping it over Pond, covering the tempting expanse of skin, tucking him in as if building a fortress against his own wayward thoughts.

"Goodnight, Phuwin," Pond slurred, his voice thick with sleep as he turned on his side, nuzzling into the pillow, now just a lump under the covers.

He looked down at the sleeping form, his chest tight with a confusing mix of protectiveness and something else he refused to name.

"Goodnight, sunshine," Phuwin chuckled. He reached out and turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into near darkness, save for the silver lines of moonlight cutting across the floor. Without looking back, he walked out, pulling the door closed until it was just ajar, leaving a sliver of light from the living room as a sentinel.