Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue: Pond

The rich, earthy scent of simmering curry filled Pond’s small apartment, a fragrant warmth that clung to the air and steamed the kitchen window slightly. He moved between the stove and the table with a nervous, hummingbird energy, adjusting the position of a simple ceramic bowl holding a floating gardenia candle for the third time. The table was set not for a grand occasion, but for an intimate one: woven placemats, his best, unchipped plates, and two wine glasses he’d carefully polished until they sparkled under the soft glow of the kitchen light. He wanted it to feel warm and welcoming. Cozy. It was their one-year anniversary, and Pond wanted it to be perfect.

He’d met Nattakon at a sprawling, noisy company party a little more than a year ago, a fish out of water in a sea of slick suits and loud laughter. Natt had been the epicenter of it all, smooth and charming, his eyes locking onto Pond from across the room with a predatory sort of amusement. He’d sauntered over, effortlessly commandeering the conversation, and seemed to take immense pleasure in the way his attention made Pond flush, stutter, and drop his napkin. At twenty-six, Pond had felt embarrassingly behind his peers in the art of romance. Natt, with his confident hands and knowing smile, had become his first everything: his first real date that didn’t involve awkward group hangouts, his first real kiss that was more than a fumbling peck in a school yard, his first time, his first boyfriend. Natt was the blazing sun to Pond’s cautious seedling, and Pond had spent the last year tilting his entire world towards that light, learning the textures of love through Nattakon’s impatient, exhilarating touch.

He checked the time on his phone, a flutter of anticipation tightening in his chest. The curry was ready, the jasmine rice was fluffy in its pot, and the playlist he’d meticulously curated—a mix of soft indie and soulful R&B—was just beginning to cycle through its first songs. He ran a hand over the soft, cream-colored tablecloth, imagining Nattakon’s reaction. Pond hoped the careful simplicity of the meal, the warmth of the candlelight, the entire cocoon of the evening would say what he often struggled to articulate: You are home here. With me. 

Pond gave the dining table one last, approving glance before padding quietly to his bedroom, the soft, worn floorboards cool beneath his yellow socks. His own reflection waited for him in the full-length mirror on the closet door, and he paused to take himself in.

He’d chosen a soft, well-worn black t-shirt and a pair of dark, comfortable jeans. Nothing fancy. This was a home dinner, after all, and he wanted Natt to feel at ease, to feel like he could kick off his shoes and stay. 

Comfort, Pond thought, was the ultimate luxury. 

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to coax a stray lock into a more artful disarray, then smoothed the front of his shirt where it clung to his chest. He turned slightly, checking his profile, a faint self-consciousness warming his cheeks. 

His eyes drifted from his reflection to the bed, and his thoughts, as they so often did, wandered into a hopeful future. A future where Natt’s toothbrush lived permanently in the holder next to his, where his closet was half-full of Natt’s sharper, more fashionable clothes. He’d been turning the idea over in his mind for weeks: asking Natt to move in together.

It made perfect sense, really. Natt was always so busy, swept up in the demanding tide of his work, and then so often out with his friends, chasing the vibrant nightlife that left Pond feeling dizzy and out of place. Pond never complained. He understood that having a boyfriend didn’t mean you had to give up your own life, your own friends. He’d read enough and heard enough to know that was a hallmark of unhealthy relationships. So he’d smile, tell Natt to have fun, and spend the evening watching a movie alone, his phone face-up on the couch beside him, just in case.

But if they lived together… the thought was a balm. They wouldn’t need to schedule time like a business meeting. They’d see each other in the sleepy, quiet moments of the morning, share coffee, cook together in his small kitchen, their elbows bumping playfully. They could do boring, wonderful things like grocery shopping on a Sunday, or collapse on the sofa for a spontaneous movie night without it being a planned event. It wasn’t that he minded Natt’s nights out; it was that he longed for the simple, domestic in-betweens. If they shared a home, he wouldn’t have to ask for Natt’s time. It would just be theirs.

°•☆•°

The gardenia candle had burned low, its pool of wax swallowing the wick, when the first flicker of unease truly took root in Pond’s stomach. The curry, once fragrant and steaming, now sat thick and congealed in its pot. The rice had formed a dry, crusty skin.

He’d waited through the first hour with understanding. Traffic, he’d thought, scrolling through news alerts on his phone for any reports of accidents. Or a last-minute work emergency. Natt was important, his job demanding.

Pond sent a careful text: Hey, just checking in. Dinner’s ready when you are :)

The silence that followed was a physical weight in the quiet room. The second hour, the understanding began to curdle into a low, thrumming worry.

He called Natt’s phone. 

It rang, a bland, digital trill, once, twice, then clicked over to voicemail. “You’ve reached Nattakon. You know what to do.” Pond’s message was a breathless, trying-to-sound-casual murmur. “Hey, just… worried. Call me back, okay?”

He called again. And again. Each unanswered ring was a tiny puncture in the bubble of his hope. The scenarios in his mind shifted from traffic jams to darker, more terrifying possibilities. A car wreck. A mugging. Lying hurt and alone in a hospital. The fear was a cold, sharp stone in his throat. He paced the length of the living room, the cozy atmosphere he’d crafted now feeling like a mockery.

Driven by a spiraling panic, he scrolled through his contacts, his thumb trembling slightly. He found the number for Mik, a friendly, straightforward guy from Natt’s office he’d met a handful of times.

“Mik? Hi, it’s Pond. Natt’s Pond. I’m so sorry to bother you,” he began, his voice tight with apology and anxiety. “I can’t reach Natt, and he was supposed to be here hours ago. I’m… I’m really worried something happened. Did he have to stay late tonight?”

There was a beat of hesitation on the other end, a silence that felt heavier than the one in the apartment. “Oh. Uh, hey, Pond,” Mik said, his voice laced with a discomfort that was immediately, terrifyingly palpable. “No, actually… we got off early today. Around five.”

The cold stone in Pond’s throat turned to ice. “Oh,” he whispered.

Another pause, then Mik continued, the words rushed, as if he wanted to get them out and be done with it. “Look, man, I… I heard him talking. He and some of the others were heading to the opening of that new club. The Night Sky.” The line crackled with his awkward sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

Pond’s mind went blank, white and silent. The worried, frantic scripts of ambulances and hospitals evaporated, leaving a vast, hollow emptiness. “I see,” he heard himself say, his voice coming from very far away. “Thank you, Mik.”

He ended the call. The phone slipped from his numb fingers, landing with a soft thud on the rug. He stood perfectly still in the center of the room, the silence now absolute, broken only by the final, guttering hiss of the gardenia candle as it drowned in its own wax.

For a long, terrible moment, Pond stood frozen in the darkening room, the only sound the frantic thumping of his own heart against his ribs. Then, the rationalizations came, swift and desperate as lifeboats launched into a stormy sea.

It’s my fault. The thought was clear, piercing through the static of his hurt. I must have gotten the day wrong. He fumbled for his phone where it had fallen. The screen lit up, blindingly bright in the gloom. He navigated to his calendar with trembling fingers, the date glaring back at him, undeniable. It was the right day.

A fresh wave of panic, cold and slick, washed over him. But I never reminded him. Natt was so busy, his mind always full of important projects and social engagements; how could he be expected to remember a mundane anniversary date without a reminder? Pond had been so careful with the food, the music, the atmosphere, but he’d neglected the most crucial thing: a text, a call, something to jog Natt’s memory amidst his bustling, exciting life. This was on him. His own sentimental, foolish oversight.

He looked around the room, at the carefully chosen casual clothes, now feeling like a costume for a play that had been cancelled. 

The image of Natt at a club, the pounding music, the flash of lights, the crush of bodies—it was so antithetical to the quiet evening Pond had planned. He needs that, Pond told himself, the justification tasting like ash in his mouth. He’s so vibrant, so full of energy. My dinner was probably too quiet, too boring for him. The thought was a sharp, internal wound, but he clung to it. It was easier than the alternative. 

He sank onto the edge of the couch, the weight of his self-recrimination pressing him down. He had built the entire evening on a foundation of sand, on assumptions and hopes he’d never voiced. The silence from Natt’s phone was no longer a source of fear for his safety, but a confirmation of his own inadequacy. He had failed to make their anniversary compelling. He had failed to be enough. 

His plans, his carefully and meticulously thought-out plans, never stood a chance. He remembered Natt coming home, breathless with laughter, recounting how they’d convinced a bouncer they were a lost band from Sweden, or the time they’d spontaneously driven to the coast at dawn to swim in the freezing surf. Natt’s world was a whirlwind of rooftop parties, of last-minute decisions that became legendary stories, of dares that ended with police involvement or in a hospital bed getting stitches.

How could any of that compare? How could a picnic by the river, with its carefully sliced fruit and checked blanket, ever compete with the adrenaline of a near-arrest? How could a cozy, homemade dinner ever be as exciting as a night in a pulsing, strobe-lit club where the music was so loud you couldn't think?

Natt was vibrant, a bonfire of charisma and impulse. And Pond… Pond was a single, steady candle. Useful, perhaps. Warm, even. But easily overlooked, easily extinguished by the slightest gust of wind.

He focused on breathing, on the softness of the couch against his back, a feeble anchor in the swirling storm of his thoughts. 

The self-pity was a thick, suffocating blanket, and for a while, Pond simply let it smother him. 

Then, a spark of defiance flickered in the hollow space Natt's absence had left behind.

He knew their routine. He’d been dragged along a handful of times, a quiet satellite orbiting Natt’s brilliant, chaotic sun. They would all meet at Mek’s apartment first, the air thick with the scent of cheap beer and expensive cologne, the bass of the music a physical vibration in the floorboards. They’d drink and laugh, the stories getting wilder, the plans more improbable, before finally spilling out onto the pavement and heading to a club around one in the morning.

He looked at the clock. 

12:53.

He had time.

The thought was a jolt. He could get up now and be at the club in an hour.

This was their one-year anniversary, Pond told himself.

It wasn't just any date. It was a milestone, a testament to twelve months of being together. It meant something. Pond refused to believe it didn't matter to Natt. He was sure that if he just reminded him, if he just showed up, Natt would be surprised, then delighted. He would see the effort Pond was making and appreciate it.

He pushed himself off the couch, his movements suddenly decisive. In the bathroom, the fluorescent light was unforgiving, highlighting the pallor of his skin and the faint redness around his eyes. He splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it sharpening his resolve. He ran wet fingers through his hair, trying to tame the disarray, and met his own gaze in the mirror. "For Natt," he whispered to his reflection, a mantra and a brace. He took a deep, shuddering breath, bracing himself for the sensory onslaught to come.

°•☆•°

It was almost 2 a.m. when he finally locked his apartment door behind him. The night air was cool and still, a stark contrast to the riot he knew he was heading towards. Inside his car, the world shrank to the soft glow of the dashboard. He typed "The Night Sky" into the GPS, the route calculated, a neon blue line cutting through the sleeping city, an hour-long journey into a world that was not his own.

The city streets, so familiar by day, were eerie and empty, the traffic lights cycling through their colors for no one. He drove past darkened shop fronts and silent office buildings, his headlights carving a solitary path through the gloom. The hum of the engine was a constant drone, underpinned by the soft, digital voice of the navigation system giving him instructions. Each kilometer that ticked down on the screen felt like a step further away from himself, from the quiet man who had cooked a cozy dinner with so much hope. He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, the artificial chill of the air conditioning doing nothing to cool the nervous heat simmering under his skin. 

When he finally reached his destination, the neon sign for "The Night Sky" was a violent slash of electric blue against the dark, pulsing like a headache. Even from the parking lot, the bass was a physical force, a relentless thump that vibrated up through the soles of Pond’s shoes and into his bones. He paid the cover charge to a bored-looking woman in a cage, the transaction feeling surreal, and then pushed the heavy door open.

The wall of sound and heat hit him like a physical blow. Strobe lights cut through a fog of artificial haze, illuminating glimpses of gyrating bodies, glistening skin, and wide, laughing mouths. The air was thick with the sweet-rotten smell of spilled alcohol, cheap perfume, and human sweat. Pond froze just inside the doorway, his senses screaming in overload. This was every one of his anxieties made manifest. He felt like a ghost, transparent and insubstantial in this world of solid, vibrant flesh.

He edged along the perimeter, his back practically glued to the wall, his eyes desperately scanning the undulating crowd for Natt’s familiar, confident silhouette. He saw strangers, a sea of them, their movements sharp and ecstatic in the strobing light, but no Natt.

As he stood trapped in a recess near a fire exit, trying to make himself small, a presence materialized beside him. A man, shorter than him, with long, dark hair that fell over his shoulders and a silver ring piercing his bottom lip. He leaned in, his breath a warm cloud against Pond’s ear to be heard over the music.

“You look a little lost,” he said, his voice a low rumble. His eyes, dark and amused, traveled over Pond’s face. “Buy you a drink?”

Pond flinched back, his personal space violently invaded. “No,” he stammered, the word swallowed by the music. He shook his head, a frantic, bird-like motion. “I’m… I’m waiting for someone.”

The man’s thin lips curved into a knowing smile. He didn’t seem offended. He reached out, and before Pond could react, he passed a single, slow finger along the line of Pond’s jaw. The touch was startlingly intimate, a bolt of lightning in the chaotic room.

“Alright, sweetheart,” the man said, his tone laced with a casual amusement that made Pond feel like a child. He winked, then turned and melted back into the swirling mass of bodies, leaving Pond standing there, his skin burning where he’d been touched.

The interaction lasted less than ten seconds, but it left Pond feeling flayed open and even more disoriented. He wasn’t just out of place; he was prey. He took a shaky breath, the club air feeling thinner now, and pushed off the wall, his determination to find Natt sharpened by a new, raw edge of desperation.

For what felt like an eternity, Pond waded through the chaos. He became a ghost again, slipping between couples and shouting groups, his eyes raking over every laughing face, every slouched figure at the bar. The strobe lights made the search feel like a frantic flipbook, each frozen frame a jumble of strangers. The sweet smell of alcohol began to turn cloying, nauseating. His hope, which had fueled the long drive, was rapidly curdling into a cold, heavy dread in his stomach.

Then he saw them.

Tucked in a raised, semi-circular booth at the back of the club, was Natt’s group. The table was a forest of empty glasses and cocktail shakers. Mek was there, laughing at something, along with a few other familiar faces and some Pond didn’t recognize. 

Slightly separate from the main group, half-sprawled on the plush velvet sofa, was Natt.

His arm was slung casually around the waist of a guy Pond had never seen. The man was lean, turned away from the crowd, the back of his shirt cut low in a dramatic V. 

Natt was leaning in, his mouth moving from the man’s neck to his lips in a slow, familiar kiss. It was passionate and frantic. Easy. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.

For a single, heart-stopping second, the world vanished. The music died. The lights froze. All Pond could see was Natt's hand as it squeezed the man's waist.

He took a stumbling step backward. His movement must have caught a peripheral eye. Natt glanced over, his laughter dying on his lips. His eyes met Pond’s.

That was all it took.

Pond bolted.

He turned and shoved his way back into the crowd, but this time it wasn't a careful navigation; it was a panicked, blind flight. Elbows knocked into his ribs, someone spilled a cold, sticky drink down his arm, a curse was thrown at his retreating back. He didn't hear it. The music was a deafening roar in his ears, the strobe lights a disorienting frenzy that made it hard to see. Bodies were no longer people but obstacles, a viscous, resistant medium he had to fight through. He was gasping, his breath coming in ragged sobs that were swallowed by the synth beats. He didn't know if anyone was following him; he just knew he had to get out.

He burst through the heavy main doors, the sudden relative quiet of the night a shock to his system. The cool air hit his sweat-slicked skin like a slap. He didn't stop running, his legs carrying him on pure adrenaline across the pavement until he reached his car. He fumbled for the handle, trying and failing to yank the door open, and then he doubled over, his hands braced on the cool metal of the hood. His entire body trembled violently. He tried to suck in air, but his lungs refused to expand fully, each breath a hiccupping, desperate gasp. He squeezed his eyes shut, but all he could see was the image burned onto the back of his eyelids: Natt’s face, the casual intimacy, his lips moving on the stranger's skin.

He stood there, bent over the car, the cold metal seeping into his palms. The violent tremors in his body began to subside, replaced by a terrible, waiting stillness. His ears, still ringing from the club’s cacophony, now strained for a different sound: the slap of dress shoes on pavement, a voice calling his name, frantic and apologetic.

He’ll come.

The thought was a desperate prayer. He saw me. Natt will come running after me.

Pond clung to the image, painting it in his mind with the frayed threads of his hope: Natt would burst through the club doors, his hair disheveled, his eyes wide with panic. He’d skid to a halt, his hands coming up, placating. He'd say he was sorry, that it's not what it looks like. He'd say it was a mistake born out of stress and too much liquor. He'd say that it meant nothing at all, begging Pond to forgive him, give him one more chance, that he'd make it up to him.

Pond’s mind, reeling and broken, began to fabricate the entire scene. He would listen. He would let Natt grab his hands, let him spill his frantic excuses. He would let Natt pull him into a crushing hug, the scent of club air and a strangers cologne clinging to his jacket. He would cry, of course he would cry, but he would accept the apology. He would take anything—any lie, any half-truth, any pathetic justification—because it would mean that Natt cared enough to lie. That he was willing to fight for him. That Pond was still worth the effort of a chase.

A dry, broken sob escaped him. The memory that surfaced then was not of the man in the club, but of the man from a year ago. Natt, in the beginning. Natt who would call him three times a day just to hear his voice. Natt who would show up at his office unannounced with coffee, his smile blinding. Natt who would text him “miss you” an hour after they’d said goodbye. He had been a force of nature, a hurricane of attention, and Pond had been the quiet shore he’d chosen to make landfall upon. He had pursued Pond with a single-minded intensity that had been as flattering as it was overwhelming.

When did it stop?

Pond couldn’t pinpoint the moment. There was no specific day, no single argument. It had been a slow, imperceptible shift, a tide going out. The calls had become less frequent, then always initiated by Pond. The spontaneous visits ceased. The texts became short, delayed replies. And without even realizing it, Pond had become the one running. Running to close the distance Natt was creating. Running to plan dates interesting enough to hold his attention. Running to a club on their anniversary, begging for a scrap of his time. He had become the supplicant, and Natt had become the distant king, bestowing his presence as a favor.

Here Pond was again. The one who had run. And he was waiting, just as he always had, for Natt to be the one to follow.

A minute passed. Then another.

The only sounds were the distant, muffled thump of the bass from the club and the ragged sound of his own breathing. 

No door slammed open. No voice called his name.

The hope, so vividly imagined, began to dissolve, leaving behind a cold, clear reality more painful than any betrayal. The truth wasn't just that Natt had cheated. The truth was that he wouldn't even bother to run after him.

He had stopped being the prize a long, long time ago.

A final, shuddering breath left his lungs. He slowly, painfully, straightened up. His hands fell from the car hood, numb and cold. He didn't look back at the club. There was nothing left to see. He pulled the car door open and slid inside, the silence of the vehicle a tomb for the last of his illusions.

°•☆•°

For three days, the world inside Pond’s apartment ceased to turn. Time became measured not in hours, but in the slow crawl of light across the floorboards and the deepening silence that pressed in on his eardrums. He waited. He waited for the familiar, impatient knock at the door, for the jingle of keys in the lock. He waited for his phone to light up with Natt’s name, for a notification—any notification—that would prove the last seventy-two hours were just a terrible dream.

Once again, he found himself constructing entire realities in the stagnant air. Natt would appear, disheveled and remorseful, his charm brittle with genuine regret. He would recite a novel of an apology, explaining everything away, begging for a chance to make it right. Pond rehearsed his own responses, his anger, his hurt, his eventual, weary forgiveness. 

He existed in a state of suspended animation, his heart a raw, exposed nerve waiting for a touch, even a painful one, just to feel something other than this hollowed-out dread.

On the fourth day, the silence had become a physical presence, a thick cotton wool stuffing the rooms, muffling everything but the frantic beat of his own thoughts. Then, the sound tore through it.

The default trill of his phone was obscenely loud, a shriek in the dead quiet. It vibrated against the wooden coffee table, a frantic, dancing thing. Pond’s entire body jerked. He stared at the screen, at the name that flashed there—the name that had once sent a thrill through him, now a brand of searing pain.

For a long, suspended second, he considered letting it ring. Let it go to voicemail. Force Natt’s hand. Make him speak his piece into the void, make him have to show up, to look Pond in the eye and see the damage he’d wrought. It was a powerful, vengeful thought.

But it was instantly crushed by a more profound, more terrifying fear. The fear of the absolute, ringing silence that would follow. The fear that if he didn't answer, Natt would never call again. That this would be the end, not with a confrontation, but with a void. An unanswered call that would stretch into eternity, a book without an end, a sentence left forever unfinished. He couldn't bear it. The need for an ending, any ending, was more powerful than his pride, more powerful than his hurt.

With a hand that trembled so violently he almost fumbled it, he snatched the phone from the table. His thumb, slick with sweat, swiped across the screen to answer.

He brought the device to his ear, his breath held tight in his chest, waiting for the sound of the voice that had shattered his world.

The line was crackling with ambient noise for a moment—the sound of traffic, distant voices, the wind. A world moving on while Pond’s had stopped. Then, Natt’s voice, flat and devoid of the panic or remorse Pond had desperately imagined.

“Hey. Look, I know you saw… whatever you saw at the club.”

The words were a clinical strike, draining the warmth from Pond’s body. His throat sealed itself, a thick, painful knot of unshed tears and unvoiced screams. He could only listen, his grip on the phone so tight the plastic casing groaned in protest. He was a statue of grief, holding a line to his own executioner.

“It’s… messy,” Natt continued, a sigh of irritation, not regret, punctuating the words. Pond could almost see the dismissive wave of his hand. “But you can’t just run off like that. It’s embarrassing.”

Embarrassing?

A disbelieving, silent gasp was the only thing that broke through Pond’s paralysis. The pain was so colossal it had no sound. His flight from the club, the shattering of his world, the way his knees had almost buckled on the dance floor—all of it was reduced, in Natt’s calculus, to a social faux pas.

“Natt…” he managed, the name tearing out of him in a ragged whisper, a plea from a shipwreck. “It was our anniversary. I cooked… I waitet—”

The words were so small, so pathetic. He had laid out a battlefield of his devotion, and Natt was stepping over it in polished boots.

“See, that’s the thing, Pond!” The interruption was sharp, a needle aimed precisely at the balloon of Pond’s composure. It was as if Natt had been coiled, waiting for this exact moment to pounce. “It’s always just… cooking and waiting. It’s so… dull. So boring.”

The words, delivered with such casual cruelty, hit with the force of physical blows. The air rushed from Pond’s lungs.

“I tried,” Natt pressed on, his voice gaining a defensive, lecturing tone that was somehow worse than the coldness. “I tried so many times to include you. To bring you out with us, to show you how to have a good time. But you never tried hard enough. You always just stood on the side, looking like a scared puppy. What was I supposed to do? Sit at home every night watching Netflix? That’s not a life. That’s a coma.”

Each sentence was a precise, poisoned dart, landing directly in the heart of every insecurity Pond had ever nurtured. He wanted to scream. He wanted to rage, to list every sacrificed evening, every forced smile in a crowd that terrified him, every time he’d bent his own nature just to be closer to Natt’s light. The words were a fire in his chest, a torrent of hurt and fury.

But they died before they reached his lips, suffocated by a truth more powerful than his anger. 

Natt wasn’t telling him anything new. He was just giving voice to the terrible, silent narrative that had been growing in Pond’s own mind for months. The accusations didn’t feel like attacks; they felt like confirmations. They stole the fight from his chest and left a cold, hollow truth in its place: It was my fault. I wasn't enough.

"I felt more these three months I've been with him than in a year I've been with you," Natt continued, his voice dropping into a confiding tone that was more intimate, and therefore more vicious, than anything that had come before. "It was cute at the beginning, how innocent and sweet you were. It was fun to show you new things but you can't always be like that. I'm telling you this to help you. No one will want to be with you if you keep being like this. Innocence and sweetness are only exciting at the beginning.”

Three months.

The number dropped into the hollowness, not with a splash, but with the dry, final sound of a coffin lid closing.

Three months.

The math was a visceral, gutting thing. His mind, treacherous and sharp, began rifling through the memories of the last ninety days. The nights Natt had come home late, smelling of unfamiliar cologne and the metallic tang of a club he’d claimed he’d gone to with his friends. The lips Pond had kissed, that he had given himself to fully in their shared bed, had tasted like another man. The skin he had touched with reverent hands, the body he had mapped in the dark, had been marked by another. He had slept curled against a lie, his head on a chest that housed a second, secret heart. He had been a fool, building a home in a house that was already condemned.

He heard a muffled voice call Natt’s name from his end of the line.

“Look, I have to go,” Nattakon said, the finality crisp and clean. “This… this just isn’t working for me. It’s over. Okay?”

There was a soft click.

The line went dead.

Pond stood frozen, the phone still pressed to his ear, listening to the hollow dial tone. It was only when his lungs began to burn that he realized he’d forgotten to breathe. He lowered the phone, staring at the blackened screen.

It was over. His first relationship. And he had said nothing.

Not a single word in his own defense.

The realization crashed over him, a wave of suffocating shame. He had given Natt everything—his first date, his first real kiss, his first time, his first love—he had poured every ounce of his devotion, his quiet adoration, his entire sense of self into that relationship. He had handed Natt the blueprint to his heart and said, “Here, build something with this.”

And now, Nattakon had handed it back, crumpled and discarded, and Pond was left with nothing. Not even his own voice. He was just an empty room where the ghost of his first love now haunted him, whispering a single, devastating truth: You are dull.

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.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Pond

The first thing he was aware of was the light.

It was a relentless, golden blade slicing through his eyelids, painting the inside of his skull a painful, pulsing orange. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that seemed to vibrate through the aching cavern of his head. He tried to turn away from the assault, but the movement sent a fresh, nauseating wave throbbing behind his temples.

His mouth felt stuffed with cotton and ash, his tongue a thick, foreign object. Every part of him felt heavy, weighted down to the mattress, his limbs leaden and uncooperative. 

Slowly, cautiously, he forced his eyes open.

The world was a blur of soft focus and sharp pain. He wasn't in his own room. His bedroom window faced east, greeting the day with a gentle light. This window was a wide, unapologotic rectangle, flooding the room with an early afternoon sun that felt personally accusatory.

He blinked, his dry eyelids scraping, and the room began to resolve into details. Clean, dark wooden floors. A simple, modern dresser against the wall. A framed, abstract print he’d never seen before. The smell was faintly clean—honey and fresh linen—utterly alien.

The sight sparked a low flicker of anxiety in his gut, cutting through the fog of pain. He pushed himself up on his elbows, the muscles in his arms protesting weakly. The movement shifted the soft, heavy comforter that was draped over him.

And that’s when he realized.

The comforter was directly against his bare legs.

His heart gave a single, hard thump against his ribs, a painful counter-rhythm to his headache. He looked down, his breath catching in his throat. He was lying in a strange bed, in a strange room, wearing nothing but a rumpled white shirt and a pair of tight black briefs.

Panic, cold and immediate, doused the last of his lethargy.

Memories, jagged and disconnected, flashed behind his eyes. The club. The deafening music. The blur of lights. The bartender with the kind eyes and the sharp smile. Phuwin. The yellow drink that tasted like sunshine. A car ride. Wind in his hair, laughing. The world tilting. Falling.

His stomach lurched.

He scrambled backward on the bed, his back hitting the cool wooden headboard with a soft thud. His breath came in short, sharp gasps that made his head spin. He scanned the room wildly, looking for clues, for his clothes, for any sign of what had happened.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to piece it together. Phuwin. He’d been at Phuwin’s bar. He’d gotten catastrophically drunk. He remembered pleading, the words slurred and pathetic: “Please, teach me how to be fun.”

And then… nothing. A blank space. Had he…? Had Phuwin…?

A soft creak from outside the door snapped his eyes open.

He froze, every muscle tense, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He watched the door, the sliver of the living room beyond it dark compared to the sun-drenched bedroom. He held his breath, waiting, the unknown on the other side of that door feeling more terrifying than any hangover.

The soft creak was followed by a hesitant knock, so gentle it was almost swallowed by the frantic pounding in his head.

“Pond?” a voice called from the other side. It was a pleasant voice, low and smooth. “You awake in there?”

Pond’s throat tightened. He pulled the comforter up to his chin, a feeble shield. “Y-yeah,” he managed, his own voice a raspy croak.

The door pushed open slowly, and Phuwin stepped inside.

The morning light, which had felt so violent to Pond, seemed to embrace the bartender. It caught in his dark, tousled hair and highlighted the elegant line of his jaw. He was wearing a simple grey t-shirt and soft-looking sweatpants, and he looked effortlessly, infuriatingly composed. Under any other circumstances, Pond might have thought he was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. Right now, he was just the focal point of all his swirling panic and shame.

Phuwin offered a small, careful smile. “Good morning, sunshine,” he said, his tone light. “Or well, afternoon now.”

“Hi,” Pond whispered, his grip on the comforter turning his knuckles white. He felt himself shrinking, trying to disappear into the pillows.

Phuwin lingered near the doorway, not coming any closer, his eyes scanning Pond’s tense form. He gave a soft, understanding chuckle. “Not as chatty as you were last night, I see.”

“Yeah,” Pond said, the single word laden with a world of discomfort. He couldn’t meet Phuwin’s gaze, his eyes darting instead to the window, the floor, anywhere else.

A beat of silence passed, and Phuwin’s playful demeanor softened into something more sincere. He seemed to read the entire, humiliating script running through Pond’s mind.

“Hey,” he said, his voice dropping to a more reassuring timbre. “Look at me for a second.”

Reluctantly, Pond dragged his eyes up.

“Everything is fine,” Phuwin stated, his gaze steady and clear. “You hear me? You were in no state to get yourself home last night. You refused to give your address to me, or the taxi driver, or basically anyone who asked. You were very… adamant about stranger danger.” A faint, fond smile touched his lips. “So, you crashed here. On my bed.” He gestured with his thumb towards the living room. “I slept on the couch.”

He paused, letting that sink in. “That’s it. That’s all that happened. You passed out, I took your jeans off because you complained they were ‘angry,’ and you slept for about twelve hours straight. Nothing else. I promise.”

The words were a comfort, slowly seeping through the cracks of his panic. Nothing happened. The tight coil of anxiety in his chest began to loosen, just a fraction. The vivid, terrifying scenarios his hungover brain had conjured began to dissolve, leaving behind the more mundane, yet still deeply embarrassing, truth.

He managed a shaky nod, his shoulders slumping in relief. “Okay,” he breathed out, the word barely audible. “Thank you. For… for not leaving me there.”

Phuwin’s smile returned, warmer this time. “Don’t mention it. How’s the head?”

“Like there’s a construction crew in it,” Pond admitted, finally releasing his death grip on the comforter. “A very enthusiastic one.”

“I bet. I’ll get you some water and ibuprofen. Your clothes are there, by the way,” he added, nodding towards the chair in the corner where Pond’s jeans and belt were neatly placed.

Pond just nodded again, unable to find the words.

“I’ll be right back,” Phuwin said softly, and retreated, pulling the door almost closed behind him, leaving Pond alone in the sunlit room with the shattered pieces of his dignity.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cool air hitting his bare skin and making him shiver. His head protested the sudden movement with a dizzying throb, but the urge to be clothed, to regain some semblance of control, was stronger. He practically stumbled to the chair, his fingers fumbling with the button on his jeans. The simple normality of pulling them on, zipping them up, and buckling the belt was a profound relief. He was no longer half-naked and vulnerable. He was just a guy with a world-class hangover in someone else's bedroom.

He was standing awkwardly by the door, unsure if he should leave or wait, when Phuwin returned. He held a tall glass of water and two small ibuprofen tablets in his palm.

"Here," Phuwin said, offering them. "This should help with the demolition in your skull."

Pond reached for them, but his hand hesitated just inches from Phuwin's. A flicker of his earlier, irrational fear resurfaced—the fear of being at someone else's mercy, of not being in control.

Phuwin’s eyes, perceptive as ever, caught the hesitation. He didn't look offended, just amused. A slow, wry smile spread across his face. "I'm not going to drug you now, Pond. If I had any nefarious plans, I had all night to spike your drink, or all morning to do... whatever, while you were snoring softly in my bed." He said it so matter-of-factly, with such casual logic, that the remaining tension shattered.

Pond felt his face flush with fresh embarrassment. "Sorry. I'm— sorry. I don't... I don't think that." He quickly took the glass and the pills, swallowing them down with a long gulp of the blessedly cool water.

"Don't worry about it," Phuwin said, leaning against the doorframe. "Okay, next order of business. You can use the shower. There's a clean towel on the rack, and I put a new toothbrush for you on the sink. You can borrow one of my shirts, too. That one's seen better days." He gestured vaguely at Pond's rumpled, once-white top.

Pond instinctively looked down at his shirt. It was creased and carried the faint, stale scent of a nightclub. "Oh. No, it's fine. I'm fine," he said quickly, the idea of taking more from this man feeling like too much.

Phuwin raised an eyebrow. "Pond. You smell like a bar mat. A particularly sticky one. Your shirt is sweaty and probably still has a bit of whatever that guy spilled on you last night. It's not fine. Just take a shower. It'll make you feel human again."

Pond frowned, a pathetic, defensive pout. He brought the collar of his shirt to his nose and took a cautious sniff. He smelled of sweat, spilled sugar, and the ghost of cheap beer. Phuwin was right.

Phuwin laughed, a bright, genuine sound that seemed to clean the air in the room. "See? Don't argue. Just go. Bathroom's right across the hall. I'll find you a big enough shirt to change into."

Defeated by both hygiene and logic, Pond just nodded. "Okay. Thank you."

He shuffled across the hallway into the clean, white-tiled bathroom. It was as neat and curated as the bedroom, with a single, expensive-looking bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo on the ledge of the shower. He stripped and quickly stepped under the spray.

The hot water was a baptism. It sluiced away the grime and sweat of the night, the tension in his shoulders, and some of the sticky residue of shame. He let it pound against his forehead and the back of his neck, the heat soothing his aching muscles. He reached for the shampoo, a simple plastic bottle. He squeezed some into his palm—it was a rich, golden color—and as he worked it into his hair, the scent of warm, sweet honey filled the steam around him. It was a comforting, sweet, profoundly kind smell. He stood there for a long time, under the honey-scented water, letting it wash over him, trying to remember how to be a person.

When he emerged from the shower, the bathroom swaddled in steam. He scrubbed at his hair with the soft towel, the scent of honey clinging to his damp skin. He brushed his teeth with the new toothbrush, the minty paste washing away the last foul taste of the night. Feeling marginally more human but now acutely self-conscious, he pulled on his jeans. Without a shirt, he felt exposed, the cool air of the apartment raising goosebumps on his arms. He took a steadying breath and opened the bathroom door.

Phuwin was right there, his hand raised as if to knock. He seemed to freeze for a fraction of a second, his gaze inadvertently dropping, skimming over Pond's bare chest and torso before snapping back up to his face with deliberate speed. A faint, almost imperceptible flush touched his cheeks.

"Right. Uh, here," he said, his voice a notch tighter than before. He thrust a folded black t-shirt into Pond's hands. "It's the biggest one I have. Should be okay. Come to the kitchen when you're dressed. There's lunch." He didn't wait for a reply, turning and disappearing down the hallway almost too quickly.

Pond’s heart hammered again, but for a different reason now. He quickly pulled the shirt on; it was a little snug across the shoulders and chest, but it fit well enough. Wearing Phuwin’s clothes felt strangely intimate, like he was being wrapped in a piece of his quiet, confident world.

He followed the sound of clinking dishes to a small, sunlit kitchen. Phuwin was setting two plates on a narrow counter that served as a breakfast bar. On each was a simple omelette and a slice of toast.

"You really didn't have to do this," Pond said, hovering by the doorway.

"Lunch was already made," Phuwin replied without looking up, dividing a small pile of cherry tomatoes between the plates. "You might as well eat it. Sit."

Pond slid onto a stool. They ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the scrape of forks and the distant hum of city traffic. The food was simple but perfect, settling his queasy stomach.

"Thank you," Pond said again, breaking the quiet. "For everything. Letting me crash, the clothes, this..."

Phuwin waved a dismissive hand. "Don't mention it. It's the bartender's code: never leave a wounded soul to fend for themselves." He took a sip of water. "How are you feeling? Honestly?"

"Like I got run over by a tram," Pond admitted with a weak smile. "But… better. The shower helped. The food helps." He paused, pushing a piece of egg around his plate. "I'm really sorry about last night. All of it. The… the crying, and the begging for lessons. God, that was pathetic."

"Hey," Phuwin said, his tone firm but not unkind. "You were hurting. And you were drunk. We've all been there. Well, maybe not the specific 'teach me to be fun' part, but the general heartbroken mess part? Definitely.”

"I was being dumb," Pond muttered, staring at his plate. "You don't have to... you know. Hold me to that. It was the alcohol talking."

Phuwin was quiet for a moment, studying him. He finished his last bite of toast and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I promised I would, so I will."

Pond's head snapped up. "What?"

"You heard me. I said I'd show you, and I will." Phuwin leaned forward, his elbows on the counter, his expression serious. "Let me be clear: I don't think you need to change. I think the guy who said that to you has a gaping void where a personality should be." The vehemence in his voice was surprising. "But," he continued, his tone softening, "if you feel like you need to rediscover a part of yourself, or just need a friend to show you that life doesn't have to be all quiet dinners and waiting by the phone... then I'll help you. Consider it a guided tour of having a good time, on your own terms."

Pond could only stare, the offer so far beyond his expectations that he couldn't process it. This stunning, charismatic man who had seen him at his absolute worst wasn't just politely brushing him off. He was offering a hand.

"Okay," Pond whispered, the word feeling like a leap into the unknown.

Phuwin’s face broke into a brilliant, easy smile. "Good. Now finish your eggs, sunshine. You look like you’re one loud noise away from shattering." He gestured with his fork. "The first and only lesson for today is getting you back to your life. We'll go get your car from the club's lot so you can go home, get some real rest in your own bed."

The practicality of it was a relief. The grand, terrifying idea of "lessons" was momentarily shelved, replaced by the simple, achievable goal of retrieving his vehicle. "Okay," Pond agreed, the tension in his shoulders easing another notch. "Thank you. Again. For all of it."

"Stop thanking me, you'll wear out the phrase," Phuwin said lightly, standing to clear their plates. He moved with the same fluid efficiency he had behind the bar. After loading the dishwasher, he pulled his phone from his pocket. "Here," he said, navigating to his screen and pulling up a QR code. "That's my LINE. Add me. So we can... you know. Figure out when to start this guided tour of fun, or at least so you can let me know you got home without your car spontaneously combusting."

Pond fumbled for his own phone, which he found, thankfully, in the pocket of his jeans. His hands were still a little unsteady as he opened the app and scanned the code. A new chat window popped up with Phuwin's name—and a profile picture of him, laughing, with a bright red cocktail in his hand.

Contact saved, flashed on his screen.

"Okay," Pond said, holding up his phone as proof. "Got it."

"Perfect." Phuwin slid his phone back into his pocket. "Now, go put your shoes on. The sooner we get your car, the sooner you can go wallow in your hangover in the proper, private comfort of your own home."

A genuine, albeit small, smile touched Pond's lips for the first time that morning. "Wallowing sounds pretty good right now, actually."

"I bet it does," Phuwin chuckled, leading the way out of the kitchen. "Come on, let's get you back on the road.”

°•☆•°

Pond spent fifteen full minutes staring at the blinking cursor on his phone screen, agonizing over every syllable of the message he owed Phuwin.
A thank-you text shouldn’t have been this difficult.
A simple Got home safe, thank you for helping me, shouldn’t have required drafting, revising, deleting, rewriting. And yet it did—because the moment he tried to send something, the memory of himself slumped on the bar, waxing poetic about clouds and ice cubes, crashed into him like a wave of mortification.

Pond (4:05pm)
Good afternoon, Phuwin. I hope you got some rest after we said goodbye. I wanted to thank you again for your help yesterday and today. I apologize for the trouble I caused. I made it home safely.

He read it. Winced. Deleted the last sentence. Re-added it. Debated whether safely sounded too formal. Debated whether apologize made it sound like a corporate email. Debated whether the entire message made him sound like a man trying desperately to pretend he hadn’t spent half a night talking about ice cubes conspiring against lemons.

When he finally hit “send,” he felt wrung out.

The reply came seven minutes later—three consecutive texts, each a small jolt against the quiet of his kitchen.

Phuwin (4:12pm)
u only got home now??
dw about it
glad u made it back safe 

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ:･ﾟ✧*

Pond stared at the symbols. Sparkles. Arms flailing. Happiness rendered in text.

He waited for a few minutes before replying, afraid of looking too eager.

Pond (4:17pm)
Thank you again for ensuring I got home. I hope I didn’t cause you too much trouble while you were working.

A beat. Then three pings.

Phuwin (4:18pm)
u were fine lol
almost fell on me tho
but dont worry i survived (ง •̀_•́)ง

Pond covered his face with both hands.

He wanted to disappear forever.

But he typed back anyway, fingers stiff with embarrassment.

Pond (4:20pm)
I truly am sorry about that.

Phuwin (4:20pm)
lmao no dont be
u were cute
and very dramatic
(in a cute way)

He felt his pulse skip.
Then jump.
Then rearrange itself entirely.

The messaging didn’t stop.

If anything, it became the quiet thread stitching Pond’s days into something remarkably bearable.

It began innocently—Pond thanking him again the next morning.
Phuwin asking whether Pond had checked if clouds were lonely today.

Pond, mortified but unable to resist, admitting he had looked up at the sky on his way to work.

Phuwin (9:48pm)
did they look happy??

Pond had surprised himself by smiling.

A week in, the anxiety had largely faded. The texts were no longer formal updates but a continuous, meandering conversation that spanned their opposite schedules. Pond stopped rehearsing his messages in his head first. He’d see something odd or beautiful, and his first instinct was to tell Phuwin. He’d type it out and send it, sometimes with a photo, his heart feeling a little lighter each time.

Pond ( 9:11 AM)

Good morning. Or good night, I suppose, for you. I hope you slept well.

Phuwin (3:04 PM)

the sun is a rude and noisy neighbor

(≖_≖ )

but thank you

The rhythm that grew between them was strange, almost mismatched—Pond in the bright, structured hours of his office, and Phuwin in the glowing, loud nights of the bar. But they made it work. If anything, the differing hours became a kind of shared joke.

During Pond’s lunch break:

Pond (12:04 PM)
My coworker kept calling the printer “temperamental.” I believe the machine is reacting to being verbally attacked.

When Phuwin woke up:

Phuwin (3:35 PM)
printers have feelings bro
its scared of ur coworker
(•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑

On Phuwin’s breaks at the bar:

Phuwin (3:22 AM)
today a guy tried to order a mojito but he said “mosquito” the whole time
i asked if he wanted blood in it
he didnt laugh
(ノಠ益ಠ)ノ彡┻━┻

Pond would be waking up, smiling into his pillow as he typed a reply:

Pond (6:00 AM)
I’m impressed you managed to keep a straight face. I would’ve failed entirely.

Phuwin (6:02 AM)
who said i kept a straight face lol 

im lying i did keep one
u woulda laughed tho i bet

After one particularly lengthy text from Pond describing an awkward office lunch gathering, Phuwin sent:

Phuwin (4:51 PM)
pond ur texts are like novels
i like it tho
very proper
makes me feel like im texting a big shot CEO (¬‿¬ )

Pond had stared at the message for a long moment, then—hesitantly—typed back:

Pond (5:02 PM)
I could try to be less formal, if it bothers you.

The reply was instant.

Phuwin (5:02 PM)
nahhh dont change
i like how u talk
its cute
(u can relax a bit tho lol)

And Pond found that he could. A little.

Pond’s messages, while still grammatically sound, lost their stiff perfection. He allowed himself a fragmented sentence, a dry observation sent without overthinking. He was learning the rhythm of Phuwin’s conversation—the rapid-fire, symbolic bursts that were somehow so full of personality. 

His phone was no longer a source of dread, waiting for a call that would never come. It was a source of light, waiting for the next cascades of messages, for the next small storm of thoughts and jokes and oddly tender observations. Pond found himself waiting for them throughout the day—not impatiently, but with a quiet, blooming expectancy.

They shared work anecdotes:

Pond’s coworkers debating which brand of stapler was “reliable.”
Phuwin’s regulars ranking cocktails by their breakup potential.

They shared personal things too:

Pond admitting he still couldn’t drink rum after his “sunshine incident.”
Phuwin revealing he burned his first ever cocktail so badly his boss banned him from torching garnishes for a month.

And through it all, Pond felt something unfamiliar growing, slowly and steadily, like a small green shoot pushing through soil.

He felt… looked forward to.
And seen.
And—somehow—never too much.

Every time his phone lit up with:

Phuwin (2:12 AM)
pondpond pond look at this cat [photo]
(=^･ω･^=)
it came into the bar again

…he felt something warm unfurl in his chest.

The way Phuwin responded to every silly thing Pond shared, the way he never found Pond’s life boring—never made him feel small or inconvenient—was a tenderness Pond wasn’t used to.

He found himself checking his phone more often.
He found himself smiling in elevators.
He found himself rereading conversations in bed.

The days moved differently now—lighter somehow, as if each message traded between them shifted the weight of the world just a fraction.

°•☆•°

Three months after his break up and four weeks to the day after he’d woken up in Phuwin’s bed with a world-ending hangover, Pond was lying on his sofa, half-watching a cooking show and trying to ignore the quiet of his apartment. The buzz of his phone on the coffee table was a welcome interruption. He picked it up, a small, habitual smile already forming, expecting a silly picture or a complaint about a pre-shift chore.

The smile faltered when he saw the message.

Phuwin (8:17 PM)

can I call you?

Pond’s heart gave a nervous lurch. They had never spoken on the phone. Their entire friendship existed in the safe, asynchronous space of text messages, where he had time to think and compose himself. A call was immediate. A call was real. His mind raced through terrible possibilities—had something happened? Had Pond done something wrong? Was Phuwin angry?

His fingers fumbled as he typed back.

Pond (7:20 PM)

Sure. Is everything okay?

He stared at the screen, the seconds stretching into an eternity. The host on the TV was cheerfully filleting a fish, and the sound suddenly felt obnoxiously loud. He grabbed the remote and muted it, plunging the room into a tense silence. He cleared his throat, though no one was there to hear him.

Then, his screen lit up, vibrating with an incoming call. Phuwin’s name, accompanied by the profile picture of him laughing, stared back.

Pond took a sharp breath and swiped to answer, bringing the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hey.” Phuwin’s voice was the same as he remembered, a low, smooth hum, but it was layered with the faint sounds of city traffic in the background. “You sound worried. Everything’s fine.”

The reassurance was a physical relief, loosening the knot in Pond’s chest. “Oh. Good. I just… we’ve never… you know.”

“Called? I know. Felt like breaking the rules,” Phuwin said, a smile evident in his tone. “Listen, I have a promise to keep. Remember? The guided tour.”

Pond’s grip on the phone tightened slightly. “I remember.”

“Good. So, lesson one. Tonight. I’m teaching you how to make drinks. And how to talk to customers without looking like a startled deer.”

“At the club?” Pond’s voice rose an octave. The memory of that night—the crushing noise, the disorienting lights, the feeling of being utterly lost—washed over him. “Phuwin, I… I don’t know.”

“It’s fine,” Phuwin said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re starting slow. We’ll go in early, before it opens. No crowd, no pressure. It’ll just be you, me, and a bunch of inanimate bottles. If, when the crowd gets there, you feel overwhelmed, you can go to the back room. No questions asked. Deal?”

Pond closed his eyes. He could say no. Phuwin would understand. But he heard the earnestness in his voice, the genuine desire to follow through on his word. And a part of Pond, the part that was tired of being the one who was always left behind, wanted to say yes.

“Okay,” he whispered, the word feeling like a leap. “Okay, deal.”

“Great!” The triumph in Phuwin’s voice was a warm, tangible thing. “I’m just heading home now. I have to be at the club by ten—we open at midnight. Meet me at my place at 8:30.”

“Your place? Why?”

“So we can pick an outfit, and then we can go together. I want to get you started before the chaos descends.”

Pond’s brain snagged on one word. “Outfit?”

But the line was already dead, leaving only a dial tone buzzing in his ear. Pond lowered the phone, staring at his muted reflection on the black screen. 

°•☆•°

At 8:28 Pond found himself standing outside Phuwin’s apartment door, his heart performing a nervous tap-dance against his ribs. He’d changed five times, eventually settling on what he thought was a safe, slightly stylish option: a soft, black long-sleeved shirt that was a size too big, hoping it gave off an air of casual, effortless cool. He took a deep breath and knocked.

The door swung open almost immediately, as if Phuwin had been waiting on the other side. 

His eyes swept over Pond, from his anxious face down to his scuffed sneakers and back up. A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips. "Well, hello. You're going for the 'drowning in fabric' look. Bold choice."

Pond’s confidence, fragile at best, shattered. "It's... comfortable?"

"It's a tent," Phuwin said cheerfully, grabbing his wrist and pulling him inside. "But don't worry. We have a solution. It's called my closet." He led Pond directly to his bedroom, the same room Pond had woken up in what felt like a lifetime ago.

Phuwin went to his wardrobe and flung the doors open, revealing a curated rainbow of clothes, most of them in shades of black, grey, and deep jewel tones. "Okay. We need to find you something that says 'mysterious apprentice,' not 'lost librarian.'"

Pond stood in the epicenter of the organized chaos, a statue of self-consciousness planted on the woven rug. His own limbs felt like foreign attachments as Phuwin moved with a practised, effortless grace, a curator in the museum of his own wardrobe. The only sounds were the soft scraping of fabric hangers sliding along the metal rail and the frantic thrum of Pond’s own heartbeat in his ears. He felt like an intruder, his larger frame an imposition in this space that was so quintessentially Phuwin—smaller, neater, more vibrant.

“Here,” Phuwin announced, his voice cutting through Pond’s reverie. He emerged from the depths of the closet holding a mesh shirt that seemed to be composed more of air than cloth. “Try this.”

Pond’s fingers felt thick and clumsy as he took it. The awkwardness intensified, a hot flush creeping up his neck. He hesitated, his hands stalling at the hem of his own t-shirt.

Phuwin’s lips quirked into a knowing smile. “Don’t worry, Pond. I won’t take advantage.” The joke was light, airy, but it sent a fresh wave of heat through Pond. Swallowing hard, he complied, pulling his own shirt over his head in one swift, embarrassed motion. The cool air hit his skin, raising goosebumps. He stood there, exposed, his broad chest and shoulders feeling impossibly bare.

Before the feeling could fully settle, Phuwin was there. He took the mesh shirt and, with a surprising gentleness, pulled it over Pond’s head. His fingers brushed against Pond’s hair, his temples, the shell of his ears. Then, his hands were on his shoulders, smoothing down the bizarre fabric. Pond could feel every point of contact, every press of Phuwin’s fingertips through the open lattice of the mesh as if his skin had been stripped raw, every nerve ending hyper-aware. It was a map of touch, drawn in fire across his shoulders and chest.

Phuwin took a step back, his head tilting. He assessed Pond with a critical eye, and a slow shake of his head followed. “No,” he murmured, more to himself than to Pond. “It’s too much, too soon. You look like you’re trying too hard. We should try something a little more modest.”

The spell broke. “Take it off,” Phuwin instructed, already turning back to the closet. Pond was left once more, the mesh shirt now feeling silly against his skin. He pulled it off, letting it fall onto Phuwin’s bed, and stood with his arms crossed, hands splayed over his stomach as if to shield himself from the room’s quiet judgment.

A moment later, Phuwin returned, a triumphant glint in his eye, holding a tight, short-sleeved white shirt. “This. Classic.”

Pond obediently lifted his arms, and Phuwin guided the shirt on. Or, he tried to. The fabric strained, the seams groaning in protest as it refused to slide past the hard curve of Pond’s shoulders. They both froze, Pond trapped with his arms half-raised, the shirt bunched around his deltoids like a too-tight bandage. A beat of silence hung in the air, and then Phuwin let out a snort. It was a tiny, helpless sound that burst into full-blown laughter, warm and unguarded. Pond felt his own tension shatter, a chuckle rumbling in his chest, the absurdity of the situation dissolving his awkwardness.

“Okay, okay, not that one,” Phuwin gasped, carefully working the shirt back up and off. Without a second thought, Phuwin reached up, his fingers combing gently through the dishevelled strands of Pond's hair, smoothing them back into place. It lasted only a second, but the ghost of the touch lingered on his scalp.

The parade of fabric continued. A bright fuchsia satin shirt that made Pond look, in Phuwin’s words, “like a very handsome, very confused cocktail waiter.” A stiff leather jacket that creaked with every movement and made his shoulders look like an American football player. Then, a simple black crop top. Phuwin held it up, his eyes glinting with mischief. “This could be… edgy.”

Pond put it on. The hem ended a scandalous inch below his nipples, the bottom edge of his sternum and the flat plane of his stomach fully on display. Phuwin’s gaze dropped, and a slow, appreciative smile spread across his face. “Or maybe just… distracting.” He waggled his eyebrows, and Pond felt a flush so deep he was sure he matched the fuchsia shirt from earlier.

“No,” Phuwin finally decided, his tone shifting from playful to purposeful. His eyes scanned the closet once more before landing on the chosen one. He pulled out a black satin button-up shirt. The fabric was heavy, cool, and shimmered under the room’s light as he shook it out.

“Arms,” Phuwin commanded softly.

Pond complied, and Phuwin moved behind him, holding the shirt open so Pond could slide his arms into the sleeves. The satin whispered against his skin, a sensation both alien and luxurious. Then Phuwin was in front of him again, so close Pond could count the lashes framing his eyes. He started on the buttons, beginning from the bottom.

Pond held his breath. The world narrowed to the space between their bodies. With each button Phuwin secured, his knuckles grazed the bare skin of Pond’s stomach and chest. Each accidental touch was a tiny, electric shock that made Pond shiver. The tips of his ears burned, a tell-tale sign of his flustered state that he was powerless to control. Phuwin’s focus was absolute, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration, completely unaware of the minor havoc his hands were wreaking.

He didn’t button it all the way. He left the top three open, creating a deep V that exposed the column of Pond’s throat and a hint of his chest. Then, his hands were on Pond’s sleeves, expertly rolling them up to his elbows, exposing his forearms. The contrast of the dark, sleek satin against his porcelain skin was striking.

And then, the final act. Phuwin’s hands settled on his hips, smoothing the shirt down. His palms were flat and warm, even through the satin. They slid down, following the line of Pond’s torso, until his fingers found the hem of the shirt where it met his black jeans. Without a word, Phuwin tucked the fabric in, his fingers slipping briefly, deliberately, between the waistband of Pond’s jeans and his skin. Pond gulped, his throat tight. He stopped breathing entirely. The act was so domestic, so inherently intimate—something a partner would do, a lover—and Phuwin performed it with a casualness that sent Pond’s mind spiralling into a void of confusion.

When he was done, Phuwin took a full step back, his eyes sweeping over Pond from head to toe with a slow, satisfied nod. “There,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “That’s it. You see? The point isn’t to give everything away. It’s to be suggestive. To leave everyone wanting more. You show just enough to entice,” he said, his gaze lingering on the exposed skin at Pond’s throat and forearms, “but never too much.”

Pond could only nod, the cool satin a stark contrast to the feverish heat blooming just beneath its surface. Before he could fully process the transformation the clothes had wrought, Phuwin was already moving on to the next phase of his plan. He gestured for Pond to follow him out of the bedroom.

"Okay, now for the final touch," Phuwin announced, stopping in the hallway. "Makeup."

Pond balked, stopping dead in his tracks. "What? No. Phuwin, I don't... I don't do makeup."

"Relax," Phuwin said, turning to face him with a patient, amused expression. He held up his hands as if in surrender. "I'm not talking about glitter and winged liner. You have good skin, but you also have the lingering ghost of a broken heart and a 9-to-5 job under your eyes. I'm just going to… brighten things up. A little concealer to banish those shadows. Maybe a touch of blush so you don't look like a vampire. And your lips…" His gaze dropped to Pond's mouth for a heartbeat. "We should show them off. A little gloss, that's all. I promise, you will still look like you. Just a you who actually gets eight hours of sleep and drinks enough water."

Pond hesitated, the word "no" still on his lips. But he looked at Phuwin's earnest, confident face and remembered the man he'd seen in the mirror just moments ago—a version of himself he'd never known was possible. He gave a slow, hesitant nod. "Okay. But just… a little."

"Just a little," Phuwin agreed, a triumphant gleam in his eye.

He led Pond not to the brightly lit kitchen. "Best light in the apartment is in here in the evening," he explained, pulling out a wooden stool from the breakfast bar. "Sit."

Pond hoisted himself up onto the stool, his feet resting on the lower rung, the position making him feel even more on display. Phuwin opened a small, professional-looking kit and placed it on the counter beside them. Then he stepped forward, standing directly in front of Pond, so close their knees almost touched.

"Look up at me," Phuwin instructed softly.

Pond obeyed, tilting his head back. 

Phuwin stood between his knees, his hips almost brushing Pond's, his focus entirely on Pond's face. Pond could see the individual lashes framing his dark, intent eyes, the perfect bow of his upper lip. He could feel the gentle warmth of Phuwin's breath.

"Close your eyes," Phuwin murmured.

Pond did, and the world narrowed to sensation. The first thing he felt was the cool, damp touch of a sponge dabbing gently beneath his eyes, smoothing over the bridge of his nose. Phuwin’s other hand came up to cradle his jaw, his thumb resting just under Pond’s chin to hold him steady. The touch was so gentle, so sure. Pond’s breath caught again. He was certain Phuwin could feel the frantic pulse hammering in his neck.

He felt the soft, ticklish brush of a powder puff dusting over his T-zone, then the whisper-soft bristles of a brush sweeping a hint of color onto the apples of his cheeks. Phuwin worked in silence, his movements efficient and reverent. Every stroke, every dab, felt like a caress. 

"Okay, open," Phuwin whispered, his voice hushed in the small space.

Pond opened his eyes. Phuwin was still so close, studying his work. He picked up a final, smaller brush, dipping it into a pot of what looked like finely milled, shimmering dust.

"Now, just a breath of this," he said, his voice barely audible. "Look down for me."

Pond looked down at Phuwin's chest, his gaze fixed on the dark fabric of his henley as Phuwin gently swept the brush over his eyelids. The sensation was feather-light, almost imaginary. He could feel the subtle pull of Phuwin's fingers as he gently held his brow bone taut to apply the shadow.

"Almost done," Phuwin whispered, his breath a warm caress against Pond’s cheek.

Finally, he uncapped the lip gloss. "Open just a little." Pond parted his lips, his pulse thrumming wildly.

He didn't use a brush. He used the tip of his own finger, smoothing the shiny, slick substance over Pond's lips. The pad of his thumb dragged slowly across the lower lip, a gesture so inherently sensual that Pond thought he might actually combust on the spot. He held his breath, his lips tingling.

Phuwin pulled back, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. "There." He reached for a small hand mirror from his kit and held it up. "See?"

Pond looked.

The man in the satin shirt was still there, but refined. The tired, anxious shadows were gone, replaced by a healthy, subtle glow. His eyes looked brighter, more defined, the subtle shadow making them seem deeper. His lips looked soft and shiny. It was still utterly him, but polished, elevated. He looked like he belonged in Phuwin's world.

"You…" Pond's voice was rough. He cleared his throat. "You're good at this."

"I'm an artist," Phuwin said with a playful wink, snapping the compact mirror shut. "And you're my canvas. Now," he added, his tone shifting to business, "are you ready to learn how to make a drink that doesn't taste like confused mint?”

Pond nodded, still a little dazed from the intimate makeover. "I think so."

"Good. I just need to get dressed. This," he said, plucking at his comfortable henley, "is not my final form. Come on." He gestured for Pond to follow him back to the bedroom.

Pond’s eyes widened. "Oh, that's—it's fine. I can just wait here."

Phuwin rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in his head. He reached out, his fingers closing around Pond's wrist with a firm, warm grip. "There's no need to be such a prude. It's just a body. Come on." He didn't wait for further protest, dragging a flustered Pond back into the bedroom.

Phuwin went straight to his wardrobe, his back to Pond as he talked. "Okay, so the key with customers is to read what they need, not just what they order. Someone asking for a double shot of whiskey isn't always just thirsty; sometimes they're trying to forget their day."

As he spoke, he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers, letting the casual black pants pool around his ankles. He stepped out of them, standing in just his briefs. Pond, who had perched awkwardly on the very edge of the bed, felt his ears grow hot. He fixed his gaze determinedly on a loose thread in the comforter, the image of Phuwin's pale, strong thighs burned into his peripheral vision.

"Then you get the ones who want a whole story with their cocktail," Phuwin continued, completely unselfconscious. He pulled a pair of tight, black leather pants from a hanger and stepped into them, the material sighing as he shimmied them up over his hips. "They want the drama, the smoke, the fire. That's where you can have real fun."

Next, he grabbed the hem of his henley and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion. Pond’s breath hitched. He couldn't help but glance up, his eyes skittering across the smooth, toned plane of Phuwin's back, the defined shape of his shoulders. Phuwin turned around, reaching for something else in the wardrobe, and Pond’s gaze dropped to his own knees, his face flaming. Phuwin’s chest was lean but defined, his skin smooth and glowing in the room's white light.

"You listening, Apprentice?" Phuwin asked, his voice laced with amusement.

"Y-yes. Stories. Drama," Pond stammered, staring so hard at his knees he thought he might see the molecular structure of his jeans.

He heard the rustle of fabric. "This is for the drama," Phuwin said.

Risking a glance, Pond saw him pulling on the fine, black mesh shirt Pond had tried on before. The fabric was sheer, a web of shadows against his skin, hinting at everything and revealing nothing outright. It was infinitely more provocative than being fully shirtless.

Phuwin caught his look and grinned, striking a little pose. "See? A whisper, not a shout. Gets them every time." He sauntered over to the bed, leaning down so his face was level with Pond's, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "You've been very quiet over here. Cat got your tongue? Or are you just memorizing the bartending lesson so hard you've forgotten how to speak?"

Pond’s mouth was desert-dry. He could smell the faint, honey scent of Phuwin’s skin and see the intricate pattern of the mesh where it stretched across his chest. All he could manage was a weak, shaky breath.

Phuwin’s grin widened. "Don't worry. The customers are never this much of a distraction. Well," he amended, straightening up with a laugh, "almost never. Now, come on, Apprentice. Your art lesson awaits.”

°•☆•°

The back entrance of the club was a world away from the pulsating energy of the main floor. It was all concrete, industrial lighting, and the faint smell of disinfectant. As they approached, a large, familiar shadow detached itself from the wall. Beck, the bouncer, stood with his arms crossed, his sharp eyes landing immediately on Pond, who instinctively shrank back a step.

"Phuwin," Beck rumbled, a single eyebrow raised in Pond's direction.

"Relax, big guy. He's with me," Phuwin said, slinging a casual arm around Pond's shoulders. "Pond is going to be my apprentice tonight. Learning the ropes." He then leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. "Keep an eye on him for me, will you? Wouldn't want anyone to snatch away my new favorite project."

Beck's stern expression softened into what, for him, passed as a smile. He gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Alright. Don't let him near the top-shelf whiskey."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Phuwin chuckled, giving Pond's shoulder a squeeze before releasing him. "He's on strictly non-alcoholic duty until further notice."

With a final nod from Beck, Phuwin pushed the heavy door open, and they stepped into the club. It was eerily silent and still, the empty dance floor a vast, dark expanse, the booths shrouded in shadow. The only light came from the emergency exits and the soft glow emanating from behind the long, polished bar.

"Okay, first lesson: prep," Phuwin announced, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. He moved behind the bar with the air of a captain taking the helm of his ship. "We need to slice citrus, restock the coolers, set up the stations. It's meditative."

For the next hour, Pond followed Phuwin's instructions to the letter. He sliced limes into perfect wedges, his brow furrowed in concentration. He carried heavy crates of beer and soda, lining them up in the coolers with military precision. He wiped down every surface until it gleamed, his movements careful and exact. He was so focused on not making a mistake that he jumped when Phuwin let out a soft laugh behind him.

"You know," Phuwin said, leaning against the ice well and watching Pond meticulously arrange a tray of garnishes. "Most people slack off when the boss isn't looking. You work even harder."

Pond looked up, a lemon wedge in his hand. "I just... don't want to do it wrong."

"You're not. You're doing perfectly." Phuwin pushed off the counter and walked over, his expression warm and amused. He reached out and ruffled Pond's hair, a quick, affectionate gesture that made Pond's heart stutter. "Such a good boy."

The words, spoken in that low, teasing tone, sent a wave of heat straight to Pond's face. He ducked his head, hoping the dim light would hide the furious blush he could feel spreading from his cheeks down to his neck. He stared intently at the lemon wedge, as if it held the secrets of the universe.

Phuwin just smiled, a soft, private thing, and turned back to his own tasks. "Alright, good boy, bring me the bottle of elderflower liqueur. Time for your first real lesson.”

The silent, empty club became their classroom. Phuwin, it turned out, was a natural teacher—patient, clear, and endlessly encouraging.

"Okay, first rule of the bar: your hands are your tools. Keep them clean, keep them dry," Phuwin said, demonstrating how to hold a jigger. "This is your measuring cup. Precision is kindness. A weak drink is sad, a too-strong one is a lawsuit waiting to happen."

Pond nodded, his brow furrowed in concentration as he practiced filling the jigger to the very brim without spilling a drop.

"Good! See? You're a natural." Phuwin grinned. "Now, the shaker. It's not a maraca. It's an extension of your arm. Confidence." He demonstrated the motion—a smooth, powerful shake that sounded like a rush of ice and metal. "Your turn."

Pond’s first attempt was timid, the ice clunking rather than roaring. Phuwin stepped behind him, gently placing his hands over Pond’s on the chilled stainless steel.

"Like this," Phuwin said, his voice close to Pond's ear. He guided Pond's hands, their bodies almost touching as he demonstrated the fluid, rhythmic motion. "It's a dance. Feel it?"

Pond could feel everything—the cold metal, the vibration of the ice, the warm solidity of Phuwin's chest against his back. He managed a shaky nod.

When he tried again on his own, the motion was smoother, more assured. The ice roared to life.

"Perfect!" Phuwin clapped his hands, his delight genuine. "You're a quick study. Maybe too quick. I might be out of a job soon."

Pond laughed, a real, unguarded sound that surprised even himself. "I doubt that. I think it would take me a decade to learn how to walk like I own the place the way you do."

"Oh, that's not learned, that's inherited," Phuwin quipped, winking. 

They practiced simple syrups and sour mixes. Phuwin would have him taste a drop of lemon juice, then a drop of syrup, explaining how they played off each other. He was hands-on, his fingers brushing Pond's as he passed him a spoon, his shoulder bumping against him as they both reached for the same bottle.

"Oops, sorry," Phuwin said, not sounding sorry at all, a playful glint in his eye.

"It's fine," Pond murmured, the blush from earlier having become a near-permanent state.

When Pond successfully balanced his first simple lemon drop shot entirely on his own, Phuwin insisted they do a celebratory toast with water in shot glasses.

"To my star apprentice!" Phuwin declared, clinking his glass against Pond's. "Who, I must say, looks very commanding in that shirt. The bar lighting loves you."

Pond rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, the compliment warming him more than any liquor could. "You're ridiculous."

"It's part of my charm. Now," Phuwin said, his expression turning mischievous. "Let's make something a little more you. We'll call it... 'The Second Chance.'"

He guided Pond through it: a base of honey-sweetened bourbon for warmth, a splash of fresh lemon for clarity, and a top layer of fizzy ginger beer for a spark of unexpected life. Pond followed the instructions, his movements growing less hesitant, more fluid.

As he poured the final ingredient, Phuwin watched him, a soft, unreadable expression on his face. "You know," he said, his voice losing its teasing edge for a moment. "For a guy who thinks he's boring, you're a pretty quick learner. And you have a really nice laugh."

Pond looked up from the bubbling drink, meeting Phuwin's gaze. The usual flustered panic didn't come. Instead, he felt a quiet, steady warmth. "I guess I just needed the right teacher."

Phuwin's smile returned, brighter than the neon signs waiting to be switched on. "Damn right you did. Now, let's taste your masterpiece. I have a feeling it's going to be unforgettable.”

°•☆•°

The first thump of the bass was a physical vibration through the floorboards, a deep, resonant warning. Then the lights began to pulse, strobing through the previously tranquil space, and the first trickle of people became a steady stream, flowing into the club like water finding its level. The silence was utterly devoured, replaced by a roaring cacophony of music, laughter, and the clatter of a hundred simultaneous conversations.

Pond felt his shoulders tense instinctively, the old anxieties pressing in. The crowd, the noise—it was all so much.

"Okay," Phuwin said, his voice cutting through the din as he leaned close, his breath a warm tickle against Pond's ear. "The real lesson starts now. Forget the bottles. Anyone can learn recipes. This is about them." He gestured with his chin to the growing crowd along the bar. "It's about confidence. It's about reading a face and knowing if they need a joke, a compliment, or just five seconds of someone really looking at them. You have to be a mirror. Give them back a better version of what they're giving you. And you have to be witty, or at least, you have to smile like you are."

Before Pond could protest, Phuwin was gone, swept into the current of demand. Pond watched, mesmerized. It was like watching a master class in performance.

A guy in a too-tight shirt was trying to get the attention of another bartender, looking annoyed. Phuwin glided over, planted his hands on the bar, and leaned forward, the black mesh of his shirt stretching. He didn't shout. He just tilted his head, a slow, conspiratorial smile playing on his glossed lips. He said something Pond couldn't hear, but the guy's annoyed expression melted away, his focus snapping entirely to Phuwin as if he were the only person in the room. He laughed at something Phuwin said, his posture relaxing completely.

A moment later, Phuwin was serving a group of women. One of them was speaking, her arms crossed, a little closed off. Phuwin listened, his head cocked, his gaze intent. He replied, and the woman’s face transformed. A hand flew to her chest, she threw her head back and giggled, a genuine, blushing laugh, her eyes sparkling as she looked at him.

He made it look like magic. It wasn't just about taking an order; it was a transaction of energy, of charm. He was the sun, and everyone, for a moment, wanted to bask in his light.

Phuwin returned to Pond’s station a few minutes later, barely winded. "See?" he said, deftly grabbing a bottle of tequila without looking. "Easy. It's not about being the loudest. It's about being the most interesting person in their immediate vicinity for thirty seconds. You can do that."

Pond looked from Phuwin’s confident, smiling face back to the sea of people. His heart was still pounding, but now, mixed with the fear, was a spark of something else—a desperate, yearning curiosity.

"How?" Pond asked, his voice barely a whisper in the chaos.

Phuwin’s smile softened. "You start by forgetting they're a crowd. You just look at one person. And you remember that you're the one holding the drinks." He nudged Pond gently with his elbow. "Ready to try mirroring?”

Phuwin’s words echoed in his head—“You just look at one person.” Pond scanned the crowd, his heart thumping a frantic rhythm against his ribs. His eyes landed on a man sitting alone near the end of the bar, nursing a beer. He looked calm, a little bored even. He seemed safe.

Taking a shaky breath, Pond approached. The man glanced up, his expression neutral.

“Um. Hi,” Pond said, his voice coming out tighter than he intended. “Can I… get you another one of those?” He pointed awkwardly at the half-empty beer bottle.

The man raised an eyebrow. “I’m not finished.”

“Right. Of course. Sorry.” Pond felt a hot flush creep up his neck. Confidence, be witty. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “It’s just… it looks lonely. The bottle, I mean.”

The man stared at him, his expression shifting from neutral to utterly bewildered. “It’s a bottle.”

“I know! I just meant…” Pond trailed off, his mind blank with panic. This was a disaster. He was confirming every fear Nattakon had ever voiced.

Just as the man opened his mouth, likely to deliver a cutting remark, a warm presence materialized at Pond’s side.

“Forgive him,” Phuwin said, his voice a smooth, melodic counterpoint to Pond’s strained one. He leaned an elbow on the bar, giving the customer a dazzling, apologetic smile. “He’s in training. We’re working on the ‘human interaction’ part of the curriculum. Be nice, he’s trying very hard.” He reached out and ruffled Pond’s hair affectionately, a gesture that somehow felt both possessive and comforting.

The customer’s annoyance immediately evaporated under the force of Phuwin’s charm. He chuckled. “Training, huh?”

“Mhm,” Phuwin hummed, his eyes crinkling. “He might not have the banter down yet…” He then dropped his voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper, his gaze flicking meaningfully over Pond’s tailored appearance. “…but you have to admit, the view isn’t bad, is it?”

The customer’s eyes swept over Pond, taking in the satin shirt, the artfully rolled sleeves, the subtle makeup. A slow, appreciative smile spread across his face. “No,” he agreed, his tone now warm and amused. “No, it’s not bad at all.”

Pond felt like he might spontaneously combust from the mixture of humiliation and a strange, flustered thrill. He couldn’t move, pinned under the dual gaze of Phuwin’s playful pride and the customer’s newfound interest.

“I’ll get you a fresh one, on the house,” Phuwin said, seamlessly taking over. “For your patience with our rookie.”

As Phuwin grabbed a new bottle, Pond finally managed to unlock his limbs. He muttered a strangled “Excuse me,” and retreated a few steps, turning his back to the bar and pretending to be intensely interested in a stack of napkins. His ears were ringing, his face was on fire, and the loud music suddenly felt like a blessing, drowning out the sound of his own pounding heart. He had failed. Miserably. But as the heat in his cheeks slowly began to recede, he realized that Phuwin’s intervention hadn’t felt like a reprimand. It had felt like a shield. And the customer’s final, agreeing look hadn’t felt like pity. It had felt like… appreciation.

He risked a glance back. Phuwin was sliding the beer to the man, sharing a last, easy laugh before turning to catch Pond’s eye. He didn’t look disappointed. He gave Pond a quick, reassuring wink before being swept away by another customer. 

Phuwin found him a minute later, still hiding by the napkins. “Hey. You okay?”

“I’m so sorry,” Pond blurted out, his eyes wide with mortification. “That was terrible. I sounded insane. I told a man his beer was lonely.”

To his surprise, Phuwin didn’t look annoyed. He threw his head back and laughed, a bright, unfiltered sound that cut through the bass. “It was adorable.” He nudged Pond gently. “We have the whole night. Don’t worry about it. Just take a breath. Wait. And when you feel a little steadier, just pick someone else and try again. No big deal.”

Pond just nodded, taking a few deep, deliberate breaths, trying to slow his racing heart. Just one person. He could do this.

His eyes landed on a couple a few feet away. They were leaning into each other, laughing, seeming friendly and approachable. Them, he thought. They look safe. He straightened the already-perfect satin shirt and moved towards them.

He never made it.

A tall, broad-shouldered man with sharp, angular features and dark, disheveled hair stepped directly into his path, leaning heavily on the bar. He was already tipsy, his eyes glassy and his smile a little too wide.

Pond gulped. He forced himself to remember Phuwin’s posture. He leaned forward slightly on the bar, trying to project a confidence he didn’t feel.

“Hi,” he said, pitching his voice to be heard over the music. “What can I get for you?”

The man’s gaze, which had been roaming the room, snapped to Pond. It was a slow, deliberate once-over, starting from his shoes and traveling all the way up to his face, lingering on the open collar of his shirt and the gloss on his lips. A predatory glint lit in his eyes.

“Well, hello there,” the man slurred, his voice a low rumble. He leaned in far too close, his breath smelling sharply of whiskey. “Didn’t know they were serving dessert at this bar.”

Pond’s smile froze. “I… I can get you a menu?”

“Don’t need one. I know what I want.” The man’s hand shot out for Pond’s arm, his fingers closing like a vice around his wrist over the bar. Pond tried to pull back, but the grip was iron-tight.

“Let go, please,” Pond said, trying to keep a smile on his face.

The man just grinned, his other hand coming up to trace a finger along the rolled cuff of Pond’s sleeve, feeling his forearm. “You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you? All done up.” He tugged on Pond’s wrist, pulling him awkwardly halfway across the bar top. His voice dropped to a lecherous whisper. “You know, I’d just love to bend you over this counter and—”

The sentence was cut off by a snarl.

“Get your hands off him.”

Phuwin was there in an instant. His face, usually a mask of charming amusement, was dark with a cold, terrifying anger. He didn’t shout. The words were a low, deadly promise. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the man’s wrist, his thumb digging into a pressure point, and twisted it away from Pond with brutal efficiency.

The drunk man yelped in pain and surprise, his grip breaking instantly.

“Beck!” Phuwin called out, his voice cutting through the music without ever rising in volume.

The massive bouncer was there in seconds. “Problem?”

“This one,” Phuwin said, finally releasing the man’s wrist with a shove. “He’s banned. Permanently.”

Beck didn’t need an explanation. He simply nodded, his expression grim, and clamped a hand on the now-protesting man’s shoulder, steering him forcefully toward the exit.

Phuwin turned back to Pond, the anger in his eyes instantly replaced by deep concern. He gently took Pond’s elbow and guided him to the relative quiet of the service side of the bar, away from the staring customers.

“Pond, I am so sorry,” he said, his voice tight. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” His eyes scanned Pond’s face, then his wrist, where a red mark was already blooming.

Pond’s heart was still hammering, a mix of fear and residual adrenaline. He shook his head, his voice a little shaky. “I’m fine. Just… startled.”

Phuwin ran a hand through his hair, his distress palpable. “God, I shouldn’t have pushed you into this. This was a stupid idea. I’m so sorry.”

Seeing Phuwin so genuinely upset, blaming himself, was worse than the encounter itself. Pond couldn’t stand it. He forced a weak, wry smile onto his face.

“It’s not your fault,” he said, his voice gaining a little strength. He gestured vaguely at his own chest. “I think… I think your styling just worked a little too well. Turns out I’m just way too attractive. It’s a public hazard.”

Phuwin stared at him for a second, then a burst of surprised, relieved laughter escaped him. The tension shattered. He reached out and squeezed Pond’s arms, his touch warm and steadying. “You’re unbelievable.” His smile was back, soft and grateful. “Do you want to leave? You can go. You can take my car or wait in the back.”

Pond looked around the chaotic, overwhelming club. He looked at the spot where the drunk man had been, then back at Phuwin’s worried, beautiful face. He thought of running away, of the quiet safety of his apartment. Then he thought of giving up.

He shook his head, his resolve solidifying. “No,” he said, his voice firmer now. “I can’t give up now.”

Pushed by his own refusal to quit, and with Phuwin now acting as a watchful, amused shadow a few feet away, Pond tried again. And again.

His next attempt was on a woman who asked for a complicated cocktail he’d never heard of. He stared at her, his mind blank, before slowly pulling out his phone. “One moment, please,” he said with grave seriousness. “I just need to Google the recipe.” Phuwin had to swoop in, gently nudging him aside while stifling a laugh.

Later, he managed to take a simple beer order, but when he went to pop the cap, his hands were so nervous he fumbled the bottle. It clattered to the floor, foaming everywhere. “It’s… pre-carbonating,” he explained to the startled customer, his ears burning. Phuwin was there in a flash with a towel, his shoulders shaking with silent mirth.

But slowly, amidst the dorky failures, there were glimmers. A man asked for a water, and Pond, remembering Phuwin’s lesson on adding a small touch, served it with a single, perfect lime wedge on the rim. “Fancy,” the man said, smiling. It was a tiny victory, but it made Pond stand a little taller.

He tried his hand at banter with a group of friends. One of them complained about her boyfriend. Pond nodded sympathetically and said, “I understand. My last relationship didn’t work out either. My boyfriend said I was… terminally unexciting.” He delivered the line with such flat, self-deprecating honesty that the entire group burst into laughter, not at him, but with him.

“Oh, honey, no!” the woman said, patting his hand. “You’re adorable. His loss!”

Phuwin, watching from the espresso machine, gave him a proud thumbs-up.

The real turning point came when a shy-looking guy, who reminded Pond of himself, hovered at the edge of the bar. Pond approached him gently.

“Not your usual scene?” Pond asked, echoing the very words Phuwin had once said to him.

The guy shook his head. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to the trained eye,” Pond replied, a small, genuine smile on his face. He didn’t try to be overly charming or witty. He just made the guy a simple, well-made gin and tonic, making sure the lime was fresh and the ice was plentiful. “Here. On the house. For braving the chaos.”

The look of grateful surprise on the guy’s face was its own kind of reward.

Throughout it all, Phuwin was his constant cheerleader. He’d drift over between orders.

“You’re a natural disaster, but you’re my natural disaster,” he’d whisper, bumping his hip against Pond’s.

“That was smooth, the ‘terminally unexciting’ line. Dark. I like it.”

When Pond successfully made three drinks in a row without spilling, Phuwin leaned over and said, “Look at you, all competent and handsome. It’s a dangerous combination.”

Pond, who had started the night blushing at every comment, found himself starting to give as good as he got. When Phuwin complimented his pouring technique, Pond looked him dead in the eye and said, “I know. It’s the sleeves. They give me power.”

Phuwin’s resulting laugh was so loud it turned heads.

By the time the lights came up, signaling last call, Pond was exhausted, his feet ached, and he had sticky patches on Phuwin's satin shirt. But he was also buzzing with a strange, exhilarated energy. He hadn’t mastered it. He was still, by any objective measure, a dorky, awkward bartender. But he’d survived. He’d even, for a few moments, kind of enjoyed it.

As they started the closing routine, wiping down the sticky bar, Pond looked over at Phuwin, who was humming softly as he counted cash.

“So,” Pond said, a tired but real smile on his face. “On a scale of one to ‘beer is lonely,’ how did I do?”

Phuwin looked up, his expression softening. He walked over and, in a gesture that was becoming familiar and heart-stopping, reached out and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind Pond’s ear. “You were perfect,” he said, his voice sincere. “You were… you. And that was the best part of my night.”

Pond smiled at that, somehow that was the best thing Phuwin could've said.

The truth of it settled over him, warm and quiet amidst the post-club clutter. He had gone out so many times with Nattakon, to parties and clubs just like this one. He had performed. He had contorted himself into a shape he thought was more exciting, more palatable—laughing a little too loud at jokes he didn't find funny, nodding along to stories that made him uncomfortable, his smile straining his cheeks until it felt like a grimace. Every outing had been a test he was doomed to fail, a chore that left him feeling hollow and exhausted, convinced of his own fundamental inadequacy.

But tonight, with Phuwin, it was just… fun.

He had been a complete disaster. He’d called a beer lonely, dropped a bottle, and Googled a recipe in front of a customer. He’d been awkward and dorky and himself. And instead of the cold flicker of annoyance or the impatient sigh he’d come to expect, Phuwin had met every fumble with laughter that felt like a celebration, not a mockery. He had created a space where Pond could be silly without a shred of embarrassment, where being himself wasn't just tolerated, but was apparently… entertaining. Appreciated, even.

It had been exhilarating and new, but underneath the thrill was a profound sense of comfort. A cozy chaos. The pounding music and the swirling lights were the same, but the person standing beside him had transformed the entire experience. For the first time, Pond hadn't been trying to fit into someone else's world; Phuwin had simply made room for him in it, exactly as he was.

He looked over at Phuwin, who was now stacking chairs with a tired but contented focus, the mesh of his shirt stretching across his back. A wave of gratitude so strong it stole his breath washed over him. Phuwin hadn't just given him a bartending lesson. He’d given him back a piece of himself he thought Nattakon had broken for good.

"Hey, Phuwin?" Pond said, his voice soft.

Phuwin turned, a single chair in his hand, his expression open and questioning.

"Thank you," Pond said, and the words, for the first time all night, held no apology, no nervousness. They were just full, and true. "This was… the most fun I've had in a long time."

Phuwin’s face softened into a smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. He set the chair down. "Good," he said, simple and sure. "That was the whole point. Now stop being so profound and help me with these chairs. The fun isn't over until the floors are mopped.”

The cleanup was a well-practiced dance, and Pond was determined to pull his weight. When Phuwin went to lift a heavy crate of empty bottles, Pond was there first, hefting it with a grunt.

"Whoa, easy there, hero. I'm used to that," Phuwin said, raising an eyebrow.

"My arms are fine. You do the complicated stuff," Pond insisted, carrying the crate towards the back with determined steps. He wasn't just being helpful; he was trying to repay a debt he knew could never fully be paid.

A while later, as Pond was sweeping behind a booth, his broom snagged on something lacy and black. He bent down, picking it up between his thumb and forefinger. It was a pair of women's underwear, delicate and utterly out of place in the grim, sticky reality of the post-club clean-up.

He made a sound of pure disgust, immediately dropping them as if they'd burned him.

Phuwin, who was wiping down a table nearby, glanced over and burst out laughing at the horrified look on Pond's face. "What's the matter? Never seen a pair of panties before?"

Pond, still looking mortified, wiped his hand on his jeans. "Not... not just lying on the floor. And also, I've only ever been with my ex and lacy, women underwater weren't really his underwear of choice." The admission was out before he could stop it, clumsy and far too revealing.

Phuwin made a sharp, shocked sound, then immediately clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes wide. "Shit. Sorry. That was... I didn't mean to..."

But Pond was already recovering, a new, mischievous glint in his eye. The embarrassment was quickly morphing into a desire for retaliation. He swooped down, snatched the offending garment off the floor, and with a battle cry, flung them directly at Phuwin.

They landed squarely on Phuwin's shoulder.

Phuwin gasped in outrage, looking down at the lacy fabric draped over his mesh shirt. Then, a devilish smile spread across his face. "Oh, you're going to regret that." He stalked over to the bar, snatched a latex glove from a box underneath, and expertly snapped it on. He picked up the underwear, holding them aloft like a weapon.

"You wouldn't dare," Pond said, backpedaling, a laugh already bubbling in his throat.

"Try me!" Phuwin declared, and lunged.

Pond let out a genuine shriek of disgust and delight, scrambling away between the booths. He dodged around tables, Phuwin hot on his heels, waving the glove-clad hand that held the underwear.

"Get away! That's a biohazard!" Pond yelled, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

"Welcome to the glamorous life of a bartender!" Phuwin cackled, making a final, playful lunge that sent Pond stumbling against the now-empty DJ booth.

Phuwin finally stopped, leaning over and panting, his energy spent. "Truce! Truce!" he gasped, waving the glove in surrender. "I yield."

Still chuckling, he walked over to a large trash bag, pulled off the glove inside-out, encasing the underwear, and tossed the whole bundle away with a final, satisfying thud.

He turned back to Pond, both of them breathless and grinning like fools in the silent, empty club.

"See?" Phuwin said, his chest still heaving. "The fun doesn't stop at closing time. Sometimes, it's just... stickier."

Pond leaned against the booth, his heart light. "Noted. Next time, I'm wearing hazmat gear.”

By the time they flipped the last chair and Beck locked the heavy main doors behind them, Pond felt a bone-deep exhaustion he’d never experienced before. It was a different kind of tired than the soul-crushing fatigue that had followed the Nattakon debacle. This was a physical, earned weariness, the kind that came from being on your feet for hours, laughing until your stomach hurt, and hauling heavy things. It was, strangely, a good feeling.

They stumbled out into the cool, pre-dawn air, the city silent around them. The walk to Phuwin's car was a slow, shuffling procession of two very tired men. 

Phuwin started the engine, and they pulled out onto the empty streets. No roof open this time, no shouting into the wind. Just the soft purr of the engine and the gentle hum of the tires on asphalt. The comfortable silence was a blanket, wrapping around them. Pond let his head rest against the window, watching the ghost of his own breath fog the glass. His eyes drifted shut, not in escape, but in simple, contented fatigue.

He only jolted awake when the car engine cut out. They were in Phuwin's familiar parking garage.

"Come on," Phuwin said, his voice raspy with tiredness. "Just come upstairs."

Pond blinked, his brain moving through molasses. "No, it's... it's fine. I should go home. I don't want to bother you again."

Phuwin turned to look at him, his face illuminated by the dim garage light. He looked exhausted, his eyeliner smudged, his hair messy, but his expression was one of fond exasperation. He rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't get stuck.

"Pond," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You can barely keep your eyes open. You'll fall asleep at a red light and get pancaked by a bus. Just come up.”

He didn't wait for another protest, simply getting out of the car. After a moment's hesitation, a warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the car's residual heat, Pond unbuckled his seatbelt and followed.

He was too tired to fight it. And if he was honest with himself, the thought of his own cold, empty apartment held no appeal compared to the warmth and life of Phuwin's space, even if it was just the couch.

"Okay," Pond murmured, falling into step beside him as they walked toward the elevator. "But just for the night."

"Sure, sure," Phuwin said, a sleepy smile playing on his lips as he pressed the elevator button. "Whatever you say, Apprentice.”

The apartment door clicked shut, sealing them in a bubble of quiet exhaustion. Phuwin tossed his keys into a ceramic bowl on the entry table with a tired clatter.

"Okay, ground rules for survival," he announced, his voice rough around the edges. "We both smell like a bar floor. We can each take a five-minute shower. You go first. And you're sleeping in the bed. Don't start an argument, you're too tired to win it."

Pond opened his mouth to protest, the automatic refusal on his lips. But the words died before they formed. He was just too tired. Every muscle ached, and the promise of hot water and a horizontal surface was too potent to fight.

"Okay," he agreed, the sound little more than a sigh of surrender.

"Good. Go. I'll find you something to sleep in." Phuwin gave him a gentle push toward the bathroom before disappearing into his bedroom.

Pond’s shower was a blur of steam and the now-familiar, comforting scent of honey. He scrubbed the stickiness and the lingering smell of spilled alcohol from his skin, the hot water soothing his aching shoulders. True to his word, he was out in five minutes, wrapping a towel snugly around his waist. He wiped the condensation from the mirror, staring at his own tired face, the makeup Phuwin had applied now mostly washed away, leaving him looking clean and utterly spent.

He cracked the door open. "Phuwin? I'm done."

There was no answer, and no pile of clothes waited for him outside the door. The living room was dark and empty. He padded softly across the cool wooden floor, leaving damp footprints, and peered into the bedroom.

Phuwin was there, his back to the door, rummaging through a drawer in his closet. "I'm done," Pond repeated, his voice a little louder.

Phuwin turned around. And stopped. His eyes, heavy-lidded with fatigue, did a slow, deliberate sweep from Pond's damp hair, down over his bare shoulders and chest, all the way to the towel knotted at his hips. The appraisal was swift, but it was thorough. A lazy, appreciative smile touched his lips.

"Five minutes on the dot. So obedient," he drawled, his voice a low hum that seemed to vibrate in the quiet room. The comment, laced with a heat that had been absent all night, made something hot and tight simmer low in Pond's stomach.

Phuwin turned back to the closet and pulled out a pair of soft-looking black pajama pants and a simple white t-shirt. He held them out. "Here. These should fit. They're my biggest, but you are... big." As he said the last word, his gaze dropped again, just for a flicker, lower than Pond's chest, before snapping back up to meet his eyes. He gave a slow, deliberate wink. "I'll be quick."

Then he was gone, brushing past Pond and heading for the bathroom, leaving Pond standing alone in the middle of the bedroom, clutching the clothes to his chest, his skin tingling where Phuwin's gaze had lingered.

The bathroom door clicked shut, and the sound of the shower starting up broke the spell. Pond quickly pulled on the clothes. The pants were a little short, and the shirt was snug across his shoulders and chest, the soft cotton smelling unmistakably of Phuwin. Without allowing himself another moment to think, he walked to the side of the bed he'd woken up in that first morning, pulled back the comforter, and slid underneath. The sheets were cool, and the pillow smelled like honey.

Pond lay still in the dark, the soft cotton of Phuwin’s shirt against his skin, his body heavy with exhaustion but his mind strangely, quietly alert. The shower shut off, and a few moments later, the bathroom door opened, spilling a trapezoid of warm, yellow light into the dark hallway.

Phuwin emerged, a silhouette framed in the doorway. The light from behind outlined his form in a hazy gold, leaving the details of his front in shadow. A towel was slung low around his hips, and another was in his hands, rubbing absently at his damp hair. He didn’t turn on the bedroom light, moving instead through the patches of silvery moonlight that filtered through the blinds.

Pond watched from the safety of the shadows, his breathing shallow. He felt like a witness to a private ritual.

Phuwin stood by the foot of the bed, his back to Pond, and dropped the towel from his head. Then, with a casual, unthinking grace, he let the towel around his hips fall. It pooled at his feet like a cloud of white at the base of a statue.

The moonlight carved him out of the darkness. It traced the elegant, hard line of his shoulders, the dip of his spine, the surprisingly gentle curve at the small of his back. It silvered the water droplets that still clung to his skin, making him look like something glistening and newly formed. He was all lean muscle and smooth skin, a study in contrasts—sharp angles and soft shadows.

He reached for the clothes he’d left on a chair, his movements fluid and unconscious. As he pulled on a pair of soft, grey sweatpants, the muscles in his back and arms shifted and tightened in the monochrome light, a living anatomy lesson. He didn’t put on a shirt, simply running a hand through his damp hair before turning toward the bed.

For a heart-stopping second, his eyes met Pond’s in the semi-darkness. Pond was sure he’d been caught, that his quiet observation was a violation. But Phuwin’s gaze wasn’t accusatory. It was simply… aware. A silent acknowledgment passed between them in the moon-drenched room, thick and unspoken.

Then Phuwin moved, the moment breaking. He walked around to the other side of the bed, the moonlight now painting his chest and abdomen in strokes of silver and blue. He slid under the covers, the mattress dipping with his weight. He settled on his side, facing Pond, his head on the pillow.

The scent of honey and tangerine, now fresh and intensified from his shower, wrapped around Pond. The space between them in the bed was only a few inches, but it felt like a charged, electric field.

“You’re still awake,” Phuwin murmured, his voice a low rasp in the intimate dark.

Pond could only manage a slow, deliberate nod, his eyes tracing the faint, luminous line of Phuwin’s collarbone.

“Go to sleep, Pond,” Phuwin whispered, his voice laced with a tender exhaustion. “The lesson is over for today.”

He closed his eyes, his breathing beginning to even out almost immediately. Pond lay there, watching the steady rise and fall of his bare chest in the moonlight, the image of his sculpted back and the falling towel burned into his memory.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Phuwin

For Phuwin, life was a series of carefully curated performances. The moment he stepped behind the bar, he became a mirror, reflecting back whatever his customers needed him to be. For the lonely, he was a confidant; for the arrogant, a charming challenge; for the heartbroken, a fleeting distraction. He was a master of personas, each one polished and delivered with a disarming smile. He knew which jokes to tell, when to lean in with a conspiratorial whisper, and how to make a person feel like they were the only one in the room, all while his mind remained a calm, detached observer. It was a skill born of necessity, a survival mechanism honed over years. But it was exhausting. The constant shape-shifting left him feeling hollow, like a beautiful shell with nothing but echoes inside.

He’d never felt truly real with anyone. His interactions were smoke and mirrors, a dazzling display designed to entertain and deflect in equal measure. He’d convinced himself it was enough. It had to be.

Then came Pond.

Pond was like a sudden, clear breath of fresh air in a room Phuwin hadn't realized was suffocating him. There was no performance with him, no filter. From that first night, slumped over the bar, Pond was just unabashedly, catastrophically himself. He was silly, borderline dorky, with a kind of earnest, cheesy sincerity that should have been cloying but was instead utterly disarming.

While Phuwin’s world was built on calculated charm, Pond’s was built on genuine wonder. His texts weren't flirty games; they were sprawling, thoughtful novels about his day, his coworkers, his observations. He didn't try to be cool or clever. He was just honest. And in that honesty, Phuwin found himself doing something he never did: he let his guard down.

He found himself typing back without running the words through his internal "Phuwin" filter first. He sent silly emojis and random thoughts, not because it was part of a persona, but because he genuinely wanted to share them with Pond. For the first time, the witty, flirty bartender wasn't performing for an audience of one. He was just… Phuwin. A tired Phuwin who thought printers had feelings, a fond Phuwin who saved pictures of stray cats at the bar, a soft Phuwin who looked forward to a properly punctuated message about staplers.

For so long, he had believed that his value was in his ability to be what others wanted, but now, for the first time, Phuwin was starting to believe that the real thing—the unperformed, unpolished, quiet truth of himself—might just be enough.

°•☆•°

A new routine was born, as natural and essential as breathing. On Saturdays, Pond would go directly from his office job to Phuwin's apartment, still smelling faintly of copy paper and quiet responsibility. Phuwin would greet him, and the real work—the fun work—would begin.

He’d lead Pond to his bedroom, a ritual that never failed to send a thrill through him. He’d rummage through his own closet, a curated collection of armor and allure, and pull out pieces for Pond: a silk shirt the color of a bruise, a tight-fitting vintage band tee, trousers that made his legs look a mile long. He was dressing a masterpiece, and the canvas was more breathtaking each time.

Then came the makeup. Sitting on the stool in Phuwin's kitchen, Pond would close his eyes and surrender, his trust a tangible thing. With a damp beauty sponge and soft brushes, Phuwin would erase the shadows of a long week, highlighting the sharp, beautiful architecture of his face. It was an act of intimate reverence, each stroke saying what he wasn't ready to say out loud: I see you. You are art.

They would head to the bar, a team. And Phuwin had never had more fun at work, or in his life, than he did when Pond was there. It wasn't that Pond had suddenly become a slick, flawless bartender. He was still, endearingly, himself. He’d mispronounce a liqueur, spill a little while pouring, and once tried to strain a cocktail without the spring in the tin, showering himself in ice and gin.

But to Phuwin, he was impossibly funny. His dry, self-deprecating asides, his wide-eyed, genuine "oops" when he fumbled, the way he’d shoot Phuwin a "can you believe I did that?" look that never failed to make him laugh—it was a charm that was entirely, uniquely Pond's.

One night, after a small mishap, Phuwin had pulled him aside. "Don't try to be like me," he'd said, his voice soft but earnest. "Find your own footing. Find something you are good at and use that. Your own charm."

He had seen the immediate, deep-seated skepticism in Pond's eyes. "I don't have any charm," Pond had said, the words so simple and so utterly believed that they shattered something in Phuwin's chest.

You are the most charming person I have ever met, he’d thought, the force of it startling him. The urge to find the asshole who had carved this lie into Pond's soul and break his face was a cold, sharp knot in his stomach.

But with time, patience, and a steady stream of Phuwin's unwavering belief, he saw Pond begin to tentatively test the waters of his own personality. He started making little, dry jokes to customers, his delivery so deadpan they were often startled into laughter. He remembered the names of the quiet regulars and would have them a simple gin and tonic ready before they even asked. His own charm, it turned out, wasn't flashy or flirtatious; it was a quiet, steady light that people were drawn to once they stepped out of the blinding glare of the club's chaos.

And the fact that Pond was the most drop-dead gorgeous man anyone had ever seen certainly didn't hurt. Patrons would watch Pond—elegant and sharp in his borrowed clothes, his eyes brightened by Phuwin's careful hand—and they would forgive the occasional clumsy pour or the odd, philosophical observation about the state of the ice machine. They looked at him, and they saw what Phuwin saw: not a project, but a person. Beautiful, a little awkward, and completely, captivatingly real. 

For Phuwin, watching the world finally start to see Pond's light was the greatest thrill of all.

When the night was over, they would clean up together, their movements a tired, synchronized dance amid the empty bottles and sticky floors. They would drive back to Phuwin's apartment in a comfortable silence, the city lights painting streaks of gold across their tired faces. They would sleep in Phuwin's bed together, a tangle of limbs and shared warmth, the scent of the club finally washed away by the clean, honeyed smell of Phuwin's shower.

On Sundays, they would wake in the early afternoon, the sun already high. It was their ritual: Phuwin would cook lunch. Sometimes Pond would sit at the breakfast bar, chatting sleepily, watching Phuwin move around the small kitchen with a dancer's grace. Other times, Phuwin would let him sleep, the quiet sizzle of garlic in a pan his only companion until Pond emerged, rumpled and soft with sleep.

But one afternoon, the script was flipped. Phuwin stirred, his senses pulling him from a deep sleep not to silence, but to a familiar, savory scent that made his stomach clench with nostalgia. 

Garlic. Chili. Fish sauce.

He padded out of the bedroom, following the aroma to its source.

Pond was standing at the stove, his back to Phuwin, focused on a sizzling wok. The kitchen was warm and filled with the incredible smell of pad krapow.

"Morning," Pond said, sensing his presence without turning around.

"Morning," Phuwin replied, his voice still rough with sleep. He leaned against the doorframe, watching him. "What are you doing up?"

Pond glanced over his shoulder, a shy, almost nervous smile on his face. "You always make lunch. I wanted to do it for once."

Phuwin's brows knitted together in confusion. "How? I didn't have the ingredients for pad krapow." It was his ultimate comfort food, a dish he craved but never seemed to have the energy to shop for properly.

Pond turned down the heat, his attention fully on Phuwin now. "You mentioned it was your favorite a few weeks ago. That your mom used to make it for you after a long week when you were a kid." He shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "So I bought the holy basil and the chilies and everything after work and secretly put them in your fridge."

Phuwin’s heart gave a single, loud bang against his ribs, a percussive shock that left him breathless.

He just stood there, staring at Pond. The simplicity in how he had said it, as if it were nothing, a small and inconsequential gesture. But to Phuwin it was everything. It was someone listening to him, not just to the words, but to the meaning behind them. It was someone remembering a fleeting, personal detail he’d shared in a moment of vulnerability. It was someone caring enough to not only note that detail but to act on it, to orchestrate this entire quiet surprise just to see him happy.

In a life built on surfaces and performances, where people took and took from the charming bartender, no one ever gave like this. No one ever saw past the persona to the man who just wanted a taste of home.

He couldn't speak. The gratitude, the sheer, overwhelming affection that rose in his chest was too immense for words. He just crossed the small kitchen in three strides, wrapped his arms around Pond from behind, and buried his face in the soft fabric of his t-shirt, right between his shoulder blades. He held on tightly, breathing him in—the scent of his skin mixed with the holy basil and chili.

Pond stilled for a moment, then relaxed back into the embrace, one of his hands coming up to cover Phuwin's where it rested on his stomach.

"Thank you," Phuwin finally whispered, his voice muffled against Pond's back, the two words carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken feelings.

Pond just squeezed his hand. "It's just lunch."

But to Phuwin, it was a revelation. It was the universe.

They would then spend Sunday afternoon doing nothing at all. It was the most precious part of their new routine. The world outside could rush and clamor; inside Phuwin's apartment, time stretched out, languid and sweet. They would curl up on the couch, limbs tangled, watching some forgettable show, the dialogue less important than the solid warmth of Pond beside him. Sometimes they’d migrate to the bed, not for sleep but for the simple luxury of lying together in the soft afternoon light, reading or just breathing in sync. Once, they’d even ended up lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling and discussing the absurd pattern of the stucco as if it held the secrets of the universe.

They would talk about anything and everything and absolutely nothing at all. Pond would recount a silly story about a coworker’s obsession with ergonomic chairs, and Phuwin would listen, genuinely captivated. Phuwin would share a fragmented memory from his childhood before the system, a small, bright shard of a time when he’d felt safe, and Pond would receive it with a quiet reverence that made it feel less painful. They would debate the best way to eat a mango and invent backstories for the pigeons on the windowsill.

Pond simply made everything feel comfortable and safe. His presence was not an intrusion but a grounding force, filling the apartment not with noise, but with a profound sense of peace. For Phuwin—an orphan who had learned to rely only on himself, who had built a life on charming surfaces to hide a deep, enduring loneliness—this was everything. This was the quiet center he hadn't known he was circling his entire life. This was the home he’d never had, not in a place, but in a person.

One such Sunday, they were on the couch. Pond had dozed off, his head a comforting weight on Phuwin’s thigh, his breathing deep and even. The late afternoon sun cast long, golden shadows across the room, gilding the dust motes dancing in the air. Phuwin let his fingers card gently through Pond’s soft hair, his heart so full it ached.

He looked down at the man sleeping in his lap—at the trust in the relaxed line of his body, the quiet beauty of his face in repose, the sheer, uncomplicated goodness of him.

Phuwin had never been in love. He’d had flings, intense infatuations, and performative relationships that were more about mutual entertainment than connection. He thought he knew what love was supposed to look like: grand gestures, dramatic declarations, a dizzying, all-consuming fire.

But this… this was different. This wasn't a fire; it was a hearth. It was warm, and constant, and it lit up every dark corner of his life. It was in the shared silence, the secretly bought holy basil, the way his chest felt both calm and exhilarated all at once.

Looking at Pond, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, Phuwin began to wonder if this was what love actually felt like. Not a spectacular explosion, but the quiet, terrifying, and beautiful realization that you’ve finally found your way home.

°•☆•°

The world was a violent, rhythmic lurch, the roar of the speedboat's engine a distant thunder beneath the frantic sounds inside the cramped head. Kon's hands were all over him, sliding under his shirt, grabbing at his hips, pinning him against the vibrating wall. His lips were hot and wet on Phuwin's neck, his moans sharp and greedy in the confined, salty air.

But Phuwin was miles away. As Kon rutted against him, his own hips seeking friction and relief, as he chanted "Phuwin, Phuwin, Phuwin" like a mantra, like a prayer to a god who wasn't listening, Phuwin's mind was elsewhere.

All he could think about was Pond.

He imagined Pond's big, steady hands on his thighs, not grabbing, but holding. He pictured Pond's strong arms pulling him closer, not with frantic need, but with a sure, possessive strength until their bodies were completely flush, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. In his mind, he wrapped his own arms around Pond's broad, solid shoulders, and it was Pond's soft, gentle lips he felt on his flushed skin, not these bruising, demanding ones.

"Good boy," Phuwin moaned into the humid air, the words meant for a different man. He was thinking of Pond's bright, earnest eyes, of his deep-seated need to please, to take care, to satisfy whatever need Phuwin voiced.

"Are you gonna make me come?" he breathed, his voice a ragged whisper lost in the engine's growl.

He was talking to the phantom in his mind. "Are you going to be good for me?" He pictured Pond's face—the way his brow would furrow in concentration, the way his lips would part in stunned pleasure.

He imagined how an orgasm would wreck through that beautiful body, the way Pond would throw his head back, the column of his throat exposed, and how his voice, usually so soft, would sound when it broke on a moan of Phuwin's name.

"Fuck, baby," he gasped, his fingers tangling in Kon's hair and pulling as his own climax ripped through him, a sharp, hollow pleasure that left him panting and stained in his pants.

When he blinked his eyes open, the fantasy shattered. It wasn't Pond's face, softened with affection and wonder, that swam into view. It was Kon's, flushed with exertion and simple, physical satisfaction.

"You are so fucking hot," Kon panted, his eyes gleaming with mirth and a flicker of possessive pride.

Phuwin's smile was a practiced, automatic thing, a mask clicking back into place. They weren't dating. They weren't much of anything. For half a year, it had been this: a series of crazy adventures and sex in the most bizarre of places—rooftops, empty galleries, now the bathroom of a speedboat cutting through the night sea. It was a chase, a shot of pure adrenaline to make him feel alive.

But as the high faded, all he was left with was the ghost of Pond's touch and the cold, hollow space in his chest where the echo of his own name, spoken in the wrong voice, slowly died away.

°•☆•°

Making Pond flustered became Phuwin's new favourite activity, a game more thrilling than any he’d ever played behind the bar. It was a delicate, delicious art form, and Phuwin was its devoted master.

In the mornings, he would parade from his bedroom to the kitchen in nothing but a pair of tight, black boxer briefs, the fabric leaving little to the imagination. He’d pour a glass of water, leaning against the counter with practiced nonchalance, his eyes catching the way Pond’s gaze would snag on the line of his hips, then dart away, a flush creeping up his neck. Phuwin would just smile into his glass.

While Pond was focused on scrambling eggs at the stove, Phuwin would glide up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and splaying his hands possessively over the soft cotton of Pond’s t-shirt, right on the warm plane of his stomach. He’d rest his chin on Pond’s shoulder, watching the eggs curdle.

"Looks delicious," Phuwin would murmur, his voice a low hum right by Pond’s ear. He could feel the immediate, subtle tremor that ran through Pond’s frame, could hear the tiny, sharp intake of breath that followed.

After a long night at the club, covered in a fine sheen of sweat and sugar, they’d stumble into the bathroom to clean up. Phuwin would give it a minute, then push the door open without knocking, heading for the sink to brush his teeth. The room would be thick with steam, and through the fogged-up glass of the shower, Pond’s silhouette was a dark, defined sculpture—the broad sweep of his shoulders, the narrow taper of his waist. Phuwin would meet his wide, startled eyes in the mirror, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face as he spat out toothpaste, never breaking eye contact.

But the most potent moments came in the deep quiet of the night, in the shared sanctuary of his bed. Lying side-by-side in the dark, Phuwin would initiate a slow, deliberate invasion. He would let his bare leg slide in between Pond’s, the movement one of purposeful, languid slowness. The reaction was instantaneous and utterly captivating. Pond’s breath would hitch, audibly catching in his throat. In the profound silence, Phuwin could feel the frantic, rhythmic thump of Pond’s heartbeat where their bodies pressed together, a wild drumbeat against his own skin.

Pond would never pull away. He would just lie there, perfectly still, as if any movement might shatter the charged atmosphere Phuwin had so carefully constructed. And Phuwin would lie beside him, a silent, triumphant smile on his face, drunk on the power he had over this beautiful, flustered man, and even more intoxicated by the fact that he was the only one in the world who could make him feel this way.

°•☆•°

The club was a living beast of sound and light, but for Phuwin, its entire chaotic existence had narrowed to a single, devastating focal point: Pond.

He was wearing the shirt Phuwin had picked out for him—a tight, ribbed black cotton that was more of a second skin than clothing. It stretched taut over the impossible breadth of his shoulders before tapering sharply into his narrow waist. But the real masterpiece was the neckline, a deep, plunging V that carved a pale, smooth path down his chest, revealing the faint definition of his sternum and the delicate hollow at the base of his throat. Under the club’s strobing lights, his skin glistened with a fine sheen of sweat, looking both ethereal and intensely, viscerally real.

Phuwin watched from his station as Pond fumbled slightly with a cocktail shaker, telling a customer a joke that was undoubtedly dorky and endearing. But Phuwin knew, with a certainty that burned in his gut, that it didn’t matter. The customer wasn’t hearing the joke. He was too entranced, his gaze locked on the breathtaking vision before him, on the way the fabric strained with every movement.

Once, Pond needed to get past him to reach the coolers. The space behind the bar was narrow. As he slid by, his big, warm hands came up to rest on Phuwin’s hips, a brief, practical touch to guide his passage.

The contact was short, but it was a brand.

A bolt of pure, white-hot electricity shot through Phuwin’s body, straight to his core. His mind, already softened by the three shots of vodka he’d taken before his shift and utterly intoxicated by the drug that was Pond, instantly shattered.

An image, vivid and unbidden, exploded behind his eyes: those same big hands, the ones that had just gently guided him, now pinning his hips down against the cold, hard surface of the bar counter. The weight of Pond’s body covering his, the pulse of the music becoming the rhythm of his own frantic heartbeat. He could almost feel the bruising grip, the possessive hold as Pond buried himself inside him, deep and relentless, his hot breath a ragged counterpoint against Phuwin’s neck.

The fantasy was so intense, so visceral, that Phuwin’s knees nearly buckled. He gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles white, the sound of the club fading into a distant roar as blood rushed in his ears. He was drowning in it, in the want, in the sheer, terrifying force of his need.

That night, the darkness of the bedroom was a velvet shroud, thick and heavy with the night's unspoken tension. They lay side-by-side in Phuwin's bed, the space between them a charged frontier. The air was still, the only sound their synchronized breathing.

Driven by a need that had been coiling in his gut all night, Phuwin shifted. He let his leg slide, heavy and deliberate, to rest on top of Pond's, the weight a clear, unignorable claim. The heat of Pond's skin seeped through the thin fabric of their pajamas.

Then, his hand began its journey.

He let it travel down his own chest, his fingers splaying over his sternum. In his mind, it wasn't his own hand, but Pond's—larger, stronger, warmer. He pictured those big, capable hands, the ones that had looked so devastating holding a cocktail shaker, now exploring him. His fingers slipped under the elastic waistband of his soft pants, sliding lower, lower, until his knuckles brushed the coarse hair at his navel, and then lower still, until his fingertips finally made contact with his own hard, aching erection.

The contact was so electric, so desperately needed, that a low, ragged moan was torn from his throat. He bit down on his lower lip to stifle it, but the sound was unmistakable in the profound silence of the room.

From beside him, he heard the sharp, silent intake of Pond's breath, followed by a sudden, complete stillness. Then, Pond's breathing quickened, becoming a shallow, audible rhythm that filled the space between them.

Emboldened, lost in the sensation and the sound, Phuwin began to move his hand. The slide of his palm was slick with pre-cum, the friction perfect, maddening. The warmth of Pond's body next to him was a furnace, the sound of his ragged breaths a siren song, mingling with Phuwin's own sharp gasps and the soft, wet sounds of his own hand.

"Fuck, fuck," Phuwin moaned, his hips beginning to match the rhythm of his fist. His mind, unspooling, painted the most vivid of pictures: Pond's pretty, plump lips, glistening and stretched around the head of his cock. He pictured the blissful, submissive look in Pond's eyes, the utter willingness. He imagined his own hand fisting in Pond's soft hair, guiding his head, setting the pace, using that perfect, worshipful mouth to bring himself to the brink.

Pond would follow, the thought seared through him, a final, devastating truth. Of course he would. He'd want nothing more than to be good, to please him.

That single, possessive thought was the final catalyst. A white-hot wave of pleasure, so intense it was almost painful, erupted from his core, spilling over his hand and stomach, searing through every nerve ending. His back arched off the mattress, a silent scream caught in his throat as the climax engulfed him completely, his mind short-circuiting into a blissful, total blackness.

°•☆•°

The next morning, the scent of burning butter and the sizzle of eggs were barely noticeable to Phuwin, whose mind was a roaring, anxious cacophony. He stood over the stove, spatula held limply, his brain spinning in a nauseating loop.

Had he crossed a line? The memory of his own actions from the night before flooded him with a hot wave of shame. He’d been so lost in his own desire, so careless. 

Pond was the first real, solid, good thing he had ever had. Not a performance, not a transaction, but a genuine connection that felt like coming home. The thought that he might have made Pond feel uncomfortable, objectified, or violated with his own unchecked hunger made his stomach clench so tightly it hurt. It was a pain sharper than any hangover.

He was so lost in the spiral of his own making that he didn't register the acrid smell of scorched eggs, nor the aggressive sputtering of the pan. The world had narrowed to the crushing weight of his potential mistake.

Then, a sudden, solid warmth wrapped around his waist from behind. He was firmly, but gently, pulled to the side. Pond reached past him, his arm brushing Phuwin's chest, and deftly took the handle of the pan, moving it off the heat and tipping the charred eggs onto a waiting plate with a practiced flick.

"Trying to set off the smoke alarm?" Pond's voice was a soft, sleepy rumble next to his ear, laced with amusement, not a trace of anger or discomfort. "And here I thought my cooking was the only fire hazard in this kitchen.”

Phuwin stood frozen, heart hammering, braced for something else—a distance, a chill, anything but this.

Pond turned to look at him, a soft, crinkly-eyed smile on his face, his hair adorably mussed from sleep. There was no hesitation in his gaze, no shadow of the previous night's intensity. There was only fond, morning-soft affection.

And just like that, all the coiled-up worry, the guilt, the frantic "what-ifs," drained from Phuwin's body in a single, dizzying rush. The tension evaporated, leaving him feeling lightheaded and profoundly relieved. The real thing hadn't been scared off. The real thing was standing right here, saving his breakfast and smiling at him as if he’d hung the moon.

A shaky, grateful breath escaped Phuwin’s lips, and a real smile finally broke through. "Maybe I was just trying to get your attention," he managed, his voice a little rough.

Pond’s smile widened. "Well, mission accomplished." He nudged the plate of slightly-blackened eggs. "Now, let's see if we can salvage this.”

Phuwin decided to take that as an invitation.

°•☆•°

"We are going to phase 2," he announced, his voice cutting through the comfortable silence of their lazy afternoon. They were sprawled on his couch, Pond’s head a heavy, welcome weight on his thigh as they both scrolled mindlessly on their phones.

Pond’s scrolling stopped. "What?" he asked, tilting his head back to look at Phuwin upside down, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"You've been doing well at the bar," Phuwin explained, adopting a mock-serious, instructor-like tone. "You haven't called any more beers 'lonely' in months. So, it's time to start phase 2."

The truth was, Phuwin didn’t care a single bit about making Pond "less boring." The very notion was absurd. Pond was already the most fascinating person he had ever met. Lately, just the sight of him—rumpled from sleep, or concentrating on a task, or laughing at something stupid—was enough to send a quiet thrill straight down Phuwin’s spine. "Phase 2" was a complete fabrication, a flimsy and transparent excuse to spend more time with him, to tease him, and to meticulously, deliciously seduce him.

"For starters," Phuwin declared, tapping Pond's forehead with his finger. "You can't wear my clothes anymore."

That got a reaction. Pond pushed himself up, turning to face him fully, a genuine pout forming on his lips. "What? Why?"

"Because you're stretching them out," Phuwin said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. His hand, as if to prove the point, slid down Pond's torso, his fingers splaying over the firm muscle of his stomach beneath the soft, borrowed fabric. "You're huge. You're built like a lumberjack who also does yoga. My poor shirts don't stand a chance."

A blush instantly painted Pond's cheeks. "M not," he mumbled, looking down, but he didn't pull away from the touch. If anything, he leaned into it slightly.

"Are too!" Phuwin insisted, his grin widening. He gave Pond's stomach a light, playful poke before retracting his hand, the ghost of the touch lingering on his fingertips. "Now get up! We have a mission."

Pond groaned, flopping back against the cushions. "What mission?"

"Shopping, obviously. Phase 2 is all about building your own arsenal. We're going to find clothes that actually fit your ridiculously broad shoulders and make you look so good that I'll forget my name." He stood up, grabbing Pond's hands and pulling him to his feet with a grunt. "It's time for you to stop being my canvas and become your own masterpiece."

As he said it, his heart gave a little squeeze. He loved seeing Pond in his clothes, loved the intimacy of the shared fabric. But he loved the idea of carefully selecting new ones for him, of building a wardrobe for the man he was falling for, even more. It was just another step in his grand, secret plan of claiming every part of Pond's world as his own.

°•☆•°

The boutique was a world away from the deafening bass and sticky floors of the club. It was all minimalist racks, soft lighting, and the faint, expensive scent of sandalwood. But for Phuwin, it had become a new kind of hunting ground.

He moved through the racks with a predator's grace, his fingers flicking past mundane fabrics until they landed on what he was searching for. He wasn't just picking clothes; he was curating a reaction. His own.

"Try this," he said as he handed Pond a shirt. It was deceptively simple—a black button-up, but made of a viscose that was impossibly soft and thin, promising to drape and cling in all the right places.

Pond took it, his eyebrows knitting together in that endearing, slightly confused way he had. "It's... thin."

"That's the point," Phuwin said, a smirk playing on his lips. He leaned in, as if sharing a secret, his shoulder brushing Pond's. "It's about suggestion. It’s about making someone’s fingers itch to touch it, just to see if it feels as soft as it looks."

He watched, his blood humming, as Pond disappeared into the changing room. When he emerged, Phuwin’s breath actually caught. The fabric did exactly what he’d hoped—it skimmed the lines of Pond’s shoulders and chest, turning his solid frame into a landscape of shadow and suggestion. It was elegant, but there was a quiet provocation in it that made Phuwin’s mouth go dry.

"You see?" Phuwin said, his voice a little tighter than he intended. He stepped forward, into the small, mirrored space. He didn't wait for permission; his hands went to the collar, adjusting it with a practiced touch. "It's not shouting. It's a whisper that makes everyone lean in to listen."

His fingers trailed down, slowly smoothing the fabric over Pond's pectorals, feeling the firm muscle beneath. He watched Pond's eyes, saw the way they darkened, the way his breath hitched. A flush was creeping up his neck. Phuwin felt a surge of power, hot and sweet. This was better than any flirtatious banter with a stranger at the bar. This was crafting the desire, and then being the one to witness its immediate, flustered effect.

"Now this," Phuwin said, his voice dripping with false nonchalance as he produced his next weapon: a pair of pants in a deep charcoal grey. They weren't leather, but they had a similar, subtle sheen and were cut impossibly close, designed to highlight the length of his legs and the curve of his ass.

Pond blushed, actually blushed, holding them up. "Phuwin, these are... tight."

"Are you complaining?" Phuwin teased, leaning against the doorframe, crossing his arms. He let his gaze travel over Pond from head to toe, slow and appreciative. "I'm just helping you expand your horizons. You wanted to learn how to be seen? This is step one. Now put them on. Let me see the full picture."

He closed the curtain, giving Pond privacy he didn't actually want to give. He wanted to watch. He paced slightly outside, the image of Pond in that soft, provocative shirt already seared into his mind. He felt like a hunter who had just laid a perfect trap, his heart pounding not with the thrill of the chase, but with the anticipation of the capture.

When the curtain slid back again, Phuwin had to school his features into something less than pure, ravenous hunger.

The trousers were a masterpiece. They hugged Pond’s lean hips and powerful thighs like a second skin, and the way they narrowed at the ankle made him look both elegant and intensely masculine. Combined with the draped, soft shirt, the effect was devastating. He looked like a god who had decided to slum it in a mortal’s body, all sharp lines and soft invitations.

"Wow," Pond whispered, staring at his own reflection as if he didn't recognize himself.

"Wow is right," Phuwin breathed, stepping close again. He stood behind Pond, their eyes meeting in the mirror. His hands settled on Pond’s hips, his thumbs pressing into the dips there, right above the sinful line of the trousers. The heat of him seeped through the thin fabric of the shirt.

"You see?" Phuwin murmured, his lips close to Pond's ear. He watched the goosebumps erupt on Pond's neck. "It's not about being loud. It's about knowing you look like this." He let his hands slide around to the front, splaying possessively over Pond's lower stomach, pulling him back just an inch so their bodies aligned. Pond’s head fell back slightly against his shoulder, his eyes fluttering shut for a second.

"It's... a lot," Pond managed, his voice strangled.

Phuwin smiled, a real, wicked, uncalculated smile. "It's just clothes, Pond. But the way you wear them?" He gave him a final, slight squeeze before letting go, the loss of contact feeling like a physical ache. "That’s the real lesson. And you, my dear, are a natural."

He turned and walked away to browse another rack, leaving Pond staring after him in the mirror, flushed and breathless and utterly transformed. 

Phuwin felt a deep, thrilling satisfaction settle in his bones. He hadn't just picked out an outfit; he had unwrapped a fantasy, and the best part was, it was all his.

°•☆•°

Phase 2 brought them to a world reduced to a single, shared pocket of warmth in the profound dark of the supermarket changing room. The thick curtain was drawn, sealing them in a space that was all muffled sounds and frantic heartbeats. Phuwin had one arm wrapped around Pond’s back, his other hand pressed gently against his mouth, not to silence him, but to remind him of the need for silence. Their bodies were flush together, from chest to thigh, a line of heat in the cool, still air. Phuwin could feel the solid, reassuring weight of him, the firm plane of his chest against his own. It was almost too much to process—the scent of Pond’s shampoo, the feel of his cotton shirt under Phuwin’s fingertips, and most intoxicating of all, the soft, warm puff of his breath against the sensitive skin of Phuwin’s neck with every exhale.

"How long more do we have to wait?" Pond whispered, his voice a vibration against Phuwin’s hand.

Phuwin just shushed him again, a soft, breathy sound. He tilted his head, pressing his ear more firmly against Pond’s chest, right over his heart. The rhythm was a frantic, living drumbeat against his ear, a wild tempo that spoke of adrenaline, of fear, of something else entirely. It echoed his own.

Finally, when the silence beyond the curtain had stretched for what felt like a safe eternity, Phuwin moved. He slowly pulled back, his hand sliding from Pond’s back, and pushed the heavy fabric aside. They stepped out from the cramped booth into the wider darkness of the clothes aisle, mannequins standing like silent, headless sentinels around them.

"I don't think this is a good idea," Pond murmured, his voice small in the vast, empty store.

"You are the one who suggested it," Phuwin reminded him, a smirk in his voice.

"I didn't suggest anything," Pond pouted, his lower lip jutting out in a way that was utterly disarmingly in the dim emergency lighting. He looked so cute it made Phuwin's chest ache. "And also I was drunk."

"Yeah, well," Phuwin said, his voice softening. "We are here now, so let's just go."

He didn't wait for another protest. He reached back, his fingers finding Pond's, and laced them together. He pulled him forward, past the racks of silent jeans and folded sweaters, their footsteps echoing faintly. They moved through the labyrinth of aisles until they turned a corner, and the world suddenly bloomed with a stark, ethereal light.

The refrigerator section stretched before them, a long corridor of gleaming white. The hum of the compressors was a low, constant drone, the new soundtrack to their adventure. The light from the glass doors was brilliant and clean, washing everything in a pale, celestial glow. It was so bright after the deep darkness that it felt surreal, like they had stepped onto a stage at the end of the world.

Phuwin turned to face Pond, and his breath caught.

In the refrigerator light, Pond was transformed. The white glow highlighted the sharp, elegant line of his jaw, the sweep of his dark lashes against his cheeks. It caught the soft fullness of his lips and the subtle, vulnerable curve of his throat. He looked both otherworldly and profoundly, heart-stoppingly real. All the practiced charm and witty banter fled from Phuwin's mind. He was simply mesmerized.

Without a word, he drew Pond closer, his hands finding their place on his waist. Pond’s hands came up to rest on Phuwin’s shoulders, his grip tentative at first, then sure.

And then, they began to move.

It wasn't a proper dance. There was no music, only the industrial hum and the sound of their own breathing. It was a slow, swaying shuffle, a gentle rocking from foot to foot. Their bodies moved in a silent, intimate rhythm, a conversation without words. Phuwin could feel the solid warmth of Pond through his clothes, the way his body yielded and followed his lead.

He looked up into Pond’s face, and Pond was looking back, his eyes wide and full of a wondering softness. The usual anxiety, the self-consciousness, was gone. In its place was a quiet trust that made Phuwin feel ten feet tall. In this sterile, electric light, in the middle of a sleeping supermarket, they were the only two people in existence.

Phuwin tightened his hold, pulling Pond just a fraction closer, until their foreheads were touching. He closed his eyes, breathing him in. This was it. This was the feeling he’d been performing his whole life to try and capture—a moment of perfect, unvarnished connection. It wasn't wild or chaotic like the club, or comfortably domestic like his apartment. It was magic. And it was more real than anything he had ever known.

Their foreheads still pressed together, Phuwin’s voice was a low hum, barely audible over the refrigerator’s drone. “Is this…” he began, his thumbs drawing slow, absent circles on Pond’s waist through his shirt. “Is this what you were expecting? When you asked me to teach you how to have fun?”

Pond’s eyes, dark and dilated in the stark light, held his. A slow, genuine smile touched his lips. “It’s intense,” he whispered, and the raw honesty in his voice made Phuwin’s heart flip.

A soft, delighted giggle escaped Phuwin, a sound of pure, unguarded happiness he rarely made. He let his hands slide more firmly around Pond’s slim waist, his fingers creeping under the hem of his soft t-shirt. The feel of Pond’s bare skin was a revelation—smooth and impossibly warm, like sunlight captured under his palms. He could feel the fine tremor that ran through Pond’s frame, could hear the way his breath hitched, becoming shallow and uneven.

He watched, mesmerized, as Pond’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, a nervous, anticipatory gesture. Emboldened, Phuwin let one hand drift lower, splaying over the small of Pond’s back, feeling the delicate dip of his spine. Pond’s breaths grew shallower, yet deeper, a conflicting rhythm of anticipation.

Slowly, deliberately, Phuwin’s thumb hooked under the band of Pond’s pants, brushing against the sensitive skin just above his hipbone.

"Phuwin," Pond breathed, and his name was no longer a question or a statement. It was a moan, low and throaty, saturated with a wanting that seemed to suck all the air from the space between them.

The sound sparked a fire in Phuwin’s lower abdomen, so sudden and fierce it made his own throat go dry. He bit his own lip, the sharp pleasure-pain grounding him for a second. Driven by a need he could no longer contain, he dipped his head, his lips brushing against the heated skin of Pond’s neck, right over his frantic pulse.

A full, helpless moan escaped Pond, a vibration that went straight through Phuwin’s mouth and down, pooling as a heavy, aching heat in his groin.

"Who's there?!"

The voice was a sharp, gruff shout that shattered the moment like glass. A blinding beam of a flashlight sliced through the ethereal white glow, pinning them in its harsh, revealing circle.

"Fuck!" Phuwin gasped, jerking his head up and yanking his hands from under Pond’s shirt as if burned.

He didn’t think. Pure instinct took over. He grabbed Pond’s arm, his grip vise-tight, and yelled, "Run!"

They exploded into motion, their feet slapping against the polished concrete floor. The tranquil, frozen aisle became a chaotic blur of light and shadow as they sprinted past the milk and yogurt. Phuwin dragged Pond behind him, weaving through the labyrinth of aisles as the security guard’s shouted threats, his heavy footsteps echoing behind them. He could hear Pond’s ragged, panicked breaths, could feel the adrenaline singing in his own veins. They knocked over a display of canned beans with a tremendous clatter, the sound only fueling their frantic flight.

Phuwin spotted the red glow of an emergency exit at the back of the store. "There!" he yelled, pushing towards it.

He hit the bar of the door with all his weight. A blaring alarm screamed to life, a deafening shriek in the night, but they were already bursting through, stumbling out into the cool, liberating darkness.

They didn't stop. They ran across the empty service road until they stumbled into an alley, the blaring alarm of the supermarket fading into a distant, tinny wail. For a moment, the only sounds were their ragged gasps for air, echoing against the brick walls. Then, a laugh burst from Pond—a wild, breathless, incredulous sound—and Phuwin’s own followed, the two of them collapsing against each other in sheer, giddy relief.

Pond slumped against the rough brick wall, his chest heaving. The warm, orange glow of a distant streetlight caught him perfectly, painting his skin in gold and shadow. His hair was a mess, his eyes were wide with adrenaline, and a brilliant, unguarded smile lit up his face. He looked ethereal, a fallen star caught in the city's grimy embrace.

"Okay," Pond panted, dragging a hand through his hair. "Now that was crazy."

Phuwin leaned beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. A smirk played on his lips, though his own heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "Yeah?" he managed, his voice a little rough. "Isn't that what you were looking for when you asked me to help? Fun and excitement?”

A disbelieving, joyous laugh tore from Pond's throat. "Fuck!" he exhaled, the word full of wonder, not anger.

They stood there in comfortable silence for a few more moments, catching their breath, the cool night air soothing their flushed skin. The frantic energy of the chase slowly ebbed, leaving behind a buzzing, intimate hum. Finally, wordlessly, they pushed off the wall and began the short walk back to Phuwin's car, their steps falling in sync.

The parking lot was silent and empty. As they reached the familiar red Mazda, Pond turned to him, his expression soft and sincere in the dim light.

"It was fun," he said, the simple words carrying the weight of a profound truth. It wasn't just about the thrill of almost getting caught; it was about the shared secret, the silent dance, the feeling of being alive and utterly connected.

Phuwin looked at him—at this beautiful, surprising man who had turned his entire world upside down—and felt something warm and certain settle in his chest.

"That's all that matters," Phuwin replied, his voice barely a whisper.

And then, driven by an impulse more powerful than reason, he leaned in. It wasn't a grand, dramatic gesture. It was a soft, fleeting press of his lips to the corner of Pond's mouth—a ghost of a kiss, warm and tasting of the night air and their shared adventure.

He pulled back almost instantly, his own heart pounding furiously, a frantic drum against his ribs. Without another word, he turned and slid into the driver's seat, closing the door and gripping the steering wheel to steady his trembling hands. He didn't dare look over, terrified and exhilarated by what he had just done, and by the silent, electric shock he knew was hanging in the air between them.

°•☆•°

Phuwin lay sprawled across Kon's rumpled sheets, the air in the room thick with the scent of sweat and cheap cologne. His own body was sticky, his hair a mess, his cheeks still flushed with the aftermath of something that felt more like friction than feeling. He watched, his mind pleasantly numb, as Kon emerged from the adjoining bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips, water droplets clinging to his skin.

"…and Leo said it's going to be completely wild," Kon was saying, his voice energetic as he ran a hand through his damp hair. "The kind of party people talk about for months. You have to come."

Before Phuwin could form a reply, his phone vibrated on the nightstand, cutting through Kon's monologue. The screen lit up with a name that sent an entirely different kind of jolt through his system: Pond.

He picked up. "Hey."

"Have you heard about the shadow market?" Pond's voice came through, no greeting, no formality, just immediate, shared curiosity.

A slow, genuine smile spread across Phuwin's face. This was the new Pond. The one who used to agonize over text messages now called him in the middle of the day just to tell him about a weird cloud shaped like a teapot, or to ask if he thought dogs had a sense of humor, or—like now—to plunge them headfirst into a mystery.

"Can't say that I have," Phuwin replied, his voice softening without him meaning it to.

Pond launched into an explanation, his words tumbling out with excited energy. A secret night market that was more myth than fact, appearing in a random location only twice a year. You had to follow clues, find the location through whispers and hints. A real-life treasure hunt.

"I think it's happening tonight," Pond said, and Phuwin could perfectly picture the determined, bright-eyed look on his face. "We should totally do it."

Phuwin's smile widened, a fond, endeared feeling swelling in his chest. This was a thousand times more compelling than any "wild" party.

"So? Are we going?" Kon's voice cut in, sharp and slightly petulant. Phuwin looked over. Kon was watching him, now fully dressed, something strange and possessive flickering in his eyes as he took in Phuwin's languid pose on his bed.

On the other end of the line, Pond’s tone shifted instantly, the excitement deflating into quiet hesitation. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice smaller. "Was I interrupting you? I'm sorry."

"No," Phuwin said immediately, sitting up straight as if pulled by a string. The sticky intimacy of Kon's room suddenly felt cloying. "Not interrupting anything at all. Just talking with a friend." He locked eyes with Kon as he said the last word. "I'll come to your place in an hour, yeah?"

"You sure?" Pond asked, hope tentatively returning.

"Absolutely."

"Bye bye."

Phuwin laughed, a soft, real sound. "Bye bye."

He ended the call and swung his legs off the bed, starting to gather his discarded clothes from the floor.

"Just a friend?" Kon asked, his voice tight. He stood with his arms crossed, blocking the path to the door.

"What?" Phuwin replied, pulling his shirt over his head.

"Who was on the phone? Are you leaving? Are you not coming to the party?" The questions came in a rapid, accusatory fire.

Phuwin finished dressing, smoothing down his hair in a futile attempt to look less like he'd just been rolling around in bed. He finally met Kon's stare, his own expression cool and unreadable.

"What's with all the questions?" he asked, his tone light but final.

He walked towards the door, and Kon, after a tense second, moved aside.

"I'll see you around," Phuwin said, the dismissal clear and effortless. He didn't look back as he stepped out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him. The air outside Kon's apartment felt cleaner, lighter. He walked with purpose, headed for his own place, a much-needed shower, and an infinitely more interesting night ahead.

°•☆•°

The engine of the red Mazda purred to a stop outside Pond’s apartment. He practically launched himself into the passenger seat, his eyes sparkling with an energy Phuwin hadn't seen since their ill-fated supermarket adventure. He was clutching his phone like a sacred text.

"You will not believe this," Pond said, swiping the screen open before Phuwin could even say hello. "Look."

He showed Phuwin a series of cryptic messages from a forum dedicated to urban exploration.

‘Where silent stories gather dust, beneath the gaze of the forgotten crowd.’

‘Seek the stage where echoes play, and find the key to light the way.’

"And this one," Pond said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he showed the final clue. ‘A king’s ransom in red and gold, a new story waiting to be told.’

"It's the old Orpheum Theatre," Pond declared, practically vibrating in his seat. "It's been abandoned for years. It has to be there."

Phuwin looked from the cryptic lines to Pond's utterly serious, excited face. His heart did a slow, fond flip. "Well then," he said, putting the car back into gear. "What are we waiting for? Let's go see a ghost."

The Orpheum Theatre loomed in the darkness, a hulking relic behind a chain-link fence. A section of the fence was already bent back, a silent invitation.

Pond hovered by the car, his bravery faltering. "This is trespassing. Maybe... maybe this was a bad idea. We should just go home."

Phuwin looked at him, at the nervous bite of his lip, and felt a surge of protective encouragement. "This was your brilliant idea, detective. We didn't come all this way to look at the outside." He grabbed a flashlight from his glove compartment and offered his hand. "Come on. We'll be quick."

He led the way, ducking through the gap in the fence and finding a side door with a splintered frame that gave way with a gentle push.

The moment they stepped inside, the air changed. It was heavy and still, smelling of old wood, dust, and time itself. Their footsteps echoed in the cavernous space as Phuwin swept his flashlight beam around.

It was breathtakingly beautiful in its decay. Intricate wooden carvings of muses and cherubs framed the balconies, their details softened by a thick layer of dust. The grand curtain, once a vibrant red and gold, was now faded and tattered, but it still held a ghost of its former grandeur. A milky, blue-white moonlight streamed in through the broken panes of the domed ceiling, casting the entire auditorium in a soft, ethereal glow. It was like stepping into a forgotten dream.

"For a bad idea," Phuwin whispered, his voice full of awe, "it's pretty spectacular."

They walked down the sloped aisle in silence, their awe muting them for a moment. Then, the spell broke.

"I bet the acoustics are still good," Pond murmured.

"Only one way to find out," Phuwin said, a playful grin spreading across his face. He hopped up onto the stage, the old boards creaking under his weight. The dust motes danced around him like fairies in the moonlight. He struck a dramatic pose, one hand clasped to his chest.

"O Pond, Pond!" he called out, his voice echoing wonderfully in the hollow space. "Wherefore art thou, Pond?"

Pond burst out laughing, the sound ringing through the theatre. He shook his head, but a wide smile was on his face as he climbed up to join him. "You're ridiculous. And you're mixing your plays."

"Details, details," Phuwin waved a dismissive hand. "But speak again, bright angel! For thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven..."

Pond, now standing opposite him on the stage, folded his arms, playing along. "You know, I don't think that's how it goes either. And I'm pretty sure I'm not the angel in this scenario."

"Oh? And what are you, then?" Phuwin teased, taking a step closer.

Pond's smile turned a little shy, a little daring. "The guy who's about to find the next clue before you do."

"Alright, bright angel," Phuwin said, his voice echoing through the vast space. "Let's see who finds it first. The clue said 'beneath the gaze of the forgotten crowd.' So the audience is watching us."

"Or," Pond countered, his own voice carrying from the other side of the stage where he was peering into the orchestra pit, "the 'forgotten crowd' could be the carvings. All these dust-covered faces." He gestured up at the cherubs and muses looking down from the balconies.

"Too many eyes," Phuwin declared, dramatically shielding his own. "It's creepy. I think it's more literal." He jumped off the stage and landed with a soft thud in the aisle, striding towards the back of the auditorium. "The 'forgotten crowd' sat here. We should be looking on the floor."

"The floor is just dirty," Pond called down, his tone laced with affectionate mockery. "You're going to get cobwebs in your hair, drama queen."

"And you're going to get a stiff neck from staring at the ceiling, you overthinker!" Phuwin shot back, his laughter ringing out as he pretended to inspect the worn velvet of the seats.

They darted around the shadowy theatre, their footsteps and playful taunts bouncing off the walls. Pond climbed up to a balcony, claiming the "high ground" gave him a tactical advantage. Phuwin retorted that all he’d find up there were "ghosts and disappointment."

It was Phuwin who finally thought of it. "The stage where echoes play!" he exclaimed, scrambling back up onto the platform. "It's not the main stage. It's the prompter's box! That's where the actor's real guide would be!"

He rushed to the front of the stage and dropped to his knees, peering into the small, hidden compartment. There, nestled inside and covered in a fine layer of dust, was a single, aged piece of cardstock. He snatched it up, triumphantly waving it in the air.

"Ha! Victory! Who's the drama queen now? The drama king, that's who!"

Pond hurried down from the balcony and joined him on stage, both of them huddling under the beam of the flashlight as Phuwin read the elegantly scripted words aloud:

"Where stone sentinels stand in silent rows,

And the past beneath the ivy grows.

Seek the one who never rests,

To find the market's hidden guests."

Pond’s eyes widened. "Stone sentinels... rows... the one who never rests... Phuwin, that's the 18th-century cemetery on the hill. The one with the old watchman's mausoleum—the statue of the angel who's always awake."

A thrill, cold and exciting, shot through them both. 

The old cemetery on the hill was a world removed from the city’s hum. The iron gates, weathered black and twisted with ivy, stood open as if expecting them. They stepped through, and the air itself changed, becoming cooler, fragrant with damp earth, night-blooming jasmine, and the faint, sweet decay of old leaves.

A path of crushed gravel, pale in the moonlight, wound its way between the ranks of stone sentinels. Weathered angels with folded wings and sorrowful faces stood vigil over forgotten plots. Elaborate mausoleums, like small, stone houses, leaned against each other, their facades carved with dates from two centuries past. Moss and ivy clung to everything, a soft, living shroud softening the hard edges of death.

The silence was profound, a velvet blanket that seemed to absorb all sound, leaving only the whisper of a gentle wind through the cypress trees and the crunch of their own careful footsteps.

Without a word, Phuwin’s hand found Pond’s. His fingers slid between Pond’s, their palms pressing together, a point of blazing, vital warmth in the cool, still air. Pond’s grip was firm, almost tight, not with fear, but with a sense of shared reverence and awe.

They walked slowly, hand in hand, down the central avenue. Moonlight, pure and milky white, streamed through the branches, dappling the path and illuminating the inscriptions on the tombstones in fleeting, silver flashes. It cast long, dancing shadows that made the stone figures seem to shift and breathe. It was not a place of horror, but of a deep, profound peace—a garden of memory sleeping under the stars.

"It's beautiful," Pond whispered, his voice hushed, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the slumbering residents.

Phuwin didn't answer. He just squeezed Pond’s hand, his thumb stroking gently over his knuckles. In this city of the dead, holding Pond’s living, warm hand felt like the most sacred thing he had ever done. They were a single, breathing heartbeat in the vast, silent stillness.

They walked for what felt like both an eternity and no time at all, their hushed tones the only human sound in the moonlit sanctuary. Phuwin felt a strange, profound contentment settle over him. The eerie atmosphere was secondary to the simple, steady pressure of Pond’s hand in his, a tether to the present in a place dedicated to the past.

It was Pond who gently pulled him to a stop before a row of smaller, more ornate statues—a series of weeping cherubs and lambs. He pointed, his finger trembling slightly. One figure was different. It was a small, stone fox, clever and alert, tucked at the base of a larger angel. Unlike the somber guardians around it, the fox seemed poised to dart away, its nose pointing toward a specific mausoleum. Tucked into a crevice behind its ear was a tightly rolled scroll.

With careful fingers, Phuwin retrieved it. Unfurling it in the moonlight, they read the new verse:

"Follow the river's silver tongue, where the city's weary songs are sung. Where water whispers to the stone, a secret in the dark is known."

The discovery in the cemetery ignited a fire within them. What followed was a whirlwind, a breathless dash through the sleeping city that felt like they were the only two people alive in the world.

They followed the "river's silver tongue" to the old canal district, where they found the next clue tucked behind a loose brick in a bridge's arch, its riddle pointing them toward the city archives. They slipped into the silent, hallowed halls just before closing, their laughter echoing between shelves of ancient records, finding a key taped beneath a desk labeled "The Navigator."

That key unlocked a rusted box hidden in a nook of the old maritime docks, the scent of salt and rotting wood thick in the air. Inside, a new clue written on what looked like a vintage shipping manifest sent them climbing the fire escape of a clock tower, the city sprawling beneath them like a map of scattered stars.

Through it all, a rhythm developed—a symphony of shared intuition and playful competition. Phuwin’s boldness would get them through a locked gate, while Pond’s quiet observation would spot the nearly invisible mark on a wall that led them forward. They mocked each other’s theories, celebrated each other’s discoveries with silent, triumphant fist bumps, and shared a bag of grapes bought from a market stall they passed, the taste sharp and sweet on their tongues.

With each clue solved, the space between them seemed to shrink. A hand on the small of a back to guide, a head leaning close to read a clue together, laughter shared in the dark—every touch was a new clue in itself, a piece of a different, more important puzzle they were both silently solving. The treasure was no longer just a secret market; it was this—the exhilarating, terrifying, and beautiful feeling of falling in sync with another soul under the cover of night.

The last clue, found tucked into the mechanism of the clock tower, was the most direct yet:

"The journey ends where a forgotten giant sleeps,

Behind its stone eyes, a secret it keeps.

Where wild things grow in a garden untamed,

The shadow market waits, unnamed."

They knew it instantly. The "forgotten giant" could only be the old Vane Mansion, a derelict Victorian estate on the city's outskirts, its grounds overtaken by a famously wild and sprawling garden. A final surge of energy propelled them, their tiredness forgotten.

The mansion's iron gate was rusted shut, but a side entrance for servants, hidden behind a curtain of wisteria, yielded with a groan. They slipped through, emerging onto the overgrown grounds. The mansion itself was a dark, hulking silhouette against the night sky, its windows like blind eyes. But as they moved deeper into the tangled garden, following a path of trampled grass, they began to hear it—a distant, joyful murmur. A hum of life.

They pushed through a final wall of weeping willow branches, and the world transformed.

It was as if they had stepped through a portal. The vast, neglected garden behind the mansion was alive with magic. Thousands of fairy lights were strung through the trees, twinkling like captured fireflies. Intricate paper lanterns glowed with warm colors, casting a soft, dreamy light on the scene below.

Dozens of stalls, fashioned from repurposed doors, antique suitcases, and flowing fabrics, formed a meandering labyrinth. The air was thick with the scent of sizzling street food, foreign spices, and blooming night flowers. A quartet played a jaunty, acoustic folk song in one corner, their music weaving through the laughter and chatter of the crowd. People in elaborate costumes, masks, and everyday clothes mingled, playing games of chance at makeshift tables or watching a fire-breather who sent plumes of orange flame into the night sky.

It was beautiful. It was breathtaking. It was a secret, living, breathing heart beating in the corpse of the old estate.

Phuwin and Pond stood at the edge of the willow branches, frozen in awe. The silence of their treasure hunt was now replaced by a symphony of life.

"We found it," Pond breathed, his voice full of wonder. He turned to Phuwin, his eyes reflecting the thousand points of light. "We actually found it."

Phuwin could only stare, first at the impossible market, then at Pond’s illuminated, joyous face. He reached out, his hand finding Pond’s once more.

"Yeah," Phuwin said, his own heart feeling too big for his chest. "We did.”

The moment they stepped into the glow of the fairy lights, they were swept into the current of the market’s magic. The air itself seemed to vibrate with a joyous energy. The first stall they drifted toward was a Vietnamese street food vendor, the air around it thick with the aroma of sizzling garlic and lemongrass.

“Two of the bánh mì, please,” Pond said, already pulling out his wallet before Phuwin could protest. He handed one of the steaming, generously stuffed baguettes to Phuwin, his smile shy but determined. “You always cook for me. My turn.”

The first bite was a revelation—the crisp bread, the savory pâté, the burst of fresh cilantro and chili. Phuwin groaned in pleasure, and Pond’s smile widened into something brilliant and proud.

As they ate, a crowd began to gather around a cleared circle. They found a spot just as the fire-breather began his performance. They watched, mesmerized, as he conjured great plumes of fire that roared into the night sky, the heat washing over their faces in intense waves. Phuwin felt Pond flinch beside him at a particularly large burst, and without thinking, he slipped an arm around his waist, pulling him closer. Pond leaned into the touch, his side a solid, warm line against Phuwin’s, and they watched the rest of the show tucked together, the dazzling fire reflecting in their wide eyes.

Afterward, the folk quartet struck up a faster, irresistible tune. People around them began to dance, a loose, joyful, uncoordinated bouncing. Phuwin grabbed Pond’s hands.

“Come on,” he laughed, pulling him into the fray.

And they danced. It wasn't elegant or practiced. It was a mess of stumbling feet, spinning until they were dizzy, and laughing so hard their sides ached. Pond, usually so careful with his movements, let go completely, his head thrown back in unrestrained joy. Phuwin watched him, this beautiful, unselfconscious man, and felt a happiness so sharp and pure it was almost painful.

When they were breathless and giddy, they stumbled upon the pond at the garden's heart. Its dark surface was dotted with dozens of small, floating lotus-shaped lanterns, each holding a tiny, flickering candle, carrying wishes out into the night.

A woman at a small table handed them one. “For your heart’s desire,” she said with a knowing smile.

They knelt together at the water's edge. Phuwin struck the match, and Pond cupped his hands around the tiny candle to shield it from the breeze until it caught. Their fingers brushed as they held the delicate paper lotus.

“Make a wish,” Pond whispered, his face glowing in the soft candlelight.

Phuwin looked at him, at the hope and wonder in his eyes, and his own wish formed, clear and certain in his heart. They leaned forward together and gently set the lantern onto the water. It floated for a moment, joining the constellation of other hopes, before a soft breeze carried it away, its light bobbing bravely into the darkness. They stayed there, shoulders touching, watching their shared wish disappear into the beautiful, impossible night.

°•☆•°

"This is a bad idea," Pond said, his voice a low murmur as he stared out the window at the sprawling, obscenely large estate coming into view. Every window was blazing with light, and the distant thrum of a string quartet and polite chatter was already audible.

Phuwin took his eyes off the winding, tree-lined drive for just a second to glance at him. "You said that about the supermarket, and the cemetery, and the abandoned theatre," he teased, his voice light. "And yet, you're always the one with the biggest smile on your face by the end of the night."

Pond let out a soft, nervous laugh, the sound curling warmly in the confined space of the car. "This is different. These people have security. And probably lawyers."

He was wearing the outfit Phuwin had meticulously chosen for him: a sharply tailored black suit jacket over a shirt of the finest, thinnest black mesh. The formal structure of the jacket contrasted wildly with the provocative, sheer fabric beneath, which revealed the smooth, pale plane of his chest and stomach with every shift of his body. Phuwin’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, forcing his gaze back to the road. It was a Herculean effort not to stare.

"Could we get arrested?" Pond asked, his tone shifting to genuine concern.

"For crashing a party?" Phuwin laughed. Then he adopted a deadpan delivery. "Well, yes, actually. Trespassing, impersonating guests, general fabulousness without a permit..."

"Aaah, Phuwin," Pond whined, dragging a hand down his face, but the sound was fond, not fearful.

Phuwin laughed again, the sound freer and easier than it had been all day. He navigated the car into a spot behind a row of obscenely expensive vehicles, cutting the engine. The sudden silence was thick with anticipation.

He turned in his seat to face Pond fully. "This is what you wanted, remember?" he said, his voice softening. "To do something fun and crazy. What's more fun and crazy than crashing a rich people's party? It's the final exam for all my lessons." He paused, the teasing fading from his eyes, replaced by something more vulnerable, more raw. "Don't you trust me? Have you ever regretted anything we did?"

The question hung in the air, heavier than he'd intended. Underneath the bravado was a desperate need for reassurance, a silent plea to know that Pond was having even half the life-altering, exhilarating fun that he was whenever they were together.

Pond met his gaze, the nervousness in his own eyes melting away into something sure and steady. "Of course I trust you," he said, the words simple and absolute.

Then he leaned across the center console. The movement was quick and sure. He closed the small distance between them and pressed a soft, warm kiss to Phuwin's cheek. It was brief, a fleeting brand of warmth against his skin, but it sent a shockwave of pure, undiluted feeling straight to Phuwin's core.

For a moment, Phuwin couldn't speak, couldn't move. The world had narrowed to the spot on his cheek that tingled with the ghost of the kiss and the certainty in Pond's eyes.

"Good," Phuwin finally managed, his voice a little hoarse. He cleared his throat, a slow, confident smile finally spreading across his face as he opened his car door. "Then let's go crash a party."

The plan had come to Phuwin in a flash of inspiration, pieced together from the loose threads of gossip that always wound their way through the nightlife grapevine. He’d overheard a promoter complaining that a certain shipping tycoon, a notoriously reclusive man named Mr. Anat, had cancelled at the last minute, leaving a glaringly empty seat at the head table. It was the perfect opportunity.

"His son," Phuwin had explained to Pond in the car, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "You're his son. He sent you in his stead as a gesture of goodwill. You're young, you're bored, you're used to getting what you want."

Now, standing before the imposing, black-clad bouncer at the velvet rope, it was time to execute the plan. Phuwin hung back half a step, letting Pond take the lead.

"The name is Anat," Pond said, his voice not the soft, warm tone Phuwin knew, but a cold, bored drawl that cut through the humid night air. He didn't smile. He looked the bouncer up and down as if he were a mildly interesting piece of furniture. "My father was expected. He's unavoidably detained in Zurich. Sent me instead." He gave a dismissive wave of his hand, as if the entire affair was beneath him.

The bouncer, a mountain of a man with an earpiece, scanned his clipboard. "I don't have an Anat Jr. on the list."

Pond’s expression didn't change, but a flicker of icy impatience ignited in his eyes. It was a masterclass in spoiled entitlement. "Do you really think," he said, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper, "that my father calls ahead to put my name on a list? He owns half the port this city runs on. Are you going to be the one to explain to him that his son, his only heir, was turned away from a small garden party?"

The bouncer shifted his weight, uncertainty creeping into his stern facade. It was then that Phuwin chose his moment. He slid forward, looping his arm through Pond's and leaning his head against his shoulder with a theatrical sigh.

"Darling, what is the problem?" Phuwin whined, his voice dripping with a languid, affected boredom. He fluttered his eyelashes at the bouncer. "It's dreadfully stuffy out here. Are we going to stand around all night, or are we going to go in?”

The combination was devastating. Pond’s cold, unyielding threat and Phuwin’s spoiled, dismissive annoyance. They played off each other perfectly. The bouncer, faced with the sheer, audacious confidence of it all, and clearly not paid enough to potentially provoke the wrath of a shipping magnate, finally relented. He unclipped the rope with a stiff nod.

"Of course, Mr. Anat. My apologies. Enjoy your evening."

As they swept past him into the glittering throng of the party, Phuwin squeezed Pond's arm. He leaned in, his lips brushing Pond's ear as he whispered, his voice full of genuine awe and pride, "That was so fucking hot.”

They floated through the opulent crowd like a pair of beautiful, mischievous ghosts, their presence accepted without question now that they had passed the gate. Phuwin snagged two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter's tray, handing one to Pond with a flourish.

"To the Anat fortune," Phuwin whispered, clinking his glass gently against Pond's.

"To not getting arrested," Pond murmured back, a real smile threatening to break through his cool, bored facade.

They drifted from one lavish room to another, their arms linked, playing their parts to perfection. In a library with more gilt than books, they stopped before a truly bizarre sculpture—a twisted, silver spire that looked like a melted rocket.

"What do you suppose it is, darling?" Phuwin asked, loud enough for a nearby couple to hear. "A tribute to modern anxiety?"

Pond took a slow sip of his champagne, his gaze critically sweeping the piece. "Father has one twice the size," he said, his tone utterly deadpan. "He uses it as a hat stand. Terribly gauche, but the artist was a friend."

The nearby couple exchanged impressed glances and moved away, whispering. Phuwin had to press his lips together to keep from giggling.

They found a quiet nook dominated by an ostentatious, throne-like chair made of what appeared to be white velvet and antlers.

"Good god," Pond said, slipping deeper into character. He gestured with his glass. "I told mother not to donate that eyesore after the divorce. She must have sent it here out of spite."

Phuwin played along, running a finger over one of the antlers with a theatrical shudder. "It's just jealous of your bone structure, my love. It can't compete."

Their best performance came when a stern-looking woman in a severe black dress approached them, introducing herself as the event's curator.

"Your father is a great patron of the arts," she said to Pond, who merely inclined his head in a gesture of bored acknowledgment.

"He has a… particular eye," Pond replied, his voice flat.

Phuwin, unable to resist, leaned in conspiratorially. "He's currently funding an artist in Reykjavik who only works with volcanic ash and dried cod. The smell is appalling, but the symbolism is just devastatingly poignant, don't you think?"

The curator blinked, her smile frozen in confusion. "Dried cod? How… innovative."

"Revolutionary," Pond agreed, his tone implying it was anything but. He then sighed, looking profoundly weary. "If you'll excuse us, the… art is beginning to give me a migraine." He didn't wait for a reply, simply turning and leading Phuwin away, leaving the woman standing there, utterly bewildered.

The moment they were out of earshot, they collapsed into silent, shaking laughter against a wall in a deserted hallway.

"Volcanic ash and dried cod?" Pond gasped, tears of mirth in his eyes.

"You sold it with the migraine!" Phuwin wheezed, clutching his stomach. "The sheer, utter disdain! I thought I was going to die."

They stayed like that for a long moment, catching their breath, their laughter a private, joyful secret in the heart of the enemy camp. 

One glass of champagne had led to another, and then to two more, until the buzz had become a roaring fire in their veins, leading them, stumbling and giggling, back to the relative quiet of the library. Phuwin was trailing his fingers along the spines of leather-bound books, laughing softly at the pompous, archaic titles, when a wave of heat enveloped him.

Pond's body pressed flush against his back, his arms caging Phuwin in against the bookshelves. Phuwin could feel the solid wall of his chest, the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat, the hot puff of his breath against the sensitive skin of his neck. Then, he felt it—the soft, tentative brush of Pond's lips. A feather-light touch that sent a shiver straight down his spine. The contact deepened; he felt Pond's lips part in an open-mouthed kiss, wet and warm, before his teeth closed gently on the tendon of his neck.

"Fuck," Phuwin moaned, the sound loud and unbidden in the hushed room. His right hand flew up, tangling in the soft hair at the nape of Pond's neck, holding him there.

He pushed his body back, arching against Pond, and was rewarded with the hard line of his erection pressing insistently against the small of his back. A choked, delicious sound escaped Pond's throat at the friction.

That was all it took. Phuwin turned in the circle of his arms, coming face to face with a Pond he'd never seen. His skin was flushed a beautiful, rosy red, his eyes glossy and dark with want, his lips shining and slightly parted. Without a word, Phuwin grabbed the back of his head and brought their mouths together in a searing, open-mouthed kiss. It was desperate and needy, all tongues and clashing teeth, a release of months of pent-up tension.

Their hips began to move of their own accord, grinding together in a slow, frantic rhythm. Pond moaned into Phuwin's mouth, the sound obscene and perfect. He broke the kiss, his mouth trailing back to Phuwin's neck, sucking and biting at the skin as if he wanted to consume him.

"Just like that," Phuwin gasped, throwing his head back to give him better access. "So good, Pond. So fucking good."

He wanted more. He wanted to be mapped, to be claimed. He pushed Pond's head lower, his lips grazing a peaked nipple through the thin material of his shirt. Pond's tongue darted out, a wet, hot stripe, before his lips closed over the sensitive nub, sucking through the fabric.

"Pond," Phuwin breathed out, his voice ragged. His hand slid from Pond's hair to cup his jaw, pushing him down further.

Pond understood. He sank to his knees on the rich Persian rug, looking up at Phuwin from between his legs. The sight alone was almost enough to make Phuwin come—Pond on his knees, his cheeks flushed, his eyes glazed and unfocused with pleasure, his plump, pink lips already slick with saliva. He was a vision of debauched submission.

"Is this what you want, Pond?" Phuwin asked, his voice husky, his own erection straining painfully against his trousers.

Pond nodded, his gaze unwavering.

"Yeah?" Phuwin asked again, his fingers threading through his soft hair. "Want to be good for me?”

"Want to make you feel good," Pond whispered, the sincerity in his hoarse voice undoing Phuwin completely.

"Fuck," he moaned. "You are so perfect."

Pond's hands, those big, warm, surprisingly soft hands, went to his belt. He undid the button and zipper with a slow, deliberate care that was its own form of torture, every brush against his hard length drawing a sharp gasp from Phuwin.

Once freed, Pond started slowly, almost hesitantly, his tongue making an excruciatingly slow journey from the base to the tip. He used his hand to stroke him to a full, aching hardness, using the bead of pre-cum that had gathered to slick the way.

Then, he looked up, meeting Phuwin's burning gaze, and his lips closed around the tip. The wet, silken heat was a shock, better than anything Phuwin had ever imagined. He couldn't help himself; he tangled his hands in Pond's hair again, guiding his head down slowly, so agonizingly slow, until his entire length was engulfed, the tip nudding the back of his throat.

He let Pond set the pace for a few moments, reveling in the feel of his tongue working around him, the tight, wet suction. "So good, baby," Phuwin chanted, his head falling back. "Fuck, you are making me feel so good."

When he couldn't take the slow, building torture anymore, he tightened his hold, his hips beginning to move in tiny, involuntary thrusts as he set a faster, more demanding rhythm. Pond took it, his eyes fluttering open to meet Phuwin's. The sight of his glossy, pleasure-drunk eyes looking up at him from between his legs was so obscenely beautiful it sent Phuwin hurtling over the edge.

"Fuck, baby, I'm so close," he cried out, his vision whiting out as pleasure erupted through him, his knees buckling as he spilled himself deep into Pond's willing mouth.

He watched, breathless and entranced, as Pond swallowed, his own body trembling with the aftershocks. 

For a long, suspended moment, the only sound in the library was their ragged breathing. Phuwin, his knees still weak, gently zipped his pants, his eyes never leaving Pond. He was still on his knees, looking up at him with a dazed, utterly wrecked expression that sent a fresh, possessive thrill through Phuwin.

He reached down, his hands tender as he helped Pond to his feet. Pond swayed slightly, and Phuwin steadied him, one hand coming up to cup his warm, flushed cheek. His thumb stroked over the high bone, wiping away a stray tear of exertion or overwhelm.

"You are..." Phuwin began, but words failed him. Instead, he leaned in, his lips finding Pond's in a kiss that was profoundly different from the desperate, hungry ones they'd shared moments before. It was slow, sweet, and full of a staggering, reverent awe. His other hand slid to Pond's waist, pulling him close, wanting to feel every inch of him, to communicate through touch the torrent of feeling inside him—the gratitude, the desire, the sheer, overwhelming possessiveness that was pounding in his blood. He wanted to drop to his own knees and worship Pond in return, to map his body with his mouth until Pond was the one coming apart.

But the world, which they had held at bay, came crashing back in.

The heavy library door flew open with a bang.

"Here they are!" a voice boomed.

Phuwin broke the kiss, his eyes snapping towards the door where three large security guards stood, their expressions grim.

"I think they figured out there is no Mr. Anat Jr," Phuwin said, a wild, adrenaline-fueled grin suddenly splitting his face. He tightened his grip on Pond's hand. 

“Run?” Pond smiled.

What followed was a scene of pure, chaotic farce. They burst out of the library and into the main hall, a blur of disheveled elegance and panic. Phuwin, still leading, yanked Pond through the stunned crowd of glittering socialites. They weaved between waiters, sending a tray of delicate canapés flying into the air like edible confetti. A woman in a feathered headdress shrieked as Pond accidentally bumped into her, sending her spinning into her companion.

"Sorry! So sorry!" Pond yelled over his shoulder, even as Phuwin dragged him forward.

They took a wrong turn into a dead-end corridor filled with abstract art, forcing them to double back, nearly colliding with their pursuers. Phuwin spotted an open patio door and veered towards it, pulling Pond out into the cool night air. They sprinted across a manicured lawn, their dress shoes slipping on the dewy grass, their laughter now hysterical and breathless.

They could hear the shouts of the guards closing in. Phuwin saw the glint of his car parked where they'd left it. With a final, desperate burst of speed, they reached it, piling inside and slamming the doors shut just as the first guard's hand slapped against the window.

Phuwin fumbled with the keys, jammed them in the ignition, and the engine roared to life. He peeled out of the parking spot, gravel spraying, and shot down the long, dark driveway, leaving the blazing mansion and its furious guards in their dust.

Silence descended inside the car, broken only by their panting breaths. Then, Phuwin glanced over at Pond—his hair a mess, his lip gloss smeared, his expensive jacket askew, and a look of pure, unadulterated joy on his face.

A burst of laughter erupted from Phuwin, loud and free. Pond joined in, clutching his stomach, tears streaming down his face. They laughed until they could barely breathe, the tension and terror and sheer absurdity of it all melting away into the best kind of exhaustion.

Phuwin reached over, his hand finding Pond's again on the center console, lacing their fingers together. "So," he said, his voice rough with laughter and emotion. "Still think it was a bad idea?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Pond

Being with Phuwin felt like learning to breathe a new, richer kind of air. It was a heady, intoxicating mixture of exhilaration and profound peace that left Pond feeling more truly alive than he had ever thought possible. In Phuwin’s orbit, the world, which had once been painted in the muted grays of routine and quiet disappointment, now blazed with color and sound and sensation. He had never known he could contain this much happiness, that his own heart could feel so full it threatened to spill over from the simple act of sharing a silence, a smile, a secret glance across a crowded room.

With Natt, his role had been painfully clear: he was a distant moon, doomed to orbit a cold and indifferent sun, his own light merely a pale reflection, easily eclipsed by the brighter, more captivating stars in Natt’s sky. With Phuwin, the gravity was mutual, a constant, thrilling push and pull. Phuwin was always reaching out, a magnetic force daring to cross lines, to blur boundaries with a teasing comment, a lingering touch, a gaze that felt like a physical caress. He pulled Pond into his world with an effortless confidence, inviting him into the chaos and the glamour, making space for him in a life that should have had no room for someone so quiet.

And Pond, for all his yearning to be pulled closer, often found himself hesitating at the threshold of his own desire. He would watch Phuwin’s hand, so sure and elegant, and his own would twitch with the impulse to meet it halfway, only to be stayed by a ghostly hand on his shoulder—the ghost of the man he used to be. The one who had handed his heart over with trusting naivety, only to have it returned crumpled and discarded. The memory was a cage. He was too afraid of misreading the situation, of seeing a promise in a look that was merely Phuwin’s default charm. He was terrified of making a fool of himself, of reaching for something only to have the world tilt once more, sending him stumbling back into the abyss of his own perceived inadequacy. To offer his heart again felt like presenting a fragile, handmade gift to someone who collected only priceless, flawless artifacts.

In the deep, vulnerable quiet of the night, lying in the warmth of Phuwin’s bed, those fears would coalesce into a chilling dread. He would watch the rise and fall of Phuwin’s chest in the moonlight, his beautiful features softened in sleep, and the question would whisper through his mind, insidious and sharp: For how long?

He was a novelty, he reasoned. A project. A shy, broken-in man whom a charismatic artist had decided to polish and restore. Phuwin had shown him new worlds, been his guide to a life less ordinary, been his "first" in so many ways that had nothing to do with physical intimacy. But what happened when the restoration was complete? When the shy man learned all the steps to the dance, when the initial excitement of being a "first" faded into the mundane reality of being just another person? The thrill of the chase, the joy of discovery—surely that would wane. And when it did, when Pond was no longer a captivating mystery but simply Pond, would Phuwin’s brilliant, restless gaze begin to wander, seeking out a new, more challenging masterpiece?

He dreaded that day with a cold, visceral certainty that coiled in his stomach. The day Phuwin would look at him and, behind the fondness, see the truth Nattakon had so cruelly voiced: that he was, at his core, terminally unexciting. He feared the gentle letdown, the "it's not you, it's me," the slow, imperceptible withdrawal that would be far more painful than any dramatic betrayal. He had been discarded once for the crime of being himself. The thought of living through that again, of seeing that same realization dawn in Phuwin’s eyes—the eyes he had come to adore—was a terror that could steal the breath from his lungs and cast a shadow over even the brightest, most sun-drenched afternoon they shared. The higher Phuwin lifted him, the more devastating the fall would be.

°•☆•°

Spending the weekend at Phuwin's place had become a routine, as natural and essential as breathing. Pond didn't even have to ask anymore; he would simply show up after work on Friday, his overnight bag slung over his shoulder, his heart already settling into the unique rhythm of Phuwin's world.

He was sprawled across the bed now, a contented lump amidst the rumpled sheets, watching Phuwin’s pre-shift ritual with lazy fascination. Phuwin stood by the dresser, fresh from the shower with a towel slung low on his hips, his skin still gleaming with dampness. The air carried the clean, honeyed scent of his shampoo.

"You know," Pond mused, propping his head up on his hand, "you should give me about a third of your salary. For services rendered."

Phuwin didn't look up from the bottle of expensive-looking body lotion he was uncorking. "Oh? And what services are those? Professional blanket hog? Expert at leaving mugs half-full of water all over my apartment?"

"Think of me as live-in ambiance," Pond countered, gesturing vaguely at his own reclined form. "I provide a calming, decorative presence. It's feng shui."

"You're lucky I don't make you pay for the spilled alcohol," Phuwin retorted, finally glancing over with a wry smile. "At least a liter every night. I should be charging you a clumsiness tax."

Pond gasped in mock offense. "That's not clumsiness, that's… kinetic enthusiasm. I'm adding my own flair to the craft."

"Your 'flair' is costing me profit margins," Phuwin said, but his eyes were crinkling at the corners. He began applying the lotion, his hands moving in smooth, efficient circles over his arms and chest, the scent of bergamot and amber blooming in the room, subtle and expensive.

Pond watched the process, a slow, teasing grin spreading across his face. "You know, for a guy who works in a sticky, beer-soaked environment, you have a very intricate… glazing process."

Phuwin paused, raising an eyebrow. "‘Glazing’? Are you comparing me to a doughnut?"

"A very pretty, artisanal doughnut," Pond affirmed, nodding sagely. "The kind with gold leaf. All that effort just to go out and get covered in alcohol and sweat again."

"Unlike some people, I believe in a strong foundation," Phuwin shot back, resuming his task. "It's called self-respect. You should try it sometime. I've seen the state of your drugstore moisturizer. It's tragic."

"It's functional!" Pond defended, laughing. "It doesn't have a 'top note of vetiver and a heart of despair'."

"It should," Phuwin said, his voice deadpan. "Because using it is a profoundly sad experience." He finished with his torso and picked up the bottle again, looking pointedly at his back, then at Pond. "Well? Don't just lie there looking judgmental. Make yourself useful."

Pond's heart gave a little flutter. He pushed himself off the bed and padded over. Phuwin handed him the bottle, turning his back. Pond poured a generous amount into his palm, the lotion cool and silky. He pressed his hands to Phuwin's shoulder blades, feeling the shift of firm muscle and the faint bumps of his spine under the smooth skin. He worked the lotion in, his touch initially hesitant, then growing more sure as he mapped the elegant expanse of Phuwin's back.

"See?" Phuwin hummed, his voice a satisfied murmur. "Not so hard to be helpful, is it?"

"I'm a man of many hidden talents," Pond said, his voice softer than he intended. "Most of them involve being a human pillow or a snack fetcher, but back-glossing is now on the list."

Phuwin chuckled, the sound a low vibration under Pond's hands. "Noted. I'll add it to your contract."

Once his skin was sufficiently "glazed," Phuwin shooed him away and moved to get dressed. He pulled on a pair of tight black boxer briefs, then selected a pair of trousers from the wardrobe—a sleek, dark denim that hugged his lean hips.

Instead of heading for the door, he sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight. He reached over to his nightstand, retrieving the small, professional makeup kit that had become a familiar part of their routine.

"Come here," he said, his voice a low murmur. "You've got a long night of looking pretty ahead of you, and I can't have you doing it half-heartedly."

Pond shuffled closer, crossing his legs so they were knee-to-knee. He closed his eyes without being asked, the trust in the gesture as natural as breathing. He felt the cool touch of the damp beauty sponge as Phuwin began dabbing foundation with a practiced, gentle hand.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the only sound the faint city hum beyond the window. Pond’s mind, lulled by the rhythmic pressure, drifted to the date on his phone calendar he’d seen earlier.

"So," Pond began, his voice slightly muffled by his still posture. "Your birthday's next week. Are you doing anything? Throwing a massive party at the club? Commanding your loyal subjects to bring you tribute?"

Phuwin let out a soft huff of laughter. "No. Nothing like that. It's just a day. I'll probably work. It’s good money, and it keeps me busy."

Pond cracked one eye open. "Seriously? Nothing? Not even dinner with your parents or something?"

The hands on his face stilled for a fraction of a second, so brief Pond would have missed it if he wasn't hyper-aware of every touch. He opened his other eye to see Phuwin’s gaze had dropped to the makeup palette in his lap, his expression unreadable.

"I… don't really have parents to have dinner with," Phuwin said, his tone carefully neutral. He looked up, meeting Pond’s concerned gaze, and offered a small, wry smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I was in the system since I was a kid. I only barely remember them. Flickers, really. A smell of perfume. A voice singing. The taste of pad krapow. Nothing concrete."

Pond’s breath caught. The casual, glittering world Phuwin inhabited suddenly seemed paper-thin, backed by a profound and aching emptiness.

"The club… it wasn't just a job I stumbled into," Phuwin continued, his voice low as he picked up a concealer brush, focusing on his task with renewed intensity. "The owner, P'Krit, he found me when I was sixteen. I was… rummaging through the trash bins out back, trying to find empty bottles to return for coin. Sometimes pickpocketing drunk people who were too out of it to notice." He said it without shame, a simple statement of fact. "He could have called the cops. Instead, he brought me inside, gave me a hot meal, and put a mop in my hand. He taught me everything. How to mix a drink, how to read a room… how to survive. It's because of him I had a job, a place to stay. I’ve been living on my own since I was eighteen because of that job."

The revelation settled over Pond, heavy and heartbreaking. He saw the sharp, confident man before him not as a finished product, but as a stunning, resilient sculpture built by his own two hands from shattered pieces.

Phuwin looked up, his dark eyes searching Pond's. "What about you? You never talk about your family."

The question, asked so gently, unraveled a knot Pond usually kept tightly bound. He looked down at his own hands, clenched in his lap. "They, uh… they kicked me out," he said, the old wound throbbing with a familiar dull ache. "When I was nineteen. I told them I was gay. My dad said he didn't have a son anymore. I haven't talked to them since."

The silence that followed was thick with shared understanding, a universe of pain contained in a few quiet sentences. Two different paths, leading to the same kind of loneliness.

Then, Phuwin’s finger gently hooked under his chin, tilting his face back up. His expression was soft, but a glint of his characteristic mischief had returned.

"Well," Phuwin said, his voice regaining its melodic lilt as he carefully swiped a brush of blush over Pond's cheekbones. "Looks like we're both self-made. You, from a homophobic wasteland, and me, from a dumpster." He leaned back, assessing his work with a critical eye before a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. "I'd say we turned out pretty damn spectacular, all things considered."

A wet laugh escaped Pond, the sound choked with emotion. The pain was still there, a part of their architecture, but in that moment, framed by Phuwin’s unwavering gaze and dark humor, it didn't feel like a weakness. It felt like a foundation they had both built upon, alone, until they had somehow, miraculously, found each other.

Phuwin finished with a final, glossy coral sweep over Pond’s lips, then sat back, tilting his head. "Perfect." He snapped the compact shut with a satisfied click, then a mischievous glint returned to his eyes. He placed the kit decisively in Pond's lap. "Your turn."

Pond’s eyes widened, the sentimental mood evaporating into mild panic. "What? No. Phuwin, you know what happens."

A slow, fond smile spread across Phuwin's face. "I do. And I'm choosing to subject myself to it again. Consider it a birthday gift to me. The gift of laughter."

They had tried this a few times before. The first time was etched into Pond's memory with the clarity of a cherished, if slightly embarrassing, dream. He’d been so nervous, his hands trembling as he’d uncapped a liquid eyeliner. Phuwin had sat patiently, eyes closed, his features serene. Pond’s concentration had been absolute, his tongue peeking out from the corner of his mouth. The result had been… artistic. The line on Phuwin’s left eye had been a relatively straight, if thick, testament to sheer force of will. The right eye, however, had ended up with a dramatic, wobbly wing that shot off towards his temple, and a corresponding black smudge underneath from where Pond’s shaky hand had slipped.

Pond had gasped in horror, but Phuwin had just chuckled, a low, warm sound. He’d grabbed a hand mirror, looked at his reflection, and burst into genuine, unfiltered laughter. "Oh, wow," he’d wheezed, tears of mirth gathering in his raccoon-like eyes. "I look like a Victorian ghost who's just seen another, slightly more interesting ghost." He’d then turned his gentle, amused gaze on a mortified Pond. "It's a look, sweetheart. A very… passionate one. You really went for it."

Now, Pond looked down at the kit like it was a live grenade. "Are you sure? You have to work. You can't go out looking like you lost a fight with a sharpie."

"It's practically Halloween," Phuwin said with a dismissive wave, closing his eyes and presenting his face. "I'll just tell people I'm going as 'The Concept of Regret.' Now, get to work, Picasso."

Pond let out a little whine, his shoulders slumping. "I won't do it, then. I refuse to be responsible for the downfall of your reputation."

Phuwin’s eyes fluttered open, and he laughed, a bright, clear sound that filled the room. He picked up the makeup kit and pressed it firmly back into Pond’s hands, his fingers lingering for a moment. "Too late. You've already accepted the commission. And I'm a very demanding client. I expect bold choices and a complete lack of regard for conventional beauty standards."

His tone was light, but his gaze was steady and encouraging. He was giving Pond permission to be imperfect, to play, to leave a mark on him, even if it was a messy one. Taking a shaky breath, Pond uncapped a foundation bottle, his heart hammering with a familiar mix of dread and a strange, fluttering affection.

A thought struck Pond, a desperate gambit for stability. "Can you... lie down?" he asked, his voice a little tight. "On your back. It'll be easier to keep my hand steady."

Phuwin's eyes snapped open, a wicked, knowing grin spreading across his face. "Oh? Already? And here I thought we were just doing makeup." He waggled his eyebrows. "My, my, Pond, you move fast."

A hot flush instantly painted Pond's cheeks. "That is not what I meant," he grumbled, his embarrassment manifesting as a gentle shove against Phuwin's shoulder. "Just—lie down. And be quiet."

Chuckling, Phuwin complied, stretching out on the bed with his head on the pillow, looking up at Pond with an expression of amused surrender. "Alright, alright. I'm at your mercy. Do your worst. Or your best. I'm not picky."

Pond knelt beside him, the makeup kit open between them like a surgeon's tray. He took a deep, steadying breath, and his entire demeanor shifted. The nervousness melted away, replaced by a profound concentration. He started with the foundation, dabbing it onto Phuwin's skin with a sponge, his touches feather-light and deliberate. His brow was furrowed, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

To reach properly, Pond had to lean over him, his body often hovering just above Phuwin's. The air between them grew warm, thick with the scent of honey and shared breath. Phuwin watched him through half-lidded eyes, his usual witty commentary stilled by the intensity of Pond's focus.

Pond's left hand came up to cradle Phuwin's jaw, his thumb gently stroking the line of his cheekbone to keep him still. "Look up for me," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. Phuwin obeyed, his dark gaze fixed on Pond's face as Pond carefully applied dark eyeshadow under his eyes. It was a bit shaky, but it was applied with a patience Pond usually reserved for his most meticulous work projects.

The real test came with the final touch. Pond had found a small sheet of tiny, iridescent rhinestones.

"Close your eyes," Pond instructed softly.

Phuwin did, and Pond leaned in even closer. His body was nearly draped over Phuwin's now, one hand still supporting his chin, the other holding a single rhinestone on the tip of a damp brush. Their faces were mere inches apart; Pond could feel the soft puff of Phuwin's exhales against his own lips. He could count every one of his long, dark lashes, see the almost imperceptible pulse at his temple.

With painstaking care, his own hand remarkably steady in this intimate bubble, Pond placed one tiny crystal at the outer corner of Phuwin's right eye, then the left. He pressed them gently into place, his touch lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

He finally pulled back, just enough to see his work. Phuwin lay beneath him, his face transformed. The makeup was still slightly imperfect but it was beautiful, the rhinestones catching the soft light from the window and making his closed eyes look as if they were weeping starlight.

Pond's breath caught. "Okay," he whispered, his voice rough with an emotion he couldn't name. "You can look.”

Pond held his breath as Phuwin slowly pushed himself up on his elbows, then swung his legs off the bed. He walked over to the full-length mirror on the closet door, his movements deliberate. Pond watched the line of his back, the subtle shift of his shoulders, his heart thumping a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

Phuwin stared at his reflection in silence for a long moment, his head tilting as he took in the delicate rhinestones, the softly smudged eyeshadow, the careful contouring. The quiet stretched, and Pond’s anxiety began to curdle. It’s a mess. I’ve ruined it. He’s trying to find a polite way to say it.

Then, Phuwin’s lips curved into a slow, genuine smile. “Pond,” he said, his voice soft with awe. “You did a great job. A really great job.”

The relief that washed over Pond was so potent it left him lightheaded. A shy, proud smile touched his own lips. “Really?”

“Really,” Phuwin affirmed, still studying his face in the mirror. But then, his smile shifted into something more playful, a familiar, cunning glint returning to his eyes. He leaned closer to the glass, his expression turning into an exaggerated pout. “But… there’s something missing.”

Pond’s smile faltered. He crawled to the edge of the bed, peering at him. “Something missing?” he asked, tilting his head. “What? More glitter? I think you’re shimmering enough.”

“No, not glitter,” Phuwin mused, tapping a finger against his chin. He turned away from the mirror to face Pond directly, his gaze dropping to Pond’s lips for a fleeting second before meeting his eyes again. “It needs… lipstick.”

“Oh! Right, of course,” Pond said, the tension dissolving. He turned, scrambling on the bed to reach for the makeup kit, his fingers searching for a tube of lip color. “What shade were you thinking? A coral, or maybe something more nude—?”

He never finished the sentence.

A warm hand closed around his wrist, gently pulling him back. Before Pond could process the movement, Phuwin was leaning in. Time seemed to slow, then stop entirely as Phuwin’s soft lips met his.

It was quick—just a firm, deliberate press, a silent punctuation to the charged atmosphere they had been building for what felt like an eternity. It was warm and tasted faintly of the lipstick Phuwin had applied earlier. A spark, bright and shocking, traveled straight from Pond’s lips to the very core of his being, short-circuiting every thought in his head.

Then, just as suddenly, Phuwin pulled back. His eyes were dark and unreadable, but a tiny, satisfied smile played on his now-perfectly-kissed lips.

“There,” Phuwin said, his voice a low, husky murmur as he turned back to the mirror, examining his reflection with a critical eye, though his gaze kept flicking back to Pond’s stunned, flushed face in the glass. A dab of Pond’s coral lip color was now subtly transferred to his own mouth.

He gave a definitive little nod. “Now it’s perfect.”

°•☆•°

Pond had spent his birthday alone for almost a decade now. He was an archaeologist of his own solitude, each passing year adding another layer to the fossil record of his loneliness. He knew the particular, hollow ache of the day, a specific frequency of silence that seemed to ring only for him. It was the silence of a world that had not paused, of phones that did not light up with the right names, of a doorstep that remained stubbornly empty. It was the profound, chilling knowledge that there was no one in the world whose happiness was intrinsically tied to the simple fact that he, Pond, existed.

He had tried every strategy, run the entire spectrum of coping mechanisms until they were worn thin and useless.

There were the years of negation. He would treat the day with brutal indifference, scheduling back-to-back meetings, burying himself in spreadsheets until his vision blurred, forcing the date to pass unmarked and uncelebrated. He would go to bed having successfully pretended, for sixteen hours, that it was just another Tuesday. But the pretense would crumble in the dark, and the silence of the apartment would press in, louder than any birthday song, the ignored date burning a hole in the calendar of his mind.

Then came the years of surrender. He would lean into the sadness, a willing martyr to his own heartbreak. He’d buy a single, overly-sweet slice of cake from the supermarket and eat it straight from the container, the cloying taste a poor substitute for joy. He would put on a movie, something sentimental and tragic, and let the tears come—not the cathartic kind, but the slow, quiet ones of a grief that had nowhere else to go. He would cry himself to sleep to the sound of fictional families laughing, the salt on his lips the only birthday kiss he would know.

He attempted substitution. One year, he’d booked an expensive dinner for one, sitting at a white-clothed table with a view, trying to convince himself that self-sufficiency was a form of power. But the pitying glances from the waitstaff and the cheerful celebrations at every other table had only carved his isolation deeper. Another year, he bought himself an extravagant gift, a sleek watch he couldn’t afford, hoping the weight of it on his wrist would feel like an anchor. It only felt like a shackle, a reminder of the one thing money couldn’t buy: someone to share the moment with.

But the most desperate ritual, the one that haunted him most, was the pilgrimage. Driven by a foolish, childlike hope that refused to be entirely extinguished, he would find himself driving across the city as dusk fell. He would park his car across the street from his parents’ house, the house he grew up in, and kill the engine. He’d sit there in the growing dark, a ghost at his own feast, and just watch.

The windows would be glowing, warm and yellow. He’d see the shifting shadows of their lives moving behind the curtains. He’d watch for a flicker of something—a face at the window, a sigh, a moment of hesitation that might suggest a memory had surfaced. He was searching for any sign, any glimpse of regret. Most of all, his eyes would scan the living room, desperately seeking the light of a single, symbolic candle. A foolish, poetic hope that they might, in some silent, private way, be marking the absence. That a flame was lit for a son who wasn't there.

There never was a candle. There was only the ordinary, domestic light of a life that had continued, seamlessly, without him. And he would drive away, the hollow in his chest now a cavern, having proven his own painful thesis year after year: his existence was a footnote they had long since edited out.

Pond never wanted Phuwin to feel that way. The very idea was a splinter of ice in his heart. He could not, would not, let Phuwin—bright, fun, sparkling Phuwin, who seemed to generate his own sunlight—ever feel that his life wasn't a riotous, glorious celebration. He never wanted Phuwin to question for a single second whether his existence was anything short of a gift to the world. The hollow ache of an unmarked birthday was a desolation Pond knew intimately, a landscape he had mapped with his own tears. He would burn that map before letting Phuwin even glimpse its borders.

Now that he was in Phuwin's life, he saw it as his most sacred mission: to be the soft landing, the warm light in the window, the unwavering presence that would always, always, be there to sweep away the loneliness and pain. He wanted to cushion the sharp edges of the world so that Phuwin could keep shining, untarnished and brilliant.

And so, he decided. He would orchestrate a surprise. Not just any surprise, but a sanctuary.

The vision came to him with perfect clarity, a memory wrapped in the warmth of Phuwin’s voice. They had been watching a movie, limbs tangled on the couch, when Phuwin had paused it, pointing at the screen. "Look at that," he'd breathed, his voice full of uncharacteristic wonder. The scene was simple: a living room transformed into an enchanted grotto, draped in thousands of fairy lights that twinkled like low-hanging stars, with cascades of soft, pale flowers spilling from every surface. "It's so beautiful. It looks like… like the inside of a happy dream."

Pond was going to recreate it. He would turn his own modest apartment into that happy dream.

For a terrifying second, doubt, an old and familiar foe, whispered in his ear. He’ll find it boring. Predictable. He’d rather be crashing a black-tie gala or sneaking into an abandoned factory for a clandestine party. This is too quiet. Too… you.

But then, as if summoned to defend him, the memory of Phuwin’s voice from the very first night they met cut through the noise, clear and certain. “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.”

Maybe Pond wasn't naturally fun and spontaneous in the way the world defined it. Maybe his idea of a perfect day was spending it in, silently scrolling on his phone in the comfort of each other's presence instead of chasing a wild night out. But Phuwin didn’t just tolerate that part of him; he seemed to cherish it. He found a home in Pond’s quiet, just as Pond found life in Phuwin’s noise.

For the first time, Pond allowed himself a thought so brave it felt like a physical leap: if he just gave it his all, if he just handed his heart to Phuwin, raw and pulsing and genuine in all its scarred, hopeful glory, Phuwin would not flinch. He would find it beautiful. He would accept it in his warm, capable palms, holding it with a reverence Pond had never known was possible.

Phuwin was the one who had patiently, gently stitched his heart back together, tending to each painful gash with a healer's touch. This heart, now beating so fiercely for him, was a testament to his care. Pond looked at the love he felt, no longer as a fragile thing to be protected, but as a gift to be given. And he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that Phuwin would never drop it. Not if Pond offered it to him freely.

The mission began days in advance, with the quiet intensity of a general plotting a campaign of pure joy. Pond’s small living room, usually a testament to comfortable minimalism, was to be transformed. He measured the space not in square meters, but in potential. He stood in the center of the room, eyes closed, and pictured it: the ceiling a canopy of stars, the air sweet with the scent of blooms, every surface softened by light. It had to be perfect.

His first foray was to a specialty lighting store, where he spent an hour comparing different types of fairy lights. The large, gaudy C9 bulbs were dismissed immediately—too harsh, too Christmas. The tiny, pinprick LED lights were closer, but their light was too cool, too blue. He finally found them: warm white fairy lights on a delicate copper wire, their glow a buttery, incandescent yellow that promised warmth instead of glare. He bought ten strings, calculating the perimeter of the room twice to be certain.

Next, the flowers. He went to the central market at dawn, when the air was still cool and the blooms were at their freshest. He didn’t just want flowers; he wanted a feeling. He bypassed the vibrant reds and oranges, seeking out a palette of soft romance and dreamy elegance. He chose dozens of cream-colored roses, their petals still tightly furled, knowing they would open slowly throughout the day. He added cascading bunches of white baby’s breath for a cloud-like softness, and trailing ivy to add a sense of wild, natural growth. He ran his fingers over the petals of a pale blush peony, its texture like crushed silk, and added it to his bundle without a second thought. It was extravagant, but Phuwin was extravagant.

He began with the lights, his focus absolute. He pushed his sofa against the wall, dragged his coffee table to the side, and set up a stepladder. The fairy lights were a tangled, frustrating mess straight from the package, but he worked with a patient, untangling grace, unraveling each knot as if he were smoothing out a worry from Phuwin’s brow. He draped them along the crown molding, painstakingly securing the wire with clear hooks every few inches so they hung in perfect, swooping swags. He looped them around the window frame, creating a glowing frame for the city beyond, and wove them through the bookshelf, making his humble collection of novels look like a collection of enchanted tomes.

Then came the flowers. He filled every vase, jar, and drinking glass he owned with water. He trimmed each stem on a diagonal, stripping the lower leaves as he’d read online, his movements careful and deliberate. He arranged the roses and peonies in the larger vases, their heads heavy and lush. The baby’s breath and ivy were tucked into smaller vessels, placed on side tables and the mantelpiece, creating layers of texture and light. He scattered loose petals—the imperfect ones that had fallen during his work—across the coffee table and the windowsill, a final, romantic flourish.

He stood back, his back aching, his fingers pricked from thorns and stiff from wiring. The sun had begun to set, casting a deep blue twilight through the window. He took a deep breath and plugged in the lights.

The room transformed.

The harsh lines of his apartment melted away. The warm, golden lights twinkled like a thousand captured fireflies, their reflection dancing in the dark glass of the window. The flowers seemed to glow from within, their pale colors luminous in the soft radiance. The air was thick with the sweet, intoxicating perfume of roses. It was intimate, magical, and profoundly personal. It wasn't as perfect as it was in the movie scene, but it was much more. It was a map of his devotion, plotted in light and petals. It was a silent promise, a declaration built not with words, which so often failed him, but with beauty, crafted solely for the man who had taught him how to see it again.

The drive to Phuwin’s apartment felt both endless and impossibly short. Pond’s hands were clenched tight on the steering wheel, his knuckles pale under the intermittent glow of the streetlights. He had kept it a secret, hadn't even hinted he was coming. That was how surprises were supposed to work—a sudden, wonderful rupture in the fabric of an ordinary day.

The whole way there, his heart was a frantic drum against his ribs, a loud, steady rhythm of anticipation that seemed to fill the car. His mind was a runaway projector, playing and replaying the night to come. He could already picture it all: the soft click of the door, Phuwin’s look of stunned surprise, the way his eyes would crinkle into that breathtaking smile. He could smell the ghost of the homemade dinner waiting in thermal containers—a painstakingly prepared pad krapow, rich with holy basil and chilies, Phuwin’s ultimate comfort food. And underneath it all, a current of electricity, the three words that had taken root in his soul and now nestled on the tip of his tongue, ready to escape at any second, fueled by the warmth of the moment. 

I love you.

When he finally pulled up outside Phuwin’s building, he killed the engine and sat for a moment in the sudden silence, his pulse roaring in his ears. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the air cool and steadying in his lungs and picked up the white flower he had carefully placed in the passenger seat.

He didn't ring Phuwin’s bell. Instead, he pressed the button for Mrs. Janet’s apartment. A familiar, crackly voice came through the intercom. "Yes?"

"It's Pond, Mrs. Janet. From 3B?"

The door buzzed immediately. "Come up, dear, come up!"

He took the stairs two at a time, his footsteps echoing in the stairwell. Mrs. Janet was already waiting by her door, a kind-eyed woman with a perpetual smile. She was sweet and nice, and Pond always made a point to talk to her when they met in the hallway. He’d approached her a few days prior with a hushed, conspiratorial request, and she had accepted with the excited glee of a born romantic.

"You are such a polite young man," she whispered now, patting his arm as he reached her landing. "Not like the other rude one." She said it with a meaningful shake of her head, a clear reference to past, less-considerate visitors of Phuwin's. "Go on, now. Surprise him."

"Thank you, Mrs. Janet," he whispered back, his heart swelling with gratitude.

He climbed the final flight of stairs to Phuwin’s door. The hallway was quiet. He took another deep breath, the air tasting of lemon-scented polish and possibility.

Then, with a reverence usually reserved for holy objects, he reached into the umbrella stand by the door. His fingers brushed past cold metal and damp nylon until they found it: the handle of a silly, bright yellow umbrella. He felt the familiar shape of the spare key taped securely inside its folds. A secret he was now a part of.

His hand trembled only slightly as he fitted the key into the lock. The metallic click was deafening in the silence. He turned the knob, pushed the door open, and stepped across the threshold.

For a single, suspended heartbeat, the world inside Phuwin’s apartment was exactly as Pond had imagined it. The soft, ambient glow of the city night filtered through the windows, painting the familiar contours of the living room in shades of blue and silver. The air carried the faint, sweet scent of roses from Phuwin's favourite candle.

Then, his brain, lagging a crucial second behind his eyes, began to register the details that were horribly, devastatingly wrong.

There was a jacket—a sleek, black leather jacket he didn’t recognize—draped carelessly over the back of the armchair. A pair of black boots lay scattered on the floor. The familiar scent of a cologne that didn’t belong to Phuwin lingered in the air.

And there, on the couch, was Phuwin.

He was stretched out, his head thrown back against the cushions, his eyes closed. His chest was bare, the smooth skin gleaming in the dim light. And there, leaning over him, there was another man, his face buried in the curve of Phuwin’s neck, his lips moving against his skin in a way that was intimate and possessive.

Pond’s feet were rooted to the floor, the delicate flower suddenly a lead weight in his hand. The frantic, joyful drumming of his heart stuttered, twisted, and became a frantic, panicked flutter against his ribs. No, his mind whispered, a desperate, silent plea. This isn’t happening.

As if hearing his shattered thought, the man on the couch shifted. He lifted his head, nuzzling Phuwin’s jawline with a familiar, predatory amusement, and the light from the window caught the sharp, angular profile Pond would have recognized anywhere, in any lifetime, from any angle.

Nattakon.

The world didn’t just tilt; it shattered. The carefully constructed reality of the last few months—the trust, the intimacy, the feeling of finally being seen—exploded into a million glittering shards, each one reflecting a different betrayal. The pad krapow, the fairy lights, the words "I love you" on his tongue—they all curdled into ash in his mouth.

He took a single, stumbling step backward. The floorboard creaked under his weight.

Phuwin’s eyes—those dark, expressive eyes that had looked at Pond with so much warmth and mischief—fluttered open. They were hazy with pleasure, a lazy smile playing on his lips. Then his gaze focused, sliding past Nattakon’s shoulder and landing directly on Pond.

The pleasure in his eyes evaporated, replaced by pure, unadulterated shock. The color drained from his face. "Pond—" His voice was a strangled gasp, a record scratch in the suffocating silence.

It was the only sound that escaped.

Pond didn’t wait for more. He didn’t wait for an explanation, a lie, a justification. The image was seared onto the back of his eyelids: Phuwin, shirtless and pliant. Nattakon, marking what was supposed to be his. The two suns in his universe, colliding into a black hole that was swallowing him whole.

He spun around, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. The flower slipped from his numb fingers, hitting the floor and scattering his petals on the ground.

He flung the apartment door open, not caring about the slam that echoed through the hall, and bolted. His feet pounded down the stairwell, the sound a frantic, desperate rhythm matching the broken sob tearing from his throat. He burst out into the cold night air, gasping, the image of Phuwin’s wide, horrified eyes and Nattakon’s sharp profile chasing him into the dark. It was happening all over again. But this time, the betrayal wasn't just a wound; it was an annihilation.

The world was a smear of light and sound, a nauseating carousel he had to escape. He fumbled with the car door handle, his fingers slick and uncooperative, yanking it open and practically falling into the driver's seat. The slam of the door was a gunshot in the quiet street, sealing him in a tomb of his own making.

His hands trembled violently as he shoved the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life, a jarringly normal sound in the midst of the cataclysm. He didn't look back. He couldn't. He threw the car into gear and pulled away from the curb with a lurch, the tires squealing a pathetic protest.

His mind was not a coherent stream of thought, but a bomb site of fragmented, screaming realities.

Phuwin. Shirtless. Head thrown back.

Nattakon’s lips on his neck.

Phuwin’s eyes, wide with horror—not at being caught, but at being caught by him.

And underneath the images, a frantic, desperate mantra clawed its way to the surface: We were never boyfriends. We never said it. We never put a label on it. We were just friends.

He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, as if he could physically strangle the truth. They had never sat down and defined the terms. By every technical, modern definition of a relationship, they were… nothing. Just two people who spent all their time together, who slept in the same bed, who knew the intimate geography of each other’s minds.

But to Pond, it had been everything.

It had felt like a relationship in the way his toothbrush lived permanently next to Phuwin's in the holder. It felt like a relationship in the shared, silent language of a Sunday morning, in the secret smile across a crowded club, in the way Phuwin’s closet had slowly become half-full of Pond’s clothes. It was in the honey-scented shampoo he now used, the rose candle that smelled like home. It was in the way Phuwin had stitched him back together, not as a fleeting charity case, but with the slow, patient care of someone building a future.

He had handed Phuwin his shattered heart, and Phuwin had held it so gently, Pond had been fooled into believing it was whole again. He had believed the unspoken promises were stronger than any spoken vow. He had believed that what they had built was too real, too intricate, to ever be disposable.

Now, he saw the devastating truth. The lack of a label hadn’t been a beautiful, evolving understanding; it had been a loophole. A backdoor left open for the exact moment when someone more exciting, more fun, came knocking.

A broken, guttural sound ripped from his throat, half-sob, half-laugh. He was a fool. The same fool he’d been a year ago, just with a different, more beautiful actor playing the lead in his tragedy. He had learned nothing. He had given his heart away with the same reckless trust, and it had been crushed with the same casual cruelty.

He drove aimlessly, the city lights blurring into streaks of acid yellow and neon red through the film of his tears. The words "I love you," which had felt so solid and real moments ago, now curdled in his chest, a toxic, humiliating poison. He had nowhere to go. The fairy lights and flowers in his apartment were no longer a surprise; they were a monument to his naivety. Phuwin’s apartment was a crime scene. His own heart was a ruin.

He was right back where he started. Only this time, the loneliness was infinitely deeper, because for a little while, he had truly believed he had found his way out.

The car veered, a gentle, dangerous drift towards the curb as the thought struck him like a shard of glass, twisting deep in his gut.

It started as a whisper, then became a scream that echoed in the hollowed-out chamber of his mind.

What if it was all just a cruel joke with him as the punchline?

The thought was so vile, so utterly corrosive, that his body rebelled before his mind could fully process it. A wave of nausea, hot and immediate, surged up from his stomach. He barely had time to wrench the steering wheel, pulling over with a screech of tires against the asphalt. He fumbled for the door handle, stumbling out onto the sidewalk just as the contents of his stomach—the lunch he’d been too excited to eat, the acid of his own terror—violently emptied onto the pavement.

He gasped, leaning against the cool metal of the car, his body trembling with the force of it. The heaving subsided, but the thought remained, now rooting itself in the fertile soil of his deepest insecurities.

What if he had been nothing more than a shared punchline between Phuwin and Nattakon?

The evidence, through this new, poisoned lens, rearranged itself into a horrifying mosaic.

Phuwin’s initial kindness that first night—was it pity, or was it the beginning of a cruel game? A bet to see how far the charming bartender could lead the broken, gullible man?

Their entire "guided tour of fun"—the bartending lessons where he’d fumbled and been "adorable," the supermarket dance, the cemetery, the crashed party… Was it all just a performance for a hidden audience? Did Phuwin go home to Nattakon and recount the tales of the "sad, boring boy" he was teaching to be fun, and they’d laugh at his earnestness, at his clumsy attempts to be someone worthy of their world?

The memory of Phuwin’s hands on him, his lips on his skin, his whispered compliments in the dark—every touch now felt like a brand of mockery. Had every tender moment been followed by a secret, derisive text? A roll of the eyes when Pond wasn't looking?

He saw Nattakon’s face again, not just in the shock of the moment on the couch, but superimposed over memories. That predatory, amused smile he’d worn when he first pursued Pond. Had he been in on it from the start? Had he handed Pond off to his friend as a challenge? ‘See if you can fix what I broke. It’ll be hilarious.’

A dry, wretched sob escaped him. He was just a toy. A project. A shared secret. The "other rude one" Mrs. Janet had mentioned—it wasn’t some random fling. It was Nattakon. They had a history. And Pond had been the oblivious fool walking right into the middle of it, offering up his newly healed heart for them to break all over again, together.

The humiliation was a physical burn, worse than the nausea, worse than the betrayal. He had been so proud of his growth, so grateful for his salvation. But it had all been a lie. He wasn't being rebuilt; he was being played.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the taste of bile and despair sharp on his tongue. The city around him, once full of the magic Phuwin had shown him, now felt like a stage for his own spectacular, humiliating downfall. He had been the only one who didn't know he was in a comedy, not a romance movie.

The drive home was a blur of fractured light and numb instinct. He didn’t remember parking the car, or walking up the stairs to his apartment. The only thing that felt real was the key turning in the lock, the door swinging open to reveal the sanctuary he had built.

For a moment, he just stood there on the threshold, his breath caught in his chest. The fairy lights still twinkled, casting their soft, golden glow. The flowers still bloomed, their pale petals luminous and serene. The room smelled of roses and hope. 

It was perfect. 

It was a lie.

A sound ripped from his throat—a raw, wounded thing that was part sob, part scream of pure, unadulterated rage.

He launched himself forward. His hands, which had so carefully draped the lights, now clawed at them. He didn't unplug them; he just yanked. The delicate copper wire snapped with a series of tiny, protesting pings. He tore them from the molding, from the bookshelf, from the window frame, the lights flickering and dying as he wrenched them free, casting the room into a jerking, strobing madness. He threw the tangled, dead snakes of wire across the room, where they hit the wall with a dull thud.

Then, he turned on the flowers. He didn't just knock them over. He grabbed the vases, the jars, his hands closing around the necks of the vessels that held his carefully arranged dreams. He hurled them to the floor. Glass exploded, water sprayed, and pale petals were crushed under his frantic feet. He stomped on the roses, grinding their cream-colored faces into the hardwood, destroying their softness with the brutal force of his heel. He ripped the ivy from the mantelpiece, shredding the tender leaves between his fingers until they were nothing but green pulp.

The beautiful, enchanted grotto was destroyed in under a minute, reduced to a battlefield of broken glass, filthy water, and trampled beauty.

The violent energy left him as suddenly as it had come. The rage evaporated, leaving a vacuum so absolute it felt like his soul had been sucked out through his lungs. He stood panting in the center of the wreckage, his chest heaving, his hands trembling and cut from the glass and rose thorns.

He stumbled out of the living room and into his bedroom, not bothering to turn on the light. He removed his shoes before falling forward onto the bed, the momentum carrying him like a felled tree. He grabbed the edges of his comforter and pulled them over his head, sealing himself in a cocoon of absolute darkness.

He lay there, curled in a tight ball, and begged the darkness to do its work. To empty him. To hollow him out until the memory of Phuwin’s touch, the sound of his laugh, the ghost of his kiss, and the searing image of him with Nattakon were all scoured away. He wanted to be an empty vessel, a shell with no past, no pain, and certainly, no future. He let the silence and the dark press down on him, hoping it would crush him into dust, until there was nothing left of Pond but an empty body on a rumpled bed.

Time lost all meaning inside the dark shroud of his comforter. It could have been minutes or hours. He didn't move, didn't sleep. He simply existed as a void, a hollowed-out monument to his own stupidity. The only signs of life were the slow, shallow breaths that fogged the fabric near his mouth and the dull, aching throb of his heart—a stubborn metronome keeping time in a room where the music had died.

Then, a sound pierced the numbness. A vibration, followed by a shrill, digital ringtone. His phone, discarded somewhere in the room, was lighting up. He didn't need to look to know who it was. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could block out the sound through sheer force of will.

It rang. And rang. And then stopped.

The silence that followed was somehow louder, thick with anticipation. He held his breath.

It started again. The same sequence. The same insistent, pleading ring. It felt like an assault, each ring a needle poking at the raw, exposed nerve endings of his pain. He imagined the screen lighting up the dark room, flashing Phuwin’s name, that laughing profile picture he’d once found so beautiful. He buried his face deeper into the mattress, the comforter a suffocating shield.

The call went to voicemail. Another brittle silence.

Then, a new sound. Not the phone.

A sharp, electronic chime. The doorbell.

Pond flinched as if struck. His entire body went rigid under the covers.

A moment later, a knock. Not a polite tap, but a firm, urgent rapping of knuckles against wood. 

He stopped breathing altogether.

A voice, muffled by the door but unmistakably, heart-wrenchingly his, filtered through.

"Pond? I know you're in there. Your car is outside. Please. Please open the door."

Phuwin’s voice was strained, stripped of its usual melodic confidence, laced with a desperate urgency that clawed at the silence.

Pond didn't move. He couldn't. He was paralyzed, trapped between the memory of that voice whispering sweet, false promises in the dark and the image of it moaning against Nattakon's neck.

"Pond, please. Just... just let me talk to you. Let me explain. Please."

Explain. The word was a spark on gasoline. What was there to explain? The scene had been perfectly, horribly clear. There was no version of an explanation that wouldn't be another layer of the lie, another twist of the knife.

He heard a soft thud, as if a forehead or a hand had been pressed against the door. The voice dropped, becoming quieter, more intimate, and somehow more devastating.

"Please, sunshine. Just open the door."

The old nickname, the one born from a bright yellow drink and a drunken plea, was the final, cruelest blow. It shattered the last of his numbness, and a single, hot tear finally escaped, tracing a scalding path down his temple and into the pillow. But he didn't make a sound. He didn't move.

"Pond, I'm not leaving." The voice was firmer now, resolute, though it still trembled at the edges. "I'll stay here all night if I have to. Just... please. Talk to me."

The words, a declaration of stubborn persistence, twisted in the air and became a key, unlocking a memory so sharp it stole the air from Pond’s lungs.

Half a year ago. Standing in a cold parking lot, the bass from the club a mocking heartbeat in his ears. His own body trembling violently as he stared at the club doors, his soul screaming a desperate, silent prayer. He’ll come. He’ll come running after me. He’ll explain. He’ll apologize.

He had waited for Nattakon then with every fiber of his being. For days, he had existed in a state of suspended animation, his ears straining for the sound of an impatient knock, his heart leaping at every phantom vibration of his phone. He had constructed entire realities where Nattakon would appear, disheveled and remorseful, his charm brittle with genuine regret. Back then, Pond would have forgiven him so easily. He would have accepted any lie, any pathetic justification, because it would have meant Nattakon cared enough to lie. It would have meant he was still worth the effort of a chase.

The memory was a gut punch, not because of the pain of Nattakon’s betrayal, but because of the stark, horrifying contrast.

Because now he knew, with a clarity that was both brutal and enlightening, that what he had felt for Nattakon wasn't love. Not really. It had been infatuation. It had been the desperate, naive orbit of a lonely seedling around the first bright sun that had shown him attention. He had given himself to Nattakon because he didn't know any better, because he was inexperienced and flattered by the intensity. The heartbreak that followed had been about humiliation, about a blow to his self-esteem, about the pain of being discarded. It was the hurt of being told he was cheap and broken.

But this.

This was true heartbreak.

This was the shattering that came not from someone's cruelty, but from a soulmate's betrayal. Phuwin wasn't just a sun he orbited; Phuwin had become the very air he breathed. He had seeped into the cracks Nattakon had left, filled them with gold, and made Pond feel more whole, more real, than he had ever been in his entire life. He hadn't just fallen in love; he had built a home in Phuwin, brick by trusting brick.

That was why the image of him with Nattakon was an annihilation. It wasn't just about seeing him with someone else. It was the devastating, soul-crushing knowledge that Phuwin did not feel for him what he felt for Phuwin. That the profound, all-consuming love that had taken root in Pond’s chest was a one-sided delusion. That the man who had taught him what true care felt like was capable of a carelessness so profound it rendered their entire world a lie.

Phuwin was here now. He was doing everything Pond had once begged the universe for Nattakon to do. He was outside his door, refusing to leave, pleading for a chance to explain.

And that only made it more painful.

The knocking didn't stop. It was a relentless, percussive counterpoint to the ragged rhythm of his own breathing. It was a sound that refused to be ignored, a demand that pierced the numb shell he had built around himself. Each knock was a hammer blow on the lid of a coffin he was trying to seal himself inside.

Slowly, as if moving through deep water, Pond pushed himself up. His limbs were heavy, filled with lead. The cuts on his hands had dried into dark, ugly lines, a physical map of the internal wreckage. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his body protesting every movement.

He walked through the ruins of his living room. His feet crunched on broken glass and crushed petals. The corpses of the fairy lights lay in tangled heaps, their magic extinguished. He didn't look at it; he felt it, a physical pain with every step. This was the landscape of his heart.

He stopped in front of the door. The wood felt alive, vibrating with the tension from the other side. His hand hovered over the lock, trembling violently.

He was afraid. More afraid than he had ever been in his life. Once he opened this door, there would be no going back to the numb safety of the dark. He would have to see, to hear, to feel. He was terrified that the only things he would see on Phuwin's face would be guilt and pity. Guilt for being caught. Pity for the poor, boring fool who had taken a casual fling so seriously. He couldn't bear Phuwin's pity. It would be the final, killing blow.

"Pond," Phuwin's voice came through, softer now, laced with a desperate exhaustion. "I can see your shadow under the door. I know you're standing there. Please. Just open it."

The plea, raw and stripped bare, severed the last thread of his resistance.

With a final, shuddering breath that felt like it might be his last, Pond turned the lock. The click echoed like a gunshot in the silent apartment. His trembling hand found the doorknob, and he pulled the door open.

Phuwin was standing there, haloed by the dim hallway light. He was dressed in just a thin, black shirt and jeans, thrown on in such a hurry that the shirt was misbuttoned at the collar. On his feet were a pair of indoor slippers, a stark, domestic contrast to the chaos of the moment. His hair, usually artfully tousled, was a true mess, sticking up in frantic, desperate directions. Pond’s mind, treacherous and sharp, wondered if it was from Phuwin running his hands through it in stress, or if it was how Nattakon had left it.

It was his eyes that held Pond captive. They were wide, desperate, and rimmed with a raw, unmistakable red. 

He stood there, the wreckage of his surprise at his back, face-to-face with the wreckage of the man who had caused it. The door was open. There was nowhere left to hide.

"Pond, I'm—"

"Was it fun?" Pond interrupted. His voice wasn't loud. It was low, steady, and icy, cutting through Phuwin’s apology like a shard of the glass littering the floor. "Did the two of you have fun while playing around with me?"

"Pond, I swear I didn't know—" Phuwin took a step forward, his hands rising in a desperate, placating gesture.

"You didn't?" The question was a lethal dart, loaded with disbelief.

"I swear— Pond, you have to believe me, if I had known he was that asshole, I wouldn't have—"

"Wouldn't have what?" Pond took a step forward now, his own body trembling with the effort to contain the storm inside.

"Pond..." Phuwin’s voice broke, a ragged whisper.

"How long have you been together?" The words were flat, final.

"I told you before. We are not together we are just—"

"How. Long." Pond repeated, each syllable a hammer strike. 

"We met around November of last year," Phuwin rushed out, the confession tumbling from his lips. "But it meant nothing to me, listen—"

The math was instantaneous and brutal. A cold, dead weight settled in Pond’s stomach.

"So, it was you," he said, the icy calm in his voice beginning to crack, revealing the raw, bleeding hurt beneath. "While I was home waiting for him, cooking his favorite meals, planning our anniversary... you were the one he was fucking."

"I didn't know you were his boyfriend!" Phuwin cried, his own composure shattering.

"But you knew he had a boyfriend?" Pond fired back, his voice rising for the first time.

"He said it was nothing serious! Pond—"

Pond laughed then, a bitter, raw sound that held no humor, only a lifetime of disillusionment. "Nothing serious," he repeated, tasting the poison of the phrase.

He looked at Phuwin, truly looked at him, and saw not the savior who had pulled him from the darkness, but a stranger.

"What kind of person has sex with someone knowing they have a boyfriend? What kind of person are you, Phuwin?"

The words were cruel, designed to maim, and they hit their mark. Phuwin flinched as if physically struck, his face crumbling.

"You say he's an asshole," Pond continued, the dam of his pain finally breaking, unleashing a torrent of every insecurity he'd ever voiced and every fear Phuwin had soothed. "But are you any better? All the pretending that you do, do you even know who you are?" He gestured wildly at the destroyed room, at the shattered illusion of their life. "All this... was any of it real? Or was I just another role for you to play?"

"That's mean," Phuwin whispered, his voice small and wounded, a child's protest against a truth too ugly to bear.

"Mean?" Pond scoffed, the sound dripping with contempt. "I'm being mean? Have you thought that maybe all that pretending isn't even pretending anymore? That you've turned into this person that is vapid and empty. That the only thing real about you is the performance."

Phuwin took a step back as if burned, the color draining completely from his face. The words had found their home, a direct hit to the core of the identity he’d so carefully constructed.

Pond looked at him, at the beautiful, broken man in the doorway, and felt nothing but a vast, desolate wasteland where his love used to be.

"I don't wanna fucking see you again."

With a final, shuddering surge of strength, he slammed the door. The sound was a violent, definitive crack that shook the frame and echoed through the apartment, a period at the end of their sentence.

He didn't wait to hear a sob, a plea, or the sound of retreating footsteps. He turned and walked back through the wreckage he had created, the sharp shards of glass and ceramic scratching and embedding in his bare feet with every step. He didn't feel the pain. It was nothing compared to the agony in his chest.

He made it back to his bedroom, the only sound was the frantic beating of his own heart, and the ghost of Phuwin's shattered breath on the other side of the door.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Phuwin

The world swam in a nauseating, slow roll as Phuwin lay on his back, the ceiling a blurry, shifting plain above him. The cheap cotton of his sheets felt like sandpaper against his skin, every thread an irritant. A sour, metallic taste coated his tongue, the unmistakable ghost of too much whiskey, consumed not for celebration, but for oblivion. It hadn’t worked. Instead of numbness, it had only sharpened the edges of the memory, carving the day’s events into the back of his eyelids in cruel, vivid detail.

His birthday. The word felt like a mockery now.

He had woken with a fragile, hopeful thing fluttering in his chest. He’d tamped it down, of course, played it cool, but all day, his phone had been a lead weight in his pocket, a silent, accusing stone. Each minute that ticked by without a vibration, without Pond’s name lighting up the screen, felt like another small, precise stab to that hopeful thing. A puncture wound of silence. By evening, the fluttering had bled out completely, leaving behind a hollow, familiar ache. It was the same hollow feeling from his childhood, the ghost of forgotten birthdays as he was shuffled from one foster home to another, a day that was supposed to be special just passing by, unnoticed. The feeling was a brand on his soul, and today, Pond had unknowingly pressed right onto the old scar.

So, when Kon’s text had chimed—a cheerful, oblivious sound—Phuwin had grasped at it out of nothing but pure, desperate loneliness. The pain of being abandoned, of being an afterthought, was an old enemy, and he’d do anything to outrun it for a few hours.

Now, he would have given a limb, his sight, anything, to have never made that choice. The memory that superseded all others, clearer than any drunken haze, was the look on Pond’s face. The shock, the betrayal, and beneath it all, a deep, gut-wrenching pain. 

Phuwin had been the cause of it. He had put that look there.

Pond’s words, when they had come, had been harsh and cruel. They hadn’t just landed; they had hit with the unerring accuracy of a scalpel, finding the spaces between his ribs and sliding deep into the soft, tender meat of his most vulnerable parts. Each syllable was a twist of the blade, a deliberate, brutal motion before the words were yanked back out, leaving him spiritually eviscerated, left to slowly bleed out on the sidewalk in the cool night air.

But in the wreckage, another, more terrifying truth began to surface, refusing to be drowned by the alcohol. The words had hurt with such surgical precision because Pond knew exactly where to aim. They weren't random insults; they were a targeted strike. Pond had truly looked at him, past the easy smiles and the shiny, fun-loving exterior he presented to the world. He had listened, truly listened, to the things Phuwin had whispered in the dark, the fears he’d confessed in moments of unguarded honesty. Pond had been the first person to ever see the scared little boy hiding underneath the carefully constructed persona, the boy who was terrified of being temporary, of being left.

All this time, Phuwin’s secret fear had been that Pond only saw him as a momentary excitement, a shiny new toy for having fun. But those cruel, shattering words, like shards of glass embedded in his heart, proved the opposite. 

You can’t destroy something you’ve never truly seen. 

Before his mistake, Pond had seen him—the real, flawed, frightened him—and had chosen to stay. 

That was the thought that accompanied him into oblivion that night.

°•☆•°

Sunlight was a knife. It sliced through the thin curtains, landing directly on Phuwin’s closed eyelids, the pain immediate and brilliant. A low groan escaped his cracked lips as he surfaced into consciousness, not refreshed, but shipwrecked. His skull throbbed in time with a heartbeat that felt too loud, a punishing drum against the backs of his eyes. His mouth was a desert, cottony and sour. Every limb felt filled with lead, weighed down by the collective shame and alcohol still coursing through his system.

He fumbled for his phone on the nightstand, the movement sending fresh waves of nausea through him. Squinting against the aggressive midday light on the screen, he saw the time—12:17 PM—and then, just below it, the notification that made his stomach drop through the floor.

Missed Call: sunshine (09:24 AM)

The hope was a cruel, fleeting thing, instantly crushed by the reality. He had slept through it. He had been passed out in a drunken stupor while Pond was trying to reach him. It seemed he couldn't do anything right. His thumb, trembling, hit the call back button. The line didn't even ring. A flat, automated tone sounded, and a robotic voice informed him the call could not be completed. The finality of it was a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs.

But then he saw it. The icon for his voicemail. A tiny, digital lifeline.

With a breath he didn't realize he was holding, he pressed play and brought the phone to his ear, the plastic cool against his feverish skin.

"Hi."

The single syllable was a world of hurt. Pond’s voice was thick, heavy with a fatigue that went beyond a simple lack of sleep. Phuwin could hear the rasp in it, the tell-tale huskiness that suggested he had been crying. The image flashed in his mind—Pond, red-rimmed eyes, alone—and his own heart ached with a fresh, sharp pain.

Pond cleared his throat, the sound rough. "I'm sorry. I was being cruel yesterday." A pause, the silence itself an admission. "I do think what you did was wrong, to sleep with someone who has a boyfriend, but it wasn't fair for me to say those things, I think... I think I just wanted to hurt you. I'm sorry."

Phuwin’s breath hitched. He could feel the hot press of tears building behind his own eyes.

"I think you're the best person I've ever met," Pond continued, and the words were so unexpected, so at odds with the shattering confrontation of the night before, that they stole the air from Phuwin’s lungs. "You are not fale, you are not pretend. You are real. The real you is funny and charming. The real you is caring and honest. The real you is always kind and sweet. The night we met you took a complete stranger who was drunk out of his mind to your place. You took care of me even if you didn't know me. You helped me even when you didn't have to. You are a good person, Phuwin. You are the best person I've ever met."

A sob broke free from Phuwin’s chest, a raw, helpless sound. He brought his free hand up to cover his mouth, trying to stifle it, as if Pond could hear him through the recording. His whole body trembled, the phone shaking in his grasp.

"I guess I was just being stupid," Pond said after a long, staticy pause. "I'm sorry. I crossed a line. I thought— I just thought... Well, it doesn't matter what I thought. We should just go our separate ways now."

No, Phuwin thought, the word a silent scream in his mind.

"It was fun. We had fun. Right? Well, I did. I hope you did too. You kept your promise and that's what matters." The words were like a eulogy, digging a grave for whatever they had built. "I'm sorry for making a scene. I'm sure it was embarrassing. I imagined things in my head and then blamed you when my fantasies turned out to be fake. I'm so fucking stupid."

A bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaped Pond on the recording, and it was the most devastating sound Phuwin had ever heard.

"I'm rambling now. I'm sorry. I think it's best if we don't see each other again. I hope you find everything you are looking for and have a good life. Bye."

The line went dead, followed by the robotic female voice detailing the options to save or delete the message.

Phuwin let the phone slip from his hand, landing with a soft thud on the mattress. He drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them as the sobs he’d been holding back finally broke through. They wracked his hungover body, each one a painful convulsion. Pond’s apology, his kindness, his finality—it was all too much. He had been given absolution, only to be handed a life sentence of absence in the same breath. The "best person" Pond had ever met was left alone in a sunlit room, crying over the ruins of the one thing that had ever felt truly real, the pounding in his head a miserable counterpoint to the shattering of his heart.

Pond's words were a shard of glass in Phuwin’s soul, turning with every beat of his heart: I imagined things in my head and then blamed you when my fantasies turned out to be fake.

He had watched it happen. He had stood as a privileged witness to the most beautiful transformation he would ever see. He had seen Pond, a seedling crushed under the boot of a cruel and careless world, slowly unfurl. He had watched the color return to his cheeks, first with the flush of alcohol, then with the glow of genuine laughter. He had seen the hesitant curve of his mouth blossom into a smile that could stop time, had heard his quiet voice find its volume, his laughter its unashamed pitch. He had seen the physical manifestation of a healing spirit—the hunch in his shoulders, a permanent apology for taking up space, slowly straightening into a posture of quiet confidence. The careful, shuffling steps becoming strides that claimed the ground they walked on.

He had watched a man relearn what it meant to be alive, and in doing so, had reminded Phuwin that he, too, possessed a soul.

And then, in a single, cowardly moment of fear—fear of that very light, fear of its warmth exposing the cold, artificial parts of himself—he had taken a step forward and crushed it all under his heel. He had ground that delicate, hard-won bloom back into the dust from which it had so miraculously risen. He was no better than Nattakon. He was worse, because he had known the preciousness of what he was destroying.

A new resolve calcified in his bones, sharp and painful as a fracture knitting itself together. It was not a resolve born of hope, but of a terrible, clear-eyed duty. He knew, with a certainty that was as absolute as it was agonizing, that he was not good enough. His love was not some brilliant, self-generated sun; it was a moon's love, pale and artificial, a borrowed light reflected from a source he could never truly embody. He was a clever mimic, a collection of charming reflexes and pretty lies. Pond deserved a sun—a steady, warm, life-giving sun that could make its own light, not a moon that only offered a pretty, cold imitation of it.

But he was the one who had trampled the garden. However inadequate his tools, however false his light, he was the one holding the broken pieces. It didn’t matter if Pond took him back. That was a dream too beautiful, too sacred for a creature of borrowed light to even entertain. Pond’s choice was his own, and Phuwin had forfeited the right to influence it the moment he let his own shadows eclipse Pond’s sun.

No, his purpose was simpler, and more desperate. He had to fix what he had broken. He had to prove that Pond hadn’t made it up in his mind. That the love he had felt—the love Phuwin had so carelessly given and then violently retracted—hadn’t been just a figment of his beautiful, hopeful imagination.

His entire life had been an exercise in being a mirror, reflecting back whatever people wanted to see. It was his art, his survival. Now, he would use that cursed skill for one last, sacred task. He would become a mirror, but this time, he would not reflect a fantasy. He would angle himself perfectly, painstakingly, to catch every single ray of light that emanated from Pond and reflect it back at him. He would show Pond what he looked like through Phuwin’s eyes. Not the awkward man, not the “project,” but the breathtaking, resilient, and profoundly lovable man he was. He would show him his own beauty, his own light, his own strength, until Pond could no longer deny its reality.

Pond had always been the one to listen, to remember the sacred minutiae of a person’s soul—a favorite childhood meal, a preferred coffee order, the silent language of a bad day. He showed his love through these quiet, thoughtful gestures, building a home for others out of his own boundless empathy. Now, it was time someone built that home for him. Not with grand, flashy gestures that belonged to Phuwin’s world of smoke and mirrors, but with the quiet, relentless, and truthful language Pond himself had always spoken.

He had to show him. Even if it was the last thing he ever did for him, he had to show Pond that he was, and had always been, worthy of a love that was real.

°•☆•°

The first week of his penance began with a memory surfaced with the painful clarity of a forgotten dream: Pond, pausing mid-sentence on a sun-dappled street, his attention captured by a spill of color from a florist’s stall. He had drifted toward the blossoms, his fingers hovering, not touching, as if afraid to bruise their petals. He had bent his head, inhaling the scent of roses and freesia with a reverence Phuwin usually reserved for expensive liquor.

“Did you know,” Pond had said, his voice soft with wonder, “that each flower has its own meaning? A whole secret language.” And he had proceeded to list them off—roses for love, of course, but also lilies for purity, sunflowers for adoration, baby’s breath for everlasting love. Phuwin had simply watched him, a fond smile playing on his lips, listening to the melody of his voice rather than the meaning of the words. He had filed it away as just another endearing, quirky fact about Pond, another layer of his sweet, scholarly soul.

Then came the quiet confession, dropped like a single stone into a still pond, its ripples only now, months later, reaching the shore of Phuwin’s understanding. “I’ve never gotten flowers before,” Pond had admitted with a small, self-deprecating shrug, as if it were a minor thing, a trivial oversight. As if he had never considered himself worthy of such a simple, beautiful kindness.

The memory was a physical ache in Phuwin’s chest. It became the cornerstone of his penance.

His first course of action was not a grand declaration, but a quiet pilgrimage. He went back to that very florist, the bell above the door chiming a gentle, accusing note. The air was thick and humid, fragrant with the ghosts of a thousand unspoken emotions. He stood amidst the vibrant, silent lexicon of petals and stems, and for the first time, he truly saw it not as decoration, but as a language. And he was illiterate.

He spent an hour there, his phone heavy in his hand, cross-referencing the blooms with the meanings Pond had tried to teach him. He was a man assembling a confession, a prayer, and an education all in one.

Day One: Blue Hydrangeas.

He chose them for their heartbreak. The blooms were a mass of cool, blue petals, clustered tightly together like a regretful thought that wouldn't loosen its grip. The note he wrote was simple, his usually flamboyant script subdued, the ink holding the weight of his shame.

“Blue Hydrangeas symbolize perseverance in understanding. They are my apology. I am trying to understand the hurt I caused, and I will persevere until I do. I am so sorry.”

There was no signature. The flowers themselves were the sender.

Day Two: Lisianthus.

He selected them in a soft, bruised purple. They were elegant and cup-shaped, their petals papery and delicate, yet they were known for their surprisingly long vase life. Resilience disguised as fragility.

“Lisianthus means appreciation for a lifelong connection. It’s a plea, I know. But I need you to understand that what I felt—what I feel—wasn’t meant to be temporary. It was the most real thing I’ve ever known.”

Day Three: Sweet Peas.

A bouquet of them, in the most delicate shades of pink and white, their scent a tender, honeyed whisper. They looked like something from a cottage garden, something cherished and gentle.

“Sweet Peas mean lasting pleasure and goodbye,” he wrote, his hand trembling slightly. “The pleasure of knowing you is the most lasting thing in my life. The ‘goodbye’ is not for you, but for the person I was who was too afraid to deserve it.”

He didn’t send roses. Roses were too obvious, too tainted by cliché. This language needed to be pristine, specific, and true. Each bouquet was a sentence in a letter he was writing to rebuild a truth he had shattered. He didn’t call. He didn’t text. He just arranged for the flowers to appear, a silent, persistent testament on Pond’s doorstep every morning, a ghost of a love that was, he prayed, not a ghost at all.

He would stand across the street sometimes in the early dawn, hidden by the shadows, and watch as the delivery was made. He wasn’t waiting for Pond to come out, to understand, to forgive. He was simply bearing witness to the act itself. He was proving, to the empty street and his own hollowed-out heart, that he could be consistent. That he could be quiet. That he could give without any expectation of receiving.

He was showing Pond his own reflection, one meaning-laden bloom at a time.

°•☆•°

The second week of his penance began with fire and spice. 

The memory was one from a lazy Sunday afternoon, unearthed from the archives of his neglect: Pond, scrolling through a food blog, his eyes lingering on a vibrant image of Taiwanese beef noodle soup. He’d sighed, a soft, wistful sound. “I’ve always wanted to try dishes from all over,” he’d confessed. “Taiwanese, Malaysian, real Sichuan food… but I’m always too afraid. What if I spend money on something and don’t like it? It feels like such a waste.”

At the time, Phuwin had offered a breezy, “Next time we’re out, we’ll find a place,” a promise that had been lost in the whirlwind of their nights and was never fulfilled. Now, the memory was a mandate.

His apartment, usually scented with expensive cologne and the faint, sweet haze of club nights, was now steeped in the profound, earthy aromatics of star anise, ginger, and soy. He stood in his kitchen, not as the glamorous bartender performing for a crowd, but as a novice acolyte in a new temple. This was a different kind of alchemy. Here, there were no shortcuts, no charming his way out of a mistake. This was raw, honest work.

Day One: Taiwanese Beef Noodle Soup.

He cooked for eight hours. He blanched the beef shank to remove impurities, patiently skimmed the scum from the broth, and toasted the spices until they released their dusky perfume. He let the broth simmer, a gentle, constant murmur that filled the silent apartment. It was a meditation. With every slice of the scallion, every crush of the garlic, he was trying to carve his regret into something nourishing.

The note was written on a simple card, tucked beside the still-warm, securely lidded container:

“This is the dish you were looking at that day. It takes time for the broth to become rich and deep. I understand that now. I hope it brings you comfort.”

Day Three: Malaysian Char Kway Teow.

This was a dance of fire and speed. He heated the wok until it smoked, the ghost of a hundred street vendors at his shoulder. He scrambled the eggs, tossed the rice noodles with dark soy, plump shrimp, and Chinese sausage, the rhythmic clang of the metal spatula against the wok a frantic, percussive beat. It was messy, visceral, and utterly unlike the pristine cocktails he crafted. His forehead gleamed with sweat, and a splash of hot oil stung his wrist. He welcomed the pain; it was real.

The note was simpler this time, the paper slightly grease-spotted:

“This is meant to be cooked over a fierce fire. It’s loud and chaotic and unrefined. But it’s full of life. I am trying to learn how to be more like this, and less like a carefully constructed illusion.”

Day Five: Sichuan Mapo Tofu.

He sought out the Sichuan peppercorns, those little numbing husks of fire. He fried the chili bean paste until the oil turned a terrifying, beautiful red. As the mala spice filled the air, it made his eyes water and his throat tighten. It was a culinary manifestation of how he felt—burning, numb, overwhelmed, yet somehow, profoundly alive. He spooned the vibrant, dangerous-looking tofu over a container of fluffy white rice, a calm center to the storm.

His note was written with a hand that still tingled from handling the chilies:

“This dish is called Mapo Tofu. It’s famous for being both fiercely spicy and strangely numbing. It’s a contradiction. I think I am, too. The fire of my regret, and the numbness of my fear that I’ve lost you forever. Please be careful. It’s very hot.”

He never rang the bell. As dawn broke, painting the city in hues of rose and gold, he would become a ghost again. He would place the carefully packaged container, still radiating the warmth of his stove and his effort, silently by Pond’s door. The click of the container on the concrete step was the only sound he made.

He wasn’t asking to be let in. He wasn’t asking for a taste. He was simply feeding the man he loved, fulfilling a quiet wish Pond had once voiced into the uncaring air, a wish Phuwin was now determined to answer with every ounce of his flawed, desperate, and finally, truly honest heart.

°•☆•°

The third week began not with an offering, but with a returning. Phuwin was no longer giving pieces of the world to Pond; he was giving back the pieces of themselves that Pond had left scattered, like treasures, in the hollowed-out cavern of Phuwin’s heart. Each item was a confession. Each note, a suture trying to close a wound he had torn open.

Day One: The Playlist.

He left a simple, unmarked CD and a handwritten list of song titles. This was no random mix; it was a forensic record of devotion. Over weeks of car rides, Phuwin had become a scholar of Pond’s joy. He noted the subtle tap of his finger on the dashboard during a certain synth riff, the way his shoulders would loosen on the third beat of that one indie track, the immediate skip past a mournful ballad. He had compiled them all, a secret syllabus for the study of Pond’s happiness.

The note read: “I made this so that every drive with me would be filled with only the sounds you love. It was a small, stupid hope that if I could curate the perfect atmosphere for you, you might never want to leave the passenger seat. I have always wanted your world to be filled with only the things that make you light up.”

Day Two: The Lipstick.

It was the shade, a soft, barely-there pink, that Pond always requested. “That one,” he’d say, his voice shy but sure. Phuwin knew it wasn’t about the color. It was about the transformation. In the act of applying it, Pond was not just being made up; he was being remade into a more confident, visible version of himself—a version he trusted Phuwin to see.

The note read: “You always asked for this one. I think it was because it made you feel bold and beautiful. I want you to know that you don’t need it. You have that light inside you. But I will always, for the rest of my life, want you to feel as sure and as powerful as you did in the moments you wore it.”

Day Three: The Candle.

It was his favorite rose-scented candle, the one that had burned during so many of their quiet Sundays. He remembered Pond, curled on his sofa, breathing in the scent and murmuring, “This smells like home now.” The words had seared through Phuwin, a brand of belonging he’d never thought he’d earn.

The note read: “You once said this smelled like home. I am giving you my home. So that wherever you are, you can light it and remember that you are someone who creates a sense of home just by being there. You deserve to always, always feel safe.”

Day Four: The Book.

A first edition of Pond’s beloved novel, its spine cracked from countless re-readings. Phuwin had watched him fall into its pages on lazy afternoons, his face a canvas of every emotion the story painted. He could still hear Pond’s voice, soft and fervent, explaining the epic love story, the resilience of the protagonist. It was a love letter to a feeling Pond so clearly yearned for.

The note read: “I saw how this story lived in you. How you loved the protagonist for their strength, and ached for the love they found. I am giving you this not as a memory of me, but as a promise. You will find that. You are that strong, beautiful protagonist, and you will find a love that makes you feel seen and cherished in every chapter. I am sorry if I was not it.”

Day Five: The Photograph.

A printed picture, its edges slightly curled. They were by the river, squinting in the sunlight, Pond’s head tilted back in mid-laughter, Phuwin’s arm slung around his shoulder, pulling him close. A stranger had taken it. It was a perfect, unguarded moment of pure, uncomplicated happiness.

The note read: “I look at this picture and I see the man I want to be every single day. The man who is allowed to make you laugh like that. The man who gets to stand in the sun with you. I will always want more days like that. Warm, and safe, and happy. You are the source of all three.”

Day Six: The Pink Umbrella.

The tiny, crumpled pink umbrella from the "Sunshine Leap." He remembered a Sunday, weeks later, when Pond had quietly taken it from his bag and placed it on Phuwin's shelf. “A souvenir,” he’d said, a shy smile on his face. “From the best night I’d had in a long time.” It had been a gift. A returned prayer.

The note read: “You gave this back to me. You called it a souvenir, but it was the first piece of your heart you ever entrusted to me. That night, you were a lost, beautiful soul who thought he was dull. You were the most captivating person I had ever met. Meeting you was the tectonic shift in my life. The best thing that has ever, or will ever, happen to me.”

Day Seven: The Lotus Lantern.

A delicate, paper lotus lantern, identical to the one they had sent floating across the pond at the shadow market, their wish carried away on the dark water. This was the final object. The end of his sentence.

The note read: “This is the last thing I will leave for you. That night, on the water, I made a wish. It wasn't for me. It was for you. I wished for your happiness, whatever shape it takes. If it is a world without me in it, then that is what I wish for too. All that matters, the only thing that has ever truly mattered, is that you know you are perfect. You are loved. You are so deeply, profoundly lovable. Please be happy.”

He placed the lantern with the others, a final, silent prayer. He had poured out every last secret of his soul onto Pond’s doorstep. There was nothing left of him to give. He turned and walked away, not towards a hope, but into the silence he had promised, his own wish for Pond's happiness a hollow, aching echo in the vast and empty night.

Chapter 5: Phuwin

The world swam in a nauseating, slow roll as Phuwin lay on his back, the ceiling a blurry, shifting plain above him. The cheap cotton of his sheets felt like sandpaper against his skin, every thread an irritant. A sour, metallic taste coated his tongue, the unmistakable ghost of too much whiskey, consumed not for celebration, but for oblivion. It hadn’t worked. Instead of numbness, it had only sharpened the edges of the memory, carving the day’s events into the back of his eyelids in cruel, vivid detail.

His birthday. The word felt like a mockery now.

He had woken with a fragile, hopeful thing fluttering in his chest. He’d tamped it down, of course, played it cool, but all day, his phone had been a lead weight in his pocket, a silent, accusing stone. Each minute that ticked by without a vibration, without Pond’s name lighting up the screen, felt like another small, precise stab to that hopeful thing. A puncture wound of silence. By evening, the fluttering had bled out completely, leaving behind a hollow, familiar ache. It was the same hollow feeling from his childhood, the ghost of forgotten birthdays as he was shuffled from one foster home to another, a day that was supposed to be special just passing by, unnoticed. The feeling was a brand on his soul, and today, Pond had unknowingly pressed right onto the old scar.

So, when Kon’s text had chimed—a cheerful, oblivious sound—Phuwin had grasped at it out of nothing but pure, desperate loneliness. The pain of being abandoned, of being an afterthought, was an old enemy, and he’d do anything to outrun it for a few hours.

Now, he would have given a limb, his sight, anything, to have never made that choice. The memory that superseded all others, clearer than any drunken haze, was the look on Pond’s face. The shock, the betrayal, and beneath it all, a deep, gut-wrenching pain. 

Phuwin had been the cause of it. He had put that look there.

Pond’s words, when they had come, had been harsh and cruel. They hadn’t just landed; they had hit with the unerring accuracy of a scalpel, finding the spaces between his ribs and sliding deep into the soft, tender meat of his most vulnerable parts. Each syllable was a twist of the blade, a deliberate, brutal motion before the words were yanked back out, leaving him spiritually eviscerated, left to slowly bleed out on the sidewalk in the cool night air.

But in the wreckage, another, more terrifying truth began to surface, refusing to be drowned by the alcohol. The words had hurt with such surgical precision because Pond knew exactly where to aim. They weren't random insults; they were a targeted strike. Pond had truly looked at him, past the easy smiles and the shiny, fun-loving exterior he presented to the world. He had listened, truly listened, to the things Phuwin had whispered in the dark, the fears he’d confessed in moments of unguarded honesty. Pond had been the first person to ever see the scared little boy hiding underneath the carefully constructed persona, the boy who was terrified of being an illusion.

All this time, Phuwin’s secret fear had been that Pond only saw him as a momentary excitement, a shiny new toy for having fun. But those cruel, shattering words, like shards of glass embedded in his heart, proved the opposite. 

You can’t destroy something you’ve never truly seen. 

Before his mistake, Pond had seen him—the real, flawed, frightened him—and had chosen to stay. 

That was the thought that accompanied him into oblivion that night.

°•☆•°

Sunlight was a knife. It sliced through the thin curtains, landing directly on Phuwin’s closed eyelids, the pain immediate and brilliant. A low groan escaped his cracked lips as he surfaced into consciousness, not refreshed, but shipwrecked. His skull throbbed in time with a heartbeat that felt too loud, a punishing drum against the backs of his eyes. His mouth was a desert, cottony and sour. Every limb felt filled with lead, weighed down by the collective shame and alcohol still coursing through his system.

He fumbled for his phone on the nightstand, the movement sending fresh waves of nausea through him. Squinting against the aggressive midday light on the screen, he saw the time—12:17 PM—and then, just below it, the notification that made his stomach drop through the floor.

Missed Call: sunshine (09:24 AM)

The hope was a cruel, fleeting thing, instantly crushed by the reality. He had slept through it. He had been passed out in a drunken stupor while Pond was trying to reach him. It seemed he couldn't do anything right. His thumb, trembling, hit the call back button. The line didn't even ring. A flat, automated tone sounded, and a robotic voice informed him the call could not be completed. The finality of it was a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs.

But then he saw it. The icon for his voicemail. A tiny, digital lifeline.

With a breath he didn't realize he was holding, he pressed play and brought the phone to his ear, the plastic cool against his feverish skin.

"Hi."

The single syllable was a world of hurt. Pond’s voice was thick, heavy with a fatigue that went beyond a simple lack of sleep. Phuwin could hear the rasp in it, the tell-tale huskiness that suggested he had been crying. The image flashed in his mind—Pond, red-rimmed eyes, alone—and his own heart ached with a fresh, sharp pain.

Pond cleared his throat, the sound rough. "I'm sorry. I was being cruel yesterday." A pause, the silence itself an admission. "I do think what you did was wrong, to sleep with someone who has a boyfriend, but it wasn't fair for me to say those things, I think... I think I just wanted to hurt you. I'm sorry."

Phuwin’s breath hitched. He could feel the hot press of tears building behind his own eyes.

"I think you're the best person I've ever met," Pond continued, and the words were so unexpected, so at odds with the shattering confrontation of the night before, that they stole the air from Phuwin’s lungs. "You are always kind and sweet. The night we met you took a complete stranger who was drunk out of his mind to your place. You took care of me even if you didn't know me. You helped me even when you didn't have to. You are a good person, Phuwin. You are the best person I've ever met."

A sob broke free from Phuwin’s chest, a raw, helpless sound. He brought his free hand up to cover his mouth, trying to stifle it, as if Pond could hear him through the recording. His whole body trembled, the phone shaking in his grasp.

"I guess I was just being stupid," Pond said after a long, staticy pause. "I'm sorry. I crossed a line. I thought— I just thought... Well, it doesn't matter what I thought. We should just go our separate ways now."

No, Phuwin thought, the word a silent scream in his mind.

"It was fun. We had fun. Right? Well, I did. I hope you did too. You kept your promise and that's what matters." The words were like a eulogy, digging a grave for whatever they had built. "I'm sorry for making a scene. I'm sure it was embarrassing. I imagined things in my head and then blamed you when my fantasies turned out to be fake. I'm so fucking stupid."

A bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaped Pond on the recording, and it was the most devastating sound Phuwin had ever heard.

"I'm rambling now. I'm sorry. I think it's best if we don't see each other again. I hope you find everything you are looking for and have a good life. Bye."

The line went dead, followed by the robotic female voice detailing the options to save or delete the message.

Phuwin let the phone slip from his hand, landing with a soft thud on the mattress. He drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them as the sobs he’d been holding back finally broke through. They wracked his hungover body, each one a painful convulsion. Pond’s apology, his kindness, his finality—it was all too much. He had been given absolution, only to be handed a life sentence of absence in the same breath. The "best person" Pond had ever met was left alone in a sunlit room, crying over the ruins of the one thing that had ever felt truly real, the pounding in his head a miserable counterpoint to the shattering of his heart.

Pond's words were a shard of glass in Phuwin’s soul, turning with every beat of his heart: I imagined things in my head and then blamed you when my fantasies turned out to be fake.

He had watched it happen. He had stood as a privileged witness to the most beautiful transformation he would ever see. He had seen Pond, a seedling crushed under the boot of a cruel and careless world, slowly unfurl. He had watched the color return to his cheeks, first with the flush of alcohol, then with the glow of genuine laughter. He had seen the hesitant curve of his mouth blossom into a smile that could stop time, had heard his quiet voice find its volume, his laughter its unashamed pitch. He had seen the physical manifestation of a healing spirit—the hunch in his shoulders, a permanent apology for taking up space, slowly straightening into a posture of quiet confidence. The careful, shuffling steps becoming strides that claimed the ground they walked on.

He had watched a man relearn what it meant to be alive, and in doing so, had reminded Phuwin that he, too, possessed a soul.

And then, in a single, cowardly moment of fear he had taken a step forward and crushed it all under his heel. He had ground that delicate, hard-won bloom back into the dust from which it had so miraculously risen. He was no better than Nattakon. He was worse, because he had known the preciousness of what he was destroying.

A new resolve calcified in his bones, sharp and painful as a fracture knitting itself together. It was not a resolve born of hope, but of a terrible, clear-eyed duty. He knew, with a certainty that was as absolute as it was agonizing, that he was not good enough. His love was not some brilliant, self-generated sun; it was a moon's love, pale and artificial, a borrowed light reflected from a source he could never truly embody. He was a clever mimic, a collection of charming reflexes and pretty lies. Pond deserved a sun—a steady, warm, life-giving sun that could make its own light, not a moon that only offered a pretty, cold imitation of it.

But he was the one who had trampled the garden. However inadequate his tools, however false his light, he was the one holding the broken pieces. It didn’t matter if Pond took him back. That was a dream too beautiful, too sacred for a creature of borrowed light to even entertain. Pond’s choice was his own, and Phuwin had forfeited the right to influence it the moment he let his own shadows eclipse Pond’s sun.

No, his purpose was simpler, and more desperate. He had to fix what he had broken. He had to prove that Pond hadn’t made it up in his mind. That the love he had felt—the love Phuwin had so carelessly given and then violently retracted—hadn’t been just a figment of his beautiful, hopeful imagination.

His entire life had been an exercise in being a mirror, reflecting back whatever people wanted to see. It was his art, his survival. Now, he would use that cursed skill for one last, sacred task. He would become a mirror, but this time, he would not reflect a fantasy. He would angle himself perfectly, painstakingly, to catch every single ray of light that emanated from Pond and reflect it back at him. He would show Pond what he looked like through Phuwin’s eyes. Not the awkward man, not the “project,” but the breathtaking, resilient, and profoundly lovable man he was. He would show him his own beauty, his own light, his own strength, until Pond could no longer deny its reality.

Pond had always been the one to listen, to remember the sacred minutiae of a person’s soul—a favorite childhood meal, a preferred coffee order, the silent language of a bad day. He showed his love through these quiet, thoughtful gestures, building a home for others out of his own boundless empathy. Now, it was time someone built that home for him. Not with grand, flashy gestures that belonged to Phuwin’s world of smoke and mirrors, but with the quiet, relentless, and truthful language Pond himself had always spoken.

He had to show him. Even if it was the last thing he ever did for him, he had to show Pond that he was, and had always been, worthy of a love that was real.

°•☆•°

The first week of his penance began with a memory surfaced with the painful clarity of a forgotten dream: Pond, pausing mid-sentence on a sun-dappled street, his attention captured by a spill of color from a florist’s stall. He had drifted toward the blossoms, his fingers hovering, not touching, as if afraid to bruise their petals. He had bent his head, inhaling the scent of roses and freesia with a reverence Phuwin usually reserved for expensive liquor.

“Did you know,” Pond had said, his voice soft with wonder, “that each flower has its own meaning? A whole secret language.” And he had proceeded to list them off—roses for love, of course, but also lilies for purity, sunflowers for adoration, baby’s breath for everlasting love. Phuwin had simply watched him, a fond smile playing on his lips, listening to the melody of his voice rather than the meaning of the words. He had filed it away as just another endearing, quirky fact about Pond, another layer of his sweet, soul.

Then came the quiet confession, dropped like a single stone into a still pond, its ripples only now, months later, reaching the shore of Phuwin’s understanding. “I’ve never gotten flowers before,” Pond had admitted with a small, self-deprecating shrug, as if it were a minor thing, a trivial oversight. As if he had never considered himself worthy of such a simple, beautiful kindness.

The memory was a physical ache in Phuwin’s chest. It became the cornerstone of his penance.

He went back to that very florist, the bell above the door chiming a gentle, accusing note. The air was thick and humid, fragrant with the ghosts of a thousand unspoken emotions. He stood amidst the vibrant, silent lexicon of petals and stems, and for the first time, he truly saw it not as decoration, but as a language.

He spent an hour there, his phone heavy in his hand, cross-referencing the blooms with the meanings Pond had tried to teach him. He was a man assembling a confession, a prayer, and an education all in one.

Day One: Blue Hydrangeas.

He chose them for their heartbreak. The blooms were a mass of cool, blue petals, clustered tightly together like a regretful thought that wouldn't loosen its grip. The note he wrote was simple, his usually flamboyant script subdued, the ink holding the weight of his shame.

“Blue Hydrangeas symbolize perseverance in understanding. They are my apology. I am trying to understand the hurt I caused, and I will persevere until I do. I am so sorry.”

There was no signature. The flowers themselves were the sender.

Day Three: Lisianthus.

He selected them in a soft, bruised purple. They were elegant and cup-shaped, their petals papery and delicate, yet they were known for their surprisingly long vase life. Resilience disguised as fragility.

“Lisianthus means appreciation for a lifelong connection. It’s a plea, I know. But I need you to understand that what I felt—what I feel—wasn’t meant to be temporary. It was the most real thing I’ve ever known.”

Day Five: Sweet Peas.

A bouquet of them, in the most delicate shades of pink and white, their scent a tender, honeyed whisper. They looked like something from a cottage garden, something cherished and gentle.

“Sweet Peas mean lasting pleasure and goodbye,” he wrote, his hand trembling slightly. “The pleasure of knowing you is the most lasting thing in my life. The ‘goodbye’ is not for you, but for the person I was who was too afraid to deserve it.”

He didn’t send roses. Roses were too obvious, too tainted by cliché. This language needed to be pristine, specific, and true. Each bouquet was a sentence in a letter he was writing to rebuild a truth he had shattered. He didn’t call. He didn’t text. He just arranged for the flowers to appear, a silent, persistent testament on Pond’s doorstep every morning for a week, a ghost of a love that was, he prayed, not a ghost at all.

He would stand across the street sometimes in the early dawn, hidden by the shadows, and watch as the delivery was made. He wasn’t waiting for Pond to come out, to understand, to forgive. He was simply bearing witness to the act itself. He was proving, to the empty street and his own hollowed-out heart, that he could be consistent. That he could be quiet. That he could give without any expectation of receiving.

He was showing Pond his own reflection, one meaning-laden bloom at a time.

°•☆•°

The second week of his penance began with fire and spice. 

The memory was one from a lazy Sunday afternoon, unearthed from the archives of his neglect: Pond, scrolling through a food blog, his eyes lingering on a vibrant image of Taiwanese beef noodle soup. He’d sighed, a soft, wistful sound. “I’ve always wanted to try dishes from all over,” he’d confessed. “Taiwanese, Malaysian, real Sichuan food… but I’m always too afraid. What if I spend money on something and don’t like it? It feels like such a waste.”

At the time, Phuwin had offered a breezy, “Next time we’re out, we’ll find a place,” a promise that had been lost in the whirlwind of their nights and was never fulfilled. Now, the memory was a mandate.

His apartment, usually scented with rose candles and the faint, sweet haze of club nights, was now steeped in the profound, earthy aromatics of star anise, ginger, and soy. He stood in his kitchen, not as the glamorous bartender performing for a crowd, but as a novice acolyte in a new temple. This was a different kind of alchemy. Here, there were no shortcuts, no charming his way out of a mistake. This was raw, honest work.

Day One: Taiwanese Beef Noodle Soup.

He cooked for eight hours. He blanched the beef shank to remove impurities, patiently skimmed the scum from the broth, and toasted the spices until they released their dusky perfume. He let the broth simmer, a gentle, constant murmur that filled the silent apartment. It was a meditation. With every slice of the scallion, every crush of the garlic, he was trying to carve his regret into something nourishing.

The note was written on a simple card, tucked beside the still-warm, securely lidded container:

“This is the dish you were looking at that day. It takes time for the broth to become rich and deep. I understand that now. I hope it brings you comfort.”

Day Three: Malaysian Char Kway Teow.

This was a dance of fire and speed. He heated the wok until it smoked, the ghost of a hundred street vendors at his shoulder. He scrambled the eggs, tossed the rice noodles with dark soy, plump shrimp, and Chinese sausage, the rhythmic clang of the metal spatula against the wok a frantic, percussive beat. It was messy, visceral, and utterly unlike the pristine cocktails he crafted. His forehead gleamed with sweat, and a splash of hot oil stung his wrist. He welcomed the pain; it was real.

The note was simpler this time, the paper slightly grease-spotted:

“This is meant to be cooked over a fierce fire. It’s loud and chaotic and unrefined. But it’s full of life. I am trying to learn how to be more like this, and less like a carefully constructed illusion.”

Day Five: Sichuan Mapo Tofu.

He sought out the Sichuan peppercorns, those little numbing husks of fire. He fried the chili bean paste until the oil turned a terrifying, beautiful red. As the mala spice filled the air, it made his eyes water and his throat tighten. It was a culinary manifestation of how he felt—burning, numb, overwhelmed, yet somehow, profoundly alive. He spooned the vibrant, dangerous-looking tofu over a container of fluffy white rice, a calm center to the storm.

His note was written with a hand that still tingled from handling the chilies:

“This dish is called Mapo Tofu. It’s famous for being both fiercely spicy and strangely numbing. It’s a contradiction. I think I am, too. The fire of my regret, and the numbness of my fear that I’ve lost you forever. Please be careful. It’s very hot.”

He never rang the bell. As dawn broke, painting the city in hues of rose and gold, he would become a ghost again. He would place the carefully packaged container, still radiating the warmth of his stove and his effort, silently by Pond’s door. The click of the container on the concrete step was the only sound he made.

He wasn’t asking to be let in. He wasn’t asking for a taste. He was simply feeding the man he loved, fulfilling a quiet wish Pond had once voiced into the uncaring air, a wish Phuwin was now determined to answer with every ounce of his flawed, desperate, and finally, truly honest heart.

°•☆•°

The third week began not with an offering, but with a returning. Phuwin was no longer giving pieces of the world to Pond; he was giving back the pieces of themselves that Pond had left scattered, like treasures, in the hollowed-out cavern of Phuwin’s heart. Each item was a confession. Each note, a suture trying to close a wound he had torn open.

Day One: The Playlist.

He left a simple, unmarked CD and a handwritten list of song titles. This was no random mix; it was a forensic record of devotion. Over weeks of car rides, Phuwin had become a scholar of Pond’s joy. He noted the subtle tap of his finger on the dashboard during a certain synth riff, the way his shoulders would loosen on the third beat of that one indie track, the immediate skip past a mournful ballad. He had compiled them all, a secret syllabus for the study of Pond’s happiness.

The note read: “I made this so that every drive with me would be filled with only the sounds you love. It was a small, stupid hope that if I could curate the perfect atmosphere for you, you might never want to leave the passenger seat. I have always wanted your world to be filled with only the things that make you light up.”

Day Two: The Lipstick.

It was the shade— a soft, barely-there coral—that Pond always requested. “That one,” he’d say, his voice shy but sure. Phuwin knew it wasn’t about the color. It was about the transformation. In the act of applying it, Pond was not just being made up; he was being remade into a more confident, visible version of himself—a version he trusted Phuwin to see.

The note read: “You always asked for this one. I think it was because it made you feel bold and beautiful. I want you to know that you don’t need it. You have that light inside you. But I will always, for the rest of my life, want you to feel as sure and as powerful as you did in the moments you wore it.”

Day Three: The Candle.

It was his favorite rose-scented candle, the one that had burned during so many of their quiet Sundays. He remembered Pond, curled on his sofa, breathing in the scent and murmuring, “This smells like home now.” The words had seared through Phuwin, a brand of belonging he’d never thought he’d earn.

“You once said this smelled like home. I am giving you my home. So that wherever you are, you can light it and remember that you are someone who creates a sense of home just by being there. You deserve to always, always feel safe.”

Day Four: The Book.

A first edition of Pond’s beloved novel, its spine cracked from countless re-readings. Phuwin had watched him fall into its pages on lazy afternoons, his face a canvas of every emotion the story painted. He could still hear Pond’s voice, soft and fervent, explaining the epic love story, the resilience of the protagonist. It was a love letter to a feeling Pond so clearly yearned for.

Phuwin wrote: “I saw how this story lived in you. How you loved the protagonist for their strength, and ached for the love they found. I am giving you this not as a memory of me, but as a promise. You will find that. You are that strong, beautiful protagonist, and you will find a love that makes you feel seen and cherished in every chapter. I am sorry if I was not it.”

Day Five: The Photograph.

A printed picture, its edges slightly curled. They were by the river, squinting in the sunlight, Pond’s head tilted back in mid-laughter, Phuwin’s arm slung around his shoulder, pulling him close. They had asked a stranger to take it. It was a perfect, unguarded moment of pure, uncomplicated happiness.

The note read: “I look at this picture and I see the man I want to be every single day. The man who is allowed to make you laugh like that. The man who gets to stand in the sun with you. I will always want more days like that. Warm, and safe, and happy. You are the source of all three.”

Day Six: The Pink Umbrella.

The tiny, crumpled pink umbrella from the “Sunshine Leap." He remembered a Sunday, weeks later, when Pond had quietly taken it from his bag and placed it on Phuwin's shelf. “A souvenir,” he’d said, a shy smile on his face. “From the best night I’d had in a long time.” It had been a gift. A returned prayer.

“You gave this back to me. You called it a souvenir, but it was the first piece of your heart you ever entrusted to me. That night, you were a lost, beautiful soul who thought he was dull. You were the most captivating person I had ever met. Meeting you was the tectonic shift in my life. The best thing that has ever, or will ever, happen to me.”

Day Seven: The Lotus Lantern.

A delicate, paper lotus lantern, identical to the one they had sent floating across the pond at the secret market, their wish carried away on the dark water. This was the final object. The end of his sentence.

The note read: “This is the last thing I will leave for you. That night, on the water, I made a wish. It wasn't for me. It was for you. I wished for your happiness, whatever shape it takes. If it is a world without me in it, then that is what I wish for too. All that matters, the only thing that has ever truly mattered, is that you know you are perfect. You are loved. You are so deeply, profoundly lovable. Please be happy.”

He placed the lantern by the door, a final, silent prayer. He had poured out every last secret of his soul onto Pond’s doorstep. There was nothing left of him to give. He turned and walked away, not towards a hope, but into the silence he had promised, his own wish for Pond's happiness a hollow, aching echo in the vast and empty night.

°•☆•°

For a few days after the lotus lantern, the silence was absolute.

Phuwin had expected it, had prepared for it. His goal had not been to win him back, he repeated to the four walls of his empty apartment like a mantra. His goal had been to fix what he broke, to show Pond his own reflection until he could see the brilliant, lovable man staring back. The mission was accomplished. The silence was the price.

And yet, against all reason and self-preservation, a treacherous little flame of hope flickered in the dark of his chest. Every creak in the building made him jump. Every time the elevator dinged, his heart performed a frantic, painful tap-dance against his ribs. He found himself staring at his door, imagining the bell ringing, the peephole framing Pond’s face—not angry, not sad, but soft, and open, and ready. Ready to trust him with the most fragile thing in the world for a second time: his heart.

The hope was a torture more exquisite than the certainty of loss.

It was a Thursday, in the small, hollow hours of the night when the city was a ghost and regrets spoke the loudest. His room was a tomb of quiet, and he was just beginning to drift into a fitful sleep when the sound tore through the stillness—the shrill, obnoxious ring of his phone.

He fumbled for it, his heart launching into his throat, his hands shaking so violently he almost dropped it. The screen’s light was a physical assault in the dark. He blinked, his vision swimming, then sharpening on the caller ID.

Sunshine.

The air left his lungs in a single, silent rush. He stared, paralyzed, as it rang a second time, the word a brand over his pounding heart. He took a deep, shuddering breath, a futile attempt to calm the storm of nerves he knew would not subside.

He swiped to answer and brought the phone to his ear.

"Pond," he said, his voice a soft, broken thing in the darkness. He had no other words. His entire vocabulary had been reduced to that single, sacred name.

For a moment, there was only the static of the line, the sound of a shared, shaky breath.

Then, the question, low and raw, as if dragged over gravel: "Why are you doing this?"

Phuwin closed his eyes, the pain and hope in that voice lancing through him. "You know why."

"No. I don't," Pond breathed out, the words trembling, threatening to shatter. "I need you to tell me. To make it clear. Because I can't — I can't be wrong again. I can't, Phuwin. I can't."

It was the raw, unvarnished plea that shattered the last of Phuwin’s reservations. This was the chasm, and Pond was asking for a bridge, begging for a truth so solid he could build his future on it.

He took a breath, and he began to build it, brick by painful, honest brick.

"Okay," Phuwin whispered, his own voice thick.

He let the silence hang for a moment, gathering the truths he had stored away like treasures.

"I love the way you laugh," he began, the words quiet but sure. "Not the polite one, but the real one, the one that starts deep in your chest and takes over your whole face until your eyes disappear. I love your stupid, dorky jokes that are so earnest they shouldn't be funny, but they are, because they're from you. I love the way you look at things—a cloud, a weirdly shaped vegetable, a lonely bottle of beer—and see a whole story in it. I love the way you try so hard, at everything, with this quiet, fierce determination that takes my breath away. I love the way you tucked a pink umbrella into your pocket like it was a treasure. I love your hands, and the way they feel on my skin."

He paused, letting the list hang in the static-filled space between them, a constellation of everything he adored.

"And you... you make me feel..." He struggled here, the words harder to find, more vulnerable. "You make me feel like I can finally stop performing. You make me laugh, really laugh, not the charming bark I use at the bar. With you, I don't have to be the most interesting person in the room. I can just... be. Tired, messy, scared. I can just be Phuwin."

His voice dropped to a whisper, cracking with the weight of the admission.

"Pond, I never had a home before. Not a real one. I had places to sleep. I had rooms. But you... you are the first home I've ever known. You are steady, and warm, and constant. Being with you feels like coming inside from a cold, loud night and finding a fire already lit. You are my home."

He took another shaky breath, this was the final brick, the most important one.

"And you are the first person, the only person, who ever truly looked at me. Not at the bright, shiny facade. Not at the mirror I hold up for everyone else. You looked past all of that, through the glass and the glitter, and you found the real person hiding inside. And you didn't run. You didn't look away. You stayed."

There was a long, stretched silence, filled only by the sound of two hearts beating across the distance.

Then, a shaky whisper. "Phuwin..."

"Please," Phuwin begged, his own voice breaking. "Please let me prove it. Let me love you the way you deserve. Not in secret gestures, but out loud. Every day."

The line crackled with the weight of a world hanging in the balance.

°•☆•°

The space between the open door and the hallway seemed to stretch into an eternity, charged with all the unspoken words and silent gestures of the past weeks. Pond stood there, looking older and younger all at once, the faint light from the apartment catching the uncertainty in his eyes. 

"Are you sure?" was the first thing Pond said after Phuwin had opened the door, his voice a fragile thing. "Are you sure I'm the one that you want?"

Phuwin didn't let a second of that eternity pass. "Yes, I am," he said, the words clear and solid, a foundation laid in the space between them. He had never been more sure of anything in his life. This wasn't a choice; it was a recognition. "And you?" he asked, his own deepest fear finally given voice now that the door was open. "Are you sure I'm not just fun? Just a rebound? Just a momentary excitement?"

Pond shook his head, a slow, deliberate movement, his eyes never leaving Phuwin's. "Ypu are Phuwin. You are the realest person I've ever met and I love you," he said, his voice shaky, his eyes pleading, as if baring the most vulnerable part of himself.

Phuwin’s breath caught in his throat, stolen by the sudden confession. It was the anchor he had been searching for in his own storm.

"I know this is not romantic," Pond continued, a single tear escaping and tracing a path down his cheek. "It's not how I planned to tell you, I wanted it to be perfect, to be what you had wished for but— I do. I really, really love you." He was still scared, Phuwin could see it. Scared that after everything, it still wouldn't be enough.

It was more than enough. It was everything.

"I love you too," Phuwin said. The words felt unfamiliar on his tongue, a language he was speaking for the very first time, but they rang with a truth that resonated in his very bones. He had never said them to anyone before, there had never been anyone who had earned them, who had seen the secret, scared parts of him and loved them too.

Pond released a long, shuddering breath, the sound of a weight he’d been carrying for weeks finally dissolving into the air. He stepped fully over the threshold, into the apartment, into Phuwin’s space, his hands coming up to frame Phuwin’s face. One hand slid around, his fingers tangling gently in the hair at the nape of Phuwin’s neck, a touch both possessive and reverent.

He drew him close, slowly, giving Phuwin every chance to pull away. 

He didn't.

The kiss was not desperate or hungry. It was slow and sweet, a silent conversation of apology, forgiveness, and promises. It was a sealing of the vows they had just spoken aloud. Phuwin could feel the salt of their tears, his own and Pond’s, mingling on their lips—a taste that washed away the lingering bitterness of their past mistakes. He could feel the slight tremble in Pond’s hands, the unsteady puff of his breath against his cheek, and he poured every ounce of his certainty, his love, and his unwavering resolve into the kiss, hoping Pond could feel it all.

The world narrowed to the space between their lips and the few, stumbling steps to the bedroom. Phuwin led, walking backward, his mouth never leaving Pond’s, as if afraid that even a breath of separation could break the spell. Pond followed, his hands sliding from Phuwin’s back to his hips, holding on as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning universe.

They were a tangle of limbs and shared breath, moving by memory and touch through the familiar layout of the apartment. In their focused haze, Phuwin misjudged the turn, his hip connecting sharply with the corner of the wooden console table.

A soft, pained "Oof" escaped him, breaking the kiss as he winced, his body jerking slightly.

The spell didn't break; it shifted. A bubble of laughter rose between them, born of relief and shared awkwardness. Pond’s hands immediately gentled, one coming up to cup Phuwin’s cheek while the other slid down, his palm softly pressing against the offended spot on his hip, his touch a warm, soothing brand through the thin fabric of his sleep pants.

"Sorry," Pond murmured, his voice laced with a smile, his thumb making small, apologetic circles.

A breathless chuckle shook Phuwin’s shoulders. "My fault," he whispered, leaning forward to reclaim Pond’s lips, the brief moment of pain already forgotten, eclipsed by the overwhelming rightness of having him here, laughing and wincing and alive in his arms. "Distracted."

They finally reached the doorway of the bedroom, and Phuwin guided them over the threshold. The room was a sanctuary of shadows, the deep indigo of the late night seeping through the blinds. The only light came from the small, rose-gold lamp on the nightstand, its warm, yellow glow pulling a small, intimate circle from the darkness. It illuminated the edge of the rumpled bed, the curve of a pillow, and caught the dust motes dancing in the air like silent witnesses. The rest of the room remained shrouded, a private, quiet world meant only for them.

In that soft, honeyed light, Phuwin could see the flecks of gold in Pond’s dark, earnest eyes, the faint blush that colored his cheeks, the perfect, trusting curve of his mouth. He was here. He was real. And he was looking at Phuwin not as as a fantasy, but as the man he loved.

Phuwin’s hands came up to cradle his face again, his thumbs stroking over the high arch of his cheekbones. "I love you," he breathed, the words a sacred vow into the space between them, before drawing him into another kiss, deeper this time, as they let the quiet darkness of the room swallow them whole.

He led Pond until his knees hit the mattress and then guided him on the bed until his back was against the headboard, a vision of flushed submission. His cheeks were stained a beautiful, feverish pink, his breath was a quick, shallow rhythm, and his eyes were glossy pools of dark anticipation, fixed entirely on Phuwin.

Straddling his lap, Phuwin felt a surge of power so intense it was dizzying. He watched the frantic rise and fall of Pond's chest, the way his Adam's apple bobbed with a nervous swallow, the absolute focus in his gaze that followed Phuwin's every minute movement.

“You are perfected,” he breathed, his voice quiet in the silent room.

His fingers went to the buttons of Pond's shirt, his movements deliberately, agonizingly slow. He was an archaeologist uncovering a priceless treasure. He catalogued the way Pond's skin flushed a deeper red under his gaze, the goosebumps that erupted in the wake of his knuckles grazing the warm flesh, the full-body shiver that he couldn't suppress. When the shirt finally fell open, Phuwin's breath caught. He was perfect. A devastating mixture of pure sweetness and raw, waiting obscenity.

Phuwin bent down, his lips finding the firm plane of Pond's sternum.

He left a feather-light kiss there, feeling the frantic, bird-like flutter of his heartbeat against his mouth.

Pond's body went rigid, a sharp inhale cutting through the silence, his bottom lip caught tightly between his teeth to stifle the sound. Phuwin placed his thumb on that plush, abused lip, smoothing it free. His eyes caught on the shape of them, the memory of their devastating softness and skill from their adventure in the library flashing through his mind, sending a fresh jolt of heat straight to his core.

"Don't," he murmured, his voice husky. "I want to hear you."

Pond's nod was a tiny, shaky thing.

Phuwin traced the curve of Pond's bottom lip once more before leaning in to capture his mouth in a soft, reassuring kiss. "So good for me," he breathed against the warmth of his lips.

He scattered a constellation of soft, chaste kisses across Pond's cheekbone, his jaw, his temple—a gentle rain to soothe the building storm. Then he found his neck. The kisses there began as soft pecks but quickly deepened, turning hungry and open-mouthed.

He tasted the salt-sweetness of Pond's skin, felt the frantic pulse hammering against his tongue.

Pond's chest expanded in great, heaving breaths beneath him, the rhythm growing more and more frantic.  One of Pond's hands found its way to Phuwin's shoulder, not grasping or pulling, just resting there, a point of burning, trusting contact.

Slowly, Phuwin began his descent, tracing the elegant line of his collarbone, the solid ridge of his sternum, mapping every dip and plane of Pond's torso with his lips and tongue, wanting to brand every inch of this territory as his own. He hovered for a moment, his hot breath ghosting over the strained fabric of Pond's pants, before he leaned in and pressed a slow, wet kiss right over the hard line of his erection, followed by a deliberate swipe of his tongue through the material.

The reaction was instantaneous and utterly intoxicating. Pond's hand clenched on his shoulder, fisting the fabric of his shirt as a moan—so sweet, so obscenely honest—tore from his lips. The sound seemed to vibrate in the air, a tangible thing that wrapped around Phuwin's own arousal and squeezed, making him throb.

"Does that feel good, sweetheart?" he asked, his own voice rough.

Pond could only manage a jerky nod, heavy breaths puffing from his parted lips.

"I want to hear your voice," Phuwin prompted, needing the confirmation, needing to drink in the sound.

"So good. Feels so good, Phuwin," Pond gasped, the words slurred with pleasure.

Phuwin's hands, usually so deft and sure, felt clumsy as they fumbled with the button of Pond's jeans. The metal felt alien under his trembling fingers, the simple act of undressing him suddenly feeling like the most significant ritual of his life. The urgency was a live wire under his skin, a current of pure, undiluted want that threatened to short-circuit his brain. He had never needed anything more. The sight of Pond laid out beneath him, a beautiful landscape of nervous trust, his entire being placed so vulnerably into Phuwin's keeping, sent a tremor of awe through his own desperate desire. He wanted to brand himself onto Pond's soul, to ruin him for anyone else by making him feel so profoundly, obscenely good that the memory would be a permanent, searing brand on his senses. It was a potent, dizzying cocktail of raw, carnal need and a love so fierce it threatened to crack his ribs open.

"Let me," he murmured, his voice a low, husky command as he finally freed the button and dragged the zipper down with a slow, deliberate rasp. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of the jeans and the soft cotton beneath, and in one fluid, possessive motion, peeled them down Pond's strong thighs, tossing the last barriers aside.

Pond lay there, fully exposed to the cool night air and the scorching heat of Phuwin's gaze. A fine, helpless tremor ran through his body. Phuwin leaned over, the movement causing the mattress to dip, and retrieved the lube and a condom from the nightstand, placing them on the rumpled sheets like sacred instruments. He then cradled Pond's face, his thumb stroking the high, elegant arch of his cheekbone.

"Why are you so quiet?" he whispered, his lips brushing Pond's in a ghost of a kiss.

Pond's eyes were wide, the pupils blown black with a mixture of fear and want. "I'm... nervous," he breathed, the confession raw and honest. "What if I'm not good? What if you don't... like it?"

The words were a lance to Phuwin's heart. He captured Pond's mouth in a deeper, sealing kiss, pouring every ounce of his fervent certainty into it. "Look at me," he commanded softly as he pulled back, his gaze locking onto Pond's. "You are perfect. You are already being so, so good for me, just by lying here and trusting me. And I am going to make this perfect for you. I got myself ready for you, Pond. While waiting, I thought of nothing but you. I'm going to make you feel so good, you'll forget your own name."

With deliberate slowness he peeled off his own shirt and then his pants, watching as Pond's eyes darkened, the nervousness eclipsed by a raw, hungry need that made Phuwin's skin prickle with pride. He revelled in the attention, in the clear, unadulterated want etched into every line of Pond's face, knowing he was the one who put that look there.

"You are... beautiful," Pond whispered, the reverence in his tone making Phuwin's heart stutter to a halt. He had been called many things during sex—hot, sexy, fucking obscene—but beautiful had never been one of them. It felt like an absolution.

He reached for the condom, tearing the packet open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving Pond's. He unrolled it slowly, meticulously, down the length of Pond's erection, his fingers tracing the prominent veins. Pond's body trembled violently under the touch, a soft, broken "Phuwin" escaping his lips. The sound of his name, uttered in that pliant tone, was the most potent aphrodisiac. 

He squeezed a generous, cool pool of lube into his palm, then took Pond in hand again, using slow, firm, twisting strokes to coat him, to bring him to a full, aching hardness. He watched, mesmerized, as pleasure painted itself across Pond's face—his eyes fluttering shut, his lips parting around soft, helpless moans, his brow furrowing in ecstasy.

"That's it, baby. Just feel it. Let me hear you."

He wiped his hand clean on the sheets and then straddled Pond's hips once more, his own neglected erection a heavy, painful weight against his stomach.

"Open your eyes for me, Sunshine," he instructed, his voice a velvet command. “I want you to watch me take you. I want you to see what you do to me."

Pond's eyes, glossy and dazed, fluttered open, his gaze focusing on Phuwin's face with an intensity that stole the air from the room. Holding that searing eye contact, Phuwin reached behind himself, his fingers guiding the thick, slick tip of Pond's erection to his entrance. He positioned himself, his body already humming with anticipation.

"Breathe for me, darling," he whispered, as he began to sink down, his body stretching to accommodate the girth, the feeling of being filled so completely stealing the air from his lungs. He paused when he was fully seated, his hips flush against Pond's, his head thrown back as he fought to simply breathe through the overwhelming sensation. Pond was bigger, thicker than he had imagined, even with his own careful preparation. The fantasy in the shower, as detailed and heated as it had been, was a pale, washed-out sketch compared to the vibrant, overwhelming reality.

"Fuck... Pond," he panted, his voice strangled. "You feel.. you're so much. You're everywhere."

Finally, when the initial shockwave subsided into a throbbing, perfect ache, he began to move. It started as a slow, undulating roll of his hips, a deep, sensual grind that made him moan at the feeling of Pond stroking his most intimate places. The sound of their skin meeting a damp, rhythmic slap that punctuated their ragged breathing.

"Here," he moaned, his own control fraying. He took Pond's strong, broad hands and placed them firmly on his hips, guiding his grip. "Hold me here. Show me how you want me. Make yourself feel good.”

Pond's fingers dug into his flesh, tentative at first, then gaining confidence, meeting the rise and fall of Phuwin's hips.

“Phuwin,” he said, the words coming out beginning.

"You are doing so good, love," he praised, the words tumbling out between his own gasped breaths. "Taking me so deep. Filling me up so perfectly. You were made for this. Made for me."

The pleasure was building, a coiling, desperate heat in his gut. He slumped forward then, burying his face in the sweaty hollow of Pond's neck. The change in angle was devastating, the head of Pond's cock stroking directly over his prostate, sending a shock of pure, white-hot lightning up his spine. He cried out, the sound muffled and broken against Pond's skin.

"Do you feel good, baby? Tell me," he begged, his lips and teeth grazing the damp column of his throat. "Tell me how good I make you feel."

"Yeah...God, Phuwin, so good," Pond moaned, his voice a ragged, helpless thing, the vibration resonating through Phuwin's very bones. "Don't stop. Please."

It was the 'please' that undid him. The heat, the slick, obscene slide of their bodies, the press of Pond's hands gripping his hips with a possessiveness that spoke of a shared, frantic loss of control. The delicious friction of his own trapped erection against Pond's stomach. The symphony of Pond's wrecked, honest sounds. The love, a fierce, bright supernova in his chest, exploding and mixing with the physical pleasure until they were an indistinguishable, shattering force.

"Fuck, baby." The climax ripped through him without warning, a convulsive, shattering wave that tore a raw, guttural shout from his throat. His release spilled hot and wet between their sweat-slicked stomachs, his body turning to a boneless, shuddering weight against Pond's solid, steadfast frame.

For a single, weightless moment, he was pure sensation, drifting in the aftershocks. A second later, he felt Pond's strong arms encircling him, and with one surprisingly fluid, powerful motion, he flipped him onto his back. Pond was hovering over him now, his body a welcome, crushing weight that covered him completely, blocking out everything else in the world.

His hips began to move, a series of frantic, driving thrusts. The air filled with the sound of their skin meeting, a damp rhythm underscored by Pond's desperate, guttural moans. Spent and pliant, Phuwin could only watch, his arms lifting to rest on Pond's sweat-slicked shoulders.

"That's it," Phuwin breathed, his voice a husky thread of sound, his thumbs stroking the sharp lines of Pond's shoulders. "Let me see you. Let me see what I do to you." His eyes, dark and unwavering, drank in every detail: the glazed, lost look in Pond's shining eyes, the puffy, well-kissed swell of his lips, the deep flush of rapture staining his skin. This was his creation. His masterpiece.

"So beautiful when you're like this," he whispered, his own exhaustion forgotten in the face of Pond's unraveling. "Just for me. My good  boy. Come on, love, show me how good I make you feel. I want to feel you lose control inside me."

Pond's rhythm became erratic, frantic, his body tensing like a drawn bowstring. His lips found Phuwin's in a savage, messy kiss—all clashing teeth, desperate tongue, and shared, gasping breath. It was the kiss of a drowning man taking his last gulp of air.

He tore his mouth away with a shattered cry, his body locking rigid above Phuwin. A broken, choked-off sound was wrenched from his throat, a sob of pure, overwhelming release as he spilled himself, his heat pulsing deep inside Phuwin, his entire body shuddering through the cataclysm.

Phuwin held him through it, his hands stroking his back, his hips, whispering tender praises into his sweat-damp hair. "That's it… I felt that, baby. I felt you give me everything. So good for me. So perfect."

As the last tremors subsided, Pond's full weight collapsed onto him, heavy and spent. Their hearts hammered a frantic, synchronized rhythm against each other's chests in the sudden, ringing silence. 

"I love you," Pond gasped over Phuwin's skin, the words raw and true.

Phuwin wrapped his arms tightly around his sweat-slicked back. "I love you too, sweetheart," he whispered into his hair, holding him as close as humanly possible, as if he could fuse them into one single, complete being.

They lay like that for a long time, tangled together, slick with sweat and spent, the only sound their gradually slowing breaths. The room, once a place of lonely imagination, was now a sanctuary, sanctified by the profound, quiet truth of their love.

°•☆•°

The first thing Phuwin was aware of was not the light, but the warmth. A solid, breathing warmth pressed along his side, a weight of a limb thrown carelessly over his waist. He blinked slowly, consciousness returning not with a jolt, but with a gradual, golden dawn.

Pond was there.

Not as a memory, not as a ghost from a drunken dream, but right there, his face buried partly in the pillow. The morning light, soft and honeyed, streamed through the window, draping over the planes of his shoulders and the elegant line of his back. His hair was a glorious, tousled mess, dark strands falling across his forehead. His breathing was deep and even, a steady rhythm that was the most beautiful sound Phuwin had ever heard.

He had woken up next to Pond countless times before. He had gazed at this same face, traced its lines in his mind, and felt a longing so acute it was a physical ache. But this was different. The word mine echoed in the quiet of his mind, so immense and surreal it was almost frightening. The fear was a whisper at the back of his consciousness, the terror that he would blink and it would all dissolve, that he’d find himself alone again in the cold, hollow silence of his bed, the phantom warmth a cruel trick.

He didn't move. He barely breathed. He just watched. He watched the slight flutter of Pond’s eyelashes, the way his lips were parted just so, the absolute peace that smoothed out the usual thoughtful furrow from his brow. He committed this moment to memory, a treasure to be guarded, a balm for every future wound. It felt like a lifetime, suspended in that golden, silent awe.

Finally he carefully slipped out from under Pond’s arm. The cool air hit his skin, a contrast to the cocoon of warmth he’d left. Still in his boxers, he padded silently into the kitchen.

He moved quietly, pulling eggs from the fridge, bread for toast, the ripe avocado he’d bought on a whim two days ago, hoping against hope. The sizzle of butter in the pan was a quiet promise. The rich scent of brewing coffee began to fill the small apartment, weaving itself into the fabric of the morning. He was plating the eggs, sunny-side up just how Pond liked them, when he heard the soft, padding footsteps behind him.

He didn't have to turn. A moment later, a layer of big, warm arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him back against a solid chest. A head, heavy with sleep, came to rest on his shoulder blade, and he could feel the whisper of Pond’s breath through his thin t-shirt.

"Why did you get up?" Pond’s voice was muffled by his skin, thick with sleep and a touch of petulance. "I woke up and you weren't there."

Phuwin’s heart swelled, so full he thought it might burst. He turned in the circle of Pond’s arms, finding his face still soft and creased from the pillow. His laugh was a soft, joyful thing as he cupped Pond’s jaw, his thumb stroking the sleep from his cheek.

"Making breakfast for you, you big baby," he whispered, before leaning in and placing a soft, lingering kiss on his lips. It tasted of morning and coffee and a future he no longer had to be afraid of.

Chapter Text

Epilogue: Nattakon

The first time Nattakon laid eyes on Phuwin, he was a vision conjured by the strobing lights and the thrum of bass. He was, Nattakon decided instantly, the most beautiful person he had ever been privileged to witness. There was a captivating dissonance to him—pretty, yet undeniably attractive; sensual in his movements, yet fun and approachable. He watched, mesmerized, as Phuwin worked the crowd, a smirk playing on his lips that suggested he was in complete control of every glance, every word, every interaction. He was a masterpiece, and Nattakon, a seasoned connoisseur, felt an immediate and possessive urge to appraise him up close.

He made his move at the bar, sliding into the space beside him with practiced ease. "I feel I should be paying an admission fee," Nattakon said, his voice pitched just above the music.

Phuwin turned, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving Nattakon's. "Oh? And what exactly are you admitting to?"

"To being utterly captivated by the main attraction." The line was cheesy, he knew, but he delivered it with a confidence that dared anyone to call it anything but charming.

A slow, wicked smile spread across Phuwin's face. "The main attraction doesn't usually hand out backstage passes so freely."

"Lucky for me, I prefer to earn my privileges." Nattakon leaned in slightly, the scent of Phuwin's cologne a tantalizing mix of spice and something sweeter. "Kon."

"Phuwin," he replied. "And what exactly are your qualifications, Kon?"

"A discerning eye and an appreciation for fine art. And you, Phuwin, are a walking gallery."

Phuwin laughed, a low, melodic sound that cut through the drone of the music. "A gallery? That sounds terribly static. I prefer to think of myself as a limited engagement. A performance."

"Even better," Nattakon countered, his ego buzzing as much as the alcohol. "I've always enjoyed a hands-on exhibit."

"Bold words." Phuwin set his empty glass on the bar with a definitive click. "Prove it. The dance floor is a better stage for performances."

They moved into the crush of bodies, the music swallowing them whole. The moment they found their space, Phuwin turned, pressing his back against Nattakon's front. It was as if a switch had been flipped. One of Phuwin's hands came up to curl behind Nattakon's neck, anchoring them together.

Then they began to move.

Every point of contact was a brand. Phuwin’s hips rolled in a fluid, hypnotic rhythm, grinding back against him, and Nattakon felt a jolt of pure heat spear through him. His own hands settled on Phuwin's slender waist, and it was like holding onto a live wire. When Phuwin arched back, his head tilting to rest against Nattakon's shoulder, his throat exposed and gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat, Nattakon felt aflame. It was a controlled burn, stoked by the deliberate drag of Phuwin's body against his, by the whisper of his breath near Nattakon's ear. He was drowning in the sensation, in the scent of him, in the absolute certainty that everyone watching knew he had won the prize of the night. 

The affair with Phuwin was everything Nattakon had ever dreamed of. He was, without exaggeration, the best fuck of Nattakon’s life. But it was more than that. Phuwin was a shot of pure adrenaline to the heart, fun and unpredictable, willing to follow any of Nattakon’s whims no matter how decadent or crazy they sounded. He was a perfect mirror, reflecting back a version of Nattakon that was wilder, brighter, and utterly untamed.

The contrast made his time with Pond feel like a pallid memory. Pond had been a different kind of thrill, a novelty. The initial excitement had been potent, a heady drug composed of teaching an eager novice. Nattakon had relished being the first—the first to touch that porcelain skin, the first to make that naive body explode with sensation, the first cock to fill his mouth and breach his body. The power had been intoxicating, a narcissistic high of pure creation. He had sculpted Pond in the image of his own desires.

But the drug had worn off. The wide-eyed wonder had become predictable, the eagerness now felt cloying. Pond’s world had shrunk to the mundane poetry of homemade dinners and grocery shopping. He was just another guy, and Nattakon was profoundly, excruciatingly bored.

But with Phuwin? Every second was a spark. A sly glance across a room, a wicked suggestion whispered in his ear, the way Phuwin could command a space just by entering it—it all sent a continuous, thrilling current through Nattakon’s veins. He was a fire that showed no sign of burning out. Nattakon was certain he could spend every waking moment with him and never, ever have enough.

Things began to change when their affair hit the half-year mark. The slow, chilling shift in Phuwin’s behaviour a subtle poison. The once-constant stream of flirtatious texts dried up, replaced by Nattakon’s own messages left on read. Plans were cancelled with vague excuses, and invitations were declined with a cool, effortless finality that grated on Nattakon’s nerves. 

One night he found himself at a club, the bass a dull throb against his simmering irritation, slumped in a plush sofa with his usual entourage.

It was Jet who slid into their circle, his voice a gossipy chirp. “Hey, do you guys know who Phuwin’s new guy is?”

Nattakon’s attention snapped to him, the noise of the club fading into a hum. “New guy?”

“Yeah!” Jet leaned in, eager to disseminate the news. “He’s been seeing some guy for a few months now. Brought him to the bar where he works, makes him help out like a little lost puppy. I heard they totally crashed that high-end party at the Grande—pretended to be some rich heir and his boyfriend. Got caught getting it on in the library!” Jet laughed, shaking his head. “People see them everywhere together. Apparently, the new guy is hot as fuck.”

Nattakon didn’t hear the rest. A cold, sharp clarity cut through the alcohol haze. He slammed back the rest of his drink, the burn of the liquor doing nothing to quell the hotter, more possessive fire igniting in his gut. He stood, muttering a curt goodbye, and went back to his apartment, fury coiling tight in his chest. Replaced. The word was an insult. They weren't exclusive, an arrangement he always insisted on, a freedom he guarded jealously. But the idea of Phuwin, his Phuwin, bestowing that dazzling, wicked attention on someone else made him feel violently ill.

One week later, on Phuwin's birthday, he sent a simple text.

Nattakon 

wanna meet?

The reply came after a few minutes.

Phuwin

come over

Nattakon was at his door in twenty minutes.

When Phuwin opened it, a faint, infuriatingly knowing smile on his lips, Nattakon shouldered his way inside. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. His hands were on Phuwin the second the door clicked shut, backing him into the living room.

“Missed me that much?” Phuwin quipped, but Nattakon was in no mood for wit.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed the hem of Phuwin's shirt, yanking it over his head and throwing it aside in a single, aggressive motion. He pushed Phuwin down onto the couch, his body following, caging him in. He buried his face in the curve of Phuwin’s neck, kissing and biting at the skin there. He was laying a frantic, desperate claim. Every touch was more forceful, more possessive than usual, a silent, furious argument against the phantom presence of some other, hot-as-fuck guy who dared to think he could have what was Nattakon’s.

His hands were rough, possessive, gripping Phuwin’s hips hard enough to bruise, lost in the haze of his own raging need to reclaim what was his.

Suddenly, a force shoved against his chest. It wasn't a gentle push; it was a sharp, panicked jolt of strength that sent him stumbling back a step.

Phuwin scrambled out from under him, his eyes wide and fixed on something—or someone—over Nattakon’s shoulder. Nattakon, off-balance and disoriented, saw nothing but the blur of Phuwin’s movement and heard the rapid, retreating footsteps echoing in the hallway, followed by the definitive, thunderous slam of the front door.

"What the fuck?" Nattakon growled, his chest heaving.

Phuwin wasn't listening. His usual cool composure had shattered into a thousand pieces. He was panting, his gaze darting around the room in a frantic search. “Where the fuck is my shirt?" he muttered, his voice tight with an urgency Nattakon had never heard before.

"What is going on?" Nattakon demanded, the words laced with a threat.

Phuwin ignored him, spotting his discarded t-shirt and yanking it over his head. He moved toward the door like a man fleeing a fire.

Nattakon’s hand shot out, fingers closing like a vice around Phuwin’s wrist. "I asked what the fuck is going on?" he snarled, pulling him up short.

Phuwin finally turned to look at him, and the look in his eyes was entirely new. It wasn't anger or annoyance. It was pure, unadulterated panic. "Let's end it here, okay?" The words were rushed, breathless.

"No. Not okay. Why?" Nattakon tightened his grip.

"Because I said so." With a sharp twist, Phuwin wrenched his wrist free and was out the door, leaving nothing but the faint scent of his cologne and the chilling silence in his wake.

Nattakon stood alone in the middle of the room, the phantom sound of the slamming door still ringing in his ears. He could guess exactly who had been standing there. 

A fresh wave of fury, hot and possessive, washed over him. It was bad enough that Phuwin had run out on him. But the fact that he was running to someone else? That he had panicked? Phuwin, who was always in control, who was always the most nonchalant, unbothered person in any room. Phuwin, who had never seemed desperate for anything—not for Nattakon’s attention, not for his touch, not for his company.

What kind of power did this new guy have? What was so goddamn great about him that he could make Phuwin—his Phuwin—look so utterly, humanly terrified of being caught? The question burned in Nattakon’s gut, more agonizing than any anger. It was an obsession, taking root in the fertile soil of his wounded pride.

°•☆•°

The following month was a blur of calculated self-destruction. Nattakon threw himself into a frantic cycle of hedonism, each night a deliberate attempt to scorch the memory of Phuwin from his mind. He brought home a new guy every evening, each one a bland, forgettable silhouette against the backdrop of his own lingering obsession. He crashed parties, drank too much, and once even led a laughing sprint from the police, his heart pounding with a hollow, manufactured thrill. He told himself, over and over, that he would not become someone pathetic. He was not someone who cared, who pined, who ran after another person. Others chased him. That was the natural order of things.

But it was all ash in his mouth. The highs were fleeting and shallow, none of them coming close to the electric, all-consuming rush of being with Phuwin.

°•☆•°

The bass from the club was a physical thing, a throbbing pressure against the ribs that lingered even as the heavy door swung shut behind them. Out in the vast, open-air parking lot, the sound collapsed into a distant, hollow echo, a ghost of the frenzy they’d just left. Nattakon took a deep breath, the night air cool and thick with the scent of asphalt and distant rain, a cleansing contrast to the sweat and perfume inside.

He fished a cigarette from his pack, the click of the lighter unnaturally loud in the quiet. The flame caught, a sudden, brilliant bloom in the darkness that illuminated his fingers before settling into a steady, orange ember. The scant light from the few, widely-spaced lamp posts created islands of sickly yellow in a sea of gloom, leaving deep pools of shadow between the rows of silent cars.

To his left, Sam was arguing amiably with Mek about some footballer’s transfer fee, their words slurred and looping. Mek gesticulated wildly, nearly losing his balance, and Sam’s booming laugh ricocheted off the concrete. Nattakon chuckled, the sound warm and easy in his chest, a direct result of the pleasant, humming buzz of alcohol in his veins. He took a drag, the smoke tasting of solace, and let his eyes wander idly across the shadowy tableau.

His gaze slid over a familiar cherry-red Mazda, then snapped back. 

Phuwin. 

He was perched on the hood, his silhouette relaxed. Someone was standing between his legs, a tall figure in a tight black tank top that left little to the imagination. Phuwin’s arms were draped loosely around the man’s neck, a posture of intimate possession.

The stranger shifted, and the lamplight directly above them caught him. He shimmered. A dusting of fine, colourful glitter adorned his shoulders and arms, making his skin glow like crushed jewels scattered over warm marble. He was a vision spun from the night itself—electric and unreal. Phuwin leaned in, closing the distance, and kissed him. It wasn’t a chaste kiss; it was slow, deliberate, ending with Phuwin pulling back with a wide, private smile. He said something, voice too low to carry. The glittering man shook his head, a movement that sent new cascades of light dancing across his skin, and turned around mid-laugh.

The world stopped.

The cigarette, forgotten, hung limply between Nattakon’s fingers. He took an unconscious step forward, the gravel crunching softly under his shoe. The profile was unmistakeable. The line of the nose, the curve of the jaw now tipped upward in laughter. It was Pond. His Pond. Boring, stale, home-made dinner Pond.

But it wasn’t. Not at all.

The eyeshadow deepened his gaze, making it sultry and knowing. Coral lipstick, slightly smudged, looked not messy but decadently sensual. The clothes—the tight tank, the leather pants that clung to his lean thighs—showed a physique Nattakon had never bothered to truly see. Yet the most profound change wasn’t cosmetic. It was in the way he held himself. The habitual hunch of his shoulders was gone, replaced by a spine of straight, unapologetic grace. He didn’t shrink; he occupied space, radiant and assured, as if the very act of being observed was a pleasure, not a burden. This Pond was not worried about being seen. He demanded it.

Phuwin hopped down from the hood, his movements playful, and pulled Pond closer by the waist, leaning in for another kiss. Pond placed a hand on Phuwin’s chest and jokingly pushed him back, saying something that made Phuwin throw his head back in a burst of silent, joyous laughter. The sound, bright and clear, finally travelled across the distance, reaching Nattakon’s ears. He had never seen Phuwin look like that—utterly disarmed, utterly captivated. He had never heard him laugh with such unguarded abandon.

Something ugly twisted inside Nattakon’s gut, cold and sharp, cutting through the alcoholic warmth. The ember of his cigarette burned down to his fingers, but he didn’t flinch. It wasn’t just the sting of losing Phuwin to someone new. It was the brutal, humiliating revelation that the hot-as-fuck stranger Jet had gossiped about, the one who had made Phuwin panic and chase after him into the night, was the very man Nattakon had discarded without a second thought. The one he had considered background noise. Now, bathed in lamplight and laughter, Pond was the only thing in focus, a glittering rebuke to every assumption Nattakon had ever made.

The laughter from Phuwin’s lips faded as he turned, his hand finding Pond’s. Together, they began walking towards the club entrance, towards the dim light and the echo of music, towards Nattakon. They moved as a unit, their shoulders brushing, a silent conversation passing between them in the set of their spines and the tilt of their heads. They did not look to the side. They did not glance into the shadows where Nattakon stood, frozen. They walked past his little island of lamplight as if he were nothing more than a discarded cigarette butt on the asphalt—unseen, irrelevant.

The casual dismissal was a spark to tinder. “Wow, Phu,” Nattakon’s voice cut through the night, laced with a cruel, alcohol-fueled chuckle. “You really had to scrape the bottom of the barrel, huh?”

“Natt!” Sam hissed, a low, warning sound.

“What?” Nattakon scoffed, stepping fully into the path of the two approaching figures, forcing them to stop. His eyes raked over Pond, who met his gaze with an unnerving calm. “Is he some kind of charity project now? A fixer-upper?” He turned his attention back to Phuwin, a sneer twisting his lips. “Just a friendly warning. He might seem like a shiny new thing now, but he gets dull pretty fast. Trust me. He’s not worth your time.”

Phuwin’s gaze settled on him. His brows were faintly furrowed, but there was a slight, infuriating smile playing on his lips, as if Nattakon were a mildly puzzling, slightly tedious insect. “Thanks,” he said, his voice flat and final. He made to move around him.

A hot, irrational panic seized Nattakon. His hand shot out, fingers closing like a vise around Phuwin’s wrist, yanking him to a halt.

“Don’t touch him.” Pond’s voice was low, a clear warning that vibrated in the space between them, but Nattakon wasn’t listening. His whole world had narrowed to the pulse under his thumb and the face of the man he wanted to own.

“Why are you wasting your time on him?” Nattakon demanded, his voice rising. “He’s boring, Phu. He’s nothing. You’re gonna get bored and cast him aside in a week, and then what?”

Phuwin didn’t struggle. He simply let his eyes travel slowly, deliberately, from Nattakon’s desperate grip on his wrist, up his tense arm, to his flushed, angry face. His expression was one of profound, almost academic disappointment. “Pathetic,” he said, the single word dropping like a stone.

“I’m pathetic?” Nattakon barked a laugh, the sound too loud in the quiet lot. He jabbed a finger towards Pond. “Look at him! He doesn’t even look like himself! He’s playing dress-up, being someone new just to be next to you! But I’m the pathetic one?”

“Yeah,” Phuwin said, his tone devoid of all emotion. It was the indifference that was the final, unbearable insult. The way he wouldn’t even deign to argue, as if Nattakon’s opinions, his rage, his very presence, were so insignificant they weren’t worth the breath to dispute.

The burning humiliation made Nattakon’s grip tighten instinctively. Phuwin grimaced, a flicker of real pain crossing his features.

It was the last thing Nattakon saw before the world upended. One moment he was clinging to Phuwin, the next a force like a tidal wave hit him. Pond moved with shocking speed and strength. His hands planted firmly on Nattakon’s chest and shoved. Nattakon stumbled back, the air driven from his lungs as his spine connected sharply with the cold, rough concrete wall of the club. Pond stepped into the space, his glitter-dusted frame now a solid, unyielding barrier between Nattakon and Phuwin, blocking his view, his claim, everything.

Dazed, Nattakon tried to straighten, but Pond was already in his space, not touching him, but close enough that Nattakon could see the meticulous sweep of eyeshadow, the defiant set of his glitter-streaked jaw.

“You just can’t stand it, can you?” Pond’s voice was quiet, precise, and colder than the wall at Nattakon’s back. It wasn’t the hesitant, soft-spoken voice he remembered. This was a blade being unsheathed. “All you’ve ever cared about is being seen. Looking cool. Getting the attention. You’re like a little kid at a party, screaming and knocking things over because you’re afraid no one will look at you if you’re quiet.”

Nattakon opened his mouth to retort, but Pond continued, his words calculated, each one landing with the accuracy of a sniper.

“Your longest relationship was with me. A year. And you were cheating the whole time. Not because you wanted them, but because you needed the audience. You need a constant parade of people looking at you to feel like you exist.” Pond took a half-step closer, his gaze boring into Nattakon’s. “You don’t know what love is. You don’t know what it feels like to want just one person. You jump from one to the next, frantic, because the moment someone really sees you—the real, empty you behind the act—you panic. You have to find someone new who only sees the show.”

He leaned in then, his voice dropping to a intimate, venomous whisper meant only for Nattakon’s ears, yet carrying perfectly in the stunned silence. Sam and Mek were statues, watching.

“And now you’ve finally found the one person you actually want,” Pond murmured, his lips nearly brushing Nattakon’s ear. The scent of Phuwin's honey shampoo, mixed with something expensive and dark, filled his nostrils. “And it’s killing you, isn’t it? The fact that you can’t have him. That even your own cast-off… can have what you can’t.”

Pond leaned back, just enough to watch the devastation play out on Nattakon’s face. He let it sit, let the poison soak in. Then he leaned close one final time, his breath hot against Nattakon’s skin.

“We talked about you, you know?” The words were a soft, lethal caress. “He said while you were fucking him… he was thinking of me the whole time.”

He pulled back. The glitter on his skin seemed to blaze with triumphant, cruel light. Without another glance, he turned. His hand found Phuwin’s, their fingers intertwining with a practiced ease that spoke of a deep, private understanding. Together, they walked the final few steps to the club door. Pond pulled it open, a burst of sound and light erupting into the night, and they disappeared inside, swallowed by the beat.

The door swung shut, muting the music back to a ghostly echo.

Nattakon remained pinned against the wall, the cold concrete seeping through his shirt. The words echoed in his skull, each one a precise, shattering blow. Around him, the parking lot was vast, dark, and silent. Sam and Mek said nothing. The only light was the faint, indifferent glow of the lamp posts, and the dying ember of his forgotten cigarette, smoldering on the ground near his feet.

Chapter Text

Special 1: Phuwin

Insecurity had always been like a particularly patient spider. It did not pounce; it crept. It found a tiny, unnoticed opening—a moment of vulnerability, a whispered doubt—and then it began its work. Thin, silken thread by thin, silken thread, it wove its web inside him, until there was no chamber of his heart, no corner of his mind, that wasn’t delicately, inescapably covered in its fine, clinging lattice.

It all began on a normal Sunday afternoon. Pond was a warm weight on the sofa, his head a familiar pressure on Phuwin’s thigh. Phuwin’s fingers moved through Pond’s soft hair, a mindless, soothing rhythm as Pond talked. Later, Phuwin wouldn’t even remember the topic—some office drama, the rhythm of Pond’s voice a comforting hum, the slight, endearing grimace that twisted his lips as he mentioned a coworker he found particularly irritating. That was the first time the name floated into the space between them, light as dust motes in the sunbeam slanting across the floor: Tanai. At the time, Phuwin merely acknowledged it with a soft hum, storing it away with the other harmless anecdotes—the man who flooded the bathroom, the copy-machine destroyer, the coffee thief. Just another character in the background of Pond’s day.

But then that name—Tanai—kept coming up. Again. And again. And again.

The first thread was spun on a quiet Thursday evening. Pond had always been passionately devoted to Crimson Blood, a sprawling, convoluted fantasy series. Every Sunday Phuwin would be treated to an animated, detailed summary over dinner. He loved those moments, loved how Pond’s eyes would widen with excitement, his hands carving the air as he described dragon battles or political betrayals. It was their ritual. Then, one week, the recap never came. 

That Thursday, Phuwin asked, his voice light with curiosity, “Did Crimson Blood get cancelled? You haven’t mentioned it in a while.”

Pond, scrolling through his phone, didn’t look up. “Oh, no. Tanai’s a huge fan too, so we always dissect the new episode at lunch on Mondays. It’s great.” A small, unconscious smile touched his lips. “At least now I don’t have to bore you with it every week.” He finally glanced over, his expression bright. “And honestly, it’s so interesting to talk to him about it. We have these totally different perspectives on the main character’s motives, it gets really deep…”

Phuwin nodded, offering a faint smile in return, but the words had dissolved into a distant murmur. His attention had turned inward, to a faint, cold tickle just below his ribcage. The little spider had stirred, and with a single, deft movement, it anchored the first thread around the pit of his stomach.

The web grew denser, its pattern more defined, during a flour-dusted Saturday. They were attempting to make kanom krok, the coconut-rice pastries Pond loved from a street vendor near his old university. The kitchen was a glorious mess. Pond had a smudge of rice flour on his cheek, and Phuwin wiped it away with his thumb, earning a goofy grin. They fumbled with the pan, their laughter ringing loud and unselfconscious when the first batch stuck disastrously. The third attempt was barely better—lopsided and pale—but when they finally tasted the warm, slightly rubbery results, Phuwin didn’t care. He laughed, a real, full-bodied sound of pure joy. The perfection was in the shared failure, in Pond feeding him a piece and the sweet, clumsy intimacy of the entire afternoon.

“They’re terrible,” Pond chuckled, licking his fingers. “But fun. Hey, you know, Tanai is actually a pro at these. He brought a whole batch to the office last month when I mentioned that they were my favourite. They were incredible, perfectly golden, just the right crispness.” He was already pulling out his phone, swiping. “Look, I took a picture.”

And there they were: rows of impeccable, bite-sized golden cups, each one uniform and beautiful, so perfect they could put to shame even the vendor’s best work. Phuwin looked from the glowing screen to their own sad, misshapen creations on the counter. His smile remained fixed, but it felt thin and brittle. The warmth that had filled the kitchen seemed to leach away, replaced by a subtle, creeping chill. The spider’s thread, once fine, now thickened, its new strand heavy and cold as it wove around his ribs.

The pattern became relentless, inescapable.

There was the morning Pond came back from a run, buzzing with an energy that wasn’t just from exercise. “You’ll never believe it,” he’d said, grabbing a water bottle. “Ran into Tanai at the park. He’s training for a half-marathon. We ended up doing the last three kilometers together. He’s got a killer pace.”

Then, a casual comment over takeout. “This pad thai is good,” Pond had mused, “Tanai knows this tucked-away place that’s supposedly life-changing. We should all go sometime.”

Even music, their shared language, was suddenly translated by an unseen third. Phuwin had put on an old, beloved album, and Pond, instead of singing along, said, “Oh, Tanai was just talking about this band’s early influences the other day. He has this encyclopedic knowledge of 90s indie rock, it’s insane.”

Each mention was a pinprick, a tiny injection of a subtle venom. With every Tanai this and Tanai that, the spider worked faster. Its web was no longer a few exploratory strands; it was a complex, suffocating tapestry. It filled his chest, tightening around his lungs with a gentle, persistent pressure. It clouded his thoughts, casting a faint, grey film over even the happiest moments. 

Everything Phuwin did, or failed to do, now seemed to hold up poorly against the specter of Tanai. Where Phuwin’s kanom krok were lopsided failures, Tanai’s were professional. Where Phuwin listened patiently to Pond’s passions, Tanai engaged with expert knowledge. He seemed, in every anecdote, to be everything Phuwin wasn’t: effortlessly competent, intellectually stimulating, a perfect, shiny complement to Pond’s own light. A perfect fit. 

The web constricted around Phuwin’s heart with a slow, insistent pressure, a gentle squeeze that made each beat feel labored, each pulse a throb of dull apprehension. It climbed, thread by thread, until it reached his throat, a noose that threatened to choke off his air, his words, his very voice.

And in the quiet, suffocating grip of that web, Phuwin was suddenly eight years old again.

The memory didn’t arrive as a thought, but as a full-body sensation. The sterile, lemon-scented hallways of the group home replaced the warmth of his apartment. He was small, his feet swinging from a too-big chair, his hands folded neatly in his lap—perfect, sweet, obedient, kind—as he watched, again and again, other children light up with hopeful smiles. He saw the couples walk through, their eyes alight with stars as they scanned the room. Their gazes would slide over him, a polite smile, before landing on someone louder, or quieter, or sweeter, or simply other. He learned to taste love in small, diluted doses: a kind volunteer’s pat on the head, a foster parent’s brief, distracted hug before bedtime, a shared bowl of noodles that felt like a feast. It was always ephemeral, always momentary. Home was a flavor that lingered on his tongue for a week, a month, a year, before it was inevitably washed away by the bland, familiar taste of transience.

Now, that same old, fragile thread was being woven into the very muscle of his heart once more, but it was stronger now, reinforced by a lifetime of practice. Pond’s love, which had felt like a solid, forever-earth beneath his feet, now seemed like another temporary landing. He was that child again, allowing himself to believe a foster home could be forever, mistaking consistent kindness for permanent choice. He had let himself be blinded by the ephemeral, had deluded himself into building a life on what might just be another beautiful, temporary stop.

Some nights, he would wake from formless dreams, the dark room pressing in. His eyes would frantically search the space beside him, finding Pond’s sleeping form, the steady rise and fall of his chest. And instead of comfort, a dread so profound it stole his breath would clamp down. He would lie there, paralyzed, watching the man he loved, dreading the dawn of the day when Pond would simply realize that Phuwin was not his forever person. That somewhere out there was a Tanai, or someone better, someone who fit without effort, whose presence didn’t come with the quiet, clinging baggage of an orphan’s heart. 

The web tightened in those moments, squeezing his heart until it ached with a loneliness that felt both brand new and ancient. He was just waiting, once again, to be gently, kindly, left behind.

°•☆•°

When it all came crashing down, it wasn’t with the dramatic flare of a betrayal or the seismic shock of a discovered secret. It was something mundane, something so ordinary that anyone else, anyone not already ensnared, would have brushed off without a second thought. But the webs now completely covered Phuwin’s brain, a dense, grey filter over his thoughts. His reality, his relationship, could only be perceived through its sticky layers, every detail blurred, every intention misread.

It was a late evening on a normal Saturday. The familiar pre-work ritual had begun: the low hum of anticipation, the gathering of his things for his shift at the club. As Phuwin walked into the living room, he saw Pond by the window, his back turned, his shoulders shaking with quiet laughter into his phone. The sound was bright, carefree. Phuwin stood still, a spectator in his own home, the air suddenly thick and unfamiliar. 

Pond turned, his face still lit with the remnants of his smile. “Okay, see you in a sec,” he said into the phone, then ended the call. His eyes found Phuwin. “Hey. That was Tanai. He’s actually downstairs to pick me up. We’re gonna finalize that presentation for Monday, and then we’ll just head straight to the club after. Kill two birds, you know?”

Phuwin just nodded, the movement automatic. A faint, practiced smile touched his lips—a muscle memory of normalcy.

Pond closed the distance, dropping a quick, warm kiss on his lips. “It won't take long, okay? I’ll see you there.” And then he was gone, the click of the door a soft, final sound in the suddenly cavernous apartment.

Phuwin stood in the middle of the living room, the silence expanding to fill the space Pond had occupied. The routine, their sacred, unspoken Saturday liturgy, lay shattered around him. It had been their thing since the very beginning. The synchronized shower schedules, the debate over what to play as they got ready, the fight over who got to drive. The commute to the club, a bubble of shared energy before the night’s chaos. Working behind the bar together, a glance across the counter—a secret language of support and amusement. Every Saturday for months. A cornerstone of their shared life.

And now, just like that, it was dismissed. Kill two birds. As if their ritual was an inconvenience to be streamlined. As if it meant nothing at all.

Phuwin took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to inflate lungs compressed by invisible threads. He tried to shrug it off, to act as if it meant nothing. But the threads around his heart pulled taut, translating the broken routine into a fundamental language of loss he knew all too well. It wasn’t about the project. It wasn’t about efficiency. Through the distorting filter of the web, it was a clear, quiet message: something else, someone else, had become a more compelling part of Pond’s orbit. 

The shower was a mechanical act. The water, usually a shared luxury—steam fogging the glass, playful flickers through the curtain, Pond’s voice rising over the spray to tease him about using all the hot water—now fell on him with a sterile, isolating force. He washed his hair, and the scent of his shampoo conjured not the present silence, but the memory of Pond’s hands, slippery with soap, massaging his scalp a little too long, their laughter echoing off the tiles. Now, the only sound was the relentless drum of water on porcelain, a monotonous rhythm for one.

Getting dressed felt like assembling a costume. He pulled on his black jeans, the fabric familiar. He remembered Pond leaning against the doorframe, a smirk playing on his lips as he’d watch, offering a faux-critical, “The black ones. Definitely. Make your legs look infinite,” before crossing the room to hook his fingers into Phuwin’s belt loops and pull him close for a distracting kiss. Now, the room was still. Phuwin fastened his belt alone, the click of the buckle absurdly loud in the quiet.

At the vanity, the makeup routine was a silent pantomime. He’d sweep foundation over his skin, and in the mirror’s reflection, he’d see not just his own face, but the ghost of Pond perched on the edge of the bed, offering unsolicited, ridiculous commentary. “More highlighter, Win. You need to sparkle like the fairy in Crimson Blood!” He’d roll his eyes but secretly love the attention, the shared focus. Now, his own gaze in the mirror was flat, the careful application of eyeshadow a solitary, precise task. His hand was steady, but the joy, the flirty performance of it all, was gone. 

The drive to the club was the loneliest leg. He slid into the driver’s seat, and the emptiness of the passenger side was a physical presence. It used to be a capsule of shared energy. Pond would control the music, something loud and pumping to get them in the zone, or something silly to make Phuwin groan and laugh. They’d sing off-key, fingers drumming on the dashboard, Phuwin’s hand sometimes leaving the gearshift to rest on Pond’s thigh, a warm, constant point of contact. Now, the engine’s hum was just noise. The city lights streaked past the windows, not as a shared spectacle, but as a blur indifferent to his solitude. 

Every action, every step of the preparation, was now just a function. A means to an end. The ghost of the shared experience—the flirting, the laughter, the easy, joyful synergy—overlaid every movement, not as a comfort, but as a stark, painful highlight of what was missing. He was going through the motions, but the life, the shared heartbeat of the routine, had been left behind in their quiet apartment, extinguished the moment Pond had walked out the door with a different companion.

Behind the bar, Phuwin moved like a photograph of himself, slightly faded and out of focus. His smile, usually a brilliant, effortless beacon that drew people in, was duller at the edges, a practiced curve of the lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His movements, normally a study in fluid, economical grace, were stiffer. He found himself constantly scanning the crowded room over the tops of bottles and the heads of customers, his eyes perpetually searching for the one familiar face that was supposed to be there but felt galaxies away.

Phuwin never used to make mistakes. His charm was his precision; he could juggle conversations and cocktails with equal, sparkling ease, making every customer feel seen while his hands worked automatic magic. But tonight, the web in his mind was a disruptive static, fraying his concentration.

His hand, reaching for the top-shelf gin, fumbled. The bottle tipped, not enough to fall, but enough for a costly glug of liquor to splash over the ice well instead of into the shaker. A waste, a tiny mess. He hadn’t done that since his first nervous weeks.

A moment later, as he strained a margarita into a chilled glass, his gaze flickered involuntarily toward the door. His grip on the shaker slipped. The coupe glass overfilled, the tart, pale liquid overflowing onto the bar mat in a sudden, sticky pool. A customer chuckled, but it wasn't the appreciative laugh he was used to; it was a laugh at the flaw.

"Someone's distracted tonight," the regular teased, but Phuwin's returning smile was thin, apologetic, devoid of its usual disarming wit. He mumbled a "sorry," wiping the mess with a cloth that seemed to catch on every corner.

The worst was the Old Fashioned. He was muddling the sugar and bitters, a foundational rhythm, when he thought he had caught a glimpse of Pond across the room. Phuwin’s hand stilled. He lost count. When he poured the bourbon and served it, the customer took one sip and his pleasant expression faltered. It was too sweet, cloying, a beginner's error. The man politely asked for a remake, and the gentle correction burned like acid. He hadn’t botched a classic like that since he was sixteen, trembling under the stern gaze of his trainer.

His usual charm, a second skin, felt like a heavy, ill-fitting costume. His banter with patrons was a beat slow, his laughter at their jokes a half-second delayed and hollow. He was a skilled performer reading from a damaged script, every line falling flat. Every spilled drop, every miscalculated measure, was a whisper in his ear: You are losing your place. 

The moment Phuwin saw them walking through the crowd together, the noise of the club seemed to recede into a low, underwater hum. There was Pond, with him. Tanai. The name, so long a ghost, now had a body, and it was a devastating one. He was taller than Phuwin, with broader shoulders that filled out his shirt. His smile, as he leaned down to hear something Pond said, was brilliant and wide, his eyes seeming to catch and reflect the strobe lights, making them appear larger, more expressive. He moved with an easy confidence, as if the world had always made space for him. He was, in every visible way, a sun to Phuwin’s careful, contained moon.

Pond led him right up to the bar, his face open and happy. He leaned far over the counter, his familiar scent cutting through the smells of alcohol and sweat, and pressed a kiss to Phuwin’s lips. It was meant to be a greeting, a connection, but to Phuwin, it felt like a brand—a claim staked over a territory that already felt like it was slipping away.

“Win, this is him!” Pond said, raising his voice over the music, his hand gesturing to the man beside him. “This is Tanai! Tanai, this is Phuwin.”

Tanai offered that brilliant smile, extending a hand. “Hey! I’ve heard so much about you. Finally, I get to meet the legend.”

The threads in Phuwin’s throat twisted into a solid, immovable lump. He felt his own smile, a brittle, terrible thing, crack across his face. He gave a curt nod, his eyes darting to a waving customer down the bar. “Sorry, busy,” he heard himself say, the words clipped and foreign. He turned his back on them, on Pond’s slightly puzzled look and Tanai’s still-friendly, if now confused, expression. He fled to the other end of the bar, his heart hammering against the constricting web.

The whole night became an exercise in desperate avoidance. Every time he sensed them approaching his section, he would find a reason to vanish—to restock ice, to retrieve a case of mixers from the back, to suddenly need to meticulously polish already-clean glasses. His hands, usually so sure, developed a faint, constant tremor. When he had to pick up a bottle, he willed his fingers into stillness, but the shake was there, a vibration of pure dread deep in his bones. The lump in his throat felt alive, a choking knot of unshed tears and screaming silence. He blinked rapidly, fearing that if he let his guard down for a second, the acid burning behind his eyes would spill over and betray him completely.

Pond, blissfully unaware of the internal cataclysm, kept trying. He’d catch Phuwin’s arm as he rushed past. “Babe, come say hi properly for a second!”

Phuwin would shrug him off, nodding toward a waiting group. “They’ve been waiting ten minutes, Pond. Later.”

Another time, Pond and Tanai settled at two recently vacated stools right in front of him. There was no escape. “So, Tanai was just telling me about this hiking trail up north,” Pond said, his voice eager to include Phuwin in the conversation. “Sounds amazing, right? We should all go sometime.”

Phuwin kept his eyes on the gin bottle he was pouring, watching the clear liquid rise in the jigger with an intensity usually reserved for brain surgery. “Mhm,” he muttered, slamming the pour spout shut. He finished the drink and pushed it across the bar without meeting either of their eyes. “Seven-fifty.”

A beat of awkward silence followed. Pond’s cheerful persistence was beginning to fray into concern. “Phuwin…”

“Order up!” Phuwin called out abruptly to no one, turning to fiddle with bottles that didn’t need arranging.

The final, most exquisite torture came when Tanai himself ordered a drink. He leaned on the bar, still smiling, though it was softer now, tinged with a hint of pity that was worse than any arrogance. “Could I get a Negroni, please?”

Please. So polite. Phuwin moved to make it, his actions robotic. The crisp clink of ice into the glass, the measured pours of gin, vermouth, Campari—it was all performed with a cold, technical accuracy that had none of his usual flair. This wasn't a craft; it was a transaction. He stirred, the spoon circling the glass with a hollow scraping sound. He placed it on a coaster in front of Tanai, the perfect amber liquid and orange peel garnish a mockery of the turmoil inside him.

“Here you go,” Phuwin said, his voice flat and professional, the voice of any bartender to any stranger.

“Thanks, man,” Tanai said, his big eyes watching him with an unreadable look.

Pond was watching too, his earlier happiness now clouded by confusion and a dawning worry. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Phuwin was already gone, melting into the shadows at the end of the bar, where he pretended to be engrossed in the soda gun, his back to the world he could no longer bear to face. 

The goodbye was a jagged piece of glass caught in the strobe lights. Pond had finally made his way back to the bar, Tanai a step behind him. The music had dipped to a thrumming bassline, the crowd thinned.

“We’re heading out,” Pond said. He looked at Phuwin, his expression complex and unreadable under the pulsing lights—a flicker of concern, a shadow of frustration, a mask of forced normalcy. It wasn't the warm, private smile he usually saved for Phuwin. It was something stranger, strained. “You’ll be okay locking up?”

Phuwin merely nodded, wiping the same spot on the bar for the third time. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, fearing the acid-lump in his throat would dissolve into something audible, something broken.

Pond hesitated, as if waiting for something—a word, a touch, any sign. When none came, he gave a small, tight nod. “Okay. See you at home.”

And then they turned. Pond and Tanai, side by side, matching in height and ease, walking away through the club. They didn't touch, but their proximity was its own language. They moved as a unit, exiting the world Phuwin was still trapped in, leaving through the same door they’d entered together. The image burned itself onto the back of Phuwin’s eyelids: two figures merging with the darkness outside, leaving him behind, utterly alone under the sickly, flashing lights.

The rest of the shift passed in a numb, echoless silence. Cleaning up was a ghostly, mechanical routine. Where there used to be the companionable clatter of two people working in tandem—Pond hauling the heavy trash bags while Phuwin wiped down the bar, their tired laughter punctuating the quiet—now there was only the hollow scrape of a single chair being stacked, the lonely slap of a mop against tile. Every empty bottle he sorted was a relic from a night where he had felt like a stranger in his own life. 

The drive home was the longest of his life. The passenger seat wasn't just empty; it was an accusation. He drove through the sleeping city, and all he could see against the dark windshield was the replay of their departure: the two of them, stepping out into the night, heading to the same car, the same next moment, while Phuwin was frozen in the past-light of the club. 

Pulling into their building’s parking garage felt like approaching a crime scene. He sat in the car for long minutes, the engine off, listening to the ticks of cooling metal. His home was upstairs. Their shared bed. Their life. But all he could feel was the terrifying echo of every temporary home from his childhood—the dread of walking into a place that smelled familiar but where the foundational love had already been quietly, irrevocably withdrawn.

He finally climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last. He stood before the door, key in hand, staring at the grain of the wood. The image was still there, burned and relentless: Pond and Tanai, walking away. Leaving him behind. It wasn’t just about tonight. It was a premonition. It was the pattern of his life, finally catching up to the one happiness he’d ever believed was permanent. The spider’s work was complete. It had woven him into a perfect, solitary prison, and all he could do was stand on the threshold, terrified to go inside and discover what, or who, was no longer waiting for him.

The key turned in the lock with a sound like a gasp. Phuwin pushed the door open, and the sight inside sent a jolt through his nervous system, short-circuiting the dread.

Pond was already there. He was standing in the soft glow of the living room lamp, dressed in his usual sleepwear—a soft black shirt and matching shorts. He was just… waiting. The domestic normalcy of it was so profound, so expected, that it felt alien. After the searing image of him walking away, the quiet portrait of him waiting at home seemed like a mirage, a cruel trick of Phuwin’s desperate mind. He stood frozen on the threshold, half-convinced the figure would dissolve if he blinked.

Wordlessly, Phuwin moved past him, a ghost drifting through his own home. He went straight to the bathroom, closing the door not with a slam, but with a quiet, definitive click. In the stark fluorescent light, he began the methodical process of removing the night. Cold cream smeared over his foundation, wiping away the sparkling highlighter, the careful eyeshadow. He was erasing the performance, revealing the raw, tired skin beneath.

The door opened. Pond leaned against the frame, his arms crossed. The worry had hardened into a quiet frustration. "Phuwin," he began, his voice low in the quiet apartment. "Why were you like that tonight?"

Phuwin kept scrubbing, the cloth moving in rough, circular motions over his cheek.

"Seriously," Pond continued, stepping inside. The small room felt claustrophobic. "Why were you so cold to Tanai? Did he do something wrong?"

Tanai. The name echoed in the tiled room, a sharp stone thrown into the intricate, suffocating web inside Phuwin. He could feel it ricochet, plucking at every taut thread, sending fresh vibrations of pain through his chest. 

He said nothing. 

He rinsed his face, the water shockingly cold, and patted it dry with a towel, avoiding the mirror where Pond’s reflected gaze waited.

He pushed past him again, retreating to the dim sanctuary of the bedroom. Pond followed, the concern now edged with heat.

"Are you just not going to talk to me?" Pond’s voice was rising, strained by confusion. "I’ve wanted you guys to meet for forever. He was so excited to finally meet you! It wasn’t fair, Win. You just brushed him off like he was nothing."

Phuwin stood with his back to him, hands clenched at his sides, staring at the unmade bed.

"Tanai is a really good guy," Pond insisted, the praise pouring like salt into a wound. "He’s super nice, he’s fun, he’s smart… I really think you’d like him if you just gave him a chance."

Each compliment was a twist of the knife. The threads around Phuwin’s heart pulled excruciatingly tight, and the one at his throat clenched, cutting off his air, his voice, any possible defense. He was trapped in a silent scream, the pressure building behind his eyes and in his temples until he felt his skull might crack.

Pond, seeing the rigid line of his shoulders, took a step closer, his anger melting back into worry. "Phuwin, please, just talk to—"

It broke.

A ragged, wrenching sound tore from Phuwin’s throat, and then the tears came. They weren't gentle; they were a floodgate bursting. His body folded in on itself, shoulders shaking with the force of sobs he could no longer contain. Weeks of silence, of being the good boy, of swallowing his fears, dissolved into this torrent of utter devastation.

"Hey—hey, what's wrong?" Pond’s voice was instantly soft, alarmed. He rushed forward, reaching out to turn him, to pull him into an embrace.

Phuwin’s hand shot out, pushing against Pond’s chest with a force born of pure panic. "Don't—" he choked out, the word mangled by a sob. "Don't—"

But he couldn’t finish. The images overwhelmed him, crashing together in a horrific collage. The smiling couples in the sterile hallways, their eyes sliding past him. The suitcase by the door of a temporary home, ready to be moved again. The feeling of borrowed love being gently taken back. And over it all, the clearest image of all: Pond and Tanai, walking side-by-side into the night, their figures blurring into every person who had ever chosen someone else, who had ever left him behind. The loneliness wasn’t a memory; it was a living thing, and it had its hands around his throat, strangling the words into fractured, helpless weeping. He stood there, broken and trembling, pushing away the very touch he craved, because in his shattered heart, it already felt like a goodbye.

His hands, trapped between their bodies, pressed weakly against Pond’s chest, a final, futile attempt to guard the raw, screaming place inside him. But Pond was insistent, his arms like gentle steel bands closing around Phuwin’s trembling frame. He pulled him in, disregarding the resistance, until Phuwin’s forehead was buried against the soft cotton of his shirt, the familiar scent of their laundry detergent and Pond’s skin cutting through the haze of panic.

“It’s okay, love,” Pond murmured, his voice a low, steady vibration against Phuwin’s temple. The endearment, usually a spark of warmth, now felt like a lifeline thrown into a stormy sea. “Shhh, just let it out. I’ve got you.”

Phuwin’s body, rigid with the effort of containing a lifetime of quiet goodbyes, began to buckle. The sobs wracked him, violent and shuddering, each one tearing from a place so deep it felt primordial. Pond held him through all of it. One of his hands swept in slow, firm circles over the knotted muscles of Phuwin’s back, a tactile anchor. The other cradled the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his hair, not trying to stop the tears but simply containing them, holding the broken pieces together.

Phuwin could hear the strong, steady drum of Pond’s heartbeat against his ear, a stark counter-rhythm to his own frantic, hiccuping breaths. That sound, more than any word, began to puncture the paralyzing fear.

“Just breathe,” Pond whispered, his own breath stirring Phuwin’s hair. “Match me, okay? In… and out.” He took an exaggerated, slow breath, his chest expanding against Phuwin’s. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

The words were simple, almost meaningless in the face of Phuwin’s cataclysm, but it was the voice that carried them—the unwavering tenderness, the absolute lack of anger or retreat. Pond didn’t ask for explanations yet. He didn’t demand to be let in. He simply stood as a dam against the flood, his presence a silent promise that he would not let Phuwin be swept away.

Slowly, agonizingly, the tornado of grief began to lose its force. The sobs dissolved into hitching breaths and quiet, exhausted tears that seeped into Pond’s shirt. The violent trembling in his shoulders subsided to a faint quiver. He was still trapped in the web, but the threads were no longer pulling him apart; they were just there, a sticky, painful reminder. 

Pond seemed to understand that words were still beyond reach, that the only language that could possibly bridge the chasm was one of action. With infinite care, he began to undo the artifacts of the difficult night.

His fingers went to the first button of Phuwin’s stiff, smoke-scented club shirt. He worked slowly, button after button, his movements unhurried and deliberate, as if undoing a delicate piece of art. There was no urgency, only a quiet focus. He peeled the fabric from Phuwin’s shoulders, letting it fall away, and Phuwin felt a little lighter, a little more real. In its place, Pond guided his arms into the sleeves of a worn, black cotton shirt. It settled over his skin, impossibly soft, smelling faintly of detergent and, underneath, the unmistakable, comforting scent of Pond himself. The shirt was a few sizes too large, the hem brushing his thighs, the sleeves swallowing his hands. It was not his own; it was a piece of Pond’s world, offered as shelter.

Next came the grey sweatpants, lifted from the drawer. Pond knelt, holding them open, and Phuwin stepped into them, one foot then the other. The familiar, brushed-soft material whispered against his skin, a known and beloved comfort. It was a small thing, but in that moment, it felt like an act of profound grace—being dressed in what felt like peace.

Pond led him to the edge of their bed, the sheets cool and inviting. He guided Phuwin to sit, then turned to the dresser, opening the second drawer without a moment’s hesitation. From within, he retrieved Phuwin’s small, familiar pouch—the one that held the rituals of his skin. The simple act of knowing exactly where it was, of fetching it without being asked, sent a fresh, quiet ache through Phuwin’s chest.

Pond knelt on the floor before him, the posture one of tender service. He unscrewed the cap of the moisturizer, and the bright, clean scent of tangerines bloomed in the space between them. He warmed a dollop between his palms, then, with hands impossibly soft and deliberate, began to apply it to Phuwin’s legs.

This was not a hurried slather. It was a slow, methodical massage. Pond’s palms glided up his calves, his thumbs applying gentle pressure along the muscle in the exact way Phuwin did when he was tired. He moved to his arms, his hands smoothing over the skin from wrist to shoulder, following the same pattern, paying attention to the same spots Phuwin always did—the dry patch near the elbow, the inside of the wrist. He was not just applying cream; he was re-enacting a ritual, with a studious, loving precision that stole the air from Phuwin’s lungs.

Then, Pond turned his attention to Phuwin’s face. With fingertips feather-light, he began the Phuwin's routine. First the toner, patted gently onto his cheeks and forehead. Then the serum, dabbed and smoothed with a careful, circular motion. Finally, the rich night cream, worked in with the same focused tenderness. Pond’s brow was furrowed slightly in concentration, his eyes tracing the lines of Phuwin’s face as if it were a map he knew by heart, ensuring every inch received its due care. He focused on the areas Phuwin always fussed over—the space between his eyebrows, the curve under his eyes—his touch so light it felt almost like a memory.

When the last of the cream was absorbed, Pond leaned in. He placed a single, soft kiss on Phuwin’s lips, a kiss that tasted of tangerines and silent understanding. It was a seal on the ritual, a gentle punctuation mark.

The whole process had been so warm, so utterly gentle, that it unraveled something even deeper than the earlier sobs. A new wave of tears welled up, silent and hot, spilling over and tracing paths through the freshly moisturized skin. They were not tears of panic, but of a devastating, overwhelming realization. It was as if Pond had memorized every single detail about him. As if the way Phuwin cared for himself was so important, so sacred, that it had been branded onto Pond’s brain and hands. This was more than comfort; it was an act of deep, intimate knowing. He was being seen, not in his polished performance, but in his private, vulnerable routines, and being cherished precisely for them.

Pond watched the tears fall, his own eyes soft. He reached up, his thumb catching a droplet on its way to Phuwin’s jaw. “Hey,” he whispered, his voice a low, warm rumble. “You’re going to ruin my hard work.” But there was no reproach in it, only a boundless affection. He took Phuwin’s hand, the one swallowed by the black shirt’s sleeve, and held it between both of his. Then he brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss, soft and lingering, to the knuckles. It was a promise, a vow, written not in grand words, but in tangerine scent, in soft cotton, and in the flawless memory of how to make Phuwin feel, inch by inch, like he was home.

Pond leaned in, his breath a warm caress against Phuwin’s damp cheek, and placed another soft kiss there. He lingered, his forehead resting gently against Phuwin’s temple. “Hey,” he whispered, the words barely audible. “Are you ready to tell me what’s wrong? Or would you rather just sleep? We can talk tomorrow. Whatever you need.”

Phuwin felt the offer like a soft blanket, tempting him to hide beneath its shelter. The emotions inside him were a snarled, impossible knot—fear, longing, shame, a desperate love so sharp it cut. For a second, he wanted to take the escape, to bury his face in Pond’s chest and pretend the world outside their room didn’t exist. But the web was still there, sticky and real, and he knew silence would only let it grow stronger in the dark.

“Do you like Tanai?”

The question fell into the quiet room, small and brittle, just the visible tip of the massive, submerged iceberg of his hurt.

Pond pulled back just enough to see his face. “What?” His confusion was plain, unfeigned. “Yeah, like… like a friend? Are you worried about me liking him more than friends?"

The dam, once cracked, could not hold. “You’re always with him,” Phuwin said, the words gaining a desperate momentum. “And you talk about how great he is. You talk about Crimson Blood with him and not with me anymore. And he makes the dessert that you love better than me. And you run together and you—you—” His breath hitched, coming in shallow, painful gasps that burned his aching throat.

Pond shook his head vigorously, his hands finding and clasping Phuwin’s. “No. No. Absolutely not. He’s— I’ve never,” he stopped, gathering himself. “I’ve never really had a friend before, you know? Not like this. He’s my first real friend, so I guess I was just… excited about it. That’s why I always talked about him with you. I don’t see him as anything more than a friend. And—”

“But he’s better.”

“Don’t say stupid things,” Pond said, his tone firm, his eyes burning.

“It’s not stupid!” The cry was torn from him. “He’s… he’s real. Like you.”

“Real? Phuwin—”

“You said it too.” The memory was a blade, twisted. “Remember? You said I was fake. That I was empty. Nothing more than a performance.”

Pond’s face crumpled. In an instant, he engulfed Phuwin in a crushing hug, his arms locking around him so tightly it almost stole the air from his lungs, as if he could press the painful memory out of existence. When he pulled away, there were tears shimmering in his own eyes.

“I was being cruel, Phuwin.”

“But it was true. You were right.”

“No, I fucking wasn’t.” Pond’s voice broke. “I was— Phuwin, look at me.”

Phuwin forced his gaze up, and what he saw in Pond’s eyes made him want to flinch away. It was a fierce, blazing honesty, raw and unprotected. He’d never seen such a look on Pond’s face before.

“I was hurt and I was lashing out. I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong. I said it and regretted it the second the words left my mouth. That’s why I called you back then. Why I apologised immediately. Even in my stupid anger, I knew. I knew I was wrong.”

Phuwin shook his head, the old wound pulsing. The performance. It was all he had. “My whole life has been a performance,” he whispered, the confession spilling out like blood from a reopened vein. “Trying to impress new couples so they’d pick me. Trying to be perfect so foster parents wouldn’t bring me back. I got so good at it. Behind the bar… it was never just a job. It was all I had. At least there people always adore me, look at me. It doesn’t matter who I am inside, if it's the real me they are seeing, as long as they look. What if I'm just like him? Just like Kon.”

“Phuwin—”

“Do you know why I slept with him on my birthday?”

Pond went still, just shaking his head slowly, his own tears tracing silent paths down his cheeks.

“You didn’t call.” The words were a bare, shattered whisper. “I was so alone. Kon, he… it was like I hung the moon. He was always looking at me. And I—I was wrong, I know. You don’t do that when you know someone has a boyfriend. I was wrong.” A ragged sob escaped, shaking his entire frame. “But I just wanted someone to finally pick me. I’m so tired of being left behind. I just wanted… I just wanted to be…”

He couldn’t finish. The sentence was lost in the suffocating grief of a lifetime of temporary addresses and conditional love.

Pond’s hands came up, cradling Phuwin’s face, his thumbs sweeping over the torrent of tears. 

Then he kissed him.

It was a kiss full of desperate, aching passion, salty from their mingled tears. Pond’s lips were soft but insistent, moving against his with a fervor that spoke of apology, of fear, of a love so vast it was terrifying. His hands held Phuwin’s face like something infinitely precious, anchoring him to the moment, to the truth of the mouth against his own.

When they parted, both were breathless. Pond didn’t let go, keeping their foreheads pressed together.

“I pick you,” Pond breathed, the words a vow spoken into the scant space between them. “I will always pick you.”

He caressed Phuwin’s cheeks, then leaned in for another, softer kiss, a seal on the promise.

“Phuwin, I—I’m not good with words,” he stammered, his own voice thick. “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like that. But to me… to me, you are the realest person I’ve ever met. Even when you think you’re just putting on a performance, that’s still you. You always say what you think. You never pretend to like something you don’t or to dislike something you like. You never play nice with people you don't like. You never talk behind anyone's back, if someone does something you don't like, you just tell them. You’re charming and fun, not because you’re pretending, but because that’s how you are. You are sweet and caring. You always help, even people you don’t know. Phuwin, you’re not perfect. You make mistakes.” He let out a wet, shaky laugh, his own sobs breaking through. “But you are perfect to me. I’ve never felt like this. Sometimes, I look at you and it feels like I’m going to explode because of how much I love you. I’ve never been in love before. What I had with Natt… it wasn’t this. It was never this. You don't have to perform with me. I love you the way you are, even when you are not perfect. Even when you make mistakes. You are my family, okay? Phuwin, you are my family.”

It was too much. The words, so fierce and unwavering, shattered something in him. Phuwin cried, great, heaving sobs that felt like they were cleansing an old, deep poison. He fell forward, his arms looping around Pond’s neck, clinging to him as if to the only solid thing in a dissolving world.

“Please don’t leave me,” he begged, the plea muffled against Pond’s skin, the voice of an eight-year-old and the man he became, fused together in one raw fear.

Pond held him, rocking them gently, his own tears falling into Phuwin’s hair. “Never,” he whispered, the word absolute. “I will never leave you.”

The tears started to soften them, leaving their edges blurred and their souls tenderly exposed. The fierce embrace gentled, but the current of need between them only deepened, transforming from a torrent of reassurance into a slow, deep river of need. Pond’s hands, which had been holding Phuwin together, began to move with a new intention—not to comfort a breaking, but to worship what was whole.

He kissed Phuwin again, softer now, a silent question. Phuwin answered by melting into him, his fingers threading into the hair at the nape of Pond’s neck. It was permission, an invitation. Pond’s lips trailed from Phuwin’s mouth, along his jaw, finding the delicate skin beneath his ear. He kissed there, just a brush of his lips, and Phuwin gasped. Every nerve felt raw and alive, hyper-aware. The emotional storm had scraped him clean, leaving him exquisitely sensitive.

“I love you,” Pond whispered against the fluttering pulse in his throat, the words a warm vibration that travelled straight to Phuwin’s core. “So much, Phuwin. I love you.”

His lips descended to the column of Phuwin’s neck, kissing a slow, deliberate path downward. Each touch was a brand of possession and devotion. Phuwin’s head fell back, a soft sigh escaping him. He could feel everything—the slight scratch of Pond’s teeth, the impossible softness of his lips, the heat of his breath. It wasn’t just physical; it felt like Pond was tracing the very map of his being, committing him to memory.

Pond’s hands went to the hem of the oversized black shirt. He looked up, his eyes dark and serious. “Can I?” he breathed.

Phuwin could only nod, his voice lost in the overwhelming sensation. Pond lifted the soft cotton up and over his head, discarding it with reverence. The cool air of the room kissed Phuwin’s skin, but it was quickly replaced by the searing heat of Pond’s gaze. He stared, his eyes drinking in the sight.

“You are so beautiful,” Pond said, the words awed and certain. “Every part of you. So beautiful.”

He leaned in, not to take, but to offer. He placed an open-mouthed kiss over Phuwin’s heart, feeling its frantic rhythm against his lips. His hands skated down Phuwin’s sides, over the waistband of the soft grey sweatpants, settling on his hips.

“I love you,” he repeated, as if it were the only truth that mattered. His mouth returned to Phuwin’s neck, suckling gently at the juncture of his shoulder, a sensation that made Phuwin arch off the bed with a broken cry. “I love you here.” A kiss to his collarbone. “And here.” A lick along his sternum.

Pond’s own shirt joined Phuwin’s on the floor, and then it was skin against skin, a shock of heat and smoothness that stole the breath from both of them. Pond settled over him, supporting his weight on his forearms, blanketing Phuwin in warmth and safety. He kissed him deeply, pouring every unspoken promise into it.

“My beautiful Phuwin,” he murmured against his lips. “My pretty, perfect love. You feel that? That’s all for you. Everything I am is yours.”

His hand slid down, slipping beneath the elastic of Phuwin’s sweatpants. He wrapped his fingers around him, and the touch, so intimate and sure, drew a ragged sob from Phuwin’s throat. It wasn’t just pleasure; it was an affirmation. Pond’s thumb swept over the sensitive head, his rhythm agonizingly slow and perfect.

“Look at me,” Pond whispered. Phuwin’s tear-filled eyes fluttered open, meeting Pond’s intense gaze. “I love you. I’m not going anywhere. I am yours forever.”

With every stroke, with every whispered “I love you” breathed into his skin, the last remnants of fear dissolved. They were replaced by this—by the solid weight of Pond above him, by the tender assault on his neck, by the loving words that washed over the old wounds of being “used” and made him feel cherished.

Pond’s other hand came up to cradle Phuwin’s face, his thumb stroking his cheekbone as his body moved in a slow, relentless rhythm against him. The friction, the intimacy of being touched so thoroughly and lovingly by the person who knew his deepest cracks, was overwhelming.

“Come for me,” Pond urged, his voice husky with his own restrained need. “Let me feel you. I’ve got you. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

The words were the final key. Pleasure, white-hot and cleansing, ripped through Phuwin, tearing a cry from his lungs that was part sob, part release. He shook with the force of it, his body bowing into Pond’s, every nerve alight. Through the haze, he felt Pond’s own release, a hot rush against his stomach, accompanied by a choked, fervent “Phuwin…” against his neck.

For long moments, they simply lay tangled, breathing each other’s air, their hearts hammering a synchronized beat. Pond, ever careful, reached for a discarded shirt to clean them both with a tenderness that made Phuwin’s eyes well up anew. Then he pulled the covers over them and gathered Phuwin close, tucking him against his side, Phuwin’s head finding its home on his chest.

He pressed a kiss to Phuwin’s sweaty temple. “I love you,” he said again, the words now a soft, sleepy mantra. 

And in the warm, sated, whispered-afterglow, Phuwin finally understood. This was what it felt like when someone not only picked you, but chose you, again and again, with every touch, every word, every heartbeat in the dark. It wasn’t ephemeral. It was forever, solid and warm in his arms.

The quiet that settled over them was a living thing, soft and deep, a comfortable, breathable peace. Phuwin’s ear was pressed to the steady drum of Pond’s heart, a rhythm that now felt like his own personal lullaby. Pond’s fingers traced idle, soothing patterns on the bare skin of Phuwin’s back.

Into the warm darkness, Pond’s voice rumbled gently beneath his cheek. “You know… that day. Your birthday.”

Phuwin tensed, a faint flicker of the old shame returning.

“I didn’t call because I had a surprise,” Pond continued, his hand stilling, holding Phuwin a little closer. “A stupid, big surprise.”

“A surprise?” Phuwin whispered, the word muffled against Pond’s skin.

Pond hummed, a low, regretful sound. “When I showed up at your place later… it was to bring you back to my place. I’d spent the whole day setting everything up. I was going to tell you… that I loved you. For the first time.”

The air left Phuwin’s lungs in a soft rush. He remembered the growing silence, the crushing feeling of being forgotten. He’d never imagined a why. He’d only felt the absence.

Pond’s voice was soft with the memory. “I decorated my whole living room. Like in that sappy movie you love so much, with the fairy lights and all those white roses and baby's breath and ivy. I spent the whole day cooking your favourite dishes.”

A soft, wounded sound escaped Phuwin. He burrowed his face deeper into Pond’s chest, his arms tightening around him as if he could travel back in time and hug the lonely, hopeful man preparing a declaration of love that would never be heard.

“I’m sorry,” Phuwin breathed, the apology for so much more than just missing a surprise. “I ruined it.”

He felt Pond’s head shake vigorously above him. “No. I ruined it. By being an idiot who thought a grand gesture was more important than just telling you how I felt.” His voice grew firmer, laced with a new resolve. “I’ll be more careful from now on. I’ll make sure you always know. You will never, ever feel forgotten or abandoned again. Not by me. That’s my promise.”

The words sank into Phuwin, warmer than any blanket. They didn’t erase the past—the lonely child, the insecure man—but they began to gently soften its edges, like water over a sharp stone. 

He tilted his head up, finding Pond’s lips in the dark for a kiss that was less about passion and more about sealing a pact. It was soft, lingering, and tasted of salt and forgiveness.

When they parted, Phuwin settled back against the steady heartbeat. “You can keep telling me,” he murmured, a shy, hopeful note in his voice. “The surprise. What you had planned to say.”

Pond let out a soft chuckle, his chest vibrating. He pressed his lips to Phuwin’s hair. “I love you, Phuwin,” he said, the words clear and sure, filling the room more completely than any fairy lights ever could. “I loved you then. I love you now. I'll love you forever.”

And in the safe, quiet dark, held in the arms of his forever, Phuwin finally believed it. The conviction of Pond’s promise, the warmth of his skin, acted like a soft, clean light penetrating the deepest corners where the spider had spun its chaos. He felt it then—not a violent tear, but a gentle unraveling.

The threads that had squeezed his heart went slack, their constricting pressure melting away like frost under a morning sun. The sticky lattice that had clouded his thoughts and distorted his sight dissolved, fiber by fiber, until his mind felt clear, open to the simple truth of Pond’s heartbeat against his ear. The silken noose at his throat, which had choked his words and breath, simply came undone, leaving him able to swallow, to sigh, to speak without the old, familiar ache.

The spider  was still there. It would always be there, a skittering whisper in the quiet moments, a part of his anatomy he had learned to carry. It would try again, as it always did. On a future bad day, in a moment of doubt, it would attempt to spin its first, exploratory thread. But now, Phuwin knew what the light felt like. He knew the solid ground of a promise kept. He knew the exact sound of a heartbeat that chose his as its counterpart. The spider could try. But the web would never hold like it once did; its anchor was gone, its foundation washed away by something far more powerful.

For now, in the sanctuary of their bed, the spider was just a shadow in the corner, powerless. And Phuwin, wrapped in the tangible proof of a love that was real and chosen, let the last of the strands float away on the quiet rhythm of Pond’s breath, finally free to rest.