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That’s sure he’s dreaming.
He can think of no other explanation as to why his luck had suddenly turned around the way it did. How else could Tan have been there, purpose in each of his steps and a definite finality to each strike he’d landed on the guy with the gun? How else could That have mustered up the strength to stand on shaky legs and stiff ankles? How else could he have lifted a nearby piece of debris with his shoulder burning in pain, and bring it down on the guy’s head with a teeth chattering thud?
It’s weird, That thinks, that even in his dreams he’s capable of feeling dizzy, but was that so surprising? After all, he’d been able to feel the sun in his eyes even amidst a dream, before Sorn’s hand had replaced his own, curved to block out the sun as they rode alongside it.
The next thing he knows, Tan’s groaning in pain, hauling himself up to his feet with urgency.
“Go!” Tan barks in his ear, his grip vice-like around That’s hand, his other at the middle of his back, ushering him forward. That goes, his legs still somewhat shaky, his shoulder still burning, and after a minute or two of tripping over tree roots and stumbling over his own two feet, Tan’s half dragging him onward, muttering something along the lines of what in the hell did they do to you, and come on, keep going, almost there.
That has this thought, as they’re coming up to the clearing, that his dreams could be rather kind—but then as Tan guides them toward Inspector M cautiously, the rear lights of a vehicle shining in their eyes, That has the immediate thought of: oh, no. Hazy as his mind might be, That can still read the tension rolling off the Inspector’s body. He glances between him and Tan, heart dropping to the pit of his stomach as Tan raises an eyebrow expectantly only to get a slow shake of the head in return.
Maybe his dreams weren’t so kind, after all.
“It’s all right,” Tan says, but his voice is hard, and the set of his shoulders tells That that he’s beyond pissed off. “We’ll get her back, but for now…” he says, and reaches out to pull That closer to him, forcing him to give way to some of his weight. “We should get going.”
“Huh?” That looks up quickly, wincing at the dull throb of pain that came with the motion. “Where, Hia?”
The inspector spares him a quick glance before nodding in agreement. “I’ll make sure you’re not followed,” he says, and after a nod from Tan, he sets off toward the trees where the worn dirt path meets the main road.
“Come on,” Tan murmurs, and with an arm around That’s shoulder, he guides them in the same direction. “Careful, watch your step.”
“Hia, where are we going?” That tries again, and he only has a moment to feel bad that he’s walking so slowly before he realizes that Tan is matching his pace, mindful of how he’s limping. He’s amazed that his brother is so calm, bewildered by the fact that Tan could even spare a thought to be mindful considering the situation, but then That remembers that this is a dream, and so far none of his dreams have ended in fear.
“Don’t worry,” his brother assures gently, kicking away a gnarled tree limb from their path, “it’s somewhere safe.”
It’s when they’re nearing the car, with the low beams of Inspector M’s truck illuminating the area, that he asks the one question that’s been burning his tongue before he can stop himself.
“Is Sorn okay?”
Tan pauses, motionless. That stands there, knuckles white with how hard he’s gripping the side of the car door as he waits. He watches Tan’s face closely, and with the low light from the truck behind them, he’s able to see the way his brother lifts an eyebrow, and he’s able to see the corners of his lips quirk up into a smile he seems to be fighting against. That isn’t sure whether he should read too much into it or not, but before he can decide whether or not to look any closer, Tan has schooled his expression.
“Yeah,” Tan tells him gently. “He’s just fine.”
“Okay,” That mumbles, mostly to himself as he gingerly turns to climb into the car. “Okay,” he says again, simply to ground himself, even if in his own dream.
*
That tries hard not to think too much about this feeling in the pit of his stomach as they turn down an unmarked driveway. He jostles along with the car, gritting his teeth as the tires dip into potholes, but even the discomfort is unable to conquer over the way his skin crawls. It’s something he cannot quite put a name to, but if given the choice, this feeling would be anticipation. His stomach twists in knots, and there’s a particular tightness in his throat that’s so uncomfortable it hurts. That cannot help but wonder if this is really a dream. It feels real, and it seems so much more vibrant than usual, but what else could this be?
Gradually, the car slows to a stop until Tan turns off the engine completely, the beams from the headlights melting into the night.
“Let’s go,” Tan murmurs.
That nods vaguely, climbing out of the car just as gingerly as when he got in. He shuts the door behind him, leaning against the side of the car as he makes his way to the front. That doesn’t shake off Tan’s hands, letting his brother support him as they head toward the door—but before they can get too far, he pauses. He looks around, wary of the unfamiliar surroundings as he narrows his eyes. “Where is this, Hia?” he slurs.
“My home,” Tan tells him simply, ushering him forward. “Put your arm around my shoulder. I don’t want you to fall.”
That makes a vague noise and readily complies, not a mutter of complaint leaving him as his brother takes half his weight again. He lets Tan guide him forward, and he tries to be mindful of the cracks in the sidewalk, but he barely manages to lift his feet enough not to almost trip. Hazily, he is aware of apologies slipping past his lips, but Tan is quick to ease him with gentle words: it’s fine, you’re all right, we’re almost there.
“Don’t fall,” Tan says then, shifting so he’s able to throw the door wide open.
He’s guided into the house with a hand to his sternum and the small of his back, but before That can even wince at the touch, a familiar voice greets his ears.
“P’That!”
That stands there, absolutely dumbfounded as Sorn rushes toward him. He cannot do much else but let Sorn take his hands in his own, gentle and warm, too tired to even put up much of a fight. This, too, feels undeniably strange—it feels real, familiar, just like the time Sorn’s hands had been tending to the wound on his shoulder. It feels so utterly jarring that That cannot help but feel a bit taken back. He glances down, watching as Sorn moves his arms to inspect for injury, as Sorn’s knuckles turn white with how fiercely he holds onto his hand, but more than the question of whether or not this is a dream or reality, he ends up asking the exact same question he’d already gotten an answer to.
“Are you okay?” he asks hoarsely, uncaring of Tan’s eyes on them.
Sorn looks up at him, disbelieving and slightly exasperated. “I’m fine,” he insists immediately, “but you…!” Sorn drops his hand and brings it up to the side of That’s face that’s considerably less bruised. He places his hand there gently, mindful, the palm of his hand barely even touching That’s cheek. Sorn doesn’t care that Mr. Tan is looking right at them, doesn’t even care that Doctor Bun might be, too. The only thing he can focus on is That, and that he’s here, in front of him, battered and bruised and shit, he thinks, you could have died. “Who did this to you?” he asks, heart lodged in his throat as he looks at the bruises on his face, purple and blue and greenish yellow. Sorn knows that it’s silly to ask, because what could he even do, but it didn’t stop him from insisting. “Hurry and tell me!”
That shakes his head, and no one in the room knows this, but for a moment he thinks that maybe he’s died. Maybe this is the ‘what could have been’ the deities are showing him in place of the reel of his memories. He looks down at Sorn’s hand, fingers wrapped around his wrist loosely, and after he leans into the touch a bit more just for indulgence sake, he shakes his head some more. That brings up his free hand and knocks Sorn’s hand away, not quite believing that the guy in front of him is real.
“These injuries aren’t enough to kill me,” he tells him, and he tries to smile, he does—but he’s sure that it’s weary and strained, especially since all he gets out of Sorn is another disbelieving, sad look. That doesn’t stop him as he brings up his hand again, returning it right where it had been in the first place. The movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention, though, and when he looks, Tan’s stepping away from them, a grin plastered on his face as he shakes his head, but That can’t really bring himself to think too much about it. Not when Sorn uncurls his fingers from his wrist only to bring that same hand up to the bruised side of his face, but instead of setting his hand right against the bruises, he sets it against the side of That’s neck.
That lets Sorn touch him, lets him turn his head this way and that way to inspect for wounds and more bruises. It makes him wonder what this is—reality, a dream, a little piece of heartbreak before his soul goes elsewhere? He feels at peace, strangely enough. Sorn’s touch is achingly gentle, as are his prodding fingertips, and he doesn’t even mind that the guy is moving him around like a ragdoll. That lets Sorn do as he pleases, uncaring that his fingers thread through the back of his hair, careful as they feel for bumps.
He can feel eyes on them—curious and amused, but Tan and Bun’s gazes do not feel searing. That can only think, again, that he feels at quite at peace. The pain in his body has dulled to a quiet ache, and although it’s still rather uncomfortable, he figures he can settle for it. He’s distantly aware of the other’s voices, but he does not bother to pay them any attention. That is content enough to let this moment be, satisfied enough to just let himself be fawned over, fighting to keep his expression as neutral as possible as Sorn’s hands slide down to his shoulders, his biceps, down to his forearms and back to his hands again.
“By the way, That.” Bun’s voice disrupts the tranquility of the moment. The both of them turn their heads toward his voice, watching as Bun gestures to a spot behind them. “Sorawit prepared the bedding for you over there.”
That lolls his head back toward Sorn and then to the side, taking in the carefully folded bedding against the wall. A strange mixture of emotions flares up in his chest, and this time he cannot completely control the way his lips quirk up in a smile. He brings up a hand only to squeeze Sorn’s shoulder, and asks, “where are you going to sleep?” before using his shoulder as leverage to limp past him.
Sorn turns along with him, already missing the warmth and solidity of That’s hand in his own. He gestures vaguely toward where Mr. Tan and Doctor Bun are sitting and says, “I can sleep on the sofa later.” He watches as That clambers down, unable to stop the way he automatically reaches out to help. A part of Sorn feels sad watching him—he moves gingerly, so careful, a lot less fluidly than he had the last time he saw him, and no, Sorn thinks, swallowing against the lump in his throat, don’t think about that. A string of words pass through his mind, and although it would be more for his own sake and peace of mind than That’s, he cannot stop himself from blurting the question aloud.
“Aren’t you going to invite me to sleep with you?” he asks, and for a moment he worries that he shouldn’t have said anything to begin with, but then That’s just… looking at him. Sorn can’t really read his expression, but he has seen the angry furrow of That’s eyebrows, and he’s seen the disgusted curl of his upper lip. All he can see now is That’s smile—bashful and boyish with his hair falling into his eyes, so different from his usual teasing smirks that Sorn cannot quite believe that the view is for him.
“Just sleep on the sofa,” That tells him, and still that smile stays curled on his lips. “It’s much more comfortable.”
“No,” Sorn argues, and it’s then he wonders why he even put together the bedding anyways. A part of him knows—a little voice in the back of his mind, so tiny that he can almost ignore it as it screams the answer to him. Almost. Sorn tries not to listen, though, because the implications are still fresh, still kind of embarrassing, and it’s too much now that That is finally in front of him. Instead, he reaches out a hand and squeezes That’s knee, plopping down on the bedding right next to him. “You deserve it,” Sorn insists, gesturing to where the other two in the room are seated, uncaring that their gazes and smiles are fond and knowing. “You should sleep there.”
“Deserve it?” That mutters like he doesn’t believe it, and reaches over to shove at Sorn’s bandaged knee in retaliation—but instead of shoving or poking back, Sorn just scrunches up his nose in discomfort and scoots closer with a laugh. With barely any space between them, That can feel Sorn’s warmth, and it’s then he wonders once more what this is. If a dream, he wonders why he hasn’t woken up yet—and if a little piece of heartbreak before his soul goes elsewhere, then… maybe, he thinks, he won’t ever want to open his eyes.
That looks over at Sorn, more content than ever as he reaches over, hand catching in the curtain in his journey to bury his fingers in the other’s hair. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Tan and Bun whispering back and forth; can see Tan pull the doctor closer, tucking him in against his side. A part of him wants to laugh at the way the doctor shies away, nodding in his and Sorn’s general direction—but then Sorn’s hand is ruffling his hair, taking away all of his attention with a wide smile, but not until he has another thought.
He wonders, for a moment, if things were different, would they still somehow end up as they are now?
*
It’s after Sorn untangles himself from That, and when Tan and Bun retreat upstairs, that Sorn insists on making him instant noodles. That refuses at first, unsure whether or not his stomach could handle such a drastic change in diet, but Sorn thoroughly insists, telling him that he looks like a gust of wind could knock him over.
Once more, That finds himself letting Sorn do as he pleases.
It’s a bit comforting, he thinks, hearing Sorn rummage around in the kitchen, and it gives him time to try and sort through his thoughts. He struggles against his own tiredness (was it possible to be tired, even in a dream?) and lets his gaze travel around the room. It looks well kept and homey, such a stark contrast to the home of Tan’s he was used to—but was this really one of Tan’s homes? That never thought he had much of an imagination; you didn’t really need one so grand in this line of work, just enough quick wit and fast feet to get out of any situation you wouldn’t want to be in. It only convinces him further that this is some kind of strange ‘beyond the veil’ thing he’s being shown before all he sees is darkness and ghosts.
He sighs, gritting his teeth as he shifts on the makeshift bed. He hurts all over, and now that the rush of seeing(?) Sorn again has dissipated, it makes the pain all the more unbearable. His ribs ache, and his ankles hurt, and his face hurts so much that he’s surprised his eyes aren’t swollen shut, but then Sorn’s footfalls are coming closer and closer, each taptaptap of his bare feet against the floor dulling his pain, even by just a little.
He looks up just in time to see Sorn smile at him, steaming bowl in hand.
“Can you sit up a little more, P’That?”
That hums, grimacing as he pushes himself up against the wall a bit more. He watches as Sorn sits down beside him cautiously, and now that he’s really looking at him, That sees he’s got something tucked under his arm. “What’s that?” he asks, nodding toward whatever Sorn’s got under his arm. That takes the bowl of noodles when offered, blowing away the steam as he sets it in his lap carefully.
“A first aid kit I found in the kitchen,” Sorn tells him. He tries not to watch That eat, but he can’t help it. His eyes follow That’s hand, watchful as the guy beside him blows on the noodles before finally opening his mouth. Sorn looks away, then, preoccupying himself with opening up the small white box in his lap. “I thought it’d be good to treat your wounds.”
“Don’t have any,” That says, dismissive, around a mouthful of noodles.
“You do too,” Sorn hisses, lightly knocking his foot against the other’s leg. “You… should probably shower, but you’re definitely too tired for that, right? You can always do that later, but for now we should treat your wounds.”
“You gonna help with that, too?”
“Huh?” Sorn looks up, brows furrowed as he watches That tilt the bowl to drink the broth. A part of him is glad he’s eating well, and another part of him is beyond confused. He glances away only to look right back at him. “I… I mean, uh. I can. If you need help, I can.”
“I was only teasing,” That tells him, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips, and oh, Sorn thinks, there it is—but it still looks… off. Sorn watches as That stares into the half empty bowl, and he can’t help but wonder what it is he’s thinking, what it is he’s really seeing. He almost looks… lost, his eyes blank yet wandering all at the same time, and it’s then Sorn realizes that That’s had that look in his eyes ever since he stepped through the threshold, ever since he’d rushed toward him only to put his hands on him, making sure he was warm and solid and real.
Sorn isn’t sure where the sudden spike of anxiety comes from, but there it is, lodged in his throat. He leans forward, unsure whether or not it was okay to touch That—but in the end, he does. Sorn reaches out, ignoring the way his fingers shake, and places his hand on That’s forearm.
“P’That?” he murmurs.
“Uh…” That shakes his head absentmindedly, clearing his throat as he looks up. He offers Sorn the bowl, grimacing at the motion. “I don’t think I can eat anymore.”
“It’s okay, P’That,” Sorn says gently. He sets the first aid kit to the side and takes the bowl. “We’ll save it for you, for later. Stay right there,” he adds as he gets up, careful of the bowl in his hands. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where else would I go,” That murmurs as Sorn shuffles away.
True to his word, Sorn comes back so quickly that That hadn’t even had time to piece together what it was he was feeling. He watches as Sorn settles down beside him again, watches as he takes the first aid kit into his lap only to take out the things he needs, and he stares blankly at the hand Sorn offers him, palm side up. That glances up at him, and the confusion must be so apparent on his face, because the guy beside him just sighs and wiggles his fingers expectantly.
“Give me your hand, P’,” Sorn says.
“Mm,” That hums, and does as he’s told. He gets a strange look for it in return, but before he can really wonder as to why, Sorn’s fingers are curling around his hand, once again taking all of his attention. That watches as Sorn touches his hand, mesmerized by the way Sorn’s hands are bigger than his own. Sorn cradles That’s hand in both of his own, fingertips grazing along his skin carefully—the back of his hand, over the bumps of his tattered knuckles, turning his hand over to touch the palm of his hand. That furrows his eyebrows, tilting his head as Sorn spreads his fingers, leaning over his hand. “What are you doing?”
“P’That…” Sorn looks up, hating the nasty mixture of fear and anxiety coiling around in his chest. He seems… okay enough, but still not entirely P’That—but even with a closer look, he does not see any needle marks. “Did they… did they drug you?”
“What? No!” That hisses, taken aback. He gives Sorn a strange look, one to match the one he had received moments ago, and tries to pry his hand away, but Sorn tightens his hold, unwilling to let go. “They beat me to hell, that’s what they did! What’s your problem? Aren’t you supposed to be tending to my wounds, doctor?”
“I… I just…” Sorn mumbles, shaking his head. He tries to rid of the thoughts and nagging worries floating around in his brain, but he can’t quite shove them away entirely. Even as he loosens his hold on That’s hand and squirts antiseptic onto a waiting cotton ball, Sorn can’t stop worrying. He focuses on cleaning the scrapes on the heel of That’s hand, unable to stop his brain from speculating how they might have come about. These looks like That had used his hands to brace for a fall, and when Sorn lets his eyes trail down to his wrist, he can see mild bruising and what looks like rope burn. He’s seen this in movies and shows, and hates that he has to see it on someone he cares for in real life. Sorn’s dropping the cotton ball to the side before he can stop himself, and hovers his fingertips over That’s wrist. “Did they keep you tied up, P’?”
“For the most part, yeah,” he murmurs, and offers his other wrist, which is cradled just as carefully. That watches Sorn’s face and how his expression morphs into anger, worry, and then sadness. It’s so real that it’s eerie. He has to look away. “I’d fight back, so… they had to tie up my ankles, too.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not really,” That tells him. It’s half a lie, but it seems to ease the guy next to him, and that’s all that matters.
It’s silent for a moment as Sorn cleans his other hand, dabbing at the broken skin with a cotton ball. That cannot help but think that this is just… so real. The more time passes, the longer he doesn’t wake up or open his eyes to endless darkness, the more he thinks that maybe this is legitimate—but that feeling is still there, in the pit of his stomach. His skin crawls, and his throat feels unbearably tight, and his mind races yet stills to a halt all at the same time. The more he feels like this, the less willing he is to find out what exactly is around him. Nothing shifts or blurs or seems out of place, but… still.
Maybe I’ve died, he thinks, vision blurring the sight of his hand cradled in Sorn’s, maybe I’ve really died.
“P’That?”
That blinks, shaking away all thought. He looks up, tearing his gaze away from their hands, and tilts his head. “What is it, Sorn?”
“Are you…” Sorn hesitates, brows knitted in worry. It’s uncanny, seeing That like this—he’s not really out of it, but he’s not exactly acting like his usual self, either. But Sorn has to remind himself that That had been tied up, most likely locked away in some dirty old storage shed for days on end. Of course That wouldn’t be his usual self, but also… That just wasn’t your average person. “Are you okay? You… you seem…” he trails off, unsure of what to say.
“I was just thinking. That’s all.”
Sorn opens his mouth only to shut it immediately, his hesitation halting the words. He squeezes That’s hand, holding on as if it would anchor him, but then That’s asking him exactly what he wants to say.
“You wanna know what I’m thinking?” That asks, and as Sorn nods his head, he pushes away from the wall so he’s hunched over a bit, the same as Sorn. They’re in each other’s space like this, and That finds that he can’t look Sorn in the eye. He takes in a deep breath, fighting off the grimace at the pain, and instead focuses on their hands. His hand is there, palm up, the back of his hand cradled in Sorn’s palm, while Sorn’s other hand just… hovering there, touching but not, unsure of where to go. “I was just thinking that… maybe I’ve died.”
“W-What?!” Sorn squeaks, alarmed, his eyes gone wide with shock.
“Or, uh, maybe I’m dreaming,” That adds quickly, wincing at the sudden death grip Sorn had on his hand.
“What the hell, P’That!” he gasps, and there’s that look again: disbelieving and exasperated all at once. “What makes you say that?”
“I just—I don’t know. I don’t. I just…” That lifts a shoulder in a shrug, and still does he not look Sorn’s way. If he does, what would be there? A morphed image of Sorn, distorted because he’s being punished for finally disrupting this dream, this ‘what could have been’ reel? That thinks that if he’s really already dead, that if his soul is truly going to go elsewhere, he’d much rather take the image of their hands to the other side with him than he would a gnarled image of Sorn’s face. “When… when Hia… when he showed up the way he did, I just thought… it was impossible, that it was… a dream. It wasn’t the first time I had made up some dream to keep me sane, so it… it didn’t seem farfetched, you know?” he says, and at this point he knows he’s rambling, but That cannot stop now that he’s started. “It was weird. Usually, I’d close my eyes and I’d think of you—“
“M-Me?” Sorn interrupts quickly, unsure if he’d heard that correctly.
“—yes, you, but then… but then after a while, I’d open my eyes to the same disgusting ass shed, and sometimes Nam would be there, drugged out of her mind, and sometimes she wouldn’t, and I hated it so fucking much, Sorn, I didn’t want to think, didn’t wanna know, so I just, I just—“
“P’—“
That squeezes his eyes shut, inclining his head as he adds his free hand to the pile, trapping Sorn’s hovering hand in the both of his. “I haven’t woken up yet,” he mumbles, but with Sorn so close, he knows the other hears him. “I haven’t woken up yet, so I…” That pauses, hating how weak and childish and uncool he sounds, but this far into the word vomit he’s spewed out, he knows he cannot take any of it back. That hates feeling so uncertain just as much as he hates feeling like a child. “I can’t help but wonder if I’m dead, if this is a dream, if it’s…”
“P’, h-hang on, listen… listen.” Sorn speaks softly, quiet, like he’s talking to a wounded animal. He squeezes That’s hands just as fiercely as That squeezes his, and hopes That can feel everything he wants to convey: comfort, affection, safety. Sorn wants to shower That in it, wants to help and assure him as much as possible, so that’s what he tries to do. “P’That, what… I want to know, what does it feel like?”
“Huh?” he chokes out, eyes still squeezed shut.
“Does it feel like… this is a dream?” Sorn asks, rubbing his thumbs against That’s hands. He wants to lean forward, wants to bury his face in the crown of That’s hair, but he doesn’t. Sorn stays right where he is, right where he will always be.
Yes, That thinks, breath coming out shaky as he exhales. No, he thinks, and slowly opens his eyes. That does not raise his head completely, but he does shift enough so that he can see their hands, a tangled mess between them. It calms him, and the fact that the sight does so does not surprise him in the slightest. “I don’t know,” he finally says, voice a lot more even than before.
“Does it feel like this is… real?”
No, he thinks, and then: yes, and then once again: “I don’t know.”
For a moment, Sorn doesn’t say anything, so neither does That. The moment passes quietly, calmly, and he wonders for a second if this was on purpose—if Sorn was giving him a moment to collect himself.
It works, for the most part.
“P’… can you look up at me?” Sorn asks in a murmur.
“I—“ That shakes his head, and despite the urge to glance up and look at Sorn, he doesn’t. That does not know what could be there, what he would see. He does not want to see a distorted Sorn, doesn’t want to see something so disturbing it should belong in the cinema. That finds himself thinking once more, that if this isn’t reality, he wants the last thing he sees to be their hands. “I… no.”
“That’s okay, P’,” Sorn assures quickly—so quick it was like he had already known the answer. “We can do this instead.”
“Huh?” he says, but rather than giving an answer, Sorn simply maneuvers their hands.
That watches as Sorn gently pries his hands away, and while he’s absolutely against letting go, That lets him ease away, but to his welcome surprise, it isn’t for long. He stays as he is, hunched over, an uncomfortable throb all throughout his torso, but That doesn’t pay it any heed, not when Sorn’s taking his hand in the both of his, his touch just as gentle as all the times before. It makes something in That wither, makes him feel like maybe he was a jackass, saying he didn’t know, he didn’t know—but the touch also lets him know, that no matter what, he’s forgiven. Maybe it’s not exactly what Sorn is trying to convey, but he figures he’ll take it, because that’s what the stutter of his heart tells him.
He isn’t sure what to think, though, as Sorn brings his hand up, and up some more, until Sorn’s molding the palm of his hand to the curve of his cheek. That still doesn’t look, doesn’t dare to—still too wary of what he’d see. His eyes are boring into Sorn’s chest, unwilling to travel any further.
“P’That,” Sorn calls to him quietly, and beneath his touch, That can tell that the guy is smiling. “What about now, P’?”
“Wha… huh?”
“Does this feel like a dream?” Sorn asks, pressing That’s hand against his cheek.
“I…” That mutters, swallowing against the lump in his throat. Just like before, when he’d first entered the house, Sorn is solid and warm to the touch—real, his mind supplies, real, his heart tells him. Sorn’s thumb is grazing the back of his hand, and he wants to return the gesture, but not yet. Not yet. “No,” he whispers.
“Does this feel real, P’?”
It takes him a moment to gain the courage to raise his head, but when he does, all he sees is Sorn. He looks the same as always: no distortion, no gnarled features that would haunt him for centuries on end. Just Sorn. That can feel his lips part in a shaky exhale, and it’s then he takes the time to return the gesture.
Gentler than he’d ever been before, That grazes his thumb against Sorn’s cheek. He takes his time, eyes scanning Sorn’s face as if to commit every one of his features to memory. That isn’t sure how long they stay like that, sitting there in the dim, unflattering lighting of the room, looking at each other and soothing one another with gentle touches, but he’s sure that it goes on for quite a while.
“P’That?” Sorn murmurs after some time, gently easing That back into reality.
“Yeah,” That says hoarsely, swiping this thumb against the sensitive skin beneath Sorn’s eye, “yeah… this feels real.”