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In a way, coming to the seaside is like coming home.
The sound of the waves, the shimmering hues of the blue skies, the way the briny air feels alive against his skin after the long bus ride—it’s all familiar even after all these years, almost surprisingly so, his body having folded the sensations into that pocket of memories slightly more special, slightly more vivid, slightly sharper around the edges than the rest.
In the years between now and memory, his mind had often wandered here in dreams.
They had been good dreams, mostly, if a little hazy, and if there had been any pain, it had vanished as soon as he had opened his eyes and tried to recall it.
They had been good dreams, more so than bad—of himself, of Pat, of them kissing, having sex, working at the bar, sometimes in their high school uniforms, sometimes with no clothing at all. Sometimes his mother would be there, sitting at the back, ordering a drink which he would then serve, and they would have a conversation, and it would be as unremarkably ordinary as any other conversation in the history of conversations.
They had been good dreams, in as much as he remembers them, yet, like the ocean itself, imbued with an overwhelming sense of vastness too vast to contain: an almost terrifying sense of freedom, as though looking up while on top of a tall building, a free fall which had more than once caused him to jolt awake, stirring Pat beside him who had then tightened his arm around Pran’s middle and mumbled come here baby before falling back asleep.
Do you ever dream of the beach, he had asked Pat once, but Pat had said no, had said he rarely dreams of anything, to which Pran had objected because everybody dreams, they do, Pat just can’t remember it, and Pat had only smiled, kissed the top of Pran’s head that rested on his bicep and said, “Maybe if you dreamed less you’d get more sleep.” And then, smacking his lips, sheepishly, face already tucked into a content state of half-slumber: “We were happy there, weren’t we.”
This had therefore been Pran’s idea, a plan he had conceived months ago.
He would give Pat one last getaway, give him something to remember before the next chapter that awaits them now that their time as students is over and the long corridors of adulthood around the corner. A surprise, though one which had turned out impossibly hard to guard because Pat is a little snoopy and a lot like a dog in how he seems to be able to sense Pran’s moods and whereabouts from his scent alone.
A surprise until two weeks ago exactly when a devilish hand around his cock had made him blurt it out, among other things.
I love you baby I need you I was wrong Bruce Willis was never in that movie I’ve booked us at Uncle Tong’s the day after graduation please oh my god just fuck me already, it had gone like that.
Pat’s mouth had been hungry after that, his eyes wet around the corners, and he had said, almost incredulously, “What about your mom?”, so that Pran had kissed him harder just to silence him and said, “Maybe don’t bring up my mom when we’ve got our fucking cocks out.” And then, in the afterglow, thumb smoothing the soft hairs in Pat’s neck: “The day is yours as much as it is mine and I’m not gonna act like it isn’t.”
Because it is, it is their graduation, not just Pran’s.
Pat had been there every step of the way, annoying him, distracting him, soothing him, bringing him snacks, believing in him whenever his confidence had faltered, and denying that would have been an act of cruelty against himself. They would celebrate it in a way that is theirs, or there would be no celebration at all. He would see to it.
So when his mother had suggested she book a fancy hotel to celebrate before Pran would move away, Pran had not hesitated before saying no, I’m going with a friend.
The sadness flickering in her eyes had been palpable, but maybe the years had worn her down, or maybe she had been scared of a confrontation before Pran would leave her for Singapore, but whatever the reason, she had not asked about the things Pran suspects she already knows are true. Instead, she had only rearranged the flowers in the vase and said: “Be careful in the sun.”
Pran shades his eyes from the blazing rays of the sun, quickening his step.
Uncle Tong and Junior are already waiting for them by the pier, waving their hands at them, and their smiles make a rush of warmth well up in Pran’s heart. He waves back, and then Junior is running towards him, arms flailing, jumping at him with such excitement it nearly makes Pran trip over.
“You’ve gotten taller,” Pran says and gives Junior one more squeeze as Uncle Tong’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder in a way that is almost akin to fatherly.
“Good to see you,” Uncle Tong greets him, “but where did you leave your other half?”
Pran looks at him in question, is about to say Pat was right here when a voice calls from further down the pier: “Baby, don’t leave me! My flip flop broke again!”
Pat limps towards them with a flip flop in one hand while his other hand is gripping Pran’s brand new suitcase, face twisting into an exaggerated grimace each time the sole of his bare foot meets the scorching asphalt.
“Pat!” Pran calls out in exasperation. “Tsk. Told him the bandage was a bad idea,” he mutters under his breath before turning to Uncle Yod, apologetic. “You wouldn’t happen to have a pair of flip flops he could borrow?”
Uncle Tong laughs and gives Pran’s shoulder a shake. “At least you seem to have brought your own clothes this time.”
It’s only fitting that they stay in the same guest room as the first time.
Pran had offered to pay the full price but Uncle Tong had declined, although he had made it clear not to sign up for a Master’s degree or a PhD simply in the hopes of another discount. Pran had laughed and said he would have to reconsider his plans for the future now.
The room hasn’t changed much—has barely changed at all save for a stain in the curtain Pran doesn’t think was there the last time. He can’t resist tracing a finger over the dirty fabric. Crusty, like touching a scab close to healing.
Pran opens the window to let the breeze in. The afternoon is sweltering, the curtains only billowing ever so little.
Pat has thrown himself onto the bed, claiming his usual side. His eyes are half-closed and the hem of his t-shirt has rolled up, revealing a sliver of sun-kissed skin. Pran should be used to it by now, but it still does things to him, makes him think utterly indecent thoughts in the middle of the day. He licks his lips, saving the thoughts for later.
“Let’s have a nap.” Pat’s voice is dangerously sweet. “Come,” he says, patting the empty spot next to him.
“We promised to help Junior with dinner. Get up." Pran nudges Pat’s side with his knee. “And cover yourself, people will drool.”
“Who is people, hmm?” Pat asks with an air of innocence, lips curling into a gleeful smirk. It’s hardly a secret that Pran wants him all the time.
“The people. There are people out there, Pat.”
“Can you believe the people are willing to leave this for Singapore?” Pat lifts up his t-shirt all the way to his chest, ghosting a finger over his exposed nipple just because he can.
“Get up or the people will think you don’t need dessert.”
Pat scrambles out of the bed at the threat.
“When you said help with dinner, I didn’t think it entailed having to catch the dinner,” Pat says with his mouth full of food, stretching over the table to pass Pran the soy sauce.
“You really have no future in the fishing industry,” Junior says solemnly, and Pran snickers into his hand.
It had taken them several minutes to untangle Pat from the fishing net as though he had been the most dramatic seaweed in the world. He’s lucky not even the most rugged seagoer is immune to his charm.
“It’s called equilibrium, Junior. I’m already a man of dangerously many talents.”
“Such as?”
“You can ask my boyfriend,” Pat says. His eyes glint with mischief. “He knows all about them.”
“Pat,” Pran hisses. He kicks Pat’s foot under the table, but Pat only raises an eyebrow in challenge, and Junior is still looking at him expectantly from where he’s seated beside Pat. Very well. Two people can play this game.
“He’s good at doing the dishes,” Pran says then, nonchalantly, enjoying how Pat’s eyes turn to slits before he has even finished the sentence. “I can tell you he’d love to demonstrate after this, Junior.”
The smile Pat flashes is his usual brand of wicked as he refills Pran’s glass of water to the brim. “Oh, I’m going to demonstrate it to you later, Pran, wait and see.”
“What are you guys going to do after graduation?” Uncle Tong interrupts, graciously putting an end to the battle of wills before it goes too far. “Grad school? Joining me to protect our forests and seas?”
“I have a job lined up in Singapore,” Pran says.
Junior looks surprised. “You’re leaving Thailand?”
“Only for two years. It’s better pay and better opportunity.”
He’d weighed the pros and cons countless times in his head before deciding on it, had even made several spreadsheets, three mood boards and a PowerPoint presentation to boot. It’s a great career opportunity, and he could use the money. They could use the money. For a house deposit, for a better air conditioner, for the dog Pat so desperately wants—they need to start saving up.
Pat won’t downright say it, but Pran can tell Pat’s relationship with his father has been damaged to a point in which he is no longer comfortable even asking him for a ride, let alone for money. The once weekly visits home had become monthly, then even less frequent, and Pran’s suspicions had been confirmed when one night Pat had come back with a flame of quiet anger in his eyes and the next morning the lucky charm in his car had been replaced by a trinket from the convenience store. Pat doesn’t have to downright say it for Pran to get it: They are on their own now.
He'd thought of asking Pat to come with him, at first. Pat gets lonely when Pran is in the other room. How could he survive with Pran in a whole another country? He’d thought about it, had thought of asking. Had been quite certain Pat would have said yes.
It’s why he had never asked in the end.
Pat would have said yes just like Pran had said yes to working as servers at Uncle Yod’s bar all those years ago, and it would not have been right, it would not have been fair, it would have been asking for the impossible.
It would have been doing the one thing they had silently agreed not to do to each other.
Two years is not that long. He will visit. Pat will visit. It’s not that long. Two years will pass quickly. If they can’t handle this little thing, what can they handle.
He’d expected Pat to be at least little taken aback. He’d trusted Pat not to stop him from applying, had not doubted it at all, but he had been prepared to give him some time to get used to the possibility of a long-distance relationship.
He hadn’t expected Pat would add Singapore Time to his phone right then and there and say, “My baby’s going to be famous.” Hadn’t expected he’d pull Pran into a hug so impossibly tight it would make his ribs hurt from the inside, showering Pran’s cheeks with kisses even as Pran tries to remind him he hasn’t even applied for much less landed the job yet, eyes shining with pride.
Quite like they are shining now, the wobbly plastic table shaking a little as he shifts in his seat excitedly and says, “How many people applied again, Pran?”
“It wasn’t that many.”
“Tell them.”
“Three hundred people.”
Pat beams. “And they chose you.”
“I just got lucky.”
“Singapore got lucky,” Pat says and reaches across the plates to tickle Pran under the chin.
“Don’t be cheesy, people are trying to eat.”
When Pat’s foot comes to nudge his under the table, nudging back is the easiest thing in the world.
They talk about the food in Singapore after that, and coral reefs, and Junior’s school work. At some point Uncle Yod arrives with a cake, and they fight over who gets the last slice, Pat winning only to forfeit his victory to whomever can name his favorite Pokémon first (Uncle Yod wins and Pat is horrified at how Pran could have forgotten).
It’s the kind of dinner Pran pictures Wai or Korn or Ink could be having with their parents right now: glasses always half-full, pairs of hands serving food, stolen touches under the table, a favorite song on the radio. Only the image is no longer an open wound—more like a scab that still itches from time to time. It doesn’t hurt when Pat laughs with his mouth open, eyes crinkling at the corners, a bead of whipped cream melting on the tip of his nose.
“What did you say?” Pat says over the sound of Junior and Uncle Tong playing a dueling game on their phones.
“I didn’t say anything,” Pran says, knows his dimple is showing. “Just looking at you.”
Pat’s eyes go soft.
It doesn’t hurt when Pran is exactly where he’s supposed to be.
A beer at the beach bar had turned to two, then more, restless hands growing a little too eager for the feel of bare skin as the night had progressed. “Would they cancel your Visa if we got arrested for fucking behind those bushes?” Pat had whispered to him at one point over a freebie Margarita, which Pran had taken as his cue to drag them back to the guesthouse.
He’s a little bit drunk still when he pins Pat against the door, letting his lips ghost along the shell of Pat’s ear. “I’m hungry for dessert.”
Pat shudders a little as he hurries to unbutton Pran’s shirt. “Will you send me pictures from Singapore?” he says into the crook of Pran’s neck.
“What kind of pictures?”
“Of the sights,” Pat replies, and oh—this is a game.
“What kind of sights do you like?”
“You know,” Pat says, sliding his hands to the soft swell of Pran’s ass, “national treasures.”
“What about structures that are long and hard?” Pran grinds himself against the firm muscle of Pat’s thigh.
“Can’t get enough of them.”
“Why don’t you demonstrate it to me then?”
He doesn’t need to ask twice because Pat is already down on his knees, nuzzling his face into his groin.
“You smell so good here.”
“Less talking, more sucking,” Pran says, grabbing Pat by the back of his head and pushing his mouth onto his cock. It’s a little mean, just the way Pat likes it.
Pat likes it when he makes him work for it, and Pran is happy to indulge him.
Tonight, though—Pran is easy.
“You take it so good, baby. I’m so close. Pat—”
Pat is whimpering around his cock, streaks of drool coating his chin. “Baby, I wanna swallow.”
“Yeah?” Pran pushes a thumb into Pat’s mouth, running it along his gums, pressing it onto the insides of his cheek. “Show me. C’mon. Show me before you swallow and I’ll make you feel so good. I’ll give it to you just how you like it. Be a good boy for me.”
Pran turns off the tap and dabs the dry towel onto his face before draping it over his shoulder. It still stings but at least his eyeball no longer feels like it’s on fire.
“Sorry,” comes Pat’s remorseful voice when he re-enters the bedroom, “I didn’t think I’d come that hard.”
“Just don’t shoot your load into my eye next time, okay?”
Pat sounds like he’s close to tears. “I won’t come on your face again.”
Pran sighs, tone softening. It’s hard to pretend to be mad at Pat when he looks so pathetic, lip quivering like a child who has just dropped his ice cream onto the pavement. “You can come on my face. I like it when you do. Just don’t come in my eye.”
Pat’s face light ups immediately. “I’ll work on my aim.”
“Do that.”
“I’ll practice on Nong Nao when you’re not there.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Did it really get in your eye?”
“Just a little. It was mostly on my eyelid. I’ll live.”
“I’m sorry, baby.” Pat doesn’t sound all that sorry anymore. “At least now we both know how it feels like getting shot.” No hints of contrition left in his voice whatsoever. “Maybe this experience has brought us even closer.”
Pran rolls his eyes. “Should’ve left you at the hospital.”
Pat’s tone is hopeful when he asks, “Will you still clean me up?”
“Can you get up and walk into the shower?”
“No.” Pat barks out a laugh, his softening cock bouncing a little. “Sleepy.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to clean you up.” Pran pulls the towel off his shoulder and dabs it across Pat’s glistening stomach, combing out the sticky globs of come in his pubic hair with his fingers. “How did you ever survive without me?”
“I never came this much before you.”
“Not what I meant,” Pran says quietly, but Pat’s eyes are already fluttering shut, and then he is asleep, mouth falling slack, bare chest rising softly with every breath. Pran studies him for a while before bending to plant a kiss just below his collar bone, smiling into the warm skin there. Then he gets up and opens the window to let the night wash away the carnal smell of sex and bodily fluids.
The stars aren’t out tonight, heavy clouds hanging low like smoke. In the darkness it’s hard to tell where the sea ends and the sky begins, though a few lights from the scattered fishing boats still glimmer on the water as though desperately trying to remind him where the boundary is.
A gentle breeze blows in, sweeping through Pat’s hair. His lips are a bit swollen still, the skin around his mouth a blotchy red. His breath wheezes just a little, barely audible, and then it becomes quiet again.
Still naked, Pran lowers himself onto the side of the bed, reaching to trace his fingers in the wind’s wake. Another blob of come has dried on Pat’s forehead, making a wisp of hair upon his brow stick together like a well-used paintbrush, but Pran can no longer be sure whether the come is Pat’s or his own.
In this darkness it’s hard to tell where Pat ends and he begins at all.
Morning arrives with heavy rain. By the time Pat gets out of bed, Pran has been up for a while, tuning up the old guitar Uncle Tong had once again entrusted him.
“How’s your eye?” Pat’s voice is still a bit hoarse from last night, and if Pran can’t help a smug smile creeping onto his lips, then so be it. He did that.
“It’s fine now,” Pran replies, strumming the guitar even as Pat comes to sit beside him on the narrow couch.
“Good. I was a little worried.”
“So worried you fell asleep before I had even finished cleaning you up. Some manners.”
“It was the jet lag. Have some mercy on your man.” Pat drops his chin on Pran’s shoulder, pouting when Pran gently pushes him off.
“You’re in Thailand, babe.”
Pat grins. “Still, don’t you think it could’ve been romantic if you’d been blinded by my love.”
“Strongly disagree.”
“I would’ve taken care of you.”
Pran raises an eyebrow. “Would you now?”
“You know I would,” Pat says.
Pran hums. “What song do you wanna hear?”
“Play a new song.”
Pran laughs. “You can’t just expect me to write a new song for you every time we come here.”
“Well, don’t you think I deserve at least a few chords?”
Pran makes a grumpy face, but Pat’s puppy eyes are boring into him, and then his fingers are on the strings, tentative.
The hectic schedule of the past few months had left him barely any time to even touch a guitar, much less work on his songwriting, but it doesn’t take long for his body to come up with a rhythm, almost as if on its own.
Playing for Pat is easy.
“How’s that for a few chords?” he asks then, resting the guitar in his lap.
“I like it.”
“Smile with your whole face or I won’t believe you.”
Pat covers his face with his hands, then pops back into view, eyes crinkling. “Will you believe me now?”
“Better,” Pran says and gives Pat’s cheek a pinch.
A beat passes in silence. Pat yawns, stretching out his arms. Pran murmurs a go take a shower you stink against his bare shoulder before standing up and walking onto the porch.
Outside, the sea is churning. The wind is a clammy hand on his skin, the beach bleary-eyed from the rain. The weather is not ideal for a beach holiday, but Pran is hardly upset. Maybe this is exactly what they need right now, a rainy day alone.
Pat’s arms do not startle him when they come to embrace him from behind. Pran leans back, closing his eyes.
“I’m gonna miss this,” Pat says, quietly, almost as if to himself.
“Mmmh,” Pran hums in response.
“We were happy here, weren’t we?”
Another hum, another silence. Pat’s breath is warm in his neck.
“And we’ll be even happier.”
Pran can feel a smile tugging at his lips. “You think?”
“You don’t believe me?"
“Are you smiling with your whole face?”
“Why don’t you turn around and find out?”
They kiss languidly for a while, licking into each other’s mouths as though they had all the time in the world.
Pran treads his fingers into Pat’s hair, pulling a little, smiling into his mouth when it makes Pat let out a tiny whine from the back of his throat. He’s getting a little hard but not hard enough to want to do something about it, which, he thinks fleetingly, might just be the perfect state of being.
When their lips separate, the corner of Pat’s mouth twitches suspiciously.
“What is it?”
“I was just thinking,” Pat says, “I could set my sexy picture as your phone wallpaper before you find yourself missing me too badly.”
“Tough luck, friend,” Pran replies, but it’s no fun teasing Pat when the look in his eyes turns genuinely dejected, “because it’s set to you already.”
“Since when?”
“Last night.”
“Before or after I had the pleasure of ejaculating into your eye socket?”
“After.”
“Wow,” Pat says, “you must really love me then.”
Pran shrugs. “And what if I do?”
Pat’s face melts into a smile. He’s like a puppy when he pokes a finger between Pran’s ribs and says, “Then you’re stuck with me forever.”
Pran seizes the finger, laughing fondly. Thinks—baby, forever is not enough with you.
“By the way, I accidentally borrowed your toothbrush, but I don’t think it counts since technically the jizz in my mouth was yours, anyway.”
“Pat.”
Maybe he can settle for forever and a day, after all.
The day is well into afternoon when the skies finally clear up, which Pat announces is a sign for them to hop on the old moped and go for a ride.
The ride is bumpy as ever, the gravel road riddled with splashing puddles that leave his feet soaked to the ankle, but the way the air feels on his skin more than makes up for any dirtied clothing. Pat speeds up, raindrops sparkling like mirrors on leaves as they zip by. He’s yelling something that Pran can’t quite make out over the sound of the engine, and then his cheek is spattered with mud.
Pran laughs. Freedom fills his lungs. He breathes it in. With each inhale he feels something deep inside of him inflate like a balloon, the weight of it getting lighter to carry. He looks up: an airplane disappears into the clouds. Beams of sunlight. The back of Pat’s shirt, billowing.
On their way back they stop by a small souvenir store. A seashell paper clip for Paa, a candle for Ink. Nothing too fancy, just something small that says: Didn’t forget about you even while there.
The postcards are Pat’s idea.
“Should we get our parents matching postcards?”
“Isn’t that a little mean?”
“Your point being?”
Snorting, Pran picks up two postcards with the same golden sunset over the sea.
The waves glimmer with gold. The sand is warm between his toes, though the rain has left a damp patch here and there on the beach, like a face after crying. Children are playing in the shoreline, paying no heed to the calls of their parents packing up their sunscreens and folding chairs.
Beside him, Pat is cooling his neck with an unopened can of soda from the vending machine, long legs stretched out on the sand. Between them lies the bag of souvenirs, droplets of condensation from the can wetting the corner of one of the postcards peeking out.
“What are you gonna write on your postcard?” Pran asks.
Pat’s mouth curls into a smirk. He places the can of soda in his lap and plucks an imaginary pen from behind his ear.
“’Father Dearest. The sunsets here are absolutely gorgeous. Sorry I can’t write more because Mr. Dimples here is about to fuck me into the mattress. See you at work, tough guy. Love, your most favorite son.’”
Laughter blooms in Pran’s chest. “Who is Mr. Dimples and should I be worried?”
“Just a friend.”
“You two sound pretty close, though.”
“Oh, you know me,“ Pat says, flinging an arm around Pran’s shoulders, lowering his voice, “I like keeping my friends close and my enemies even closer.”
Pran wants to smack him, then ruin him, in that order, but all he can manage is an exasperated huff.
Visibly pleased with himself, Pat opens the can of soda, takes a quick swig before passing it to Pran. “What about you?” A loud burp. “Your postcard.”
“I don’t know,” Pran says, suppressing a burp of his own. “Nothing of importance.”
Nothing of importance because he can’t write the one true thing.
The children playing in the water have left, but further down the beach there is a wedding troupe with their cellphones out, taking pictures. Pran can hear their laughter even from this far away. The bride’s veil flaps up like wings as she tosses the bouquet of flowers into the air, but Pran doesn’t catch where they land, too mesmerized by the look on Pat’s face.
It’s a look of reverie.
“Do you think they’ll let us get married some day?”
“Our parents?” Pran can’t hide his surprise. “Thought we stopped caring about them a long time ago.”
On this very beach, he almost adds.
Pat’s expression is a mix of frustrated and amused like explaining things to a five-year-old. “The government, babe.”
Pran can’t help the laughter that escapes. The world is always bigger than anything happening right now—how could he forget? It’s not funny, but then again, it kind of is.
“I hope so. You know how I can be when I don’t get what I want.”
“That’s a yes then?”
“Now you’re asking? When you’ve already taken me on a honeymoon?”
“We do things in the wrong order.”
Pat is smiling, but there’s a flicker of sadness in his eyes, a ghost still dwelling at the bottom. Pran can recognize it because he feels it too.
Loving Pat is easy. It’s the getting here that made it so hard.
He could’ve kissed Pat in high school. He could be here right now, writing a postcard that says: “Mom, you don’t have to worry about me. He makes me feel safe.”
So much time lost. So many people he could have become. So much pain wasted on suffering.
But maybe wishing for the past to be any different is wishing for this moment to be different, too, and maybe that in itself is just another form of self-hate. Maybe that is what is keeping their parents from saying the real things, what makes them waste what they have by clinging onto what they never had in the first place.
It is this realization then that makes him take Pat’s hand and say, “Never in the wrong order, baby. Our order.”
In a few moments, the last few rays of the sun will sink into the sea.
Pat is playing with the empty soda can, shaking it, trying to balance it on the tip of his finger. His face is eclipsed by a shadow falling from the rocks, and Pran thinks it makes him look transparent against the deepening night, as though he were about to vanish into it.
Pran observes him in silence.
“Don’t make that face,” Pat says eventually, putting the can down. “I don’t like it when you do that face with me.”
“What face?” Pran doesn’t think he’s making any faces.
“Your guilty face.”
The corner of Pran’s mouth twitches. Too late now, he has been found out.
The tension in his shoulders eases and then he presses his palms into the sand, closing his eyes. The breeze is a gentle caress on his skin, sunlight still lingering in it.
“I guess I feel like I’m always leaving you."
Pat sighs.
“You’re not always leaving me.” Pat’s voice is soft but determined. He takes Pran’s hand and brings it to his cheek, never mind the sand and all. Pran's heart flutters a little, the sweaty warmth from Pat's cheek traveling to the very core of him. “You’re always coming home.”
Pran doesn’t need to open his eyes to know Pat is smiling with his whole face.