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1.
Pran is never late.
This is a doctrine instilled in him since before he can even remember: do not steal, swallow before speaking, keep your shoes clean, sit properly on the toilet seat, look twice before crossing the road, always be on time.
Always be on time always be on time always be on time.
Pran is never late.
Except today.
He shouldn’t have stayed up reading that comic—how could he be so stupid stupid stupid stupid. Mom was right. It was all a huge mistake. He shouldn’t have stayed up he shouldn’t have he shouldn’t have he’s going to be late for school he’s going to be late for school Mom was right he shouldn’t have—
Pran can’t find the keys. He’s looked everywhere. Under the bed, on the sofa. Thrown the cushions onto the floor and tried to put them back again as they were, heart hammering in his throat.
He’s going to be late for school. He’ll have to leave the keys behind. Kill time somewhere until Mom comes home. An unlucky day, it’ll be one of those.
Pran looks at his clammy palms, hastily washes them under the tap in the kitchen sink, scrambles into his shoes and rushes through the door, runs, runs, runs. Past the trash bins he runs, past the neighbors’ house, past the birds chirping in the trees. Runs, runs, runs. Past the delivery man, past the lamp posts, past the lady yelling “slow down!”, across the street he hurries, backpack thumping against his spine.
If he can keep up this pace, he may just make it, he thinks, clarity starting to override the panic buzzing in his brain—and then his feet do the opposite, dropping into a trot before coming to a halt.
Pran bends with his hands on his knees to catch his breath, narrowing his eyes.
It wasn’t a mirage, then. He wasn’t just imagining things a moment ago. It really is him—Pat.
Pat is hunkered down on the side of the road, peering into the bushes. His school bag sits on the ground, front pocket infuriatingly unzipped. Unlike Pran, he seems to be in no hurry.
“Looking for your dignity?”
“Shhh.” Pat glances at him but doesn’t get up, only gestures with his hand for Pran to squat down. “Come here. But be quiet.”
Pran shoots Pat a questioning look before proceeding to crouch down behind him, then curiously cranes his neck over Pat’s shoulder.
The sight makes Pran gasp out loud.
Kittens.
A whole litter of them, in a box. Soft little things, all fuzzy hair and no eyes, a bundle of tiny baby mouths that open into a meow, meow.
Kittens—of course Pat would have found a box of kittens underneath the bushes on his way to school.
A wisp of warmth wells up in Pran as one of the kittens nuzzles up against Pat’s extended finger.
Pran has never held a stray kitten before. Mom wouldn’t allow it—the fleas, the disease, the smell, you don’t want to go near it, she would say.
Pat, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t seem to mind a lot of things, and it’s terrible, really, how Pran has been finding himself increasingly drawn to that aspect of him.
“What are we gonna do about them?”
“Let’s come back here during lunch,” Pat says, flashing Pran a smile so bright it nearly knocks him over. “I’ll ask my dad. He’ll know what to do.”
“Uh.” Pran drops his gaze down to his shoes. Getting nervous at the mention of Pat’s dad is silly. He’s a big boy. He’s not doing anything wrong. Yet there it is, the prickly feeling under his skin that appears whenever Pat’s dad is within a hearing distance.
As if sensing Pran’s discomfort, Pat gently lifts one of the kittens beneath his chin and says, “This one’s Dimple.”
Pran has to bite back a smile. “You named them already?”
“You can name one, too.”
“Don’t want to.”
“Scared your name won’t be as good?” Pat asks, lifting an expectant brow.
“I’m not scared. Your name sucks.”
“Let’s hear your contribution then.”
Pran lets his gaze roam on the kittens. Then he points a finger at one of them and says, “That one’s Milktea.”
“Cute,” Pat says. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he pets the soft swirls of hair on the kitten’s head, and Pran hates himself for how it makes a hot flush creep into his cheeks.
Trying to regain his composure, Pran clears his throat and says, “We’re gonna be late.”
“Haven’t you heard?” Pat asks, mischief in his tone. “You fainted and I had to stop to help you.”
“Why do I have to faint?”
“You peed your pants and I had to help you, then.”
“No.”
“Fine, I fainted and you had to help me. Final offer,” Pat says, kissing the kitten’s tummy before carefully placing it back in its box. Then he reaches to hide the box beneath the foliage and curses as the tip of a dry branch pokes him in the face.
Pran laughs. Pat glares at him with a look of betrayal, his lower lip curling into a pout.
His mouth looks soft. Kissable.
2.
Pat is not a morning person, that much is certain.
Not that Pran hadn’t long since concluded it from all the times he’d watched Pat get reprimanded at the school gate, but it still amazes him how Pat had been able to sleep through Pran’s alarm with no remorse, had even let out a snore in response, hands clutching the corner of Pran’s duvet like some overgrown monkey.
Pat is still asleep in Pran’s room, in nothing but his boxers and Pran’s shirt. Probably having sweet dreams of Ink. No wonder he won’t wake up. Probably kissing her right now. And she’s kissing him back—who wouldn’t.
Pran is an idiot for letting him stay over. An idiot for doing any of this.
Pran takes out another slice of bread. Pat will be hungry once he wakes up.
Pat is the biggest idiot here, really.
He will wake up and go about his day without any idea of how the morning light still lingers in him, how it shines on everyone who looks at him.
3.
Morning doesn’t wash the taste away. Toothpaste doesn’t wash the taste away.
Kissing Pat was a mistake.
How can Pran get him out of his head now that he knows how gentle his mouth is.
4.
Daylight will rip this away.
The honeymoon will end, and they will have to go back there. Back to the lies, the pretense, the sneaking around. A city of hardship awaits, Pran knows that.
But not yet, not now. Not when the ocean is still wet on their skin, when the hour between night and morning is stretching its pliant body, all joint and no bone.
Time is scarce but it’s still there, in the hour glass, in the shimmer of a grain of sand clinging to Pat’s brow. Pran is learning to cherish it, exist in the moment before it dissolves.
Pat is the one who taught him how.
Cats are digging through a pile of trash on the beach, making noise.
“I wonder where Dimple is now,” Pran says.
“You’ve still got it,” Pat says, pouting as Pran swats away the finger trying to poke at the corner of his mouth. ”You’re still cute. Don’t worry, baby.”
Pran rolls his eyes. “I meant Dimple and Milktea and the others.”
Pat hums, leaning back on the heels of his palms. “Probably somewhere out there wondering where his namesake is.”
“Is he now?”
Pat slumps onto his stomach, props his chin in his hands and flutters his eyelashes at Pran. “Aren’t you gonna let him know? Gonna leave little Dimple hanging?”
Pran bites his lip, ruffles a rough hand through Pat’s hair before bringing Pat’s chin to rest on his thigh. Gazing off into the horizon, he lets his thumb rub circles into the back of Pat’s neck, Pat’s breath warm against his skin.
Beneath the water’s curtain dawn is stirring, a soft light spilling onto the quiet waves. In the water’s edge gentle tufts of foam are drifting ashore as though the morning were washing its face.
Still damp from their night swim, the fabric of Pat’s shirt clings to the back of Pran’s hand like a second skin as his fingers trace a trail from the nape of Pat’s neck down to his spine.
The truth is this simple, Pran realizes. The path he must walk is right here, a distance short enough for a hand to travel.
“I’m where I wanna be.”
Pat lets out a small sigh, burying his nose in the hairs on Pran’s leg. Pran doesn’t mind that it tickles, feels generous enough to let Pat have this.
Minutes pass before Pat asks, “Can we make love one more time before we have to leave?”
Spots of red bloom on his cheek from having rubbed himself against Pran’s thigh too eagerly.
Pran snorts.
Pat looks up, a hint of hurt in his voice. “What’s so funny?”
“You using such old words,” Pran replies, giving Pat’s forehead a light smack.
“It was love to me,” Pat says. His eyes are dark and serious even as the early morning light flickers in them. “Was it not love to you?”
For a moment Pran’s breath catches in his throat. He holds Pat’s gaze like he means it before leaning to kiss his mouth. Hopes Pat can taste the answer on his tongue: It was love then. Is love now.
5.
Pat is still asleep when Pran opens his eyes.
The weight of his naked body is warm against Pran’s side, a heavy arm digging uncomfortably into the spaces between Pran’s ribs as it lies still, draped over Pran’s chest. Pran shoves the arm off of himself without hesitation, having by now learned no amount of movement is enough to stir Pat from his sleep after a night of rough sex.
The sex had been good. Maybe not as mind-blowing as the night before, but solidly good. Pat had come hard, some of that boneless bliss still lingering in the way his slack mouth is half-pressed into his pillow, a string of drool gleaming at the corner. It’s no exaggeration to say he looks thoroughly fucked in the morning light.
It will have to last them for a while.
Hopefully not for a full year this time.
A year had been too long, Pran thinks now. He should have made time for this sooner. For Pat’s sake, yes, but for his own sake, too.
He’d missed this more than he bears to admit.
Maybe he’d let the months turn into a year because he’d known going back to Singapore would be difficult. The wound that had started to heal will flare up and he will have to learn to live with it all over again. He’ll have to get used to the empty space, the cold, the quiet, all of his progress undone.
Missing Pat is one thing, having to leave him behind another.
Pat’s eyelids flutter a little, just enough for Pran to know he has been secretly watching him.
“Morning,” Pran says, “Slept well?”
“Mmh.” Pat slings an arm around Pran’s waist, pulls him closer so that their bodies are flush against each other. His skin is still sleep-hot, his cock twitching slightly where it’s pressed into the firmness of Pran’s thigh.
“You’re hard,” Pran says around a smile, brushes a thumb to clear out the crust in Pat’s eyes.
“Like you aren’t,” Pat murmurs, voice throaty from use.
“I’m just following your lead.”
Pat seizes Pran’s hand and drags it down to his cock. “Suck me off before I see you off, will you.”
“Unbelievable,” Pran says, but his thumb is already circling at the slit.
Pat’s mouth spreads into a grin. “You’d better believe it.”
Pat may not be a morning person, but mornings sure look good on him.
+1
Pran shouldn’t have said those things.
Shouldn’t have snapped at Pat like that so early in the morning just because he’d forgotten to buy more condensed milk.
Shouldn’t have yelled at the taxi driver just because he was trying to scam him.
Shouldn’t have been so assertive in the meeting just because the client was asking for the impossible.
Shouldn’t have stayed overtime just out of spite.
A terrible day, it’s been one of those. And now it’s turning into a terrible night, the rain soaking his new leather shoes.
All the lights are out when Pran gets home. Pat has most likely gone to bed already. It’s for the better. He doesn’t like it when Pran stays in the office for too long, says he’s concerned for Pran’s health, and one petty argument per day is more than enough.
Pran washes his face in the bathroom. When he looks up at the mirror, Pat is standing in the door way.
“Sorry,” Pran says at the mirror.
Pat takes a step forward, drops his chin on Pran’s shoulder. “Come to bed, Dimple. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
Pran flips off the fluorescent light above the bathroom sink.
The room becomes pitch-black, but Pat takes Pran's hand, walks ahead of him.