Work Text:
now
Pat is down on one knee, like an idiot, staring up at Pran with his big warm puppy dog eyes.
"Pat," Pran says, his voice wavering. "What the fuck."
"I know it took me almost our whole lives to figure out I was in love with you," Pat says. "So I want the rest of our lives to make it up to you."
Pran opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.
Pat, that asshole, takes this as a sign to keep talking.
"I will take such good care of you," Pat says, so sweetly and earnestly.
Fuck. Earnest Pat is Pran's kryptonite. The only thing that gets to Pran more than Pat being earnest is when Pat acts like a fuckboy, but Pran will go to the grave with that information, thank you very much.
"I will let you win some fights–"
" Let me win–"
"I will respect you and listen to you," Pat says. "I will do anything within my power to help you be happy."
Pran is not crying. It is just a very localized rain shower.
"You’ve taught me so much, but I want to learn how to build our best lives together," Pat says. "Will you marry me?"
"Shit, Pat," Pran says, wiping away a tear. "Yes, okay? Please stop talking."
"That I can't promise you," Pat says, giving him his biggest, brightest smile. "But I will do this."
He kisses him.
then
They are getting so good at kissing. Pran didn't even know it was possible to be this good at kissing, but then again, they've always been competitive and…motivated.
"Ah, fuck," Pran groans when Pat bites his lower lip, just enough to make Pran twitch. Pat's been in his lap for a half hour, at least, kissing and kissing and kissing him. His cheeks are flushed and he’s breathing like he's played a whole rugby match. Pran's hands have mysteriously found their way to Pat’s ass, but they're still just kissing. Pran feels drunk.
"I like you," Pat sighs out, "a lot."
Pran's phone buzzes.
"Don't even think about it," Pat says, and descends on Pran's neck like the vampire he is.
The phone buzzes again. It sounds angry.
"It's my mom," Pran exhales.
"No, no, no," Pat says. "Your mom does not get to cockblock us even when we are in the safety of your apartment."
"You do know my parents help pay for this apartment, right?" Pran says. "Which we are using for this purpose even though they think we broke up."
"'This purpose,'" Pat says, and giggles a bit. "What purpose is that?"
"Driving me insane," Pran says, and Pat bites the curve of his jaw.
“Any day of the week, baby,” Pat murmurs, nonsensical.
Pran doesn’t answer his phone.
now
"I hate to state the obvious," Pran says, "but it is going to be hard to have a wedding without talking to our parents."
Pat sighs. He is sprawled out on their bed, still naked and gorgeous because he’s Pat. He rolls onto his side and props himself up on his elbow and says, “I wish you would wait until the afterglow has faded, but then again, your worrying about everything is part of why I love you.”
That makes Pran blush for reasons he doesn’t want to examine.
“I just think we need a plan.”
“Yes,” Pat says. “Personally I think an ambush is the way to go.”
“Ambush?”
“We get them together in a room and tell them we are getting married.”
“That sounds like it will cause maximum drama,” Pran says.
“Well, pretty much everything with our parents causes maximum drama. They already know we are together. It's been almost five years. I think we need to just pull off the band-aid."
Pat has always been braver than Pran is. He can still feel the way his mother looked at him when he told her Pat was his boyfriend, the slap across his face. He knows now that his mother was not only thinking of her own past and hurt, but of Pran's future. She has put so much of herself into Pran, her love all tied up with her hopes for him. She doesn't really know Pat. All she knows is that he was raised by the man who was careless with her dreams.
But Pat is right. It is time for their parents to know them: as adults, as a couple, as two people who have built a sturdy house from the broken rubble of a past they didn't live through or choose.
Pran is an architect. Pat is a house. He knows no other way to express it. He is his home, his shelter from the storm.
They pick a day when both of them have been invited over to their family's houses for dinner. Pa and Ink are coming too. They haven't told them yet about the engagement, but Pran feels better knowing they will be there. Pat and Pran will have allies in that room no matter what.
"Ma," Pran says when she answers the door, and hugs her tightly.
A few minutes after he arrives the doorbell rings, and his mother goes to answer it. Pran follows her, even though she looks at him strangely.
Pat is there with his parents and Ink and Pa standing behind him. Pat's father looks like he is going to be sick. Pat's mother looks shaky. Ink gives him a small smile, and Pa tilts her head to the side as if to say Are you okay?
"Hello," Pran's mother says.
"Ma," Pran says. "Please invite them in."
She turns to Pran, and he can see her eyes are wet. His chest aches. He reaches out and wraps his hand around her wrist. You are not losing me, he thinks, hoping she will read it in his eyes. She has always been so good at reading him.
"Come in," Pran's mother says.
They gather in the living room. Pran can smell the delicious scents of his mother's cooking wafting from the kitchen, garlic and lemongrass and peppers and grilling meat.
Pat and Pran talked about this, how they would do it. But Pran didn't - couldn't - anticipate how it would feel to stand in front of his family intending to finally tell them the truth.
Then Pat takes his hand.
Before they say a single word, Pran starts to cry.
"Oh, no, don't–" Pat says, lifting his free hand to thumb at Pran's cheek, and the gesture is so intimate and kind and loving that Pran thinks they really don't need to say anything at all.
Pat pulls Pran close, wrapping his arms around him, and Pran loses it then. He is a sobbing mess.
I am going to marry this man, Pran thinks. We are not going to have to pretend anymore.
"Pran," he hears his mother say. "Please – please tell us what is wrong."
Pran realizes: while it might be obvious to him what they are about to say, it is not obvious to their parents. Pran's mother probably thinks he is dying.
"We are getting married," Pat says, exactly the way they planned, despite the fact that Pran is a sniffly disaster in his arms. "We wanted to tell you that we are getting married."
He hears Pa and Ink shriek in delight, and then they are hugging them, the four of them a fortress in the middle of the living room. Pran is so lucky to have the friends he does. They have helped build this house. As an only child who spent many years feeling lonely, he will never take for granted what it means to have family that accepts him exactly the way he is, no matter what.
"When?" Pa asks. "Do you have a date?"
"Not yet," Pat says. "But soon."
Truthfully they haven't talked about any of the logistics. Pran has never thought about his own wedding, especially once he realized he might want to spend his life loving another man.
He doesn't know if Pat has ever imagined it. He thought they'd talked about everything, but it has never come up.
Their parents are standing stiffly around them. Pran's mother is the first one to approach him, once they have broken up their little friend huddle. Pat is still holding Pran's hand, and Pran realizes it is just as anchoring for him as it is for Pran.
"Pran," she murmurs. "This is what you want?"
Pran's eyes fill again.
"So much, Ma," he whispers.
She gives Pat an appraising look.
"And you are going to take care of him?" she addresses Pat.
"In every way I know how," Pat says, no waver in his voice, and Pran's mother bites her lip, her eyes wet in a mirror of Pran's own.
She holds Pran's gaze and Pran sees a million emotions pass over her face, guilt and anger and sadness and fear and finally something like hope.
"I love you," Pran's mother says, and takes him into her arms.
Pran doesn't really register the rest of the evening. He knows that Pat's father gives him stiff congratulations at some point, but mostly stays quiet, which is probably for the best. His own father seems thrilled. Pat's mother doesn't talk to him directly, but she catches his gaze across the room and smiles at him, a little sad but also…grateful.
Pat never lets go of his hand.
then
Pran watches Pat like it is his job. It sort of is his job. He has to watch Pat because he has to be better than him. This is how he will make his parents proud.
At the age of 12, Pran likes rules. He likes arranging things in a certain way so that his brain gets quiet. He likes symmetry and precision. He wishes the world was less messy, that it was more logical and predictable.
He doesn't really understand why his parents hate Pat's parents so much. His mother says they are liars, but Pat has never lied to him. In fact, he is almost too honest. After he gives a big presentation for their history class, he tells Pran: You’re really smart. Pran huffs at that because isn’t that against the rules? What even are the rules? Pran wishes he knew what the rules are.
Pat is not so much into rules. That much Pran can tell. When he watches him, he sees the way Pat flings himself around, taking up space, sprawling, laughing, his smile as wide as his face. Pat's smiles come so easy, while Pran has to work for his own. Pran has friends but he is never the center of attention if he can help it. Pat, on the other hand, draws stares like a moth to a flame - Pran knows because he is always watching him, and he often catches other people watching him too.
Pran's brain is not often quiet, but it softens to a murmur when he sits still and draws. Sometimes in his bedroom with his window open and the breeze drifting through, he can hear the music Pat plays next door, can see the way shadows move across his wall. He finds himself drawing Pat - not always his face, sometimes just parts of him: his hands, his profile, his smile. It always comes together in the end, a collection of impressions that become a whole person.
That is Pat, to Pran: always on his mind, always in his line of vision. Shadows on the wall. Never quite close enough to touch.
now
When they get home from Pran's parents' house, Pran is exhausted, but he doesn't push Pat away when he shoves him into the just-closed door and kisses him like he's dying.
Pat knows him so well. He knows his body like he knows his own because they have learned how to touch each other together. He slides his hands down over Pran's ribs to his waist, squeezes him, and licks a confident trail up Pran's neck. Pran leans back against the door and lets Pat love him.
"I'm going to marry you," Pat whispers into his skin, and Pran shivers. "I'm going to marry the hell out of you."
His words hit Pran hard. He goes limp in Pat's arms, letting Pat hold him up. Pat has never minded taking Pran's weight.
"I love you," Pat says. "You know that, right?"
Pran gasps as Pat's teeth scrape along his jawline.
"Yes," he says. "I know."
"Good," Pat says, and takes Pran's hand and leads him to the bedroom.
Pat fucks Pran like he has something to prove - hands in Pran's hair, inhaling his scent, touching every spot that makes Pran groan and shiver and shake. Pran knows Pat loves it when Pran is noisy, because he’s told him so, many times over. Pat has never been shy about telling Pran what turns him on, but Pran took awhile to get past his own embarrassment. Now he is less shy, but tonight he finds himself muffling his sounds in Pat's skin, clutching him hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises, kissing him every moment he can. He wants to be as close to him as he can.
"Please," Pat says, just before he comes, and Pran lets the sensations course through him, riding a wave that feels like it never ends.
then
Their first time is both easy and awkward, fumbling touches and blushing (mostly Pran) and apologies (mostly Pat), followed by the best orgasm Pran has ever had in his life. He knew it would be good no matter what, because it's with Pat. Even if they don't really know how sex works yet, they are so stupid for each other it doesn't matter.
The awesome part is that it gets better. They do research. It's not even all porn, though that's pretty sexy - watching that together. Except for when it isn't. Pran knows his boyfriend has an incredible body, but the guys in gay porn are terrifyingly fit. Pran has none of those muscles and doesn't know why anyone needs them.
"So are we both twinks?" Pat asks him once, and Pran starts laughing and doesn't stop until Pat wrestles him to the ground and kisses him.
The week after exams their junior year, Pat surprises Pran by booking them a hotel room by the ocean. When Korn finds out he makes so many dirty jokes about it that Pat finally shouts, "You know what? You're right. I want to wear him out. I want to ruin him. Is that what you want to hear?"
Korn is so shocked he's actually rendered speechless, possibly for the first time in his entire life.
The ocean is right there but they barely leave the hotel room. They're 20 years old and refractory periods are optional. Pran loses track of how many times they make each other come. He is usually fastidious about being clean, but they get sweaty and sticky and gross and he doesn't care, too sex-drunk to be bothered. He chases Pat's lips with his own, presses their bodies together until they smell like each other. He thinks: I want to do this forever.
now
Weddings are stupid. This is what Pran decides after their fourth meeting with the wedding planner. Their mothers have joined in on the wedding planning, and as touching as it is that they want to participate, it means more opinions when they really need less of them. He had no idea his mother had such strong feelings about flowers, and Pat's mother has very clear ideas about what the menu should look like. This means they're no closer to making any choices about anything, and if Pran has to hear more about color schemes or floral arrangements he's going to murder someone. Sometimes both their mothers gang up on them and Pran finds himself wishing for the days when they refused to be in the same room together.
"It'll be okay," Pat says, though he looks as drained as Pran feels.
"Will it?" Pran says. "If someone makes me wear purple to match the flowers, I am going to riot."
"Don't worry, baby," Pat says, pressing his lips to Pran's cheek in a smacking kiss. "You would look sexy even in lilac."
"Can we burn the planning book when this is over?" Pran asks, and Pat nods.
They curl up on the couch together, Pran leaning on Pat's shoulder, Pat idly playing with Pran's hair. He falls asleep like that, the drama they're watching fading into the background as he goes under.
His last thought is: I want to do this forever.
"I like this one a lot," Pa says, fingering the lapels of Pran's tux, which are a shiny black with embroidery along the edges. "More than the other one. It seems like it's more you."
Pran is inclined to agree. He isn't a flashy guy, and though there isn't nearly as much variation in tuxedos as there is in wedding dresses, he's tried on several that made him feel like a joke.
Pat is, of course, gorgeous in everything he tries on. He doesn't even need alterations because he is built like whatever models they use to make tuxedos. Does Pran really want to marry this man? He is annoyingly hot.
"You're so hot," Pat says, running his hand over Pran's lapels.
Pa is deep in a conversation with Ink about cumberbunds, and Ink looks like she wants to run for the hills.
"You look like you belong in a magazine," Pran says. "Or some old movie."
"You look like a snack," Pat says. "The only way this tux could look better is if it was crumpled on our bedroom floor."
Pran punches him in the shoulder.
"Domestic abuse!" Pat shouts.
Pa and Ink don't even turn around.
"I was trying to be nice to you," Pran says. "Why are you like this?"
"I love you," Pat says.
"Gross," Pa says. "Please don't get us kicked out of here because you're being horny."
"You're gross!" Pat exclaims. "You're my sister! Stop talking like that."
Pa rolls her eyes. "It's not just you, you're both equally horny, okay? Pran looks like he's going to combust."
"Yeah he does," Pat says. "Because he's so hot he starts fires."
"Are you sure you want to marry into this family?" Ink asks Pran. "Because sometimes I'm not sure I do."
"It's too late for that," Pran says. "They're already my family."
The chorus of "awwws" is deafening.
then
It surprises Pran sometimes, how much Pat is willing to do for him. Maybe it shouldn't, after all this time, but there is a part of Pran that will always be the 15-year-old strumming his guitar and staring at Pat from across the room, wanting, waiting, curled in on himself like a flower battered by a storm.
Like right now: somehow Pat is here, in Singapore. He took off work and got on a plane and came, all because Pran had sounded sad on the phone.
Pran has been sad. He's always at least a little bit sad because Pat is far away, and because they are a year and a half into this separation. It hasn't gotten easier with time. If anything, it's gotten harder, and every time he sees Pat it feels more wrenching to leave him.
Pran knows this is good for his career, good for their future, that it will mean more stability, and he loves the work he's doing. But he doesn't love it more than he loves Pat, and on the nights when he returns late from a draining day to an empty apartment and a cold bed, he has…thoughts. Wonders if he could just quit and go home and he and Pat could take off for the ocean like they did when they were younger and somehow everything would work itself out. Pran can work in a bar for the rest of his life. Probably. If he has Pat with him.
Pat must have sensed those thoughts, because he's here, now, at Pran's door, looking handsome and tired and worried.
"You look tired," Pat says.
"Wow, thanks," Pran says. "Way to make me feel better after not seeing me for six months."
Pat's face falls, and Pran feels like an asshole. He meant to say: I'm tired of being without you.
"Come in," Pran says, and once they're inside it's like a dam breaks. Pat wraps Pran up in his arms, and Pran tucks his face into the hollow of Pat's neck where he fits perfectly. He holds back the tears because he will not cry again. It is bad enough how much he cries when Pat isn't here. He won't cry when he is literally in his arms.
"I love you," Pat says. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was coming. I missed you so much, and when we talked last you sounded–"
"I know," Pran says. "You don't need to apologize. I can't—I can't believe you came. I would never have asked you to but you know I always–"
"I know," Pat says, and kisses him.
When they separate they are both breathless. Pran knows he should step back, offer Pat a drink or something to eat, be a host, but he doesn't want to. He will stand like this forever if it means he can feel the heat of Pat's skin, smell his spicy cologne, see the way Pat looks at him.
Like he wants this forever too.
Pran has started thinking that way: forever. Maybe he's always thought that way. After all, he's known Pat forever. He doesn't know what the world looks like without Pat in it. Even when they were apart in high school, Pat was always there in the background, a constant hum, a melody that would run through Pran's mind and get stuck there on repeat until he felt like singing or crying.
He knows Pat thinks about forever too. They make future plans all the time, because what else can they do? They have to be able to envision a time when they'll be together in order to survive the time they're apart.
In the future, Pran sees himself coming home to Pat every day. He sees them adopting pets and decorating their home together. Well, mostly Pran will decorate, but Pat is strong and good with his hands and can build anything. He sees lazy Saturdays and house parties with their friends. He sees waking up next to Pat and falling asleep every night in his arms. He sees arguments over stupid things and disagreements that end in the hottest sex. He sees Pat growing older, them growing older together, how Pat will get more handsome and maybe a bit softer around the middle and Pran will love it because he loves every version of Pat he's ever known.
"Baby?" Pat asks him, and Pran snaps back to the present. "I think I lost you there."
"Sorry," Pran says, and draws a finger along Pat's cheekbone, tracing the lines of his face. "I'm not sleeping much."
"Then that's what we should do," Pat says. "We should sleep."
Pran can't believe Pat flew all this way so they could sleep together, but that is what they do, Pat curled up in Pran's arms, Pran's lips pressed into Pat's hair. He falls into a dreamless sleep and when he wakes up he feels like he can do anything.
now
"I can't do this."
"You can," Ink tells him. "Pran. Breathe."
"There are so many people out there," Pran says. "What if–what if I don't say my vows right, what if I sound stupid? What if I trip when walking down the aisle? What if someone–"
"Pran," Ink says, covering his mouth with her hand, and Pran is momentarily reminded of all the times Pat did this to him when they were sneaking around. "Everyone out there likes you. Some of them even love you. They won't care if you mess up your vows. You don't even have to say them if you don't want to. Pat already knows how you feel, and that's all that matters."
"Does he though?" Pran says. "I'm not as good as he is at saying it. He's so…romantic and open and I–"
"Pran," Ink says again. She is starting to get that annoyed twitch at the corner of her eye. "Trust me. He knows."
Pran remembers, then, that moment on that first beach trip when Pat had sat him down and said: Thank you for trying to make a silly guy like me happy. Pran had a breathless moment when he realized that Pat could see it – all ways Pran tried to love him. He wasn't always good at it, but he tried so hard. He wrote that song for him. He'd followed him around like a puppy for years. When he'd seen Pa struggling in the water, of course he'd jumped in to help her. He did it because it was something anyone would do, but also because he wanted Pat to know: I have your back.
Pran isn’t the type to declare his love in front of a crowd, but that is what he is going to do today. He may have declared it many times over in private, in notes and meals and the way he touched Pat in the dark, but they'd fought to be able to say it loud today. No more secrets. No more shame.
"Pran?"
Pran turns and Pat is there, gorgeous in his tux, color high in his cheeks. His hands twitch.
"You're not supposed to be here," Ink says. "Why are you here?"
"I just–" Pat says, and then he crosses the room in two strides and kisses Pran like he's off to fight the war.
"Oh Jesus Christ," Ink mutters, and leaves.
Pran tilts his forehead against Pat's. They share breath.
"I'm sorry," Pat says. "I could feel you worrying and I–I needed to hold you. To tell you."
"Tell me what?" Pran asks.
"I know you don't like sappy stuff," Pat says. "So I'm going to say it plain."
"Pat–"
"I love you," Pat says. "We're in this together. Okay?"
Pran nods. Pat wraps his hand around the back of his neck.
"Say it," Pat says.
Pran closes his eyes for a moment and takes in a shaky breath. When he opens them Pat is looking at him with eyes that say all the sappy things he promised not to say.
"I love you," Pran says. "We're in this together."
then
Pat edges his pinkie across the sand until they're touching. Pran looks up at him and his breath catches.
Forever, he thinks, and shivers, even though he's plenty warm.
(:(