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He’d like to be able to say it’s because Kawi’s all hot-and-cold, but that’s not even it, really.
Twelve years, is the thing, twelve years of painfully coaxing Kawi out of the cold and into showing his true self, like he had the first night but never again quite like that.
Twelve years of holding Kawi’s hand (metaphorically, whatever, Pisaeng tried to make it not a metaphor but this guy is like a hedgehog the way he’ll stab you if you try) and explaining to him that the whole world isn’t his enemy and Kawi actually believing him, slowly and steadily.
And twelve years of Kawi not showing the drive that he had, once, of Kawi obviously and openly yearning after Pear but not doing a fucking thing about it…
Not doing a fucking thing about Pisaeng’s equally obvious feelings, either, though.
It’s not like it’s a secret that this wedding is a backup for both of them. Pear’s got career plans that mean she’s happy enough to nod and agree to what her family says, and Pisaeng does like his friend enough to be okay with this option, but he’s talked to Kawi about how he feels just a bit-
Stuck.
This was always planned, after all, even back when they were teenagers who tried to coordinate their crushes so they never had to compete for one – they’d bicker over a photo of some guy in whispers, Pisaeng eventually giving in with a laugh, and the parents over to one side would smile and look at each other knowingly and talk about how well their families have always got on, really, so it just makes sense, doesn’t it?
And it makes sense.
It’s always made sense.
Pisaeng has explained that to Kawi so, so many times, watching his eyes for a flicker of anything as he would add, “But when there’s someone I really like, that makes it stop making sense.”
Sometimes he’d see the flicker.
He knows Kawi.
It’s never been hopeless.
Except for how hopeless it’s always been, and isn’t that the whole point? The only, only area where things have never really made sense in his life is Kawi, his best friend and the guy he’s been mostly in love with for-
Fuck it, forever, or close enough that the years before don’t matter.
And he’s pretty sure Kawi knows.
Maybe that’s why he’s been so hot-and-cold around the wedding – really hot-and-cold, not like he used to be when they were younger, so cold out of fear that everyone would hate him but with the warmest secret core, no, lately Kawi’s been encouraging and near tears in one conversation and short and clipped and dismissive the next. Maybe Kawi is finally thinking about it?
Or maybe he’s just looking forward to Pisaeng no longer being available enough to try it.
The ambiguity drives him crazy.
And now, hanging up his phone, he stares at it with confusion and despair, because he’s in his fucking suit and he’s ready to go through with it but his best fucking man isn’t here and there are only so many reasons that could be.
Total regression into who he was in college is… possible. Kawi does get insecure and shifty and quiet at the weirdest times, especially when he gets in his head about people depending on him in some way. But it doesn’t feel like that.
Hangover? Also possible.
Desperately in love with the bride, so much so that he can’t show his face… more possible than Pisaeng would like. But so is desperately in love with the groom, so much so that he can’t-
The bottle of expensive, celebratory whiskey his dad gave him yesterday with a pat to the shoulder and an approving grin is sitting, full and innocuous, on the table.
Not for long.
The sitting on the table stops being true immediately; it takes longer for the “full” part to drain away.
Other things that are draining away… Pisaeng’s resolve. His hope. His happiness. Kawi.
Ugh.
Pisaeng’s being pathetic. That’s not his thing.
So he’ll stop.
After a few more glasses – courage is important. Another of Kawi’s wise-but-not sayings.
“Sorry,” he says to Pear, who he nearly knocks over as he walks purposefully (not nervously, never that) to the front of the building, phone in his hand and taxi app open, and she looks at him.
Whatever she sees alarms her; Pear’s eyes go wide and she says, “Pisaeng?”
“He’s not coming.”
She knows who he means. They do talk.
Her face goes all flat and resigned and she presses her lips together and says, “You’re just like each other, you know. Do you know how hard this is going to be to explain?”
“Hard for me,” he smiles at her, tilted, feeling lightning in his blood. “I’ll make sure it’s as easy for you as possible. You know your parents won’t have anything to say for at least a year, if you’re-“
“-If you leave me at the altar?”
She’s unimpressed. Pear’s been unimpressed with him about the whole Kawi thing for about six years, now, so it’s not a surprise.
But his phone buzzes in his hand and he sees what must be his taxi; he nods at her and walks away.
Calling after him, Pear adds, “Uh. Probably true. But we’ve put so much time into this, I’ve been planning on this, are you really going to-“
“-Sorry,” he repeats.
He does feel it.
A bit.
He’ll feel the rest of it later. For now, Pisaeng has to know.
When he’s in the taxi, he doesn’t tell the taxi driver to step on it and peel out or anything stupid like that, because Pisaeng’s finally decided to do this so he’s not going to let a stupid, preventable accident get in the way – he does entertain a brief fantasy about waking up in the hospital to a tearful Kawi, but he does it at the speed limit.
The fantasy slips away pretty quickly though, because Kawi would probably be more mad than sad, and he’d only wait at Pisaeng’s bedside to bitch at him for a week straight about driving carefully…
Pisaeng’s half-grinning, half crying at the thought, he realises, and reality seeps back in.
Mostly at the car on the other side of the road that definitely belongs to his dad’s aunt, one of the most judgemental women he knows but not in like, a mean or homophobic way, she’s just amazing at complaining about everyone in her life in the most memorable, cutting ways, and Pisaeng’s always thought that if he did manage to bring Kawi back to his family they, at least, would get along amazing, but right now the sight of her just reminds him that, oh yeah, he’s in his wedding suit literally running away from his fucking wedding.
Not literally.
He’s being driven away, at the speed limit.
After that, he returns to the thought that Kawi didn’t come to the wedding, and he ponders the possible reasons.
Pisaeng likes to be realistic with himself.
Himself and this bottle, they can be honest between themselves, right?
If Kawi really does know about Pisaeng’s feelings he might be relieved that the wedding is going ahead, yeah, but then he would have turned up, right?
But if he’s not coming because he doesn’t want it to go ahead, it is, he forces himself to admit, more likely that it’s because of Pear. Not certain, but likely.
That’s not a helpful thought for the decision Pisaeng is carrying out, has decided to carry out, so he tries to think of other possibilities – maybe Kawi did have feelings, once, with all those wide-eyed moments where he’d so obviously stared at Pisaeng’s lips it seems almost impossible that he never considered it, but that doesn’t mean he’s still interested.
Maybe, instead, he is coming – told Pisaeng he wasn’t so he could surprise him? Or maybe he told Pisaeng he wasn’t so he could surprise Pear with, with a fucking elopement or something, and Pear wouldn’t go with that considering she knows what Pisaeng feels and she doesn’t have any interest of her own, but that would hurt Kawi’s feelings so much, nobody would be happy at all, this is the worst one-
Parking, when the driver finally does, is a fucking relief. Pisaeng hates thinking about stuff he needs to just be doing – planning is fine, but he’s not the catastrophiser.
The catastrophiser is upstairs.
So, Pisaeng transfers the driver a tip worth double the fare and runs up those same stairs, because it’s hard to think too much when you’re running, and he’s barely slowed down when he gets to the door, but he pauses before he knocks.
If Kawi’s even there…
Well, he’s not pathetic, he’s going to find out if Kawi’s there.
Carefully, he knocks.
Too-soon, and not-soon-enough, and in a moment and in an hour – the door opens.
Kawi is dressed for the wedding too.
“Pisaeng?!” he asks, like he’s absolutely bewildered, and Pisaeng just stands there as he shoots, sure, the obvious questions at him: “What are you doing here?” is a fair question, and so is “Why are you not at your wedding?”
But the only way to respond… well, Pisaeng believes in actions.
He walks in.
Kawi stands there, beautiful and horrified, and he closes the door behind Pisaeng.
The room swims in a very friendly manner around him; it’s so friendly it brings Kawi closer, close enough to… sniff him? And to ask another question, Pisaeng’s pretty sure, but that doesn’t matter to him as much as some other things.
Like Kawi’s wide eyes; and Kawi’s perfect bowtie; and Kawi’s parted lips.
It’s time. It’s the only time it can happen, at least for the first time, because if Pisaeng backs down now he’ll never back- forwards. Or whatever. That’s a phrase.
He grabs Kawi’s head, grasps it in both hands, and the hair his thumbs are in, it’s coarser than Pisaeng’s and coarser than Pear’s too, and he brings that perfect head to his and he kisses Kawi with all he has.
Really, he crushes Kawi’s lips against his at first, but he’s not so drunk he doesn’t know to gentle it, to move with more purpose and turn his head just so, and the electric feeling is back in his veins and in his lips for just a moment as Kawi briefly, briefly kisses back-
And then he’s stumbling backwards, because Kawi pushes him away.
He didn’t pause in the moment for long enough; that’s going to be the only time, he knows now, seeing Kawi’s suspicious-prickly eyes as his mouth works silently like he’s trying to express his offense. That’s going to be what Pisaeng remembers from this because he didn’t commit the kiss to memory, he was too busy feeling it and doing and being hopeful.
At least those eyes aren’t as cold and closed off as they have been in those awful moments of dismissive cold, since they announced the engagement.
That’s cold comfort as Kawi says, more to himself than Pisaeng, “No, no, this is wrong… I messed up again, how did I mess up this much…” and, with one devastated, bewildered look at Pisaeng, flees his own fucking room.
Sinking to the floor in the kind of numb agony of a serious wound that you know is going to send you to the hospital, just as soon as you start feeling it, Pisaeng thinks, blaming himself and leaving his own place… that’s him.
Pisaeng can’t do anything; certainly he can’t not love him.
But it hurts.