What An Honour That Is

by asmofall

Summary:

“You don’t have to miss me anymore. You’re home, you’re touching me, I’m here and I missed you too.” Sky kisses Prapai’s pretty cupid’s bow. “It’s over. All you have to do now is love me.”

“My Sky,” Prapai breathes, his body relaxing, sinking into Sky like he wants them to become one. “That’s the easiest thing in the world for me to do.”

(Prapai leaves, for several months, for a business merger. Sky pierces his nipples. It sounds simple, but it means the whole world to the two of them.)

Notes:

there is a one shot manga that i would thoroughly recommend called piercing hole by a mangaka named harada, and it tells the story of an office worker hiding an assortment of body piercings beneath his clothes, and a masseuse, who sees these piercings during a massage and falls in love with him. they begin dating, but when the masseuse learns that the piercings were all done by the office worker's previous lovers, he gets incredibly and violently jealous, and in order to reassure him, the office worker asks him to dilate all the piercings to larger gauges, effectively writing over the pasts of those piercings and their attribution to old lovers, and leaving them so that only the effect of the masseuse is left on the office worker. there's more to the story, but that's the gist.

i thought of this story when prapai wanted to see sky's piercing in, but changed his mind immediately when sky told him his ex was the reason he had it in the first place, like suddenly this thing that thrilled him now repulsed him when its origin was revealed. i couldn't stop thinking of how obsessed prapai was with sky's piercing before letting it go, and the possibility of sky using body modification to reclaim his body for himself after what he's been through.

it took me about 2 and a half months of my own obsession with this idea, and now this fic exists :)

i'm still very new to thai bl as a genre and a fan culture, and a lot of the canon compliance in this fic was written from memory of the show, so please pardon me for anything glaringly wrong or inaccurate. i also made several additions/embellishments to canon for the sake of the story i wanted to tell. and i don't know what the piercing process is like in thailand, if it differs much at all from where i am, so the details of the piercing scene are written from my own salon experience and could be inaccurate to the setting as well

generally stories that discuss sky's past can get pretty heavy, and i would say this one does as well. i've tagged for past abuse and trauma because this fic doesn't discuss much about sky's sexual assault, just other aspects of gun's general awfulness. but if you read and feel like the fic would benefit from a tag i haven't yet included, please do let me know

thank you in advance for reading :)

“I will call,” Prapai says, with watery resolution, a determined finger waving in Sky’s direction even though his back is turned from him, facing instead toward his cluster of luggage in the entryway of the apartment. “Every day. I’ve accounted for the time difference and looked at your course schedule. Every morning. Every night. I will call—every moment.” He whips around, turns his attention on Sky, suddenly.

“Your AirPods,” he says like a revelation, eyes wide and frantic. “Keep them charged, keep one in your ear all the time, we can just never hang up, we don’t even have to talk, Sky, I just want to hear your breathing—”

Sky lets him fret, for once. He reigns in his heaving sighs and eye rolls and simply lets Prapai make his ludicrous demands, promises he can’t possibly keep, with nothing more than his arms crossed. As long as it will soothe him enough to get his bags out the door in time to not miss his flight, Sky can bear it.

“If you’re in trouble, call Phayu,” Prapai yanks at the travel locks on his suitcases, checking their hold, again, for the third time. He then checks for the keys in his carry-on, again, for the third time. Sky wonders which of them has the more severe display of anxiety—Prapai, repeating the same motions, or Sky, keeping count of each repetition.

“Phayu will keep you safe while I—while I can’t.” Prapai’s voice strains. “While I’m gone.” He hangs his head over his luggage, grip tight on the handle of his laptop case.

It’s distressing him—Prapai doesn’t even need to make it this obvious for Sky to know it’s distressing him, leaving behind home and Bangkok and Sky, for a business merger in its late stages of finalization that will take him to London for four months, at best. Four months, minimum, of separation, when Prapai still gets needy when Sky blows him off for a single night to do homework.

But it’s deeper than that. It’s not simply about Prapai’s tactile nature, nor his claim that he can only relax in Sky’s presence. What’s between them still feels fresh sometimes, barely more than a year old, tender in the places they’re still mapping out together as a couple, and Sky knows that Prapai is scared that this time apart will give Sky an excuse to pull away again, to hide his feelings and run, again.

Sky would feel offended, if it weren’t a pattern of behaviour he had proved before. If anything, it fills him with a resolve to answer Prapai’s distress with assuredness—even if it means ducking out to answer his phone a hundred times a day, an awkward difference of six hours between their time zones, answering Prapai’s too-late ‘good night’s with his own too-early ‘good morning’s; calling to share a meal that will be lunch for Prapai and dinner for him. Prapai has done so much for Sky in just a year, even in the time before they were dating, and he deserves every effort when he is not taking the fact of a long separation well—and he’d be hard-pressed to admit it, but Sky isn’t either.

Prapai had tried just about everything. He’d pushed off the merger, initially, thinking foolishly he could just avoid it and it would go away. Then he had lined up and proceeded with another, local acquisition, one that forced him to stay in Bangkok, so that he had an excuse to resolutely insist that much of the London merger be dealt with remotely. But when the final stages approached, and his new partners in London became more forceful about dealing in person, he had tried to get Sky to come with him.

“London is an incredible place,” he had murmured into Sky’s overheated skin, lips pressed just behind his ear, hands wandering across Sky’s body, where his heart raced and his breath shook in his chest. It seemed his method had been to tempt Sky while he was wrung out and delirious, still feeling his orgasm after-shocking through him.

“I lived there for years,” Prapai had sounded just shy of breathless. “I could show you all my favourite places, where I stayed, the school I attended—my alma mater.” His lips curled around the Latin with the same precision he kissed Sky with a moment later, deftly prying a small moan from Sky that he swallowed into his own mouth.

“You would have a wonderful time,” he had whispered, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead to Sky’s. “Just the two of us, living together, like a real husband and wife.” He had smiled—that perfect, winning smile, eye creasing and the blush of exertion still riding on his cheeks. His eyes sparkled. Behind all the promise they held, was desperation.

Sky had managed, in his sticky, wet, sex-hazy state, to stare blankly back at him. “The new school year starts four days after you’re supposed to leave.”

Prapai’s smile had instantly fallen. He knew he’d lost. He didn’t bother asking again.

Now, they stand in the entryway to Sky’s apartment—Prapai had sold the old one, bought a new one, and given it to Sky, determined to keep his word on that and determined to keep Sky away from the old apartment—and the loss is apparent on both of them. Prapai’s shoulders are tense, his brows pinched, and Sky so clearly trying to force nonchalance as he leans against the wall with his arms crossed, staring at anything but Prapai’s luggage.

“Just don’t get into trouble,” Prapai says—he begs. “Please, just don’t even get into a situation where you have to call Phayu.”

He’s still sensitive. He’s still sore. The idea that any longer could have been too late, the nagging feeling that overcomes him sometimes that he was too late, that he’d failed Sky, that he didn’t deserve his trust after not realizing sooner—the idea of Gun, of anything that could hurt Sky, thoughts that he can normally quiet just by taking Sky in his arms, are plaguing him.

Sky has come to learn this about Prapai: his control is rigid. He’s just as strict as Phayu, it’s no wonder they get along, Prapai is just better at hiding it, behind sweet words and tender smiles. The truth is that everything he does is measured, controlled, a means to an end he never stops chasing, and exactly the way he wants it—until it isn’t.

Until he has to leave, and leave Sky behind, and his control slips, and his fears start getting loud.

“Don’t hang out with Rain.” Sky almost rolls his eyes at the ridiculousness of that request, until Prapai checks his laptop case for his passport, again, for the fifth time. Sky feels his breathing hitch. “Don’t do anything Rain suggests. Don’t go to the race track, I don’t care if Phayu is there, just don’t go.”

That’s not unreasonable. Sky didn’t intend to, anyways; he didn’t even want to the first time.

“Just go to school and come back home.” Prapai rambles. “Pay attention and do well in school. Please remember to eat. You have my credit card?”

Sky does, after much resistance; after Prapai sneaking it into his wallet every day for a week while he slept, after cutting it up just for Prapai to order a new one, one with Sky’s own name on it.

“I’ll check that you’re using it.” Prapai scrubs his hands over his face. “You have to use it. Buy yourself three meals, every day. I’ll check. I’ll check and if you don’t do it, I’ll start sending food to the apartment.”

At some point Sky had dropped his folded arms and stood up from where he was leaning, as if to do something, move somewhere, but instead stayed rooted to the spot, now just looking unsure and unmoored.

“P’Pai,” Sky says, very softly. He can barely hear himself over Prapai’s manic demands.

But Prapai, of course, in tune to every move Sky makes, quiets immediately. He turns to him, with his eyes wide, ready to listen, ready to fulfill any need, any passing desire of Sky’s, ready to swear he’ll stay if Sky makes any hint toward wishing he won’t go.

It’s still hard for Sky, sometimes, to be treated with this kind of reverence. It’s hard to admit that he wants to be cared for, had hard-wired himself so long ago to believe that made him weak and vulnerable and disposable, and there still remains pieces of himself that fear that by simply admitting that he needs Prapai—needs him, the scariest thing that Sky has had to face yet—he dooms himself to losing him. Some old scars never heal, and sometimes Sky catches himself paralyzed with a fear that Prapai winning the victory of his heart has made him boring, and he’ll have to make the choice between being cast aside, or finding a way to be interesting again.

Prapai would never—Sky knows that. He knows that, but some days are harder than others, and the hard days have been coming more often under the stress of Prapai leaving.

Maybe that’s what has Prapai this frazzled, this upset—Sky’s been having nightmares more often than usual as of late. And he has to leave him behind, can’t stay to hold him when it hurts, can’t keep his promise to always be by his side.

Prapai is going. It feels like Sky is losing a piece of himself, and he may never admit that, but Prapai is leaving nonetheless, and Sky won’t make it any harder on him than it already is.

“Sky,” Prapai murmurs. He steps closer, catches Sky’s hands in his own to tug him into his chest, broad and firm and breathing shakily. “Darling. Honey. My Sky.”

“P’Pai,” Sky says, into his collarbone, just a few inches from his heart, and he hopes it’s enough, because there aren’t enough words to say a good enough goodbye.

—

Sky waits, for a time, after Prapai leaves his arms and shuffles his luggage out of the entryway, stealing a dozen or so kisses in between that he calls their last until one of them finally is, and then apartment door is shutting between them and Sky is left to wonder if he can handle watching from the window as the car pulls away.

He waits, in an anxious stasis, genuinely unsure about whether or not Prapai will make it onto the plane, or if he will manage some kind of last-minute miracle that allows him to stay home. He opens a flight tracking site using an incognito browser tab on his phone, refusing steadfastly to even leave the evidence behind for himself to see that he was looking, types in Prapai’s flight details, and waits for the information to be available.

All the while, Prapai blows up his messenger app.

>There’s no traffic. Why isn’t there traffic? I would welcome it, just because it keeps me closer to you longer.

>I’m at the airport, my love. It’s still not too late to ask me to stay.

>I would. I would find a way. I know I haven’t yet, but I would, if that’s what you wanted.

>I’ve checked my luggage. They’re all half empty, you know. I’ll be bringing home so many gifts for you, I love to spoil you.

>You’ll have to accept them all since I won’t be able to return them.

>I was worried the security officer wouldn’t let me through, since I look nothing like my passport photo. I look too sad. I’m so sad to be leaving my heart behind.

>Wouldn’t that be a shame if she didn’t let me through, Sky?

>If I couldn’t pass security, and I had to turn around and come home?

>That’d be such a pity.

>Sky.

>My Sky, you’ll miss me? I’ll miss you so much. I miss you already. It already hurts.

Sky watches as they all ping through, each one mounting the pressure in his chest. He doesn’t know how to relieve it. He doesn’t know if he can, without Prapai, wonders if he’ll manage to learn to breathe past this tightness that will grip him from the inside out, no doubt until Prapai returns.

Prapai is right—it already hurts.

Sky’s phone rings with a call from him, when he reaches his gate.

“Sky,” Is all he says, when Sky picks up, and it sounds pinched, sounds pained.

“P’Pai,” Sky answers. With his phone to his ear he no longer has the flight tracker to obsessively refresh, the palest distraction that he was clinging to. He’s wandered into the study at some point, a room that was a second bedroom, but they remodeled together into a workspace. Sky’s drawing table, tilting at its jarring angle, takes up a broad expanse of space in front of the wide windows, and just behind it is Prapai’s desk. He’d put it there claiming to want to watch the sunset while he works late. Sky knows he really just wanted to watch him, while they work together.

Prapai’s desk is cleared, nearly all of his work gear packed away and taken with him. Whatever physical evidence that he was ever in the study is contained simply in the existence of the desk itself—it’s hardly sound proof of him.

Sky stares blankly at his school supplies, and his course schedule, at the prep work he’s set out to do on the cart beside his drawing table. Phayu had offered him some insight into what he could expect this year, some warning for projects he remembers grappling with. Sky knows he hadn’t offered Rain the same advice. Sky couldn’t work out if Phayu told him out of pity, or didn’t tell Rain because he enjoys making Rain’s life hard. He hasn’t worked on anything Phayu warned him about anyways, and in this moment it feels impossible, school nothing but a hazy, distant horizon compared to the shock-sharp immediacy of the burn behind Sky’s eyes when all he can think about is falling asleep alone tonight.

Tonight and tomorrow night—and the nights after that, too. He can’t bear to count how many. He can’t bear to think of how many he’ll be awoken by nightmares.

It’s scary, to need someone so much. It’s scary, to be without the one he needs so much. His throat feels raw, like he’s been screaming, but his cheeks are dry and he knows they’ll stay that way, even when the fear threatens to shake the phone out of his grip. Sky’s been so used to fighting alone that feeling stronger with someone is so foreign it’s frightening, and it just makes him feel weak all over again.

“I don’t want to go, Sky,” Prapai murmurs. Sky can’t even close his eyes and pretend it’s his voice in his ear—the call quality is staticy, he strains to hear.

“I know, I—” Sky stops himself, feels like he could choke on the words. He knows what will happen if he so much as implies he wants Prapai to stay: he will burn a thousand bridges to make it happen. It’s frustrating, it’s unfair, the care Prapai takes to ensure Sky focuses well on his schoolwork, just to neglect his own career to be sweet on Sky. Sky simply can’t allow that kind of irresponsibility—even when the ache of loneliness, of separation, is already winding its sickly grip into the crevices of Sky’s chest.

It feels ridiculous and impossible that life will simply continue, in Prapai’s absence. It feels like it should be more significant, and it should pause the world for a day or two so Sky can catch his breath, but it doesn’t, and it won’t. In four days, Sky will go to school again. Today, he’ll probably do laundry—today, the same day that he just said goodbye to the love of his life. It’s jarring, the normalcy and abnormalcy back to back; Sky feels unsteady, untethered, lost at sea.

“I want you to be well,” Sky chooses his words carefully. “To be safe and healthy. And to work hard. And get all of your work done, and finish it as best as you can.”

No cut corners. No unhappy business partners, no job poorly done, no rushing with the single-minded need Sky knows is there already to just come back home.

“How can I possibly focus on my work when my heart is a million miles away?”

Sky rolls his eyes, but the gesture is empty when the words weigh in the growing cavern in his chest. “If you don’t focus, then it won’t get done, and you’ll have to stay there forever.”

“No,” Prapai says immediately. “I’ll focus. Sky—I’ll finish everything as fast as I can. I’ll come home to you before you even know I’m gone.”

But he’s already gone. Sky thinks he can feel his absence just in the new, unfamiliar way the air seems to shift without him in the apartment. He doesn’t say this—he knows how badly it would hurt Prapai, to leave when he knows Sky is hurting, so he keeps it to himself, keeps up this frail charade they’re both silently agreeing to not break that everything is going to be alright.

Sky hears, faintly, the gate announcer calling for first class boarding, and he knows that’s Prapai before he even curses.

“I love you,” Sky says, first, before Prapai can, because he knows it means the world to him, and the hitch of his boyfriend’s breath is all he needs.

“I love you,” Prapai says it like an oath. “I’ll call you when I land. Log in to your Line account, I’m getting the in-flight WiFi.”

A smile flickers on Sky’s face. Prapai is trying, he’s trying so hard, his voice watery but his words jovial, trying so, so valiantly to pretend like this is a normal business trip, maybe one overnight stay away.

Sky scoffs, but it sounds weaker than usual, even to him. “I can’t even get a few hours without you?”

“Never,” Prapai says. “You’ll never be rid of me, never in your whole life.”

He hangs up, and Sky is left to refresh the flight tracker again. He sits on his hands on the edge of Prapai’s too-clean desk to keep them from shaking as a tiny icon of a plane appears over Bangkok, and the flight status changes to ‘boarding’. It takes less than fifteen minutes before his Line message alert starts pinging, one after the other.

>I’m thinking of when we’ll get to board a plane together, my Sky.

>Where would you like to go for our honeymoon? Manila? Bali?

>Even further? Tokyo? You’ve never been to America. Would you like to see California?

Honeymoon. Sky wills his bottom lip to not shake. They’ve spoken about it before, but thinking about marriage now feels like a lifeline.

Sky watches as if in a dream, as the flight status switches to ‘preparing for takeoff’, and not long after to ‘in flight’, the little icon of the plane beginning it’s slow migration northwest to London, it’s snail’s crawl across the screen interrupted only by Prapai’s messages pinging through.

>It’s a clear day. Don’t worry about the flight, my honey. I’ll watch the sun and the clouds from the window and think of you.

Sky smiles. And then calls Rain.

—

There are memories, details about Prapai, that Sky keeps with him, locked away in a vast mansion of memory in his mind; things that he couldn’t bear to commit to a page, into the notebook that Prapai had found when he’d forced Sky’s confession from him, and he’s been glad ever since for the restraint. He thinks if Prapai found what Sky had worked so hard to remember, he’d be a thousand times worse than he is.

In this palace of memories, tucked away in quiet, private corners, are details like the heat of Prapai’s palms on his hips, grip firm but not forceful, their first night together that Sky had spent such a foolishly long time insisting would be the last. Sky also keeps here the delirious memories he can’t be sure are even real, a cool, damp cloth across his skin when he was feverish, Prapai’s voice gentle and assuring, words that Sky doesn’t think he ever registered clearly.

Locked up here, in Sky’s mind, is also this: the raw, unhidden lust in Prapai’s eyes, his cheeks rosy with sleep and lips still kiss-bitten and swollen, quirking at the corners with mischief as he had said, “Put on the ring. I want to see what it looks like.”

And then how immediately it had all washed away, face shuttering and eyebrows pinching when Sky had told him the origin of his old piercing.

“Then don't wear it.” He’d said—but that hadn’t been entirely true. Sky still noticed, to this day, how he would linger his attentions unevenly on Sky’s left nipple over the right, touch and tongue delicate, eyes searching for the shallow indentations on either side, something forlorn and regretful on his face.

Back then, when Prapai first noticed the piercing, it frightened Sky. Back then, there were reminders of his past he hadn’t yet faced because he hadn’t yet been forced to, but the simple act of letting Prapai in brought them to the surface. It wasn’t Prapai’s intention, but a natural consequence—Sky couldn’t run forever from the parts of him that weren’t his fault, but had to be his responsibility. He’d faced them, for Prapai. With Prapai. And every day it feels a little bit easier.

Prapai did want to see the piercing in, despite what he said. He still does, if Sky is reading his lingering kisses correctly. But he would never say as much, not after knowing where Sky got it, not after what they had been through together with Gun, not ever with the thought that it could threaten how much Sky has healed. Prapai would leave it alone forever, nothing more than a wistful daydream.

But for Sky—these days—it enrages him. The idea that there is something he could give Prapai, but Gun stood in the way, his effect still lingering. It fills Sky with a fury he has never known before, molten hot and solidifying within him into a new resolve, making him stronger, strong enough to decide that he is done. He would not allow Gun to take up this kind of space in his life, in between Prapai and himself, he would not let the scars that still remained and the nightmares that still come and go dictate what he could and couldn’t handle.

Some few months before Prapai had left for London, when the threat of him leaving was still just a looming threat, Sky had searched online for piercing salons. He’d found a good looking one not far from the school, claimed a student council meeting to keep Prapai from picking him up after class, and went—alone. He had needed to face this alone, just to know that he could. Prapai would hate it, he hated that Sky still felt the need to stand without him.

But independence was something that Gun had stripped from him, instilling in him a fear of being left alone, left behind, rejected and isolated—Sky walked down side streets to the salon without anyone in his life knowing where he was headed, and felt a sense of security in himself that had abandoned him those years ago.

He could be strong, alone. He could do incredible things on his own, and show them off to Prapai with pride. And he would.

The salon was on the third floor of an inner city building, bracketed by clothing and electronic shops, and called TenTen. It was sleek, silvery, the front panelled completely with glass, and the interior, Sky could see as he pushed through the door, had mirrors on every exposed wall, interspersed with glass cabinets and spinning glass display racks, filled with rows upon rows of sparkling metals and gems of all colours.

“Hi hi!” Someone called from beyond a black curtain behind a glass topped desk, deeper in the store. He emerged after a moment, pausing briefly to wai, smiling a small, warm smile all the while.

“I’m Ten,” he said, leaning on the desk. “Welcome—this is my salon.”

He was pretty—astonishingly so. His skin was smooth as glass, with an upturned nose and cat-like eyes that crinkled with his smile, a high-pitched voice that matched his youthful appearance. His fingers tapped idly at the desk, not with impatience, but in some kind of ever-changing rhythm that he didn’t seem to pay much attention to keeping. On his arms were a sporadic collection of tattoos, and in his ears was more metal than Sky even thought was possible.

“Hello,” Sky greeted him in return.

Ten peered at him, searching. “Looking for anything in particular?” He asked. “It doesn’t look like your ears are done.”

“Ah—no, no they’re not.” Sky brushed his fingers on his earlobes, shy, suddenly feeling uncertain. Ten seemed to notice this, standing up from the counter and leaning back, relaxing where he stood, gaze becoming a little less appraising.

“I just came because,” Sky adjusted the strap of his book bag, steadied himself. “I used to have a piercing. But I lost the jewellery ages ago, and I haven’t worn anything in it in years. I wanted to get something new to put in it, and maybe have some help putting it in?”

Something new—he’d given it some thought, the sort of thing Prapai might like to see, the sort of thing Sky might like to see on himself. Not another curved barbell, not black gunmetal, nothing too similar to what Gun had forced through his skin. Something smaller, more delicate, some kind of fine metal—Prapai would love it, loves when Sky indulges in himself. Sky glanced at the spinning rack beside him, spied a gold barbell with gemstone flowers on the ends—maybe something sweet, like that?

Ten smiled. “Of course. Though if it’s been years, are you sure you even have the hole anymore?”

That made Sky pause. “Pardon?”

“Without jewellery to hold them open, piercings can heal completely shut over time,” Ten said. “Everyone is different, every piercing is different. Generally, areas of cartilage like the upper ear,” he reached a finger up to trace his own numerous piercings, and they tinkle lightly, like bells, “don’t ever heal completely—the skin just closes over the hole in the cartilage. But areas like the nostril or lip can fully close very quickly.”

“What about—body piercings?” Sky asked, haltingly. “Like, somewhere on the torso?”

Ten’s lip quirked. “So you had a navel? Or nipples?”

Sky startled slightly. “Uh—nipple. Just one.”

Ten nodded, gesturing to the black curtain behind him. “Those depend on many factors. I could take a look for you, to be sure, if you’re comfortable?”

In a way, Sky couldn’t refuse—he’d already admitted to coming in for help putting jewellery in, he’d be embarrassed to balk at the idea of Ten looking and touching him now. He nodded, and allowed Ten to usher him beyond the curtain.

It was just as clean in the back of the salon, but less flashy, more sterile, smelling vaguely of antiseptic. Ten instructed him to sit on a black padded bench, fishing out a mask and latex gloves from quite possibly the cleanest mechanic’s tool caddy Sky had ever seen—and he’d been in Phayu’s garage.

“Left or right?” Ten asked, snapping the gloves at his wrists.

“Left.”

Ten nodded. “Shirt off then, please and thank you.”

Sky discarded his school uniform and undershirt before he could overthink it.

Ten stepped into his space, hip pressing gently to the outside of Sky’s thigh, one gloved hand pressing his fingertips to the underside of Sky’s left pec to steady him, the other hand reaching directly for his nipple. His motions were assured, but gentle. Sky felt hyper aware of every connection between them, every touch, in a jittery, self conscious way. He felt unsettled, vaguely—only Prapai ever touched him here now, and Ten’s clinical precision was confusing to such an intimate part of his body. Sky tried desperately to restrain the shiver that shook through him—now was not the time or place to make it obvious how sensitive his nipples were.

He clearly didn’t succeed. “It’s normal,” Ten said, mildly and nonchalantly. “Don’t stress over it.”

Sky tried, but it was difficult, and distinctly stressful, Ten’s knowingly appraising touch, the crease in his brow as he looked, looked hard. He pushed the bud of Sky’s nipple to one side, then the other, stretching the skin gently where the hole had been left to get a clearer look at its depth. Truthfully, Sky had no idea if it had healed shut or not—there was a time when it was better for him to pointedly ignore the holes left when he took the jewellery out, and tell himself that if he didn’t look then they weren’t even there, but as time passed and the memories weren’t so scary, it became that he didn’t look at them because he simply didn’t care.

And then Prapai came along, and suddenly that look of lust, of obsession, so plain in his eyes, became something Sky wanted so badly to chase.

“Bad news,” Ten announced, breaking Sky from his thoughts, stepping out of his space and pulling his mask down to expose a pouty frown. “It’s healed completely shut, definitely. You don’t have the hole anymore.”

Sky felt momentarily frozen. He didn’t have it anymore? Healed completely? Gone? So he wouldn’t be able to put jewellery in for Prapai, wouldn’t be able to see how proud he would be, wouldn’t be ravished all night for it? His first reaction was disappointment, a distinct deflating in his chest. Until—

Gone. It was gone. One of the last remaining physical scars that Gun had left on him, the hole through one of his most sensitive parts—gone. Sky didn’t have the chance to repurpose the damage that was done to him, because it was simply not there anymore. It had healed.

Almost breathless, Sky asked: “It’s gone?”

“Gone.” Ten’s look was a bit sad, almost pitying—he didn’t know. He had no way to understand the gift he’d just given Sky. Sky can’t even be upset about the loss of his plan, his original intention coming to TenTen, when Ten had unknowingly gifted him with something he hadn’t even considered was possible: that a burden he thought he would bear forever was healed.

“You can still see the scarring from where it was,” Ten continued. “Which—ah, you didn’t get it done here, right?”

“No.” No, it had been done to him on a kitchen counter, needle still searing hot from the boiling water. At the time, he’d been grateful Gun had even made an effort to be sterile.

“Phew,” Ten breathed a dramatic sigh of relief, crinkly smile reappearing. “Because it was terrible. Too shallow, a bit crooked. You’re better off with it healed shut.”

Sky felt within every inch of himself that he couldn’t agree more.

“But that means you can pierce over it again,” Ten offered. “Get it done right, this time.”

And in that moment, instantly, a new plan began to ignite. The old hole was sealed and nonexistent, nothing but a scar of two dots that Sky could pierce over properly, slide a needle through, slice the skin clean apart—rewrite over then, correcting what was wrong. He could destroy the remaining scars beyond recognition, and be left with something beautiful, well-done, something he chose, something that would make Prapai crazy, crazier for Sky than he already was.

“I’ll have to think about it,” Sky said, even though he already knew.

Ten smiled, easy and kind, a glint in his eyes like he already knew too. “Come back any time.”

—

Rain answers the call on the first ring. Rain agrees without fuss to meet up with Sky, not far from school, at an intersection of side streets lined with inner city buildings. Rain doesn’t ask when Sky tells him to not tell Phayu.

Rain knows Prapai leaves today.

Sky is capitalizing on his good-natured pity, while it lasts.

Four months may not be quite long enough—but the merger will take Prapai four months minimum, and Sky has been doing battle with himself in his mind, arguing between wishing it will just be four months, unsure if his heart can handle longer, and wishing Prapai has to linger a while in London, and give Sky’s body more time that it might need. Four months is a short healing period for this, so Sky is acting now, before Prapai’s flight even lands in London.

Yes, saying goodbye to Prapai feels like losing a limb. Yes, there’s an ache in Sky’s chest that he’s honestly not sure if, after hanging up the call with Rain, is from the separation or the anticipation. Sky is an opportunist, and always adeptly prepared, constantly finding comfort in motion—he’s not one to be frozen in stasis by Prapai’s departure. Instead, Sky has found the silver lining in being left behind, a unique opportunity that may never be encountered again, for what Sky has quietly, on his own, in numerous incognito browser tabs been researching and looking for just the right time for.

It hurts—to sit atop Prapai’s desk and watch his messages ping in, one after another, completely unperturbed by Sky’s lack of response, knowing this is all he can have of him for months. It hurts so badly it makes Sky dizzy, Prapai’s goodbye kiss still lingering on his lips while he puts on his shoes, one at a time, like every other time. It hurts so deeply Sky thinks he could choke on his unshed tears and die.

So he pushes himself out the door and starts moving.

Rain is overly bubbly, when Sky meets him in the street. He’s being loud to the point of annoyance, thinking no doubt that Sky had called him to take his mind off Prapai's departure. It makes Sky feel fond, something he doesn’t often feel for Rain and his antics, but keeping him from leaving the elevator on the wrong floor keeps Sky’s hands from checking his phone where it buzzes with message after message in his bag.

TenTen is just as shiny and gleaming as it was those few months ago, when Sky had first come here alone. Rain freezes in front of its glass door, eyes going comically wide as he realizes that this is where Sky is taking him, as he looks frantically through the windows at the display cabinets full of metal.

“What,” Rain says slowly, “are we doing here?”

Sky sees no point in beating around the bush. “I’m here to get my nipples pierced to surprise P’Pai with when he comes home.”

Rain’s eyes get wider, somehow. “Sky,” he hisses, like Sky’s name is a curse. “What are you talking about, no you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you are—” He cuts himself off with a gasp. He draws himself up to his full height, which is not very tall, and does not come across as threatening or authoritative at all. Sky raises his eyebrow at him.

“You have gone insane.” Rain seems to decide. “P’Pai has only just left and you have already lost your mind. Oh my God.” The resolution falls, and he starts shifting foot to foot anxiously. “You’re never allowed to tell me I’m crazy over P’Phayu again when you’re trying to do this, oh my God.”

“I am perfectly sane.” Sky says.

“If P’Phayu left I would not pierce my nipples,” Rain says, a bit hysterically. “I would—I don’t know, but I wouldn’t—I might—”

“You would drop dead immediately.” Sky smiles. “Let’s go inside.”

“No!” Rain slaps Sky’s hand away from the door handle. “I need to tell P’Phayu you’ve gone crazy before you hurt yourself.”

“You need to tell no one.” Sky snaps. “P’Phayu with just tell P’Pai, and it will ruin the surprise. You need to keep this a secret.”

“You’ve lost your fucking mind, Sky!” Rain whines. “This is crazy! P’Pai will appreciate me and P’Phayu keeping you safe from yourself.”

“And P’Phayu will give you hell all night for swearing at me,” Sky threatens. “Shall we tell him together?”

Rain’s mouth snaps shut, blush spreading across his cheeks, tinting the tips of his ears. He’s still not good at reigning in his mouth without Phayu around as a reminder, and this wouldn’t even be the first time Sky ratted him out for it, but he hopes beyond anything it doesn’t come to that. He knows that Rain won’t be able to keep this from Phayu long, his loose lips will slip eventually, but he’s banking on Rain’s guilt after he lets it out being great enough that Phayu will understand the importance of the secrecy. Sky just isn’t sure he would be able to convince Phayu himself without Rain’s puppy eyes as leverage.

Sky glances around, checking to see that no one will overhear what he says next.

“Rain,” he says, aiming for soft and placating, because Rain is still jittery, still looking like he’s about to bolt. Sky feels it too, bubbling and building in his chest, tight enough to burst. His phone keeps vibrating, new Line messages every few minutes, each one squeezing him tighter, loss and excitement jumbled in one swelling, confusing bubble. “I have been thinking about this for months, and it is important to me. I need this to go exactly right, and I need your help for this part of it.”

“Why?” Rain asks.

Sky takes a steadying breath. Why indeed, why is he doing this? It makes perfect sense in his mind, but how could he make Rain understand that sometimes his body doesn’t feel entirely his, and he’s stealing his ownership back with blood?

Or rather—why does he need Rain, here, today? That would be much easier to answer.

It’s because he passed out, last time. Last time, with Gun, on the kitchen counter by the boiling pot, the needle sharp and hot, the fear so tangible he could taste it, copper-like in his mouth. He had been just a teenager and terrified, trying desperately to please the man he thought loved him, letting him slot between his spread legs and pull off his shirt and mutilate him, only to regain consciousness some time later, filled with sickly dread at knowing that he had failed.

But he doesn’t say any of this. He thinks that what Rain knows about Gun already is enough.

So much will be different about this time, Sky knows. He’s no longer a teenager, no longer fearful, he’s choosing to do this for himself, for the man he loves. He’s mostly confident he won’t pass out again, but—there’s a niggling fear, persistent, that things will go wrong again. He’s nervous, and he wants someone there to make sure he’s okay, and Prapai isn’t here.

It would ruin the surprise anyways, if he were.

Sky doesn’t know how to answer Rain, without giving too much away, so he just says: “Because you’re my friend, and I trust you, and I just need some help right now. Okay?”

Rain settles. His eyebrows pinch, his lower lip pouts.

“Sky,” he says, with gentle urgency. “Are you okay?”

No, Sky could say, and it wouldn't necessarily be wrong. He remembers the feeling of Prapai stepping away from his arms for the last time before leaving, hardly an hour ago. But he also remembers the look on his face when he asked about the piercing the first time, across the table at breakfast, so lecherous—“Won’t you really tell me when you did the piercing?” In his tan leather jacket, shirt half unbuttoned. “And I want to know why you took them out.” He remembers the searing pain of his first piercing, but then imagines the clean slide of Ten's needle through his skin, shredding the old scar. He thinks of four months from now, maybe more, how Prapai might look, what he might say, when Sky shows him.

“Yes,” Sky smiles. “I’m okay.”

Rain looks unconvinced. “Are you sure about this?”

“I am. Can we go inside now?”

It takes Rain a moment, and a deep breath, but even with his pinched eyebrows he nods, and Sky pulls him inside TenTen.

It’s just as beautiful inside as Sky remembers, glittery and spotless, lights from overhead reflecting and refracting off what looks like it could be thousands of different pieces of jewellery. Rain looks distinctly overwhelmed by the variety, eyes flitting frantically around, but Sky zeroes in on Ten, waiting behind the glass-top desk in front of the black curtain, perched on a stool with a tablet and stylus, just as astonishingly pretty as he was before.

“Hi hi,” he says, drawn out, with a sly look over the edge of the tablet, and it’s immediately obvious that he remembers Sky.

“Hello,” Sky says, and then after a moment, hushed: “Rain! Say hello.”

“Hello!” Rain says loudly to a cabinet full of metal tinted shades of rainbow.

Ten’s smile crinkles his eyes so hard that shallow creases appear by his nose, like whiskers. “You brought a friend this time. Does that mean what I think it means?”

Ten is so—so easy. So easy to talk to, comfortably, something about his playful demeanour immediately makes Sky feel like they're friends, like he's putting himself in caring hands. So easy to trust.

“If you think it means I’m here to get them done,” Sky breathes deep, “then yes.”

Ten nods, setting aside his tablet. “Very responsible, to bring someone. You’re well-researched.”

A small smile tugs at Sky’s lips.

“But—them?” Ten quotes back at him. “I remember, you only had one before.”

“I did,” Sky says. “I just want something different this time.”

Ten’s fingers drum that idle rhythm on the glass-top again. “Well, I won’t tell you no. Do you want to sign your waiver, or pick your jewellery first?”

Sky looks around the shop. Half the intention of the plan is getting something pretty, that Prapai will like, and with the amount of options around the store Sky thinks it may be more of a battle that he anticipated. So he says, “Maybe jewellery?”

“Mm-kay,” Ten wanders out from around the desk. “How sensitive are your nipples?”

Rain chokes, coughs, somewhere across the store. Sky's jaw twitches. “I—well—”

“Not like that,” Ten giggles. “Sorry. I mean the skin, I want to know what to pierce with. Did you have any trouble with the first piercing?”

Only years of torment, even after he’d thrown away the barbell. But the healing—”No,” Sky says. “It was fine, I think.”

Ten hums. “I prefer titanium over steel. Negative reactions are much less common. If you want a different look, gold is also a very good option for easy healing. I also have some anodized metals. The rainbow is popular,” he muses.

“I—I don’t think I have a strong preference,” Sky says.

“For the shape,” Ten meanders, idly leading Sky between spinning racks, searching with nonchalance for the right jewellery as if it would appear in his path on its own. “I prefer straight barbells. They allow for more space for comfortable swelling in the immediate aftermath. Hoops or curved barbells—”

“No hoops.” Sky doesn’t mean to interrupt, doesn’t mean to be rude, but the mention rattles him. He wants it to be different. He wants it as far from what Gun did to him as he can get. “No curved—none of that. And—and actually, I think the colour—nothing too dark. Nothing black or—yeah. Um, how small can it be?”

Sky catches Rain’s eye in a mirror. His whole face is pinched, frowning, glaring, watching Sky quietly from across the store. Sky can tell he’s worrying Rain—he’s never been one to stutter, always speaks with such surety, and he knows he’s not doing well to make a convincing impression of being okay, like he told Rain he was.

He takes a deep breath. He wants this, he does. It means treading a fine line between old memories resurfacing and finally burying the past for good, but he can do it. He will do it, for himself, to make himself proud, to make Prapai proud of him too.

Ten is unfazed by the sudden limitations Sky has placed. “Typically a 14 gauge. But I remember your nipples being a bit small,” he sounds a bit playful as he muses. “We could get away with a 16 gauge, one size smaller, if you want to be dainty.”

Sky scowls to himself, but says, “Yes, I would like to be dainty.” He knows if Rain weren’t so stressed, he’d find it hilarious.

Ten clicks his tongue as he nods, finally coming up to a stop at a tall glass cabinet against the wall. “You’ll be looking here, at these, then.” He points with a fine-boned finger, tracing the shape of several rows on the glass. “I can’t suggest anything with charms. Too much motion in the jewellery will make it impossible for it to heal. Keep to the plain ones, there are plenty with something pretty on the ends.”

There are, really. Sky peers into the cabinet, scanning through rows of completely plain barbells in all different colours, round ball ends on either side, eyes accidentally catching on some barbells that are entirely too extravagant, with chains and jewels dangling from the ends—Sky knows Prapai would obsess over something like that, but he can’t even imagine trying to hide those under his clothes for months, and besides, Ten had just written them off as bad for healing.

Still, the thought takes root in Sky’s mind, reminding him of half of why he’s here—after the piercings are healed, and he can change out the jewellery, he won’t have to worry about hiding it under his shirt. He can put in those ridiculous pieces for just a night, let Prapai play, let him touch and tease and tug on them, or maybe not—maybe Sky can forbid him from getting close, torture him by only letting him look, as Sky plays with them himself, pulls the chains and jostles the charms. Prapai could barely follow a no-touching instruction without them, how would he manage with a temptation so strong?

Something in the cabinet catches his eye, snapping him away from things he should not be thinking about in public, especially not with Ten and his sly little eyes right next to him.

The plain barbells are simple enough for Sky’s taste, nondescript enough that he thinks they won’t show too easily through the fabric of his shirts, but at the forefront of his mind is Prapai and his flair. He would be so—so pleased, Sky can imagine it clearly, the way he looks when Sky overwhelms him; broad chest rising as he pulls in a deep breath it looks like he can’t stop, like his heart is swelling, his eyes wide and imploring as if asking for me? but also can I have more? at the same time. If Sky gets something flashier, something distinctly unlike him, the reason will be unmistakable from the moment Prapai sees it: the choice was for him, all about his effect on Sky. It’s exactly what Sky wants.

There is a pair of silvery barbells hanging just under Sky’s eye level in the cabinet. The ball ends aren’t balls at all, they’re small, flat cylinders, the circle sides each embedded with a pale blue gemstone, tiny facets refracting spots of light in yellows and blues in the packaging they’re held in. Sky tilts his head to peer at them, and as his line of vision shifts, the lights refract differently through the facets, throwing new colours.

“These ones,” Sky points to them. “Will they work?”

“They’ll work great,” Ten says warmly. He unlocks the cabinet door and fishes them out. “Dainty.”

Rain snorts from somewhere behind them, no doubt sneaking around and snooping on Sky’s choice. Sky grimaces.

Ten takes him back to the glass top desk, where he procures a document from under it that Sky signs while barely looking, and then another document that he instructs Sky to take home.

“Aftercare,” Ten says. “Cleaning instructions. Though I’ll tell you most of it anyway.”

Sky folds it neatly and tucks it into his bag.

“Cash or card?” Ten asks.

Sky pats his pocket for his wallet. For all his meticulous research, he hadn’t actually considered cost. As he flips his wallet open and rifles through the bills he has on hand, he wonders if he even has enough. He feels a rush of self-admonishment for his own poor preparation—he’d been so caught up in his plan, in Prapai leaving, that he’d allowed something to slip. He huffs to himself. He’s better than this. He’s better at keeping his head clear and his details in order.

He’s better—when Prapai is around. Sky’s chest clenches. His phone vibrates again, as if on cue, reminding Sky of the man who’s missing, of the man he’s here in this salon for.

And from the furthest-back slot on one side of his wallet, a shiny black card catches the light just right, and winks up at Sky.

“How will the name of this shop show up on a credit card statement?” Sky asks.

Ten smirks, just slightly. “Do your parents check yours? Don’t worry, it just comes up as TenTen Salon. You can say you got a facial, or something.”

Sky can’t help it—the same small smirk Ten wears starts pulling at the corners of his own mouth too. There must be some kind of magic in the air at TenTen, for things to fall so perfectly into Sky’s lap every time he sets foot in here.

No, his father won’t be checking the statement—but Prapai will be, checking the transaction history on the card he’s given Sky, every day, three times a day, making sure Sky is eating. It’s perfect, really, Sky thinks, the chance to leave Prapai a clue, to leave the date and time where he can see it, and not say a word about it. Will he ask? Will Sky tell the truth, if he does?

It makes Sky feel, for a moment, like everything is normal. That he’s playing another one of their teasing games with Prapai, cat-and-mouse, tallying up a score. Well, Prapai left, Sky thinks. He’s up one against me. I’ll pierce my nipples and not tell him, to make us even, and I’ll do it on his credit card to put myself up one. The same game they’ve played before—assemble a project for a kiss, one phone call for a night without being bombarded by texts—though the stakes are greater than normal. But so is the distance, and the time, between them.

Sky ponders how he’ll keep the secret while leaving this evidence behind. He could say it was a facial—Prapai would be pleased, he’d love the idea of Sky destressing and pampering himself. Sky almost rolls his eyes imagining the way Prapai’s chest would swell with pride knowing that it was his money that did that for Sky. All he ever wants is to provide.

He could lie, outright and obviously, and say he got his hair done. He could say he bleached it stark blonde and then turn his phone off and let all of Prapai’s attempts to video call him decline. He wonders if the shock when Sky finally has to admit to lying about that will make Prapai forget to press him on what the charge really was.

He could also say he got his whole body waxed and watch Prapai fight tooth and nail to get on the next flight home, crazy for the feeling of Sky’s skin, smooth under his touch. He’s a lecher and a pervert and he’d hardly be able to resist the temptation.

Sky’s getting ahead of himself. He has to swipe the damn card first, before he can daydream about what he’ll tell Prapai.

Sky’s phone vibrates, another text, and his heart doesn’t ache as hard this time.

“Card, please,” Sky smiles at Ten, and a few moments later Prapai has bought his own welcome home gift, four months in advance.

“Alright, this way,” Ten gestures for Sky to step around the desk and follow him as he parts the black curtain and disappears into the space beyond. Sky moves to do so, until—

“Um!” Rain speaks up, from closer than Sky thought he was. Sky turns to him. He’s shifting nervously again, fingers twisting together.

“Should I—” Rain gestures to the back room. “Like, do you need me—I don’t know if I want to see—”

“Me shirtless?” Sky says blankly.

“You bleed.” Rain makes a pinched face. “Just yell if he, like, tries to kill you or something. Okay?”

Sky stares at him, but still says, “Yes, Rain,” to soothe him. He tries again to leave, but—

“Wait!” Rain is chewing his bottom lip and looking everywhere in the room but at Sky as he tries to gather what he’s trying to say.

Sky waits. He wouldn’t normally, but he knows he’s asking a lot of Rain, he knows he’s acting strangely, he knows he’s blindsided Rain with everything that’s happening. He knows Rain feels so much, all at once, and can’t always find the words he needs before he gets overwhelmed. Sky knows his best friend. So he waits.

“Are you sure?” Is what Rain asks, again, hushed like he’s worried someone is eavesdropping. “Sky, I know you had—are you sure you want it again?”

Oh. Sky actually didn’t know that Rain knew about his old piercing—he has enough presence of mind to wonder how he knows, but not enough concern to ask. Whatever Rain knows, he knows. After today, it will all be done hurting Sky anymore anyways.

“It’s different this time,” Sky says, gently.

“Is it?” Rain says, and he looks—he looks frightened.

Sky feels a pang of remorse, and a rush of memory. Rain had been so scared, and so sorry, that final night Sky had encountered Gun. While he’s still learning how to express himself, Rain feels every emotion with his whole heart, and for Sky, he’s scared. For Sky, he’s worried.

For Rain, Sky could do a little better.

He straightens his shoulders. “I still have the scar from the old one.”

Rain’s jaw clenches.

“So I’m here to pierce over it.” Sky tries to make it sound simple, like it doesn’t feel like the crushing weight of everything he’s been through isn’t teetering on the precipice of landsliding away. “The scar will be gone and I’ll never have to see it again.”

“But you’ll have new ones.” Rain says, in a small voice.

Sky nods, slowly. “But P’Pai will think these ones are pretty. That’s why I picked the jewellery I did.”

“But what about you, Sky?” Rain asks, voice hushed and urgent and wavering. “Will you like them? Do you want them?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately, and, letting Rain’s vulnerability wash over him, he says, “Rain, it means so much to me. I thought I could never make him go away, but I can. I want to. I want to have fun and feel pretty and—and give something to P’Pai. And this is how I can. You understand?”

Rain bites hard on his bottom lip. Sky wonders how much Phayu will fret over it when he goes back home—and how long Rain will be able to keep the secret, when Phayu will be able to tell right away that something happened, indentations of Rain’s bunny teeth in his lip deep and red.

“I don’t know. I think so,” Rain says. “I just want you to be okay, Sky.”

“I am,” Sky says. “I will be. I promise. Okay?”

Rain nods. His eyebrows are still creased, but he doesn’t look so petrified anymore. “Okay. Yeah, okay.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Okay. I’ll be here.”

“I know. Thank you, Rain.” Sky smiles one last time at him, and steps into the sterile space beyond the curtain to meet Ten.

He’s already set up, quick and efficient, a small cart of supplies wheeled next to the black bench Sky had sat on before. There's the package of piercings—now unsealed, with them glimmering softly in the open air, disassembled—needles still in sterile packaging, elastics, gauze and cotton swabs and antiseptic, a dollop of some shiny jelly, and some kind of horrific looking utensil like a pair of scissors with rounded out holes on the ends instead of blades.

All of it is unfamiliar. There was none of this for Sky’s first piercing. The newness settles him, rather than making him anxious. The difference pleases him. The gemstones on the piercings wink at him in the light as he approaches, and he smiles. His heart rate has never felt steadier. He may have been fooling himself before, going through all of this preparation and planning without really thinking about how it would feel to do it, too focused on the outcome, but now that the act stares him in the face—he’s never felt more ready for anything in his life.

Ten snaps his gloves on and settles his mask over the bridge of his nose. “Shirt off, and up on the bench!” He requests gleefully. Sky complies.

“This will be cold,” Ten warns him just a moment before stepping into his space and swiping a wet cotton ball—soaked in, Sky can smell, rubbing alcohol—thoroughly around one nipple and surrounding area, then the other. Sky grits his teeth. It’d feel cold on any other part of his body, but on his nipples, it’s freezing, and it sends sparks up and down his spine.

“It’s normal,” Ten had said, during their first meeting, when Sky had shivered just at his touch. Sky remembers it with embarrassed clarity. “Don’t stress over it.”

He knows his nipples are hard, from the cold and from the touch. He hopes that might actually be helpful, in this case, and not horribly awkward.

“Now sit straight,” Ten says, uncapping a marker Sky didn’t even notice he was holding. His touch on Sky’s chest is impossibly gentle, gaze appraising, moving between his nipples. “I’ll be marking, first, so I’ll know where to aim to get them straight and in line with each other. You can check them in the mirror to make sure.”

“I’m sure you don’t need me to check your work,” Sky says.

Ten’s eyes crinkle—he’s smiling behind the mask. “And you’ve eaten today?”

“Yes.” A final breakfast with Prapai, ordered in and eaten in the bed they didn’t want to leave. Sky had hardly been able to eat, himself—Prapai insisted on feeding him.

“Good,” he leans back and caps the marker, eyes flitting back and forth again. He appears pleased, after a moment’s critique, because he reaches for the sealed needles and asks, “Ready?”

Ready. So ready, Sky feels the way this new reality settles on his skin, into his bones, a reality where his old scars aren’t just healed, they’re non-existent, they’re destroyed, his body remodeled in a way that he’s chosen. Sky knows fear—he’s known fear and anxiety and misery he wouldn’t wish on anyone, and as Ten tears open the sterile packaging and dips the needle tip in jelly, he feels a peace he didn’t always believe could even exist.

“I’m ready,” Sky smiles.

“Left or right, first?”

The answer is easy. “Left, please.”

Ten works quietly, focused from here. It’s almost mesmerizing, the practice clear in his steady motions, taking the rounded-end scissor-like tool and looping an elastic midway down the prongs, then clamping down on Sky’s nipple, the marker dots perfectly centred in the holes. His hands are steady as he supports the weight of the clamp so it doesn’t slip, the other picking up the prepared needle and bracing his wrist on the centre of Sky’s chest.

“Deep breath,” Ten instructs.

Sky breathes in. Maybe he imagines it, maybe it clings to his skin, but he catches the briefest hint of Prapai’s cologne as he does.

“And out,” Ten’s hands tense against Sky’s chest.

As Sky breathes out, the needle slides in. In a flurry of measured movement, Ten releases the needle with it still through Sky’s skin, picks up one of the barbells, and uses the uncapped end to push the needle completely through Sky’s nipple, a dextrous motion of his fingers keeping the needle from falling to the floor as it passes completely through, the barbell taking its place in Sky’s body. Ten unclamps the scissor tool from Sky’s nipple, and then screws on the gemstone ball end with a delicate touch.

And just like that—it’s done.

“You're quite interesting,” Ten chuckles. “You watched the whole time. Most people look away.”

How could Sky have looked away? He’d needed to see it more than anything. He’d hardly even felt the pinch, the sting, over the headrush of euphoria that it was done. Not just the act of the piercing itself, but an entire chapter of his life—he’s closed a door that he didn’t know he could close, until coming to Ten. He’s still staring down, as a droplet of blood wells around the barbell and slides down his chest, and as Ten catches it with a square of gauze. Sky can’t even tell where the original hole was, where the scar was left on him—he’s too mesmerized by the way the light catches the sky-blue gemstones as he breathes, as his heart keeps time steady and sure in his chest, flickering the light fractals with each beat.

“Are you doing alright?” Ten asks, with an urgency that catches Sky’s attention.

“Yes,” he says. “Sorry, yes, I feel fine. It hardly hurt. It’s—it’s beautiful.” His voice catches. It’s beautiful—he’s beautiful, he’s his, he’s Prapai’s. His nipple stings. He feels alive, in the steadiest, most assured way.

Ten nods, still looking intently at him. “Yes,” he agrees. “It is. Do you need a minute, before we do the other?”

“No,” Sky says, resolutely.

Ten studies him for a moment, glancing over his chest, his breathing, his hands where they rest on the table, meeting his eyes. He seems to find the reassurance he was looking for, because he says, “Alright. You did great. Keep it up for this one.”

Maybe Ten works faster, maybe Sky’s just paying no attention at all, but it’s as if he blinks and his right nipple is suddenly pierced. He feels a headrush nothing like the drop he felt the first time when he passed out, but instead as if some persistent tension that had become a part of him has vanished. Like calm quiet after a storm, it’s the realization that he feels settled in a way he forgot he could.

“Good, good job,” Ten murmurs, dabbing a bead of blood on his right nipple. “Very good. Stay put for a few minutes and tell me if you start to feel unwell. Lie down if you feel the need. I’ll tidy up.”

Ten flits and tinkers about, and he’s speaking as he does it, something about unscented soap and can’t play with it yet, but Sky isn’t listening, Sky feels like he isn’t even there, Sky just—floats. Lets it hit him, roll over him in waves, what he’s done. Prapai has hardly been gone more than an hour, probably still flying in Thai airspace, Sky’s phone is still buzzing in his bag even though he hasn’t replied to Prapai once, and Sky is sitting in a piercing salon with his nipples lanced through, bleeding, stinging, prickling behind his eyes.

“Hitting you now?” Ten says, and Sky works to focus his blurry vision on him. Ten smiles sweetly, holds out a tissue. “Hurts now that it’s done, huh?”

Sky shakes his head, takes the tissue with a shaky hand. “No,” he breathes. “It feels amazing.”

Ten—laughs. “Oh, you are an interesting one.”

Of course Sky doesn’t mean it like that. Of course it hurts, it stings, it burns, it itches in a way that Sky knows he’d have to dig under his skin to scratch, but it also feels like freedom. It feels like everything is simple, like when he was a kid, fifteen again, before he moved to Bangkok. It feels like security, like when he lays with Prapai and doesn’t need to get up to check the lock.

“Would your little friend out there like to see?”

Ten’s got entirely the wrong idea, but Sky doesn’t correct him. “No, no, he—he doesn’t like blood, he’ll look some other time.”

Ten hums. “I’m sure he will. Can you stand?”

Sky does so, instead of answering.

Ten nods. He hands Sky his shirt, and Sky puts it back on unthinkingly. Ten reaches out to guide it over his chest, keeping a pillow of air around his nipples. “Okay. Your clothes are loose, that’s good, just be mindful to keep them from catching on the barbells when they shift. Maybe wear some tighter shirts, if you can handle the feeling of pressure on them. Less movement.”

Sky is in a daze. He keeps thinking of Prapai, of what he might say, of what he’ll think—how will Sky show him? When? Prapai will be on him the second he comes home, will he even have a moment to explain before Prapai has his eyes on them, his fingers, his mouth? Tighter clothes, Ten said—will Prapai see them through his shirt, always so laser focused on every inch of Sky with a nearly perverse attention to detail?

“Come on back up front,” Ten guides him with a surprisingly firm hand on his elbow, his other arm wrapping around Sky’s shoulders.

If you can handle the pressure, Ten said. Can Sky? He can feel the metal under his skin, the weight of those gemstones no more than a few grams but still enough for Sky to feel their presence, persistent, a touch deep under his skin like the dark bruises Prapai likes to leave on his collarbones. Can he handle the press of fabric, somewhere he was already sensitive, somewhere he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop feeling, being aware of, at every moment?

“—home to relax,” Ten is saying, to Rain, who nods furiously. Sky is—he works to focus—he’s on Ten’s stool, he’s sitting behind the glass-top desk, Ten is behind him, his chest against Sky’s back—the same way Prapai likes to hold him—his grip is steady on Sky’s shoulders—Prapai would slide his hands around, across Sky’s chest, brush a thumb delicate over his nipples—maybe he’ll play a little meaner now, twist the bar, tug on them, maybe he’ll be even more gentle, reverent even, Sky can’t wait, he can’t wait, Prapai needs to come home—but they need to heal—

“Sky.” Rain calling his name slices clean through his reverie with how panicked it sounds. When Sky looks up, Rain’s lip is bitten raw and his hands are shaking clutching his phone.

“I am going to call P’Phayu,” Rain sounds positively shrill. Ten’s grip is almost painful on Sky’s biceps. “You told me not to but you are scaring me and I am going to call him for help right now if you don’t stop it.”

Sky takes a breath. It rattles in his throat. He tries to say, “I’m okay,” but it comes out hoarse.

“Just sit for a little, okay?” Ten says.

“I’m not going to pass out.”

“I know,” Ten says, and Rain makes an indignant noise. “No, really,” Ten says, and Sky can’t see him, but he can hear the gentle placation, he can picture the shape of Ten’s eyes as he says it. “I don’t think he will. I’ve seen a lot—this doesn’t look like someone about to faint. Just someone a bit overwhelmed.”

“I’m okay,” Sky tries again, and it comes out much firmer.

“Sky,” Rain practically whimpers.

“Rain.”

“Sky,” Rain glances down at his phone—Sky sees it's open on Phayu’s contact page, so he reaches out and snatches it from Rain’s hands before he can do something drastic. Rain makes a pitiful sound in his throat.

“I feel,” Sky starts, but he doesn’t know how to end. He wasn’t lying, he doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out. He never did. He’s just—caught up, in relief, in freedom, in the idea of shaping himself and showing off. In the idea of the future when Prapai is home. He’s just—soaring, somewhere far away from here, somewhere where nothing can touch him.

“I feel so fucking good,” he breathes, like breathing is the easiest thing in the world.

—

Rain fretfully takes Sky home to lay down, and fretfully reads the aftercare instructions that Sky had tucked into his bag, and fretfully orders Sky dinner, and then fretfully leaves after Phayu calls him for a third time to ask why he isn’t at home. Sky tries to keep up, but it feels like the world is rushing past him, and the only thing that feels real is the unceasing pressure of metal under the delicate skin of his nipples. The apartment still feels devastatingly empty, the voids left in the closet where Prapai’s clothes aren’t and on the bathroom counter where Prapai’s toiletries aren’t and on one half of the bed where Prapai isn’t feel like endless chasms, but then Sky’s shirt grazes like sandpaper over his swollen chest, and there’s nothing else he can focus on.

Prapai calls him, as promised, from his new English phone number, well after the sun has gone down. It’s raining in London, he says. It’s always fucking raining and he’s already miserable. Has Sky eaten? He’ll feel better if Sky has eaten.

“Yes, I did.” At some point. Sky doesn’t remember, but the takeout dishes Rain ordered are empty in the trash, he noticed the last time he paced around the apartment, ears buzzing in the stillness and the silence and swearing he could feel the whisper breath of the air conditioning breezing across his nipples through his shirt. Hyper-aware. Hyper-sensitive. He feels his heartbeat around the barbells, kicking up faster at the sound of Prapai’s voice over the phone.

“Good,” Prapai sounds genuinely relieved. “It’s late, you’ll be sleeping soon. Have you showered?”

“Not yet.” He will, with his back turned to the spray. He’ll let the water run rivulets from his collarbones down his chest to loosen and wash away the blood, dried red-brown around the metal and into the gemstones. He’d seen how messy they are, crusted and flaky, in the study by the sunset light, shirt pulled up under his chin. Even half covered with blood, the gemstones refracted, orange and purple flecks of light against the empty surface of Prapai’s desk.

“Send me pictures when you do, will you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Sky,” Prapai whines. “How am I supposed to live when you’re naked and I’m too far away to do anything about it?”

It’s—funny. Prapai is funny, he’s silly, he’s flirty, even still, a year down the line, even now, when both of them burn with twin aches of separation.

“I suppose you’ll just die then,” Sky sighs. It’s like everything is normal. “What a pity.”

“Bury me somewhere beautiful, my love.” It’s like it’s just another day. “Although, really, I’d like to be buried inside your—”

“I’m hanging up!” Sky sits up so quickly, and a fold on his shirt catches on a barbell for a half-second. He winces, and hisses through his teeth. His nipple throbs. “It’s late and I’m going to shower and go to bed so I’m hanging up, goodnight.”

“I love you.” Prapai chuckles. “Endlessly.”

Sky just hangs up on him—like nothing is out of the ordinary. His cheeks are burning. So are his piercings.

The shower hurts. It’s like any temperature is too hot, the water stinging and burning around the barbells, and Sky has to towel off with a care that borders on fear, petrified of the pain and the damage he’ll do if he catches a barbell with the towel. He soaks cotton swabs in saline and swipes around the holes, each swab coming away bloody. He stands staring at the piercings in the bathroom mirror for ages, the way the gemstones glimmer, the way they move with him as he breathes. The way they’re a part of him now—a beautiful, shining part of him.

The wonder can only live so long—exhaustion pulls at the edges of Sky’s consciousness before long. In truth, he dreads going to bed. He dreads what awaits him in his dreams. The sky is too dark and the apartment is too quiet but Sky is too tired, when he climbs into bed, wrung out and limp like a dish towel from the day he’s had. He settles in to try to fall asleep, laying carefully on his back, half the bed colder than ice, his chest aching, stinging, his eyes burning, wondering how bad it will be, the nightmare, this one and next and the next that Prapai can’t cradle him through, and how will he cope, without him, how will he slow his racing heart and make the memories feel like the past he’s left behind instead of a present he’ll forever be forced to live, and how will he—

And then he wakes up.

Sunlight washes into the room, muted through the curtains, but still warm enough on his skin. He’s still on his back, body stiff—several joints pop as he shifts, and he winces as his shirt shifts across his chest, sore and burning, can feel where one piercing has bled as he slept and stuck to the fabric. His head feels fuzzy. His mouth is dry. So are his eyes.

He dazedly raises a hand to touch one of the barbells through his shirt—but has the presence of mind, sleepy as he is, to not do that, and stops before his fingers can reach. He sits frozen instead, in wonder, in peace and quiet. He’s in less pain than yesterday, both the ache of missing Prapai feeling less soul-crushing, and the burn of the piercings soothed by rest.

His dreams were silent.

He hurts so much less.

—

Sky never gets to use any of the excuses he daydreamed of—Prapai never asks about the charge on his credit card.

He’s checking the balance, Sky knows, because the new school year starts and Sky gets busy and forgets breakfast one day, then wakes up the next to a food delivery hanging on the apartment doorknob. He berates Prapai for that one—the time difference is six hours. To order a delivery for Sky before his 9 a.m. class, Prapai would have had to be up at two in the morning, in his time zone.

“I was awake anyways!” It would be distressing, how easily Prapai lies, how well and how assuredly, if Sky didn’t trust him with every ounce of himself. “I was up late getting my work done so I can come home to my honey quickly.”

“Oh, hush,” Sky fans himself with his hand outside the faculty building. He’s been buttoning up his uniform ever since he caught Rain glaring at his chest when he left it undone with only a t-shirt on underneath, trying to catch the shape of the barbells through the fabric. “You can’t come home at all if you work yourself into the dirt, P’Pai.”

“The last time I was in London, I was completing a degree. I have to say, it still feels natural to do late nights here.”

It’s been a few weeks since Sky has been to TenTen. The piercings no longer bleed at night, or when he cleans them, and he’s gotten used to being delicate around his chest when he dresses and showers. The process and task of caring for their healing has folded into the routine of Sky’s life so simply. They hardly hurt anymore, even when it’s late at night and the bedsheets drag roughly against his nipples, kept constantly pert by the metal underneath them, when he stretches out across the expanse of the entire bed, on the phone with Prapai, making mindless pillow talk conversations just to make them feel like they’re together. Prapai talks about the merger, the staff he’s working with, how much he misses Sky. Sky talks about his projects, his friends, not about his piercings. The secret tingles in the tips of his fingers every time he bites his tongue.

“I won’t forget breakfast again,” Sky promises. “Get enough sleep. Don’t stay up so late anymore.”

“Yes, my love.” Sky can hear the fond smile in Prapai’s voice—how he adores being ordered around by Sky. “And what about you, are you getting the sleep you need?”

Sky’s jaw clenches for a moment. Prapai asks the question smoothly enough, without any particular intonation—it could pass as offhanded, just natural conversational flow. But it isn’t. They both know it isn’t.

Your nightmares, is what Prapai is really asking, have they been bad? How often are they coming? Have you been able to get through the nights alone? Are you sleeping, or are you just working until the exhaustion knocks you out?

The truth makes Sky’s eyes sting, makes his chest feel like it could explode. The truth makes his head feel foggy, dazed like he was in TenTen when the piercings were fresh and bloody, Ten’s grip on his biceps and Rain’s panicked voice in his ear, everything muted behind the rush of being able to breathe. The truth is overwhelming, the knowledge that he was right, he needed this, he needed them, these gemstoned barbells buried in his skin, these holes in his body, these new scars.

The truth is that Sky is free. Every night that has passed without Prapai, has passed dreamless, peaceful, and quiet—the longest stretch of time he has ever gone with that kind of tranquility.

He hasn’t had a single nightmare since he got his piercings.

“Yes, P’Pai.” The sun is hot against Sky’s skin. He needs to go inside, get to class—but the days are so warm and lovely, this late summer weather, and Prapai likes to hear about the beautiful days when they call again at night. Sky makes a point to bask in whatever weather comes, just to be able to tell Prapai all about it. “I’m sleeping just fine.”

Prapai hums, all the way in dreary London. “You tell me right away if that changes.”

Sky smiles, small, to himself. It won’t, he thinks. “I will,” he says.

—

Sky starts moisturizing the piercings once they’re about a month and a half old.

The aftercare instructions from Ten said he would probably have to, and so does most of the research that he does himself, but he was really hoping that his body would be an exception to that necessity.

No such luck—the dry rubbing of his shirt against his nipples, all day, every day, is making the skin crack and flake, red and irritated, itchy on the worst days. It’s somehow even worse than the initial searing, bloody pain of the first few days, somehow even more maddening.

It feels oddly embarrassing, even though he’s completely alone in the bathroom, and there’s no one in the world that knows he’s doing it, but he can feel his cheeks and his ears burning as he does it. He cranes his neck downward and cradles his pec in one hand, using one delicate fingertip on the other to gently smear cream across his nipple, soothing the burn on his skin and keeping carefully away from the still healing holes. He’s in front of the mirror, for the good lighting, but he doesn’t look. He doesn’t think he can bear the humiliation. His hand is shaking. He’s biting his lip.

It feels so good.

It’s not the relief of soothing the itching and burning of his irritated skin—he wishes that were it. No, that feels good, but not good enough to make him hard. So why is he? Why is he rock solid and leaking in his boxers, alone in the bathroom, knees about to give out?

He doesn’t understand it. How could lancing through his nipples and all their sensitive nerve endings, no doubt severing and damaging them, end up with his nipples even more sensitive than they were before?

He takes a deep breath and squeezes more cream out of the tube, reaching to moisturize the other nipple. He bites a moan down harshly, teeth buried in his bottom lip. His cock throbs.

Prapai—now is not the time to be thinking of Prapai, it makes everything about this so much harder, but he can’t help it. Prapai’s always been particularly fond of touching him here, loves how much it affects Sky, how it always affects Sky. His nipples have always been sensitive and Prapai has capitalized on that since the night they met, and Sky knew when he got the piercings it would just exacerbate Prapai’s obsession with his chest, but he didn’t realize they would drive him crazy too. He’s just trying to do his best to care for his body, so the piercings can heal without fuss, and instead he’s faced with the humiliating routine of having to make the choice between going to sleep aching and hard, or jerking off using a fistful of the moisturizer he just used on his nipples, right there in the bathroom.

It’s a jerking off kind of night, tonight. He feels the burn of blush all the way down his neck to his collarbones, not just embarrassment, but arousal now, too. He’d worn one of Prapai’s shirts under his uniform to school, which was a horrific mistake—he’d thought the expensive fabric and the bigger size would be less rough on his dry nipples, and it was. But instead of being painful, it was silken smooth, maddening, loose and moving across his chest so much, and it smelled like Prapai. His cologne lingered on the fabric, and Sky inhaled it all day, half hard in his slacks, crossing his legs in class and walking with his book bag in front of him.

He’s so fucking hard it hurts, when he grips the edge of the counter with one hand, and his cock with the other, fingers slippery with cream that he slips across his overheated skin, mixing with the precome budding at the head and slicking his tight hold. He chokes down another moan, eyes squeezed tightly shut, desperately trying to get this over with so he can just go to sleep.

It’s not that he hates it, the new sensitivity—he just hates that he has to play with it alone.

He wants Prapai to explore the new ways to touch him, find out if the same delicate, teasing touch he loves to use will make Sky squirm the way it used to, or if the new intensity will make him shake like he’s getting fucked, make him grit his teeth and whine, make his eyes well up in overstimulation. Prapai loves to play his body, knows like the back of his hand what touches elicit what responses, and Sky wants this new adventure to belong to him. He got the piercings for him, he wants him to be home so he can give him his gift already, this gift of his body, his healing, his incredible accomplishment and how fucking good it feels.

Instead Sky shakes apart in their bathroom alone, staring at the space on the counter he’s left empty, where Prapai keeps his cologne bottles, when he’s here. He wants Prapai’s touch, his hand bigger and hotter on his cock, palm so wide he almost covers the entirety of Sky’s length in his grip, jerking him off by shifting the grip of his fingers rather than stroking. He wants Prapai’s mouth on his neck and his breath in his ear and his weight pinning him down. He wants the gemstones on the barbells to refract their light onto Prapai’s chest as he fucks him, takes Sky slow and languid and perfect, looks at him with that dazed adoration, like he can hardly believe Sky is real, real and underneath him.

He just wants Prapai—home, with him, touching him, holding him, loving him.

He comes into his fist thinking of it, spattering on the counter, dripping onto his upper thighs. His eyes sting. His heart races, but his chest feels empty. He misses Prapai so much. He needs him so badly.

He sighs, ragged. His whole body shakes. He needs to clean up and call Prapai goodnight and feel almost like he could manage to cry at the sound of his voice, and climb into bed and try not to get hard again at the feel of the bedsheets across his nipples.

—

The flurry of end-of-semester is starting to build when Prapai finally comes to terms with having to stay longer, and tells Sky.

“I hate this,” he agonizes. “I hate it, I hate it all so much, I hate being away, I hate being here, I hate not seeing you, I hate that you’re alone.”

Sky hates the glue that’s become like second skin on his fingertips, and running out of 0.3mm lead in the middle of the night when the shops are closed, and Rain and Sig and Por falling asleep on the floor so he trips over them trying to find who took his notes to study from. This is how Sky has always coped—overwork. When his every waking moment is taken up with final projects and exams, he has no space to remember how much he misses Prapai. He has no presence of mind to understand what he’s hearing, that Prapai is telling him the four months are up, but he can’t come home yet, the merger isn’t complete. There’s no room in his brain to think about how hard it is, how hard it’s been and how hard it will continue to be, to come home to an empty apartment, to eat alone, to miss his boyfriend.

The ache of loneliness has become a part of him. He breathes around it. He limps through every day well enough, and he panics in the moments when he remembers that after exams comes a rest period, where he will have nothing to distract himself with. But those are only moments—he has to refocus on his designs, his reports, his notes, immediately after. He can’t afford the time it takes to choke down tears that won’t fall and fears that keep him up and the sharp pangs of needing Prapai to return.

“Rain and the others are here,” Sky says absently. He picks at his eraser with his thumbnail—Prapai helped him to stop picking at his fingers ages ago, and it’s held even in his absence.

Prapai is quiet for a moment. “That’s—that’s good.” He says, with a lack of self-assuredness that Sky doesn’t notice. “You’re studying? I’m sorry for interrupting.”

Sky hums. “They’re sleeping. Sig is cuddling my t-square.”

“That sounds—sweet, I suppose?”

“I need it, though.” Sky sulks.

Prapai sighs. “I’m sorry I can’t help you this time, my darling. You know I love making trees for your models.”

Sky laughs, sort of. More like, he huffs a sharp breath of air out of his nose. “You don’t.”

“No, I don’t. But I love helping you, and being with you. And I’m sorry I can’t be. I’m sorry it has to be longer.”

It starts to register with some clarity, now. His eyes refocus—how long was he staring, zoned out and blurry, at his draft taped to the drawing table?—and he wobbles a bit where he sits on his stool. “Longer?”

“A few weeks more. Just a few, two or three. I’m trying, Sky, really. I’m trying so hard.”

Prapai’s voice cracks. Sky realizes just how strained he sounds, how ragged his breathing is over the phone. He realizes Prapai is crying.

“P’Pai,” he says. “Are you—I’m sorry, I wasn’t—I’ve been so caught up with exams, I didn’t—” He’s stammering, he’s frazzled, he isn’t sure what’s going on. There’s so much going on. There’s papers all over the floor and there’s friends snoring in the other room, there’s textbooks on the kitchen counter and ink stains on Sky’s palms. But there’s also tears on Prapai’s face, a thousand miles away, that Sky can’t see, can’t wipe away for him.

There’s so much to do. There’s so much he can’t do.

“It’s okay, Sky,” Prapai tries to assure him, but it sounds watery. He sniffles. Sky feels something seismic crack in his chest. “You’re busy, your work is so hard, and it’s so important that you do well. You’re amazing, my love, I can’t wait to hear all about your grades being the best.”

“P’Pai, I’m sorry,” Sky tries to start, but Prapai cuts him off.

“No, I’m sorry, Sky, I’m so sorry,” Prapai's words waver. “I’m sorry it’s going to take me longer, I’m sorry I can’t come home yet, I’m sorry for telling you now when you’ve got so much on your plate already. I’m just—” His voice cracks, he chokes, he sobs.

All Prapai ever wants is to provide. Sky knows this—he’s known this for a long while. The most important thing Prapai can do, in his mind, is be there, be available, give his time and his attention and his energy for Sky to use however he needs, however will make Sky comfortable and happy. Sky knows exactly where it hurts Prapai, to be away. It must be killing him to have to stay away longer. He would have considered four months a promise, one that he’s breaking.

Prapai cries, and it sounds like he’s dying, and Sky knows it probably feels like that to him.

“I’m sorry, P’Pai,” Sky says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “Please, it’s okay. It’s how it has to be, so it’s okay. It’s just a little longer. We can make it, can’t we?”

Prapai takes a shaking, sobbing breath. “I don’t want to make you wait anymore. I’m so sorry, Sky.”

It’s not about him. It’s not about how much he misses Sky, misses holding him, living with him, standing by his side. It’s about the effect his absence has on Sky, to him. Everything is about Sky.

“It’ll be okay, P’Pai,” Sky tries to soothe him. “I promise. If it’s you, I don’t mind waiting.”

Isn’t it funny? That Sky was the one who strung Prapai along for weeks, made him wait and made him work, didn’t believe him when he said that Sky was worth it all. Now Sky is the one on tiptoes, trying to convince Prapai that he’s worthwhile, that the distance and the time can’t kill what he feels for him.

Of course Sky minds—he fucking misses Prapai, getting used to the absence doesn’t mean he’s ever been okay with it, but he can’t mind enough to tell Prapai, to make him torture himself more, which Sky knows he would.

Prapai laughs, wet and self-deprecating. “You know what to say, don’t you?”

Sky smiles. “I know you. I’m yours.”

“You’re mine,” Prapai breathes, with an awe that never leaves him. “I’m sorry it’s hard to be my boy right now. I’ll make it up to you, I promise I will.”

“It isn’t hard.” Sky looks out at the setting sun over the top of his drawing table. Prapai’s work day will be ending soon, if it already hasn’t. He would have been working furiously, trying to maintain today as his last day. It isn’t surprising he held on until the eleventh hour to admit it wouldn’t be. Sky suspects he even had a flight booked for tonight that he’ll lay awake for hours thinking about catching. Missing Prapai hurts—but Sky knows it sears within Prapai like a wound to break a promise he made to Sky.

“Just coming home is enough.” Sky says, bandaging Prapai’s injuries, thousands of miles and a scratchy phone call away.

“As soon as I can,” Prapai vows.

“I’ll be waiting,” Sky answers. It’s as good as I love you.

—

Sky steadfastly refuses, once again, to leave behind evidence even just for himself that he’s tracking Prapai’s flight. He’s using more tabs on incognito than not the past few months, between checking the weather in London to anxiously looking up if whatever stage of healing his nipples are in should be worrisome or not.

He flicks a barbell through his shirt absentmindedly with his thumb. It makes his toes curl, his ears ring, his balls ache. He thinks, honestly, that they were healed fully at four months, because they simply stopped doing anything. The tenderness disappeared, with the redness, the dryness, the itching. Each time he swabbed them with saline, the cotton swabs came back clean, and when he would accidentally catch one with his clothes and tug, it wouldn’t hurt, just send an electric jolt of sharp, sudden arousal through him. He’d even slept face down, pressing them tight to the mattress—all it had done was wake him up achingly hard and sticky in his underwear. The extra three weeks between then and now, with Prapai finally, finally on a flight back home, have just been extra security.

Sky allows himself no more than a few fleeting seconds of a glance each time he checks the tracker, as if that means he’s not doubling back to it with an obsessive regularity. The tiny icon of a plane inches closer and closer to Bangkok, agonizingly slow and altogether too fast.

Four months, very nearly five—almost half a year, Prapai had said once on the phone, in a moment of particular dramatics, and Sky had rolled his eyes, but he’s right. So much life has gone by, an entire semester of his degree complete, holidays and birthdays and functions that Sky all attended alone, missing Prapai all the while. Sky missed him with every inch of himself, every part of his body and his heart yearning for him to come home, and his chest feels so full of anticipation at the thought—the fact—of finally seeing him again, Sky is worried he’ll be choked by his own racing pulse.

He tries to breathe slow, deep, to calm down. Then the barbells scrape against the fabric of his shirt, and he shivers at the feeling, and his fingers are back to shaking with excitement.

He will get to see Prapai again, soon. And he will get to give Prapai his gift.

He tries to get work done, between furtive glances to the tracker, between deep breaths, between yearning so hard he thinks he might shake and shatter and fall apart. He’s at his drawing table, phone propped up on the cart of supplies at his side, trying to focus on his design. It’s prep work—he’s on the break between semesters now. It doesn’t matter if he gets it done or not. But he needs to do it, do something else other than wait. The quality of the work he does will have to be discerned some other time, when Prapai isn’t in Thai airspace and is instead back in Sky’s radius, humming in the kitchen, watching him from his desk.

Sky watches, in real time, as the icon of the plane approaches Bangkok International, pauses, and disappears from the tracker.

The impatience is brutal. Sky’s leg bounces, and he can’t possibly draw a single straight line like this, ruler-aided or not. His hands just lay frozen, holding his t-square and set square in place. No one ever considers that a flight home isn’t ever just a flight home—it’s the flight, then security clearance, then baggage claim, then that heinous, anticipatory drive home.

Sky’s phone won’t stop going off.

>Sky.

>Sky, my love.

>You’re home, right? I’m in the car.

>I’ll be there. So soon. My Sky, it won’t be much longer.

The sun is just beginning to go down. There are shadowy wisps of clouds catching the yellowing light at their edges. Sky fidgets at a loose edge of tape with his fingernail and watches them crawl across the darkening sky, yellow shifting slowly into orange, time slipping away as he waits. What will he say, when Prapai returns? What is there to say? He should have thought about it, but every time he tried the pressure threatened to choke him. Every time he pictured Prapai’s face, his heartbeat thundered in his ears and his head swam. Four, almost five months without him—Sky gets to fall asleep in his arms again tonight. It’s been rainy, and starting to get cooler. It’s like the weather knows Sky needs the warmth of Prapai’s embrace again.

The lock on the front door clicks, Sky hears it from down the hall. His fingers freeze—so does his breathing. The door swings open, hard, the fancy alarm system chiming an entry and the door banging harshly into the wall.

“Sky?” Prapai calls—Prapai calls. His voice, and somehow his very being, starts filling the still and silent corners of the apartment, the places left empty and colourless without him. Something within Sky’s chest soars and something else settles, a bone-deep feeling of rightness and a building pressure around his heart, a tension that’s been budding since Prapai boarded his flight. He’s home. Prapai is home.

Sky hears him roughly bustle in his suitcases, dropping them loudly and carelessly in the entryway.

“My Sky,” Prapai calls again. “My love?”

“Here,” Sky finds his voice, buried under the tightness in his throat. His hands fail him; his t-square drops to the floor. “The study, P’Pai, I’m—”

He turns, and Prapai is in the doorway, staring at him with breathless wonder, like he can’t believe Sky is here. Like he can’t believe it’s Sky’s schoolwork strewn around the room, or his clothes in the closet, or his shoes that he passed in the entryway. Like they hadn’t decorated this apartment together, to make it their own; like Sky could even possibly consider leaving.

He looks awful. London has done terrible things to the gold of his skin, toned it grey and lifeless in the rainy, cloudy weather. His cheeks are puffy from the plane, lips dry, eyes dark with shadow and sleeplessness. He looks exhausted, drab, not at all like himself.

But his eyes—they shine with that wonder, an elation, love so precious that Sky can hardly believe it belongs to him.

“I’m here,” Sky says weakly. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Prapai says.

Sky finds himself in his arms, swept up in his embrace. He’s pressed tightly into the broad expanse of Prapai’s chest, his arms, strong and grounding, wound so tightly around Sky that he can hardly breathe, the sound of Prapai’s racing heartbeat in his ears as he burrows himself closer into him, feeling his breathing, feeling his warmth, feeling how he shakes with a need so great to hold him tight enough to make up for their time apart.

Prapai’s lips are in his hair, kissing his crown. “You’ve eaten?” He asks.

“Yes,” Sky murmurs, into the soft fabric of his t-shirt. “Have you?”

Prapai hums. “On the plane.” He kisses Sky’s hair, again. Then his temple, then his brow, then his cheek as Sky tilts his head up to meet him, then his lips for the first time in months.

It’s an indescribable relief, sinking into Prapai’s kisses again. His lips are softly insistent, kissing with delicate desperation, never harsh, never rough, but needy, every night of wishing Sky was with him piled up and pouring out with each one—Sky feels it, in each kiss. I love you, one says, deep and slow and wet. I missed you, says the quick, fleeting peck to his cupid’s bow. I can never be without you again, says the bite to his bottom lip, soothed quickly by a swipe of Prapai’s tongue. Forever, each one says, in their own desperate way. Together, forever.

“I will never leave again,” Prapai whispers, lips at the corner of Sky’s mouth.

He will. He’ll have to, eventually—his job will once again demand it. But just like when he left, Sky allows him to fret now upon his return, as long as it will settle him enough to keep him moving. He can’t regret the time apart forever, Sky won’t let him.

“You feel so good,” Prapai squeezes him, tightly, almost painfully, for a brief second. Sky grunts. He’s so strong.

“You smell good.” Prapai leans to bury his face in Sky’s neck, breathes deeply. “You smell like you, I missed it. I missed it when I slept, I don’t know how to sleep without you, my Sky.”

“I know,” Sky breathes. His fingers grip tightly at the back of Prapai’s shirt. “It was hard for me without you, too.”

“I’m sorry, Sky,” Prapai buries his fingers in Sky’s hair, reels him in for a tight, insistent kiss. “I won’t do it again, I swear, I—”

“It’s okay,” Sky says. “It’s over, you’re home, it’s okay.”

Prapai looks at him, really, stares into his eyes for a quiet few moments, searching for the grace that Sky is so readily giving him.

“Okay,” he finally agrees, softly. “Okay.”

Sky smiles, and kisses him again, because he can. He can. He kisses him until they’re breathless and dazed, clinging to each other, dizzy with their lips tingling, holding each other tightly because they can. Finally, they can.

“Come on,” Prapai rasps into his ear, hands gripping unsteadily at his waist. “Come shower with me.”

It drenches Sky like a bucket of cold water, because he can feel them. Pressed this tightly to Prapai’s chest, no air between their bodies, he can feel the electric sensation of his piercings, always so sensitive, he can feel the heat of Prapai’s body through their clothes on them. He can feel them, and Prapai doesn’t even know about them yet, and this isn’t how he wants to show him—hurried, rushed, out of the necessity of being naked for a shower.

“You shower,” he shoves at Prapai’s hips, gently. “You smell like airport. I’ll deal with your luggage.”

Prapai pouts.

“I don’t want it sitting in the entryway,” Sky says—and because he knows how much it affects Prapai: “I don’t want our house messy.”

Our house. It does something to Prapai, it does everything, when Sky reminds him that the lives they have belong to each other. What’s mine is yours, just like wedding vows.

Prapai smiles, that sunny, loving smile that even the rain in London couldn’t take from him.

“Go shower,” Sky pushes again at his hips.

“Okay,” Prapai gives in, the good-natured ease of being bossed around—being cared for—by Sky taking over, but he doesn’t step away, doesn’t release Sky from his hold.

“Okay,” Sky says, but he doesn’t disentangle himself from Prapai’s embrace.

Instead they kiss, again, again and again, I love you and I need you and By your side is where I belong exchanged a hundred more times before they can bear to part.

Sky does deal with Prapai’s luggage, after he traipses off to the bathroom, shedding his clothes as he goes as if he thinks his bare skin will tempt Sky into the shower with him.

It nearly does.

Sky tosses all of Prapai’s clothing into the laundry—he doesn’t even bother to discern if anything might be clean. It all smells odd, like wet weather, like some weird detergent that Sky doesn’t recognize. He hates it. It has to get washed out. He sorts through the mess of charging cables, sets them all back where they belong in the study, and sets all of Prapai’s electronics to charge. He stacks the file folders and paperwork Prapai has brought back on the desk for him to take into work.

An entire suitcase is full of gifts. Some are in bags, others wrapped in printed paper, others in bubble wrap, some labelled, some not. Sky spies three labelled with his own name and rolls his eyes. He also catches one with his father’s name, and another with Rain’s.

He slips into the bathroom to set Prapai’s toiletries back where they belong. He slots them in like puzzle pieces, their spots empty and waiting for his return—his aftershave, his toothbrush, his cologne, filling out the blank spaces on the counter that Sky has been eyeing with longing for months.

“Change your mind, darling?” Prapai says above the sound of running water. Sky looks up, into the reflection of what’s behind him in the mirror—Prapai has propped open the frosted glass door, leaning out enough to expose his chest, dripping wet, hair slicked back. Sky can just barely see the trail of hair beneath his navel before the glass blurs the rest of his body.

Prapai flexes his abdomen—he’s caught Sky looking, so he makes sure the view is nice.

“Join me?” He offers again, low in his throat.

Sky walks directly out of the bathroom, to avoid making any rash decisions.

He sits on the edge of the bed, since he knows they’ll end up there anyways. He knows this not with resignation, never, but not quite with excitement either. He wants Prapai more than anything, but he’s nervous—he doesn’t regret it, he loves the piercings, but he wants Prapai to love them too. They’re his gift, after all.

Sky knows he’s done something monumental. Sky knows Prapai will have to know why before he can even consider enjoying it. Gun hasn’t been Sky’s burden alone for over a year now—Sky opened his heart and shared his life, and Prapai helped him so readily to shoulder the weight, but it means that Prapai has been left with his own fears now too.

And that night, that final night Sky encountered Gun—it lives forever in Prapai’s mind too, Sky knows. Fear and regret and remorse are all things that can’t be simply kissed away from him.

Sky will just have to convince him. Like the countless nights Prapai has held Sky and rocked him back to sleep, Sky now has a chance to be the reassurance Prapai needs. Sky smiles to himself, even as his eyes prickle with the threat of tears. Prapai wants nothing more in the world than Sky’s safety, and his comfort, and his happiness—Sky knows all of this, but it took time to learn. And there are times for both of them when the past feels closer than it is, and it becomes harder to remember.

The sound of the water shutting off lights up Sky’s nerves. He waits, as the blow dryer runs on its highest setting, Prapai rushing to get back to Sky. He waits, watching the sun set out their massive bedroom windows, oranges turning purple, stars starting to twinkle where deep blue has already taken over. The clouds from before are gone, the night clear, the fading daylight unhidden. Sky watches the skyline, how the buildings’ edges catch the dying light, their shapes shadowy and pockmarked with illuminated windows—he wonders if maybe someday one of those skyline highrises could be of his design. It feels possible. Anything feels possible, with Prapai back.

“Sky,” Prapai’s voice, gentle, jars Sky from his thoughts. Prapai strides toward him, nothing but a towel around his waist, the warm, low light from the window bronzing his skin and making him look himself again. “Are you too tired?”

Sky shakes his head. “Are you?” He shuffles back on the bed, up to the headboard, enjoys the way Prapai’s eyes darken as he follows.

“Too tired for you?” Prapai crawls closer, right up to him, hovering in his space. “Never.”

He ducks to catch Sky’s lips in a kiss, but Sky turns his face away. Prapai is entirely unfazed, just kisses Sky’s cheek instead, then his jaw, then his throat, each kiss deeper and wetter than the last.

“P’Pai,” Sky clutches at his bare shoulders, thick, dizzyingly strong, skin hot from the shower. “Wait, I have something for you.”

Prapai hums into Sky’s collarbones. “Mm, I have something for you, too.”

Sky can feel the smirk pressed to his skin. He’s revolted, in the fondest way. He grimaces. “Prapai.”

Prapai sobers enough to pull back, straight faced, but the mirth doesn’t leave his eyes.

There’s no perfect way to tell him, Sky realizes. There’s no words that will be just right, enough to tell and explain and assure. Much like the way he got the piercings—quickly, at the first opportunity he had, without giving himself the time or the space to doubt himself—the best way is just to show him.

Sky leans back as far as the headboard will allow him, lifting his shirt carefully, over his head while keeping the front in place to shield his chest until he’s ready. Prapai’s smirk grows, lecherous, but as Sky searches his eyes for a moment he finds the love he can always count on being there, in the creases and puffy under eyes, in the shape his eyes take when he smiles.

Sky looks nowhere but at Prapai’s eyes as he pulls his shirt off his arms and tosses it aside, squaring his shoulders and letting the barbells catch the sunset light and glimmer, obvious, unignorable.

Prapai’s eyes drop to them immediately. His smirk drops, mouth parting in a slight gasp, eyes widening. His eyes flit almost comically between Sky’s nipples, one then the other then back again. Sky can almost hear his heartbeat thundering.

“Sky,” he breathes. “Are they—are they real?”

“Yes,” Sky whispers. This moment feels tender and delicate. He wants to get through it with their peace undisturbed.

Prapai pauses. “Are you real?”

“Yes, P’Pai,” Sky laughs, softly.

Prapai swallows, still staring. Blush colours his cheekbones—not embarrassment, never from him. It’s something else. It’s exactly what Sky wanted, what he knew he’d get, that thinly veiled arousal that appeared every time he had asked about his first piercing.

But Prapai grits his teeth, tears his gaze away to look into Sky’s eyes. “Why?” He asks, fragile.

“For you,” Sky says, because the truth is simple enough.

Prapai inhales sharply. “You didn’t need to.” His eyes are imploring, his body is tense, but the blush still rides on his cheeks. Sky doesn’t have to wonder about what the towel around his waist is hiding. “I would never ask you to—”

“I know.” Sky interrupts. “I know you wouldn’t, not when you know—you know about the first.” Sky clears his throat, as it catches. Prapai’s eyes fill with even more worry. Sky feels like the look could suffocate him, with the way his throat is closing. “But I also know you liked it. Or the idea of it. You wanted to see it before you knew that he—that it was his fault.”

“I never want you to have to think about him again,” Prapai insists, with as much vitriol as he can bear to bring to this moment, this space, their bedroom, their reunion. He’s angry just mentioning Gun, but it’s with remorse that he says: “You’re right, yes, I wanted it, I’ve always thought it would look incredible.” His eyes fall back to Sky’s chest, and he takes a ragged breath. “You do look incredible. They’re beautiful, you’re so beautiful, my Sky. But I—” He shakes his head. He looks pained, when he meets Sky’s eyes again. “If it reminds you of him, I don’t want it. I love you and I love them but if they make you think of him, then I wish you hadn’t done it. Not for me. I’m not worth that pain, Sky.”

Sky’s heart beats so hard he thinks it could crack his ribs, swelling and filling any part of him that was yet empty with Prapai, with his warmth, with his never-ending selfless care and the infinite love he has to give. Sky already knew, of course, all that Prapai is saying, but to hear it from him—the reassurance is priceless to him. Every day Prapai finds a new way to tell him I love you, to tell him I want you safe, and every day Sky has to wrangle his heart back into place when it inevitably falls for him again, each time.

“I don’t think of him,” Sky says. “He’s gone.”

There is something brittle in Prapai’s voice. “Have you really been sleeping alright?”

Because that’s where Gun lurks, isn’t it? In the darkness, where Sky can’t see him sneaking up, in his nightmares that ache because of how close to what was real they are. He can’t be gone if he still shows his face in the shadows, haunting Sky when he’s vulnerable.

But it’s true—the quiet first night after Prapai left, after Sky got pierced, has been every night since. Sky promised to tell him if he stopped sleeping well, if the nightmares returned—they just never did.

“I have,” Sky says. “Really, I have. I haven’t had a bad night ever since I got them.”

Prapai’s brow furrows. “And when did you get them?”

Sky pretends to think for a moment. “An hour or so after you left?”

Prapai startles. “Sky? What are you saying?”

Sky smiles. He loves this. He loves that he can still shock Prapai, still surprise him, and he loves how quickly they can shift their balance between something so serious to their easy playfulness. He loves it. He loves him.

“I tried to do something like it before you left, actually.”

“What on earth does that mean?”

“I found a salon,” Sky tries to organize his thoughts, to tell Prapai everything he knows he needs to hear. “A piercing salon. I thought to get new jewellery, something pretty for—for you.” He blushes, sharply, he can feel it warming his ears. “The hole, it was—it made me angry. He’d left a mark on me, and it made me mad, and I wanted to make it yours instead. Because if it was yours, then it would be mine too.”

Just like wedding vows. Sky thinks he sees Prapai tremble.

“But the piercer took a look,” he continues. “And it had been so long since I had worn anything, the hole had healed shut.”

Prapai nods, silent.

“Just a scar,” Sky muses. “That’s all that was left of—that’s all he left behind.”

Looking into each other’s eyes, they know, between them. It isn’t just a scar. That isn’t all that was left. There are many, some on Sky’s body, others in his mind. Some are so faded they hardly exist, others could be ready to reopen at the slightest touch. Intangible memories are written into physicality, inscribed into his body and his brain, making it hard to forget. Sky does his best, every day. This is his life—but it is his life, and he will handle his scars how he wants.

“So I decided on something different,” Sky takes a deep breath. It shakes in his chest, and Prapai reaches a hand to lay on his thigh. Nothing more, just a touch, a reassurance, a warm, heavy weight, a reminder of his presence. This will be the hardest part—the explanation. Sky doesn’t speak much, keeps his thoughts and feelings close to his chest, because speaking them aloud makes them real. But Prapai deserves this, needs this, to understand how far Sky has come, to be able to enjoy his gift the way Sky so desperately wants him to.

“I decided to pierce over it,” Sky says. “As soon as you left, to give it time to heal. I would pierce over the scar Gun left on me with a new one.” Prapai’s whole body tenses when he says the name, but Sky feels a thrill when it comes out unshaking, unbroken. That name has no more power. That name holds no more fear.

“I would it decide for myself. I would ruin the scar he left and put a new one in its place. And I would put it there for you.”

“Sky,” Pai whispers.

“So I did.” Like it’s simple, like it’s easy. Like breathing. “I don’t think of anyone else but you when I see them. Or when I touch them.” He blushes, again, feels it across his cheeks, already feeling warm from the tears he can't shed.

“They’re yours, P’Pai,” Sky lays a hand over Prapai’s, still resting on his thigh. “I’m yours.”

Prapai takes a deep, shuddering breath. Then another. His gentle touch on Sky’s thigh becomes a firm grip on his waist, and he inches closer, crawling into Sky’s lap and slotting their legs together. He holds himself up on one forearm, braced beside Sky’s head, finger threading into the hair at his crown. He’s all Sky can feel, all he can see, when he takes Sky’s lips for a kiss, deep and wet and desperate.

“Sky,” Prapai breathes across his wet mouth, when they part—though just barely, Prapai’s lips still brush Sky’s as he whispers to him. “My Sky, you are the most incredible man I have ever known.” Another searing kiss, Prapai’s grip shifting to wind his arm around his waist, tugging Sky in, close to his chest, holding his weight like it’s nothing to him, skin to skin. Sky’s breathing catches—he can feel the barbells pressing into Prapai’s chest, and it sends shocks of pleasure up his back.

“You are resilient,” Prapai lays hot, open-mouthed kisses across Sky’s jaw, down his throat, across his collarbones. “You are strong and you are diligent. You deserve to have never been hurt, but he took that, so now you deserve your peace.” He kisses, gentle, chaste even, over Sky’s stuttering heartbeat. His breath washes over a piercing, just inches away. He seems at a loss for words as he watches them rise and fall with Sky’s breathing. He stares at them, at Sky, at his kiss-swollen lips, with wonder.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs. “It’s an honour to love you, and to see you like this, and to receive this gift from you.” He leans in, rests his forehead to Sky’s. “I’m grateful. For you and for everything you give me.”

Sky closes his eyes and allows this moment to last, this carved out space and time where their breathing mixes slowly, their hearts beat together, they sit entwined and quietly love each other. He traces his fingertips across Prapai’s back, feeling which muscles are tense, holding him up, flexing broad and thick beneath his touch. Prapai’s fingers tease gently at his waist, and in his hair, his eyelashes fluttering against Sky’s cheekbone.

“Do you like them?” Sky whispers, even though he already knows.

Prapai groans, short and low. “Sky. Don’t ask such silly things.”

“You aren’t touching them,” Sky mock pouts. Something ignites in Prapai’s gaze. “How am I supposed to know if you like them or not?”

“They’re healed enough?” Prapai seems to vibrate—but even in his excitement, Sky’s well-being is his priority.

“Yes.”

“I can touch?”

“You have every permission.”

“I can—I can play with them?” The opportunity is starting to make its home in Prapai’s mind, Sky can see it. The way his eyelids drop, but his gaze focuses, sickly excited to make Sky squirm.

Sky decides to play his game. “Please do,” he whines. He arches his chest into Prapai’s. “I missed you so much, P’Pai.”

Prapai’s hips jerk into Sky’s—the towel hides nothing. “Are they still as sensitive as before?”

Sky can’t help how wicked he sounds when he answers. “No. More, now.”

“More,” Prapai rasps, reverent like a prayer, and he catches his breath again under the curve of Sky’s jaw, fingers in Sky’s hair tilting his head back. His lips are hurried and insistent against Sky’s skin, tasting his pulse, kicking up Sky’s heart rate impossibly faster. Sky wants him closer, closer, in his arms and on his body and kissing him breathless isn’t enough even though it’s altogether too much, skin burning everywhere Prapai touches, already so hard, so fast his fingertips are numb. The months apart alone and untouched have left Sky oversensitive and shuddering at the barest of Prapai’s touches, aching and yearning for everything he was deprived of and could only have in his memories.

Prapai leans back, palms resting on Sky’s ribs, fingers between where the bones on his slender build press through the skin. The final dregs of sunset filters in, light like honey, warm and golden across the curves and angles of Prapai’s body between Sky’s legs. The shadows of his eyelashes are long against his cheeks, his hair messy and falling in his eyes, the shadows of his pecs and collarbones waxing and waning as his breathing grows more ragged, eyes roaming the expanse of Sky beneath him. His eyes are dark, hungry, needing. Sky knows the ache for closeness in his own chest resides tenfold in Prapai’s.

The light catches the gemstones of the barbells, refracting violet and green and yellow, bright flecks of colour across Prapai’s chest like freckles made of starlight, like constellations across his skin that shift and shimmer with each breath they take. It still makes Sky shift, makes him shy, to be under Prapai’s scrutiny like this—to be watched, observed, even when he knows it’s out of Prapai’s pure obsession.

“Sky,” Prapai almost sings, and Sky tilts his head back to groan. He can tell by the intonation, the teasing tone, that Prapai is regaining his wits.

“They’re so fancy,” Prapai muses, grin flirty. He slides a hand up, palm warm and firm against Sky’s chest, brushes a thumb just once across a nipple. Sky’s whole body jerks, nerves firing, thighs tightening around Prapai. His eyes go wide with wonder, watching Sky react beneath him.

“More sensitive,” he whispers. “And who knew you had such flair?”

Sky would scoff, if he had the mind to, if Prapai’s thumb hadn’t found its way back to his nipple again. He rubs it across one gemstone end, rolling the bar under Sky’s skin, the same motion Sky had to torturously use to clean it, shifting it inside his body. Sky shivers, body going tense, hissing a breath between his teeth.

“I told you,” he tries to bite, but it comes out more of a whimper. “They’re yours.”

“Mine,” Prapai smiles, wicked, possessive. “I’ll have to buy lots of jewellery to keep them pretty then, won’t I?” He presses his thumb flat to the centre of Sky’s nipple, hard and raised, pressing sharply to feel the metal bar through the skin. Sky’s cock throbs, he feels a tension that grips him from his abdomen to his inner thighs, feels his balls tighten. He gets harder, if it were possible, so hard he goes lightheaded.

“Gold,” Prapai muses to himself. He brings his other hand up to toy with the other nipple. Sky’s whole body sings, his ears ring, he twists his fingers into the towel around Prapai’s waist to ground himself before he can float away on the feeling of Prapai’s hands on him, of his fingers toying with his gift. “Solid gold, twenty four karat. Diamonds, Sky, only the best for you. Charms, something pretty that will dangle, sweet little chains that will pull on them so nicely when I’m not around.”

Sky thinks, perhaps, he underestimated how crazy Prapai could get. Though there’s nothing he can do about it now, helpless under his touch, at his mercy as he plays with his body.

Prapai inhales sharply. “My lapel pin,” he says, like a revelation. “The wind design you drew for me. I’ll have new jewellery made custom with the designs on the ends, and you’ll wear my symbol with you every day.” He leans into Sky’s chest, bites him just underneath one of the piercings, so close, close enough that the wetness of his plush lips brush Sky’s nipple and nearly have him sobbing.

“You’ll carry me with you,” Prapai kisses the words into his skin. “My mark, my symbol, in a way that only I get to know is there.”

Sky can barely hear him, over the rushing blood in his ears and the throb of need between his legs, but he understands. He offered it, and Prapai is taking it, inches and miles of it—ownership. Sky offered him ownership, and he’s feeding on it ravenously, and Sky has never felt safer in the palm of anyone else’s hand.

Prapai’s mouth on him is a new, electrifying sensation, stars bursting behind Sky’s eyelids like the gemstone refraction across Prapai’s cheekbones as he takes one nipple into his mouth, wet and warm, lips plush and pillowy, tongue laving heavy and firm across the skin. He takes one end between his teeth and tugs, releasing before the pull can turn painful, the recoil shocking a moan from Sky that quickly turns into a whine as Prapai leans back in to suck gently at the barbell, soft and sweet, the same way he likes to take Sky’s bottom lip between his.

Hazy with pleasure and so hard he can barely think, it still doesn’t escape Sky’s notice that all of this attention is paid to his left nipple. Prapai’s thumb toys idly with the right, but the careful attention of his mouth is all on the left, made red and bruised and puffy, sensitive even just to Prapai’s breathing across it, wet and messy. The one that used to bear Gun’s scar—Prapai seems intent to teach Sky its new owner with the heat of his mouth.

“You don’t know, you don’t know,” Prapai groans. He licks again across Sky’s nipple, and Sky can’t help mindlessly arching into it, hissing through his teeth. It’s too harsh, it’s too soft, it’s too much, even just this, after months without anything at all. He aches between his legs.

“You don’t know how insane you make me,” Prapai continues. “I thought I couldn’t go any crazier than I felt missing you, but I come home and you—you immediately accost me with the reminder that you were put on this earth to destroy me—”

“P’Pai,” Sky digs his nails into Prapai’s back, to get him to focus. It hardly works, it just pulls Prapai tighter to him, hips aligning and bearing down, forcing Sky’s legs wider apart. “If you think you’re the only one going crazy here, you are mistaken.”

“You,” Prapai enunciates with strained clarity, “have pierced your nipples.”

“I,” Sky counters, “have not been fucked in months. Does your dick still work, or not?”

Prapai scoffs, mock offended. He rocks his hips forward, the heat and the weight of how hard he is muffled by the towel, but unmistakable, even if just because of how familiar Sky is with the feel of his cock.

“You drive me up the wall,” Prapai groans, and then, quieter and painfully sincere: “I missed you.”

Sky’s heart skips a beat. He cradles Prapai’s jaw and tugs their faces close, brushing their noses together. “I know,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to miss me anymore. You’re home, you’re touching me, I’m here and I missed you too.” Sky kisses Prapai’s pretty cupid’s bow. “It’s over. All you have to do now is love me.”

“My Sky,” Prapai breathes, his body relaxing, sinking into Sky like he wants them to become one. “That’s the easiest thing in the world for me to do.”

Sky lets him take, from here. He allows Prapai to mark his chest, hickeys on his collarbones and waist and the plush skin of his lower stomach. Prapai pulls Sky’s legs around his hips and squeezes until Sky understands what he needs—he presses his legs into Prapai’s sides as hard as he can, legs slimmer and weaker that Prapai’s own, but the force still enough to slow Prapai’s shallow, unsteady breathing. He wraps an arm around Prapai’s back and digs his nails into the skin at the nape of his neck, fingers of his other hand winding into Prapai’s hair and pulling, hard enough that he knows it stings.

Prapai moans, an airy sound in his throat, the arm holding him up shuddering and almost failing, weak in Sky’s tight hold. He likes this. He needs this, sometimes, and right now—needs to feel Sky’s impression on him, the pressure and the weight of Sky’s body real and tangible around him when he gets overwhelmed.

Prapai pulls Sky tighter into his chest and moans again, in Sky’s ear. Sky bites his lip and tamps down the whine that crawls up his throat. His nipples press tightly to Prapai’s bare chest, barbells biting into his skin and heat pooling in his stomach.

“Need you closer,” Prapai rasps.

“Inside,” Sky tugs sharply at his hair. “Come on.”

Prapai fumbles, sitting back on his knees and discarding his towel over the edge of the bed. Sky gets to see what was hidden behind the frosted glass in the bathroom, Prapai’s thighs thick and toned, the cropped hair at the base of his cock, so, so hard, red and aching for Sky. Sky wishes he could reach out and touch, feel the velvet smooth skin of Prapai in his palms, but Prapai is already manhandling Sky’s hips up, shucking off his shorts and underwear in one go so they can be skin-to-skin, all over. Prapai hovers everywhere, above Sky, around him, strong and warm and reeling Sky back in, kissing him harder, his fingers and then his lips returning as if hypnotized to the barbells passing through Sky’s skin.

Sky presses his hips up, rubbing his cock against Prapai’s abdomen, getting him slick and sticky with how much he’s leaking. He clutches Prapai’s shoulders, movements shaky, Prapai’s tongue tracing around the barbells lighting his nerves on fire. He feels like he could come like this, against Prapai’s skin, the weight of him pressing Sky’s legs apart but too obsessed with his nipples to even fuck him.

That won’t do. Sky has gone too long, too long, without feeling the weight and the stretch of Prapai inside him. He releases his white-knuckled grip on Prapai to flail for the bedside table, fumbling into the drawer for the bottle of lube.

“You’re playing,” Sky pants. Prapai groans, and Sky cries out wordlessly as the sound makes Prapai’s tongue vibrate on his nipple. It’s the same dirty trick Prapai uses with Sky’s cock in his mouth when he wants to make Sky come down his throat and see stars for a full ten minutes after.

“I’m not,” Prapai kisses his nipple, puffy and abused, just to switch to the other. “I’m so very serious about what I’m doing right now.”

“Be serious about fucking me,” Sky clutches at Prapai’s hair, and presses the bottle of lube into his side.

Prapai moans again, his mouth on Sky, the feeling incandescent. “I’ve never known you to be this sort of demanding,” he murmurs, teeth catching on the barbell. Sky feels the need to squirm out of his skin.

“You’ve never left for months.” Sky whines. “Please, I didn’t even finger myself while you were gone, I’ll be so tight for you.”

Prapai chokes. “Sky,” he rasps, eyes wide, shocked, surging up to kiss him wet and messy if only to keep him from speaking again. His hands fumble blindly for Sky’s, taking the bottle from him; Sky hears it uncap, hears the slick sound of Prapai rubbing his fingers together to get them wet, get the lube warm. His hand presses between Sky’s legs, movements practiced and assured as his fingers slip across Sky’s perineum and circle his entrance.

“Since when do you talk like that?” Prapai nips at Sky’s lower lip.

Sky doesn’t know—all he knows is that he can’t think, and can’t overthink, not with Prapai between his legs and his nipples feeling like they’re being static-shocked every time Prapai’s chest brushes them, not with Prapai pressing a finger inside slow and sure, fucking him gently while he kisses him filthy, Sky’s body relaxing like something subconscious missed Prapai within him too. He can only moan against Prapai’s lips and twist his hips, hoping that Prapai knows he’s begging for more.

“So easy, my Sky,” Prapai’s whisper is reverent, worshipping. He presses a second finger in alongside the first, meets with hardly any resistance. “You missed me, hm?”

“Yes,” Sky sighs at the stretch, a sensation he missed. He didn’t finger himself while Prapai was gone—he hardly even jerked off, save for when the feeling of his piercings made it painful not to. It was miserable every time, coming alone, feeling cold and detached without Prapai there to hold him, clean him off, kiss the overheated skin of his nape when he curled up behind him to cuddle up close. He missed it so badly, the way it feels like his body was made for Prapai, the feeling of Prapai’s fingers, so thick and gentle, filling him and spreading him and splitting him apart so that when he slides his cock in all Sky can feel is the glide of delicious pressure within him. No one’s ministrations have ever been so tailored, obsessed with playing Sky’s body like an instrument, wringing whines and cries out of him at every chance. No one has ever treated Sky with such care, and no one else ever will.

“I missed you, too.” Prapai rests lips against Sky’s throat, feeling his pulse race. His fingers twist within him, pressing as deep as they can, spreading as they pull out and pressing back together to fuck back in. He’s avoiding Sky’s prostate on purpose—he must be, because he’s usually so quick to find it, no detail of Sky’s body ever forgotten. Sky is grateful. He’s wound so tight, pressure in his stomach unbearable and the tension in his thighs making his legs shake around Prapai’s body. He knows Prapai notices, he knows Prapai loves it—he can feel the satisfied smirk against his skin.

Sky reaches a hand out for Prapai—his cock is hot, thick, jerking at the touch and the prominent vein near the base throbbing under Sky’s fingers, everything about him familiar, everything about this easy. It’s beautiful, it makes Sky shiver with pleasure, how simple it is to slip into routine, the only evidence that Prapai was ever gone being the way he feels the need to ease Sky open on three fingers. He’s so goddamn tight without constantly getting fucked at every opportunity Prapai can grab, but he’s opening up so easy under Prapai’s adoring hands.

Sky wants him. Sky wants him bad, need for him simmering just under his skin, rubbing his thumb at the sensitive frenulum under the head of Prapai’s cock just to hear his breathing stutter and a choked moan escape him. Prapai leaks under his thumb, making the slide easier, letting him rub harder, faster. Prapai whimpers.

“You missed me?” Sky asks, breathless and teasing. He uses his free hand to push on Prapai’s collarbone so he can look into his eyes, half closed and dazed, and the blush across his cheeks. His lips are plush, red, swollen from kissing and from using them on Sky’s body. The motion of his fingers inside Sky slows and loses its rhythm as Sky touches him, all his practice and experience melting away and Sky pins him with his gaze. He makes Sky feel strong, with how easily he’s affected.

“So much,” Prapai breathes. “Every day. Every night. Thought about how fucking good you feel around me so much I—” He cuts himself off with a sharp groan as Sky wraps his fingers around the wet head of his cock and twists.

Sky rolls his hips, trying to get Prapai’s fingers moving again. “Thought about it, but won’t take it now that you can have it?” He tuts. It’s thrilling, this teasing, this game of theirs—only theirs. They slot back into place like halves of a whole, the time spent apart slipping away. Sky circles one of his piercings with a fingertip, touch so delicate he can hardly feel it; he thinks he might start sobbing, if he toyed with his nipples now, legs spread, filled with Prapai’s fingers, so close yet so far from what he craves. Prapai stares down at the way he fondles himself, enraptured.

“I went to such lengths for you, getting these,” Sky sighs. “And you can’t even come home and fuck your wife properly?”

“Sky.” It sounds like the groan is ripped from Prapai’s body. He slides his fingers out, leaving Sky aching and empty, shuffling back on his knees and pulling his cock from Sky’s grasp. He jerks himself roughly with his lube-covered hand, coating himself.

“Don’t say it like that, Sky,” he begs. He takes one of Sky’s legs by the ankle and drapes it over his shoulder, turning his head and kissing the bend of his knee. “Not when you know how weak I am for you.”

He moves forward, presumably to sink himself into Sky and finally, really, truly come home. But Sky forces him back with a foot against his hip, leveraging himself up to push Prapai down where he wants him—on his back, sideways on their ludicrously large bed, the final traces of red and purple sunset and the city lights flickering to life through the window illuminating Sky as he settles on his lap.

Time and time again they’re redone their first night together—recreated the scene and done it the exact same way; done it softer, sweeter, a way that maybe would have made Sky consider staying in the morning; done it rougher, bruising, the way that leaves marks that Prapai wears with so much joy. Every time, every way, it feels right, like letting Sky ride and use him is the most natural thing in the world for Prapai. Like powerful, perched on Prapai’s lap is where Sky belongs.

“Hello, gorgeous,” Prapai muses, hands broad and strong over the soft skin of Sky’s hips. He drags Sky foreward, then back, grinding them together, the wetness between Sky’s ass cheeks dragging across his cock, Sky leaking across his abdomen. “I love you so much like this.”

“You love me every way,” Sky says. He reaches back, aligns his own body with Prapai’s.

“It’s true,” Prapai smiles, the admission easy. He trails one gentle fingertip up Sky’s stomach to his chest, brushing delicate over his nipple. It makes Sky clench against the head of Prapai’s cock, feeling empty, feeling desperately like he needs Prapai, has needed him for ages.

“I love you in every way,” Prapai murmurs. “Every day, every time you surprise me, everything that you do.”

Sky pauses, chest so full, the tension of loneliness that gripped him in Prapai’s absence gone and his heart finally able to flourish and swell and choke him up with how much he feels, how much he never stops feeling for Prapai. He sways on his knees, thrown off, and Prapai catches his waist in his steadying grip. Their eyes meet. Sky learns, like he does every time he looks into Prapai’s eyes, what it means to be loved, to be cherished, to be obsessed over.

“Fuck me, my darling,” Prapai all but begs. “I missed you so much. You give me everything and more, at the very least let me make you come.”

It takes a moment, for Sky’s heart to stop feeling like it’s going to beat out of his chest, before he can steady his grip on Prapai’s cock and shift his hips, bearing down to take him inside himself, sinking until he can sit his full weight down on Prapai’s hips, Prapai’s cock buried as deep as he can get it.

Prapai’s fingers dig into Sky, gripping his hips to steady himself, eyebrows pinching. Sky rests his palms on Prapai’s stomach where his muscles are clenched, keeping himself from fucking into Sky’s heat. Sky can tell by the set of his jaw that he’s close—simply just being inside Sky once again has him on edge, the feeling of him, wet and tight and hot, almost too much already. Sky feels exhilarated, feels complete, the familiar stretch of Prapai inside him soothing and familiar, settling inside him so easily, like he’s meant to be there, like the space he made for himself in Sky never closed, could never be filled by anything but him.

Even before the piercings, Prapai had left his mark on Sky, intangible but real—and he never wants these scars to heal, never wants them gone. He wants Prapai seared into his soul, his touch the only thing Sky answers too.

He hardly lets Prapai adjust—he hardly lets himself adjust. He wants to feel this later, and in the days after. Sky rocks his hips, grinds forward and back in Prapai’s lap, taking his cock deep, then deeper, and back again; he can’t bear to fuck himself, to lift himself on his knees and pull away to sink back down, to feel Prapai leaving his body at all. He tilts himself back, angling Prapai inside himself, stretching his chest and throwing his head back when he finally gets Prapai in place to press against his prostate.

Prapai’s palms are warm on his thighs, fingers massaging before they can even start to ache as he rides him. “Sky, honey,” his voice shakes. “Slow down, go easy on me, my love.”

“No,” Sky exhales, breathy, feeling like he could float away on the feelings coursing under his skin. “You hardly went easy on me—on them.” He can still feel his nipples, without even touching them, can feel the tension of metal under his puffy skin and the phantom touches of Prapai’s tongue.

Prapai groans, ragged and heavy. “Bring them back to me,” he pleads. He stares longingly at the piercings, pulling petulantly at Sky’s waist as he twists it, rhythmic.

The refractions of the gemstones dance in the low light, across the sheets, across Prapai’s body, catching on the wetness of his swollen lips and his eyelashes where they flutter, unable to keep his eyes open as he loses his composure in the pleasure of Sky’s body but so, so unwilling to miss the sight of him. They’re like tiny stars, the smallest galaxy that moves with Sky’s body.

“You can’t,” Sky says. “You can’t have them now, you’ll make me come.” He’s embarrassingly close already, just thinking of Prapai’s adoring mouth on his chest again making his balls tighten, cock leaking even more against the mess already on Prapai’s stomach.

“That’s the point,” Prapai doesn’t wait anymore, just hauls himself up by the strength of his core alone, circling Sky’s waist with his arms, pressing them together tightly as Sky continues to rock them together. It changes the angle, shifts his cock tighter to Sky’s prostate, makes him grit his teeth and whine and shake in Prapai’s hold. Sky’s own cock is wedged between their bodies like this, shifting tightly between them as he moves, and he digs his fingers into Prapai’s hair and presses their foreheads together, doesn’t know how much longer he can last like this.

“Beautiful,” Prapai whispers, lips barely inches apart. “So beautiful, my Sky, your body, your piercings—you’re so incredible, I can never leave you again—God, I’ll die if I can’t see these every day—”

He brushes one nipple with his thumb, and Sky moans sharply, body tensing, cock jerking, head rushing as he balances directly on the edge—

“Come, please, Sky,” Prapai pants. “Come all over them and I’ll clean them off for you.”

Sky whites out, orgasm ripping through him like a car crash, pressure in his chest so great he can hardly breathe through it, light-headed with the endorphin rush, hips stuttering to a stop with Prapai buried deep inside him. He’s pulling Prapai’s hair as he comes, all his muscles tight, and he can feel the wet heat on his chest, dripping down his pecs, coming so hard between their bodies that he can feel some catch on his collarbones.

It feels like he never comes down, hazy with pleasure in the aftermath, leaning in to kiss Prapai just because he can, because he’s there. It’s wet, messy, Sky can’t focus and his mouth won’t move properly, every thunderous heartbeat shaking through him and shifting Prapai inside him, hard and hot where Sky is most sensitive. He whines into Prapai’s mouth—he doesn’t know what he wants, but he knows Prapai can find it and give it.

“Like this,” Prapai kisses the words into Sky’s lower lip, manhandling him to stretch out his legs and wrap them around Prapai’s hips, leaning his body back into the cradle of Prapai’s arms. It shifts him deeper, impossibly deeper—Sky whimpers, overstimulated.

“I know, I know,” Prapai soothes him, but uses the strength of his arms to rock Sky in his lap, shifting him on his cock to bring himself closer to following Sky over the edge. Sky’s grip in his hair tightens, he sobs dryly, he feels strung out like live wire but he thinks he’ll die if Prapai stops.

Until Prapai bows his head to his chest, licking away the come that’s caught on the barbells, just like he said he would.

Sky cries out, head spinning, fingertips numb. His spent cock, wet and softening against Prapai’s stomach, twitches harshly. “Please,” he has no idea what he’s begging for—it’s too much, it feels like he’s about to tremble out of his own body, but he doesn’t want Prapai to stop. He doesn’t want to ever stop feeling like this, worshipped, owned, wrung out in Prapai’s strong, sturdy hold.

Prapai pants as he laves his tongue in broad strokes across Sky’s piercings, grip tensing and rhythm faltering as he gets close.

“Mine,” he groans, nipping at a gemstone. It clacks against his teeth; he soothes it with another kiss. “These are all mine.”

It pushes him over—the piercings, the ownership, the gift that Sky has given him and all that it means to him, to both of them. He clutches Sky tightly to his chest, pressing the breath out of him, a shuddering groan escaping him as he comes. Sky can feel it inside him, so oversensitive—the way his cock jerks, strong at first and tapering out as a wetness floods inside Sky.

His grip doesn’t loosen as his breathing steadies—Sky stays clutched tightly in his arms, Prapai’s cock gently softening still inside him. He lets go of Prapai’s hair and soothes his scalp with a gentle touch and tries not to move too much and shift his piercings where they’re pressed into Prapai’s skin.

The moment lasts forever, it seems. They’re together again, finally, they’re as close as they can possibly be without crawling into each other's skin. They’re breathing together, their hearts beat in time. Sky closes his eyes and breathes in, taking in the scent of Prapai’s hair, his skin, his sweat. He tenses each muscles one by one to feel it press against Prapai’s body, feel the twinge of pain he’s missed being left with after having sex. His thighs burn, his abs ache, his throat hurts—just from moaning, Prapai’s deft touches prying sounds out of him that he can be embarrassed about later. Right now is about Prapai rubbing his cheek on Sky’s collarbone like he’s a cat, and his wide palms resting on his ass.

“Will you shower with me this time?” Prapai mumbles, his voice scratchy, dazed, and needy.

Sky hums. It’s almost completely dark by now. Bangkok never truly sleeps, but in their suite on one of the highest floors in one of the highest residential buildings in the city, it’s easy to look out the window and pretend it’s just them—that the winking city lights far below, the twinkling headlight, and even the illuminated windows in other buildings are just stars, and they’re alone, sharing the night with no one but each other. It makes them feel like a secret, and not a bad one, not one Sky keeps out of shame, but one that Sky keeps because he wants it to belong only to them.

“No,” Sky tells the galaxy outside the window, and the beautiful boy in his arms—the man he loves, cherishes beyond all reasons, needs and isn’t scared to admit that he needs.

Prapai whines, low and grumbly.

“Because I can’t stand, P’Pai.” Sky kisses the words into his hair. Prapai groans, dreamy, into Sky’s skin, satisfied to hear what he’s done to him. “I can take a bath with you, if you want, but only if you carry me.”

“I want.” Prapai says immediately. “I can. Just a few minutes more like this, okay?”

Sky is sticky, wet in awkward places, sore down to his bones. A hot bath sounds like the most appealing thing in the world right now. But—“Okay,” he murmurs. He feels delirious, dazed, happy beyond words. He wants to give Prapai everything.

Prapai burrows his face into Sky’s neck, breathing him in. He shifts his legs, crossing them underneath Sky, pillowing him where he sits in Prapai’s lap. They’re soft, both of them, and Sky would really like to move before Prapai slips out of him and makes a mess, but his heart jumps into his throat at the idea of no longer being connected like this.

“Thank you,” Prapai whispers.

“Hm?” Sky laughs softly. “For wanting a bath?”

“No.” Prapai kisses his chest, just above his heart. “For you. For everything that you are.” He lifts his gaze, presses their foreheads together. “Thank you for loving me.”

It’s been hard. It’s all been hard for Sky in so many ways—hard to be apart for months, and before that, hard to let Prapai in, and before that, hard to even wake up in the morning and think he was worth the air he breathed. Sky has had so much taken from him, and spent years trying to get it back. The ability to love was something he thought he’d lost forever. If loving meant trusting, then he would be alone forever; he could never allow himself to be that kind of vulnerable again, when it had stripped him down to nothing the first time he had tried.

Prapai had fought so hard to earn what he has now: Sky’s love, his heart, his life, a collection of things Sky had all thought at one point were worthless that Prapai holds now like they’re treasure to him. His time and his energy, every spare ounce of devotion he had and then more, he poured his all into Sky, and he holds him now in his lap like he’s something precious, and thanks him for his love—because he knows it was hard.

Sky can’t cry anymore. He’s seen enough misery that tears just won’t come. But his eyes start to burn and he wonders if he could cry out of love, out of happiness, out of the pressure in his chest that builds like rising tide and crests when he finally can’t breathe past it, leaving him breathing shallow and ragged against Prapai’s lips.

“Thank you,” Prapai says again, and Sky can only nod.

“I love my gift,” Prapai continues, and Sky laughs, choked and wet, but Prapai remains completely serious as he finishes: “Because I love you.”

“I love you,” Sky whispers. “P’Pai, I love you.”

Prapai smiles. “What an honour,” he muses, and kisses above Sky’s heart again. “What an honour that is.”

Notes:

truthfully, while i love each of the lita boys for their own reasons, i know i have a particular fondness for sky. i loved him even during the phayu/rain story arc, before i even knew i would get to spend the second half of the series with him. he has incredible perseverance and this preciously rare sweet side to him that he tucks away for his own safety. i think he's a joy to be with, as a viewer and as a writer.

i set out, when i started this fic, to just make sky have the piercings and then let them fuck about it. i started writing with the sex scene, but the feelings got away from me. i doubled back to add to the beginning to make the setup make sense, and i ended up unintentionally spending a LOT of time with sky and his thoughts and the actual piercing process. it sort of accidentally became a bit of an exploration in trauma and healing, and i wanted to stay with sky as he went through that instead of just throwing him into bed. unfortunately that means we all had to get through like, 16k of nitty gritty before they could fuck nasty lol

this was unbeta'd and pretty roughly edited, so apologies for any mistakes

if you recognized ten without having to look him up, you caught me. his thai fans really do call that wide smile he does his "whisker smile", so i was pleased to write that detail in

come say hi to me on twitter :) i'm new to this fan space and it'd be nice to meet some friendly faces (friendly usernames?)