Chapter Text
The world returned in fragments.
First, it was the light. A stark, white fluorescence that seared through the thin veil of his eyelids. Pond winced, the simple act sending a dull, throbbing ache radiating from the base of his skull. He blinked slowly, his vision swimming with blurred shapes and bleary halos before it grudgingly settled on the mottled, off white ceiling tiles above.
Next was the sound. A soft, rhythmic beeping, steady and mechanical, syncing with a quieter, whistling sound that, after a disoriented moment, he realized was his own breath. The beeping was his. A machine. His mind, sluggish and thick as syrup, supplied the word: heart monitor.
Then, the feeling. A heavy, leaden numbness in his limbs, as if they were no longer his own. The scratch of starched sheets against his skin. A persistent, prickling sensation on the back of his hand. He managed to turn his head a fraction, a monumental effort that made the throbbing in his skull spike. A clear tube was taped to his skin, connected to a bag of clear fluid hanging from a metal pole. An IV.
Hospital.
The word landed, but it had no anchor. It was just a fact, devoid of context. Why was he here? He tried to reach for a memory, any memory, but his mind was a void, a blank slate shrouded in fog. The effort made his headache intensify, a deep, pulsing pain that promised nausea.
He let his head loll to the side, his eyes struggling to focus on his immediate surroundings. The room was small, sterile. Greyish curtains were half drawn, allowing a slice of harsh midday sun to cut across the floor. The light illuminated dust motes dancing in the air.
And then, he saw him.
Slumped in an ugly, green vinyl chair pulled impossibly close to the bedside was a man. His head was tilted back against the wall, his eyes closed. His clothes, a simple black t-shirt and jeans, were rumpled, as if he’d been sleeping in them for days. Dark shadows, deep and bruise like, were smudged under his eyes. Even in sleep, his expression was drawn, etched with a profound exhaustion that seemed to go beyond the physical.
Pond’s breath hitched. He knew that face. The sharp, elegant jawline, the perfectly shaped brows, the full lips now slightly parted in sleep.
Phuwin.
Phuwin. From university. They’d shared a few classes. Pond remembered him as bright, a little aloof, always surrounded by friends. They’d been… acquaintances. Friendly in that way you are with people you see regularly but never seek out. They’d exchanged notes once. Had a few group project meetings. That was it. Why was he here?
And then Pond’s gaze dropped. Phuwin’s hand was resting on the bed, his fingers loosely curled around Pond’s own. The touch was warm, real. A point of solid contact in his floating, disassociated world.
As if sensing the shift in Pond’s consciousness, or the subtle change in the rhythm of the heart monitor, Phuwin stirred. His eyelids fluttered open. For a moment, he was disoriented, blinking into the sterile air. Then his dark eyes, clouded with sleep, focused on Pond’s face.
The transformation was instantaneous.
The exhaustion seemed to melt away, replaced by a wave of such raw, unguarded relief that it was almost painful to witness. Phuwin’s face broke into a smile, so wide and genuine it made him look years younger. His eyes shimmered, glistening with unshed tears.
“Pond…” The name was a hoarse whisper, cracked with disuse and emotion. He leaned forward, his grip on Pond’s hand tightening almost imperceptibly. “You’re awake. Thank God. You’re really awake.”
The voice was familiar, but the tone was all wrong. It was too intimate, too saturated with feeling. This wasn’t how an acquaintance spoke. This was the voice of someone who had been holding their breath for a very, very long time.
Before Pond could form a word, could even process this dissonance, Phuwin was moving closer. He cupped Pond’s face with his free hand, his touch impossibly tender. His thumb stroked a gentle arc across Pond’s cheekbone, wiping away a tear Pond hadn’t even realized he’d shed. The gesture was so natural, so practiced, it stole the air from Pond’s lungs.
Then, Phuwin leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Pond’s temple. His lips were warm, and he lingered for a second, his eyes closed, as if offering a silent prayer of gratitude.
Pond froze.
Every cell in his body went rigid with a storm of confusion. This was wrong. This was profoundly, fundamentally wrong. Why was Phuwin touching him like this? Looking at him with this devastating intensity? Last he remembered, Phuwin was just a handsome face in a lecture hall, not someone who should be holding his hand in a hospital room, kissing his forehead as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
A protest rose in his throat, a strangled what are you doing? but it died before it could find voice. He was too weak, too stunned, too utterly overwhelmed by the sensory overload and the pounding in his head. The tenderness in Phuwin’s touch, though terrifying in its unfamiliarity, was also a lifeline in a sea of disjointed fragments he couldn’t piece together. So, he did nothing. He just lay there, his eyes wide, letting it happen, a silent prisoner to a reality that refused to feel like his own.
Then Phuwin stirred. He pulled back slightly, fumbling for his phone on the bedside table. With one hand still steadying Pond, he pressed a quick call.
“Mom?” Phuwin’s voice was low, urgent. “He’s awake.”
Pond blinked, confusion rippling through him. Mom? Why was he calling his own mother at a moment like this? And why was he saying he’s awake?
The voice on the other end was muffled, excited, feminine. Phuwin listened, nodding, relief softening his features. “Yes… he opened his eyes. He’s responsive. Don’t worry, I’ll stay with him until you get here.”
It took Pond several heartbeats to realize: Phuwin wasn’t calling his own mother. He was calling Pond’s mother. The word Mom had rolled off his tongue with such ease, so naturally, like it had been his right all along.
Pond’s chest tightened, confusion and unease tangling until he felt short of breath. Since when did Phuwin have the right to speak to his family like that? Since when did his mother belong to him too?
The moment was shattered by the soft swish of the door opening.
A woman in a white coat entered, a stethoscope around her neck and a clipboard in her hand. A nurse followed behind her, offering a small, professional smile.
“Ah, Mr. Naravit,” the doctor said, her voice calm and pleasantly professional, though laced with a note of genuine relief. She glanced at the monitors, making a small note on her chart. “It’s very good to see those eyes open. How are you feeling?”
Pond tried to speak, but all that came out was a dry, rasping croak. Phuwin was instantly there, releasing his hand to pour a cup of water from a pitcher on the bedside table. He held the straw to Pond’s lips, his other hand gently supporting the back of Pond’s head. Pond drank greedily, the cool water a blessing on his parched throat.
“Sore,” Pond managed finally, his voice barely audible. “My head…”
“That’s to be expected,” the doctor nodded, moving closer to shine a penlight into his eyes. He flinched away from the brightness. “You were in a serious car accident. You were brought in with significant head trauma. There was some intracranial bleeding.”
The words: accident, bleeding, trauma, hit him like physical blows. They were foreign, terrifying concepts with no home in his memory. He had no recollection of a car, of impact, of screeching metal. Nothing.
“We had to keep you in a medically induced coma in the ICU for three days to let the swelling go down,” she continued, her tone matter of fact but not unkind. “There were… some tense moments. We weren’t sure when, or if, you’d wake up. You’re a very lucky man.”
Lucky. He didn’t feel lucky. He felt hollowed out and scared.
She checked his reflexes, asked him to follow her finger, all while maintaining her calm commentary. “Vitals are stable now. The swelling has subsided significantly. The next days will be about observation, rest, and letting your body and mind heal.”
Pond could only nod faintly, the information washing over him without sinking in. It was a story about someone else, a character in a medical drama he was passively watching.
Then the doctor turned her smile towards Phuwin. “Your partner has been here the entire time. Rarely left your side. I’d say that’s the best medicine we can’t prescribe.”
She gestured lightly to Phuwin, as if presenting him as evidence of this miraculous recovery.
Pond stiffened. His eyes flickered back to Phuwin, who had resumed his seat, once again finding Pond’s hand. Partner. The word echoed in the empty chamber of his mind. It didn’t make sense. It was a label that didn’t fit, a square peg being forced into the round hole of his memory. Phuwin wasn’t his partner. He was… Phuwin.
Before he could even begin to dissect this, the door opened again, and a new wave of people flooded into the small room.
“Pond! Oh, my baby!”
His mother. Her face was streaked with tears, but she was smiling, a radiant, relieved smile. She rushed to the bedside, immediately opposite Phuwin, and began stroking his hair, her touch familiar and maternal in a way Phuwin’s had not been. It was a touch he recognized, a touch that belonged.
“Mom,” he whispered, and for the first time, he felt a flicker of something real, a connection to the world before the white, sterile room.
His father was right behind her, his usual stern expression softened by unmistakable relief. But he didn’t come to Pond first. He went to Phuwin. He clasped him firmly on the shoulder, a gesture of deep, masculine gratitude and affection.
“Son,” his father said, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know how we’ll ever thank you.”
Pond’s brain stuttered. Son? Since when did his father call anyone son besides him?
His mother was still talking, her words tumbling out in a tearful stream. “We prayed so hard, every minute. And Phuwin… he never left you, not for a single moment. He was your rock through all of this.”
Pond’s eyes darted from his mother’s tearful face to his father’s proud one, then to Phuwin, who was looking down modestly, as if embarrassed by the praise. The dissonance was becoming a scream in his head.
Then his father turned to him, his expression firm, full of paternal gravity. “You listen to me, Pond. When you get through this, you remember. You remember what you have. You’ve got a husband who stood guard over you like a soldier. Remember that.”
The world didn’t just tilt. It upended.
The air was sucked from the room. The beeping of the monitor seemed to fade into a distant echo. Husband. The word slammed into him, a wrecking ball of absolute absurdity. It was a joke. A terrible, cruel joke. His parents were in on it. Phuwin was in on it. They were all actors in a play for which he had never read the script.
He stared at his father, waiting for the punchline, for the laugh, for the ‘just kidding, son, you had us going!’ But it never came. His father’s face was utterly serious, utterly sincere. They all were. They acted as if it were fact.
Established. Celebrated.
He felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. The nausea he’d felt earlier surged, and he thought he might be sick. He couldn’t breathe.
“I… I need…” he stammered, his voice strangled.
His mother immediately fussed. “Oh, he’s pale! He’s overwhelmed. We should go, let him rest.”
There was a flurry of activity: more kisses on his forehead, more firm pats on his shoulder from his father, a soft, concerned look from Phuwin. They filed out, his mother whispering promises to be back soon, the door sighing shut behind them.
Silence descended once more, broken only by the relentless, steady beep… beep… beep… of the heart monitor. He was alone. Alone with the terrifying, impossible truth his family had just laid bare.
His hand trembled as he brought it up, wanting to wipe the cold sweat from his brow. The movement was sluggish, difficult. And then he saw it.
A glint of light on his finger.
His breath caught in his throat, a ragged, painful sound.
There, on the ring finger of his left hand, was a band of polished platinum. It was simple, elegant, and undeniably a wedding band.
His heart began to hammer against his ribs, the monitor keeping frantic pace. With a sense of mounting, sheer panic, he turned his head, his eyes searching for Phuwin’s hand. Phuwin had stood up to see his parents out, and was now turned slightly away, picking up the cup of water again.
And there it was. On Phuwin’s left hand. A matching band.
No. No, no, no.
This wasn’t happening. This was a dream, a nightmare born from a head injury. He didn’t remember this. Not the proposal, not the wedding, not the life that must have come before it. He didn’t remember loving Phuwin. He didn’t remember marrying him. The last memory he had of Phuwin was a casual wave across a crowded campus courtyard. How did they get from there to… to this?
The door opened again and Phuwin stepped back in, carrying a small thermos. “My mom brought some herbal tea she swears by for healing,” he said, his voice soft, trying to inject a note of normalcy into the surreal atmosphere. His face was still soft with relief, but now Pond could see the lingering traces of fear in his eyes, the fragility he was trying to hide.
Phuwin sat back down in the dreaded chair, the chair that had seemingly become his throne in this room. He poured a small amount of tea into a cup. “Did they tire you out?” he asked gently. “They’ve been so worried. We all have. They’re just so relieved you’re safe.”
He reached over and adjusted the blanket around Pond’s shoulders, his movements efficient and familiar. Then his hand came up again, brushing a stray lock of hair from Pond’s forehead. The gesture was so intimate, so spousal, it was the final straw.
Pond tried to muster a smile, to play along, to buy himself time to process this impossible reality. But his face wouldn’t obey. The smile fractured and died before it reached his eyes.
He looked at Phuwin, really looked at him. At the exhaustion etched into his handsome features, at the genuine, unwavering concern in his dark eyes, at the love that was so plainly, painfully visible there. This man had clearly been through hell for him. He had sat vigil for days, holding his hand, willing him to live. He was, by every account, the perfect, devoted husband.
And Pond remembered none of it.
The weight of the deception, of the silent screaming in his own head, became too much. The love in Phuwin’s eyes was a language he couldn’t read, a song he couldn’t hear. He was an imposter in his own life, a stranger lying in his own husband’s hospital bed.
His chest tightened, the air growing thin. The beeping of the monitor seemed to grow louder, a mocking soundtrack to his internal chaos. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t lie here and accept these touches, these terms, from a stranger. Even a beautiful, caring, devoted stranger.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry again despite the water. He had to know. He had to shatter this beautiful, painful illusion.
“Phuwin…”
His voice was low, raspy, but it held a new, firm resolve that made Phuwin pause, the thermos halfway to the table.
Phuwin turned back to him, his expression open, attentive, ready to fulfill any need. “Yes, love? What is it? Do you need more water?”
The endearment was like a knife twist.
Pond took a shaky breath, his eyes locking onto Phuwin’s. He let the words fall, simple, stark, and devastatingly final.
“I don’t remember marrying you.”
The air in the room crystallized.
The thermos slipped from Phuwin’s grasp. It didn’t fall to the floor, but his grip on it faltered, a sharp, jerky movement that sloshed hot liquid inside. The soft, concerned expression on his face shattered. It was replaced by a blank, stunned incomprehension, which then rapidly contorted into a flash of pure, unadulterated hurt. It was a look of such profound wounding that it was almost physical.
His eyes, wide and shocked, searched Pond’s, desperately looking for a sign that this was a joke, a side effect, anything but the brutal truth he saw reflected there.
The steady, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor continued, a grotesquely cheerful counterpoint to the absolute silence that now stretched between them, vast and unbridgeable. The world held its breath.