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For the first time in three months, Sky wakes up to silence.
He has complained, incessantly, might he add, about how Prapai won’t leave him alone. The man insists on texting him ‘good morning’ every day, before Sky has even had the time to register the meaning of either of those words. He has grumbled about how the volley of morning messages wreaks havoc in his sluggish, barely-awake mind, how they delude him into believing those words, so that Sky’s actually begun to associate mornings with goodness, and become aware of how he does sleep well now that Prapai requires an answer to that question.
He never deals in simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers, obviously. That would be too easy, Prapai – – P’Pai, which is what Sky calls him when he’s being ridiculous, which is his default setting, really – would most certainly celebrate and declare victory if Sky were to give him a straightforward answer, and he can’t have that. Instead, Sky has created a new morning ritual where he will hide under the covers and use his one open eye to peer at his phone, as his fingers swipe and compose answers to P’Pai’s saccharine messages.
They’re rude at first, honed sharper by the starkness of the words, because Sky refuses to soften the blow with strategically placed emojis.
It was a good morning until I was rudely woken up.
Morning? The sun is barely up. Why are you ruining my weekend?
Sky’s much better at it now – he still doesn’t do emojis, God knows, P’Pai uses enough for the both of them.
Don’t tell me what my morning’s like.
Why are you so obsessed with how I slept? Worry about your own sleep, why were you sending me videos at 3am?
Pai had caught the hidden meaning in that; the ridiculous man had been insufferable all day, muttering to himself about how lucky he was that Sky was so worried about him.
Sky had denied it, insisted that he wasn’t worried; he really wasn’t.
Not then.
Now, as consciousness seeps in as gently as morning light, Sky stares into the dark abyss of his ceiling and realises that he’s been woken not by the annoying buzz of his phone, but by his body clock, which has sneakily recalibrated itself to wake him seconds before Pai’s first text arrives.
Except today, there is no text. His phone is eerily silent.
He must have run out of battery.
Maybe his WiFi is off
He’s on ‘Do Not Disturb’, perhaps?
All of those options seem more plausible than what has actually happened.
Pai has not texted him today.
***
For the first time in three months, Sky walks to campus, instead of being driven in the ostentatious sports car. For the first time in three months, he realises that he’s a breakfast person now, when his body protests the coffee he tries to down, instead of the big breakfasts that Prapai brings him every day.
Come on, Sky, try the steamed eggs. I stood in line for them.
This is a special sandwich. I drove to this stall in Samut Sakhon…
This is a pastry from that new cafe, it'll perk you up, try it…
Sky attempts to shut up his stomach with a protein bar.
He pretends that it works.
He doesn’t need Prapai and his food and his attention. He has a busy day ahead of him, and that’s all that matters.
Sky resolves to make it through the day, like he did before Prapai stormed into his life like a benevolent typhoon. He welcomes this reversion to the pattern he’s used to –
Without distractions.
Without Prapai.
***
By lunch, his resolve begins to unravel at the seams, because it turns out, he does care. Before he can stop himself, he is scrolling through their chat, piecing together clues to solve this mystery he’s entangled in.
Woven into the daily good morning messages and the flood of emojis are answers Sky didn’t ask for.
I’m going out of town for the weekend. Try and miss me? 😚
I’m stuck in meetings. There’s delivery at your door. Eat. 🍔 🍕 🍛
I’m three minutes away – do not try and walk to class.
Or I’ll sulk until you make it up to me.
I’m meeting clients at this new restaurant.
Unrelated: Do you like caviar?
Sky?
Skkkyyy?
There is not one detail that Pai has not shared with him. The man has no issues abusing his texting privileges and letting Sky know what he’s doing at any given time. Prapai always texts, even after Sky’s told him he doesn’t care, to let him know where he is when he’s not breathing down Sky’s neck and crowding his vision.
It’s obvious.
Prapai’s finally grown bored of him, even though he said he wouldn’t – he’d sworn it, that even if they did ever fall out of this hypothetical relationship that he seemed so keen to establish, it would not be because Pai had grown tired of him.
It wasn’t true; the truth is this – Prapai isn’t answering his messages (Sky may have accidentally sent him a single ‘.’ ) and his phone, when Sky had called it – accidentally again – had gone straight to voicemail.
Sky had hung up as soon as the robot woman had finished telling him that the person he was calling wasn’t answering his phone and that it was likely because he was fed up with Sky’s attitude, his disinterest, his inability to reciprocate the feelings that Pai expressed so shamelessly, fearlessly.
Okay, maybe the robot woman hadn’t said all that, but Sky was good at reading between the lines, especially the non-existent ones. Prapai had gotten bored of him.
It was the only explanation that made sense.
Why was he having trouble accepting it then?
Because Prapai had promised, and somehow Sky believed Prapai more than he did his treacherous inner voice.
***
When had that happened?
It hadn’t been that first time, when Pai had pushed him against a trailer in the shadows and told him that it was up to him – the course this night would take for them.
It hadn’t been when Pai had tracked him down and insisted that he wanted more than just sex. That’s when Sky had told him he knew his type; he’d called him a thrill seeker, a playboy who was only after the chase, who would ditch Sky as soon as he got what he wanted. That had been a mistake, because Sky had implied that there was a possibility of him getting what he was after. He had made Pai believe that he liked him, on some level.
But he still hadn’t believed Prapai.
He thinks it might have happened last week, when Pai had shown up at his dorm door, takeout bag in hand, a stupid pick-up line on his lips, only to be snapped at by a teary-eyed Sky, who was on the brink of being pulled under by exhaustion and exasperation because it was that time of term, when lives could be destroyed with one last-minute, high-effort assignment.
‘Not today, P’Pai. I don’t have the energy for your nonsense.’ The mess of paper and foam strewn across his floor had implied as much. Sky was going to have to work all night to meet this unexpected deadline. He didn't have the time to eat, nor the patience to handle Pai’s intrusions and his stupid, happy energy.
‘Okay.’Despite sounding like he had understood, Pai had pushed his way into Sky’s flat, deposited the food on the one surface not overflowing with art supplies and rolled up his shirtsleeves. ‘What do you want me to do?’
That had been an easy question to answer. ‘Leave’.
Prapai had conveniently ignored the order and settled down at Sky’s workstation, his eyes scanning the notes that Sky had been referencing. ‘I’m serious. I’ve helped Phayu on projects before. Tell me what to do.’
He’d reached for the Exacto knife and waited for orders. ‘Trust me.’
In a fit of desperation, and against his better judgement, Sky had done just that.
They’d spent the rest of the night with blueprints and cardboard and a faulty ink pen that had exploded all over Prapai’s designer shirt, staining the pristine white fabric a dark blue.
‘Shit!’ Sky had reached out, pressed a hand against the other man’s chest, like he thought the ink stain would somehow migrate from the fabric to his hand. He’d only realised he’d crossed a line when he’d heard the way Pai’s breath had hitched, the way the muscles in his chest had tensed under Sky’s touch, pulled taut like a rubber band on its way to snapping.
‘Sorry.’ Sky had dropped his hand like he’d been shocked. ‘I’ll – shit — I’ll wash it for –’
‘Hey, it’s okay.’ Prapai had dismissed the offer before it had even had a chance to make it out of Sky’s mouth. ‘It’s just a shirt. I’ll take care of it later, after we finish this. No big deal.’ He’d laid a gentle hand on Sky’s arm, and then he had smiled. Sky had stared, hypnotised by the way it reached his eyes and lit them up from the inside.
Miraculously, they had finished the project before sunrise. Prapai had used this fact to coax Sky into sampling the curry that he had brought them for dinner.
‘You have to eat.’ Pai had told him when Sky had tried to prioritise clearing up over food. ‘I’ll clean up once we finish.’ Pai had reached across the table and placed a slice of meat atop his rice. ‘Please? I did all this for you.’ He’d said it like Sky had put him through all the trials of Hercules, all at once. ‘Return the favour?’
That had made Sky snort in disbelief. ‘You want me to pay you back…by eating? That’s cheap.’
That last part had been his inside voice slipping out into the external world against Sky’s will, and he’d steeled himself for what would follow. They both knew how Pai liked to exact payment, and now Sky had just given him the opening he needed to initiate that conversation. He would say no, of course. He’d ask Pai to leave, slam the door in his face and block his number and wonder why the universe liked to play such cruel games with him, making him fall for illusions that could shatter in the blink of an eye, with the weight of one careless word.
Perhaps the long night had taken its toll on Pai’s mental faculties, because he had only shrugged.
‘Different people value different things.’ And then suddenly, Prapai had held a spoonful of rice in front of Sky’s face, his eyes beseeching, hopeful.
Something warm had uncoiled in Sky’s stomach even as he’d swatted Pai’s hand away and told him to focus on his own food.
He thinks he might have started to believe him then.
***
He believes Pai, which means the mystery still isn’t solved. There’s only one thing to do; Sky only hopes he makes it out unscathed.
He heads for the cafe where his best friend meets his boyfriend for lunch every day.
“Pai?” Phayu frowns at him, taken aback by his junior’s unexpected interest in his best friend. “I haven’t heard from him. Why?”
“Has he – did he do something?” Sky’s best friend Rain casts a nervous glance at Phayu. “Because I warned him when I gave him your number –” He clamps a hand over his mouth, his eyes overflowing with panic, as if he’s given away a great secret, as if Sky needed the confession to figure out that Prapai procured his number from his best friend’s boyfriend.
That’s a conversation for a different time.
Right now, Sky chooses to go for honesty. “ I haven’t heard from him all day,”
And then, before he can talk himself out of it –
”I’m worried.”
He sees the smirk that breaks across Phayu’s face before the man suppresses it. Later, he’ll tell Phayu how he has it all wrong, how it isn’t at all like what he’s thinking. He’s only worried, the way Phayu might be if Rain had told him that Sky wasn’t answering his phone, out of sheer human impulse. Nothing more.
He keeps the thought to himself. Right now, he needs Phayu on his side.
“That is odd.” Phayu nods in agreement as he reaches for his phone. “You said he wasn’t answering his phone?” He nods again when Sky confirms this. “Fine, let me call his brother.”
***
Prapai’s brother – Plerng, Sky remembers Pai telling him – answers almost at once. Phayu asks him if he knows where his brother is, his expression shifting from curiosity to annoyance, to concern as he processes what he’s being told.
“Of course he is.” Phayu agrees with a weary sigh. “Fine, I’m going to send someone to knock some sense into him. His name’s Sky.’
***
When Phayu tells him he’s going to drive Sky to Prapai’s house, Sky expects to be driven to the condo where Pai had taken him that first night. Instead, they pull up in front of a sprawling bungalow, complete with grounds and a liveried butler who opens the door to them.
“Oh, thank fuck.” A spiky-haired man who looks too much like Pai to be anyone other than his brother appears at the butler’s shoulder and ushers them in. “He’s being an idiot, like always and Pa and Mae aren’t here to knock some sense into him.”
A young woman joins them in the living room, which looks large enough to host a football game. “I thought he was dead.” She rolls her eyes, undercutting the seriousness of her words. This is Phan, Prapai’s youngest sibling, and the best gamer among the three, Pai had told him when Sky had spent the afternoon playing a mobile game as a way of ignoring him.
“But then he told me to get lost, so he’s still with us. I think his fever’s down from where it was an hour ago, but he won’t let me check.”
She turns on Sky, who has been hovering at Phayu’s shoulder, his pulse thrumming with growing urgency with every word the siblings swap with Phayu. “Is this the answer to our prayers?”
“He’s your only hope.” Phayu turns to him, his expression encouraging, calm. He wasn’t supposed to care like this, it wasn’t supposed to come to this, but it has; Sky wants Phayu’s words to ring true – he wants to help, do whatever it is that he can, whatever Pai needs.
He wants to be there for Pai, as much as Pai has been there for him—with his takeaway boxes, his barrage of messages, and his ability to take an Exacto knife to paper without once complaining about the bland mundanity of the process.
Sky extricates himself from Rain’s grip and steps forward with renewed purpose. “He’s…sick?”
“He’s an idiot.” Plerng reiterates, as if that is somehow a greater affliction than actual illness.
“In his room. C’mon.” Phan beckons for him to follow her. “We’ll catch you up on the way.”
***
Phayu and Rain see themselves out as the siblings lead Sky deeper into the labyrinth of their palace-home. They stop at a door at the end of a long corridor. Phan knocks, her shoulders sagging in relief when she is answered only by silence.
“Good, he’s not going to try and throw a cushion at me.”
“He’s out of cushions.” Plerng tells her. “He threw the last one at me when I tried to get him to drink some water.”
They begin to go down a mental checklist of other things that Prapai is likely to throw at them.
“The table lamps?”
“I unplugged them and put them in the corner when I snuck in last time.”
“Books?”
“Please – does he even know how to read? I don’t think he has any.”
“Fair point. A glass?”
“I gave him a paper glass, so he can throw it as much as he likes.”
“Nice.” Here, Plerng seems to remember that Sky exists.
“He’s not usually a thrower,” he admits begrudgingly, like it pains him to be nice about his brother. “Just when he’s sick, but if you feel like that’s a dealbreaker…” He winks at Sky as he offers him his hand.
“Plerng.” Phan swats at him. “Now is not the time to steal phi’s boyfriend. Go on, P’Sky.” She pushes the door open, and gestures into the darkness, her face solemn, like she’s a commander sending her forces into war. “He won’t throw anything at you.” She winks at him as she hands him a paper bag. “Oh, can you get him to take this?”
“Yeah.” Plerng glares at the sliver of darkness they’ve all been staring into. “He’ll listen to you.”
There it is again, that teasing emphasis that tells Sky that they’ve misunderstood the nature of their relationship.
Now is also not the time to correct them, to defend himself and insist that he’s only here because Prapai is so aggravating that it is a matter of strategy to know where he is at any given time. Later – he can make all those clarifications later. Right now he wants – needs – to see Pai.
For strategic reasons, of course.
Sky steps in through the door.
***
That he’s only human is a fact that Sky is made painfully aware of by the way his heart contracts at the sight of the sweat-streaked figure tangled up in the sheets, silent and unmoving, save for the shallow swell and ebb of his chest that indicates that he’s not asleep, but drowning somewhere between rest and wakefulness, and refusing help or care, or comfort, because for some reason, the clingiest man on the planet transforms into a recluse whenever he catches a cold.
"It's just his thing." Phan had told him. "He doesn't like the idea of anyone else being as miserable as he is when he's sick."
"Idiot." Sky had wondered if that was Plerng's favourite word.
Sky’s never known him to be this quiet. It’s been his biggest complaint – the fact that Prapai does not shut up, no matter how mean Sky is to him. Pai can wax poetic about anything – the weather, the greenness of the plants outside Sky’s dorm, the way Sky’s eyes look in the sunshine, the way their hands look next to each other resting on the dashboard of his stupid car (‘like an art composition’). There is not a thing the man isn’t willing to talk endlessly about, in his attempts to form a connection with Sky.
Funny then that the thread that pulls him to Pai’s bedside is woven out of silence.
Prapai stirs when the bed dips to accommodate the extra weight. He mumbles – no, snarls – the order in his voice clear despite the incoherence of his words, as slender fingers thread through his damp hair.
“Out.” He manages, his voice little more than a puff of breath, annoyance cutting deep ridges between his eyebrows when his command isn’t heeded. With a whine, he tries, unsuccessfully, to squirm away from the touch, as if it sears his already burning skin.
Sky almost laughs at the familiar sound, which is usually reserved for when Sky shirks away from him. The rejection of his touch only makes him more determined to hold on, to soothe and win him over – funny, he wonders if he’s just inadvertently put himself in Prapai’s shoes – the metaphorical ones, not the snooty suede ones he usually wears.
With newfound determination, Sky reaches for the washcloth that’s soaking in a bowl on the bedside table.
Pai’s eyes fly open as soon as the cold cotton makes contact with his fevered brow. It takes him a minute of blinking and refocusing those big, stupid eyes, their usual twinkle dulled by the shadows of sickness.
“S--Sky?” He rasps finally, his mouth twitching between a grimace and a smile as he tries to tell a dream from reality. “Pretty.”
Sky scoffs at that. Pai had told him once, in one of those morning messages, about how he’d dreamt of Sky. Sky hadn’t believed him then, had insisted it was nothing more than an attempt at flattery, one that would not work on him because he had no delusions - he knew what he looked like, how abrasive he could be on his best days. He was hardly the stuff of dreams. Nightmares? Maybe.
Now it seems he may have been wrong, because for some reason, this stupid man has nothing better to do than to dream of someone so inconsequential.
Sky rolls his eyes at the tragedy of it all.
It shatters the illusion.
“No.” The smile reconfigures into an open-mouthed gasp, and Prapai writhes around like a pitiful fish, as he attempts to put some distance between them, with energy he does not have. “Don’t – can’t.” His shoulder nudges Sky’s thigh, and Sky wonders if Pai is attempting to push him off the bed.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” That familiar flame of rebellion sparks into life inside Sky’s heart. “When have I ever listened to you?”
“Sick!” Prapai whines again, his flushed cheeks according him the look of the child whose spirit he seems to be channelling, as Sky readjusts the washcloth on his forehead, his other hand brushing against Pai’s cheek – he’s warm, warmer than he should be, but not on fire, not beyond help.
He's going to be okay.
“Does it hurt?” Sky hums as he disentangles the duvet from between Pai’s legs and lays it over him to soothe the shivers that jolt through Pai’s body, drawing out soft, tired whimpers.
Pai turns into him, his arms wrapping around Sky’s waist as a fresh wave of tremors courses through him. There’s nothing to do but to stroke his hair and let him burrow into Sky’s side as his fevered brain clings to comfort.
It only lasts a few seconds, though. Prapai jerks away from him again, as consideration overrides his need for reassurance; it is Sky’s turn to shiver at the sudden loss of warmth as the neediest man he knows, the one who looks like he’s been shot at point blank range whenever Sky foils an attempt to hold hands, tries once more to roll away from him so as not to be touched, caressed, tended to. “Don’t want to make you sick.” He insists through chattering teeth as he curls around a pillow, mumbling to himself, as he tries to bury under the covers and ends up getting tangled in them again.
“Oh, you big baby,” Sky sighs as he finally snaps. He lifts his feet off the floor and rolls into bed with Pai, moulding his body around the lump in the blanket as he holds him. “You’re not going to make me sick.”
“Will too!” He’s too feeble to throw Sky off, but Pai tries anyway, his eyes screwing shut in concentration as he fights himself, more than anyone else, to break out of Sky’s embrace.
Sky’ll remember this, the next time Pai tries to hug him in the middle of the afternoon, claiming that he needs the touch to keep his sanity for the rest of the day.
“P’Pai, it’s just a fever –” Sky tightens the protective cage his arms have formed around Pai’s torso. “Settle down.”
“Could be the flu!” Pai protests, as vehemently as he can with a dry throat, Phan did say he hasn’t been drinking water, hasn’t been hydrating the way he’s supposed to. “Don’t want you to –” He shakes his head, groaning as it exacerbates the headache that he's refusing to take medicine for.
“Idiot.” Sky echoes the siblings’ sentiment as he sighs and does the only thing that occurs to him in that frustrating moment—the only way he can think of to get Pai’s attention and dispel his fears about infecting Sky.
With a resigned sigh, Sky cradles the man's head with his hand, his fingers brushing the tangle of hair at the nape of his neck. Then he leans in.
He kisses Pai, knowing that Pai’s needy, sappy brain will override his rational one – the one hellbent on pushing him away. True to his prediction, Pai returns the kiss, his hot, fevered breath fanning Sky’s face as he deepens it, his tongue flicking across Sky’s lips, seeking entry.
Sky pulls away, remembering at the very last minute that he’s not meant to be rewarding this man who has spent the day worrying everyone around him.
“If I’m sick, I’m sick,” he tells the man who is staring up at him with a mix of wonder and confusion, which turns swiftly to comical horror when he realises that once again, he’s been bested by the strong-willed architecture student who scoffs at his earnest attempts to win him over, and that like always, the loss only feels like victory.
“Take this medicine.” Sky pulls him to a seated position with a strength that Pai didn’t know he had. “And finish this glass of water.”
“But –” He doesn’t want water, doesn’t want anything but to melt into this bed and disappear.
“Shut up.” Sky holds the glass to his lips. “Drink. All of it.”
He glares at him so fiercely that Prapai has no choice but to comply. He drains the glass of every drop, marvelling at the way the clear liquid eases the burning in his throat, which dispels some of the smoke that’s clogging his mind and obscuring his thoughts.
Huh.
“Can I have some more?” He asks in a small voice.
Sky scoffs – there is a God after all! – at him, but doesn’t say anything else as he refills the cup.
With the same strength and authority that he used to lift Pai up, Sky tucks him back into bed, ignoring Pai’s useless attempts at claiming that he’s okay now, that he’s already feeling better, almost brand-new, if it weren’t for the shivering and dull ache in his joints.
His protests quell immediately when he realises that Sky intends to lie down with him. He’s the perfect patient thereon out, letting Sky take his temperature with the thermometer he nearly hurled at Plerng.
“Thirty-eight-point-seven degrees.” Sky mutters as he resets the device. “Idiot.”
It must be true if Sky’s saying it. Prapai nuzzles at his shoulder as he slots his chin into the crook of his neck.
“ ‘S’not how I thought you’d make it into my bed.” He thinks – loudly maybe, because he thinks he hears Sky scoff again. There is a word for that, for thinking out loud; Prapai will remember to look it up when he’s feeling better.
And then he is asleep, leaving Sky to dab at his face with the washcloth, the last of his doubts dying away with Pai’s fever.
***
He looks better by morning light. The flush that had worked its way across his cheekbones is now restricted to the apples of his cheeks, where it usually lives. His breathing is clearer, deeper, and even his hair drapes elegantly around his face now that it's not saturated with sweat.
He’s beautiful, even in sickness, unfortunately.
Not for the first time since he woke up, Sky feels Pai’s forehead for a temperature.
“I don’t have a fever anymore. Just like the last four times you checked.”
Sky jerks his hand away from Pai’s face like he’s been electrocuted. Pai rolls over on his side and finally opens his eyes to grin at him.
“I’m fine.” He dares to say as he stretches his arms over his head, like he’s had the best sleep of his life, like Sky hasn't been up all night, watching Pai thrash and turn, groaning and whimpering and clinging to Sky any time the shivers had returned as the fever had run its course.
“You’re an idiot.” Sky says in lieu of ‘good morning’.
“Yeah?” Pai reaches for him, pulls Sky into his chest before Sky can protest. “How did this idiot get so lucky to wake up to you?”
His memory is hazy; he remembers little more than returning from another late night at work and crawling into bed because his body had felt like it had been on fire. He’d promised himself that he would ask Namtan to schedule a day off for him, once things were quieter at work, maybe when his parents returned from their business trip and would be around to take over some of Prapai’s workload. He remembers making that decision, but not how Sky ended up here in his bed, in the house he shares with his parents and pesky siblings.
It feels like a fever dream.
Prapai pinches himself, just to make sure it’s all real and not another figment of his overactive imagination, which, on a normal day, loves to put Sky in interesting situations that ruin Pai’s ability to make it through the day.
Sky agreeing to a date with him.
Sky sharing his lunch with him like he does with Rain.
Sky helping him pick out a tie, complimenting him, oh if he should ever be that lucky.
Sky letting Pai introduce him as his boyfriend.
Sky letting Pai kiss him at will.
Sky kissing him every morning.
That last dream is so vivid that Pai would have thought it had actually happened—except it couldn’t have, because he would have remembered.
“You didn’t text.” Prapai is yanked out of his dream world by Sky’s words.
“What?” Last time he checked, Sky had seemed less than pleased to receive the messages that Pai was incapable of keeping to himself.
“Yesterday morning.” Sky sighs. “You didn’t text me. So I wondered…” He glares at Prapai like the man has caused him great inconvenience. “...if you were okay.”
Yesterday? Pai twists around to the bedside table where he usually puts his phone. Except, it’s not there today.
“Your phone’s in your bag.” Sky tells him, pointing to the armchair in the corner, where Prapai’s backpack stares morosely at him, displaced from its usual chair in Pai’s study.
He didn’t text.
Has he been asleep for longer than a night?
“It’s Wednesday,” Sky seems to have read his mind, or the panic in his eyes. “You slept all day yesterday.”
“I –” Pai is at a loss for words. He doesn’t fall sick, doesn’t miss days – entire days! – he missed an entire day, which means –
He missed a day of texting.
“Shit. I didn’t pick you up.”
Or bring him breakfast, or lunch, or dinner. The list of all the things he’s missed is endless. “I’m sorry!” He is, Sky must have waited for him, must have wondered where he was — they both know he does, even though Sky loves to deny it.
“Please.” Sky’s eyes are ablaze as he cups Pai’s face in his hands, forcing him to look at him. “Is that important right now?”
Very.
“I didn’t mean to.” Prapai mumbles.
“No?” Sky asks with mock surprise. “You didn’t mean to fall sick and lose track of time? Really?”
Well, when you put it like that…
“If you want to apologise,” Sky tells him, as Prapai nods eagerly, ready to do anything - anything – to make it up to this man twho has overwhelmed every cell in his body since the first time he laid eyes on him. “Apologise to Plerng and Phan. What?” He snorts as Pai pulls away, a look of betrayal on his face, to have his siblings brought up like this. “You threw the contents of your bedroom at them yesterday, when they were just trying to help.”
“They deserved it.” Pai huffs, his jealous anger evaporating when he remembers that Sky doesn’t know his siblings. Pai will happily fix that gap in knowledge if Sky ever lets him. He doesn’t want to get ahead of himself, but seeing as he’s currently sharing a pillow with Sky, he has a feeling he might have a chance after all.
Still, he should attempt to defend himself.
“They have exams this week. I didn't want them to worry.”
Sky looks at him, his expression guarded as his eyes search Pai’s. He raises one of the hands cupping his face and brings it down on Pai’s shoulder. Hard.
“Ow!” Pai plays it up, giving Sky his best wounded- eye pout.
“P’Pai.” The hand returns from his shoulder, back to his face.
“Yes, my Sky?”
“Let people look after you sometimes.” Sky glares at him.
“Are you saying you'll look after me?” Pai knows he's fishing for tenderness, but he's more likely to get away with it right now when Sky’s defenses are lowered.
“No.” Sky turns away from him and tries to get to his feet. "So don't you dare fall sick again.” He squeaks when Pai pulls him back into his chest.
“Sounds like you care about me.” Prapai whispers into his ear.
“Sounds like you still have a fever.” Sky retorts, even though it's his cheeks that are on fire.
“See, you care.” Prapai buries his face in Sky’s shoulder as the man does his best to squirm out of the embrace.
“Not even a little.” Sky huffs as he gives up and slumps against Pai.
“No?”
“P’Pai…”
“--because you stayed the night–”
“P’Pai…”
“And you held me.”
“I didn’t.”
“And you held a glass of water to my lips–”
“Only because you were throwing them at people.”
“At Phan and Plerng – never at you.” Prapai clarifies before he soldiers on, revelling in how red Sky’s ears have gotten. “You wiped my forehead.”
“I should have just left you to burn.” Sky grumbles.
“But you didn't.” Pai sings. “Because you care. Because– ”
He breaks off when Sky stiffens in his embrace, his breath catching in his throat as he refuses to acknowledge Pai’s tentative nudges, his sounds of appeasement, and apology.
Finally, with a deep, fortifying breath, Sky turns around to face him.
“Fine.” He huffs, eyes downcast as he pulls at Pai’s t-shirt.
“What?” Pai holds his gaze as Sky looks up at him, the uncertainty in his eyes melting away, leaving behind just obstinate resolve.
“Fine.” Sky reiterates as he leans into Pai, his lips feather-light as they graze against Pai’s. A kiss – Sky’s kissing him. Him?
“I do care.” He admits once they break apart. Pai blinks at him, disoriented like a deer caught in headlights. "Happy?"
“Wait…” He finds his voice after an eternity of silence.
“Wait…” The confusion weaves itself into a loopy grin as he tilts Sky’s chin upwards so he can look into those stubborn, blazing eyes. A fevered thought – no, a memory from last night comes flooding back. He's sure of it.
“Sky…” He grins at the pink that's spilling into Sky’s cheeks as he prepares himself to answer the question. “... did you kiss me last night?”
He must sound insufferable, like he’s gloating – which he is, celebrating– which he absolutely is– because Sky doesn't grace him with an answer.
So Pai extracts one for himself as he pulls Sky closer. His mouth seeks out Sky’s, who melts into the kiss with no resistance, his lips parting this time to let Pai in.
“You did kiss me.” Pai smirks when they finally separate.
“Shut up.” Sky finally frees himself from Pai’s clutches and rolls out of bed. “I'm going to be late for class. Don't you dare!” He jabs a finger in Pai’s direction when the man tries to do the same, with the grace of a newborn giraffe. “You’re spending the day in bed. ”
“Without you?” Pai deflates at the very idea. “I’m okay now–” He works very hard to stifle the traitorous cough that's hanging on his lips.
“Yeah?” Sky asks him as he rummages through the backpack that's on the armchair. “You won't be if you leave that bed.”
He extracts the handphone from the bag and throws it at the bed, where it lands perfectly by Pai’s hands. “Text me if you need anything, but I’ll block you if you spam me.”
He hasn’t so far, Pai doesn’t think he’ll follow through on the threat now. If anything, this might be his only opportunity to push his luck and send him a message every ten seconds.
“Will you come back?” Prapai falls back onto his pillows and tortures Sky with his best imitation of a kicked puppy.
“We’ll see.” Sky casts him one final look before disappearing out the door.
Prapai lets the door close. He stays where he is, smiling faintly into his pillow that still smells like Sky, content to make no plans at all except to be there when Sky is ready to come back.
Until then…
He reaches for his phone, vowing to send Sky two days' worth of texts to make up for his twenty-four hours of silence.