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Every time Sarawat kisses Tine, he feels like he’s floating. Lips on feather cushion, gentle warm breeze and mind eight thousand miles up in the air.
He’s high, way too high, and nothing can bring him down. It’s relaxing and invigorating, healing, and Sarawat feels thankful yet hungry for more, more, more. Greediness has never been a trait of his personality, but Tine brings the best and the worst out of him.
Sarawat would make shrines in far lands in his honour and would build golden temples in Tine’s name with his bare hands. Yet Tine is sacred just as he is—lean toned body, sunshine smile and pure heart. And Sarawat can’t help but repeat prayers again and again against his lips like if he were begging for salvation.
He can’t also help but to hold onto Tine, hands clasping around the back of his head or caressing his cheek. He needs to do it. To feel this is real, to keep on floating, to not fall.
Love and despair come in pairs, his mother said once. Words murmured through a broken smile when he found her in the garden after the heated but hushed argument his parents had. Then she wiped her tears, caressed his cheek and straightened her back before going back to -the kitchen.
Right then Sarawat promised himself never to fall in love.
Fast-forward to last year, the endlessly teasing Man and Boss put him through was like stale reality checks. “He stepped on you and you fell in love? What’s wrong with you, dude?”
Sarawat shrugged and straightened his back. “I just…like him.”
“Hey, it is really your first time?” Tine asks, voice thick with drowsiness. They’ve been sprawled on the mattress for most of the day since they came back from brunch, too lazy to get up even when the slow Sunday afternoon hours roll around. “You really never had a girlfriend before? Or a boyfriend?”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t ask back. Sarawat knows Tine has dated before. Girlfriend after girlfriend—big boobs to touch, rosy lips to kiss. Maybe Sarawat should buy a chapstick, his lips have been dry lately.
Nibbling on his lower lip, he tries to concentrate in his boyfriend instead. In now. In the way Tine decided to ditch the pillows and rest his head in Sarawat’s lap. In the way he furrows his eyebrows cutely and his eyelashes flutters open as he tries not to fall asleep. In the way he basks in the sensations of Sarawat’s soft touches.
“Even with a face like that? Huh… Lucky me, then. They say first time is the strongest,” Tine murmurs against the fabric of his jeans. Sarawat stops petting, words setting deep into his bones. Scarring him. “Hey, why did you stop?” Tine complains, half-heartily.
Sarawat’s hand trembles for a second, then he resumes. “Don’t let anyone else do this,” he says begrudgingly. He begs.
Tine shakes his head slowly, a lazy beaming smile dancing in his lips. “No one does it like you, Wat. It’s like….Scrubb songs. Only when you cover them they sound right.”
Is like he is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Except that they leave their shoes outside or by the door.
Never bring your filthiness into the house. Sarawat doesn’t go back to his parent’s home as often.
Respect the sacred places. Sarawat really tries to be his best self with Tine.
Tine looks good in white. Godworthy good in white, pure and holy. Sometimes even unreachable. Like the pearly moon, elegant and the muse of thousand millions of poems.
He also looks good in the colour of luck—stark striking and royal yellow above warm slightly tanned skin. A treat for the eyes. Actually, lucky are the ones that see him with the silky yellow shirt as Tine sits down at their table, a glass of beer already in his hands. “I was born on a Monday, yellow is my colour,” he announces proudly and kind of defensively when Man picks on his outfit. “And don’t I look sexy on it?” he adds before blinking at a seductive slow pace, paired with a goofy smile in his lips.
And he does. Fabric embracing his broad shoulders and collar loose enough to showcase the dip in his collarbones, Tine looks effortlessly sensual.
And Sarawat may not be the only one to notice, judging by the subtle glances and not-so-subtle stares that are sent towards their table—and not all are directed to Sarawat, no matter how much Tine insists they are.
No, Sarawat isn’t the only lucky one to lay his eyes on him, sadly. But he is the only one blessed with the opportunity to slip his fingers under the collar and caress the protruding collarbones and the smooth skin of his chest. To touch the firmament and to smell the scent of myrrh incense and ichor. To hear the breathy “Wat, want to leave?” when he is nibbling on the juncture of neck and shoulder late into the night.
They stumble into their dorm room between puffs of laughter and low grunts, almost forgetting to leave their shoes by the door. Tine strokes his thigh with intention, biting his lower lip as mere explanation—and Sarawat wants to kiss, kiss, kiss.
Next moment they are walking backwards towards the bed, immersed in some sort of eye contest that drives Sarawat crazy yet turns him on, until Tine trips on something and breaks his gaze away.
“Oh, I forgot,” Tine says. “Wat, I got you something.”
Slightly baffled, Sarawat rises an eyebrow and grabs the plastic bag. “Flip flops?”
“Yeah, yours are too old,” Tine answers, giggly. “Yesterday I used them to go to the convenience store and I swear I could feel the ground. Being barefoot may have been better… Hey, say something? I know you don’t like people giving you things, but I…well, I…”
He’s stuttering. His boyfriend must be nervous because he almost never stutters, not even when drunk. And right now he is nervous on top of drunk, and flushing—and oh, please. Have some mercy on Sarawat’s soul.
“It’s okay,” Sarawat assures him and squeezes his hand. “Thank you. It’s just… red flip flops?”
Tine smiles. “You were born a Sunday. I know, I looked it up,” he says and shows him the google search tab in his phone. “Red is your colour. I hope it gives you some luck.”
In Sarawat’s book, he’s already the luckiest person.
The swoosh of the other shoe falling somewhere can be heard, far, inescapable.
Sarawat holds Tine’s hand securely, interlacing their fingers and their dreams, caressing his palm most days. Other days he grabs Tine’s wrist, strong enough that it could paint lilac marks on the skin if he doesn’t pay attention to Tine’s every little expression. Then Sarawat pleads forgiveness, head held low in an ashamed bow.
Greedy, possessive, insecure. Tine really brings out the worst and the best out of him.
Maybe is Sarawat’s fault. He’s the one that put Tine in that pedestal—idolizing his flesh and bones, thoughts and soul—and chants to please him.
Or maybe is Tine’s. He’s the one that seeped under Sarawat’s skin and made himself at home in his heart. That rises him to the skies and embraces him in warmth.
Truth be told: no human should be declared sacred.
Truth be told: no human out there is like Tine.
Sarawat kneels down and worships every inch of his honey skin, every breath, every giggle.
Tine likes Blue Hawaii the most, then other sugary drinks like cola sodas and iced teas. Sometimes it feels off, because he ingests a lot more beverages than food in a day—barely ingesting two meals per day—, but when he eats, he eats. He can’t leave anything in the plate, he feels like he must finish every dish.
Then he gets mad at Sarawat. “Stop buying so much food. I’ll get fat and my cheerleader outfit won’t fit.” Deep frown and furrowed pouty lips, Tine looks cute instead of angry.
Maybe because he’s not really that angry. Sarawat suspects that the day when Tine will get angry, when he’ll get really irritated, skies will darken, storms will roar and there will be no prayer that could help him.
“How’s that on me?” he replies and serves him some more Tom kha.
“I’ll get fat, Salaleo,” Tine repeats like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And then, in a lower tone: “You won’t like me anymore if I become chubby.”
Sarawat halts. The mere idea sounds implausible to him. He likes Tine’s slim and toned body, yet he loves feeding him more. It’s charming to see his cheeks get puffier with every bite, his eyes almost shimmering every time he remembers to buy sweet pork. He has thought that the recent tight skin on Tine’s cheekbones and the dulling fatigue were due to all the all-nighters Tine has been pulling for the exams week—for a person who claims to have a No to work, yes to boobs motto, lately he has been studying hard and conforming with Sarawat’s flat chest—, but now he fears the gloomy option.
“What are you saying? I’ll like you no matter how you look,” Sarawat assures him, gaze intense. “Besides: bigger boobs to touch.”
“Perv,” Tine huffs, barely holding back a big blooming smile. “You can stop your cheesy flirting. We’re already dating.”
Sarawat shakes his head. “Don’t wanna.”
A bunch of notifications remain unread in his phone.
Is not like Sarawat despises social media, more like he despises the whole carnival people build around it. What if he follows and unfollows Dim to jokingly piss him off? What if he likes Earn’s picture with Pear? What if some strange girls follow him? What if he posts a short video of Tine’s pretty hands caressing his guitar?
Things were a bit easier when he had zero online presence—just an email for college stuff and a barely used Line ID for band’s activities. But then he also didn’t have a way to tease his friends with football memes or to check if Tine actually was happy with the gifts he gave him.
But with or without social media, he has always checked on his texts. Even the ones meant to remain unseen.
You haven’t been home lately. Got a girlfriend?
You’re spending too much time with your ‘friend’.
Tine runs away from his problems—quite literally, sometimes. I go for a better solution, he would easily deny if Sarawat had ever affronted him about it. Tying up the loose end of a thread to a piece of paper. Even if it’s quite right, Tine defines himself as perseverant, yet fails at being sincere with himself about the real matter of the issue.
Well, not always. As of late, he’s been working on self-honesty and he does run to Sarawat—which fills him with pride.
Never runs away from Sarawat’s, though. Tine sits next to him on the bench and tries to find a way to help him, even if it’s through a Scrubb song. Even if Sarawat doesn’t ask him to.
You haven’t sent us the address of your new dorm
The notification pops up in his screen, bright and sudden, and Sarawat waits until it disappears, screen fading back to black. Something heavy sinks in his stomach and now he’s no longer hungry. Good thing he’s only eating some snacks that Phukong has brought with him to the cafeteria—apparently his little brother is famous between some freshmen.
“Wat? Everything’s alright?” Tine pipes up from his seat at the other side of the table. He’s been so concentrated in sipping his Blue Hawaii, bunny teeth nibbling the straw, that Sarawat has betted he was distracted. “You got stiff. And you’re pale. Is it the heat? Need sugar?” he questions with worried eyes as he offers him his blue beverage.
Sarawat shakes his head. “I’m fine.”
Tine frowns. “No, you’re not. I—shit. I have to do a class presentation with Ohm for Commercial law in a few minutes,” he complains loudly, checking the digital clock of his phone.
“I’m fine. Go.”
His boyfriend shakes his head, yet he stands up reluctantly. “Finish this,” he orders, shoving the plastic cup into Sarawat’s hands. “And text me if you feel bad. I’ll…”
“Don’t worry, Tine,” Phukong chides in, latching onto his side and patting his shoulder not-so-softly. “I’ll take care of my bro. Good luck with your thing!”
A small smile blooms in Tine’s lips, charming, healing. He nods as a goodbye and/or a thanks, motioning towards his phone as if he were telling him to text him later before leaving.
Warmth spreads through Sarawat’s body, pooling in his chest, as he recalls the worry in his boyfriend’s face. He wants to kiss him. So. Much.
“So,” Phukong starts, “troubles in paradise?”
Sarawat scoffs. “We are great.”
“I know when you lie, bro. We’ve been siblings for like eighteen years? I’ve got more receipts on you than you think,” Phukong says, his characteristic smug grin growing fast. Sarawat grunts and, maybe, sulks a bit. The kid’s right. And there’s more than curiosity in his voice. “By the way, you received a text just a moment ago.”
Sarawat looks down to his phone where the small blinking light announces a text. For some reason he’s quite sure that it’s a new message besides the one he first ignored. He checks the preview from the lock screen, swiping to the left a few non-important notifications first, and indeed:
Come home next weekend. Bring your girlfriend.
“Ouch. Mom’s on your tail again?” Phukong asks, reading over his shoulder. Sarawat would reprimand him if his mind weren’t somewhere else. “What are you gonna do?”
With utter honesty, he shrugs. “They’ve been pestering you with this too?”
“Nope. I’m their baby,” his brother jokes. Sarawat rolls his eyes—his brother has always been cheeky and astute enough to take advantage of his position as the youngest of their family. He can be quite shameless and sly when he wants to be, yet there’s genuinely gentleness in his voice when he adds: “Hey, I’ll go home too. Whatever happens, I’ll be there.”
Slightly abashed and concerned, Sarawat nods. Thankful.
“I ran into Man earlier and he told me it seemed to be really good. I mean, I don’t know how much we should trust him, but he’s been going to tons of seminaries for some reason and, apparently, people that do know have told him it was worthy,” Tine says, voice bubbly and excited. He’s leaning against the bathroom door, talking and talking as Sarawat brushes his teeth. “Want to go?”
“Huh? Where?”
Tine rolls his eyes. “Pay attention, Salaleo. To the guitar expo! This Saturday. Tickets might be a little expensive, but there’s going to be this guitarist you like... and the guitarist I like,” he comments as he steps into the bathroom and pulls Sarawat’s shirt up. “And after that we could go to my favourite expo,” he adds, voice deliberately low and teasing. Just like his fingers, running up and down, down, down Sarawat’s happy trail. It’s bold and a bit startling—Tine doesn’t usually take the initiative, less so early in a weekday.
Yet he stops.
“Okay, what’s happening?”
“Huh?”
“You’re blinking,” Tine explains, to which Sarawat would answer something quite sarcastic in another time. “You tend to blink a lot when you are angry or uncomfortable.”
Sarawat scratches his neck and shrugs, nonchalantly. If he acts like nothing happens, then maybe nothing will happen. Except that his boyfriend’s reaction is to step back, maybe feeling unwanted or even insulted, so he quickly places a hand in his arm to stop him from moving farther.
“Nothing important,” he assures him. “But I can’t this weekend. I have to go to my parent’s house.”
Tine stares at him thoroughly for a long moment before nodding. “No problem. We can go next time.”
“And what about your favourite expo?” he asks with a smirk, closing the distances between their faces. “Sarawat Expo?”
“We can go in another time too,” Tine says slowly, in a mocking tone, and pats his shoulder before leaving the bathroom. “I have to go. I have classes and… stuff.”
Alone, Sarawat groans and sulks.
Stuff meant that Tine somehow duped Phukong into telling him the truth. And Sarawat isn’t totally sure about his brother being really fooled, but he doesn’t ponder on it. Not when Tine goes to him in between classes and drags him to an empty room, standing not as near as Sarawat would like.
Sarawat chases him for a kiss, for a ray of understanding, of forgiveness, of protection.
But even Holy beings let mortals down.
“We could ask Earn to play along as your girlfriend,” Tine suggests in a mumble, centimetres away from his lips. “Or Pear. She’s pretty and well-mannered and elegant and, you know, a girl…” he adds, trembling voice and words slightly garbled.
“Fuck, no.”
“She’s pretty much what every parent want as their in-law,” he continues nonetheless and averts his gaze.
Tine averts his gaze, suddenly focused in the ground as if the ceramics were going to help him, or were to back him up, or were more important.
Tine averts his gaze and suddenly Sarawat is angry, is so angry, so freaking mad because the ground is dirty and hard and helpless and the place where he’s going to crash if Tine doesn’t get on his side and hugs him.
“I won’t fake date anyone!”
“It could help…”
“Yeah, like it helped you? I won’t do it. I won’t fucking drag anybody else into my problems.”
“Ah, you’re right.” Tine nods, pupils shaking and lips parted, trembling. Like if something big is clicking and roaring in his mind. “Shit, you’re right. I’m weak. I’m… weak and superficial and go for the easy way. But fake dating got us together.”
Sarawat’s raging breathing gets stuck in his throat when the situation clicks in his mind too. When Tine’s words and expression sink in him.
“Fuck, Tine. That’s not what I mean.”
“Maybe you’ll like her too. Maybe… you find someone that is worthy of your time.”
But what Sarawat actually finds is something worse than Tine’s anger. It’s a cloudy sky, a broken temple, a cursed chant. He can deal with disappointment, but not with Tine’s crumpling self-esteem. Especially not when he might be the one to blame.
Yet he is slow, he is too slow, because Tine nods sure of his own words and murmurs something about staying at Fong’s tonight.
Sarawat clenches his jaw and kicks the nearest chair.
The drive to his parent’s house is filled with bickering and music. Not because Sarawat is in the mood, but because Phukong is exceptionally good at reading situations. His brother just needed to hear a couple of grunts to hiss a that bad, huh? before reaching for his phone and choosing the shittiest playlist Sarawat has ever heard.
But by the time they arrive, Sarawat’s frown isn’t as deep as before. Maybe he can even try and have a nice visit.
It goes smoothly. They leave their shoes by the door and greets their fathers with a wai before they settle back in their old rooms and then have a nice lunch.
Except for: “Why did you move out, Sarawat?”
“I wanted to be as farthest as possible from Phukong,” he answers without losing a beat.
His brother chuckles. “Fucker. It’s not like I like your exhibitionism either,” he sneers and somehow gets away with it. Their parents are more intrigued about the other subject, apparently.
“When are we going to see the place?” his father asks over papaya salad, looking straight at his eyes. “Or is there any reason we can’t?”
“No. I’m just… not living alone.”
“Huh? Who is she?”
Sarawat swallows his Tom kha kai, barely tasting its flavour but hoping it could be spicier to burn the lump in his throat.
Even if he half expected it, the expectations his parents put onto him are still tensing the air and weighting him down. He tried to convince himself once or twice that, at least, they didn’t ask too much from him. And it worked; he thought it’d be easy—until he went to that Scrubb concert a few years ago. Now is the hardest task to him.
But he’s decided. He’s going to disappoint someone anyways—his parents, Tine, himself.
“It’s not a she.”
His parents’ faces harden. Clenched jaw, flaring nostrils, furrowed eyebrows. Like if they were told about some sort of twisted betrayal. “Then when are you going to introduce us a girlfriend? When will we have a daughter-in-law?”
“When will you start showing interest in other worthy things than your guitar, Sarawat?”
Sarawat blinks fast and repeatedly as his lips part agape. Even if he half-expected it, he still is a bit stupefied and hurt. Maybe he should have stalled the subject. Maybe he shouldn’t had trust his parents would stick to their don’t ask, don’t tell approach.
“I’m serious,” he says, yet it seems to fall in deaf ears.
It’s starting to crush him. And there’s no Holy being on sight to help him.
Putting his spoon down, he tries to stand up, ready to excuse himself and leave. Perhaps to his room to do a phone call, perhaps to his car to drive back to his temple. But his mother’s words halts him.
“Should I talk with that friend of yours? How was he called? Type? Time? He looked like he knew lots of girls.”
Phukong interferes. “Tine is a great guy. He’s doing good to…”
“Seemed like a player to me,” his mother says. “The butterfly type. The type that talk with many people, telling them all what they want to hear. He could give you advices in that.“
“Don’t.” Sarawat grits his teeth. “Don’t talk to him. Don’t speak that way about him.”
His father stands up, protective and imposing. His mother, in the other hand, doesn’t move. Just looks at him with something akin to surprise or, worst, pity.
“Yeah, you right. Won’t talk to him. That kind of people doesn’t know what is to love somebody. To invest in a relationship.”
“That’s not…” he starts, but his parents clearly hint the end the conversation.
Sarawat clenches his jaw again when he realizes that he wouldn’t have been able to finish the sentence anyways.
At some point of the night, his brother goes to his room. He has two milk teas in his hands from a shop nearby that they used to go after school and a teasing grin dancing in his lips.
“How’s your room always so messy? We’ve been here for less than ten hours, bro.”
“Fuck off,” Sarawat says in a slur, face planted against his pillow.
“Should I bring Tine to help you clean this up?” Phukong jokes, yet his grin falls when he sees Sarawat’s reaction. “Okay, bad call. My fault.”
Sarawat shakes his head and makes room for his brother to sit in the mattress. He doesn´t sit up though, body too tired from feeling down, but does adjust himself enough not to spill the milk tea Phukong gives him. Is not uncommon but neither usual from Phukong to do things like these—to subtly check on people, to lift the mood, to care. He’s either really good at reading the atmospheres or at dealing with disillusions. Sarawat hopes is the former.
“They are just in denial,” Phukong says a moment later, lowering his tone to mild seriousness. “They’ll come to terms soon. They love you.”
“Is there really something to come to terms with?”
Phukong shrugs. “Not really. But for them? Yeah. You’re denying them the chance to show-off grandchildren, bro,” he adds with a mocking grin.
Sarawat can’t help but scoff.
At some point of the ride back, he realizes that there aren’t believers and non-believers. It’s just people. With their own beliefs—their own temples, their own holy beings, their own insecurities.
Insecurities are the worst. They might be contagious, spreading faster than good thoughts and morphing all the time. Just a seed and soon insecurities can overthrow a belief.
Tine likes him, that’s for sure.
But how many pedestals has had Tine? Has he ever even had one?
Better solution. Will he going for an easy way of this? What will it be?
But people invested in their relationship don’t go for it, right?
Where will he run away to?
And Sarawat?
The thing is: kissing Tine grounds him. He’s floating, but he’s never been more clear.
Plants are green, sun is bright, Tine is beautiful.
He prays and the little moans are a chorus of religious songs that Sarawat wants to hear forever.
He hasn’t been praying for days now. He feels the divine calling—that Scrubbs song Tine himself set as his personalized ringtone—, but ignores it. His head is a mess and he doesn’t want to lose the last straw, nor the divine grace.
Sky is frightening dark, temple is broken and Sarawat is the only religious one of the two.
The colourful dim lights and booming loud music of their favourite bar welcome him. There’s no free table he can sit at and there’s a band on stage playing international songs. His fingers itch with the desire to play now, to do something he loves and brings him peace and, especially, allows him not to think in anything else but music.
But he doesn’t have his guitar with him tonight, so booze will have to ease his mind.
In his way to the counter, he thinks he sees a familiar face in one of the tables. Looks like is Phuak or Ohm, or both, talking with a bunch of girls. But they’re too engrossed in their talk to notice him and Sarawat not only prefers it that way, but six songs and three small Chang beers later he doesn’t notice them either.
By the end of the fifth, he wonders if he’s hearing things already. Like a warm honey voice chanting his name again and again. But he’s pretty sure that the touch he feels in his shoulder is real. When he turns around he is there. Cladded in a lime green shirt that doesn’t suit him really well—which is weird because Tine usually looks celestial with any combination of his wardrobe.
“Hey, you’re here,” Tine says softly as he leans in the counter next to him, shrunken shoulders yet calm eyes. “You haven’t been taking my calls.”
Sarawat looks at him, between astonished and pensive, and shrugs. “You didn’t ring.”
“I’ve been calling you for the last couple of hours. You must have like 13 missed calls, Salaleo,” he nags him, but with a small smile lacing his words. A smile right in the edge between affectionate and cautious. “So… how did it go?”
Once again, Sarawat shrugs. Though this time he doesn’t look at him, eyes fixed in the beer bottle in his hand.
“Ah, like that then,” Tine mumbles, dejection and nervousness taking over his voice. “I should have been there with you.”
Sarawat lets his head fall nearly touching the counter. Yes, you should have, he wants to say. And more. So many more things; to make him aware of his disappointment, his hurt, his anger, his fears. So many things, so many caged bubbling feelings.
But even the buzz after five beers isn’t enough to completely disinhibit him from himself. He doesn’t want to make a scene nor show his weakness. He doesn’t even want to look at Tine’s face and let his resolve crumble.
So he settles for a scoffed: “My parents wouldn’t have been nice. No yellow tape, tho. But there was papaya salad.”
“Still, I’m… sorry.” Maybe is his imagination, but Tine is even more shrunken than before. It’s like he’s trying to make himself smaller. That’s wrong; minuscule and frail are words that should never describe Tine. “Please forgive me, Wat.”
Fuck. He’s mad. Sarawat is so mad because it’s hard for him to remain mad at Tine while he also wants to bask in his divine embrace. What does it even say about Sarawat? That he actually is the weaker one?
Tine’s breathing itches when Sarawat leans against his left arm.
Then Sarawat orders another beer.
“Hey, you sure? Don’t want to go home?”
As a mere answer, Sarawat shakes his head and grabs the new beer the bartender gives him. When he tries to drink bottoms up, he accidentally looks at the other guy’s face. At his boyfriend’s face. At Tine’s lush lips. He chokes on his beer when he realizes he’s been staring.
“Everything is okay?” Someone asks behind them. It’s Phuak or Ohm, or both.
Tine starts to answer something, yet Sarawat suddenly needs air or just doesn’t need to hear it.
“Bathroom! Want to go to bathroom.” he announces before leaving his spot and crossing the bar in big strides. The band is still playing a metal ballad, its bass quite heavy and loud, but not enough to distract him from the steps following him. “Stop following me, I just need to pee.”
Tine looks slightly taken aback by the bite behind his words. In the other hand, Sarawat is more stupefied at himself: he announced it. Usually, he just leaves the place whenever he wants to, but this time he announced it.
Is like he wanted, hoped, for Tine to follow him. And he did. And that must means something—even if it’s not temples and pedestals, prayers and chants.
Under the brighter lighting, Sarawat finds himself staring at Tine’s mouth. The white bunny teeth peeking out, the slope of the corners, the shape of his lips. Plump and soft.
Sarawat still hasn’t bought a chapstick.
“Then pee!” Tine urges him with a small chuckle at the back of his throat. “And wash your hands.”
When he’s done, hands dripping water and body more relieved, his whole focus is directed towards the other person in the bathroom. Poise still slightly small than it should be, but getting broader and livelier the more he gets closer and closer to Sarawat.
Tine is within arm’s reach, maybe closer, and Sarawat… notices his shirt. Tine is wearing Sarawat’s lime green shirt. And it doesn’t really suit him. What does it mean.
Gazing his lips with intention, Tine leans farther, straight nose almost bumping into his. Warm breezy breath caresses his lips a moment before Sarawat moves his head slightly to the side. Lips colliding against thick humid air, hearts beating uncoordinated.
“Let’s go,” Sarawat says, looking at the exit door.
Shaking his hands and sprinkling droplets everywhere, Sarawat passes by Tine, who is frozen and rooted into the ground. Like a trembling rock temple.
“Wat. Wat. Why are you being like this? Why… Why aren’t you kissing me?” Tine asks softly, barely something louder than a murmur. Usually it would go lost into the booming noise that still comes from the stage area, but Sarawat has never been good at ignoring Tine. All the opposite. And now he feels like he knows the tone, knows it damn well. Begging.
But Sarawat also knows not to have his hopes up.
“Maybe I don’t want to anymore?" he says, something akin a grunt. A lie, out of spite and confusion. Self-protection. A lie to himself. "Maybe I’m tired, ok? Of being the only one doing efforts, following you around.” Like a fool, enamoured.
"What are...?" Tine reacts, trepidation overtaking him maybe, and tries to grab him. To stop him. And Sarawat lets him, because he's weak, he's so freaking weak when it comes to Tine. Or maybe he's just tipsier than he thought and a hug sounds... good—and sweet and warm and, overall, healing for his aching chest.
He steps on Tine, though. He might have miscalculated the distance between them or Tine's strength.
When he looks up, Tine's eyes are open wide. "Sorry."
As a reply, he gets caught in a bone-crushing hug.
The other shoe finally drops and is not with a booming noise as he thought, but with a soft knock.
Head dizzy and muscles tired, he looks groggily around and crawls out of the empty bed towards the railing. The door is closed, two pairs of sneakers sitting by its side.
Tine is in the kitchen, surrounded by plastic bags and some soup spreading through the floor. When they lock eyes, a peaceful smile blooms in Tine’s face.
Sarawat can finally see it.
A filthy mess. A celestial sight. A powerful human emotion—mutual.
Tine is bad at cooking. Once he even boiled a pack of noodles for half an hour and it turned into the mushiest Chicken noodle soup Sarawat has ever tasted. He’s also not an early riser, so whenever Sarawat can’t wake him up to go eat breakfast outside, he is the one to go for food and coffee from the stores nearby because honestly? Sarawat is a lazy and shitty cook too.
So this time is kind of startling to see all the dishes Tine went out to buy. Besides the fish soup that ended on the floor, he also brought congee and the Green curry that Sarawat loves. There’s also orange juice and some ibuprofen on the table that Tine gestures to with a worried face. If it’s worry out of guilt or out of something else, Sarawat can’t discern.
“You stepped on me last night,” Tine comments, some hesitance flickering in his eyes.
“I think I said I’m sorry.”
Tine nods. At first glance, it doesn’t look like the jittery movement it actually is. “You did. I mean, I know you were drunk and didn’t do it on purpose. And honestly, at some point I thought you were going to kiss me drunk again. But then you stepped on me after you said… said you were tired. Are tired. Is that… true?” Tine asks in a small voice, barely strong enough to echo in the silent room. His pupils are shaking, gaze coming and going from Sarawat’s face to his fidgeting fingers. “Is that what you really feel? Are you tired?”
Caught off guard, Sarawat shrugs. He thought he has found a silver lining, but as his mind clears up, it actually becomes a foggier, boisterous place.
“Of me?” the other asks him carefully. Sarawat just shrugs again. “Fuck, Wat, use your words. Because yesterday I was like crazy trying to contact you and check how you were. And when I found you, you were drunk. You were really drunk, Wat, but so, so handsome. I thought ‘I can’t believe how much I like this drunkard’, but then you stepped on me and I…”
Tine goes silent suddenly, mouth slightly open.
Nearly speechless, yet deeply curious and impatient, Sarawat insists. “You what?”
“I realized.” Tine bites his lower lip to stifle a chuckle and ends up choking on his words. “You stepped on me and I realized I love you.”
Sarawat stiffens, air caught in his lungs and eyes widening. There's warmth and something else spreading through his body at rapid-fire speed and creeping up his cheeks. Something akin to liquid light and divine grace.
Tine's eyes are shimmering, but his nostrils are flailing like he's upset and words away from breaking down.
"And I just don’t… I’m kinda freaking out here, Wat. You said that and now I don’t know what…I don’t…”
For the first time today, Sarawat interrupts him. He might be brusque and totally irreverent, but he doesn't care. He leans forward, accidentally smacking the pot with Green curry out the table, and kisses Tine. Urgently.
Kissing Tine is not absolution, but he wants to believe it’s a start.
Kissing Tine feels like floating. Lips on feather cushion, gentle warm breeze and mind eight thousand miles up in the air. But his body is pretty much on Earth, sitting in the not-really-comfortable stools they have in their dorm kitchen and pressing his stomach against the table's hard wood top. It's uncomfortable and painful, but he wouldn't like it other way. Not if he can kiss Tine's insecurities away at the same time he punishes himself for causing them. Not if he can bow down and ascend at the same time. Not if he can celebrate with soft pressing of lips and celestial small moans.
Tine lets himself be carried away, circling Sarawat's neck with his arms and bringing him closer to him. Melting against his kiss, somewhat relieved and astonished.
The moment they run out of air, Tine blinks his eyes open, eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly adventuring through easterlies. Though he seems mesmerized, Sarawat considers he knows his boyfriend enough to recognize he's actually torn between nervousness and yearning.
“You said it first,” he explains against his lips, still a little incredulous.
“What?”
“I thought it was just me, but you said it first.”
“Are you still drunk, Wat?”
Sarawat shakes his head, his expression breaking into a sincere, beaming smile. "I love you," he mouths against his lips. A heartfelt confession, yet barely comparable to the magnitude of what he feels. Barely comparable to what Tine makes him feel. Also barely comparable to the way Tine just opened his heart for him. And that just add another thing to his long list of things he loves about his boyfriend.
"So you aren't tired?"
Sarawat shakes his head again, embarrassed, and caresses his boyfriend's hair. "I just love you."
“Me too, Salaleo,” Tine says in between small pecks and low chuckles. "I love you too."
A sweet, addicting capriccio. Powerful. Because there's something really powerful in his boyfriend's words. Not only in what he is saying, but in the way he says it. Like if he really means it, like if his words are an absolute truth and a reckless pray. Like if he's abandoning himself to his own feelings, confident that Sarawat will catch him and hold him tight.
He will. He is going to—just like Tine holds him.
“Can we turn this into our morning ritual?”
“What?”
Sarawat keeps stroking his hair as he nuzzles his neck, his cheek, his temple. “You saying you love me.”
Tine furrows his eyebrows and wrinkles his nose, like it’s a hard thing to do. “I don't know. Maybe we can turn it into our morning, afternoon, and nightly ritual.”
"We could start to practice now," Sarawat proposes.
"But first, let's clean this," Tine says, gesturing towards the Green curry spilled down the table and the congee still secure in their plates.
Pouting, he sits back properly in his stool and complains loudly. "You bought too much food. Stop it or I'm gonna get fat. You won't like me anymore."
Tine gives him the stink eye at his teasing. Then he stands up and circles the table, padding towards the staircase. “What are you saying, Salaleo?” he questions, annoyed, and pinches his butt cheek in the passing. "More ass to grab."
As the afternoon hours roll around, the drowsiness starts to set in in their bodies. They skipped their classes in order to clean their mess, but they ended up doing one worst in their sheets. Swirls of white fabric and want, imprinted by the strong scent of myrrh incense and ichor.
Sprawled on the mattress, bodies spent and slowly calming breathing, they hum together a song to keep themselves awake, basking in each other. Sarawat hugs his boyfriend’s torso and leaves small kisses in his chest next to the blossoming marks, while Tine giggles and strokes his head tenderly.
"Hey, Wat. Please let me be the only one to do this."
Sarawat lifts his head to look at him. "Touch my head?"
"And to kiss you, from your head to your shadow,” Tine says with a smirk, faint traces of teasing in his voice, and it makes Sarawat chortle. "Hey, don't laugh. I don't..."
"You can stop stealing my cheesy flirting. We are already dating," Sarawat interrupts him, barely avoiding the small punch Tine throws him. He doesn’t avoid the smack in his ass, though. “What don’t you know?”
The annoyance in Tine’s eyes start to diminish as the same time he bites on his already swollen lips. Also, his already rosy cheeks are flushing red—and isn’t that Sarawat’s lucky colour? “It’s my first time in love,” Tine confesses. “I thought I knew how to flirt and to date, but I’m not really sure to know what to do when I’m in love.”
Sarawat smiles and confesses back: “Me neither.”
“So we are discovering it together.”
“Together.”