Chapter Text
The stages were always dazzling.
You were so high up that you could see everyone, make them believe whatever you wanted, and when the lights fractured across your cornea, all you had to do was clench your hands to regulate your breath a little more.
Phuwin wasn’t a major part of the auction, so when his father called him, he scanned the crowd and smiled faintly; he had no trouble bowing his head and greeting people. Because it would end—just smile a bit more and everything would pass.
Or so he thought.
He winked at his mother waving at him, added to what Charlotte was saying, and tucked mentions into the conversation about how Chalew had helped and in what ways—as if he were part of it all, as if he shouldn't miss a single detail.
When his eyes caught that familiar figure, Phuwin was up high; Pond had his chin tilted up, looking at the screen he stood before with parted lips. His eyes looked so helpless that Phuwin’s breath caught instantly. He couldn't resist the urge to look at the screen.
There were photos with Charlotte, his family, Chalew. An album of familiar memories. The perfect happinesses of Phuwin’s life that had been captured by the media. A familiar, well-known territory.
While his brows furrowed in confusion, he looked back at Pond. He wondered what he had seen. Maybe a funny pose Phuwin had made or a cool look had stirred his stomach.
But no. Pond’s face changed. His brows furrowed. As Phuwin watched piece by piece how his jaw locked and took on a knife-like sharpness, it wasn't hard to understand that something was going wrong—not with Pond gripping Joong’s wrist and lowering his head as it trembled.
Phuwin’s stomach churned, his heart suddenly started beating too fast. A fear was approaching him from the back of his head with tiny steps; it was so insidious, so terrifying, he shivered down to his very hair.
When Pond raised his head, Phuwin could see him hissing from the way his teeth were slammed together; his body was hunched, as if he’d been stabbed. His face contorted with worry—what the fuck was happening, what was wrong with him, had something made him sick?
Then he saw those eyes. That disappointment adorned with trembling, bloodshot, angry breaths. As if he couldn't believe Phuwin, as if he couldn't stand him, as if he were pleading. As if Phuwin were nothing but a disgusting piece of vomit.
Pond turned so sharply that Phuwin thought his entire body froze in that moment. Something had brushed against his skin, making all his muscles rigid, and fear filled his eyes; his hand turned into a fist. Fuck, fuck, no, Pond wasn't turning back, Pond wasn't looking at him, Pond... breath—he couldn't breathe, because Pond was leaving.
He had told him he would wait. He had looked at him with beautiful, compassionate eyes and left a kiss on his hair. Where was he going? Phuwin wanted to go home together, Phuwin wanted to go to his home and hug him tightly.
God, Phuwin saw that place as his home now. He was saying it. Even if he hesitated, he had found the strength to state it; he had smeared all his fragility onto those words, thinking they weren't in the same place and expecting a slap, something harsh. He was so happy it hadn't come.
Where was he going?
He couldn't go.
Hadn't he said I'll wait? Pond... hadn't Pond held his hands? Pond hadn't struck a new spark of sound on his fingertips. Pond had accepted.
No. Something was very wrong.
Phuwin felt as if his entire heart were being ripped out. He was struggling to control his facial expression; he couldn't get down, couldn't follow him, couldn't give his feet that signal. There was a camera pointed at his face; he had to keep his expressions flat, he had to smile, but he couldn't pull his eyes away from that back passing through the door.
Turn around. Look at me. Don't go. Wait for me. Please.
He didn't. Phuwin couldn't control his breathing; he thought the floor opened a hole under his feet and he fell in. His head was spinning. He couldn't gather his breaths.
The speech ended, and the hand on his father’s shoulder signaled that he could step down from the stage, but Phuwin couldn't hear; he couldn't stop staring into the void. He blinked. Blinked, completely empty.
And there was a sound. He couldn't hear a thing, but there was still a vibration in his lashes.
His senses collided so suddenly that his body nearly folded in two. He descended the stairs rapidly, taking the steps two at a time, clenching his trembling hands. As he shoved through the people around him, a pathetic breath tore from the lump in his throat.
He had to hurry. He couldn't go, Pond couldn't leave. He had to hurry, something had happened.
He felt the strange, worried gazes of the people on him, but as he tore through the crowd, he murmured "sorry" in jagged breaths. His patent leather shoes made a sharp sound on the floor, and he heard his father’s voice saying, Phu?—but his focus was in only one place. The chandeliers dazzled his eyes; he ran, turned to avoid crashing into a waiter, and reached the door, passing right by Joong.
His lungs were being ripped out; he felt the taste of iron on his palate. His eyes scanned the corridor with fear. He turned a corner, passed the staff room.
He ran, the polished floor slipping under his shoes as he reached the stone staircase. Everything was so chic, so expensive, cleaned so meticulously that Phuwin gripped the handrail with his entire body just to avoid falling; he was tossed about.
He ran, ran, passed the red carpets. The hotel was so massive it wouldn't end. When he reached two floors down and saw the reception in the entrance hall from the floor above, the heel of his shoe caused him to lose his balance again. He was so stressed, so panicked that he couldn't breathe; his knees could have hit the floor.
Fucking hotel!
When he gripped the banister and looked at the door, he saw the familiar figure; a single tear fell from his eye. Pond’s shoulders were so straight, his steps so hard. Phuwin couldn't hear what he was saying to the employee, but he saw how the man brought the phone to his ear, talking with a tremor—he, too, was afraid of Pond.
Phuwin was on the upper floor. But he couldn't call out, couldn't reach him. Amidst all those men, if he uttered his name while falling apart here, something would break; someone would realize they were acquainted, maybe rumors would leak.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe—
Shit, Phuwin’s vision vanished for a second as he sobbed audibly. He had to part his lips. Pond had to wait.
He didn't. Pond’s black car appeared at the hotel's outer door, and as Pond passed the men with a jerk of his head, Phuwin turned around as if wanting to scream. He ran to the stairs, narrowly avoiding falling again; his chest ached so much.
As he descended the stairs, his tears made everything a blur and his foot landed on the sharp edge of a stone; he groaned in rage, "fuck!", immediately leaning down and stripping the million-dollar Louboutins off his heels as if throwing them away, jumping on his stockinged feet, his fingers gripping the banister.
When he reached the floor like a wounded dog, the staff—recognizing him—immediately approached, trying to say Mr. Tang, but Phuwin was sniffing, raising his hand instantly to command them to stop. He saw Pond open the car door and take the valet’s place.
It was his last chance. Fuck, he had no other choice.
He heard the startled voices of people as he ran across the clean red carpet in his socks, but he didn't give a damn. The cool evening air hit his face, the wetness of his tears chilled his cheeks, and as the engine started, he spent all his breath trying to reach him.
Just before the car pulled onto the asphalt, at the last second, he jerked the passenger door open and threw himself into the car as if he were literally escaping. The tires roared.
Phuwin gripped the door tightly, his body jolting forward from the fall, looking at Pond breathlessly. His heart was beating in his throat. He tried to say "Pond," but no words could escape his dry mouth.
Pond didn't even flinch. "Get out of the car."
Phuwin swallowed audibly, his black-stockinged feet aching against the leather trim of the car. "No."
Pond exhaled like a bull, yet Phuwin wasn't even a matador.
Turning the Mustang's ignition with the coldness of an executioner, he tore away from the hotel’s disgusting, glittering entrance; he tried to ignore Phuwin, who sat collapsed in the passenger seat, panting, inside his midnight blue armor, looking at him with persistent, uncomprehending eyes.
He was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were razor-white. As a distance quickly opened between them and the hotel, the car suddenly swerved, and Phuwin fell hard toward the glove compartment, unable to swallow.
"Look at this. The prince's scene is over," Pond said, his voice spilling out like a dirty growl merging with the creak of the gear shift. "From one entertainment to the next, hm?"
Phuwin’s hands, struggling to hold onto anything, tugged at the seatbelt; his breath caught at what he heard. "What the fuck are you talking about?" he said, his voice still hadn't returned, but he sounded like he was spitting.
Pond smiled, tilting his head mockingly as he slammed the gear forward. A vein had appeared on his forehead. "Did you crave some excitement? You got so bored, of course—you couldn't let your toy slip away."
He wasn't looking at Phuwin, suppressing the contempt in his tone of disgust, and Phuwin was afraid; the sharpness of the bared teeth looked like knives under the night lights. He didn't look like the man who had held him, he... he had just left him and gone.
"Pond, I don't know what you're talking about," he said, his face contorting; he needed to stay calm but his rage and pain were intertwined. "Where are you going?" His trembling voice rose, he had turned toward Pond. "Where were you going, leaving me there, Pond?"
But they weren't speaking the same language. Because Pond’s eyes were empty, fixed on the road. He was like ice. "Why, can't I go? I do whatever I want."
Phuwin’s hand became a fist, he wanted those eyes to look at him, his stomach churned. "What the fuck? You told me you'd wait!"
"Do you believe everything I say? Ah, how naive you are, Phuwin." Pond chuckled—with rage, as if he couldn't believe it, enjoying himself. The engine roared on the asphalt, and as he looked at Phuwin, a darkness was growing, no longer glimmers. "Or wait, is this one of your tricks, too?"
Phuwin’s jaw tensed. Pond was mocking him, ignoring him. "What trick, you fuck? We had an agreement there! We were going to go back together. You were leaving me behind."
"And I’m saying I’ll go. Why should I listen to you?" Pond cut through the first car in front of him, weaving as he drove the Mustang’s nose down the slope of the mountain road. His face hardened. "Why should I wait for you? Who are you? My baby? Who’s supposed to call you that, huh?"
Phuwin felt utterly alone. It was as if a coldness was vibrating through his entire body. As if he didn't have a single match in the middle of a freezing winter, tossed out to the door like trash. "Don't say that. Don't say it like that." His lips trembled. "You're just angry right now, don't say that."
Look at me. Please look at me.
“What difference does it make how I am, Phuwin?” Pond dropped the gear once more; the engine screamed. There was a terrifying curl at the corner of his lip; he whispered. “Did you think things changed just because we fucked a couple of goddamn times?”
Phuwin couldn't swallow. He stared at Pond’s face, which refused to turn toward him. As the car swerved suddenly, the pain of the lump settled in his throat descended to his chest. "What the fuck are you saying? Is that all this is to you?" he said, his face contorting but his rage was rising—how could Pond say these things? "Is this all we amount to?"
"That’s all it is for both of us. That's all it is for you. Just two guys who fuck." And another blow, ruthless; Pond’s voice was controlled, emotionless. "It was this from the very beginning. The guy you come to for fun when you’re bored."
"What happened to you? Why are you saying this, please, this..." Tears blurred his eyes; the trees behind the glass were merging into one another. He couldn't make sense of it. He had to speak, say something, anything. "This isn't it, you know it too, we... we from this—"
Pond’s nostrils flared, his chest heaved, he hissed. The steering wheel turned. "Shut your mouth, Phuwin."
The car made a disgusting sound, skipping sideways on the winding slope. A sound that made Phuwin tremble with fear and grip the seatbelt with both hands. His eyes went wide. "Pond, slow down! Please, fuck."
"Are you scared now because you’re not on stage anymore? Huh?" Pond looked at him, laughing mockingly as his eyes returned to the road, his voice deepening with fury. He was humiliating him. "Didn't you love this, huh? Here’s your adrenaline! Craving the pain, wanting me to fuck you hard. To choke you! Didn't you want this?"
When the orange light suddenly blinded them, Pond abruptly shifted gears because of a vehicle appearing in front of them.
"Pond, the car!" Phuwin screamed at the headlights cutting in front of them from the other lane; he sobbed. Shit, they were going too fast. His hands gripped the door handle. "Fuck no..."
Pond slammed on the brakes, then suddenly released them. The car lunged forward, the body tilting sideways. Phuwin hit his head against the headrest. Pond was bursting into laughter. "I guess your little amusement is over? What did you tell me? Fix your darkness on me, poison me?" He spat. "HERE’S YOUR DARKNESS."
Phuwin was dying. Someone was cutting his heart like a cannibal, eating it, tearing it to pieces before his very eyes. The sliding lane markers made him nauseous; it was as if the world consisted of nothing but lights.
As the Mustang roared, scissoring between two cars, Phuwin could no longer breathe. "POND!" He clung to the seat, his stockinged feet digging into the leather to keep from being tossed. A single tear flowed from his eye. "Shut up. It's not like that anymore. It's not. You know it, please."
Pond whispered with a cracked, muffled chuckle. Sadistically. "Then tell me. Tell me, Phuwin. How can you kiss two people within minutes, huh? Who the fuck do you think you are?" He pointed at himself with a trembling hand. "Are you laughing at me? Do you think I'd wait for you, you selfish piece of filth!"
"Who’s laughing, you idiot! Pond, slow down!" Phuwin felt like he’d lost all control of his emotions; he was so angry, in so much pain, that while his shoulders shook, his voice broke. He bowed his face, wanting to hide. "I’m not laughing, I’m not laughing, please. I never laughed at you."
"Liar. You're a liar, Phuwin. Your whole life is a lie. That cesspool is exactly where you belong. Elite. Snob." Pond slammed his hand against the steering wheel; the car jolted as it hit the highway. His jaw was locked. "Am I your goddamn dildo or something?"
Phuwin’s chest suddenly locked up. He brought his hand to his mouth in disbelief at what he’d heard, pressing hard. The acid in his stomach was burning his entire body; he shook so violently that his sobs began to overlap.
His breath was jagged, as if he were drowning. His shoulders were shaking too hard to hide anymore. He thought of Pond’s eyes, those olives, while the tears fell, looking at him helplessly—and now those irises that refused to ever turn back to him.
"Are you going to come to me when you’re bored of your lover? Do you think I’ll let you into my house?"
"Why are you saying these things to me? Don't you know me? I thought you knew me!" His face contorted, he gripped his throat as if to prevent another sob. "I thought I could call it home."
"Home. Ha. My home is a brothel to you, you son of a bitch," Pond said instantly. Phuwin felt the memory of the man who had caressed his face in bed go up in flames. "Who’s supposed to know you, Phuwin? It’s not clear what’s even real. You aren't real. You played with me too."
What? Damn it, how could he say those things? The words came out of his mouth in pieces. He couldn't hold it in anymore. Like the disappearing streetlights, he was screaming hopelessly.
"I didn't play with you! I... I never even lied to you!" Along with his voice, it was as if Pond’s locked, shallow breaths were growing, the speedometer rising. The car suddenly got so close to a truck beside them that his breath hitched; he grabbed the dashboard. "Pond, please slow down, Pond, the truck!" he screamed, several tears falling onto his knees. "Please... Calm down. Calm down, okay? Let’s just go home, please, keep being mad at me."
But no matter how much Phuwin screamed for help at that face in a plea, Pond was sharp, drawing blood, like the dagger he had drawn on Phuwin’s neck.
"There is no home."
Phuwin bowed his face in agony, his hand rising to reach for Pond. No, no. "Please. Listen to me. Am I not your sparrow? Don't do this to us—"
"There is no 'us'!" Pond said, sounding maddened; his eyes were burning flames, his face contorting as he dodged the reaching hand. He couldn't believe himself, he was furious. As he overtook another vehicle, horns blared. "Fucking sparrow. Ha. How pathetic."
How pathetic.
How pathetic Phuwin was. As he couldn't even look at the glass, at the lights breaking behind Pond’s profile, he had become a trembling, crying man—how pathetic he was. He tried to reach out again; Pond turned so sharply that Phuwin slammed his shoulder against the window.
"Pond, please, I’m scared. Slow down."
"There was never an 'us', you goddamn..." Pond said, his voice trembling, his teeth clattering together, his breath catching. "How... how could you say that? How could you do this to me..."
Phuwin covered his eyes with his hand, wiped away his tears, and tried again—he had to try. "Pond, please..."
But he wasn't allowed. Who was Phuwin anyway?
If he wasn't the sparrow anymore, who was he?
"Shut your mouth. You’re going to listen to me. You’re going to obey! You kept calling me a dog. Now that I’m barking, why are you crying, huh!" While Pond turned the steering wheel with one hand, he turned his broken eyes toward Phuwin and whispered. "You fucking prick. You fucking prick, I believed you. I believed you when you said 'home', I believed you when you said 'baby', I believed you when you held my goddamn hand!" And he returned to that furious tone again, throwing his black hair back as if tearing it out. "Why the fuck did I believe you? Huh? You son of a bitch, you played me, you used me."
Phuwin wasn't going to allow this. It was too much now. It was insolent and unfair for Pond to say this. Because Pond had done all of these things to him, too. Once, they could have choked each other without blinking, but now he was destroying the road they had traveled.
He screamed. He kicked the leather. "I’m not using you! I wanted you!"
"You had your fun with me. Just like those photos! All you wanted was to have me!"
Phuwin froze. He watched Pond bow his face, turning it toward the window while letting out rasps as if he couldn't breathe. He couldn't believe it. Pond was hurting too, they were both a wreck—so why was he suddenly choosing to be the villain?
Dammit, Phuwin didn't want to see blood on his teeth. He didn't want to lose Pond.
"It’s not like that! Dammit, I wanted you, I still want you!" he shouted, his voice breaking while his eyes remained on Pond’s broken head. He groaned in pain, sniffing. "Pond, please, I’m begging you..."
As a car suddenly swerved onto the road, his eyes went wide instantly; he tried to reach for the wheel. "POND, THE CAR!" Pond jerked them so hard he thought the tire had burst; there were so many horns blaring and the bastard was still floor-boarding the gas. He hissed, he went mad. "SHIT, POND, WHY WON'T YOU LISTEN TO ME? WHY ARE YOU GOING BACK TO THIS STUPID MAN?"
"I WAS THIS FROM THE VERY BEGINNING, PHUWIN. YOU’RE DELUDING YOURSELF," he said through his teeth, harshly, focused on being that bad guy.
"NO," Phuwin said, shaking his head, his breaths catching. "I know it’s not like that. I know how you held me, you’d wait for me, you wanted me too. Now... why now?"
And then, suddenly, all the noise in the car vanished from his ears. Because Pond said, "It’s over."
Phuwin couldn't even breathe. "What?"
Pond wasn't turning toward him, he wasn't seeing his sparrow—didn't he think about how much the words burned?
"This shitty thing is over, Phuwin. The tattoos. The fucking. Whatever you call it. It’s over."
"No."
"Yes, it’s over," Pond said, without faltering for a second, cold as ice. "I don't want you anymore."
"No..." Tears flowed down his cheeks. "No, don't say it like that..."
"Why are you crying, huh? Because your toy is being taken away?" Pond swallowed, as if... as if he were searching for the heaviest accusations, something stabbing his throat. "It’s just that Charlotte bores you, right, Prince?"
Phuwin remembered how Pond had looked at him on stage. How much pain he was in, and how different this was from the way he used to get angry—because in the past, Pond would have used this to shame Phuwin, he would have thrown it in his face.
He was hurt. He was hurt because he, too, realized they weren't just "this" anymore and yet, stubbornly, just because he was a coward, he chose to vomit his rage at Phuwin.
Just like he always did.
"So this is it? This whole goddamn thing is about Charlotte?" Phuwin said harshly, swallowing hard; Pond looked even more triggered now with the lights flowing across his face. "Pond, shit, please... I’m scared we’re going to die..." He sobbed. "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS NOW? DIDN'T YOU KNOW FROM THE VERY BEGINNING? She was there from the start, you didn't give a single fuck, you goddamn prick—why are you acting like the morality police now?"
Pond finally looked at him. For a split second. There was no mercy in that look, only disgust. He jerked the wheel hard to the left. "Do you realize how fucking disgusting you sound, man?" He stepped on the gas a bit more. The engine groaned. He ground his teeth. "Is this normal, Phuwin? You shitty prick—how can you kiss two people like that, huh!"
"This was always my life, you knew it," Phuwin countered, waving his hands violently to make himself understood, to be seen. "You’ve kissed others too! You’d get mad, you knew, you’d push me—so why are you ending it now? I don’t want it to end!"
"I want it to. I’m disgusted. I can't stand it." Pond’s tone trembled; Phuwin’s lips pouted as his face contorted. "I can't stand you..."
"You didn't say that..." He clenched his hands, trying to stop the sound of shattering in his chest. He pressed his teeth together and hit Pond’s shoulder with his hand; he had to look at him, Pond had to look at him so he’d know he was lying. "Look at me! Look at me, you coward!" His eyes went wide because of the siren sounds shaking his ears. "POND, SHIT, SLOW DOWN. THERE ARE GODDAMN COPS BEHIND US."
Pond laughed, he was bursting into laughter. When he grabbed the back of Phuwin’s seat and turned his head, his eyes were so empty that the red and blues were reflecting in his irises.
"How nice, just in time—are you worried, Prince? Huh? Will it ruin your fame?" The moment he turned his head back, he veered into a side road; Phuwin groaned to keep from being tossed onto the gear shift. "Let them come."
"SLOW DOWN, YOU FUCK!" Phuwin dug his nails into the seat to keep from sliding as Pond overtook another car; he was at the end of his patience. He’d gone mad; even the fact that someone had brought him to this state made him angry at himself. "PLEASE, DIDN'T SOMETHING CHANGE? DIDN'T IT CHANGE, YOU GODDAMN PRICK? Fuck Charlotte!"
The speedometer trembling at 180 happened at the same time Pond slammed his fist against the shoulder of the seat, shouting, "Shut up." The lanes, the lights, the sounds of the cars; all his senses were being strained so much that Phuwin was shaking with fear. "You didn't change. You kept doing the same thing!" Pond said, clenching his teeth, but his chest was heaving as if he couldn't get enough breath. "Fuck... You ruined me... you son of a bitch!"
Pond jerked the wheel and cut through the middle of the traffic, giving zero fucks about a red light. The car got so close to an SUV next to them that Phuwin locked eyes with the man in the vehicle, whose brows were furrowed. His reflection in the glass was making him nauseous.
"I’m sorry! That’s how we started! I... I didn't think you wanted it to end. I didn't think you cared about this!"
"I don't care anyway! I don't give a single shit about you!"
"You're lying, Pond... you know it." Phuwin hissed; his suit was ruined, his hair a total mess. "You know me too, you saw me, Pond! You knew I wasn't that person!"
Pond shook his head, his brows raised as if to say, 'Oh really?'. Someone blared their horn; his face fell so fast that as his black hair blew in the wind, he raised the hand that wasn't holding the wheel and flipped them off, and the choking of the engine made the car tremble.
"No. I won't allow the same things to happen again," he whispered as they passed the car, casting a glance at Phuwin’s broken eyes. "I won't fall for your shitty devil games! I don't even know which one is the real you!"
Phuwin straightened up in his seat and tried to say, "You know. You know, I’m your sparrow. Pond, fuck..." He bowed his head, his voice very soft, but Pond pulled back the second his face got close. He felt like he was trying to explain something to a small child. "There are no games! There never were! We changed, I changed, baby—"
"Don't call me that!"
Because yes, Pond wouldn't be vulnerable again. He wouldn't believe again.
They blew through another red light, the sounds of the police coming very close now. Pond muttered, "Shit," and looked in the mirror; since the car in front was blocking the way, he suddenly slammed the brakes and swerved left. Phuwin was being slammed from one side to the other in the car, like a stupid rag doll.
The speed hit 200.
"Pond... we're going to die..." The sob got stuck in his throat, he forced his mouth open. As he shook his head from side to side, he wanted to wrap his arms around himself. He was so terrified now. "I’m begging you... don't do this to us. You're going to die! Stop it, goddammit, you're going to die! You're going to end your career, you're going to end your life!"
"You already killed me."
I'll come back to you next time, Phuwin. I didn't know.
Pond slamming his head hard against the studio floor, pinning him to a counter and saying it'll hurt, wrapping his arms around Phuwin and taking him to the bedroom, the kiss he left on his hair.
Their fingers had rubbed together, they had soared in the heavens, Phuwin had tasted the ambrosia of the gods between Pond's kisses.
Did Phuwin have no right to want anything, to fall for him? Was it really that simple?
"I was two-faced, okay?" His mocking face from when Pond slammed his face against the mirror was before his eyes; a tear flowed from his cheek to his jaw. He groaned. "I'm sorry, goddammit! That's how we started, I didn't even realize it was a problem, I was so caught up in you!"
Pond’s face contorted. He was gripping the steering wheel, swallowing back his sob, turning his face to look at the lights behind them in the mirror. "Shut up."
"I lost myself... I forgot!" Phuwin sniffed, wiping his face harshly with the back of his hand, not caring that it turned red. "You made me forget everything, fuck, I'm sorry!"
Pond jerked the wheel to the right, violating yet another traffic rule. He slammed his hand against his chest. "I gave myself to you, Phuwin! I let you in!"
His lips were trembling as he looked at Phuwin. Phuwin raised his hand; once again, they were watching each other between the two seats, their chests heaving because they couldn't breathe.
A few more sounds of horns.
"I know, I know, please... I don't want to die! Stop this fucking car." Phuwin said, pleading, he couldn't even tell where they were going on the road they had turned onto; they were being crushed on the roads outside the city. "Stop being stupid! Didn't you get here with your bare nails, don't you want to hold your guitar again? Goddammit, hit me, break me! Hurt m—"
"Don't even dare."
"Pond..." his voice failed as he spoke, his fingertips wouldn't hold, he wanted to reach for Pond's shoulder, to fall to his knees. "I'm sorry."
"Don't touch me," Pond said, dodging the touch. No matter what Phuwin did, it was as if he couldn't hear him. He was inside a glass bell jar, there was a goddamn glass between them.
Phuwin had never been a man to reveal his own feelings, but he was in such a state of panic that he couldn't help, couldn't be seen. The man he thought saw him the most had covered his eyes with a cloth. That's why he screamed, as loud as he could.
"Pond, I want you, not anyone else!"
Pond sighed, shifted gears, the hand holding the lever was a fist, his shoulders had finally slumped. They just couldn't exist on the same ground. "Then how do you still belong to her?"
Just a sprout of hope. Just one. A moment where his heart beat so fast he lost all balance, and Phuwin would perhaps never be the same again. The words, the thoughts stabbing at his lips could start a revolution in his 22 years of life, and he chose not to be afraid.
He wasn't going to stay under a fake parliament. Now, now perhaps, he had to show just how far their flags had lowered to the ground. He had sobbed, he had torn himself apart, he had screamed, but perhaps what was needed from the start was to drag those words out and hurl them in the monster's face.
No matter how hard it was for him.
Because hadn't he already been his, hundreds of times?
"That man you saw isn't real! I don't belong to her..." Phuwin’s voice trembled like a candle flame about to go out amidst the roar of the engine. "I... I belong to y—"
"No, Phuwin." Pond cut him off, as if he knew what was coming, he had accepted that this was nothing but a piece of shitty nonsense. He jerked the wheel hard, swerving the Mustang into the side lane; his voice was colder, sharper than even the ferocity of the wind outside the window. "We both know that's not true. I don't believe your lies anymore."
"But... but it's like that, you know what I feel!" Phuwin screamed as if drowning amidst his sobs, his body sinking further into the seat from the force of the speed, while he didn't take his eyes off Pond for a single second. "I know you feel it too!"
"What do you feel, Phuwin? Say it. Ha!" Pond suddenly turned his head toward him, the raw pain in his eyes silencing Phuwin. His gaze was excavating Phuwin's soul. "If everything is real, say it! Say what it is!"
And just like that, he realized the whole issue was something much further. It wasn't about belonging, it wasn't about who he kissed, it wasn't even about when he came to Pond.
Pond’s world was always shaped in a raw, savage reality; lies were kicked out the door, just as Phuwin had thought for months about how emotionless and dangerous that man was. Life didn't consist of movies and books; there were dumpsters and streets.
Phuwin, on the other hand, had been by the poolsides with the most beautiful toys since he was born. That boy who had everything but was only asked to keep up, never believed in the power of feelings; he never voiced them to make them real.
But this was what Pond wanted. What Pond wanted was whether the thing they both knew, the thing they felt, was the same or not. Whether Phuwin had the courage to say it, to admit it.
Phuwin’s filled eyes went wide, he parted his lips; he looked into Pond’s bloodshot olive-black eyes that were ready to burn everything down. He looked, he waited. The words piled up in his throat, the acid burn in his stomach locked his vocal cords. His heart ached so much, he didn't know how... how he could even name this.
He had never possessed him anyway.
Don't ask for this. Don't ask for this. Please. Don't ask this. I'm scared.
His face contorted, his head fell like a guillotine onto his hands in his lap, his hair veiling his eyes, and he sobbed loudly, wishing for the apocalypse to come.
"That's what I thought." Pond turned back to the front; his voice wasn't even angry anymore, just dead. With a sudden maneuver, he jerked the Mustang off the main road and swung it into a desolate, dark side street. So harsh, so worthless.
As if he’d given up.
"Pond.... let's talk. Don't..." When Phuwin saw those blue and red lights in the rearview mirror becoming giants behind them, he gripped the glove compartment with his hands and called out desperately. "Stop the car, the police are signaling, please..." He leaned his head close to Pond’s shoulder level and pleaded. "I don't want to die.... I don't want you to die, Pond, please stop!"
"You won't die." Pond slammed the Mustang’s brakes so suddenly that the sound of the tires gnashing the asphalt turned into an ear-piercing scream, and the car skidded to a halt, smoking. Pond pulled his hands off the wheel and slammed them onto his knees, his eyes fixed on the brick wall ahead. "Don't you dare open that fucking mouth. I don't want to hear you anymore."
Voices break, voices rise, giving birth to symphonies so that violin strings may vibrate; there are voices so that people can breathe, so that when people turn their heads, they can be seen with laughing eyes. If there are voices, then there are people.
Pond had told him that once. It was an analysis that felt too philosophical coming from a real musician, but it had changed something in Phuwin’s perception. It made him feel his rising and falling shoulders better, how much the jagged breaths hurt, perhaps that the tears trickling down his cheek could be a melody.
How terrible it truly was to be unable to hear. After all, it wasn't in his hands. But what about refusing to hear? Even worse, enough to make him squeeze his knuckles until they dug into his palm.
Because Phuwin could hear, but Pond no longer wanted to hear him. Especially his heartbeats, his rhythm, at the very moment he hoped he’d know them most.
Outside, it was a silent night; perhaps if Bangkok weren't so filthy, if that stupid hotel hadn't been on the mountain they descended, they might have seen the stars. The engine was dead; now in a desolate street, after Pond had violated traffic rules maybe thirty times, after the sirens and horns had deafened their ears, they were too exhausted to speak anymore.
His sobs were stabbing at his throat, not even managing to surface; he had gouged his wound so deep that with the tears clinging to his lashes, he could only watch the empty road and the orange streetlamp.
Pond had let go of the ignition. Ever since he pulled the car over into a filthy slum, he had finally silenced his mouth that spewed filth. Phuwin, fearing everything would get even worse, had swallowed his tongue and didn't hesitate to sew his lips shut.
The siren sounds were getting closer every second. Like a harbinger of the apocalypse, they were helping Pond write his own end.
Two famous men, a late-model black Mustang Shelby, a shattered speed limit, a driver who’d been drinking at the party. A passenger who didn’t even have his shoes.
Pond sighed, rubbing his forehead with his hand. The windows were open; Phuwin’s cheeks were freezing, the corners of Pond’s eyes were icing over.
The adrenaline was just now receding from their souls, leaving behind only two desolate men—two strangers who knew each other down to the finest detail.
Pond shoved the door open; as he threw himself out onto the road as if he couldn't stand it a second longer, the slamming sound made Phuwin jump in his seat. The car was so suffocating that he, too, immediately got out of the place where the smell of gasoline burned his nose.
Pond leaned his hips against the trunk lid, shoulders slumped, watching the pitch-black asphalt. Phuwin’s socks got soaked by a disgusting wet puddle on the road; he shivered. While crying into himself so his shoulders wouldn't shake, he approached fearfully. He wasn't ready for a new explosion of rage, but he couldn't stay away from Pond.
They stood side by side. A gap between their shoulders that didn't touch. While Phuwin sniffed, he looked at the glowing lights of the shanties—two different moments in the same place.
If everything were different, they could have been looking at each other under lights like these right now, at Pond’s house.
He bit his lip, wrapping his arms around himself because he was cold. The siren sounds were very close; he felt the blue and red lights from the end of the street dazzling his eyes.
Two cars, headlights and shouting exposing all their wreckage. But now, even for Phuwin, the only thing he heard was the sound of Pond’s breath.
"Pond..."
Pond straightened up where he stood. His face was flat. He raised his hands into the air. As Phuwin watched him, the tears continued to soak his socks, just like his entire world.
"Were you scared, Phuwin?" Pond said in a harsh whisper; there wasn't even a hint of mockery left. Before taking a step to surrender to the police, he clipped Phuwin’s wings. "Don’t be. You won't get into trouble, Prince. Your father will save you anyway."
*
When Phuwin was seven years old, turning around on his piano stool and waiting for his father to part his lips and say something beautiful and supportive—something that would light a sun inside him—he had to admit that he hadn't had a bad life. He wouldn't say his parents didn't love him.
In elementary school, when kids asked if he was the baby being tossed in the air and laughing in his father’s music video, he still remembered the spark in their irises; admiration, jealousy, envy, and perhaps pain. Because when his father filmed his first steps and played peek-a-boo in front of the mixer desk in the studio, Phuwin didn't know back then how precious those moments were to someone else.
"Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy..." his father sang in the song, blessing his future’s beauty, hoping for how handsome his son would become. "Beautiful Phu..." the melody would end, the video zooming in on his eyes, and while Phuwin couldn't even hold his head straight yet, his big eyes would narrow and he’d giggle because he saw his father behind the screen.
Maybe that’s why those who met him—at school, those who learned his name, his father’s friends, or his own—would always confirm in their first meeting that his eyes were indeed beautiful, and Phuwin knew that baby video was playing in their minds.
After giving birth to him, his mother began battling a depression where she loathed her own body; she took a break from her own group’s activities and decided after a while that she wanted to end her contract. When he first remembered his mother in his memories, he would see how sad and collapsed she was, watching her own body with broken eyes. In front of a silent television, she would stand up in the middle of the living room to question if she could still do the dance moves of newly debuted groups, then turn and smile hopefully at her son watching her with big eyes from the sofa.
Phuwin realized he had taken something away from his mother. He remained an only child anyway, because when he grew a bit older and she asked if he wanted a sibling, Phuwin didn't feel much, but the woman whispered as if feeling guilty, "I'm sorry Phu, but your mother loves you so much; your mother is too tired to cope with another miracle, but I promise, I will give all my love to you."
Before his father became famous, while he was living on the roads of record companies, he had bought himself a motorcycle—a cool one, going into debt, exceeding his budget to realize a childhood dream—back when their third single achieved a huge listenership for the first time nationwide, and before he knew a good company would reach out for an album deal. He was closer to looking like the man he wanted to be.
In the middle of high school, to look cool to those he thought were his friends at the time, Phuwin claimed he could ride the motorcycle he’d been eyeing for a while, which was now rotting in the parking lot. His parents were on vacation; Phuwin didn't like vacations much because of his allergies, and as soon as they left the house, he wanted to throw a party.
With his friends egging him on by the poolside, he brought out the bike. He was very confident; he had watched his father ride it hundreds of times, and even if something were to happen, this bike had been locked in the garage for years; his father was driving sports cars now.
So he hopped on the bike, struggled with the pedal since his height didn't quite reach, yet managed to stand upright. As he kicked the pedal, the engine snorted and blew smoke like it was waking up from a long sleep; the moment he thought he had prepared himself, he gripped it and twisted his fist. But unfortunately, he did it so fast that the engine hadn't recovered enough to adjust the gear, and suddenly he was tossed along with the bike.
He fell into the empty pool; thank God, the bike didn't hit his body, it sank deep, and during the fall, Phuwin gashed his ankle because of the pedal.
Later, when his father found out, Phuwin remembered not being very regretful, since nothing major happened, they could buy a new one, and he had escaped the incident without serious injury. But in the hospital bed, while his father’s long hair fell over his summer palm-tree shirt, he watched out the window for a long time with his arms crossed and an expression Phuwin couldn't decipher back then. It was as if something had taken his mind away; another movie was playing before his eyes, and the man was very calm.
"Phu," he said, "I'm sorry you hurt your foot. Why didn't you tell me you wanted to ride the bike? We could have ridden together. Now you won't be able to press the piano pedal for a while, and that always makes you angry. What if it had been worse?"
Phuwin didn't remember what he said that day, but he was so hung up on the part where his father was still worried about him not being able to press the piano pedal that maybe he completely missed the truly important things.
Phuwin was someone who got angry very quickly, who could criticize himself, who got frustrated by a lack of control; and while pressing the keys, if his foot couldn't reach the pedal at the right moment, the resulting sound would scatter all his attention—he had even thrown his stool at the wall once.
The other thing was that the bike was totaled and completely broken; he realized much later that his father was sad about it afterward, yet he didn't get angry at him once. And when he enthusiastically bought his first motorcycle in university, his father had hugged and congratulated him, covering all the costs.
So he knew that the words his mother whispered while stroking his cheeks—"I will love you completely"—were not a lie. Because even though he was detached from his family, even though they had different personalities, and even if he didn't always act entirely outside of them, Phuwin accepted the game they played, being the child of fame, and staying under his father's wishes, because he knew they loved him.
Just another give-and-take situation.
When it came to music, he was suffocating. Because even before he could want it for himself, his father had hoped Phuwin would be extraordinary in his passion, filling his life with lessons, teachers, and instruments.
He learned to play the piano, the guitar, to sing—so many things. While doing them, he never felt like he truly wanted it, but the proud expression he saw in his father's eyes always kept him moving forward; because Phuwin was good, Phuwin was talented in almost everything he touched, and seeing that made his father so excited.
The moment things started to snap was when he began to be "not good enough." He couldn't hit the next note fast enough, he couldn't play the guitar solos exactly like him, and when his voice cracked while singing, it wasn't what his father expected. His voice wasn't always strong enough; Phuwin was talented, not practiced, a ruby cannot turn into an emerald.
And with that, Phuwin began to drown in the life of fame. Everyone around him knew something about him. When his father was asked in an old interview record what it felt like to be a father, he’d said, "Strange and exciting; for the first time in my life I changed a baby's diaper, and believe me, it's as bad as an adult's."
The music videos, the songs... on a cooking show his mother used to do, his elementary school self appearing almost every episode like PR material—playing, swimming, studying, at a piano lesson. At galas, holding his mother and father's hands on the red carpet; even when his father cheated on his mother during one of his overseas tours, the host on a talk show would ask, "What did Phuwin do during the process of fixing things with your wife?"
Phuwin was turning into a work of art in a museum, a painting in a gallery, a poor tiger in a zoo. People would suggest hobbies based on things he’d done before without knowing if he actually liked them; even when he went to a small restaurant just to eat some ramyun—thanks to not even his own success—the owner would say they wanted his signature to hang for the customers. They would comment on how stylish the pants he wore were on a vacation they took privately, thinking no one would see.
Phuwin was seen so much, he made so many mistakes with notes, his mouth ached so much from smiling, he drifted so far from his family, he wanted to be so angry at his father, he wanted to ask so badly why they didn't think twice before showing a child to such a massive world...
He felt so lonely. So lonely.
Moreover, he couldn't tell anyone. He couldn't voice the things he didn't want, the things that bothered him and got under his skin, because then he might get angry at the "unshakeable boy" persona he’d drawn for himself.
There were thousands of people in the world who wanted to be in his place, and they would think he was being spoiled.
So he rejected the world. Even though he knew the music industry would lay down royal roads if he wanted, he distanced himself from it, from his father's dream. Even though he loved music, the piano, the guitar, and singing very much, they hadn't belonged to him in the first place, and now he wanted something of his own—something he wouldn't disappear inside of. He would continue with music, maybe return one day when he learned it didn't squeeze his heart anymore.
He would live, he would exist, he wouldn't lose himself. He wasn't exactly an emotional man anyway.
He liked adrenaline, he knew how to act, he could create a game to politely distance people and keep them from interfering; after all, he’d learned how powerful manipulation was at a young age.
Live but don't get attached, use drugs but never overdo it, inhale the cigarette but don't let it settle in your lungs, accept the money but never put it at the center of your life, get used to the fame but never forget that you hate it. Because after all, from the very beginning, you never wanted this.
Control was always in his hands.
And he, literally, lost all the power over his life just like that.
Because the moment he allowed himself space to breathe, he was already an addict. You should have tightened the rope that was barely holding, knotted it—not gotten caught up in watching it snap.
Phuwin found Pond.
Or rather, Pond found him. He held him, squeezed him, made him vomit all his rage. He showed him how desensitized he’d become, how bored he was, how he’d turned into a robot. A man who wouldn't react even if he broke, a machine that wouldn't be fixed even if it malfunctioned. A lifetime devoid of effort.
Phuwin felt too much relief. Phuwin was suffocating. Phuwin had turned into Pavlov's dog; even though there were things he could change, he was waiting by that bone because he was used to it—fuck, that bone was something he should have caught for himself in the first place, his own win.
A dirty waterfall.
A dirty waterfall.
A dirty waterfall.
Not that wonderful one everyone sees. A shitty, leafy, plastic-bagged, disgusting waterfall.
Sparrow.
Sparrow.
Not the prince, not Tang, not the boy playing piano, not the beautiful-eyed baby in the music video, not the kid telling his mother she danced well, not the youth who totaled his father's motorcycle, not the tattooist, not the media's toy.
Sparrow.
Just Phuwin.
The Phuwin who can want, who can be bad, who can hate, who can snap back, who can talk, who can fuck, who can cry.
And Phuwin didn't cry. Before him, he didn't cry.
Pond might have been a parasite, but he had taught Phuwin how to fight.
Phuwin now wanted to take a stupid mandarin and peel away every single white string for him, one by one. If Pond offered him a garden of flowers, even with his allergies, he would lie down on them and let Pond fuck him, even if there were thorns. He could plead for Pond to hurt him just so the man wouldn't have to crawl in the dust on the floor again.
In that shitty studio—whether by force, by will, by laughter, by praise, or whatever the fuck—if Pond wanted him to sing, Phuwin would sing every song.
Because he now wanted to inject the music into his veins, to hum until his lungs were ripped out. He had never been a white swan from the very beginning.
That man had heard him. He had held him, embraced him, kissed him, killed him. Phuwin wanted nothing but Pond now.
And as fate would have it, he knew he had lost him.
The last three days consisted of people revolving around the place where he was nailed down.
Pond surrendered; he confessed that all the blame was his and took everything upon himself, and he didn't even pity himself while doing it. When they got to the station, they took Phuwin to a separate room for psychological support and gave him stupid cloth slippers and a blanket because he was shaking uncontrollably.
Pond was taken for interrogation in another room. He had violated traffic laws, failed the breathalyzer, and engaged in illegal speeding once they hit the city; and Bangkok is a city with heavy traffic and people on the streets—even it being midnight didn't improve things because Pond was definitely guilty.
When Jack Tang, his mother, and the other members of Jasper arrived at the station, Phuwin was staring at a blank wall; his wet feet hadn't dried, his suit was ruined, and he hadn't even been able to see Pond again. He was hurting; he gripped the tea mug they’d given him because they pitied him.
What was painful wasn't his father's anger, but his worry. Who knows what kind of phone call had summoned him from his own party, and who knows what his son—whom he thought he’d just introduced at the party—and the boy whose talent he admired were doing together. But Jack immediately pulled him close and hugged him; his mother stroked his hair.
The Jasper members, meanwhile, were raising hell in the distance; Aou was on the phone, Santa was shouting at an officer, and Joong had collapsed against the wall, burying his face in his hands. For a group that was already crawling, this was a horrific scandal, especially since Pond had another ongoing case.
Phuwin didn't cry. His tears had ended back there, inside that poisonous car, but his throat ached so much that when he gripped his father’s wrist, he had perhaps never looked at him with such desperation before.
"Save us, Father."
Jack Tang’s eyes went wide with shock. He literally froze. Phuwin sniffed his aching nose, stubbornly gripping the wrist like a last resort. No, he wouldn't allow Pond’s words to stand; no, he wouldn't be a stupid prince.
If he was going to be saved, he would do it with Pond. Or he would go home, find the drugs he couldn't even remember the location of—the ones he used only when he wanted to clear his head—and confess that he had forced Pond to use them back then.
He would shoot himself in the foot because he couldn't get over Pond pushing him away there, reducing him merely to his father's power; he wanted to show—he had to show—that he couldn't escape either.
But money was truly powerful.
Because when Phuwin returned to his family home that day, shattered, and crawled into bed, the sky outside was brightening. Pond had to stay in custody for a day because he had confessed; his father bought a powerful lawyer.
Back then, while going on stage, not a single person would stop using powder just to lighten their soul. Phuwin wasn't well-versed in how things worked in the industry, but he knew that celebrities found ways to cover things up even when they got into trouble; or rather, his father had already traveled those roads.
The incident turned into a case of speeding and traffic violation; since Pond was drunk, he wasn't aware of what he was doing, and his documented psychological problems and the ongoing case regarding his ex-girlfriend, had loaded a massive stress onto him. Because of this, he lost control and had a crisis.
The next day, he was sent home, and as if mocking Phuwin, he gave a "thumbs up."
Phuwin was soulless at breakfast; as he stirred his fork and the daylight stung his swollen eyes, he could feel his father’s curiosity and the magnitude of his urge to ask questions pressing down on him, alongside his mother’s sighs and their lingering silence—everyone was on edge.
His father was pacing back and forth, unable to stay still while drinking his whiskey and smoking his cigarette. That’s when he exploded. He said a thousand things, shouting about how irresponsible the whole situation was, how he couldn't believe that kid was a literal criminal, how he could have ever wanted to do a concert with them, and what business Phuwin had with him in the first place.
He said a world of things. Phuwin sat buried in the sofa, clutching a pillow in his lap and staring at the blankly flickering television, his mother’s hand resting on his knee.
His father talked so much that after a point it was just a hum, and the silence stabbed a deeper wound into his chest because that’s when he remembered how they sat side by side in the car, defeated; he remembered how slumped Pond’s shoulders were, how he couldn't even manage to speak.
At such an unexpected moment, while sitting as frozen as a corpse, he sobbed so hard that Jack Tang was forced to turn to him in fear. But Phuwin couldn't stop it anymore; his shoulders shook, a broken moan spilled from his throat, and as his mother pulled him to her chest, he began to scream-cry.
He lost himself. He forgot how to stand tall. He couldn't speak, couldn't protest; he had no strength left.
And he was certain his father understood, somehow.
When Jack Tang knelt down and looked at his son with concern, disappointment and bewilderment accompanied his gaze, but there was something else, something entirely different—something that made him unable to bear seeing his son like this.
Phuwin didn't know if his father had figured out that he was sleeping with a man, or that he had already known Pond all this time, or that he was cheating on Charlotte.
Phuwin cried so much that he fell into a faint in his mother’s arms. When he opened his eyes to the evening darkness, blowing out a cigarette he could barely draw into his lungs on the veranda, things had taken a turn for the worse.
Photos of them standing ruined by the car in that poor neighborhood hit the media. Their identities were recognized instantly because they were in the photos shared from the auction that morning; their clothes matched perfectly.
Speculations grew rapidly because a speed-demon driving a Mustang had wreaked havoc in traffic that day.
In other words, they were exposed. Everyone could make a guess, everyone could lynch them, but since nothing was confirmed, no one could shove a microphone in their faces yet.
Phuwin didn't give a single fuck. He sent Pond exactly 57 messages. He had trampled his pride so far into the ground that he didn't care how desperate or pathetic he looked; he was worried about him, he wanted him to be okay, he hoped he hadn't gone back to that stupid powder.
Pond, of course, didn't reply to his messages.
Once, they were in the exact opposite seats; Pond would harass his phone, but now he had chosen to block all of Phuwin’s paths—he didn't answer his calls, and even worse, his father wouldn't let him go to him, fearing there might be media in front of the house.
After the final incident, his father had said he no longer wanted to do business with Jasper. He had saved an impulsive, savage man like Pond once, but he didn't want to bring him all the way into his own concert and invite trouble.
However, because of those photos of Phuwin and Pond that made it clear they were fighting, a public news report was released—both to explain the connection between Phuwin and Pond and to divert the agenda of the hungry wolves currently descending upon them.
The band Timeless secured a deal for Jasper to be the opening act for their final 30th-anniversary concerts. It was stated that Pond Naravit from Jasper was a composer Jack Tang had admired for a long time, a fact he had confirmed at the instrument auction where he expressed a desire to work together.
In other words, it was "normal" for Phuwin and Pond to be seen together because they had now been elevated to the status of acquaintances through his father’s work. They had left the party together, perhaps argued about something, but there was nothing serious going on.
The next day, Charlotte wanted to meet; Phuwin refused, and while he was shaking with rage because Pond still wouldn't pick up any of his calls, he got drunk and went to Pond’s house, not giving a damn if there was a camera there. He pounded on the door, calling out for minutes, but there was no sound.
He needed to see him so badly that when he collapsed at the door, pulling his knees to his chest and starting to cry, he was in so much pain; he needed to get into that house, that house would let him breathe even just a little, he needed to hold Pond—maybe then his anger at himself would subside a bit more.
Pond wasn't home. That night, when Phuwin returned to his own apartment, in the light of the phone reflecting on his face in the dark, he came across a photo on Santa’s post—tagged, leaning over a pool table and laughing.
He was wearing a stupid cap. His black hair was slicked back. He had an oversize black t-shirt on. His smile was bloody—toothy, attractive, carefree, having fun. That self-assured dark look was in his eyes.
Phuwin stared at that photo for a long time, burying his cheek into his pillow. He was furious because Phuwin was in a terrible state, Pond was dealing with a secret lawsuit, and even though his father had helped him, he hadn't expressed his gratitude—the two of them were fucked; how could he still go out and have fun? How could he ignore everything? How could he act as if Phuwin didn't exist?
But even if he didn't want to admit it, when a tear fell onto the pillow, his thumb touched the laughing face in that stupid, humiliating photo on the phone screen.
His heart ached so much. He was so cold. He had returned to being the one people smiled at, put up with, and held high because he was an only child. He wanted to be the sparrow again.
What was even more painful was that the next day, a demo was leaked. A music recording. From an anonymous channel, a snippet of a song from Jasper's new album. Usually, it was a PR game played intentionally to hype fans and gauge reactions during the album-making process.
It was the song that, a week ago, had the ambulance or siren effects. All the kisses and laughter had been erased from the noisy part of the song. It was as if Pond had intentionally destroyed their memories and put them back inside that car.
Phuwin hadn't paid attention to the lyrics of the song then, but now, as he listened, the march of Joong’s reflected, pain-filled voice with the synth bass only whispered that fight; it reminded him that he couldn't say anything, that he had ruined both Pond and himself.
I've been sober for a year, now it's time for me
To go back to my old ways, don't you cry for me
Thought I'd be a better man, but I lied to me and to you
I take half a Xan' and I still stay awake
All my demons wanna pull me to my grave
I choose Vegas if they offer Heaven's gate
I tried to love, but you know I'd never stay I'd never stay
But if I OD, I want you to OD right beside me
I want you to follow right behind me
I want you to hold me while I'm smiling
While I'm dying
And if you know me
When I go missing, you know where to find me
Phuwin didn't understand Pond.
In the song, he was saying he was going back to his old ways; he already knew how Phuwin was crying. And yes, Phuwin had also thought they would be okay, he’d been intoxicated by that lie, they had broken away from their real identities and huddled together. It burned him to have the realization of losing that thrown in his face.
He wanted Phuwin beside him when he took some stupid drug and overdosed, but he knew Phuwin wanted to keep him away from the powder. He wanted him to follow him, to hold him while he smiled—but there, he had screamed that everything was over, he had shouted that he didn't want to see Phuwin, didn't want to hear him.
He was saying you know where to find me, but he wasn't at that stupid door, he just wasn't. The first moment Phuwin listened to the song, he went back to his door, called him 20 times—for God's sake, he erased all his pride, his resentment, his feeling of being tossed out, and came to his door because he thought he’d been called; he was desperate for that call.
Phuwin had fallen so far that despite the glass shards stabbing and drawing blood from the soles of his feet, realizing how much he still needed Pond was both killing him and keeping him alive; it was making him both angry and making him cry.
His only hope was that stupid needle. He knew that dog, that raven, that monster... his baby needed to suffer. Pond was addicted to it. And if he was listening to Phuwin and not burying himself in powder, he hoped that as long as Pond didn't think of going to someone else, he would come to Phuwin for a tattoo.
He waited. He waited. He waited. He waited so long. He rejected all other clients, told them he was full; excitement and fear were intertwined, he watched the clock constantly, filled his lungs with smoke, and prayed it would drown the stress.
But Pond didn't come.
Phuwin was a stranger in his own apartment, a refugee in his father's house, a burden beside Charlotte. He was so miserable that he didn't close the studio until midnight out of hope; he even went out to the street and looked left and right like an idiot.
And that caused another crying fit.
His sobs echoed through that alleyway; he ran back into the shop and, as he collapsed onto the leather chair, he cried at his own stupidity, cried at how a man could shed this many tears, cried at how Pond ignored the one thing that was important for his own mental health, no matter how sickly it was for him.
Why did he get so caught up? Why did he forget that in this life, a human being will always remain alone? Why did he trust Pond this much? Why did he break his heart so badly? Why didn't he realize that he should have done things differently, that he shouldn't have kissed Charlotte?
The whys were too many. Phuwin couldn't fly, couldn't find the right path. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't reach him.
Charlotte happened to call him, and when she heard him crying, she got worried and came to him immediately. The moment she entered the studio, she pulled Phuwin to her, and while Phuwin felt disgusted with himself—thinking about how he was a man in a woman's arms, crying for another man in the arms of his girlfriend—Charlotte was so kind, exactly as Pond wanted her to be.
Charlotte stroked his brown locks; even though she didn't know, she whispered that it would pass. She held his hand and, knowing Phuwin found it relaxing, took him to a park and walked with him calmly, making Phuwin accept for the first time how comforting princess tales that believe in happy endings could be.
Just as he reached the point of not being able to imagine how much more cruel life could get, things spiraled completely out of control.
The photos of Phuwin and Charlotte in the park hit the tabloids the next day, alongside photos of Pond and another woman leaving a club. The morning news praised Phuwin and buried Pond.
Toward evening, an anonymous Twitter account went viral, adding a caption to an old photo that said, "I can't take it anymore and I need someone else to certify whether it's them or not."
In the photo, Phuwin was in Pond's lap. He had wrapped his legs around Pond’s hips like a koala, his arms draped around his neck. Pond was laughing, his hands holding Phuwin's buttocks and waist.
In the middle of the street, under the orange lights, they were heading toward his black Mustang.