Work Text:
Phuwin, June 2021 — Crush Culture
Phuwin has never had a crush on anyone before.
He knows what happen in the big lines. There are brain chemicals involved—dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin too. In theory, he understands it, it’s no magic really. Humans are just wired for bonding, and the mind can do wonders. It’s scientific.
Still, it never happened to him. Maybe because he gets high on work already. He doesn’t need nobody—he needs challenges, whether he fails or succeeds, that’s what gets him going.
But since he’s been working with Pond, it’s all blurring together and now he can’t tell what he seeks pleasure in.
He’s staring at Pond’s comment on his instagram post. The likes are skyrocketing, Phuwin’s heart is racing—and he can’t freaking tell if it’s the engagement or Pond’s compliment that excites him. He reads it again. Cute. His grip on the phone loosens—he feels weak, it’s too heavy for him. It’s just a word, four letters, that surely don’t hold much meaning. It’s not even meant for him. People are going crazy over it and that’s what Phuwin should care about, right? People like them. They’re buying it. It explains the rush of adrenaline. Phuwin puts his phone down—stops thinking about it.
The mind can do wonders. Phuwin can tell himself what he wants to hear.
He goes take a shower—lets the water run. The white noise is soothing. It’s continuous. Predictable. It grounds Phuwin.
He gets ready. There’s an event tonight at the agency, he’s happy to go, but he knows he won’t stay for long. The others love him, but he’s too young to drink and he doesn’t want to be a burden—to make them babysit him instead of partying. Phuwin observes himself in the mirror. There’s fog on his glasses, and despite being practical his new haircut makes him look like a kid. He sighs. Sometimes, Phuwin hates being seventeen. He feels older. His mind has always worked faster than his body—his mom told him he knew how to speak way before he even started walking.
As soon as he arrives, he finds Tay, Mix and Khaotung—sits with them. They’re older than him by quite a few years, but Phuwin is comfortable with them. The ones too young to drink didn’t bother coming, and the ones just old enough are already wasted. Somehow, he finds himself telling Khaotung about a book he’s been reading—a fairly complex science fiction story, but he seems interested.
"Hey Nerd, you came?"
Phuwin turns. Pond is red and his words are slurred. He wraps an arm around Phuwin’s shoulder. He’s drunk, but he’s warm and his smell is comforting, so Phuwin indulges him.
"Stop calling him that," Mix scolds him.
"Why?" Pond asks with a smile—the alcohol makes his voice deeper than usual. "It’s cute. Suits him."
Phuwin holds his breath. He feels it again, the flutter in his stomach—it’s good, like he just won something. But all he has is Pond’s eyes on him so it really doesn’t quite justify it. Phuwin clears his throat, raises an eyebrow, he gets into the easiest character he’s ever played: the functional person he used to be before Pond broke him.
"Why, can’t I come?" Phuwin straightens up to look taller, adds, "do you have a problem with me?"
Tay laughs, Mix and Khaotung coo at him. Phuwin realizes his tone isn’t conveying the right thing. He doesn’t sound confident, he sounds flirty. It’s okay. He can be playful. It’s allowed. He observes Pond’s reaction—he lets out a chuckle, looks away. His ears are a little red. He’s embarrassed and Phuwin feels empowered. The thrill of it is addictive.
Phuwin pushes it, "who’s gonna take care of you if I’m not here?"
He brings a hand to Pond’s waist as he speak. He likes being close to him. This too, fuels the fire within him. The closer he is, the hotter it burns, and Phuwin longs to turn into ashes. Except he doesn’t. Because Pond pulls away from him and now not a single part of them are touching.
"Certainly not a little kid like you," Pond says—and he’s not looking at him anymore.
For a second, Phuwin wonders if he’s getting shy. It doesn’t last long. Reality hits him like a splash of cold water in the face: it’s just hopeful thinking. It’s his own mind, playing tricks on him. Suddenly it’s all very clear: Pond is not attracted to him, never was, never will. He isn’t shy. He’s trying to push Phuwin away kindly and it’s the meanest thing he could be doing. Nothing could strike at Phuwin’s pride more than this—being pitied by him. The power was never in his hands to begin with—he offered Pond the weapons on a silver plate. Phuwin wants to disappear. Pond knows he can to hurt him—worse, he’s scared of hurting him. How humiliating. Phuwin is hurt. There’s a sharp pain inside his chest. And when Phuwin is hurt, there’s only one thing that eases him: hurting back. He needs back what Pond took from him.
"As if you were an adult yourself," he scoffs, "heal your inner child and maybe you’ll be able to grow."
As soon as he’s done speaking, Phuwin realizes he fucked up. Pond is staring at him in utter shock and no one is saying anything, no one is laughing. He wanted the jab to sting a little, not to cut deep. He meant to make fun of Pond’s love for cartoons and teddy bears. Except that it sounds insensitive, because Pond lost his dad a few years ago and they’re not close enough to know each other’s boundaries.
Pond shrugs, steps back, "well, I’ll rid you of the man-child then."
He leaves, and Phuwin doesn’t try to stop him. He’s definitely hurt, but it doesn’t ease Phuwin. He feels terrible. Deep down he knows the truth: Pond is his first crush, and he just crushed Phuwin’s heart into pieces.
Pond, December 2022 — Enchanted
Pond drags his suitcase and Phuwin’s bag inside their room for the night. It’s a little small. There’s only one bed—but it’s fine, they’ve already shared one. Enough times for Pond to know Phuwin moves around in his sleep and takes all the blanket.
The door closes. Now it’s just the two of them. Pond can’t help being nervous—he’s used to have people around them. It’s easier navigating friendships that way. The larger the group, the less Pond has to think of what to say. Phuwin drops on the armchair with a sigh of relief. It’s especially true when it comes to him—despite having known him for a while now, Pond still can’t quite entirely read Phuwin.
"Do you want to take a shower first?"
When Phuwin asks him, Pond realizes he’s standing in the middle of the room awkwardly. He can’t go on the bed with his outside clothes, and Phuwin snagged the only seat. Figuring out how to occupy the space shouldn’t be this complicated.
"You can," he says.
Phuwin chuckles, "such a gentleman."
Then he goes grab his bag. Instead of taking off his clothes in the bathroom, he does it here—right in front of Pond. There’s no reason to be shy, it’s not like Pond has never seen him naked. It’s just that Phuwin’s body has changed. He’s a man now—he’s more of a man Pond will ever feel. He is lithe, his muscles sculpted with subtle precision. There’s a strange delicacy in the curve of his waist, an almost vertiginous allure in his legs—they seem to stretch endlessly. Pond’s gaze lingers over every line of his body, tracing the softest contours to the sharpest planes. He swallows—his mouth is dry. He looks away.
When it’s his turn to take a shower, he sprinkles himself with cold water. He hates it—he prefers fresh air, but it still steadies him.
He comes back to the room. Phuwin is in bed—he doesn’t take off his earbuds, so Pond puts his on, lays next to him. He watches pointless videos to keep his mind occupied. It doesn’t really work. Phuwin’s presence distracts him. The silence between them isn’t uncomfortable—but it’s not quite comfortable either. They’re in a liminal space. Not talking, it’s safe—it doesn’t upset their balance. Pond figures they’re good enough as they are now, teasing each other and joking around—they’re friends. Going any deeper could drown them. Suddenly, Phuwin turns to him.
He takes off his earbuds, breaks the silence, "what are you doing?"
Pond puts his phone away.
"Nothing. Just binge-scrolling."
"That’s bad for your brain," Phuwin says.
"Yeah, I know," Pond replies with a smile—it amuses him, when Phuwin gets preachy. "We all do it anyway."
Phuwin stares him. Pond can’t tell what he’s thinking. The walls seem to be closing in on him, and he feels a bit claustrophobic.
Phuwin props his head up on his hand, declares, "we do it when we’re bored." He doesn’t take his eyes of Pond as he accuses him, "were you bored?"
Apparently, Phuwin couldn’t care less about their balance. It frightens Pond as much as it thrills him, finally stepping off that tightrope. Adrenaline makes him bolder.
"I don’t know. You were using your phone so I used mine."
Phuwin lets out a giggle, "why didn’t you just talk to me?" Pond’s face burns. He can tell his ears are getting red. Phuwin will notice for sure, but he’s past caring—especially when Phuwin moves closer. "Do I intimidate you or something?"
He shrugs, studying the subtle detail of Phuwin’s face—from his cheeky eyes to the fullness of his lips. “Yeah, a little."
Phuwin giggles again. Somehow, Pond joins him. They burst into uncontrollable laughter—and they’re free-falling, but Pond feels liberated.
Phuwin pushes him when he calms down, "you’re so weird!"
"You are weird," Pond defends himself. "I can never tell what you’re thinking!"
"What do you mean? If I’m thinking something, I’m saying it," Phuwin retorts like it makes sense.
"See?" Pond exclaims, "that’s weird."
"Okay," Phuwin sits up, suggests, "go ahead, just list all the things you think are weird about me. We’ll do it turn, no interruption, no offense, no judgment."
Pond sits too. He never did that with anyone before, it’s too confrontational—usually, he just imagines the worst others can think of him and prays it’s not real. Phuwin doesn’t seem phased though, he’s waiting—so Pond begins:
Phuwin doesn’t do small talk. He’s blunt. He always have an opinion on everything—and often, Pond has the impression all he can do is chime in. Phuwin is pragmatic—he never does anything based on gut feelings. He thrives in social settings, and being this confident goes beyond Pond’s understanding.
Phuwin thinks Pond is too impulsive. He tends to take everything to heart. He lives in his own little world—and Phuwin doesn’t know how to enter it. He uses words strangely—most of the times, Phuwin has to figure out what he means.
Pond expected it to sting, but somehow, he doesn’t have scratch. He’s exposed, but he feels sheltered. It’s almost two am. They’re both laying down now—Pond has his head on Phuwin’s lap.
"I don’t get how you can live your life without thinking about the future," Phuwin admits. "With the world we’re living in, we can’t just sense things."
Pond closes his eyes when Phuwin passes a gentle hand in his hair—the touch warms him up inside. He’d like to stop time.
"I’ve lost someone suddenly," Pond says—even if he hates talking about his grief. "It’s hard for me to project and think about the future because I don’t trust it. I don’t want to have any expectations, I just make the most of the present not to have regrets."
Phuwin hums, "that’s why you’re passionate."
"Mmh."
"If I’m more moderate," he explains, "it’s because I take responsibility for my future." Phuwin tucks a strand of hair behind Pond’s ear, "I haven’t gone through what you’ve gone through, I’ve been used to believe in the power of my choices."
Pond opens his eyes to observe him. Phuwin is nineteen—two years younger than him, his cheeks are still round with youth, but he sounds scarily grown. He moves forward in life.
Pond realizes he doesn’t live in the present—part of him remains stuck in the past, waiting for closure on his childhood cut short.
"Once, you told me I couldn’t be an adult because I hadn’t healed my inner child," he says.
Phuwin presses his lips together. Pond isn’t trying to make him feel guilty—he’s doesn’t know why he suddenly felt the need to bring this up.
"It was stupid," Phuwin sighs, corrects, "I was stupid." He’s back at patting Pond’s head, tells him, "there’s nothing wrong with the way you approach life, you’re doing perfectly well."
Something burns in Pond’s chest. Relief—it’s spreading within. He wonders if he’s about to cry. Phuwin smiles. He’s cute—he’s always been, it’s nothing new really, but it hits Pond hard right then under the dim light. Perhaps because now, he sees through him. It’s Pond’s first time coexisting with someone, and he loves it.
"If we’re doing this together," Phuwin declares, "we need to trust each other." He offers Pond his little finger. "You take care of the present, but let me be a safe bet for you—make us work for the long term too. Deal?"
Pond doesn’t hesitate, "deal."
They hook their pinkies. Then, with a laugh, Phuwin shakes his hand, "nice to meet you."
Pond, July 2024 — Party 4 You
Pond’s been preparing Phuwin’s birthday party for weeks.
It was hard, getting all of Phuwin’s friends free at the same time—he’s got plenty of them, more than Pond for sure, in many different fields. It’s understandable. He’s capable and interesting. When he meets new people, they instantly fall for him.
Still, Pond managed to gather most of them in the resort he had rented for the weekend in Hua Hin.
Everyone is already here. They enjoy the private beach. The sun is setting, the music is loud, the conversations are flowing. Pond stays a bit in the background, waiting for Fourth’s text. Satang is driving him and Phuwin—who believes it’s just a little last-minute getaway. They should be arriving soon. Pond’s grip on his phone is tight—he’s a little nervous. The atmosphere is great, he’s sure Phuwin will love it, but at parties, it’s hard for Pond to loosen up without a drink, especially when Phuwin isn’t here to laugh at his jokes. When he’s not here, Pond isn’t all that entertaining. It’s Phuwin who gave him that reputation. He’s persuasive. What people like about Pond—it’s what Phuwin projects onto him. No one sees the fraud. They haven’t yet noticed that his charm isn’t really his—it’s just Phuwin embellishing whatever surrounds him.
Pond’s phone buzzes. They’re parking. He can feel his heart beating inside his ears—the rest vanishes, suddenly it’s all he can hear.
He goes find Gemini, grabs his arm, "Phuwin is here, tell the others, I’m getting the cake."
"Got it."
Pond’s hands trembles as he lights the candles. Within seconds, he imagines a dozen different ways Phuwin might react—he’s gonna smile, laugh, maybe even cry. He’s not the kind to cry, but it happens sometimes when he’s overwhelmed. The truth is, there’s a soft side to him. Something quite fragile—when Phuwin allows Pond to see it, he feels inadequate somehow. Heavy-handed.
Pond brings the cake outside. The wind is making the flames flicker—he hopes they won’t go out before Phuwin has a chance to blow them. Someone lowered the music. Everyone seems to be waiting. Even the sun, hangs where the sky meets the sea. Then Fourth appears, dragging Phuwin along with him and shouts of "Surprise!" rang out all around—but Pond’s voice, it’s stuck in his throat. Time suddenly crawls: his world softens around the edge leaving only Phuwin in sharp relief. He has a hand on his chest, the other over his mouth, barely hiding his wide smile. He looks tired from the drive, but he’s beautiful as ever. Something swells in Pond’s chest. He’s always been sensitive, he feels a lot, perhaps too much, but for a second he wonders if it’s sane—the amount of love he has for Phuwin. He supposes it’s because they’ve built their lives around each other—but there are brief moments, like now, when he fears it’ll swallow him whole. Phuwin looks at him. He doesn’t need to speak, Pond gets it. It’s in the way his eyes shine—in the way he raises an eyebrow, crosses his arms. He’s exasperatedly fond, sincerely touched. He approaches when Pond gesture at the cake with a giggle.
"You," Phuwin says, pointing a finger at him, "you’re such a little rascal."
His voice is soft and he’s all teeth. Pond’s grip on the cake stand tightens—it’s bothering him, he wants to hold Phuwin.
"Come on, make a wish."
Phuwin rolls his eyes, blows the candles. His friends are taking videos. Cheering on him. Pond puts the cake away. He’s not quite sure to know what to expect, as he turns to Phuwin. Fourth is teasing them, he’s shouting for a kiss, others are joining him—definitely not what Pond is expecting, but when Phuwin pats his head like he would with a kid, he realizes that he still must have expected more than this. He barely processes it—stays there, sheepish, while Phuwin goes embracing Gemini tighly, kissing his cheek. A girl from his university slaps his ass. His streamer friend pinches his chin. Another guy puts a hand on his hip. They’re all touching him in a way Pond never allowed himself although deep in his heart, he always felt that if anyone had the right, it should be him. Something sour coils within.
"In the car, he was still complaining about how you couldn’t clear your schedule for him," Satang tells him.
"Really?" Pond asks—he can’t take his eyes off Phuwin. Perth is making him drink.
Satang scoffs, "the whiniest I’ve ever seen him, actually."
Pond turns to Satang. He’s not like Fourth, he’s not the kind to joke around or exaggerate. Him and Phuwin are the same, it’s why they get on well. They’re both rational—sometimes painfully so.
"He didn’t seem that disappointed," Pond admits—he hates how insecure he sounds, but he can’t help it. It spills over.
"Because he won’t ever make you feel like you should prioritize him over work. He cares, you know."
Pond knows, but it’s hard for him to make sense of it.
"Yeah, it’s just that sometimes I’d like him to stop showing he cares by not caring."
Satang chuckles. He pours Pond a drink, hands it to him, "I get why he calls you a chronic overthinker."
Tonight, Pond doesn’t want to think. He brings the glass to his lips, swallow the alcohol—it’s bitter, it eases the sourness inside of him. Perth and Tay join them. He loosens up after a few more drinks—plays the crowd when Phuwin watches him. His attention is comforting. With Phuwin’s eyes on him, Pond feels like he’s safe to be the person he is when it’s just the two of them—people won’t find him weird.
"Stop it!" Phuwin shouts with a laugh, pressing his hand over Pond’s lips, "people are recording, you’re gonna get us in deep shit!" Pond is tipsy, without realizing he started speaking the lines of the character he’ll play in their upcoming series. "NDA, does that ring a bell?" Phuwin adds—but it’s hard to take him seriously when he’s smiling so big.
He’s close, and Pond loves how he’s looking at him.
"It’s not my fault," he retorts holding Phuwin’s wrist, "you said it yourself, I’m literally him when alcohol rids me of social anxiety!"
Phuwin laughs again. Others join him. Pond wasn’t even trying to be funny but he supposes he must have sounded shameless—confident enough for self-deprecating humor though he really just lacks tact.
Phuwin grabs his face, "go drink water, will you?"
Pond doesn’t know if he likes the gesture. It’s affectionate, but also kind of reserved. Earlier, Phuwin wasn’t touching his other friends the same way. But then again, Phuwin doesn’t care about them like he cares about him—he isn’t making sure they stay hydrated, so Pond can manage.
Inside, it’s quieter. Water does make him sober up. He feels a little emotional, because he hasn’t seen Phuwin for days—they were busy with individual projects, and now they’ve reunited but they‘re not quite catching up. It’s been a while since they’ve had a deep talk. Relationships need to be nurtured, and Pond doesn’t want their lack of availability to unravel the bond they spent years weaving. He fidgets with the plastic glass—it cracks, water leaks out, soaking his hand. Phuwin loves night walks. Maybe they should walk together along the beach. It’s something they might need. Pond needs it. There are images lingering in his mind. Phuwin—so grown, surrounded, loved, and desired. He sees everything he, until now, pretended didn’t exist. Pond fidgets again—with his pocket. The custom pick he had made for Phuwin is still there—it’s supposed to go with the guitar he bought him.
He steps outside—but he doesn’t make it far. He stops on the patio, frozen in place. A dull thud replaces the music, and Pond’s heart lurches—like a nausea rising. His throat burns with it. The stars are shining in the night, the waves lap at the sand, the voices are loud and happy—but Pond’s world, it’s collapsing. Phuwin is dancing, Gemini right behind him, with his hands low on his waist, face inside his neck. At his front, there’s Jaoying—Phuwin is holding her the same way he’s being held. Pond keeps watching, but it’s getting harder to breathe. Phuwin throws his head back, runs his fingers through Gemini’s hair.
Pond thinks he’s like that plastic glass he just threw away—cracked open, bleeding. He’s not losing Phuwin. It’s just a reminder that he never had him to begin with. He’s dying from the late realization that he does want him—the more cruel one, that he won’t ever be able to demand it.
Pond, August 2024 — Spring into Summer
Pond is tired. It’s late, and their flight to Rome has been delayed. He doesn’t feel like talking, so he’s sitting alone at the gate while the others are killing time in the duty-free area. He rests his head on the wall behind him. Closes his eyes. Put his headphones on. He could fall asleep, if it weren’t for his thoughts being so damn loud.
Phuwin joins him, puts a gentle hand on his thigh to let him know he’s here. Pond turns off the music.
"I brought you this," he says, handing him a snack.
Pond isn’t hungry, but accepts it regardless. He forces a smile—not quite convincing. It could’ve been believable, if he actually tried, except that he wants Phuwin to see through it. Pond has always been selfish: he can’t make it easy for Phuwin, when he has it so hard.
"Are you okay?" Phuwin asks, observing him. He doesn’t remove his hand.
"Mmh."
Phuwin sighs, "just say what you want to say, I won’t coax it out of you." This time, he removes his hand, looks away as he adds, "you’ve been distant since my birthday."
Pond keeps quiet. He figured Phuwin had noticed. It doesn’t make it any better though, because he wishes Phuwin would have done something about it—build a bridge to him, instead of waiting for Pond to dive in.
Without thinking, he mutters, "you’re the one talking about distance."
Phuwin frowns, "I’d rather you be direct than passive-agressive."
Again, Pond doesn’t answer. His throat feels tight. He’d like to handle his emotions like an adult, but he only knows how to endures them. Phuwin gets up. He’s gonna give Pond’s space, but it’s not what he needs, so he grabs his wrist, admits, "I felt left out."
Phuwin kneels in front of him. He searches for Pond’s gaze while Pond avoids his.
"It’s you who invited everyone."
Pond fidgets with his ring.
"Yeah. I did it for you."
"What’s the problem, then?" Phuwin asks—he’s growing impatient, he hates drawn-out tension, he’s the kind to rip off the band-aid. "It’s you who disappeared on me."
Pond’s stomach aches. He’s so full of resentment he can’t get anything down. It’s rotting inside—if he doesn’t let it out, it’s gonna eat him up.
He says, "you don’t treat me the same way you treat your other friends. It’s like you take me for granted."
Ideally, Phuwin understands. He comforts him, touches him—Pond longs to be touched, but they’re too different. Each fights force them to change, and the more they care, the more their fights leave them scathed. The truth is that loving someone isn’t sweet—there’s no sugarcoating things. Phuwin crosses his arms, he’s vexed—Pond can see it in his eyes.
He scoffs, "you don’t think very highly of me."
"Don’t do that," Pond snaps. "You can’t be mad at me for being mad at you."
"Can’t I justify myself?"
The anger rises. Pond almost lets it get the better of him, but Phuwin’s face, it’s tense, he looks vulnerable—he lowered his defenses. If Pond hurts him now, he’ll bleed. Just like that, the impulse passes.
"It’s not what you did," he retorts, and he stutters bit, but his voice is calm and steady. "You reproached me for my feelings. It’s invalidating."
"I can’t validate something that isn’t true," Phuwin argues, he’s frustrated. "Taking someone for granted, it means no effort. But we both make efforts constantly for it to work. I don’t need to show you I care and neither do you, we’re proving it to each other."
Phuwin has always been articulate—when Pond struggles to put words on his feelings, he’s the one helping him. Even now, he makes perfect sense. Still, something is missing. Maybe Pond’s not being fair. Phuwin is right in front of him. They’re alone, it’s quiet, almost three am—but as Pond looks at him, he remembers his birthday party, the way others touched him. He hesitates. Slips a hand into Phuwin’s, who’s surprised—but allows him.
And softly, he tries, "what you just said, that’s taking someone for granted." He plays with Phuwin’s fingers, they’re long and slender—a pianist’s hand, continues, "we can’t treat each other’s support as if it’s automatic, it’s contradictory."
Phuwin holds his thumb. He stays silent for a moment, then something devastating happens—he gazes up at Pond with guilt-ridden eyes. "I didn’t really thank you. I mean, for my birthday."
It doesn’t solve everything, because Pond wants more—things he shouldn’t want, but it already soothes him.
"It’s okay," he replies. "I get it."
"I get it too," Phuwin says—he too, sounds tired.
Then he moves closer, making Pond’s heart races. He doesn’t speak. Just lays his head upon Pond’s shoulder, and it’s a blur—there’s a turmoil within, while the outside world ebbs. Phuwin lets out a breath—it’s warm on Pond’s neck.
They’re changing again. And Pond fears it as much as he fears them staying the same.
Phuwin, January 2025 — Landslide
Phuwin can’t sleep. It’s late, past three am. He’s scrolling on social media. It’s uninteresting and his eyes are starting to burn. With a sigh, he rolls on his left side. These few days off in Khao Yai were meant to help him unwind, yet he feels restless.
Pond is online. If it’s unlike Phuwin to have trouble sleeping, it’s not unlike him. When they’re not home, Pond gets more fidgety than usual. Phuwin texts him.
What are you doing?
He replies within a minute.
I’m outside, I was on the phone with my brother.
Shortly after, comes another text.
Join me?
Phuwin gets up. He pulls on a sweater and grabs one for Pond as well—he tends to forget how chilly January nights can get.
The house they rented for the weekend has creaky floors. He walks on tip toes—he doesn’t want to wake Gemini and Fourth.
He finds Pond sitting at the edge of the pool, feet in the water, bathed in blue light. Phuwin regrets leaving his phone on the bed—he would have liked to take a picture of the scene.
"What’s on your mind?" He asks as he comes up behind him.
Pond turns around. He smiles softly. He seems calm—but Phuwin knows there’s more to it. He spent the day laughing, joking, and living in the moment. Now he needs to retreat into his thoughts—whatever dead-end they might lead him into.
"I hope this year is gonna be good to us," he says, playing with the amulets he wears upon his wrist.
Phuwin sits next to him.
"Were you praying?"
He nods. Phuwin hands him the sweater. Pond takes it. They’re sitting close, but not enough to be touching. With time, it became scarce between them. They rather reach each other through words—it’s tedious, but less dangerous. Phuwin thinks it’s not so much because they don’t want to touch, but because they might want it too much. More than they can manage. It’s a thought he buried deep—pretends doesn’t exist.
"We’re gonna make it a good year," Phuwin declares, dipping his feet into the water.
A mere rephrasing won’t make Pond’s fears go away—he won’t do much of Phuwin’s common sense. Phuwin is aware. He’s about to suggest making merit together when Pond says:
"I have faith in you."
Phuwin looks at him. Pond doesn’t seem phased, like his words don’t carry weight.
"Stop that."
Pond looks at him too—but now Phuwin feels the need to look away.
He chuckles, "are you embarrassed?"
"Yes."
Pond bumps his shoulder. Phuwin splashes him. A silence settles between them. There’s only the wind, the pool’s filter humming and the soft chirping of the crickets. It’s because they have a lot to say. They need time to undress, shed their layers so they can talk for real. Pond lies down.
"Last year, we went through weird times don’t you think?"
Phuwin lies down too. The grass is cool against his back. The stars shine. It’s grounding—but they’re surrounded by moutains and Phuwin dreads a landslide.
He hesitates, and in a whisper, ventures, "what do you mean?"
"I’m not sure," Pond admits with a sigh—he’s a bit tousled, Phuwin resists the urge to smooth his hair. "Sometimes I didn’t quite know where I stood in your life."
Phuwin holds his breath. A single wrong move and hillsides are collapsing—engulfing them.
"Is that a reproach?"
"Do you?" Pond continues instead of answering, "I mean, know where you stand in my life?"
Phuwin closes his eyes. It’s hauntingly precise. Pond asks the very question he’s been running from for years—the question everyone keeps asking, the one that’s always been chasing after him ever since he was seventeen.
"I’m important to you, and you’re important to me."
"Mmh," Pond hums. "Sounds good to me."
Phuwin frowns. He props his head up on his hand to observe him.
"What then? Be clear, you’re confusing me."
Pond seems to be holding back a smile that doesn’t bode well. When he keeps things from Phuwin—it means he’s no longer in control, and he hates it.
"I’m gonna embarrass you again."
Phuwin scoffs, "I doubt it, but go ahead."
"You’re gonna say I’m rambling."
"Maybe."
Pond chuckles. He sits up, passes a hand over the grass, picks at twigs.
"Sometimes you treat me like a friend so no one can label me as something else, and then not so much when we’re defined that way." He tilts his head, he’s avoiding Phuwin’s gaze to stay on track—at least he won’t see him burn with shame. "I don’t think others need to understand, but it’s not just about how they perceive us, I’m pretty sure it’s also about how you perceive yourself." Pond falters, he’s struggling to find the right words to best cut into Phuwin—get inside him. "I feel like something you’d like to put away, but since you don’t know where to place me, you just keep moving me around. But I don’t need a specific place to stay by your side, right?"
He finally looks at Phuwin, who feels pined to the ground. Pond could have gotten him naked, touched his skin, made him sweat out all his secrets—and yet it wouldn’t have him as exposed.
When Phuwin speaks, his voice comes out small, "right, I get it."
"Are you sure?" Pond rubs his knee nervously, he’s flushed. "It’s not a reproach."
Phuwin knows. Pond simply stated the truth—he’s the collateral damage of Phuwin’s internal struggle. It’s unfair, to make him suffer the aftermath. That’s not how they’re supposed to work. Pond is struggling too, but he doesn’t leave him out of it. He never does. Affection seeps into Phuwin right where Pond opened him—against all odds he doesn’t burst. He brings a hand to Pond’s hair—it’s still a mess, tucks a few strands back into place. Phuwin keeps his hand there, he runs a finger behind his ear. Pond leans into the touch, then grabs Phuwin’s arm to pull him close. He melts into his embrace. The heat from Pond’s skin wraps around him—leaving him lightheaded.
"Is that okay?" Pond asks.
Phuwin nods. Holds him tight.
At seventeen, he had a crush on Pond and thought the worst thing that could happen was that he wouldn’t feel the same. He was a kid at the time. He’s grown. The crush passed, it’s what he tells himself, a lie by omission: it just turned into something else. Deeper and deadlier. Now, the worst is that he’s pretty sure Pond feels the same.
Phuwin, January 2026 — Pushing It Down and Praying
When Phuwin opens the door, he somehow doesn’t expect Pond to step inside and slam it back close.
The sound makes him jump a little, Pond notices and his eyes soften. Phuwin has always been good at reading facial expressions, especially Pond’s—he’s far more fluent in this than finding words for all the things that linger unsaid. That’s why he seldom lets things fester. He’s more comfortable with harsh-edged honesty—cuts deep but the wound is clean. Quick to sting, quicker to heal.
"I don’t like this," Pond lets out, stumbling on his words a bit. He often does when he’s uncomfortable. His ears get red. He talks with his hands.
Phuwin finds it endearing. There’s something candid about Pond’s clumsy ways—he once told Phuwin he envied him for being so articulate. Phuwin thinks that if Pond were, he wouldn’t be this charming—but he never said it to him. Pond rests his back against the door. Phuwin feels trapped.
"Me neither," he answers still, moving to sit on the edge of the bathtub.
They’re arguing. It’s been days—and the blame is probably shared. Phuwin didn’t answer Pond’s texts, and Pond posted a video with a singer who’s been hitting on him to get back at him—from there the accusations piled up.
"Can we just go back and forth and say whatever’s on our minds, no interrupting or judging—just get it all out? We can sort the rest out later," Pond suggests.
Phuwin smiles. They’ve done this before. He nods, Pond sighs, fumbles with the plant near the sink. Phuwin watches his gestures—somewhat frantic, but comforting in their familiarity.
"You say honesty is important to you, but sometimes I feel like your pride comes first," Pond starts.
It stings. But Phuwin takes the blow quietly, reminds himself they need everything out in the open—they could lick their wounds later. He closes his eyes for a second. Opens them to keep observing Pond.
"I don’t like that you get impulsive when hurt," he says.
"I don’t like it when you try rationalizing my feelings," Pond replies easily.
Phuwin lowers his gaze on the white tiles.
"Feelings are like freedom. It needs regulation to keep things fair."
Pond tsks, "you’re rationalizing again."
Phuwin raises his head, "and we said no judgment."
Pond accidentally pulls off a leaf of the plant. He looks sorry for it—Phuwin almost reminds him that it doesn’t feel any pain. He stops himself when he realizes there’s something metaphorical about it.
Instead, he says, "it was dry anyway. That will stimulate its growth."
Pond stares at him for a moment. His gaze stirs something in Phuwin’s chest. He approaches him and sits by his side. Through the window, the sun burns Phuwin’s skin. But with Pond near him, he feels another kind of warmth. It’s gentler. It doesn’t drain him—it’s quite invigorating, really.
"I’m sorry for posting that video instead of simply telling you I was hurt," Pond breathes.
Phuwin purses his lips. It’s not the root of the issue. He doesn’t comment on Pond’s phrasing, says, "well, I shouldn’t have asked about her in the first place."
Pond frowns—Phuwin already knows why and he hates the way it relieves him. He dreads Pond speaking his mind, at least as much as he dreads him not doing so. He holds his breath. There’s no getting through this unscathed.
"You say that not to address why I was mad," Pond eventually states and he’s up again—back at touching the plant a bit more carefully. He’s impressively perceptive. He has depth. Sometimes, Phuwin fears drowning into it. "I didn’t mind you asking about her. But I minded you acting overly independent," he pauses, hesitates and adds quietly, "detached."
Phuwin sighs—surrenders, "I’m not. When I was mad, I said stuff I didn’t mean."
He can’t help but wince at the admission. Now they’re venturing into the unknown, and Phuwin finds it unreasonable but something coils in his stomach. The sensation is addictive. He needs more of it.
"It wasn’t mad about you not texting me for a night," Pond clarifies.
"I know, I get it," Phuwin asserts—it’s a bit dismissive, he struggles to fully acknowledge the fact that he’s terrorized by his own feelings but Pond indulges him.
He sits back next to him. Closer than before. He bumps their shoulders, and Phuwin tries not to smile—fails.
"I’m sorry for being impulsive and selfish sometimes." Pond is serious, but he sounds like a child who got lectured and despite being younger than him, Phuwin has always bore an instinctive sense of care for him.
He pats his head with a laugh, "it’s okay."
Gently, Pond slips his hand into his. The gesture is charged. Suddenly the room falls silent, or perhaps it’s just Phuwin’s heart that’s too loud. He observes Pond’s hand—it’s bigger than his. The red thread he gave him years ago still lays upon his wrist.
Pond clears his throat, "I won’t pretend I didn’t miss you while I was away."
Phuwin doesn’t stay confused for long. He’s practicing his lines, the ones they’ve been struggling to get right. His acting is a little over the top—like often when they rehearse scenes together. They always go off script too. It’s their way of getting into characters.
Phuwin plays along, "oh yeah? Show me then."
He knows what comes next. Pond turns to him. Raises an eyebrow in a way that’s supposed to be seductive although it’s just ridiculous, really. Phuwin chuckles. Pond is like that: majestic without trying—laughable when he actually is. It’s probably instinctive, but his eyes shift to Phuwin’s lips. His expression changes and Phuwin’s grip on the edge of the bathtub tightens. When Pond meets his gaze again, it’s tentative—it’s not quite a question yet, just the hint of it. They’ve done this before too, while rehearsing. Mostly for the laughs. But when Pond slowly moves closer to him, Phuwin doesn’t feel like laughing. He barely dares breathing. It can’t be right, but he doesn’t want to think about it. Instead, he lets Pond take his lips into a kiss—lets his body react to it. And it’s only when Pond pulls back for air that Phuwin realizes he would’ve let himself suffocate on his lips. They’re still forehead to forehead. Phuwin reaches for Pond’s burning ear—strokes it softly.
Pond smiles, "that worked, right?"
"Mmh," Phuwin hums, dazed.
Except their kiss was nothing like the one in the script.
Phuwin, February 2026 — Who Knows
Phuwin feels warm and fuzzy. He’s had enough drinks not to think too much, not enough to not be able to think at all. He likes being tipsy—not wasted. He has a clear head, but it’s not buzzing anymore.
He laughs, watching as Gun pulls Tay to dance with him. Their friends are teasing them. It’s loud. Phuwin sways his head to the rhythm of the music. He’s not really into electro, it tends to irritate him—now it sounds alright, fading beneath the voices of those he loves.
Something is missing though.
"Where’s Pond?" he asks Dunk who’s scrolling on his phone lazily, head resting upon Joong’s shoulder. They look cozy. Phuwin finds himself envying them a little—then cringes at the thought.
Dunk rubs his eyes, "didn’t he say he was going to the restroom?" his voice is thicker than usual, as if he were about to fall asleep.
Joong must have heard it too—he brings a hand to Dunk’s hair, runs his fingers through it. Dunk leans into the touch. Sighs in comfort. Phuwin looks away. Suddenly he feels a little sick.
"I’ll make sure he’s okay," he says as he gets up from the couch. Wrinkling his nose, he adds, "get a room."
Dunk chuckles. Joong wiggles his eyebrows. Phuwin knows they don’t care. They’ve never had much civic sense.
He finds Pond on a small, isolated armchair next to the restroom, phone in hands—he isn’t looking at it though. He’s staring off into space, seeming lost in thought. His cheeks are a little pink. The dim light catches in his eyes. It makes his lips shine. Phuwin just watches him for a while—the room is bathed in red, it’s quite flattering.
"Are you okay?" he eventually asks softly.
Pond gazes up at him. He puts his phone away when Phuwin steps closer and leans his head against the backrest to keep his gaze on him. Phuwin ignores the way it burns within.
"My mom called me, and then I got too lazy to get up so I stayed here."
Phuwin hums, "is she okay?"
Pond nods. Then he smiles, raises an eyebrow at him and Phuwin already knows what’s coming, "did you miss me?"
He’s not expecting an answer—he says it in a jest. But somehow, Phuwin thinks about it. It’s not that he missed him. It’s just that Pond steadies him—his body unwinds when he’s near. Phuwin doesn’t tell him that, he rolls his eyes instead.
"Gross."
Pond huffs a laugh and passes a hand in his hair. A few strands fall back over his eyes, mingling with his lashes. It’s slow, time stretches somehow.
"Tawin is moving in with his girlfriend," he says quietly.
It’s loaded. Phuwin would like to read his mind, but he can’t—it’s illegible, so he just keeps watching him instead. Pond’s smile is a little sad, and he doesn’t seem entirely present. He’s nostalgic, Phuwin figures. Every subtle change in his expression reveals more to him than words ever could.
It won’t take the weight off it—but Phuwin puts a hand on his shoulder as he asks "are you scared that she’ll feel alone?"
His fingers find a sore spot. They graze the flushed skin of Pond’s neck, linger there. Pond’s eyes close. His lips part. The sight steals something from Phuwin—his breath and a bit of his strength.
"Mmh," Pond hums. "I’m very busy."
Words don’t often come easily to Phuwin, yet his answer is instinctive. "You’re a good son Pond. You’re making them proud."
When they look at each other again, there’s a quiet sense of understanding. Pond and him—they don’t speak the same language, and they had to tame each other like wild beasts. Now their care is hardwired. Almost visceral. Pond suddenly pulls him close to tickle him. He’s trying to lighten the mood— Phuwin knows, lets him, he laughs and plays along. He grabs Pond’s thumbs, pushes his hands away, resists him. That’s what he does best. But Pond manages to make him fall on his lap, and defeat tastes sickeningly sweet.
"I won," Pond says near his ear, trapping him in his arms.
Phuwin’s grip on his thumbs thighens—this isn’t resistance, but he hopes it still comes across as such.
"I just indulge you," he deflects.
Pond rests his chin on his shoulder. "Good. We meet each other halfway, like with the bill."
Phuwin turns to him. Earlier at the restaurant, he had really wanted to make Pond pay—just to tell himself he had the upper hand. Halfway through, he realized Pond would pay anyway, and the emotional tug of war lost its meaning. It’s not a battlefield. With Pond, Phuwin is safe, and he wants Pond to feel the same. Another time warp. Pond’s gaze shifts to his lips, and Phuwin forgets how to breathe. Their noses brush together when Pond lifts his head. Phuwin can’t allow it, but he knows he will—so he looks for something to blame it on, anything really, the alcohol maybe? They’re not drunk. Pond moves his hand to his cheek, and Phuwin stops thinking when he gazes up at him. Even if he comes up with a good lie, Pond can see the truth in his eyes. In the end, it’s Phuwin who leans in—but their lips barely touch, because a laughter erupts not far away making Phuwin jerks back, knocking Pond’s chin in the process. Namtan and Off appears—they look wasted.
"What are you two kiddos up to?" Off asks. "Nothing naughty I hope?"
Namtan laughs. Phuwin shakes his head, crosses his arms like he’s so much better than them. Like they’re not making sense. Like his heart isn’t pounding in his chest.
"You should drink water," he says.
"Let us empty that bladder first," Namtan chuckles as they stumble inside the restroom.
When the door closes, he glances at Pond. He’s rubbing his chin with a pout and a surge of affection washes Phuwin’s shame away. He approaches him carefully. Pond doesn’t look up—he’s not sulking yet, but he will if Phuwin attempts to undo what happened with distance.
He runs his fingers through Pond’s hair, cooing "does it hurt a lot?"
It’s overly sweet. Pond finally looks at him. He’s clever. He knows what Phuwin is doing. He stands up—and Phuwin loses his height.
"You’re not all that sharp," he says, bracing an arm around Phuwin’s neck to press a kiss on his forehead.
Phuwin melts under his touch, so he’s more than aware really.
They return to their friends. They don’t talk about it, but they don’t leave each other’s side. Phuwin pretends to feel sick to hold Pond’s arm. Sometimes he catches himself laughing at his jokes too loud. Staring at him with a smile too wide. He doesn’t dare to look at Joong and Dunk in the eyes. For someone who values honesty, he sure is hypocritical. He wonders when things began to slip out of his control.
Pond, March 2026 — Guilty as Sin?
Pond is jet-lagged. It’s around eleven pm here in New York, but it’s still the morning in Bangkok. He doesn’t feel like sleeping. He should be doing something—running, dancing, studying, working—anything but going to bed. The hotel room is spacious—he’s paced it a dozen times already, sorting through his stuff, signing posters, folding clothes.
Phuwin yawns. He’s on the bed, scrolling through Pond’s phone—they have separate rooms, but they naturally stuck together after dinner. His lashes cast shadows across his cheeks, and his lips rest in a gentle pout. He may have grown sharper with the years, but he looks young like this—when he’s about to fall asleep. Watching him soothes Pond, he doesn’t feel as far from home.
"Go to bed if you’re tired," he tells him as he hangs a jacket in the closet.
Phuwin rubs his face, "I’m alright." He puts the phone away, looks at Pond. "I checked your assignment, it seems good to me. Also, your mom sent pictures of Parker." Pond joins him, occupies his hands with the seams of the quilt, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Phuwin. He lets out a chuckle. "I just know that now every time I’ll call my uncle, he’s going to gush about you. You have that effect on my whole family.”
Phuwin’s uncle laughed at Pond’s jokes. He listened each time he talked—even when he digressed. Such attention got Pond shy. Phuwin teased him about it—his uncle found it endearing and things didn’t turn awkward.
Pond smiles, "you make me likable."
Phuwin frowns, "what do you mean?"
The mattress is a bit firm, and the sheets smell clean, a faint cotton that stirs nothing—Pond hopes Phuwin’s scent will replace it. As he meets his gaze, Pond remembers he’s expecting an answer.
"You like me, people like you, so they see me through you."
Phuwin sits up. Pond would have rather him keeping his head on the pillow. Soak it with his shampoo.
"And why do you think I like you?" He scoffs, shakes his head. "What I see is no different from what they see. You’ve got it backwards."
Pond won’t argue semantics with Phuwin—he doesn’t stand a chance.
"Maybe."
"Not maybe," Phuwin insists. "Your worth has nothing to do with me."
For a moment, they simply look at each other. No words—just silent bargaining. Eventually, Phuwin lets out a sigh. He must have realized—truth has little to do with it. It’s about how it feels. Whatever he says, part of Pond will always lack confidence. It’s okay. They’ve learned to make space for both their realities to coexist.
Phuwin leans in, flicks a strand of hair away from Pond’s forehead. Pond smiles. His hand comes to rest on Phuwin’s leg—it’s warm, even through the sheets. The light is soft and dim, the room quiet. This space—it only belongs to them. Everything else fades. Pond’s chest aches for something he can’t quite name. It’s unbearable. Without thinking, he lets himself fall onto Phuwin, burying his face in his chest. It’s burning—Phuwin’s heartbeat brushes against his skin. It’s faster and rougher every second. Pond grips the sheets. Each time he breathes in Phuwin’s scent, he calms for a moment—then his body demands more.
"Pond," Phuwin utters in a breath, fingers threading through his hair.
They’re reaching a breaking point. Pond can sense it, but he can’t stop it. He’s overflowing. The dam is about to give away.
Phuwin’s phone rings. The rest of the world collapses into their space. Pond gets a hold of himself, moves away. Phuwin clears his throat. He’s flushed.
He grabs his phone, mutters, "Fourth is video calling."
"Take it," Pond says.
Phuwin nods. Pond figures he should find something to do with himself, but Phuwin grips his thumb. Apparently, he won’t let him get the chance to overthink it.
"What were you doing?" Fourth asks. "You’re all red."
"Jerking off," Phuwin deadpans.
It’s clever. The joke has been made—Fourth can’t rattle him anymore. Pond has been tricked like this many times. He sees right through Phuwin now.
Fourth coos, "were you thinking about me?"
He says it in a jest. Still, Pond doesn’t like it. Phuwin notices, raises an eyebrow at him. He’s challenging him, but there’s no risk. He knows Pond is a coward—that’s why he can pretend to be bold.
"Yeah, I miss you too much," Phuwin plays along.
Pond realizes he’s on the losing end. On a whim, he scoots over to Phuwin and plants a kiss on his cheek. Phuwin drops the phone, too late—Fourth saw, he’s yelling at the other end of the line. Phuwin shoots him a look that’s easy to read. Surprise, amusement, a hint of mischief. The roundness of his eyes makes Pond want to do it again.
"Fourth, say hi to Pond, "Phuwin says as he shoves the phone to his face.
Pond offers Fourth a smile through the screen. He’s dumbfounded. They’re screwed—they’ll never hear the end of it.
"Hey—" Pond interrupts himself when Phuwin places a hand on his thigh.
He throws him a glance—he’s faking innocence.
"Did you just kiss his cheek to claim him or something?" Fourth exclaims—but it’s hard for Pond to pay attention with Phuwin’s sweet revenge.
He slaps his hand away. "I didn’t. You probably hallucinated. You’re a little delusional."
They mess with Fourth for a while—laugh about it. It makes Pond forget they have nothing figured out.
When he hangs up, it’s late, but Phuwin stays. He’s checking the house prices here in New York. It’s something they’ve brought up before—buying a place together. Just talk, really. Earlier this morning, Pond had told Phuwin he liked the neighborhood they were walking through, and from there they drifted into imagining what it might be like to have somewhere of their own. Their work always keeps them on the move, and Pond isn’t fond of hotels—places that only ever feel borrowed. He wants to belong.
"We’d need longer days to work enough to afford anything here," Phuwin complains.
He shows Pond a classic urban townhouse with red brick and a stoop. It’s charming, it looks like something out of a movie. The interior is nice too.
"My bass and your guitar would look good in the living room," Pond says.
Phuwin scrolls through the listing photos.
"Yeah. Vinyls too. We could start a vinyl collection."
"And we could hang mirrors on that wall," Pond suggests. "For dancing."
"We’d need like three closets to fit all your clothes."
"And we’d need another room just for your gamer crap," Pond retorts.
Phuwin giggles. "Can’t argue with that."
The bathroom has black and white tiles. A walk-in shower. Big ceiling lights. Pond ignores the numbers shown on screen—they’ll never have the budget. He imagines them living there. He’s always been afraid that thinking about the future might jinx it, but it’s not their future. Just pipe dreams. It’s no big deal—Pond has already more than he deserves.
Phuwin locks his phone, collapses onto the mattress. His sweater has ridden up. He gazes at Pond—still stuck in a world of harmless fantasies. He can’t get out of it. Phuwin doesn’t speak. It’s unlike him—maybe he too, lingers in their castle in the air.
Again, Pond aches. His eyes trace the rapid lifts of Phuwin’s chest. The curve of his neck. The way his lips part. Pond aches for him, and the lines blur. He hovers over Phuwin, and now they’re close enough to share their heat—a breath. Phuwin looks at him—and it’s like he’s pulling him in. Pond doesn’t resist. He surges forward, kisses him. It’s nothing like what they’ve done before—it’s sheer hunger. Years of longing crashing down on him. He opens Phuwin’s mouth, slips a hand under his sweater. Touching isn’t enough—he wants to seep into the pores of his skin. Phuwin tugs at his hair. Bites his lips. Grabs his collar. Now what was left of space between them is gone, but the layers of clothes upset Pond. He eases his fingers under the waistband of Phuwin’s pants. It’s instinctive. Primal. Almost a matter of survival—he fumbles for fullness and relief. Finds a button. Undoes it. Takes Phuwin’s lips into another kiss—but suddenly, Phuwin stiffens. He plants a hand on his chest and pushes him away. Pond almost slides off the bed, he’s out of breath—dazed. He looks at Phuwin. He’s curled up into himself, his lips are red and swollen. Pond snaps back to himself, and it all blows up in his face—what he just did. Phuwin turns his back on him. Everything crumbles. Pond is falling, he’s gonna crash, get buried under shame and guilt. He can’t move, can’t speak, can’t breathe. There’s just a deep sense of hatred for himself. The lingering traces of his own desire sickens him.
"Pond."
He barely hears Phuwin calling him, but when he approaches, Pond jerks away—puts distance between them. He cannot risk staining any Phuwin further.
"Pond, look at me. You did nothing wrong."
It’s a lie—Phuwin’s voice is shaking. Pond has never seen him so frail, and it’s his fault. He did this to him. He ruined everything—something that was rock solid.
He can’t look at Phuwin. He can’t stay near him. He does the only thing he can—he runs away.
Phuwin, March 2026 — Like Real People Do
Phuwin is showering. The water pressure is inconsistent—some pipes might be clogged. The stream keeps stuttering. It’s unpredictable, so Phuwin stays alert. He can’t clear his mind like this.
As he rubs his skin clean, images come to him, and Pond’s hands replace his. He relives the scene. The kiss. How it made him feel.
Phuwin doesn’t know where Pond is, outside probably. When tensed, Phuwin likes hot showers—Pond likes fresh air. The hotel has a rooftop garden—they went together the day they arrived in New York. Phuwin figures he might be hiding up there.
He borrows Pond’s towel and clothes, then goes to find him. It took him time—Phuwin had promised himself to never chase after people. Relationships should be easy, he doesn’t want to fight for anyone—but Pond is not just anyone. Phuwin also made promises to him.
It’s a bit windy, yet the rooftop is peaceful, even with the noise of the city echoing below. Car horns. Sirens. A subtle background of music and voices. Phuwin catches sight of Pond. He’s sitting on a wooden chair, hands joined, eyes closed. He’s mouthing words silently, maybe chanting Pali verses, hair blowing in the breeze. It looks soft, Phuwin wants to burry his nose into it. They’ve changed a lot over the years. Some things didn’t. He feels close to Pond, closer than to anyone else but at the same time, he’s out of reach. It must have a logic. Phuwin once read somewhere that the more you know, the more you realize you know nothing.
When Pond is done, Phuwin goes sitting on the empty chair next to him—he flinches, as if Phuwin’s mere presence was harmful to him. For a second, Phuwin wonders if they’re back to square one. Two animals in the wild. His survival instinct almost kicks in. He remembers the early days—the primal tension between them. They used to circle each other until one of them snapped. He watches as Pond picks at the scar on his wrist. It took time to heal because he wouldn’t stop fiddling with it. Phuwin sighs. Instinct is a funny thing.
"Pond," he calls softly. "I try to stop being self preserving so you need to stop being self destructive."
Pond tucks his hands under his thighs, but still won’t look at him. Phuwin closes his eyes, and again, it comes back in flashes. Pond’s lips. Their taste. The urgency. The scariest part isn’t the kiss, it’s the complete loss of control. He knows they can’t go on like this, live in quiet deceit—there are consequences.
"You didn’t do anything wrong," Phuwin repeats. "Don’t catastrophize."
His words don’t land right—Pond will take them the wrong way. Phuwin would like to pause and rewind, but he can’t.
"Just tell me how to feel then," Pond mutters.
"You know it’s not what I meant."
Pond finally turns to him. His eyes are bright. He won’t hold back for long, and if he cracks, Phuwin’s gonna get swept away—drown into all the things Pond has kept until now. It will drive them apart. Phuwin holds his breath. He doesn’t want to lose Pond in translation.
As he pulls his chair closer, he tries, "we ask each other questions in turn." Pond knows the rules already—they’ve done this before, but Phuwin still reminds him, "we answer honestly, no interrupting and no judging." He waits, but Pond stays quiet. He goes first:
"Earlier, what would have happened if I didn’t stop you?"
Pond winces—like thinking about it hurts him.
"I would have stopped it myself."
"Mmh."
"What do you want me to do?" Pond asks.
It’s a tricky question. Phuwin thinks about it.
"Let go of that shame. It’s unwarranted."
Pond shakes his head. He’s picking at his scar again.
"I overstepped."
Phuwin grabs his wrist. Pond jerks as if he’s been burn, but Phuwin doesn’t let go of him.
"You weren’t alone in that."
They don’t say anything for a while. Phuwin runs a finger through Pond’s swollen skin. Truth is, all that shame—it comes from
him. But it was heavy, so he made Pond carry most of it.
Instead of asking a question, Phuwin huffs a laugh. "I had a crush on you back then."
Pond looks up at him. His ears are red.
"What do you mean?"
"What I just said. Come on, I was young and obvious. You knew."
At seventeen, Phuwin thought he had everything figured out. At twenty-two, he can’t say the same—he’s grown backward.
"You were young," Pond mumbles. "I didn’t know anything—I didn’t ask myself."
Phuwin smiles. He plays with Pond’s fingers. The rough shapes of his bones are familiar. He holds his thumb. It barely fits into his palm. It’s something Phuwin has always hated liking—that Pond is bigger than him. He used to feel above everyone. Around Pond, he feels ridiculously small.
"It’s okay. I got over it."
Pond deflates a bit.
"Okay."
"I didn’t know you that well at the time," Phuwin continues. "My brain filled the gaps. I guess I was chasing after some sort of emotional reward."
He’s aware it might sound harsh. Pond looks like he’s holding his breath, but he’s patient.
"I understand."
"You remember the first time we talked for real?"
They were trapped in a hotel room together, and that night, Phuwin saw Pond in high relief. He became dimensional. A crush isn’t worth much in comparison to what they earned from then. Pond gets the idea. He intertwins their fingers.
"I remember."
Another silence finds them. It’s buying them time. But it’s inevitable—they need everything out in the open. Phuwin comes to understand that their feelings might have been tamed, had they been confined to words. He observes Pond—who’s staring at their hands. He’s weird, chaotic and intense. Yet he’s not the reason Phuwin spiraled. Those past few years, if anything, Pond balanced him—filled in his gaps. Phuwin simply didn’t want to face his weaknesses.
"It’s been more for a while," he acknowledges. "We’ve never really said it out loud, but it doesn’t make it any less real."
"But it’s what you would have liked?" Pond asks—it’s an assumption rather than a question.
Phuwin bumps his shoulder, "don’t put words in my mouth."
Pond sighs. He moves—they’re face to face now. "You’re avoidant."
Phuwin crosses his arms. It’s true, but it’s not the whole truth. "You’re resigned."
Pond’s eyes shine. They’re charming—Phuwin can’t look away. At least he won’t lose the staring contest.
"I don’t know how to deal with this," Pond admits. "But I don’t run away."
"No? What are we doing here then?"
It hits a nerve—Pond drops his gaze. He fiddles with his amulets.
"Craving is wrong. I harmed you."
"We both escalated," Phuwin corrects—he’ll repeat it as many times as needed. "We both share responsibility."
Pond moves his chair back to keep their knees from touching. It unleashes something within Phuwin—he wraps his legs around Pond to have him trapped.
"You’re not a monk and I’m not a laywoman. We’re grown men."
It’s strange. They carry their relationship like a marriage, standing by each other through every trail, yet struggling with something as simple as desire. Phuwin runs his foot along Pond’s ankle. It’s a test. He stiffens—but not for long. Like the rest, Phuwin figures they’ll learn with time.
Pond takes both of his hands. "I love you, you know? It’s not artificial. It’s one of the few truths I hold."
Phuwin tries not to—but he burns. Pond wears on his heart on his sleeve. It’s raw when he speaks, and he’s used to it by now but he always fears getting sick.
He cups Pond’s cheek. "I know."
It might be enough, what they have. Phuwin is aware it’s too quiet at times. Ascetic. They could be greedier than that—but they’ve built something intrinsic. It feels wrong, when it’s profitable. Phuwin’s thumb brushes Pond’s lower lip. It’s warm. His chest swells.
At times, it’s also loud—and it feels right. He rests his forehead against Pond’s. Runs his fingers through the hair at the back of his head. New York isn’t cold anymore.
"You can kiss me," Phuwin says.
Pond shivers. Searches for his gaze. He’s unsure. Phuwin smiles, pulls him close—puts his lips on him. It’s soft but it sends a fever through Phuwin. His heart pounds. He goes limp. Pond holds him up. He’s gentle with it, almost prudent.
"Are you okay?" He whispers as they part.
Phuwin nods, melts in Pond’s arms. He closes his eyes.
They’ll find a way to make it sustainable.