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When you really desire something from the heart and soul, all the universe conspires you to achieve it. Paul Coelho, The Alchemist.
September 2019. Freshers week.
It’s five seconds after seeing Pran for the first time at the 2019/20 International Students mixer, that he turns to Korn, another international student on his floor, and announces, “You see that boy over there? The boy with the dimples. Yes, the one who looks like sex on legs, yeah him, do you see him? I’m gonna marry him, you know? Someday, I’m going to marry the fuck out of him.”
Ten minutes later, after two failed attempts to introduce himself to the light that brightens the room, Pat ends up with vomit on his shoes, courtesy of the American exchange student who’s had it out for him since the day he’d asked her where she was from.
“That looked nasty. Do you need any help?” Pat’s head whizzes round to the source of the voice. It’s him. The love of his life. Standing two feet away, almost close enough to touch. This close he can see the flush on his cheeks, perhaps from the rush of the crowd or from the drink in his hand. His brow is furrowed in concern, and he bites his lower lip, as he traces Pat’s frame before meeting his eyes again.
“I, er, maybe?” Pat’s never been so embarrassed in his life. He imagines telling their grandchildren the story of how they met. Where’s the romance? I was trying to introduce myself to your grandfather at a party and some random girl threw up on me and that’s when he deigned to pay attention to me. He helped me out and the rest is history.
Except it would be worth it to see recognition in this stranger’s eyes. “You’re Thai?”
His smile widens as Pat nods. “Yes, from Bangkok. I’m studying Engineering here.”
“No way, I’m from Bangkok too.” The stranger decreases the small distance, stopping just before the mess on the floor, before taking Pat’s wrist and leading him to the bathroom. “I’m studying architecture. It’s such a small world isn’t it? We’re both from the same place, and only met in a different university in a country half-way across the world.”
“Yeah, small world.” Pat’s going to go home and lie down in a dark room. He’s going to wake up and find out he’s been dreaming the last two weeks, and actually he’s been in a coma. Anything else, that would explain why he’s lost the ability to make full sentences - in his native language nonetheless.
“I’m so glad I’ve found another Thai person,” Pran says as he pushes the bathroom door open.
They fall into conversation, talking about anything and everything under the sun, as Pran helps Pat clean up. Pran’s fingers graze over Pat’s and he’s almost certain that the gasp he lets out, involuntary as it was, was heard by Pran. But he’s always been a wilfully ignorant optimist. So he’s not going to acknowledge it. They talk about the perks and curses of moving thousands of miles away from home. The homesickness. The way Thai restaurants cater to the unseasoned palate: Pat doesn’t really mind - he doesn’t like spice as it is. But Pran’s impassioned rant about the lack of spice and seasoning is like music to Pat’s ears. The way his eyes brighten as he promises to cook for Pat.
“You need to try my mother’s recipes. I’ve always helped her in the kitchen - she’s the one who taught me everything I know. I literally made sure I had her write down all the recipes just in case I forget something.” His smile dims slightly. “I miss her.”
“I miss my mum too. But you have something that connects you to her. So like when you cook, you think of her. And I’m sure she thinks of you when she cooks. And when you cook for me, you can tell your mum about how you met someone as appreciative of her recipes as you.”
Pran’s grin is blinding. “Thanks Pat. Sorry for getting emotional over something so small.”
“Absolutely not. We’re in the same boat. Metaphorically, literally. We might’ve even been on the same flight on our way here.” Pran laughs and Pat considers his mission successful.
They finally make their way out of the bathroom, Pat now cleaner but also far deeper in love with this stranger whose surname he doesn’t even know. As Pat gears up the courage to ask for Pran’s number, maybe a date, that Pran’s phone buzzes, once, twice. It snaps them both out of the bubble they’ve formed around themselves. Pat thinks he might be hallucinating the flash of disappointment he sees in Pran’s eyes, but he blinks it away faster than Pat can recognise.
Pat’s learned much about Pran in the three hours he’s known him. What he’s seen is something he doesn’t think Pran even notices about himself. His face is so expressive. Pat doesn’t think he’s seen such a face in his whole life. One that reveals the soul; the pain, the hurt, the happiness, the joy.
“I’m sorry I have to check this, just a second. It’s my boyfriend.”
“Oh.” Pat blinks, dumbly. Of course Pran has a boyfriend. Look at him. Anyone would be lucky to have him. He’s the kind of person that would brighten anyone’s life. Why wouldn’t he be with someone? So even as the ache begins in Pat’s toes before travelling up to match the spasms of his heart, he smiles. His best, most enigmatic smile. The one he’s spent the majority of his life perfecting. He takes a step back, and the last remnants of their bubble are popped. Suddenly the music is louder, the strobe lights are brighter, the conversations around them clearer. “Yeah of course. You should talk to your boyfriend. Maybe tell him you found another Thai person today. I’m just gonna - I’m just going to find my other friends. It was nice meeting you, Pran. Maybe I'll see you around?”
Pran just blinks at him, confusion etched on his face. “No, Pat, wait, this will only take a second, seriously. I just have to respond to this one text.”
“No, no it’s fine.” he makes a show of checking his watch. “I should probably be getting home actually. It’s way, way past my bedtime.” That draws a reluctant laugh from Pran, who shakes his head fondly.
“Well it was nice meeting you anyway.”
“Yeah you too.” Pat says, walking away.
Except, as fate would have it, it turns out that when you really wish for something Truly, madly, irrevocably, the whole universe conspires to make it happen. So he’ll meet the love of his life again. And again. And again.
And he’ll fall in love again. Again. Again.
November 2020. One Night
Pran doesn’t expect his day to end the way it does when he wakes up in the morning. It starts off well enough. He wakes up just as his alarm goes off; he doesn’t press snooze even once. Just like normal. He goes through his morning routine: yoga then a shower, followed by breakfast. Normal. He places an earbud in his ear before opening the front door. Normal.
He goes to his classes, eats lunch, works in the library, goes to his other classes before coming home. Normal. He showers, chooses a playlist and prepares for dinner. Normal. He hears the faint knock on the door over the sound of the music. Normal (ish). He makes his way over to the door and opens it without checking. Pat. Normal; considering it turns out their flats are opposite each other. Turns out if they hadn’t met at that party, they would have met someday by bumping into each other coming out of their flats on a random Tuesday.
What is not normal though, is the vision of Pat standing outside his door, fist raised as if ready to knock on the door. What is not normal is the frantic look in his eyes or the way his hair is flying in different directions, probably mussed from Pat running his hands through it. What is not normal is the way he’s swaying on his feet. The vacant, hollow expression that covers his face. It’d be enough to stop even the coldest of people in their tracks. Pran happens to be in love with him.
“Pat? Are you alright?” It’s like Pat’s not actually there. Pran places his hand on Pat’s shoulder, a comforting gesture. But Pat flinches as if he’s been slapped.
“Sorry. I just. I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Pat? You’re scaring me. Seriously, are you okay? Are you hurt? Come inside.” Pran has to pull Pat into his room and sit him down. He kneels in front of Pat, holding his hands in his own. He’s so cold.
“My dad died. Last night.” he finally chokes out. Pran’s heart breaks for him.
“Oh Pat, I’m so sorry.” He pulls Pat into a hug; it being the only way he knows how to comfort him.
Pran feels the tear drops dampening his shirt and the way Pat’s body shakes violently in his grief; the way Pat’s voice breaks as he tries to talk.
“Is it? Is it weird that I don’t feel anything? I mean, he was an abusive, homophobic prick. I should be happy he’s dead, right?”
Pran doesn’t say anything. He can’t say anything. Not when he can’t say anything that would make it hurt less. Not when he’s still so unsure about where he stands in Pat’s life. Not when he just wants to -
“My whole life,” Pat starts, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. “I wanted to be like my dad. My whole life.” He laughs, hiding derision behind the sound. “I thought he could do no wrong. I thought… I thought if I could just be like him, he would be proud of me. I did the sports he wanted me to. I trained how he wanted me to. I fought like he wanted me to. Did you know, once, I got into a fight with someone else. I can’t even remember what it was about. But he was in the year above me. And when they called our parents in, I was scared shitless worrying about what my dad was going to say. Instead, he said he was proud of me. For beating someone else up. For making them hurt. That’s why he was proud of me.”
Pran just looks on aghast. He thought he knew Pat. His quirks, what makes him tick. Hearing him now, just reminds him of how much he doesn’t know Pat. How many layers he’s still hiding. He realises how a person can talk so much and yet not say anything at all.
“Two weeks later, when I got beat up by the same kid and his friends when they ganged up on me after school, I got in trouble for losing the fight. He said I was weak. Even though they were twice my size and I was seven.”
Pat looks up at Pran, as if realising where he is for the first time. He looks stricken. “I am so sorry.” He pulls away from Pran, and somehow it’s Pran who misses the warmth in the space created by Pat. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I shouldn’t have unloaded onto you like that.” He gets up abruptly. “I should. I should go.”
“Pat, stop. It’s fine. You’re my friend and you’re hurting. Of course you can come to me. I don't know how I feel about you going to someone else anyway. You can stay here. I want you to stay here. For as long as you need. For as long as you want to. I’ll be here. I promise.” Pran bites his lip, considering whether his earnestness was welcome or not.
“Thank you.” He sits back down clumsily and Pran draws Pat closer to him on the floor. They sit together in comforting silence, Pran’s arm draped over Pat’s shoulder. Pat snuggles in closer, seeking warmth and comfort. Even in his grief, he knows this is a bad idea. A bad idea to be so close to Pran, who has a boyfriend. Pran, who he’s falling in love with. But he feels so lost and right now Pran is the anchor he needs to stay afloat right now. He doesn’t want to think. He doesn’t want to do the moral thing.
“Ay Pran?”
“Mhm?”
“Do you want to get drunk?”
“What? I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re grieving.”
“Exactly. I don’t want to think right now. I don’t want to feel. I just want to get drunk and forget. Now are you in or are you out?”
Pran eyes Pat. It’s a bad idea. Pat’s not in his right mind but drinking at home is still safer than going out in public.
“Fine. I’m in. I have vodka and tequila, pick your poison.”
“Everything.”
***
It doesn’t take long for Pat and Pran to get absolutely hammered. Turns out mixing alcohol gets you drunk faster than you can spell the words. Who knew?
They sit opposite each other on the floor, cross legged, with a line of empty plastic shot glasses between them. Courtesy of their third drinking competition of the night. So it’s a non-sequitur when Pat asks Pran about his boyfriend.
“How’s your boyfriend? I’ve spoken to you everyday for the past year, but you don’t mention him.” Why a drunk Pat needs to create a front row seat to his own heartbreak is a question sober Pat can’t answer.
“Oh him.” Pran’s tone is flat, as if he’d rather talk about anything else. “There’s nothing to tell really.”
“Come on, Pran! We’re friends, right? I need something happy right now. Tell me!”
“Do you count me breaking up with him as something happy?”
“Yes!” Oh shit. Pat, you idiot. “I - I mean, if you were unhappy and now you’re happy, that. That’s a good thing, right?” He stammers his way through a flimsy excuse. He just hopes Pran is drunk enough to ignore it.
Pran’s not. So they don’t.
***
When Pat wakes up the following morning, he feels as if a herd of elephants has made residence inside his head. He yawns widely before clutching his head, wincing in pain. How much did he drink last night? He turns over, snuggling into the warmth beside him. He takes a deep sniff, as if needing to find solace in the scent he’s become so familiar with over the past months.It takes a moment for him to register his surroundings. He's not in his own room, in his own bed. He assesses his body, eyes still closed. There’s no twinge in his lower back as he shifts slightly but he’s definitely naked.
Flashes of the night before come flooding into his mind, unbidden, unrestrained. Their bodies moving in tandem, hands roaming across acres of skin, warming it as it goes, leaving rising goosebumps in its wake. The slide of their sweat slick bodies across each other. Them kissing. Pat leaning in and Pran responding with just as much vigour. As if everything they’ve been doing has led up to this moment. This. He remembers the flurry in which they took each other’s clothes off, desperate, wanting, all consuming. Their push and shove as they found their way into Pran’s bedroom. He remembers whispered words into each other’s skin like fiery kisses, branding them. Yours. Mine. The hands in each other’s hair, pulling, guiding, the marks on his skin, bruising, painful, but a reminder that what happened was real.
Real. Except they can’t talk about it. Pat knows. He knows himself and he knows Pran, despite the short time since they’ve met. He thinks back to the declaration he made the day he first saw Pran. I’m going to marry him someday. A pipedream. Something out fairytales. Pran is… Pran is. He’s the best thing that could ever have happened to Pat. He won’t let himself destroy it. He’s self-destructive. Loud. Broken. He’s not going to let Pran go. But he’s not going to let him in.
So he pretends to wake up. He doesn’t look at Pran who’s now awake and watching Pat supposedly come to his senses. He apologises for vomiting over Pran, as if that’s the reason why they’re both naked in bed together. Jokes that they’ve got to stop meeting like this. Thanks him for taking care of him last night; for listening to him talk about his dad; for getting drunk with him, even at the cost of dignity. That he’s a good friend and that he’s lucky to have someone like Pran in his life. As if his heart’s not breaking, he tells him he doesn’t actually remember anything that happened last night; just that Pat asked Pran to get drunk and they did.
When he looks up at Pran, he pretends he doesn’t see the flash of hurt in Pran’s eyes that he quickly masks with a cold sheen of amusement. Of course Pran remembers. Of course he’s not going to accuse Pat of lying. Not when they both know this can’t go anywhere.
At least they’re friends. That’s all Pat needs. That’s all he has.
September 2024. Graduation.
“I got in. Oh my God, Pat I got in!” Pran’s bouncing off the walls, his excitement palpable; capable of reaching the coldest of hearts.
“Got in what?” Pat says, not turning his eyes away from the tv screen.
“Pat! I can’t believe you forgot! The internship. You know, the one I spent the best part of this year preparing for? I got accepted!”
Pat stills, momentarily before regaining control of his mouth. “Pran, that's fantastic! I’m so proud of you. I knew you could do it. You had me as your good luck charm, didn’t you? You should be thanking me.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re so good.” Pran pauses mid-laugh, the mirth in his eyes being replaced by a seriousness Pat doesn’t always get to see. As if Pran needs to say something big. “You are, though. So good. Thank you. For helping me. For everything. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
Pat’s confused. They don’t normally talk to each other like this. They make a point to not talk to each other like this.
“I’m moving. As in moving out.” They’d been rooming together for two years. Saving costs they’d said to anyone who’d assumed they were just taking the next step in their relationship.
“Oh.”
“The company really liked the extensive experience I already had. So they want me to work at a different branch than the one I applied for. Apparently, my skills can be better used there.”
“That’s fine. Yeah, yeah no worries.” Pat’s not sure how good of a job he’s doing convincing Pran or himself that it’s okay. That Pran moving out isn’t going to change anything. But they may be young but they’re certainly not dumb. Or maybe Pat is; his habits of self-sabotage still in full effect.
“Do you need help moving? Have you looked at properties yet? I can see if Korn and Mo are free to help.”
“Pat.”
“We’ll probably have to put an Ad out for a roommate. Maybe Paa wants the second room.”
“Pat.”
“Or do you still want to keep the room? You know, if you decide to visit.”
“Pat.”
“What?”
“I’m moving to America.” Oh.
“Right.” Pat swallows, too unsteadily to pass it off as natural. “So no visits then? That’s alright.” Pat's smile is shaky and after two years of living together and seeing each other’s face first thing in the morning, Pat is trying really hard to forget that his heart is being trampled on.
It’s easy to forget that Pran knows him just as well. “Pat, stop. We don’t need to think about this right now. There’s still graduation to go. Heck I might decide to not go.”
Pat’s head whips up sharply. He rubs his hand against the twinge in his neck, self-soothing. He’ll have to get used to massaging his own neck again. But it won’t ever be enough. Not now that he knows what Pran’s hands feel like on his neck, working diligently to undo the knots formed on Pat’s shoulders from sitting at his desk. Maybe now he’ll actually work on improving his posture like Pran’s spent three years nagging Pat to do.
“What are you talking about? Of course you’re going. There’s absolutely no way you’re turning this down.”
So despite their unspoken agreement to try after graduation, Pat drives Pran to the airport. Each mile seems to last three and Pat can feel the distance growing between himself and Pran even as they sit next to each other in the confines of the car.
When they finally get to the airport, they both don’t know how to act. Goodbyes aren’t their thing. It’s Pat who breaks the ice.
“You better call when you land.” I’m going to miss you.
“Yeah of course.” I’ll miss you too.
“And we need to set up a standing weekly call, okay? I need to know about everything you do there.” Don’t forget about me. Don’t fall for someone else.
“Obviously. And I’m assuming I’m the one who's going to end up sleep deprived when you don’t answer the phone?” I won’t. Don’t leave me hanging.
“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll stay awake.” I love you.
A broken laugh. “I think that’s the most selfless thing you’ve said to me in all the years I’ve known you.” I love you.
It’s only when Pran turns the corner past security, waving as he goes, that Pat finally lets the tears run freely down his face.
December 2024. It’s inevitable isn’t it?
Pat wakes up on a rainy April 1st, to the sound of his flat buzzer and the ringing of his phone alarm somehow arranging themselves into a perfect cacophony. Enough to rouse him from the sleep he’d fallen into in a drunken stupor.
The buzzing and the ringing have now stopped. But the damage is done. Pat’s awake and groaning, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with one hand, while stretching his other arm. Just another Monday. He pads across the room to the bathroom. It’s been three months since Pran left for America, but three years with him mean that he’s left Pat ingrained with a productive morning routine; one he hasn’t deviated from since the start.
The buzzer goes off again. This time though, Pat deigns to answer it.
“Who is it? It’s arse o’clock in the morning.”
“Pat? It’s me.” Pat’s heart leaps into his chest. A familiar drumbeat, specific attuned to this voice. His favourite voice. Belonging to his favourite person. Belonging to the love of his life who moved to a different country and broke his heart without even knowing it.
“P- Pran?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Would you let me come up? It’s kind of the dead of winter right now, and I think I’m going to get frostbite if I stand out here any longer.”
“Er yeah, yeah, I’ll buzz you up.” Pat straightens up and looks around his apartment. He goes to rearrange and tidy up a bit, but stops three steps in. It’s Pran. Pran knows him. Mess and all, Pran knows him. A pizza box on the coffee table isn’t going to prevent Pran from saying what he’s going to say. But cleaning it up might help him say it faster.
In minutes that feel like hours, Pat hears the knock signalling Pran’s arrival. He both celebrates and curses his choosing an apartment block with seven floors and one working elevator.He straightens his clothes, one last time, running a hand through his hair. God he feels like someone out of a rom-com. He opens the door and is immediately enveloped by his favourite smell.
“Pat!” Pran enters the flat in a blur, wrapping his arms around Pat’s neck, pulling him close, burying his face into Pat’s shoulder.
Pat’s arms wrap around Pran involuntarily, clutching him close. “Pran? Are you okay?” His hand travels up to Pran’s hair, stroking the strands in a comforting caress. All too soon, they pull away from each other, and finally Pat gets a good look at Pran. It’s like his Pran is hidden, beneath layers. His eyes are shining - with unshed tears; his lips are pouty, bitten red as if he were nervous; his hair is soft, but longer like he hadn’t bothered to cut it. He’s wearing a shirt, but it’s untucked like he’d put it on in a hurry.
So he asks again. “Pran, you’re scaring me. Seriously, are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“I love you.”
Pat’s about to open his mouth to return the platonic affirmation when he finally sees Pran. Really sees Pran. Is he saying what he thinks Pran’s saying?
“Pran? I -”
“I love you. I’m so fucking in love with you. It’s always been you. It always will be you. I thought I could do it. Stay without you. Be without you. But I can’t. I won’t.” Pran cups Pat’s face between the cold palms of his hands. He caresses Pat’s cheek, a tender veneration, light, not fleeting; driven by the same love that shines in Pran’s eyes. The love that Pat has always seen in Pran’s eyes.
“You mean everything to me. Since the day I met you. Since the day you walked away from me for the first time.” He draws his hands away from Pat’s face, dragging them lower, pulling at Pat’s collar.
“You’ve kept walking away. And I always bring you back. And the one time I decide to do it, I decide to walk away, you let me.” Pran takes in a shuddering breath. “Months. I waited months for you to call me back. Why wouldn’t you call me back?”
Pat’s heart hurts. Tears stream down his eyes, blurring his vision. He doesn’t have any answers. Not ones that seem adequate in the face of what Pran’s telling him. Nothing seems enough. What’s he supposed to tell him? For two people who’ve claimed to have never lied to each other, they’ve done a horrible job of telling each other the truth.
“I’ve spent every second since I walked away from you at the airport just wishing I had turned around and kissed you. Wishing I’d never taken the damn job in the first place.”
“Why did you let me go?”
“Why didn’t you ask me to stay?”
Pran looks crushed. Like everything he’s ever wanted is slipping away from his fingers. Like he’s gasping for air. Like he’s given up. "Is it too late? Am I too late?"
"No."
***
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
***
“Will you marry me?”
“Will you marry me?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck yes.”
***
“I think we’re ready.”
“I think so too. Should we tell our family first?”
“You know what? I think we should.”
***
“Baby have you seen my phone?”
“Here.”
“My keys.”
“Here.”
“My briefcase?”
“Here.”
“My goodbye kiss?”
“Here.”
“Sweetheart, have you seen my files?”
“In the top drawer.”
“My lunch?”
“In the fridge.”
“The love of my life?”
“In the bedroom.”
***
“I love you, good night.”
“Good night, I love you too.”