The call ended with, "Yes, I'll transfer the deposit tonight," and Tawan stayed looking at the blank screen a second longer than needed, like he hadn't quite re-entered the room yet.
He was at his table in vest and shorts, hair damp from a quick shower, notebook open in front of him. The notebook wasn't pretty. It was ruled, corners bent, a biro tucked into the spine. The page he'd been on had four lines:
BKK 1 – sink report, 2 guests / Sunday
BKK 2 – AC noise 4th floor / ask Mai to check
tax 28th
deposit (new place?)[1]
The handwriting was all-caps and straight. No doodles. A line separated each item like he didn't like mess even on paper.
He exhaled. The air in his flat felt different today. Not bad. Just... spaced. He kept catching himself reaching for a second mug that wasn't on the counter. Ridiculous.
His phone buzzed once, face down. Instinct said pick it up. Pride said leave it. He left it.
The keypad at the door beeped and then the latch clicked like it always did when Saint didn't bother to knock first.
"House check," Saint announced at full volume. "Are you alive or do I call forensics?"
"I'm billing you rent if you come in like that again," Tawan said without looking up.
Saint flopped inside backwards, one hand high like he was presenting himself on stage. He was in loose trousers paint-streaked at the calf, a sleeveless shirt with some band logo that had definitely never existed, hair up in a lazy knot that had lost the 'lazy' an hour ago. He held something rolled in his other hand like contraband.
"You look very 'Sir, I'm calling about the property,'" he said, sliding into the chair opposite. "It's alarming. Where is your tragic poet aura. I miss him."
"Tragic poet aura is on break," Tawan said. "Landlord aura pays better."
Saint sighed like romance itself had been disrespected. "Boring. Anyway. I brought you something."
"If it's your opinion I already have one."
"No," Saint said, grinning. "This."
He unrolled the paper and smoothed it on the table with his palm. It was thick stock, print test quality, black on cream. Not final, not glossy. An early draft, messy round the edges. But even messy it carried his fingerprints: brutalist shapes, clean negative space, text like it had been set with a ruler and a pulse.
Tawan leaned in. The headline up top wasn't even a headline, not properly. It was just a date with no month, and underneath it: SAINT / LIVE WORKS. Lower down, a block of type too small to read unless you were close. He was close.
"'Live works,'" Tawan read out, mouth curving. "You're dramatic."
"It's placeholder," Saint said, waving it off. "It's just me sketching how the thing could sit on a wall without screaming. I'm getting bored with my own face now, so I'm trying 'behaved and expensive'."
"It does look expensive," Tawan admitted. "Like one of those things people pretend they understand in quiet galleries."
"That's the dream," Saint said. "People nodding at my things respectfully like 'hmm' while not understanding a single stroke." He tapped the corner of the sheet. "The layout's not done. Title's not final. I think the logo's ugly. I'll change everything twelve times. I just wanted to see if the bones made sense."
Tawan looked up at him. "You're really doing it."
Saint shrugged like it was weather. "Yeah."
That shrug carried too much. Tawan felt his mouth pull without him telling it to.
Saint clocked that immediately. "What," he said. "Why are you making that face like I just handed you my will."
"Nothing," Tawan said, and then shook his head because lying felt stupid in this room. "Just. I remember you on outside the residence. Trying to act like you were so cool."
Saint gave him a scandalised look. "Cool? Excuse me. I was gliding."
"You shoved paper under my door, 'Hey, new here! Santisuk Niran, call me Saint. Door assist, from earlier!," Tawan said, deadpan. "You were gliding in coolness."
"Oh my God," Saint groaned, folding in half over the table. "You're never letting that die, are you."
"No," Tawan said, pleased. "Want to see something."
Saint lifted his head, curious. "Always."
Tawan pushed his chair back, stood, crossed to the low drawer unit under the TV. He crouched. The second drawer stuck a little at the corner; he nudged it with his knee, slid it open, and moved past a small stack of takeout menus, some folded receipts, a charger that didn't belong to anything anymore.
He pulled out a piece of paper that had been folded and unfolded enough times to soften the edges. White printed A4. Crease mark dead centre. The black ink had rubbed a little where fingers had held it.
He brought it back and set it on top of Saint's new draft without ceremony.
Saint stared.
"Oh," he said, quiet for once.
There it was: the first thing Saint had ever given him. The cheap inkjet flyer he'd made on his laptop that week he moved in — the one with his LINE QR code and a messy little "Hey, new here! Santisuk Niran, call me Saint. Door assist, from earlier! Add me on Line: @ursaintniran, (room 403) I'm not dangerous I promise, if you need anything knock", plus a thin wonky doodle of a smiling sun and a badly drawn padlock.
Tawan leaned back in his chair again, arms folded, like this wasn't a big deal. "I kept it so I could report you to management properly if you turned out weird."
"You liar," Saint said, eyes still on the paper.
"You were suspicious," Tawan said. "Who draws their own door code mascot."
"It's a lock," Saint protested weakly.
"It's a potato with a keyhole."
Saint scraped a hand back over his face, laughing through his teeth, and then just... looked at it again. His mouth did something soft.
"You actually kept it," he muttered, like saying it too loud would make the whole thing crack.
"Mm."
"Since, like. Day one."
"Mm."
Saint swallowed. He didn't get watery-eyed — he wasn't built for cinematic mist — but for a second the jokes sat down and let quiet in the room.
"You've always been annoying," Tawan added, just to balance the air.
"There he is," Saint said, relief returning like muscle memory. "My sunshine. Rude for balance."
"Do you want breakfast," Tawan said. "Or are you here to scream for sport."
"I am deeply starving," Saint declared. "Feed your guest. I'm a kept man now. Boyfriend privileges, baby."
Tawan paused over the word boyfriend, just a flicker in his face, not rejection, more like: trying it on privately. He didn't tease this time. He just nodded and stood.
"Sit," he said. "I'll make eggs."
Saint gasped. "Who allowed you near heat sources."
"Shut up," Tawan said, opening the fridge. "You want rice or bread."
"I want gossip," Saint said, propping his chin on his fist and watching him with shameless interest. "But I'll take rice as a side."
Tawan ignored that. Mostly. His phone, face down on the table, buzzed twice and lit up his palm. He clicked it off without looking. Saint watched that tiny movement and didn't comment, which was, for Saint, a kind of reverence.
"Rice, then," Saint said, softer. "And I will now be quiet and admire you in your domestic era, Mr Landlord."
"Idiot," Tawan murmured, but the corner of his mouth was still turned up.
Dan only realised how far he'd slouched down the sofa when Saint kicked his calf.
"Stop working like a shrimp," Saint scolded.
"I'm not working," Dan said.
"You're thinking like it's a job," Saint countered. "Which means you're working."
Dan huffed through his nose. "You're very loud for someone who said he'd be calm today."
Saint was sideways on the sofa, socks off, one heel tucked under Dan's thigh like he lived there. Which, technically, he did not. Functionally, he was already leaving shoes by the door like he paid half the rent.
The tv was on mute, a looped cooking show neither of them were watching. The afternoon light through the curtains was the kind that goes soft at the edges, like it's had a long day too.
Saint had brought a bottle of some neon drink from a convenience store run and abandoned it on the table. Dan had moved it twice out of habit, then moved it back because he didn't want to send the wrong message. He wasn't sure what the wrong message actually was. He just didn't want Saint to see him tidying around him like he was a problem to manage.
It was ridiculous. He knew it was ridiculous. He still felt it.
"How's your head," Saint asked, watching him.
Dan frowned. "Normal."
"That's a lie," Saint said brightly. "Try again."
"Normal for me," Dan corrected.
Saint grinned. "Better. I'll allow that."
Dan studied him for a second, the way his whole body seemed incapable of only existing in one plane. Even when he was supposedly "still" he was still moving: tapping his fingers on Dan's shin, chewing the inside of his lip, flicking his gaze between Dan's face and Dan's hands like he was collecting data points.
"You're very here," Dan said, before his brain could intercept his mouth.
Saint blinked. "What, right now."
"Yes," Dan said, ears warming instantly. "I just—no, I mean. You're. You feel very... here."
Saint's grin went slow. "Do you like it."
"Yes," Dan said, too quick for him to pretend nuance. He cleared his throat. "Obviously. Yes."
Saint hummed. "Good. I was worried you'd revoke my guest pass."
Dan made a face. "Guest?"
"Mm-hmm. Guest," Saint said. "I'm trying to be respectful. We're new. I don't want to bulldoze your corners. I can bulldoze, but I'm choosing grace. Growth."
"You," Dan said, fighting a laugh, "do not do grace."
"I'm literally bathing in grace right now," Saint said, offended. "You always underestimate me."
Dan held his gaze. "I don't."
That hit harder than it should've. Saint settled a little, like someone had turned down his internal brightness by a notch, not dimming him, just letting the edges rest.
"Boyfriend," he said then, out of nowhere, in that sing-song voice he used to tease when he wanted to cover sincerity with glitter. "Say it."
Dan's heart did that stupid double-step. "I'm not performing for you."
"Say it," Saint repeated, delighted.
"You're insufferable."
"Say it, architect."
Dan pressed his thumb and forefinger into the bridge of his nose because he could already feel his pulse in his face. "Fine," he muttered, eyes pointedly on the coffee table and nowhere near Saint's mouth. "Boyfriend."
Saint made a dramatic gasp like he'd just been proposed to. "Again."
"No," Dan said.
"You're cruel," Saint said, shoving his heel lightly into Dan's thigh in punishment. "I'm dating a cruel man."
Dan laughed properly then, the sound catching him off guard enough that he didn't have time to be embarrassed by it.
Saint watched him, pleased with himself like a cat that'd managed to bat a glass off the counter without getting yelled at.
"Hungry?" Dan asked after a moment.
"Always," Saint said.
"I'll cook," Dan offered.
Saint made a scandalised noise. "Excuse me? No. Absolutely not."
Dan blinked. "What?"
Saint lifted his chin, smug. "Sunshine's cooking today. I already checked. We're getting fed later. You think I'd let you ruin your own kitchen when we're already catered."
Dan opened his mouth, closed it, and gave a small, helpless nod.
"Okay," he said quietly.
Saint's foot flexed against his leg, casual. Dan placed his hand there without thinking, just to keep it.
The phone buzzed on the arm of the sofa.
Not Saint's.
His.
Dan didn't move at first, just listened to the way the sound felt in his chest. Buzz. Stop. Buzz again. He reached for it with his free hand, more out of reflex than choice.
The name on the screen made his stomach twist so fast he thought for a second he might actually be sick.
Kiet.
His throat went tight immediately. He hadn't seen that name in his notifications in days. Weeks. He'd made sure of it. The message preview was short. No greeting. No context.
I'm outside.
The first thing his body did was heat. Face, neck, chest. Then came the shaking, small at first and then visible in his thumb where it rested against Saint's ankle. His breath shortened without asking him.
Beside him, Saint was still talking about something — some gallery assistant in Bangkok who'd tried to tell him the "emotional through-line" of his own work — and Dan nodded at the sound automatically, not hearing a word.
The phone buzzed again. Incoming call. Same name.
Dan's body moved faster than his head. He hit the side button. Decline. Before it could buzz again he went to the message thread, scrolled up without letting himself actually read any of the old messages, and hit Block.
Everything on the screen vanished into grey.
He stared at the blank chat for a second too long, then locked the phone and put it face down on the table so fast it gave a dull knock against the wood.
It was only then he realised his other hand was pressing Saint's ankle hard enough to leave marks.
Saint's voice faded. "Hey," he said, gentle now. "You okay?"
Dan blinked once. "Mm."
That wasn't a lie. Not exactly. He was okay in the sense that the room was not on fire and his heart was still performing its assigned task. He was not okay in the sense that something in his chest felt like a fist holding too tight.
He loosened his grip on Saint's ankle by force and sat back slow, spine finding the sofa again. Inhale. Out. Inhale. Out. He kept his face very neutral because that was how you stop your own voice from shaking.
Saint watched him for a beat longer than casual, then nodded once like he'd filed the moment into a drawer labelled "handle with both hands". He didn't push. He just slid his toes under Dan's thigh again, re-establishing the contact like nothing had happened.
Outside in the car park, Kiet watched his own screen flash "Call failed" twice, frowned like the signal was being personally disrespectful, and then tossed his phone onto the passenger seat. He sat there for a minute with the engine running, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
"Whatever," he muttered to nobody. He put the car in gear and pulled away. No apology. No message. No thought beyond: inconvenient.
Upstairs, Dan unclenched his jaw and told himself, calmly, that air was still available. Beside him, Saint went back to talking about the gallery assistant. The toe under Dan's thigh stayed.
Saint's studio didn't look like what people imagine when they hear the word studio. No white brick and potted plants. No curated mess. It was a rented unit in a squat concrete building on a road behind a mechanic, a place you'd miss if you blinked in traffic. The shutters out front were tagged. The air inside carried paint, solder, and something faintly metallic that never really left his clothes.
He liked it like that.
Music bled from a speaker he'd bullied into staying alive with tape. Something low and lazy, bass thick enough to sit in his ribs. He worked in loose shorts and nothing else, hair tied up, skin already streaked with charcoal and fine dust. He had safety goggles pushed up on his head and a burn he hadn't noticed yet blooming pink along his wrist.
On the floor in front of him: metal pieces that were becoming not-quite-figures. Shoulders without faces. A curve that was almost a back. The start of a jawline welded out of cut scrap. One of them had a light element built under the ribs, not wired yet, so in the half-shadow it looked like something waiting to be lit from the inside.
"Hold," he told it quietly, like you talk to skittish cats.
His phone, balanced face-up on a workbench, started vibrating over and over under a smear of paint swatches.
He wiped his hands roughly on a rag and grabbed it, thumb sliding to accept. "Hi," he said, too fast to pretend he hadn't been waiting for that exact call.
"Where are you," Dan asked. His voice did that softer register it only used after midnight and first thing in the morning. It was afternoon, but the softness still came out. "You sound far."
"I am far," Saint said. "In my cave. Doing crimes."
"Illegal crimes or art crimes."
"Art crimes," Saint said. "Illegal crimes later if you're free."
There was a tiny huff that wasn't quite a laugh. "Are you sleeping there tonight."
Saint looked around his studio. The mattress in the corner he pretended was "for breaks." The blanket thrown over a busted chair. The sink that coughed before it gave you water. He'd done overnights here before. Plenty. It wasn't new. But the question landed different now that someone had the right to ask it.
"No," he said, and made sure it sounded like a fact, not like a promise he could break. "I'll come back."
"Do you need anything," Dan asked. "Food, clothes, a proper first-aid kit because I know you definitely haven't bought one like I told you to."
Saint looked at the pink burn finally, snorted, and turned his wrist so Dan wouldn't hear the tiny wince. "I have hands and a mouth. I can obtain things."
"That's not an answer."
"It is," Saint said sweetly. "You just don't like it."
Silence for a beat. He could hear Dan breathe on the other end. The line noise settled into something that felt like presence.
"I don't want to mess up your space," Dan said finally, honest in that way he only let himself be when no one was watching his face. "If you don't want me there, say that and I'll stay out of your hair. I just— I don't like the idea of you going to sleep on the floor in a room full of metal."
Saint smiled at the half-fight in his voice. "You are so in love with me."
Dan choked. "Excuse me?"
"Shh," Saint said smugly. "Don't stress yourself. Your heart's fragile."
He could hear Dan's eyeroll through the speaker. "You're unbearable."
"You like unbearable," Saint said. "That's literally your type."
"I like quiet," Dan said.
"And yet here we are," Saint said, sweeping his goggles back down and setting his phone on speaker at the edge of the workbench so he could keep his hands on the piece. "Look. I'm okay. I'll be home tonight. You'll get to suffocate me in my sleep."
"I don't suffocate you," Dan said, offended.
"You absolutely suffocate me," Saint said cheerfully. "It's hot. Don't worry. I'll text before I leave."
There was a pause, the kind where Dan was obviously chewing on a reply and deciding which of his own instincts he'd show and which he'd swallow.
"Okay," he said finally. Too soft to be anything but care. "Text me when you're driving. Don't fall asleep at a red light."
"Yes, dad," Saint said.
"Never call me that again," Dan said instantly.
Saint cackled, full-bodied. "You're cute when you're bossy."
"Get off the phone and put something on that burn," Dan said, choosing to ignore that. "I'll see you tonight."
"Yes, sir," Saint said in a mock-formal tone, just to hear Dan do that tiny inhale when he liked something but didn't know how to say he liked it.
The line clicked. Saint stared at his now-silent phone for a second, cheeks hurting from how wide he was smiling.
He turned back to the half-formed shoulder on the floor. Metal on metal. Sparks low and spitting.
"Hold," he murmured again. "I'm coming back."
The balcony light washed Imel's forearms in a soft yellow that made the small scars and tiny kitchen cuts on his hands look like deliberate texture.
The house was quiet. You could hear the pool filter humming, cicadas playing something repetitive in the trees beyond the fence, the occasional car going past down the hill. Kanchanaburi had a different night than Ratchaburi. The air sat warmer on the skin here. It didn't rush. It settled.
Imel was in a loose T-shirt and shorts, hair damp from a shower, phone on speaker face-up on the low outdoor table. His own glass of something pale and not too sweet sat sweating next to it. He had one knee pulled up, elbow draped over it, body angled toward the little glowing rectangle like he could lean closer and close the distance with weight alone.
"—and you didn't tell me you were vanishing for two nights," Tawan was saying, voice already going lazy at the edges.
"I told you," Imel said.
"You told me, 'I'll be out a bit'," Tawan said. "That's not 'I will leave the province' level of notice. That's toothbrush notice."
Imel rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb. "You're laughing."
"I am," Tawan admitted, but he let the tiny pout sit in the words. "I'm making you feel guilty because it's entertaining."
"It's working," Imel said.
"Good," Tawan said. Then, softer: "I'm joking. Don't act like I chained you to the bed."
Imel let out the smallest breath. "Okay."
There was a rustle on Tawan's end, fabric on sheets. He'd gone horizontal at some point in the call. You could hear it in his voice. Softer, lower, vowels stretching a little. He got like that when he was about to tip.
"How's the place," he asked, and you could hear the curiosity under it that he pretended wasn't there.
"Big," Imel said. "Unnecessarily big. Pool outside. Too many cushions. Everything smells like the people who own it tried to make 'nice' come out of a candle."
"That sounds expensive."
"It is expensive," Imel said. "Kamon booked it."
"Rich," Tawan muttered.
"Competent," Imel corrected.
"Must be nice."
"It is," Imel said.
Tawan hummed. "And... them? They're okay?"
Imel didn't answer straight away. He looked through the glass fence toward the blue glow of the pool. He could see the reflection of the living room in the sliding doors: Fah's bare feet on the coffee table, Kamon's hand on her shin, two wine glasses and a plate of something on the low table inside. He felt something in his chest unclench in recognition of that shape. Home, but not his. Home-adjacent.
"They're fine," he said. "Annoying. Happy. Loud when they think they're being quiet."
Tawan's laugh came out soft. "You're jealous."
"Of the loud," Imel said, and then shook his head because that wasn't the word. "No. I don't know. I like watching them. It makes me feel like..." He trailed off, annoyed that language had once again decided to run ahead without him. "It's like when the machine is running properly in the morning. You can hear the rhythm. You know if something's off."
"You like their rhythm," Tawan said, translating.
"Yes," Imel said simply.
Silence stretched. It wasn't hostile. It wasn't awkward. It was that kind of quiet where the other person is still there and you know it without looking.
Then Imel said, almost matter-of-fact, "I miss you."
He didn't dress it up. He didn't tell the sentence to perform for him. He just dropped it into the air between them like an invoice: here is what's due.
On Tawan's end there was a little breath, audible through the speaker. You could almost hear how his body reacted before his mouth did. Heat up the neck, ears flushing. He tried to cover it by going teasing again and failed, which annoyed him.
"Oh," he said, eloquent.
Imel waited.
"I mean, obviously," Tawan said quickly, mouth catching up. "Obviously, yes. I— fuck, don't make me say it like that. You're annoying."
Imel's mouth tugged. "You're red."
"You can't see me," Tawan said.
"I can hear it," Imel said.
"Debatable," Tawan muttered.
Imel leaned a little more into the table, like his body was trying to shorten the distance. "I miss how you sleep touching me," he said, plain. "It's... quiet. In my head. When you do that. Everything else is still there but it's quieter. And I miss the way you're warm in the morning. And how you breathe wrong on my shoulder."
"I do not breathe wrong," Tawan said, scandalised and flustered at the same time.
"You do," Imel said. "It hits one spot and doesn't move. It's very stupid and I like it."
Tawan made a noise like a laugh had collided with a whine. "You're going to kill me."
"Don't die," Imel said. "I'm back tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," Tawan repeated, softer, testing the word. Tomorrow. Not three weeks. Not "when I can." Tomorrow.
"Mmhmm."
"Send me more pictures," Tawan said, too fast, and then groaned into his pillow because he heard himself. "Not like— not like that. I mean of where you are. And of you. And of... I don't know. Of that pool or... Whatever."
Imel smiled with his eyes. "Okay."
"I'm not being cringe," Tawan added, absolutely being cringe.
"You are," Imel said. "It's fine. I like it."
There was a soft exhale on the other end, and then Tawan mumbled something that dropped lower, like he'd turned his face into the pillow.
"What," Imel asked.
"Don't go yet," Tawan muttered, so quiet it almost didn't catch. "Stay on."
Imel didn't move. "Okay," he said.
"Just—" Tawan's voice was already tapering. Sleep was pulling at him. "Just stay. I'll— I'm here. Okay."
"Okay," Imel said again.
After that the words scattered. Tawan made a few more sounds. Half of a sentence about eggs. A soft curse at his own blanket for not behaving. Then his breathing evened into that slow, steady in-out Imel recognised now better than some of his own thoughts.
Imel didn't hang up. He sat there with his knee up and his chin on his wrist and just listened to it. The night around him hummed. Somewhere inside the big house, a fridge clicked into a low, loyal whirr.
"I'll be there tomorrow," he said into the quiet after a while, voice barely above a murmur. Not dramatic. Not a promise he couldn't keep. Just a plan he fully intended to execute. "Sleep."
The only answer was breathing.
He ended the call, thumb slow on the screen, and let himself sit in the leftover warmth of Tawan's voice for a second before standing.
The living room lights in the rental were down to a low amber. The pool outside threw blue across the glass doors. Someone had put on music at some point — not loud, just a soft old R&B playlist that sat under the room instead of on top of it.
Fah was curled into the corner of the big sofa, legs long across Kamon's lap. One of his hands rested lazy on her shin, thumb drawing idle circles like muscle memory. Her head was tipped back against the cushion, eyes half-lidded, wine glass balanced on her stomach. She looked like she'd been born to occupy a room like this.
On the table: a plate with the remains of something grilled and dipped and wiped clean with soft bread, and two bottles open, one almost finished, one waiting its turn.
Imel slid the balcony door open and stepped in. "Gross," he said without heat. "You two are disgusting."
"Look who's back from whispering," Kamon said, grinning without looking away from his wife. "You done sweet-talking your hidden boyfriend."
Fah didn't open her eyes. "Don't bully him," she said, dead calm.
"I'm not," Kamon said. "I'm celebrating his active romantic life."
"It's not active," Imel muttered.
"It's active," Kamon said.
Imel made a face and dropped into the single chair opposite them, slouching down so his spine hooked on the back and one ankle sat on the opposite knee. He reached for the bottle without asking. Poured himself a refill. It wasn't the good wine, but it was the kind that didn't make your tongue feel like you'd licked bark.
Fah cracked an eye at him, scanned his neck, and let one corner of her mouth go up.
"Subtle," she said.
Imel frowned. "What."
Kamon snorted, delighted. "Baby, don't tease him. He's shy."
"I'm not shy," Imel said, automatically defensive.
"You're privacy weird," Fah said. "Same thing."
Kamon leaned in and kissed the side of her knee. "You're so mean."
"You like it," she said.
"I do," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the room.
Imel watched them and felt that now-familiar not-jealous. It wasn't envy. It was more like... observation. He could see their rhythm. He could hear it. He liked that it existed. He didn't want their rhythm. He wanted — no, wanted wasn't even the word. He recognised that the frequency they were on existed in the world, which meant the world allowed it, which meant what he was feeling lately wasn't fantasy. That was enough.
"You're actually disgusting," he said mildly, taking a long drink.
"Thank you," Kamon said, pleased. "High praise. How's lover boy."
"Stop calling him that," Imel said, a little too fast.
Fah's gaze slid to him, fully open now. Not sharp, not interrogating. Just present.
"You like him," she said, flat.
Imel stared into his glass. "Yes."
Kamon whooped quietly, like someone had hit a half-court three. "Knew it."
Fah didn't whoop. She just nodded once, like she'd added a label in her internal filing cabinet. "Good. Is he stupid."
"No," Imel said immediately.
"Good," Fah said again.
Kamon leaned back, settling deeper into the sofa, her calves still across him. "So. Tell the class."
Imel made a face. "No."
"Rude," Kamon said. "We feed you. We give you nice pool. We offer you beautiful ambiance. You can't even trauma dump a little."
"I'm not trauma dumping," Imel said. "I just don't—" He broke off, frustrated. "It's not... it's not simple to say. It's like— I get stuck. In my head. I try to explain and it feels like I'm lying even when I'm not lying. I don't— words don't—"
"Language lag," Fah said, cutting in clean. "We know."
He breathed out. The relief in that two-word interruption was physical. His shoulders dropped a centimetre.
Kamon glanced between them. His face went softer. "Okay," he said, rearranging himself under her legs so he could reach his own glass. "So don't explain it with words you don't like. Say what you can say. We'll fill the rest."
Imel took a sip, swallowed, set the glass down, and stared at the condensation ring it left on the table like that would help him aim.
"I like him," he said again, because that part at least hadn't choked him. "I like... being near him. It's easy. My head is usually loud. With him it's not quiet, but it's... less sharp. It doesn't scrape. And when I said something stupid tonight he didn't get mad. He just... held it. Gave it back to me in a better shape. I don't know how to behave about that."
Kamon whistled under his breath. "That sounds illegal."
"It feels illegal," Imel muttered.
Fah watched his face. "Does he try to fix you," she asked.
"No," Imel said, quick.
"Good," Fah said.
"Does he make you feel like you have to be charming so he doesn't leave," Kamon asked, blunt.
"No," Imel said, slower this time. He thought about Tawan lying half on top of him like a human blanket, not demanding conversation, just staying because staying was the job. He thought about Tawan tonight saying "Don't go yet" into a pillow he hadn't even bothered to lift his face from. "No," he repeated, steadier. "He sits. He stays. He doesn't... ask me to talk when I can't."
Kamon nodded, satisfied. "Good man."
Imel huffed. "He's annoying," he said, because balance.
"So are you," Kamon said cheerfully. "Match made in hell."
Fah didn't smile. She did that thing she always did when she was about to say something that actually mattered: she adjusted her position by a few centimetres, not because she was uncomfortable but because she liked to face a problem straight-on.
"Listen," she said. "I'm saying this once because I don't do speeches."
Imel lifted his chin a little.
"You don't have to show him the you other people think is correct," she said. "You show him the you that exists. The quiet you. The blunt you. The you that takes too long to answer because you're busy checking if the answer is true. The you that says nothing for fifteen minutes and then drops one sentence that changes the room. That you. If he doesn't like that you, that's not a you problem. That's a him problem."
Imel stared at her.
Kamon made a little satisfied noise. "God, you're hot," he told his wife.
She patted his thigh absently like, yes, obviously.
"It's not about being 'our version' of happy," Kamon said then, rolling his wrist to chase her thought. "Do you understand? People look at us and think, 'Oh, look at them, perfect couple, wine, feet on lap, goals.' It's not goals. It's just us. It works because it's us. It wouldn't work for someone else. You and whoever-this-is are not us. Don't try to be us. Don't copy our shape because you think it means you're doing it right."
Imel's mouth twitched. "I'm not going to sit with my legs over him while he feeds me wine."
"Good," Kamon said. "That's ours."
Fah flicked Kamon's ear for being dumb and then looked back at her brother. "You're allowed to have whatever your version is," she said. "Even if it looks nothing like anything we've ever seen. Especially then. You hear me."
Imel swallowed, throat tight. "Yes."
"And if," Kamon said, wagging his glass for emphasis, "if there's ever a point where you feel like you can't be you around him? Like you're walking on eggshells or acting like a filtered version so he doesn't flinch? Leave. Immediately. Don't negotiate with that. Don't romanticise it like 'oh, I'm changing for love.' You don't change for love. You change for you. You hear me."
Imel's ears felt hot. "Yes," he said again, because that was the only thing that came out clean.
"Good," Kamon said, satisfied in a very dad way he'd deny if accused. "Then I support this relationship I have not been introduced to."
"It's not a relationship....yet," Imel muttered quietly.
"Sure," Kamon said. "And I'm single."
Fah took another sip and let her head fall back again. "You're annoying," she told Kamon.
"You like it," he repeated.
"I do," she said, same tone as before.
Imel reached for the plate and picked at what was left, even though he wasn't hungry. The food was room-temp now, but seasoned in that way Kamon cooked when he was showing off for Fah without saying he was showing off. He licked sauce off his thumb and let the salt and lime sit on his tongue.
For a while none of them talked. The music filled the quiet. Something older, lazy bass and soft drum. Outside, something small chirred in the bushes near the pool.
Kamon broke it first. "We should have another kid," he said, casual, like he was suggesting a grocery run.
Fah's eyes opened without lifting her head. "Not right now."
"Not right now," Kamon echoed dutifully. "Soon?"
"We'll see," Fah said, which in her language meant: yes, but also calm down.
Kamon grinned, satisfied. He leaned down and kissed her knee again, then her ankle, then just stayed there for a second like her skin was the charger and he was the phone.
"Disgusting," Imel repeated, because it was his job in this trio.
"You love us," Kamon said.
"I tolerate you," Imel said.
Fah hummed. "He loves us," she translated.
"Hate you both," Imel corrected, but his face had gone quieter, looser, shoulders down, jaw not clenched for the first time all day.
They finished the second bottle. The plate emptied without anyone noticing exactly when. Fah drifted. Her eyes slid shut and didn't open again. Kamon adjusted without moving her, shifting under her legs so she could sleep without losing balance. He reached for the remote and turned the music down even further until it was just a pulse under the air.
Imel sat there with his empty glass and watched them, feeling that strange, careful fullness spread from his chest outwards. He couldn't have named it if someone asked. He didn't need to. Naming wasn't knowing.
After a while Kamon glanced up at him. "You're okay," he said, not a question.
Imel thought about the balcony call. About "Don't go yet." About Tawan's stupid, perfect, wrong breathing.
"Yes," he said.
Kamon nodded once, like he'd been handed an update on a project he cared about. "Good," he said softly. "Stay that way."
Imel snorted. "I'll do my best."
"Do more than your best," Kamon said. "Your best is grumpy."
Imel flicked him off and stood. "I'm going to bed," he said, voice already lower with sleep.
"Tell your mystery man we said hi," Kamon murmured.
"No," Imel said over his shoulder.
"Rude," Kamon whispered to Fah's sleeping shin. Fah didn't stir. Kamon kissed her ankle again and settled in, one hand absently rubbing the bone there with a familiarity that lived somewhere under language.
Imel went upstairs with that image in his head, and for once the thought that followed wasn't I'll never have that. It was I could, in my own way. Which, for him, was violent optimism.
By the time Saint pulled into the residence car park, the clock on the dash said 02:57. The drive back from the studio had sanded some of the adrenaline off him. He'd cranked the volume in the car to keep his eyes open. DEAN had bled through the speakers, low and expensive and blue. He'd hummed along, voice gone rough with tired.
He killed the engine, sat for a beat with both hands on the steering wheel, and let his shoulders drop.
"Alive," he told himself. "Still hot. Good job."
The entry keypad at the main door blinked red at him until he thumbed his code and it turned green. The lobby lights were on that late-night dim setting Korn used — not off, but lowered enough that the marble at reception looked less like a hotel and more like someone's weird expensive living room.
Korn was behind the desk, slouched in the office chair with his feet up on a second one, arms crossed, eyes at that half-shut state where he wasn't asleep but his brain had filed "sleeping soon" paperwork.
"Look at you," Saint said, stage-whispering as he came in. "Night security prince."
Korn cracked one eye. "Look at you," he shot back, voice sandpapered with exhaustion. "Dead raccoon chic."
Saint gasped. "Compliment me like that again."
Korn let his feet drop and stretched, joints popping. "You just getting in?"
"Mmm," Saint said. "From work. You going home?"
Korn made a face and scrubbed his hand over his scalp. "If I go home I have to wake up in, like,..." He checked his watch and snorted. "An hour and a half to come back because deliveries are at 5:00. I'll just crash here. Less stupid."
"Responsible king," Saint said.
"Don't flirt with me," Korn muttered. "I'm too tired to enjoy it."
Saint grinned and leaned both elbows on the high counter. "Everybody asleep?"
"Mostly," Korn said. "Your sunshine went down like an old man at, like, ten. Architect's lights went off a while ago. I think. He was up and down. Sixth floor is empty because Coffee Boy ran off to Kanchanaburi to be domestic. So yeah. You're last one in."
"My brand," Saint said.
"Go to bed," Korn told him. "You look like a lawsuit."
Saint blew him an exaggerated kiss. "Goodnight, reception husband."
"Absolutely not," Korn said, already standing to grab the keycard for the staff corridor. "Don't start rumours I can't afford."
Saint laughed under his breath and headed for the lift. The doors slid shut with that faint hydraulic sigh. He pressed 4. His reflection in the mirrored panel looked wrecked and happy. His hair was doing something lawless. There was a smear of charcoal on his jaw he hadn't noticed in the car. He licked his thumb and scrubbed at it.
When the lift opened on four, the hallway air felt like the building's lungs at rest. Quiet, cool, that almost-hotel neutral smell Korn insisted on.
He padded down the short hall, bare feet almost silent on the floor. He paused at Tawan's door, punched in the code, eased it open two inches, and leaned just far enough in to see.
Tawan was out cold, one arm sprawled across the bed like he'd fallen asleep reaching for something that wasn't there. His phone lay face down on the pillow near his mouth. His face in sleep had smoothed all the little tension lines away. He looked younger. Softer. Saint let himself look for a second, just to check the chest rise. In. Out. Good.
He pulled the door shut as quietly as he'd opened it.
His own room was two doors down. He went in, dumped his bag face-first onto the chair, kicked off his trainers and left them there because he was past caring. Shower on, water up, steam fogging the mirror in seconds. He scrubbed the studio off his skin, the smell of metal and dust down the drain. Lotion, skincare, the whole ritual done on autopilot with his eyes half-shut.
He changed into the soft shorts and oversized tee he kept here, ran a towel once more over his hair, and then padded back out into the corridor.
He didn't even hesitate at Dan's door. He just lifted his hand and knocked soft-soft-soft with two knuckles.
There was no sound at first. He could've left then. A normal person probably would've. It was nearly 3:30. Anyone decent would have assumed "asleep" and gone to bed.
Saint leaned his forehead against the doorframe and waited.
Minute one. Quiet.
Minute two. He hummed under his breath without meaning to, some melted version of the song he'd had on in the car.
Minute three. He checked his phone. No new messages.
Minute four. He told himself, reasonable voice, that he should just go crash and let Dan sleep.
Minute five. He stayed.
Minute six. He straightened up and turned, about to head back down the hall.
From inside: a faint thud and a hissed, "Ow— shit—"
Saint spun back immediately.
Dan's door yanked open a second later. Dan stood barefoot and sleep-ruffled, hair pointing in three directions, glasses askew like he'd thrown them on mid-sprint. He was wearing a loose vest and boxers. There was a red mark blooming across his shin.
He blinked into the hall, squinting. "Where—"
"Hi," Saint whispered, grin breaking across his face before he could stop it.
Dan's shoulders dropped like someone had taken a weight off them. The look on his face — relief, then fondness, then automatic reach — made something inside Saint go weirdly soft and tight at the same time.
"You okay," Saint said, already stepping in.
"I tripped on my own shoes," Dan muttered, which sounded like a lie but wasn't. He reached out, hands finding Saint's waist like they'd been doing it for years, and pulled him inside. He kicked the door shut with his heel.
"Idiot," Saint whispered, affection disguised as insult.
"Mm," Dan said, already steering him toward the bed. "Come here."
Dan didn't bother with ceremony. He just got back under the covers, dragged Saint in with him, and wrapped both arms around him like a full-body seatbelt. Saint went willingly, letting himself be slotted in the way they'd already, without talking, decided was theirs: Saint on his side facing Dan, one thigh hooked over Dan's hip; Dan on his back-then-side, chin tucked into Saint's hair, forearm draped heavy across Saint's middle.
"How was it," Dan mumbled, eyes already drifting shut again. Sleep-clumsy, voice low, words slurred at the edges. "Still a lot to do?"
Saint tilted his head enough to see his face. Dan's eyelids fluttered like he was fighting them and losing. He looked dangerous like this — broad, warm, jaw shadowed — and also weirdly harmless, like a big dog half gone.
Saint's chest did something. He lifted his hand and set his palm against Dan's cheekbone, thumb brushing once under the eye.
"It was work," he whispered. "I'll tell you tomorrow."
Dan hummed, content with that. "Okay," he breathed. "You smell like metal."
"You smell like sleep," Saint said.
"Mm," Dan said, and leaned forward just enough to press his mouth to the side of Saint's face. Not hunting. Not hungry. Just a kiss like a stamp: here, mine, done. He shifted, kissed Saint's cheekbone, then his jaw, then the corner of his mouth. "Missed you," he added, so quiet it almost didn't get out.
Saint felt his ears go hot. He swallowed once and leaned up to kiss him properly, slow. Just mouths. Soft. He pulled back before it tipped. "Go to bed," he murmured. "You're losing words."
Dan made a sleepy offended noise. "I have words."
"You don't," Saint said, smiling. "You're done. Goodnight."
He pressed a quick kiss to Dan's neck, right under the jaw, then settled back down and tucked his own face under Dan's chin. Dan's arm tightened around him automatically, palm flattening against his lower back.
The room went quiet the way only 3:30 can. The building hummed around them — lift cables, distant AC, water moving through pipes. Saint let his eyes fall shut, body finally letting itself be heavy.
Right before sleep took him, he felt Dan's mouth move against his hair.
"Goodnight," Dan breathed. "My boyfriend."
Saint closed his eyes all the way and let himself stay.
The building held them. The corridor slept. Outside, somewhere far off across the river, a dog barked once and the sound went nowhere. Inside, nothing resolved. Nothing was fixed. But nobody left.
That was enough.
[1] Tawan is back to work, working on his Airbnb properties.