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Oh-aew fell asleep on the bus back to town, tired and puffy-eyed. He’d been quiet, when they were waiting at the stop, scuffed his shoe at a jagged edge of road where a tree root had pushed up the tarmac. He’d had his back to Teh, fingers hooked at the straps of his backpack, and Teh had wanted to barrel into him. Poke at him or ruffle him or maybe touch him gently in somehow—somewhere: his elbow, or his waist, or the warm back of his neck. They’d hugged, on the cliff’s edge, with the sunset a broad orchestra of a backdrop. They had wept a little, and declared grand things, but it all seemed far less dramatic under the bleary light of a streetlamp, waiting for the bus alongside two grandmas and a guy with parakeet on his shoulder. Everything felt mundane again, and terrifying, and Oh-aew was not quite his yet—not enough to reach for, to put his hands on.
But on the bus back to town Oh-aew fell asleep: first leaned against the window, then the bus took a turn and he lolled and puffed a breath and slumped against Teh, against his shoulder. Their arms were pressed together and their knuckles brushing, hands wedged between the seats. Oh-aew smelled like sweat, like salt and sea, like his soap. Teh had spent a summer chasing that smell: pressing his face into sheets of paper, holding slippery handfuls of coconut meat, letting juice run down his face, his throat—standing turned on and embarrassed in corners of shops, capping bottles of creams, flushing, missing Oh terribly. Wanting him, terribly. And here he was, again: a person again, breathing soft and warm into the crook of Teh’s neck. He was warm. Teh wanted to grab at him. He wanted to wake him up, to put his face to Oh-aew’s skin, put his mouth to him, eat him. The flesh of a coconut. Instead he swallowed, and shuddered, and pressed his knuckles closer to Oh-aew’s. He watched the darkening shore blink in and out of view between trees, houses.
There was a crease pressed into Oh-aew’s cheek when they got off the bus, the seam of Teh’s shirt. He was soft and bleary, out on the street, not quite awake. They stood by Teh’s bike, restless, and Teh made a half-joke about Oh-aew catching up on a year’s worth of sleep, and Oh sort of smiled, nervous, eyes jumping from Teh’s face to his mouth to the street and then up again. Teh’s skin seemed a size too tight and he said, “Okay, come on, let’s go I’ll take you to the dock, come on,” and clapped his hands to indicate action, let’s go let’s go. Oh-aew said, “Okay, um,” and got on the bike behind him. The side-car was too full of coconuts.
Teh twisted only to help Oh-aew put his helmet on. Oh-aew was fumbling with the strap, and Teh pushed his hands away, did it himself. Oh-aew watched him, mouth a little open. Teh slowed, a moment. His fingers brushed Oh-aew’s jaw. The dip of his chin.
“Right, okay,” Teh said, and turned again, and blinked at the road a few times. “Okay,” he said, and rumbled the bike on. Veered onto the road. The movement pushed Oh-aew closer, hips tight to Teh’s lower back. Oh-aew’s hands were shy at his waist, a hesitant little squeeze, and Teh took one and pulled it around him, pressed it to his sternum, up: over his chest, his heart. It was beating at a bumblebee speed, a thrum, and Oh-aew would feel it, would surely feel it and do something about it: one of them, at some point, had to do something about it. Teh led the bike between two cars, let one of them honk at him, took a turn at a stoplight and Oh made a small noise behind him, pushed his fingers into the swell of Teh’s chest. Pressed closer, wrapped his other hand around him. Leaned his helmeted head against Teh’s back. He said something, then, but Teh couldn’t hear it over the sound of the motor, didn’t dare turn around and ask.
Parked at the docks stayed like that, for moment: on the bike, wrapped up in each other, Oh squeezing at him like he didn’t know what else to do with him. The water lapped and lapped at the wooden slats and Teh leaned into Oh thinking, now we’ll kiss, but they didn’t, and the boat arrived.
“My boat,” Oh-aew said, when they stood on the jetty. Like Teh didn’t know. Like he needed a reminder. Teh laughed nervously and groaned and then did a pretend backward-jog, then a forward jog, a slow run toward Oh, and Oh looked at him like he wasn’t sure what was going on. Teh took him by the shoulders and shook him and said,
“Call me when you’re home!”
Oh-aew smiled, hesitant. The ferryman was right there, right there behind them, tying up the canvas windows. Oh said, “Okay sure.”
Teh didn’t let go of his shoulders. He squeezed them, once and then again and then Oh-aew’s arms. His elbows. He huffed a breath and said, “No I’ll come with you, I’ll take you home. I’ll take you home.”
“Yeah?” Oh said. “You’ll take me home?” He looked shy and pleased, still puffy-eyed with the long day, and Teh pressed close, pushed his forehead to Oh-aew’s. He nodded. Oh-aew nodded too, tilted into him, up: his chest into Teh’s, his face to Teh’s. Their noses brushed and Oh’s breath was sweet with fruit and Teh would not survive this, he thought, he would not survive any of this. He buried himself in Oh-aew’s neck. He groaned again, muffled a tortured, “Fuuuck,” into the warm skin there.
He stayed there for most of the boat ride, hidden in the pocket between Oh-aew’s shoulder and throat. The motor rumbled low under them, the sweet-wet noise of still water parting. There was one other person on the boat, a guy with his headphones in, sat in the front row, scrolling and scrolling through his feed. Oh-aew was breathing fast and shallow, his pulse rabbitting where Teh was mouthing at it: nipping gently, sucking, letting his mouth stay hot and open. He had a hand high up Oh’s leg, massaging at his thigh, grabbing at it.
“For the muscle,” he whispered. “It’s, it’s good for the . . .” He lost the thought, found it again: “For the muscle.”
“Teh,” Oh-aew said, a half-warning, but twisting, hips jerking. He was holding Teh by the back of his neck, nails dug into the shorn hair there. The guy at the front was pointedly ignoring them, though he must have noticed something—must have caught something from the corner of his eye: the slow winding movements, the whisperings, the flexing of arms where hands weren’t seen. Teh slid his palm higher up Oh-aew’s leg, and the back of his hand was flush up against the heat of Oh-aew, the shape of him through his slacks. He was hard. Hard and near and Teh had spent a summer getting hot over the memory of him, the fantasy of him, getting worked up and sad and miserable, horny in his misery, too. And now some bone-deep heat trickled down his back, spread, and he squeezed tighter and moved his knuckles to Oh-aew’s arousal and pushed his teeth to the jut of Oh’s shoulder and Oh panted and shook and shuddered and grabbed Teh’s wrist and said, “Ah Teh—Teh calm down, calm down, you’ve got to—”
Teh’s blood was white-noise in his ears. He nodded, because Oh-aew was right, and shaking, and they were on the boat, and there was some guy there, and they were on a boat. Teh pulled away, winded. Lolled his head against the backrest. He licked his lips and they felt sore. Oh-aew held his wrist very tightly, very tightly, and when Teh glanced at him he had his eyes shut, focused. Grimacing.
Teh laughed and shook Oh-aew’s grip, getting his attention. “Okay?” he asked.
“No,” Oh said, and didn’t open his eyes. “This is your fault, don’t laugh, fuck.”
The boat ride still took forever. When they docked the guy got off very fast, didn’t look at them. Oh-aew was embarrassed over it as they walked up to the resort, put his face in his hands, said, “Ugh that’s so embarrassing, he probably stays at the hotel, oh my God that’s so—” And Teh hauled him about by the waist, tussling him—walking behind him, pushing him ahead, saying, “Ayiah, you’ll be fine, you’re a brave kid, you’ll be fine!”
“Easy for you!” Oh-aew said, and pushed at Teh, then pulled him back in by back of his head—a hand to his hair. They stumbled together, legs tangling in walk, and the humour shrank for a moment: and Teh went hot again, low-eyed, Oh-aew’s body a broad heat against him. But then a night bird cawed, and the wind carried the porch-window sounds of a child demanding something sweet, and they parted with a puff. Teh scratched through his hair, moaned at the sky, and Oh-aew started walking faster up the hill. “Come on,” he said, tight around the mouth. He glanced back at Teh, who dawdled, and gave a sharp nod and said, “Come on.”
They half-jogged, half walked up to the main hotel: losing their breath, laughing at nothing, at nerves. At some point, Teh made a swipe for Oh-aew’s fingers, wanting to hold them. Oh let them be held, for a moment, used the connection to haul Teh up, and Teh said, “Haven’t you run enough for one day, my God, where do you kids get the energy,” and in response Oh suddenly turned and pushed close—tilted his face into Teh’s jaw, grabbed at his shirt, made a noise like a whine and then pushed him away and ran all the way up to the main house: all the way, not stopping once. Teh followed, heart hammering, breathing through his mouth.
They caught up with each other on the porch. Oh had tossed off his backpack, and was high-breathed and wild-eyed by the time Teh came up the stairs—hoisted himself up around a pillar.
“Hi,” he said, and smiled, face folding, and Oh-aew turned away for a second. Only for a second, and then he was back, and he was running at Teh, and Teh had a moment to anticipate it: caught Oh-aew’s jump, caught him under his thighs with a startled, “Wah! Heavy,” and Oh was bright-faced over him—smiling down, arms around Teh’s shoulders. Teh staggered, laughed, and Oh-aew laughed too, and then Teh and couldn’t hold the weight, let Oh-aew slip a little. He found a wall and the wall helped: Oh-aew slumped against it, leg down and one foot on the floor, the other leg still up around Teh’s waist, Teh holding it good and tight under his knee.
The porch lights were a burnished orange. The season’s bugs were drawn to it, bounced off the covers with soft buzzing thuds, flickering the flight with the shade of their wings. The air was thick with salt, with a campfire someone had lit somewhere down the beach. Somewhere, a radio was on. Somewhere, someone was singing along to a song. Oh-aew looked exactly as he had last time Teh had seen him: the wide plump of his mouth, the sweet turn of his nose. A summer, Teh had lingered in want. A summer he had boiled in it.
Oh-aew lifted a long finger to his face and tapped his own lips, twice, an indication: here, he was saying. Kiss me here. Teh did as bid: leaned in, short-of-breath and unsteady, his mind mired, syrupy. He caught Oh-aew’s finger between them, and kissed him. Coconut, still, on Oh’s breath. He turned his finger pad to Teh’s mouth, and let Teh kiss that, too. He did. He crooked it, then, past Teh’s lips, his teeth. He traced them, for a moment, seemed fascinated by their shape, the sharp edge of them. Teh let him, and let him, and Oh touched his tongue. He seemed dazed by it, eyes hooded. Oh tested what he found, the give of Teh’s tongue. He pushed in, out. He tasted salty. Teh sucked the finger deeper, and Oh-aew’s hips stuttered, ground up against his, and Teh lost a lungful of air and then Oh-aew drew out of his mouth and put his spit-wet hand on Teh’s face and then they were kissing: with the stumble of a heart, of a half-open mouth, of rushing a little too fast and ungainly. A fast kiss, one quick to open, quick with tongues and teeth and Teh’s hand sliding up Oh-aew’s leg to grab: at his thigh, his ass. He’d never touched anyone like that. He’d never had anyone rub their tongues to his, never had anyone’s mouth accidentally slip off his, wetly, seek it out again, breathe into him, suck his lip into their mouth, roll their body against his, fist at his hair, tilt him closer, closer, moan into his—
“Fuck fuck fuck,” he said into Oh-aew’s cheek, then against his mouth, the dip of his chin: “Oh-aew, Oh-aew, Oh—”
There had been a moment, before summer, when Oh-aew had asked him if he wanted this and he had said, with his dumb mouth, with his stupid no-good mouth, he’d said: I’m not sure I’ll keep on wanting this. He’d been a fool and he hadn’t known, he hadn’t known anything. No one knew anything, no one in the world, not a single person who had ever set eyes on Oh and had not wanted him desperately, not Bas who’d had him and somehow let him go, none of them, none of them knew anything because if they knew, if they understood the feel of him, the taste of him, how he undulated and grabbed and unfolded so beautifully then surely, surely the world would’ve long ago bent at his feet and no one would ever—ever—
“Oh my God,” Oh-aew said, unfocussed, and, “Okay, we’re—” And leaned away and took Teh’s hand from where it had meandered and pushed him and, “We’re—come on—“ and made them walk: through the house, an eye out for parents, for people. Up the stairs, the one floor and the other, and Teh followed, cotton-headed, all the way up to Oh-aew’s room.
They left the lights off and the door closed. They made out against the wall some more, hot and heavy. Teh somehow got most of Oh’s shirt buttons undone and was pawing at his chest, at his skin. Fingers passing over nipples, curious over them, endeared by them. A sheen of sweat broken out over Oh-aew, and when Teh pushed a leg between them his head knocked back loudly against the wall. “Teh,” he said, and Teh said, “Yeah,” and Oh said, “Teh, Teh,” and Teh said, “I missed you, fuck, I missed you so much, I like touching you, can I, can I,” and Oh-aew pushed him off and took a walk about the room, fanning at his face.
“Oh,” Teh said, or asked. He watched Oh-aew pacing. He’d picked up a piece of paper from his desk and was now using it to fan himself.
“I,” Oh-aew said. “Okay. Wait. Just.”
“We don’t,” Teh started. He leaned back against the wall. “We don’t have—to, anything, or . . .” He breathed through the thumping of his heart. Oh-aew’s shirt was gaping open, chest sweaty in the low light from the hall. “I won’t, if you don’t—”
“Yes yes, shut up please, okay, a moment.” Oh had his face in his hands again, half turned from Teh. Teh nodded at no one, at himself, in agreement with something, anything. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands neat on his knees, and waited. There was a clock in the room, somewhere, and it ticked slow and loud.
Then Oh-aew said, “Right, right,” and straightened up, stared at the wall for a moment. And again, “Right,” and then he came to Teh: came to him, to the bed, crawled up on the mattress to swing a leg over Teh’s lap—straddling him, sliding his arms around his shoulders. He dove back in, slow this time: lips, at first, only lips. Clinging and chapped lips. Closed-mouthed, puffing breaths, the crisp feel of Oh-aew’s shirt under his hands. His palms spread, fingers wide over the span of Oh-aew’s ribs. Every kiss came and went with the sound of a drop of water.
They managed well enough, for a while: Oh-aew’s thumbs rubbing a comfort to the skin behind Teh’s ears, Teh kissing Oh over his closed eyes, kissing his cheek, the jut of his jaw. But then: an inch of a shift, Oh-aew’s stomach warm against his, the tilt of a head, the wet slide of tongues, a moan, a fist of fabric, and for a sudden few minutes they were frantic again: Teh pulling at Oh-aew, the cage of his ribs, the maddening line of his waist, and Oh’s hands deep down the back of Teh’s shirt, scrabbling over skin and grinding down, down, down—
Then Oh-aew made himself stand out on the balcony, two pieces of paper as fans, now, and Teh wasn’t allowed to come near or talk or say anything for more or less ten minutes.
“So we need, we need to—calm down, a little, we can do that,” Teh said at the ceiling, when the ten minutes were over. He was flopped down on the floor by the bed.
Oh-aew whined miserably and called through the open door: “Mom just texted to ask if I’m going to be down for dinner. Teh, this is terrible, this is the worst, I need to shower, I’m disgusting, I can’t—”
Teh rolled over and groaned into the carpet. They made a valiant effort to get Teh home, after that. It worked, eventually, though not smoothly or at all dignified: they got muddled and distracted along the way, against a doorway or halfway down the stairs, a hand to a bare stretch of skin, a mouth to a neck. Teh whispered, “Boyfriend,” to him, when they were down at the dock again—necking, clinging to each other. And then Oh-aew went an angry sort of touchy, set his teeth to skin, and Teh said, “Or maybe let’s just go to the beach, let’s, somewhere where no one’s around, aren’t there spots? I want, oh fuck,” because the boat was beep-beeping its way back to the dock.
Oh-aew held Teh’s face in his hands and laughed a little. He shook Teh’s face, said, “Boyfriend,” and hiccuped, and Teh ducked in to kiss him, sweet and quick, on the mouth. Oh-aew said, quiet, “Do you want to come tomorrow?”
He sounded hopeful, and hesitant, and uncertain and Teh ached. Do you want to come tomorrow, he asks? Does Teh want, does he? “Yes yes yes, yes yes, yes.” Teh sneaked another quick kiss. “Yes please, yes, yes.”
On the boat, three minutes from shore, he called Oh-aew. Oh answered already laughing, saying, “What, I can’t get rid of you?” and Teh said, “I miss you,” and Oh said, “Already?” and Teh said, “No, still.” And Oh-aew was quiet at that, for a moment, so Teh barreled on: “I like kissing you,” he said. The resort was a dotting of lights along the shore. Oh-aew was still on the dock, a barely-there dot of a person in the spill of one dim lamp. Teh watched him from the back of the boat, over the white foam of the motor’s waves.
Oh-aew’s breath puffed at the receiver. Teh said, “So much. I like it so much.”
Oh-aew hiccuped, again, and he said, “Stooop,” and Teh said, “Shall I come back? Shall I take the next boat back? Or maybe I’ll jump into the water and swim back to you, I think I’ll do that, okay I’m going to jump now, you better wait for me. If I don’t resurface in like, fifteen minutes, call the coast guard. Here I go, jumping, jumping—”
“Hey you want to make a widow out of me already, ah? Both feet back in the boat please, I am not coming to rescue you, you’re too heavy and also I haven’t had dinner yet.”
“Ah,” Teh said. “Ah you’re correct, my apologies. So smart. So smart, my boyfriend.”
Oh-aew made a sound, something desperate and whinging, said, “Teeeh,” and Teh said, “What? What did I do?” and Oh-aew said, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and Teh said, “I’ll call you when I’m home,” and Oh said, “Uh, why?”, and Teh said, “Because,” and, “because I’ll miss you,” and then Oh-aew was quiet again for a while. He huffed, eventually. Said, “Oh, my God,” muffled, like his hands were in his face.
And Teh did call him, later that night: showered and clean and fed, and still blurry-minded with want. Sick with it, distracted with it. He’d been unable to focus on food. Hoon had tried to get answers out of him, and Teh had only managed flushed smiles, mumbled, Yeah’s, and, I guess’s. Hoon had tsk’d at him, rolled his eyes. Ruffled his hair, said, “Little weirdo,” like approval.
And when Hoon was downstairs, still, watching TV, Teh softly closed the door and got in bed and called Oh-aew. The exchange was timid, at first, quiet, small questions asked: how was Oh-aew’s evening, was he feeling okay, was he also in bed, oh, he was, okay, okay. “I’m in bed too,” Teh said, something of a whisper. A low voice. “Hoon’s downstairs.”
“Yeah?” Oh-aew said.
“Yeah,” Teh said. He was on his side, had the sheets pulled up over his head. The phone and Oh’s voice cradled close. He felt reckless, suddenly. Reckless and wild and mad that he was all the way here, and Oh-aew all the way over there. He closed his eyes and said, “Oh,” and said, quietly, “You’re so hot.”
Once, he’d told Hoon: I like him, and it had been the first time he’d spoken those words out loud. To himself he was willing to admit: obsessed, obsessed with him. To Oh-aew he’d said, today, I’ve missed you, like that had been that, like that had been all. But this version of the truth—hot and swooping in his belly—he hadn’t spoken, yet, not even within himself: thinking about Oh-aew’s body, his body close to Teh’s. Into the receiver he said, now, “You’re so hot. You turn me on, I’m sorry, God, is that okay? Can I, is it okay for me to say—”
“Yes,” came Oh-aew’s voice, quiet, then a breathy: “It’s okay.”
“Okay,” Teh said. “Okay, well . . . you do. Your—mouth.” He breathed out, squeezed his eyes shut—flushed and embarrassed. Turned on. “Your,” he started, quiet. “Your ass.”
Oh-aew didn’t say anything, but he was breathing. Close to the receiver, shuffling. Teh swallowed, continued, “And, and when I felt—you, on the boat, that, that you were hard, because of, how I touched you, I—”
“Teh,” Oh-aew said, voice rough, dry. “Teh Stop talking.”
Teh said, “Okay.” And, body tight, hand almost there—hovering over himself, “Should I, I’m sorry, do you want me to hang up, I—”
“No,” Oh-aew said. The rustle on the other end got louder, and Oh-aew huffed, and something that sounded like movement. Then, “Ah, don’t hang up, ah—just—”
Teh muffled a groan, palmed himself, rolled into the mattress: pressed his hips down, feeling young and dumb and out of his mind. “Oh-aew,” he said, and Oh-aew answered: “Teh, Teh,” and Teh said, “Sweetheart, ah,” and Oh-aew said nothing in the form of words for the rest of the call.
★
Oh-aew was coming down the jetty when Teh’s boat arrived. He seemed flushed, gaze skittering from Teh and away. He was wearing that Henley, those shorts, and he looked soft, puffed from the early morning. Teh’s heart rolled and rolled and swooped. A gust of a breeze caught at them, and carried Oh over in parts: the smell of him a step ahead of the rest of him. Coconut soap, but stronger, today, like he’d bathed in it. Like he’d steeped himself in it.
Teh went for dramatics: fell to his knees on the wooden slats, grabbed at his heart, feigned a heart attack. Oh looked embarrassed, and pleased, gestured for Teh to get up and instead Teh grabbed him by the hips, cried, “Too much! You’re too much!”
Oh put a hand to his hair, said, “Everyone is watching Teh, come on, get up.”
“I can’t!” Teh said, and pressed his face to Oh-aew’s stomach “I’m slayed, I’m done, you smell so good.”
Oh-aew’s hands were in his hair, carding for a soothing moment, then pulling—at the back of his neck, shoulders. “Oh my God come up here,” he mumbled, and laughed. Teh felt the laugh in Oh’s belly. “You’re embarrassing, come here.”
Teh went, then. He let Oh-aew fix him as he wanted: his hair, his shirt. Teh said, “Boyfriend,” and Oh-aew put his hand over Teh’s mouth and said, “Your mouth is trouble.” Teh nipped at the skin, at the meat of Oh-aew’s palm.
“Ugh,” Oh said, and led them down to the beach.
“What are we doing,” Teh asked, letting himself be led.
“I don’t know,” Oh-aew said, and sounded funny and angry about it. “I don’t know!”
What they ended up doing was nothing much: lying down on the beach, in the sand, shoulders pressed. They talked a little. Something Mod had sent in the group chat, something Philip said he’d try out for. The swim team, something. Then Teh asked about Bas, asked, “So how’s Bas?”, and Oh-aew gave him a face, a knowing sneer kind of thing, said, “Are you just asking to act jealous?” and Teh said, “Well what if I am?” and Oh-aew mimicked him, voice silly: “Well what if I am?”
Teh rolled and laid over him, right over him. He put his face in Oh-aew’s throat, hands in the sand. Oh-aew shuddered, wrapped his arms around Teh. A hand into his hair, the other down his spine. Teh said, “Did you get far, with Bas?”
“Far,” he said it on a huff. “Like we’re taking a walk. Like we took a hike or something.”
Teh stayed quiet and didn’t push. He felt at the fast beat of Oh-aew’s heart, a drum against his lips. Oh then said, “No, we didn’t. We held hands. Kissed a few times. He was very careful. He wasn’t as—” A tense moment, and Oh-aew looked for the words, ended with: “Not as, um, eager.”
Teh pushed off an inch, looked down at Oh-aew. So close he was almost blurry. Teh said, “I can ease off, you know. If you need, if you want some more—”
Oh-aew shook his head. He was blushing. “I like it,” he said, quiet. “I like it that you . . .”
Teh licked his lips. They felt sore, still, from yesterday. He lowered himself back to where he’d been: the home that was the hot crook of Oh-aew’s neck.
“Remember,” Oh-aew said, hands back in Teh’s hair. “Remember when you said . . . How you might not always like me, like this?”
The memory made Teh want to weep. Oh-aew had grabbed at him, that day, had asked him, what did I do wrong, what did I do, you feel it too, you feel it—
He nodded, not lifting his head. Oh-aew’s hands stilled. “Do you,” he said, voice cracking. “Well do you still feel that way?”
“Oh-aew,” Teh said, a name hitched on a breath. “Oh-aew,” he said, and lifted only to speak to the curve of Oh-aew’s jaw. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to die wanting you, so. Yeah.” He felt grand and dramatic, saying as much, but he felt it, and was terrified for it at the same time: maybe there was a truth to it, maybe he was horny, maybe he’d stop being horny eventually and then everything would shift, and Oh-aew would be broken, and it’d be his fault again. But—impossible, his mind provided on a loop, again and again: impossible, impossible, couldn’t imagine—ever again, not wanting to be around Oh-aew. Ever again not wanting to be close, to touch, to put his mouth to him.
“Hmm,” Oh-aew said.
“You don’t believe me?”
Oh-aew shrugged, and Teh gasped, offended, pushed off and smiled down, said, “How do I prove it? Tell me and I’ll do it, how do I prove it?”
Oh-aew looked up at him, calm and thoughtful, moved his head like he was thinking. “Mm,” he said, and took Teh’s hands, and put them on his body. His chest. The joke ebbed, just then, and they went a little quiet, a little still.
“Touch you?” Teh asked, voice low.
Oh-aew nodded. Teh breathed through his nose. Touched him. Every time his hands wandered down or up, Oh-aew brought them back: to his chest. He wanted Teh to touch him there, only there. Prove it to you, had been the task. That time in Teh’s bedroom, that bra, that picture.
Teh straddled him proper, shoved up Oh-aew’s Henley, leaned down and rubbed his face to the gentle shape of Oh’s pecs. He kissed the heap of them, the sternum between. Oh-aew arched up, breathed heavier, dragged his short nails to Teh’s nape. Teh put a thumb to a nipple, put his mouth to a nipple. His tongue. Oh-aew gave a soft, “Ah!”, and Teh did it again: more open, wetter. He sucked, and was distantly embarrassed for it, though Oh-aew didn’t seem to mind—knees coming up, hips jerking. Teh nipped at the muscle in parting, and moved to the other nipple, and said to it, “Hello, perfect,” and it was: dusky and peaked, skin around it flushed with arousal.
Oh-aew snapped a little, then, moved up into it and all at once twisted, too, not away but restlessly. He took one of Teh’s hands and pushed it down, over his shorts, placed Teh’s palm over the hard shape of him: touch me here now, he was asking, and Teh did: unsure how exactly, how perfectly, but he did all the same. Squeezed at Oh, felt him twitch in his hand, let his teeth graze the edge of his nipple, and he thought suddenly Oh-aew was going to come now: under him, in his hand. That made him wild, too, shifting closer, wanting to grind, to rut. He was about to do something, anything, say something, ask maybe, and then noises from down the beach—a family. A dog barking.
“Fuck fuck,” Oh-aew panted, pushed Teh off. “Agh fuck, no, fuck,” and got them both sitting. Teh was stunned, frozen in his lust. The family was coming down the beach. Oh slumped, hid his face in Teh’s chest for a moment, breathing hard. Then, with a decisive puff,
“Fine. Breakfast time, anyway.”
Teh watched him rise to his feet, dazed. “I’m not hungry,” he said.
Oh-aew said, “Well, bully for you, we’re still going to eat,” and wouldn’t catch his eye. Offered Teh a hand, but couldn’t look at him. He was so very pink, so very flushed. He didn’t let go of Teh hand all the way up to the main house. When Teh squeezed at the hold, he squeezed back, a twist of a smile at his mouth.
Oh-aew was heating up some leftovers from the kitchens. Teh watched him about the kitchen, said, “You know I haven’t kissed you yet, today,” and Oh-aew’s back of a neck was also red, now, and he said, “Well we’re going to eat now, so you’ll have to, you’ll just have to . . .”
Teh pushed their chairs so close together they were almost sitting on top of each other. Oh-aew didn’t say anything about it. Teh kept an arm around the back of Oh-aew’s chair, leaned into his shoulder, asked for bites of what he was having, which Oh-aew said, “It’s exactly what you’re having,” and Teh said, “Ah but I want yours, come on, a bite, pleaaase,” and Oh-aew fed him a bite. Teh kept close, and chewed, and swallowed, and then put Oh-aew’s cutlery down for him, and kissed him. Oh tried to say into it, “Gross, Teh, food, the food,” and Teh said, “Whatever,” because it was: whatever. He wanted to kiss Oh-aew, and the rest was whatever.
It was good like that, for a while. Murmured little phrases: I missed you, I didn’t sleep last night, all I thought of, all I thought of—
But then Teh pulled Oh-aew half into his lap, the arm from around his shoulders now around his waist, and the kiss turned heated: a makeout, a louder affair. Teh was still reeling from how Oh-aew had moved under him, at the beach. Still reeling from how he’d arched into his mouth. He reached into Oh-aew’s pocket by way of his hip, and that’s how he started touching him again: through the thin fabric of a shorts-pocket. It was hot, and damp, and Oh-aew went boneless against him: his kiss stuttering, mouth falling open. Teh mouthed at his neck, instead, held Oh-aew’s hard cock through his pocket, pawed at it: the angle was useless, and awkward, but he didn’t care as long as he didn’t have to stop.
“Stop,” Oh-aew said, huffed, groaned. “Stop, stop, not here, oh my God, just—”
“Where?” Teh almost sobbed, almost cried at it. “Where, Oh, where can we, I’m going—to lose my mind, I swear, I just want to—”
One of the chairs fell over when they got out of them, when Oh-aew said, “Fuck, yes, alright,” and dragged Teh out of the kitchen again. Teh imagined a life of this: being dragged along from space to space by Oh-aew, always getting interrupted, never getting to stay. He sobbed, actually sobbed this time, hid it with a laugh. Oh-aew gave him a look that was meant to be bewildered but was only hot: dark eyed, mouth swollen, red. Oh-aew crowded against him in the nook under the stairs, between broken chairs and old paintings, kissed him. Pulled at him. Rolled up against him.
“Sweetheart,” Teh said, and, “What do you want?” And Oh-aew said against his mouth: “I don’t know, anything, you, I can’t think, just, please,” and so it happened like this: Oh-aew turned around to brace his hands against the under-slope of the stairs, Teh’s hips pressed hard and close against his ass, Teh thumbing open the button of his shorts, unzipping him, getting his hands on Oh-aew at an angle he could understand. This, he knew how to do: how to keep his grip tight, and fast, how to twist, or slow down, or put his thumb to the right place. Oh-aew was real, in his hand, hot and leaking and twitching at each move. It was real, and happening, going at high speed now: Oh-aew was gasping, grinding up into Teh’s hand, grinding down against his lap, saying Teh’s name—trying to keep his lips pressed closed. Trying not to make too much sound. It didn’t matter if he did: the soft slapping noise, the squelching of it, it was clear was it was. But the house was empty, and quiet, and no one was around.
Oh-aew was holding on to him now, one hand behind him, pulling Teh closer. Teh said against his ear, “Are you gonna, babe, are you gonna,” and kissed his ear, his neck, and Oh-aew did: with a long nghh, high in his chest, face twisted in a frown—teeth set into his bottom lip. It was a lot, and it went on. Teh said, “Yeah, yeah that’s it,” and tried to keep it in his hand, letting it drip over Oh-aew’s skin.
First time, Teh thought, and clocked it in: the fall of the light, the hour, the smell of Oh-aew’s hair, the weight of him where he slumped back against Teh’s chest.
★
Teh washed his hands and stayed in the bathroom longer than necessary, leaned over the sink, staring at the drain. Oh-aew had rubbed him over his slacks until he came, shuddering, almost losing his footing. Oh-aew had kissed him a long time. Oh-aew fixed his hair how he liked it. Then he’d said, “Bathroom is there,” and Teh went, as told, bleary-headed, cotton in his ears.
Oh-aew was waiting for him outside the door, arms crossed. He’d changed shorts. There was something challenging about him, and he asked Teh: “So how about now, then?”
“How about now what?”
“Well do you still,” Oh-aew started, didn’t finish his thought. He glanced sideways, up. He was asking if Teh still wanted him. He was checking, now that they’d—now that they’d—
He said, “Oh-aew, my God,” and held his crossed arms by his elbows, ducked close. Kissed him on the mouth, once, twice. “Yes, I still, what the fuck, yes,” and kissed him until Oh-aew melted, a little. Until he uncrossed his arms. Until he wrapped them around Teh’s neck, kissed him back.
The day unspooled in fragments, off-kilter, heat-drenched: a swim, a nap on the beach, shaved ice, kissing syrup from Oh-aew’s cold mouth. Oh-aew taking pictures of him, and more pictures of him, and Teh getting embarrassed over them and Oh-aew saying, “They’re for me, just for me, okay, I won’t post these. Look how good you look, though, look at this one.” And Teh looked, and looked away, and instead lighly bit at Oh-aew’s shoulder, over the fabric of his shirt. Then: Oh-aew’s parents, either knowing or oblivious but kind all the same; Teh calling mom to say he wasn’t sleeping home that night, Oh-aew showing him the guest room, Teh saying, “Let me sleep with you baby, come on, I want to sleep with you,” and Oh-aew saying: “I won’t sleep and I’m exhausted and you know we won’t sleep.” Teh groaned at that, fell to his knees again. Put his face to Oh-aew’s stomach, again. “I know,” he said. “You’re right, I know, aaghh.”
They watched a movie in Oh-aew’s room, sat on the floor, leaned back against the fame of his bed. Oh-aew posted a story about it, a glittering filter, him draped over Teh, mouth to his shoulder. “Is that okay?” he asked, showed Teh, and Teh nodded, kissed him between the eyebrows.
But then five minutes into the opening sequence Oh-aew decided he was going to sit between Teh’s legs, instead. And Teh had burrowed a t-shirt and some underwear and his legs were bare, and Oh-aew’s long fingers were light on his knees, his thighs, and the movie was lost: Teh wrapped his arms around him, rocked him a little, said, “Baby, baby,” into Oh-aew’s neck like he was tortured. Like he was in pain. Oh-aew tilted up for a kiss, which Teh granted, of course he did. On the screen a dramatic scene was playing out. Oh-aew requested, into his mouth, “Call me boyfriend again.”
“Boyfriend,” Teh said, panted. Pulled him closer, hitched himself closer. “My boyfriend, my beautiful boyfriend,” and Oh-aew whined a little, keened a little. He brought Teh off like that: grinding into his lap, sucking on two of Teh’s fingers like some outlandish promise, like something Teh couldn’t even—hadn’t even—
After, when they’d calmed again—put the movie on pause, for a second, went to clean, for a second—Oh-aew returned them to their starting positions: sat against the bed frame, Oh-aew leaned against Teh’s shoulder.
“And now?” he said, soft. “How about now?”
Teh puffed a laugh, squeezed at his waist, said, “Aiyah, will you ask every time?”
Oh-aew shrugged. Teh breathed in, sighed out. Said, “Yes, still. Very much, still.”
Oh-aew nodded. They started the movie from the beginning again. Oh-aew fell asleep almost immediately, and Teh still got nothing of the storyline: he kept looking down at Oh-aew’s face, slack and pink-cheeked. His heart felt very small, just then, and then very big, pinching in on itself, a dull ache.
He couldn’t sleep in the room next door. He couldn’t sleep, and couldn’t sleep, missed Oh-aew like a limb. How had he made it a month without him, how had he made it years? He felt dramatic, and maybe something like ill, like it couldn’t be very good, to feel this much, to be this—this hapless, this restless. But he still left his bed, around 2 in the morning. He still went to Oh-aew’s room. Oh was fast asleep, a warm unmoving heap of sheets. Teh came to him, shuffled under fabric, curled around him. Oh-aew half awoke, said, “Mm? Teh?”, and Teh said, “Sorry, go back to sleep, sorry,” and Oh-aew cuddled back into him with a sigh and a hum. Teh thought he’d cry. He didn’t, but he thought he’d cry.
★
The date had been set for weeks, Hoon’s present to their mom: a weekend away, a hotel in the city, a chance to visit some of the family again. Teh was miserable throughout it: on the train, on the bus, in the hotel, during the tour. He texted Oh-aew throughout, texted, Miss you sooooooo much, texted, come get me please, texted, waaahhh where’s my Oh-aew kisses I need them, and Oh-aew replied: u can do it!!!! 2 days!!! ur strong and brave!!!
I can’t and I’m not :( had been Teh’s reply, to which Oh-aew replied with a picture: of himself, in bed, looking sleepy on the pillow, mouth a little open, his tongue a dark glimpse. Teh went to the bathroom and straight-up cried, just cried. Hoon knocked on the door, worried, asked if he was okay, and he called out his declaration: “I want to go back Hoon!”
“What?” said Hoon.
“I want Oh,” he said, and sobbed, and, “I want to go back.”
Hoon said, “Oh, fucking hell, no,” and when was quiet for long enough that Teh said, “Hoon?” but there was no answer. Hoon had walked away. Teh opened the door, wiped at his face, said, “Hoon?” but Hoon had left the hotel room, too.
Teh took a picture of himself, red-eyed, to send it reply. Oh-aew said, crying??? and Teh texted, missing my boyfriend :( and Oh-aew seemed to type and type for a long time before a response came through. It was only: boyfriend misses u too. hurry back, and a kiss emoji, so Teh locked himself back in the bathroom, got into the tub, called Oh-aew and told him about things he wanted to do. Oh-aew didn’t say, okay stop talking now, as he usually did when Teh got verbose and ran his mouth. This time he said, And then what, breathy, swallowing into the receiver. “And then I’ll, I’ll blow you,” Teh told him. “I’ve been, ah, I’ve been thinking about it, a lot, how you’d, if you’d taste, if—”
Oh-aew came to pick him up at the station, and they hugged very tightly for a long time. Teh cried into Oh-aew’s neck. Hoon said, “Are you fucking kidding me, two days,” and their mom said she was going to go get a pastry.
Oh-aew wanted to take him for lunch. Teh said, “Okay,” and was only thinking: I can’t kiss you at lunch. But Oh-aew was upbeat, and happy, fiddling with Teh’s fingers, not touching his food. He was explaining some fall-out between Philip and someone on the swim team, which apparently blew up on social media, too. Teh wasn’t exactly listening. A morose blanket had fallen over him, making him quiet, down-turned.
“Hey,” Oh-aew said. “Hey are you okay?”
“Hm,” Teh said, but then took his fingers from Oh-aew, and excused himself to the bathroom. Oh-aew followed, a moment later, found him washing his face, blotchy and emotional.
“Hey,” he said, and got down to take Teh’s face, get him to look up. “Hey hey, hey what’s wrong, what’s—?”
“I think I’m weird,” Teh said. It came out in a rush. “Or messed up, or, I think—”
“What, what happened, Teh, what—?”
“I’m no—all I—” He puffed some air between them. His face was still wet. “I’m obsessed, or . . . All I think about is you, when you’re not there, but also even when you’re there and I can’t even, I can’t, breathe, sometimes, God, this can’t be okay, right, Oh-aew? This isn’t normal, right? Most people can, they can—”
“Oh, Teh” Oh-aew said, then laughed: a small, voiceless thing. He wiped at Teh’s face with his sleeve, said, “Teh, ah, I missed you too, I missed you too, don’t cry about it, oh my God, don’t, come here, you big baby, come here—”
He took Oh-aew home, that evening. Hoon gave them a suffering look when they came in holding hands, shoulders close, and mumbled something about going to visit a friend. About being home for dinner. Mom asked Oh-aew if he was hungry, or wanted anything to eat, and Teh said, “Mom we just ate, we just came from lunch,” and his mom said, “Okay well you tell me when you change your mind!!” and Teh said, “Okay bye!!” and took Oh-aew upstairs. Got him into his bed, and settled between his legs, and kissed him until his mouth hurt, until Oh-aew said, “Teh, please, anything, just—”
And Teh made him hold the sheet up over the both of them, crawled down Oh-aew’s body. Pushed down his shorts, his underwear. Pressed his face to Oh-aew’s cock, rubbed against it. Put his mouth on it. He didn’t know what to do, how, and so he did whatever he could think of. It was enough. It was good. Oh-aew had to stuff the pillow into his mouth to keep himself from shouting out.
Mom made up the couch for Oh-aew, which Teh witnessed with a sad surrender: of course, like this. What else, than like this. Hoon had come home for dinner. Teh had left the bedroom windows open, left a stick of incense burning, had changed the sheets.
“I don’t want to know,” Hoon said, as they were getting ready for bed. “I’m like, super happy for you but. I don’t want to know.”
“Cool, yeah,” Teh said, goofy now. “Yeah.”
He still waited until Hoon was asleep, until the house and turned down for the night, to go downstairs and lie down on the carpet next to the couch, looking up at Oh-aew in the low light of the living room.
“So,” Oh-aew said. He had half his face in the pillow, had a cheeky sort of smile in the dark. “Still?” His arm came out from under the sheets. He let his hand hang, his long fingers—hang. Teh took it, kissed it. Said, “Yeah. Yeah, still.”
★
Teh wanted to watch him shower. Oh-aew said, “No it’s embarrassing, why,” and Teh said, “Because I want to,” said, “I still haven’t seen you, come on,” and Oh-aew said, “Of course you’ve seen me, what are you talking about,” and Teh said: “All of you. All of you.”
So Oh-aew let Teh watch him shower. At Oh-aew’s place, the en-suite to his bedroom. Teh sat on the down-turned toilet lid, head lolling against the wall, turned-on but languid, happy. “You’re so hot,” he told Oh-aew. “Like it’s stupid, how hot you are.”
Oh-aew looked at him over his shoulder, wet and shining and perfect. “Ugh you have a dumb mouth,” he said. “You always say such . . .”
“What? I say what?”
Oh-aew held his face to the stream. Came out of it with a long breath, said, “Well then are you joining or is this a free show?”
“Joining?” Teh said. “In the shower?”
“No, on the football field. Yes in the shower, come on, come on, before I—”
They couldn’t both be under the hot water at the same time, so Teh sacrificed himself: let himself be pushed up against the tiled wall, let the full naked length of Oh-aew’s body warm him as best it could.
“Still?” Oh-aew asked, later that day. They were in the hammock, had been half asleep, had been half making plans for Bangkok, for next year. The foods they’d eat, the placed they’d go.
“Desperately,” was Teh’s answer.
Oh-aew took a breath so deep his entire chest expanded, pressing against Teh’s.
★
Oh-aew got them a day in one of the rooms at the resort. He’d made a deal with one of the managers, he said. As long as they didn’t make too big of a mess, and would bring the key back, and never, ever, ever tell Oh-aew’s parents that he’d agreed to this.
“And what are we gonna do in this room?” Teh asked, keeping Oh-aew close, arms looped around his waist. “Hmm?”
“Study, probably,” Oh-aew said. Put his lips under Teh’s jaw, the soft skin there. “Tutor me, probably.”
“Good, good,” Teh said. “Such a studious boy.”
“Mmm,” Oh-aew said. “Very.”
The bedroom looked like the bedroom they stayed at that one time, the whole group at the resort. The bed looked like the bed Teh had slept in, and looked like the bed Oh-aew had slept in, too, next to Bas. Teh made a show out of it, flopped down and said, “Is this where Bas slept, on this side? Which side did you sleep, show me, show me.” Oh-aew told him, rolling his eyes, a crooked smile, indulgent.
Teh got in the bed under the sheets, still in his slacks, socks off. He pretended to be asleep. “Is this how he slept? Like this?” he asked Oh-aew. Oh was on top of the sheets next to him, laughing quietly.
“Yes,” Oh-aew said. “Exactly like that. Spitting image.”
Teh opened his eyes. “Did you kiss? That night?”
“No, you know we didn’t,” Oh-aew said. Then, beat later: “I went with you. You gave me the flower, remember. And I told you I liked you.”
Teh swallowed. “But did you want to kiss him?”
“I wanted you, Teh,” he said. He was fiddling with the strings of his joggers.
“What if . . .” Teh started. Licked his lips. Continued, “What if we’d have shared a room that night. Would you have . . . Do you think you would’ve . . .”
“Kissed you?” Oh-aew looked down at him. He seemed intent, now.
Teh said, “Yeah.”
“Hmm,” Oh-aew said. “Maybe.”
“How,” Teh asked. “How would’ve . . .”
Oh-aew considered this, for a moment. Then— “Close your eyes,” he said, quiet. Teh did. “Pretend you’re asleep,” Oh-aew added, and Teh—did. He lied there, unmoving, for a long while. Then: Oh-aew’s face, hovering close. The heat of him. His mouth, close, breath on Teh’s lips. When the kiss came, it was feather-light: a dry touch of a thing, a shivering press. A small peck of a sound.
Teh parted his lips, breathed in. A second kiss. He was blushing. He wasn’t sure why: they’d done so much more than this, so much more embarrassing things than this. But still, his face heated, a boiling drip down his spine, a pooling in his gut.
Oh-aew whispered, “Teh,” against his mouth. Whispered, “Teh, wake up.”
Teh opened his eyes. Oh-aew was blurry, too close: an extension of Teh’s very heart, pulled outside his body.
Oh-aew made them put down two towels, just in case. He’d ordered the lube online. He said, “I don’t want to, all the way, but I want to, other things, I want to try, I want to . . .”
He said he wanted to wait with the serious stuff until later. Until university, until Bangkok, and Teh said, “So the stuff we’ve been doing so far wasn’t the serious stuff?” and Oh-aew said, “You know what I mean, God, don’t make me say it,” and Teh didn’t want him embarrassed, didn’t want him annoyed: so he kissed him all over his face and said: “Anything you want baby, anything, anything.”
Oh-aew wanted Teh’s fingers, slick and deep, which he then got. Oh-aew wanted Teh to talk him through it, tell him how it felt, how it looked—which he then got. Oh-aew came within seconds, Teh’s other hand wet and warm around his cock, working him at the same speed. He was loud, very loud, louder than he’d been before and when he flopped down on the mattress he said, “Fuck oh my fuck, fuck, that, was, that was—”
“The two towels,” Teh said, panted, “the two towels was a good idea.”
Oh-aew pushed him down onto his back and sucked him so slow, so very slow, that Teh cried at the end, shuddering into surrender, hands up over his head, holding on to the headboard. “Unreal,” he told Oh-aew. “Unreal, unreal.”
Oh-aew crawled back up, wiping his face on Teh’s chest, kissing his pecs, his nipples, his neck. “So?” he said, to the corner of Teh’s mouth. “Still?”
Teh kissed him deep, sucking his tongue into his mouth. “Always,” he said, hands spread over Oh-aew’s waist. “Always always always.”
★
It escalated and for once Teh had no blame in it. Well, almost no blame. Close to no blame. It was only that—only that Oh-aew knew what he liked best, now. He knew how close he wanted Teh, and how he liked Teh’s fingers, and where, and how he liked to suck on something, too, how he liked to be told he was good, and doing so well, and beautiful: “So gorgeous, so sexy, fuck, look at you, taking my fingers so well baby, aren’t you, perfect, so perfect, I’m so hard, come on, come on, come—”
So Oh-aew knew what he wanted now, and so he wanted it often: whenever Teh could give it to him, whenever was appropriate. Also when it was inappropriate: in the guest bathroom at Kai’s, behind a secluded stand of trees at the resort, once—almost on the boat. Once—almost in a public bathroom at their favourite restaurant. Unacceptable, Teh thought, flushing deep and pleased at the memory.
And that’s how it escalated, one late afternoon, some handful of weeks toward the end of summer: a hotel room. A proper hotel room, on the mainland near the beach. Oh-aew had booked it, a surprise, a gift: Teh had laughed very, very loudly and said, “A gift for yourself, you mean!” and Oh-aew had got a little upset, at that. So Teh had said, “I’m joking I’m joking I love it, I can’t wait, holy shit are you kidding me, of course.”
So that’s how it escalated: after a long day of fooling around, of grinding slow and languid, after Teh’s fingers felt sore and bruised from how long they’d been in Oh-aew—how long Oh had wanted them inside of him. They were sweaty and a little beside themselves, shaky, muddled, naked—on their sides, Oh-aew’s back to Teh’s chest. Teh was hard against the slick swell of Oh-aew’s ass, grinding, and they were making a story: what if this was their apartment in Bangkok, and Teh had just come home, and found Oh-aew in their bed, and—
“—You’re already open, fuck, for me, already, you’ve been waiting all day, and all I, all I have to do is just, fuck, fuck, Oh-aew, Oh, Oh—”
Oh-aew was reaching behind him, taking Teh’s cock in hand, pressing the head against himself, moving against it—teasing himself. Teh was sweating full on, now, couldn’t keep his eyes open, was saying, “Baby, what, what are you,” and Teh said, breathy, “Just—just the tip, that’s okay, right, just—”
He did it himself. Teh was gasping at air, not even breathing but gasping: rasping in, out. His grip was a vice at Oh-aew’s hips. It would bruise, tomorrow. Oh-aew whined, and arched, and it wasn’t just the tip, soon: they were fucking, Oh-aew controlling the pace, the depth, Teh holding on for dear life.
“Touch me,” Oh-aew managed, voice raw, taking one of Teh’s hands and guiding it: over his body, his chest, his stomach, lower. He was so hot, so scorching hot, inside and out. Teh wouldn’t last, he thought, not a single second. And then a second passed and he was still there, still inside Oh-aew, and Oh-aew turned his face to breathe open against Teh’s mouth—not a kiss, not coordinated enough for a kiss. He said, “I’m gonna, I’m gonne come, Teh, Teh,” and Teh pushed them both to their knees and it took one thrust and it was done: Oh-aew pushing back against him, whining, shuddering. Teh followed quickly, and it was messy, so messy, inside Oh-aew and on his thighs, the bed, the sheets.
They collapsed. They’d left the tv on mute. It flashed from scene to scene, bright colours in the room. Teh said, “Holy shit, holy shit Oh-aew,” and Oh-aew sobbed a laugh and said, “Sorry, oh, God, fuck, Teh, I didn’t, I didn’t—”
“It was so good,” Teh told him, and pawed at him. “So good, Oh-aew, so good, so good, so—” He tugged at Oh-aew until he turned, until Teh could kiss him: his face, his mouth. His ribs, his soft belly.
Oh-aew said, “I’m going to,” and was still catching his breath. Paused. “I’m going to wash myself.”
He got out of bed and walked to the bathroom ungainly, a pain to his step. Teh watched him go, a terror of fear and love in his throat. He waited, a moment, then followed. Knocked on the door, asked to come in. It took a while, for Oh-aew to open for him. Absurdly, he’d wrapped himself in a towel: some modicum of modesty. His chin was trembling. He was going to cry.
“Oh no,” Teh said, and took his face, and kissed it. “Oh no baby, no, what is it, do you, does it hurt, tell me, I’m sorry, oh sweetheart, I—I—”
Oh-aew shook his head. Hid it in Teh’s neck. He was shaking, and Teh rubbed his back, over and over. His heart was still within his chest: holding breath, terrified. Oh-aew said: “I didn’t,” and, “I didn’t mean to—and then we . . . I wanted to wait. But it was so good.”
And then he was crying. Teh, unsure, relieved and confused and stuck between the two, said, “Okay,” said, “Okay so it was good? So that’s—Baby, why are you crying? If it was good?”
Oh-aew pressed his face into Teh’s sternum, holding the towel together at his chest. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know.”
“Shh,” Teh said, “shh, it’s okay, it’s okay. You can cry, it’s fine. Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah. You cry and we get you cleaned up.”
They got him cleaned up—the both of them. Oh-aew was shy about it, which Teh felt was a moot point, at this stage: “I’ve seen it all, are you kidding me, what part of you haven’t I seen, pff.”
“But still,” Oh-aew said, pouting, tired from weeping. Teh had him stand under the hot shower, wiping a wet towel over his body, over all of him. Oh-aew hissed, once or twice, and Teh kissed him, once or twice. Each time he said, “Sorry. Sorry.”
They got back in the sweaty bed. Sleepy, Oh-aew said: “Teh. Still?”
“So much,” Teh said to the spot under his ear. “More than anything.”
“Mm,” Oh-aew said. Teh swallowed. Held him close. Asked,
“And you?”
“Hmm?”
“And you?” he repeated. Kept his eyes down. “For me?”
“Oh,” Oh-aew said, more awake now. “Oh, Teh.” He put their faces close together: nose to nose, mouth to mouth. He whispered, so quiet it was barely there: “You know this, right? I’m yours, you’re, my heart—” He broke over the word, and didn’t finish the thought, so to fill the blanks they kissed. Teh’s pulse thudded in his ears, in his fingers, his lips. I love you, he thought, I love you I love you I love you, and didn’t say it. They slept, and woke up again, Oh-aew restless and randy against him: he wanted to fuck again, said the word fuck into Teh’s mouth, and Teh’s mind was a blank canvass, his body a wave crashing at Oh-aew’s shore. So they fucked, and it was just as messy, just as good, a euphoria that made Teh start to babble, rant, saying, “Can I—stay here, fuck, fuck, can I—inside you, God, I want, I want to always—”
Their check-out was at noon. Teh had the bike, and drove them down to the docks. Oh-aew was promised back home tonight. He was careful of bumps in the road, careful not to go too fast. Oh-aew wrapped so close behind him there wasn’t any air between them: arms and legs and hips, tight-tight together.
When the boat came, Teh said, serious as anything: “This is the worst moment of my life.”
Oh-aew agreed, earnest and sad. Teh put his suitcase in the boat for him, unnecessarily. It was light as anything. Oh-aew was by one of the boat’s open windows and Teh on the docks on the other side of that window and Teh said, by way of goodbye, “Well I guess I’m super in love with you or something, so, yeah, okay.” He stared at the water through the slats of wood. Lapping, lapping.
“Terrible,” Oh-aew said, and his laugh sounded more like a cry. He wiped at his face. “Three out of ten, bad attempt, try again.”
He looked at Oh-aew. His shiny eyes, his dear face. The purpling love bite on his collar. He leaned in, quick, whispered to his ear: a secret, he said, as Oh-aew once had, in his wooden, school-taught Mandarin. And then, the secret itself: love, he said. They’d practiced that word together, Oh-aew had written it over and over in his book: love, love, love, love.
Oh-aew smiled: a small, true thing. He nodded, said, “Okay. I accept.”
“Good. I’m glad. You were the seller’s preferred option.”
“Preferred option?” Oh-aew gave him a look. “Were there many buyers, then?”
“Mm,” Teh said, grinning with his mouth closed. He was hollow and full all at once. The boat began to rumble, and edge away from the docks. They held hands until they couldn’t. Oh-aew held on to the boat’s ledge, called out:
“Teh! Still?”
“Forever!” Teh called back. And then again, louder, cupping his hands to his mouth—wanting it to echo over everything and everyone: “Forever! Forever!”