Work Text:
October 14th 2022
Little Shariya wanders around the large monument, looking for her mother. She had come here hand in hand with her mother and now, she is standing in the middle of grown people, lost. However, Shariya is a brave girl, she will not cry at the loss of her mother.
Shariya decides to look for her, walking past the crowd in search of her pretty mother with a nice skirt and a pink blouse. She wonders why there are many people here today, holding garlands and sniffling tears as they stared at the concrete cone. What was so special about today?
As Shariya tries to escape from the suffocating crowd, she finds herself on the opposite side of the memorial, void of any tourists and visitors. Shariya grows more afraid. Her mother had always told her to not stay in quiet and lonely places. Her eyes scan the memorial along with the buzzing of the crowd a few meters away from her.
Soon enough, she finds that she is not alone; an old man sits a few steps away from the monument, eyes fixed on his hands. His head had been lowered; Shariya could not see his face. Still, he looked like a grandpa that would help her get to her mother.
Shariya walks over to where the grandpa sat by the bench, and peeks over his shoulder to see what he was looking at. It was a picture. Shariya had only seen those in her mother’s phone; clear, colourful and virtual. The picture in the old man’s hand was black and white, crumpled and unclear at all. Shariya taps him on his shoulder to gain his attention.
The old man turns around, raising his eyebrow at the little girl who smiles sheepishly at him. “I lost my mother,” she begins. “Can you find her, grandpa?”
The old man sighs, tired and exhausted. “I wish I can, sweetheart. But I am so old, I cannot walk so far,” he smiles. “Why don’t you sit with grandpa while we wait for your mother?”
That sounds like a better idea, Shariya thinks. She had been too tired to walk too.
Little Shariya listens to the old man and scurries to sit next to him on the wooden bench. The old man continues his gazing at the old picture. Shariya peeks at the picture next to him again. She notices two boys, smiling brightly; one, at the camera while another smiling at the other boy. Shariya wonders why the grandpa would be looking at picture where one of them wasn’t even looking at the camera.
“He’s not looking at the camera. It’s a bad picture,” Shariya points out.
“Hm?” the old man turns to the girl, and follows where she is pointing. He laughs, throaty and long. “That’s because he didn’t know his picture was being taken,”
“Is that you, grandpa?”
The old man shakes his head with a smile. He points to the other boy that had his arm around his shoulder, smiling widely at the camera until his eyes became smaller. Shariya giggles.
“This is me,” he says. “I was a police man back then,”
Shariya gasps in awe. “Woah,” she says. “Did you have guns and all?”
He tries not to get too affected by the harmless question the little girl asks and maintains his composure; smiling and nodding for her. Shariya points to the other boy, eyes wide.
“Is he a police man too?”
He shakes his head. “He.. was a very intelligent man,”
“A doctor then?”
The old man shakes his head again. “We were both very young. He was still studying,”
Shariya looks around the memorial, as if finding for someone. She turns back to the old man, a frown on her face. “Where is he now?” she asks.
The old man could only smile sadly. “Would you like to hear a story, my dear?”
22nd August 1973
“This is the police, hands up in the air,”
Pat stands next to his team leader, baton in hand as they prepare for any sort of violence that may happen. He doubts it would. They were dealing with college students; children who had just gotten the taste of adulthood.
They had been tipped off on a group of young protestors that have been lurking around the streets of Pattaya, pasting handwritten posters that oppose the government. His team had gotten information that the college students gather around at an abandoned bookstore every night past the curfew to write these posters and prepare for a rally.
There is a collective sound of curses and murmurs from the college students as they raise their hands in surrender. Korn, his team leader, turns around and gives Pat and his members permission to handcuff each of the students.
“You can’t arrest us,” one student speaks up. “We did nothing wrong,”
Korn clicks his tongue, glaring at his team to speed up. He had no time to deal with a bunch of kids. “You are all opposing the government with your smart mouths. Don’t give me that look,” he snaps.
“How much longer do you want us to live in fear? We-
“Don’t say anything,” Pat whispers to the boy he cuffs. “Anything you say can be used against you. Just stay quiet,”
Before anyone could anticipate anything, one of the students tackles a policeman, choking him in his arms before stealing the baton he had held. By then, all hell broke loose and Pat is being elbowed in the nose by another. The stolen baton is used to break the windows as they all run to escape.
Korn curses yet again. “It’s past the curfew, we can’t make a fuss out of this,” Korn turns to Pat. “Pat, you go catch the leader behind this. The others, search this place for any clues on their plans,”
Pat doesn’t waste time and immediately jumps through the broken window to catch the students. They cannot run fast or loudly, given the curfew that had just begun. Fortunately or unfortunately, it is an advantage for Pat who is able to find the youngsters that could not have gone far.
There are soldiers walking around the empty streets, equipped with large guns in their hands. Even a police like Pat was not allowed to walk the streets after the curfew. As he runs, hidden behind the walls and buildings, Pat catches many of the students, but none of them seem to be the leader he had been looking for.
He runs further, further until he reaches the heart of the street where many soldiers are positioned there. Their leader should be hiding anywhere here. As he trudges among the narrow alleys, Pat catches glimpses midnight black hair, hidden among a pile of carboard boxes.
He hides further, waiting to see if that was the leader. A hand emerges from the piles of boxes, motioning for the other hidden students to run away. Pat smirks. “Found you,” he whispers to himself.
Before he can advance on the hidden leader, Pat jumps at the sound of gunshots and cries of pain. He peeks from his hiding spot, cursing at the sight of the few students he had found, lying on the ground in a pool of their own blood.
Pat knew what this meant when he catches the wide eyes of their leader, already preparing to run for to their rescue. He sprints to wear their leader hides, ready to jump out and grips the elbow of the boy.
He turns around, eyes glassy with unshed tears, but filled to the brim with anger at Pat for stopping him. His free hand is raised to swing at Pat who easily catches it with his other hand. “Let me-
The boy thrashes and hisses in pain when Pat grabs both his wrists in one hand and folds them behind his back. Pat shushes at him to stay quiet when he hears the loud and angry orders of the soldiers to search the place for any intruders.
“Let me go,” the leader protests. Pat gives him a glare enough to silence him before he pulls the boy further into the dark alley in hopes that no soldier will come searching for them. The leader starts to squirm in his hand again, pushing and pulling himself away.
As they fight for dominance, the boy accidentally kicks an empty box that falls to the ground with a loud thump. They look at each other with wide eyes. Pat doesn’t waste more time and pulls the boy behind a dusty and old building, slapping his free hand over his mouth.
“Go check there, I heard noises,”
The leader grunts under Pat’s hand, thrashing again. Pat presses his hand harder against his lips, glaring at the boy’s angry eyes. “You better keep quiet if you want to live,” Pat hisses.
The two boys stay as quiet as possible, illuminated with only the moonlight. The footsteps grow louder and Pat instinctively presses harder to silence even the heavy breathing that came from the college student. He’s heaving under Pat, gripping his arms tight enough to restrict the blood flow. His eyes, Pat notices, are wide and glassy with long lashes. Pat could see the stars in his eyes.
Before he gets sucked in too deeply with those eyes, the boy in front of him forcefully pushes Pat away. Thanking his quick reflexes, Pat grips at the wall to prevent himself from falling and making more noise. Still, he manages to grab the back of his collar before he runs away.
“Would you rather die from a gunshot or just let me interrogate you for one day?” Pat hisses. “Will you fucking listen?”
“I would rather die than answer your questions,” he snaps back, thrashing against Pat again.
“Who is there?”
Both boys freeze, ears perking up at the direction of the noise. Pat curses, grips the boy in one hand and drags him along the hidden alleys of the building.
“What are you-
The boy tries to yank his grip off again; Pat wraps his hand harder with a glare. “Come with me,” he grits his teeth.
Together they run back to the abandoned bookstore, Pat shielding Pran from the soldiers. They almost reach the broken window and Pat releases the breath he had been holding when he finds the broken glass shining under the moonlight.
“Stop!”
“Go, go!” Pat screams, cursing when he finds a soldier that had already aimed his gun at them. He shields the protestor with his body while he stumbles back inside the building. When Pat knows that the boy in safely hidden inside the building, Pat makes a move to enter-
The gunshots fire away.
A single bullet pierces his bicep, blood splattering all over the window. Pat falls face first on the concrete floor, biting his lips from crying out loud. The first thing he notices in the heaps of pain is the wide eyes over his face, concerned.
“Get up, we have to go,” the student shakes him. Pat can only groan in pain, shaking his head vigorously. Blood is oozing out from his arm as he tries to apply pressure.
The boy above him, Pat watches, rips a part of his shirt to wrap around his arm. Blinded by pain, Pat cries out loudly. This time, the young student slaps a hand over his lips harshly. “Shut up,” he hisses.
The footsteps of the soldiers die slowly, until the coast becomes clear. Pat is still silenced by the hand over his mouth and he is growing tired from the pain of the bullet. The hand over him is removed and then Pat is being moved to lean his back against the wall.
He chuckles to himself. Of course, there is no point of wasting his energy to catch the boy when he is at an advantage. The student is most probably going to run away from him yet again. Unable to speak from the pain, Pat releases a soft groan and slumps his head against the window pane.
“We can’t leave for the night. The curfew has begun,” the boy speaks to him. It takes Pat a while to digest the fact that he was being spoken to.
“Didn’t know you had the brains for that,” Pat croaks. “Given you were the one waiting to throw yourself in front of the gun,”
Pat notices his frown when he comes closer with a medical kit in his arms. “I can leave you here to bleed and die for all I care,” he snaps.
“Why are you not?” Pat retorts.
His actions stop, hands frozen against Pat’s shirtsleeve. Slowly, he ignores the police, and slices off the khaki uniform covering his wound. Pat closes his eyes and allows the boy to treat him.
With skilful hands, the student protestor cleans the blood off his arm and washes it off with antiseptic. Then, he retrieves a pair of tongs from the box, giving Pat a concerned look. “This will hurt. Don’t scream,”
“I can’t assure you, though,”
The boy sighs, looking at Pat as if wondering how he had the audacity to joke. Unless he was actually being serious. He looks down at the bundle of medical supplies and finds a thick roll of bandage. The boy grabs the roll and shoves it in Pat’s mouth before pressing hard in case the roll falls off.
Pat releases a huff of disbelief and before he can make more noises, the boy uses the tongs and pulls the bullet out in one swift movement. Anticipating that the police would scream, the student puts his full force over his mouth as he finishes bandaging him up.
“You,” Pat groans again, too tired to even curse the boy out. “What’s your name?”
“Why must I tell you my name?” the boy retorts as he focuses on wrapping Pat’s arm with a bandage.
Pat shrugs. “I’ll find your name out tomorrow either way,” he responds with a smirk. The smirk soon fades away when the boy purposely presses hard onto his wound. Pat chokes out a gasp, glaring at the boy.
Silence ensues between them as Pat watches the boy clean up and stash the medical kit back into its drawer. Pat lies his head back against the window pane and closes his eyes to rest.
“Why did you stay? You could have run away,” Pat whispers.
“I am not a heartless animal like your kind,” the boy answers, not looking at Pat. “You got shot for me,” his voice softens.
“I didn’t get shot for you, I was just unlucky,” Pat scoffs, looking to the side because he most definitely did get shot for the boy. In his defence, he was protecting the key to their investigation. He clears his throat to hide the blush.
“So you will run away now?”
The boy releases a bitter laugh. “You know my face, there is no point. You’ll just find me tomorrow,”
Pat nods. “Fair point,” he replies. Pat examines his wound, unable to hide the surprise in his face from the neatness. “Judging from how fast you treated me, are you a doctor?”
“Med-
The boy stops himself. “Stop talking to me. I will not give you any information you wish to hear,”
“We have no bad intentions, you know,” Pat answers.
“You work with the government,” he snaps. “We are not on the same page,”
Pat figures that there is no point in trying to strike up a conversation with a boy filled with anger issues. So he decides to go to sleep. Interrogating the boy can be done tomorrow.
“You should get some rest. It’s going to be long hours of interrogating tomorrow,” Pat mumbles. He slides down as slow as possible until he lies on his back, and uses his safer arm to pillow himself.
“Goodnight,”
The boy does not answer him.
“Pran Parakul Siridechawat,”
Pat grins at the boy as he aligns the set of documents on the metal table. “Told you I’d figure your name out soon enough,”
Pran sits on the opposite end of the table in the interrogation room, bound by the handcuffs his officers had fastened on him. Korn had given Pat permission to rest after being shot, but Pat had offered to take matters in his own hands. He wishes to deal with the stubborn student on his own will.
“You lead a group of college students that spread propaganda on how wrong the government is. Am I right?” Pat asks.
Pran remains quiet, opting to not say a word. Pat smiles.
“Listen to me, Pran,” Pat leans forward on the table, hands clasped in front of him as he waited for Pran to get his attention. “I am not going to ask you names, or hurt anyone. Instead, answer me this one question and I will let you go; Why?”
“Why?” Pran echoes, a bitter smile on his face.
Dimples, Pat thinks.
“You’re asking me why I do this?” he repeats. This time, the anger in Pran fills him to the brim as he slams his cuffed hands on the metal table.
“The people are being oppressed. Rich people have the upper hand at ruling the world. They give us the right for education, but immediately silence our cries when it opposes them. People are dying for crimes they never committed. And you ask me why I do this?
“I lost two of my friends in front of my eyes. For what? For nothing,” Pran spat. “We are consulting this problem peacefully. But the government? No, the government is killing its people with the excuse of creating a better place for our country,”
“I am tired of cleaning up after their mistakes. And if my peaceful methods are not sufficient enough, I won’t hesitate to sacrifice my life for the future of my country,”
Pat releases a soft laugh. “So you think the government is killing people, and you writing letters to them will help?”
“When a hungry dog barks long enough, someone will eventually give it the food it has been asking for,” Pran answers.
Pat remains smiling even when he shakes his head. “No, not in this country. When a hungry dog barks long enough, someone will hit it to death. Remember that,”
“Then I’d rather be hit to death than live in a country like this,”
“You are still very young,” Pat softens up. “Don’t make rash decisions. It will ruin your entire bloodline,”
“If you want to be a coward,” Pran snaps. “By all means, go ahead. But do not tell me what to do,”
“If someone else had been here, you would’ve been thrown in jail, Pran,” Pat speaks. “You seem like a good boy. I don’t want to ruin your life,”
“My life is already ruined,” Pran replies. “The problem will not end with my death. I’m not the only one that is protesting. So go ahead and kill me,”
Pat sighs, watching the stubborn eyes look right back at him. “Go,”
The stubborn eyes soften a little and Pran parts his lips in surprise. “What?”
Pat pulls out the keys to the handcuffs and unlocks Pran’s wrists. “There’s no point in killing you. You did nothing wrong,” Pat doesn’t look him in the eye as he speaks. “If anyone asks what happened, tell them we threatened you to spill,”
When he sends Pran on his way, Pat could not help but wonder if those eyes had seen him in a different way other than anger and hatred.
14th September 1973
Things go back to normal again for a few weeks; Protestors increase day by day, the unlucky ones die by the hand of the guns and the others are arrested, either released after a good beating, or just beaten to death.
Pat remains neutral; opting to just finish the work he is given instead of questioning anything too much. Horrible things are happening to this country, and Pat could not afford to break a single rule.
Still he thinks about Pran for the umpteenth time. The young college student had been running through his mind lately, for some unknown reason. Those stubborn eyes, the harsh tone, those dimples and the anger in him. Pat wonders how much brave one would have to be to openly oppose the government with no power whatsoever.
He finally gets the day off after working so hard for weeks and the only thing Pat is going to do is sleep the whole day. That was what he was hoping for, until the godforsaken telephone rings at eleven in the morning, disrupting him from his sleep. Pat groans in annoyance, hugging his pillow tighter in hopes that the ringing would stop. It does for a few minutes, until it rings again.
It did not help his situation that the telephone is attached so far away from his bed, at the living room. Pat gets up and rubs his face, ready to punch the living daylights out of whoever that decided to call him so early in the morning.
Walking to the living room and frowning at the telephone that rings without stop. Pat picks up the phone with a grumpy hello.
“Hia!”
Almost immediately, the sleep riddling in Pat flies away. He straightens up and answers his sister. “Paa? Why are you calling me so early in the morning?”
“Did you forget? It’s Ganesh Chathurthi, today, and I’m cooking,”
Shit.
Pat rubs his face again, plastering a smile so that Paa doesn’t doubt him. “Of course I didn’t, I just visited the temple this morning,” Pat scoffs.
“Sure,” he hears his sister snort and Pat frowns. “I need your help, hia. I have classes until noon and there is so much to do. Will you help me borrow some books at the library and buy the ingredients for dinner tonight?”
Pat whines at his sister. There goes his plans to sleep the day away. “You could have borrowed them yesterday,”
“Please, hia. Do me this one favour?”
“Fine,” Pat snaps, unable to stay angry for long at his sister. “What are the books that you need and when do you need the ingredients?”
“Come by around five, help me with the cooking,”
Of course. Pat sighs again.
“Fine, tell me what you need,” he sits on the cement floor of his flat and grabs a paper and pencil, wedging the phone between his ear and shoulder.
“Spinach, potatoes, eggplants…
Pat enters the library, waving at the librarian with a smile.
“Came for Paa again, Pat?”
Pat nods with a tired sigh. “She’s too smart these days,” he replies.
“Better keep an eye on her. Children these days speak to their heart’s wishes,” the old man shakes his head.
Pat knew what he meant, and he also knew that if he keeps up with the conversation any longer, it would turn into one of his rants about young protestors. So Pat simply plasters a smile and sprints to the nearest bookshelf.
In his pursuit to escape, Pat does not see where he runs and instead finds himself slamming against the body of another person. Before either one could register the fact, Pat trips and falls, bringing the other person down with him. Still, just to be a gentleman, Pat pillows his body and turns around so that the other person falls on him instead of the hard concrete floor of the library.
His arms go around the stranger’s waist, holding him tightly as they fell with a loud thud. When Pat opens his eyes, the first thing he comes in contact with is the mess of midnight black hair on chest. And the firm hands pressing against his stomach.
“Are you okay?” Pat asks, trying his best to hide the groan of pain when his back aches.
The stranger on top of him nods with a soft groan before pushing himself up with hands on either side of Pat’s head. Their eyes meet soon enough and Pat does not hide the surprise in his face. Wide eyes that always held a hint of anger and determination in them, long lashes.
Eyes that held stars in them.
“You,” Pat whispers.
Pran stares right back at him, unsure of how he had gotten himself involved with the cheeky cop yet again. “Are you following me?” Pran asks instead.
“I’m off duty,” was all Pat replies.
Pran realises the position they are in and jumps away from Pat as if he was hot coal. Pat huffs in annoyance when the boy does not even offer him a hand to get up. “What brings you to the library?”
Pran gives him a dirty look. “To write more letters to the government,” he snaps. “Why else would I be in a library?”
“Do you always have to speak to me like I might reveal all your stupid plans to overthrow the government?” Pat snaps back. “I have other things to do,”
Pat pulls out the little letter in his shirt pocket and opens the list of books Paa had asked him to write down. “You’re a medical student. Find me these books,”
“Why in the world would I help you?”
Pat sighs again. This time, he takes Pran’s free hand and slams the folded not on his open palm. “Because I helped you too,”
“I didn’t ask you to help me,”
“Well I did, so please,” Pat cocks his head to the side with a small smile. It seems to make everyone around him melt. Pran remains stagnant. Pat attempts a pout. “Unless you have another democratic fight to go to?” he teases.
If anything, Pat could probably sense that Pran would have steam flowing out from his ears. If Pran had a gun, he would most probably shoot Pat, but it gets Pran going. So Pat wins. He follows the boy along the tall bookshelves.
Pran doesn’t say a word as he examines the list and trails along the rows of books. Pat leans on the opposite side with his arms crossed, admiring the way Pran moves so gracefully. So pure, so gentle. It’s a surprise the boy became a rebel.
“This book,” Pran points at his scrawny handwriting. “They don’t keep it in libraries. The writer is a freedom fighter,” Pran looks at him dead in the eyes. “Killed for speaking up,”
Pat swallows, watching the way Pran’s eyes darken. He wishes to speak further, somewhat offer comfort for Pran, but Pat knew that it was not his place. So he looks away, shoving his hands in his pocket. Pran’s eyes soften, a small tinge of guilt in him. He snaps back to reality, wondering why on Earth he was feeling guilty for a boy he has never met.
He clears his throat to get Pat’s attention. “I have the manuscript of it with me. Does your sister want it very much?” he speaks again.
Pat bites his lips. Paa wouldn’t kill him if he couldn’t get her a book she needed. But a small part of him (that is constantly growing the longer he looks at Pran) wanted to have an excuse to meet with Pran. So Pat puts on a show.
“Oh, Paa would kill me,” Pat whines. “She needs that book,”
Pran runs his fingers through his hair and nods at him. “Meet me here tomorrow. I’ll get you the book,” Pran slams the last book into Pat’s open arms and prepares to take a leave.
“No!”
Slowly, before Pat realises what he had just done, the boy before him turns around with raised eyebrows. Pat clears his throat, shifting from one foot to another. “I mean,” Pat pauses. “My sister urgently needs the book, and I’m meeting her after stopping by the market. You can come with me. Do you live nearby?”
Pran pauses, hands suspended in the air as he eyes Pat up and down. “.. Are you spying on me?”
Pat rubs his face again with a groan. He points to his bandaged arm. “I am injured, in case you forgot,” Pat pauses again, figuring out that the stubborn boy will not believe him either way. “Fine. You don’t have to follow me,”
Pat takes the piece of paper that Pran holds and pulls out his pen before scribbling down the address to Paa’s home. “It’s Ganesh Chaturthi and we are having a small prayer. Join us for dinner,”
“And why would I do that?” Pran returns back to his stoic mode. “Let me remind you that we are not friends. You and I are on different sides of the world,”
Pat figures that the boy would spew something dramatic like that again, so he smiles. “No one should be alone on auspicious events,”
“I don’t believe in God,”
“My sister cooks really well. Come for dinner at least,”
Pran crumples the paper in his palm, glaring at Pat and walks away. Pat sighs, slumping against the bookshelves as he watches the retreating back of the college student.
It was worth a shot, anyway.
“Hia!”
Pat winces again as he chops up the eggplants. Paa is frowning (adorably but don’t tell Paa) next to as she examines the books he had borrowed. “Stop screaming,” Pat scolds.
“I wanted that book, where is it?” Paa squeezes his shoulder with a pout.
“Ow, stop!” Pat cries out. “The book is not there! I’ll get it for you tomorrow,”
“Hiaaaaa,”
Pat prepares set his knife down to smack his spoiled sister when three knocks are heard across their childhood home. Paa sighs and runs over to where their charcoal stove sat, stirring the pot of curry. “That must be Ink, can you get the door?”
Pat stomps his feet and whines like a child. “Why must I do everything in this house?” he snaps. Paa would begin to list down all the things she had done (laundry) for her brother, and before that happens Pat would rather happily get up to open the door.
The person that stands behind the entrance to his home was most definitely not Ink, but the last person Pat expects to visit them. Pran stands in front of him clad in a beige shirt tucked neatly in a pair of denim bellbottom pants. It takes Pat a solid second to register the fact that Pran was here. Pran was here.
“Uh,” Pat stands. He looks down at his own ugly white tank top and the shortest pair of shorts; Pat curses.
“I.. came to give you the book,” Pran speaks softly; a contrast from the harsh spats they had. “I’ll go now,”
“No! Come inside,” Pat steps aside with open arms as he invites Pran. “I’ll just go change. You can give the book to my sister,”
“Hia, is that Ink?”
Paa emerges from the kitchen with her wet hands, wiping them on her blouse. Pat stands between the two of them, eyeing at Paa to not say anything stupid. Paa eyes him back. “This is Pran, he came to give you that book you wanted,”
Paa’s eyes light up as she walks briskly to where Pat stands with Pran. “You really have it?” she gasps with wide eyes.
Pran could not help but smile. Pat stares. He has never seen Pran smile before. He wonders why in the world Pran does not smile more.
Dimples.
“I happened to have the manuscript with me. The writer was a mentor of mine,” he speaks softly to Paa before handing over the book to her. “You can borrow it,”
“Thank you so much, P’Pran!” Paa hugs the book to herself. Pat stands between them like a statue and Paa frowns at her brother. “How do you know each other?”
“He’s not a friend of mine,” Pat answers with a smile. He bites back a laugh when Pran’s smile falters with a more mocking one. Pat was very sure that Pran would whack his head if he had the book in his hands.
“Why are you making our guest stand outside,” Paa speaks again and then turns to Pran with a polite smile. “Please, come inside. We are almost done cooking. Join us for the prayers too,”
Pran shakes his head a little too quickly, ridden with panic. He should have expected this at the very least. “Oh no, I have some errands to run. I just dropped by to-
“You can run your errands tomorrow,” Pat cuts the young student off, hooking an arm around his and cocks his head to the side. This time, Pran doesn’t look at him like he wants to rip his head off. However, he does give Pat a lazy look.
“I hope you like vegetarian; The auntie at the market told me it’s not nice to cook meat during an auspicious day,” Paa speaks as she continues to work.
Pat resumes his place on the floor next to Paa and cuts his vegetable. To his amusement, Pran stands in the middle of the kitchen, shuffling in one place awkwardly as Paa rambles. He looks up to capture Pran’s attention and he smirks.
“Make yourself useful and come sit next to me,”
It was an honest joke; Pat did not actually expect that Pran would listen. Still, he hides his surprise as Pran sits next to him with crossed legs, opting to wash the eggplants thoroughly while Pat slices them.
“Would it kill for you to say yes?” Pat whispers, nudging Pran with his shoulder.
“You wouldn’t stop annoying me,”
Pat leaves it at that. He was happy enough that Pran was here. Why he was happy, is something he will figure out soon enough.
“Hia go change your clothes,” Paa frowns again at her brother as she turns around with her hands on her waist. “We have a guest, why are you so shameless,”
Pat looks at his short shorts and curry-stained tank top; he hides a blush with a cough. “What’s wrong with this?” Pat mumbles despite standing up to go change.
“Be quick, or I’ll start the prayers without you,”
Ink joins them just in time for the prayers outside their home. Paa arranges the sweets and offerings for their small statue of Ganesh. They weren’t rich people to afford large and extravagant idols of their God. Pat thinks their idol was just as beautiful after being decorated with the colourful garland and flowers Pat had bought.
He stands right next to Pran, hands clasped together in front of him while Paa commenced the prayers. “I thought you didn’t believe in God,” Pat whispers to Pran.
“That’s none of your business,” Pran whispers back, eyes still closed and mumbling along to the mantras Paa uttered.
Together they pray and sit at the dining table for dinner. Paa generously serves Pran everything they have cooked while Pat stares with mock annoyance despite feeling somewhat accomplished at the sight of Pran with his cheeks full. Pran is smiling often around them, even laughing along to Paa’s banter.
Pat liked it. He liked watching Pran like this.
When it is almost time for the curfew to begin, Pran decides to take his leave. He stands up from the rattan chair, a polite smile on his face as he bids goodbye to Ink and Paa. Pat stands up too, moving to unlock the door for Pran, maybe speak privately with him.
“I’ll walk him out,” Pat announces.
“You don’t have to,” Pran mumbles. Pat notices the faint dust of blush against his cheeks and he scoffs. He ignores the boy and waits until Pran gives in to walk outside first.
“Did you drive here, or use the bus?” Pat asks. He doesn’t see any strange vehicle around his home, so Pat assumes that Pran did use some sort of public transport. He doesn’t wait for Pran to answer and simply walks back inside. “I’ll be walking him to the bus stop,” he informs Paa and Ink.
“Pat,”
Pat’s heart skips a beat when he hears his name from Pran’s mouth for the first time. Still, he pretends that it is a normal occurrence. It should be, given how many people had called Pat by his name all the time. But why did it sound sweeter from his lips?
“It’s not safe for you to be out here at this time,” Pat replies.
When Pran doesn’t put up much of a fight, Pat walks with him side by side, along the neighbourhood. Paa stays in their old home far away from the heart of Pattaya. They’re mostly surrounded by trees and maybe five houses with their closest neighbours. The roads are just dirt, unlike the lead ones in the city.
When Pat looks up at the night sky, he is able to see the stars illuminating it instead of the tall buildings. The air here smells fresher and cooler than the city. Pat dreams of moving back home, alas, his job does not offer him much freedom.
“It’s very calming,” Pran speaks up, snapping Pat out of his thoughts. “This place,”
Pat nods, watching their feet move together in unison, giddy with the close proximity. Pran seems fine by it, even as the back of their hands brush slightly or when their knuckles catch together. “This is my childhood home,”
Pran nods. “Why did you move?”
Pat exhales with a soft hum. He turns around to find Pran already looking at him with those same wide eyes, but instead of anger, they held a twinge of curiosity in them. Pat turns back around to look ahead. “My father passed away when I was 18. He was a police man and I had no choice but to take the job they had offered me in steed of my father. Paa was still studying,”
“You dropped out of school?”
Pat nods. “I did,” he answers. “But I have no regrets at all. I get to see my sister study to her heart’s desire and that is enough for me,”
Pat doesn’t notice when Pran had stopped walking; but he doesn’t hear footsteps for a solid ten seconds. And when he turns behind, Pran stands there glowing under the moonlight. He catches up with Pat soon enough and they don’t talk about it after that.
When they reach the dimly lit bus stop, Pat is relieved to see a few other people sitting there. At least Pran wasn’t alone.
Pran turns around and stands on his heels. “Thank your sister for dinner tonight,” Pran mumbles, unable to look at Pat in the eyes.
Pat scoffs, bending his head down to get a better look at Pran’s shy eyes. He could never believe that this was the same boy that had almost ripped his arm off in a chase. Yet, he believes everything about Pran because this was the same boy that had taken care of his wounds with utmost care.
“No thank you for me?” Pat teases and it’s enough to earn an eyeroll from Pran.
When Pran looks up at him, Pat finds his eyes becoming heavy; they trail all over his face, admiring the soft features that adorned it. Pran’s cheeks are flushed pink from the cold breeze, his hair is fluttering, his lips are wet and red from biting them all the time and his nose; Pat wanted to bite it.
Clearing his throat, Pat regains his composure again. “Meet me at the library, same time tomorrow,” he says instead.
Pran’s usual frown appears, and so does a small line between his eyebrows. “What for? I already gave you the book,”
“And I’ll be returning it,”
Pran stares at Pat for five seconds before he sighs and crosses his arms. “It’s a thick book,”
“Paa has read thicker ones,”
“It’s very complex,”
Pat shrugs. “She’ll manage,”
Pran goes silent again. Then he addresses the elephant in the room; “Are you flirting with me?”
Oh, Pat thinks. So that’s why.
“Depends,” Pat smiles widely, hands behind his back as he crouches down to get closer to the pretty boy before him. “Is it working?”
“I am part of a rebellion,” Pran begins. “And you’re a police. Must I say more?”
Pat shakes his head. Then, unable to keep his hands to himself, Pat reaches forward to push a strand of soft hair that had fallen against Pran’s forehead. “I am not a police, nor are you a rebel when it’s just the two of us,”
Pran becomes too stunned to speak. Pat simply straightens his back and points to the oncoming bus behind him. “Get home safely, Pran,”
When he returns home, Pat forces Paa to finish the book by tomorrow.
15th September 1973
“The protests are becoming more violent in Bangkok,” Pat hears the lady before him speak. “It’s only a matter of time when the students here follow their footsteps,”
He looks at his wristwatch, sighing at the time. It was almost half past twelve and Pran had still not arrived at the library. Pat moves to the bookshelf where they had met yesterday and decides to flip through the pages of some book as he waits.
It was a gamble; Pat was interested in the boy and if he came, Pat would pursue him with an aim in mind. If he didn’t, he would forget, move on and live his life. Though, he was very sure that Pran would come to see him.
“I’m not here to see you,”
Pat turns around almost instinctively when he hears the familiar harsh tone of Pran’s voice. Unable to stop his smile from coming, Pat speaks; “You came,”
“I left a book here,” Pran clears his throat. He looks at the rows of book on his right and picks out a random novel before shoving it deep inside his bag. “I’ll leave now,”
“Wha- Wait!” Pat grabs his wrist swiftly, halting Pran’s steps. “But you just got here,”
“Yes, and I’m leaving. I have things do to,”
Pran tries to remove his hand from Pat’s strong grip yet again, and Pat lets him, not wanting to force him too much. He does look like a hurt puppy, though. Pran is still standing with Pat when he raises his head. The boy had his signature frown and tired eyes, as if contemplating whether he should stay with Pat or not.
“We could go for desserts at the nearby café,” Pat speaks up slowly. “My treat?”
At the mention of desserts, Pat could’ve sworn he had seen the way Pran’s eyes light up for a millisecond. Then came back to their stoic ones. Pat smiles.
“I-
Pran begins to speak up again, when another foreign voice cuts their moment off.
“Pran?”
The look Pran gives him is not one Pat has ever seen in the stubborn boy before; A look of worry, fear and regret. Pat furrows his eyebrows in concern before looking behind Pran’s shoulder to see who it was that had sparked such a reaction out of Pran.
“Is that you?”
Pran turns around, deliberately trying to hide Pat behind him. Pat seems to understand and occupies himself by grabbing the nearest book to flip through it.
“Wai,” Pran greets. “What are you doing here? I thought we were meeting later,”
Wai eyes the man behind Pran suspiciously before looking back at him. “Meeting with a few other people for the pr-
Wai coughs, clearing his throat and speaks again. “Just meeting with a few of my college juniors,”
Pran turns to his side enough to see Pat still there, mindlessly flipping through the pages of a book. He bites back a sigh; There was no going back. “I was just talking to a friend of mine,” Pran plasters a smile. “Let me join you in a bit,”
“Okay,” Wai eyes Pat again, eyebrows furrowed and a slight frown of curiosity. “We’re at the back,”
Pran nods and waits until Wai is out of sight before slumping next to the bookshelves to let out a sigh of relief. Pat turns to the boy next to him and jerks his chin toward the empty space where Wai stood a few minutes ago.
“Who’s that?”
Pran does not answer him for a while. Instead, the boy turns around to face Pat with a pained look that he does not understand why. “Do you see now? The reason we cannot flirt around like this?”
“Pran-” Pat begins, one hand raised to touch him. But Pran flinches away and places some distance between them, jaw clenched in anger, hurt, sadness, Pat doesn’t know.
“You and I lead different lives. Don’t make things complicated for a meaningless flirt,” Pran laments.
Pran looks heartbroken when he speaks. It only infuriates Pat further because the boy before him clearly wanted him and so does Pat. So why was it so difficult for them?
“I don’t understand,” Pat steps closer to Pran, willing himself to keep his emotions at bay as he spoke. “You came here to give us a chance. You want this as much as I do. So why are you thinking so much, Pran?”
Pran shakes his head stubbornly as he tries to put more distance between them but Pat does not let him. The more Pran walks behind, the more he walks forward until there is nowhere left for the young rebel to go. Pat watches the glaze of panic in his eyes.
“You don’t understand-
Pat cuts Pran off almost immediately. He did not want to hear this. “Just be with me,” Pat whispers. “We can figure out the details later,”
The silence that comes after Pat’s request is suffocating for Pran. He feels himself reaching out to every little things about the police man before him. From the way he speaks so softly to Pran, to his selfless acts of protecting him, up until his eyes that held the whole world in them. Pran stands firm on his ground with clenched fists because he will simply not allow himself to be sucked into everything Pat was.
So the young boy looks back up to Pat with his usual stoic face and clenched jaws for a while. He takes his time to admire everything about him for one last time. “Let us never cross paths, ever again,” was all he says before he walks away from Pat with no plans to give them a chance.
22nd September 1973
The protests in Pattaya begin to grow louder, which only meant that the safety of the people in Pattaya became weaker. The police have close to no power to protect the people when the military is involved. Pat works around the clock, taking wrongful orders from his higher officials who blindly listen to what the military says.
Shoot any college student, kill innocent people who decide to speak up, kill children who are found wandering on the street. Everything happens in front of his eyes, yet Pat does not say a word.
He had not seen Pran for a week. It is the only thing that has been running through his mind even as he scavenges the dim streets for bodies of the missing children parents have come to report. Still, he does find an ounce of shame in him for only thinking about Pran during horrible times like this. Pat wonders if Pran is safe, if Pran is alright after hearing news of violent protests around the streets of Pattaya.
Buildings are being lit on fire, the King is being questioned, dictatorship is being spat on by college students and all Pat could think of is whether Pran had eaten, slept well or protected himself during the attacks.
Each hour of day passes painfully with Pat wishing for a miracle to just see Pran even from afar. Just to know that he is alright. Pat wonders why. Why was he so concerned for a boy he had barely known for two days? Why was his heart churning painfully when he shines a torch on an abandoned body, praying it was not Pran? Why did he feel relieved when he does not find Pran laying around beaten and bloodied?
The firing of gunshots and the cries of the people had become a common noise at the station. Pat remains neutral, almost stoic with the sounds that slam through the walls. He is prepared to leave the station when the attacks end to hunt for missing bodies yet again.
Today, however, becomes different. He is approached by his friend and team leader, Korn; Grim-faced, almost worried, but Pat does not find anything in him to care. “Pat,” Korn begins.
Pat does not answer and waits until Korn speaks further.
“They assigned a few of you to help the soldiers control the people. It’s getting worse out there; They’re not listening and more people are dying. Will you be alright?”
His body moves on his own accord, not bothered by the fact that it was a life risking task. Pat straightens his khaki uniform, slips on his cap and grabs his baton. He does not remember if he had even given Korn a nod or agreement when he leaves the station.
The first thing he notices is the lead roads that are stained with blood, used bullets, abandoned shoes and accessories lying around, and then the bodies. At every corner of the place, Pat finds a body, bloodied from being beaten, or shot. A child sits motionlessly on his back, blood oozing from his head. Pat could only stare.
He doesn’t have the time to actually register the amount of cruelty that is happening around him, however. One soldier walks to him and throws a gun for Pat to catch. “Come with me,” he snaps.
Pat follows the soldier, eyes trained on the heavy gun in his arms. He had never held a gun before. Policemen were never given firearms; only military men were. It was a long rifle, already loaded with bullets. Pat will never use it.
He reaches the end of the street where several people were restrained under the orders of the army. Pat notices the people kneeling, forehead bent to the road, injured in different ways. Something churns in his heart and he tightens the hold he has on his gun. The soldier comes to stand next to him.
“Keep them here,” he orders. “If anyone moves, shoot them dead,”
Pat hides the fear in his heart when he receives the cruel order. He nods either way, hoping they would cooperate. The soldiers leave Pat to be the only one keeping 20 people detained on the bloody road. One soldier stands next to him, examining the faces of the captives.
One captive stirs in place, a soft groan of pain escaping from his lips. “Heads down!” the soldier next to Pat screams.
Pat bites his lips as hard as he can, hoping that no one would see the pain in his chest. The people kneeling before him jump at the loud voice but comply immediately. The last soldier leaves Pat and he stands alone with the victims.
As he scans the people before him, Pat notices the mess of midnight black hair against the road. His heart catches at his throat. Pat could recognise that head anywhere. The grip on his gun tightens further, as if afraid that it would move on its own accord to shoot Pran.
The numbness in Pat’s heart flies away almost instantly when he notices Pran kneeling with his forehead digging painfully onto the road. Pat wills his knees to not shake. He needed to see Pran safe. Pat knew that all the people detained here would either die, go to prison, or be blacklisted for communism. Pat needed to see Pran safe and sound.
“Heads down or I’ll shoot you all!” Pat screams as a ruse for the soldiers that were out of sight. When the people start to cower and whimper in fear, Pat runs over to where Pran kneels and touches his back ever so slightly.
The boy under him is warm, badly injured and shaking when Pat catches his attention. “Pran,” Pat whispers. “Get up,”
“Pat?” Pran raises himself slightly, eyes wide, his bloody lips parted. “What are you-
“Get up, quick,” Pat hooks his arm around the crook of Pran’s elbow and helps the young boy up to his feet. Pran staggers, choking out a gasp of pain and grips Pat by his shoulders. “Take the people, run. Run as fast as you can,”
“No,” Pran shakes his head. “No, they’ll kill you,”
Pat clicks his tongue, desperate and angry for Pran to leave. He shakes the other victims up to their feet and orders them to follow Pran. “Everyone, please be fast. Run,” Pat tells them.
When everyone runs away, Pran is the last to stay with Pat, eyes glassy. Pat motions for him to run, to seek escape. He gives Pran a silent promise that he will be fine. Pran reaches forward to press the heel of his palm to Pat’s cheek hard enough for him to remember the ghost of his touches.
And then he runs away without looking back.
When the attacks have died down and the soldiers have retreated to Bangkok, Pran sits with his group, staring out the window while they are treated for their wounds one by one. The attacks have stopped, having heard from the news that the soldiers would go back to Bangkok to control the situation there. Pran and his group is safe, but at what cost?
Wai is next to him, wrapping up one last wound around Pran’s forearm with white bandage. “Are you in pain?” Wai asks Pran, finishing the final knot on his last wound.
Pran takes a while to answer, being sucked deep into the night sky he had been gazing at. Or maybe just having his mind occupied by a certain idiotic officer. He shakes his head, flexing his arms and legs to show Wai that he was not badly injured.
“Then why the long face?”
Pran finally turns back to his best friend, unable to fight back. Pran was all about fighting back, being right and saving others. Now, he only manages to stare at Wai while his heart squeezes painfully at the prospect of Pat being injured and abandoned somewhere out there.
“I almost died today,” Pran speaks. It’s enough for Wai’s eyes to become wide as he moves closer. But Pran only smiles sadly and shakes his head. “The curfew is in an hour right?”
Wai nods but remains clueless as to why Pran was not elaborating on his statement earlier. “Yes, but it’s too dangerous for you to leave now,”
Pran does not bother to listen to anyone this time. He raises himself up and slips on a clean shirt his shirt over the bloodstained tank top. “Take care of them, I need to go somewhere,”
“Pran, it’s too dangerous. Don’t leave no-
“I might go insane if I don’t see him for myself, Wai,” Pran retorts. The shake in his voice is noticeable by everyone in the room with them. “Please, let me just make sure that he’s okay,”
Pran leaves without waiting for anyone to answer or stop him again.
The roads are almost deserted if not for the orphaned bodies a and a few tired soldiers guarding the exits. Pran sneaks past them using the hidden alleyways that connected the buildings in search for Pat. Pran could barely see anything even with the flickering streetlights above him. The sky becomes almost pitch black; a sign that the curfew was nearing.
Pran returns back to the place where he had last seen Pat. Where he had last seen those fierce eyes, begging him to take the people and run away. If the soldiers were cruel to Pran who openly protested, God knows how horrible they would be to Pat who helped them.
There is no sign of Pat as he skims past the deserted roads and Pran’s heart only grows more at unease. The bile rises in his throat the longer he goes on without finding Pat. He walks past the road where he had last seen Pat, hoping that the policeman would be waiting there for him. If not, Pat was probably back at the station and Pran would go there to find for him without a doubt.
When he reaches the end of the cement buildings, Pran finds yet another figure sitting against the wall, motionless. Pran moves closer to the figure and almost releases a cry of relief when he sees Pat sitting there. He’s unconscious, soaked in blood Pat could not see where. Pran knees before the boy and touches his cheeks ever so slightly.
“Pat,” Pran whispers, slapping his cheeks lightly. Pat remains unconscious, head lolling against Pran’s hand. He presses two fingers to Pat’s neck, choking out a gasp when Pat feels the pulse beating very weakly under his fingers. He shakes Pat a little harder, almost desperate to see those tired eyes watch him.
“Pat, wake up,”
He shakes Pat longer and longer, until his hands grow weak and he only manages to punch his bloodied chest weakly. “Wake up,” Pran croaks, vision blurring. Pat remains frozen under him for a minute. Pran could only slump his forehead on Pat’s shoulder and wait, wait until he feels something.
“What a surprise,” Pran hears a soft moan against his ear. He raises his head to look at Pat who had straightened up slightly, though his eyes remained closed. Pran makes out a weak smile, almost unnoticeable if he hadn’t been staring.
“Idiot,” Pran cries, holding himself back from smacking the living daylights out of Pat. “Come with me,”
“The curfew is near, Pran,” Pat whispers. He covers the hand over his chest with his own hand, carefully pulling it away. “I’m fine,”
“Shut up, and come with me,” Pran snaps. He sounded so angry and was most definitely holding himself back from hitting Pat. Pat was only man when it comes to Pran.
Pran holds Pat tightly to his side as they stumble through the dark walls of Pattaya and enter Pran’s home. Pat had insisted Pran to just help him home, but the stubborn boy merely snapped at him to shut again and complained that he would not have the medical necessities needed for his wounds.
The first thing Pat notices when Pran helps him inside his small flat is how pristine clean it was. Pat would not want to dirty his house with blood. Pran seems to not care when he plops Pat down on his spring mattress.
Pat watches the boy move to the attached bathroom to grab a basin and fill it up with cold water before moving to prepare some disposable washcloths. Pat can’t move from the strain his muscles are in and the amount of gashing wounds his body holds, but he cranes his neck to the side as much as he could to watch Pran crouch on the cemented floor to scoop up the water from its well.
When Pran returns back to the room, he uses his gentle hands to help Pat lie with his back to the wall while Pran sits on the edge of the bed. Pat contemplates on whether he should speak to Pran, and politely tell him that he did not need to clean Pat up. But Pran did ask him to shut up very angrily. Pat would not want to see the boy angry.
He remains quiet when Pran slowly unbuttons his uniform and pushes it down his shoulder. Pat’s uniform is stained with blood which fills up the room with its pungent smell. Pran remains stoic under the smell. When he has removed Pat’s uniform and tank top over his head, Pran’s fingers hesitate along the belt of his slacks.
Pat notices a soft blush that dusts his cheeks and he bites back a smile. Pran looks back at Pat, eyes unsure. “Are you hurt anywhere here?”
He would be cheeky and tease Pran about this, but the boy next to him is genuinely shy and the last thing Pat would want is to make Pran uncomfortable. So he shakes his head. With a small nod, Pran reaches down to soak the washcloth in the basin and wrings the excess water off.
“This will be a little cold,” Pran speaks. He doesn’t give Pat the time to register his words and proceeds to press the cold cloth over his red body.
Pat jumps at the cold sensation but remains calm when Pran wipes him down gently. He needed to get all the excess blood away so that Pran can see the actual wounds he had bore. There was a lot of blood and Pran needed at least ten of his washcloths to wipe Pat’s upper body completely.
Before Pran can take the proper time to examine his wounds, the white fluorescent light of his room flickers shut and Pran curses in frustration. It was a common occurrence, blackouts at night. Not a peaceful day passes by in Pattaya the past few months.
Pran raises himself from Pat’s side again and tells Pat to wait while he goes to grab matches and his gas lamp. Pat does as he is told and waits. Pran comes back illuminated only by the orange light in the small gas lamp he holds.
“I don’t have a flashlight with me,” Pran tells Pat. “This will have to do,”
Unfortunately (or fortunately), the absence of white light forces Pran to move closer to Pat so he can see clearly. His hair glows from the fire and so does his pale skin. Pat could stay quiet forever if Pran is before him, looking like the most beautiful human God has created.
“Did they stab you, or use a gun on you?” Pran asks.
It takes Pat a while for the question to sink in, distracted by the way his hands trail softly over Pat’s abused skin. He shakes his head. “They just beat me up. I escaped,”
The grim face Pran gives him is enough for Pat to understand that he was not happy with the way things have turned out. Pran finishes applying antiseptic cream to all his bruises and wraps him up in long stripes of bandages. Pat’s head is throbbing from the concussion he had sustained.
It was a miracle Pran had found him. Pat was very sure that would be the last time he would see Pran. And his soft hands on Pat’s cheek would be the only touch Pat has received from the boy.
Pran touches the back of his head and applies slight pressure until Pat winces in pain. “Did you vomit, or faint?” Pran asks.
“Just fainted,”
Again, with his gentle hands, Pran runs his fingers through Pat’s hair and cleans up the dried blood there before finding for the wound on his head. He finds one right at the nape of Pat’s neck, where his hairline started. Pran cleans it and gauges it in a few minutes.
When he finishes treating Pat, Pran stands up and holds him close to lie him down, resting his head on Pran’s pillow. Pran’s pillow surprisingly did not smell like him. Nor did the bedsheets. Pat wonders where he sleeps at night.
One of Pran’s hands are over his stomach while the other holds his head with care. Pran is so close to his face that Pat can count the four moles he has on his face. His dimples start to appear when Pran bites his lips in concentration.
However, their close proximity goes away when Pran leaves to clean the room. “Are you hungry?” Pat hears him ask when he soaks his clothes in a pail.
Pat doesn’t answer Pran, opting to just admire the way Pran moves around him to clear his room. When he’s caught by Pran, the boy raises his eyebrow at Pat and repeats his question. Pat shakes his head.
“Then sleep,” was all Pran says.
“Where will you sleep?”
Pran stands at the threshold for a few seconds, then jerks his chin to the living room. “I’ll sleep at the sofa,”
“I’d rather you sleep next to me,”
Pran inhales, the anger in him boiling again. How can he be flirting in a situation like this?
“Is this a joke to you?” Pran asks. “You almost died, Pat!”
Pat knew that Pran would start one of his panic rantings again and he was genuinely tired of it. “Pran,” Pat cuts him off. “Come here,”
Pran stops screaming at him, chest heaving with pain and anger while his eyes stayed glossy. “I’m not coming anywhere near you,” Pran snaps.
“Please,” Pat whispers softly. “It’s cold,”
That seems to melt Pran enough to shuffle closer to Pat and silently bundle Pat’s bare body with the thin sheets. “I don’t like the dark,” Pat says again. Pran is so close to him when he adjusted the sheets. If one of them only leaned their heads forward slightly, Pat would be able to taste Pran on his lips.
The gas lamp is on the bedside table when Pran increases its intensity. Pran holds Pat’s head again and fluffs up the pillows under him before positioning Pat properly. “Now sleep,” Pran whispers.
Pran tries to leave him again, but Pat is faster this time; he wraps his hand around his wrist, halting Pran’s steps. “Pat,” Pran warns again.
“I don’t like sleeping alone. I have no intentions to take advantage of your hospitality, Pran,” he whispers. “Please, you can just sleep next to me, I won’t even touch you,”
Pran wakes up around three in the morning when he feels Pat shaking next to him. The pillow between them is pushed aside from Pat writhing under the sheets. Pran shuffles closer to take a closer look at the policeman.
Pat’s eyes are closed, shaking lightly and biting his lips hard. One hand is under his head while the other is fisting the sheets. Pran pulls the sleeves of his nightshirt to cover his palm before dabbing it around Pat’s sweat-layered forehead.
Pat seems to wake up with a shock at the smallest of touches Pran gives him. His free hand flies to grab Pran before he touches Pat. Pran jumps in surprise, but remains frozen to give Pat some time for him to register where he actually was.
“Oh,” Pat croaks. “Sorry,”
Pran remains quiet when Pat’s grip on his wrist slackens and he resumes his position. “I must’ve woken you up,” Pat mumbled.
“Did you have a nightmare?” Pran continues to wipe off the layer of sweat on Pat’s skin with soft strokes while Pat closes his eyes and nods.
“Sorry,” Pat whispers again.
Instead of asking Pat to stop apologizing, Pran pushes the barrier of pillows they had placed between them and shuffles closer to Pat until their shoulders touch. Pran extends his arm and carefully pushes it under Pat’s head, coaxing the boy to rest his head on Pran’s chest.
“Careful, I might just start flirting again with you,” Pat jokes, but Pran feels the way his arm tightens around Pran’s stomach.
Pran rests his chin atop of the thick black hair that tickles his neck as he rhythmically pats his warm shoulder. When Pat’s breathing evens out, Pran allows himself to stop stroking his shoulder and lets the sleep take him away.
Pat wakes up alone in bed, his head still throbbing along with his whole body. He definitely feels better now that Pran has treated all his wounds, and the smell of freshly pounded spices fill up his nose.
Pat stumbles out of the bedroom with sleep riddled eyes only to land on Pran, bustling around the kitchen as he cooks breakfast for them. Having grown up eating only Paa’s food (or his horrible cooking), Pat feels his heart flutter at the excitement of being able to taste Pran’s cooking.
Pat wonders how Pran had learned to cook. His parents had told him how he did not need to cook because he would find a nice wife that would cook great food for him. Now Pat suffers from that stupid advice, unable to cook a decent meal for himself.
Pran is freshly showered and dressed in a loose shirt and a pair of shorts when Pat sees him beating some eggs for an omelette. There is already a pot of piping hot steamed chicken soup. Pat visibly relaxes at the smell of ginger and lemongrass wafting into his nostrils.
“Good morning,” Pat speaks, unsure of what they were. Pran had held him that night, stroked him until he fell asleep like a baby. He wants to talk about it, wants to ask Pran how he could possibly stay away from him when Pran had opened his arms for him. But Pat remains silent and waits for Pran to touch on it first.
Pran turns around, as if surprised that Pat had woken up earlier than expected. He greets Pat back while pouring the egg mixture into a heated pan. “I thought you would sleep more,”
You held me so warmly last night. How could I possibly know sleep without you by my side?
Pat limps his way to where Pran stands by the tiled counter, washing the bowl that he had poured the eggs from. “You didn’t have to do this,” Pat says.
“Didn’t I ask you to shut up?”
“Are you still mad at me?”
Pran turns around, wiping his hands on his shirt and then placing them on his waist as he assessed Pat. Pran looks so.. normal. Domestic. Pat doesn’t understand why he likes it so much. Him and Pran in a kitchen, speaking as Pran cooked, bickering. Like a couple.
Pat stops himself. He shouldn’t. He should not be thinking of them as a couple. Pran was right, especially from what had happened yesterday. Them crossing paths would only result in one being hurt while the other suffered. Pat did not want that, especially not when Pran had cried against his body yesterday.
If they go into this without thinking, it would be too late.
“Why would I be mad at you?” Pran replies. It was a rhetorical question. He didn’t want Pat to answer because they both knew how much the answer would hurt them and the budding feelings, they’re both trying to push down.
“Go sit down, I’ll bring the omelette,” Pran breaks the tension. Pat listens.
The table had been already set with two plates and spoons for the soup while Pran brings them the omelette. He tries to make himself useful by scooping up the steaming hot rice on their plates while Pran pours the soup into bowls, placing more chicken and bones for Pat.
Every spoonful of food hurts to go down his throat. Because Pat knew that he will never experience this with Pran ever again. He will never live a normal life if he decides to love Pran. They’re both sitting in the small plastic table, smack in the middle of the kitchen. Nothing about the silence between them is comfortable.
Pat tries hard to forget about whatever pain his heart is going through. He tries to rationalise Pran’s reason; Pran was right and Pat should listen. Yet, he is not able to stop the words that fall out of his mouth when they ate.
“What would you do if you weren’t afraid?”
Pran stops eating, eyes fastened on his plate of unfinished food. Pat almost feels guilty, but he needed an answer. He needed to know if they would be given a chance if they had led different lives.
“Pat,” there it was again. Pran’s warning tone.
Pat clenches his fist, refraining himself for letting his words flow freely. “I know,” Pat grounds out. “I know we cannot give this a chance. I know, Pran. You’ve said it enough times. Just tell me if there is a chance. If I wasn’t a policeman, and you weren’t a rebel,”
Silence ensues again. Pat cannot survive any longer if he is put in silence again. A bitter laugh escapes from his lips. He tries to speak up but his throat is clogged. However, a warm hand touches his clenched fist. Pat watches the hand shakily coax his hardened fist until it lies on Pat’s flat and open palms.
Pran squeezes his hand three times, a sad smile on his face. “There would,”
Pat could not continue their conversation from there. Because someone had knocked on Pran’s door and he did not waste another second to get up and open it. Pat sits like an idiot, watching the steam from the soup die down. He continues eating, knowing who stood behind the door and what they would be talking about.
Pran opens the door and steps out the moment he sees Wai on the other side. “Morning,” Wai says.
Pran nods as he closes the door behind him. “Good morning,” he replies. “How are things with the others?”
Wai nods. “Everything is okay. No severe injuries. I came to check up on you. You left in a hurry yesterday,”
“Ah,” Pran offers Wai a smile and squeezes his shoulder. “I’m alright. I was treating a friend who helped me yesterday,”
“The police?”
Pran visibly stiffens. He tries to brush Wai off, shaking his head and beginning to ask why he would think like that, but stops him with a hand in front of his face. “You don’t have to lie, Pran,”
“It’s not like that, Wai,” Pran tries again. “He’s a good man. He won’t-
“You’ve known him for.. two weeks?” Wai asks, eyebrow raised as he crossed his arms. “How could you possibly know that? Why? Did he tell you he was in love with you?”
Pran shakes his head, trying to reach forward so he can touch Wai, calm him down and make him understand. “No, we’re not like that, Wai,” he whispers. “He’s not like the others. He helped me so much. Even yester-
“Pran,” Wai snaps. He stops Pran from speaking and grabs him by the shoulders until they stand eye to eye. “He works for the government; how good can he be?” Wai shouts.
Amidst being absolutely berated by his best friend, all Pran could think of was Pat potentially hearing this, and stopping himself from eating. “Don’t be so loud. He’s eating,” Pran begs quietly.
Wai gets infuriated further. “Why do you care if he eats or not, Pran?” Wai raises his voice. “Did you forget why you started this? Did you forget everything for a man?”
“I didn’t forget,” Pran shouts back, eyes stinging with tears. “It’s not my fault that I like him! We know that it’s not right, you don’t need to remind me over and over again,” his words come choked off until Pran is shaking and having only Wai’s shoulder as a support. “I like him so much, but I can’t give us a chance because of this. I know, Wai. Trust me,”
“Pran,”
“He almost died for me,” Pran looks at his best friend as he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “I need him to be safe and healthy before I let him go. So please,” Pran croaks.
“Please let him eat in peace,”
27th September 1973
Wai was busily fixing the lightbulb to the underground basement of his restaurant when the familiar chime of the bells rang through his ears. It was way past closing hours and almost time for their weekly meetings with the protestors.
Wai furrows his eyebrows in confusion, wondering who it could be at this hour. The others usually just entered the room without knocking, so Wai steps down from his ladder and walks up to his restaurant.
“Sorry, but we are close-
Wai halts in his steps when he notices just who was standing by the door. That guy, the police man, Pran’s supposed fling. He stands by the entrance to Wai’s restaurant clad in his uniform and baton. Wai thinks of the audacity he has. He remains quiet.
“Pran is not here,”
Pat nods, head lowered. “I came here to see you.. actually,”
Wai pretends that he is not surprised when he invites Pat inside. Pat steps past the threshold but remains standing, a book in his hand. Unsure of where to look or what to do, Pat clears his throat and thrusts the book in Wai’s direction.
“This is Pran’s book. I came to return it,”
Wai pretends to be occupied with cleaning the plastic tables next to him as he spoke; “Pran will be here in a while. You can give it to him yourself,”
Instead of agreeing and waiting for Pran, Pat only shakes his head, places the book on the table next to Wai’s hand and steps back. “It’s better if we don’t see each other,” Pat mumbles.
Wai looks up, wanting to ask for a reason. Pran had cried about this man to him, so why is he so hesitant?
Pat seems to sense the curiosity that radiated from Wai; he smiled a sad smile. “You were right; I work for the government and he does not. Nothing good will ever come out of us exploring our feelings for each other,”
Pat opens the door to leave but before he does, he turns back around to speak again. “It’s better to stop this before it had even begun,”
When Pran had received the book from Wai, he had not expected to be angry. He should be feeling relieved, maybe slightly sad that Pat had understood and decided for them to not cross paths anymore. It was good; Pat finally knew about the amount of pain that would come if they had acknowledged their budding feelings for each other.
Good, Pran had thought. We should stop this before it has even begun.
But no. When Wai returns the book Pran had borrowed to Pat, the first thing that he feels is the anger bubbling deep inside him. Who was Pat to decide that they should not cross paths? Who was he to put a stop to this? He wasn’t some God. Pran was being unreasonable, he knew that well enough.
What Pat did was correct. But it felt so wrong to Pran.
“Did he say anything?” Pran had asked Wai almost desperately. He misses the police man, and he wishes to know if Pat is healthy, if he’s eating well, if his wounds have healed.
Wai had only shaken his head. “He agreed with you about not continuing this meaningless flirting,”
“It wasn’t meaningless flirting,” Pran finds himself snapping back, hugging the book close to his heart. “Mind what you say,”
Wai sits next to Pran, watching his best friend carefully. “Pran,” he begins. “This is your life, you know that right?”
Pran does not look at his best friend; he simply thumbs along the rough ends of the book, wondering where Pat would be right now.
“You choose what you want. And if it’s him, then,” Wai leaves his sentence at that. He gets up to lock the back doors of the restaurant, feeling Pran’s eyes burn to his nape.
When he almost prepares to leave, Wai places a comforting hand on Pran’s shoulder and offers him a small smile. “Just remember that with all the decisions you make, you must also be ready to face its consequences,”
28th September 1973
It was nearing six in the morning when Pat is awoken by the loud and fast knocks on his door. He gets up in bed, rubbing his eyes and wonders who on Earth it could be at this time. Paa was busy preparing for her final exam, it couldn’t possibly be her.
The knocks grow louder and more desperate. Pat gets out of bed and walks to open the door. He doesn’t expect the person standing behind it. It takes him a while to register the fact that someone is standing before his door. Someone with midnight black hair, wide eyes that always held the stars in them and dimples that Pat could not find now.
He grips onto the wooden threshold for a good ten seconds as he stares at Pran who stands before him, soaking wet from head to toe. He must’ve walked in the rain, Pat thinks. The curfew was still on, but no soldiers were walking around, ready to shoot at an innocent person. Pran had been safe this time.
“I will pretend that this is just a fragment of my imagination,” Pat whispers, voice thick and rough with sleep. “When I close this door and open it, you will not be here,”
The lights along the ugly green hallway of Pat’s flat flicker from the ongoing rain, which seemed to give Pat more proof that this has to be a dream. Because Pran is as silent as even as he stands before Pat, stands of his hair falling down his face, droplets of water trailing down his flushed skin and following the curves of his lips. He looked ethereal.
As Pat makes a move to step back and close the door in Pran’s face, the boy simply reached forward to cover Pat’s hand with his, halting his movements completely. Pran does not give Pat the time or space to fully register what was going on before he steps into his arms.
Pat had been bare, only wearing a pair of shorts when Pran wraps his arms around Pat. The boy rests his head right above Pat’s drumming heartbeat. Pat tenses up, but remains frozen when Pran’s hands dance against his back, slotting themselves perfectly around the curves.
Slowly, Pat’s arms move too, unable to resist the desire that courses through his veins. He has been dreaming of having Pran in his arms since the night the student had held him through his nightmares. Pat never had a proper sleep from that day forward.
“Your heart is beating so fast,” Pran whispers.
Pat does not bother rectifying the issue, merely nuzzles into the dampness of Pran’s hair. “I would be surprised if it wasn’t,”
The soft chuckle Pran releases against his sternum successfully send shivers down his spine. Pat is surprised at how calmly he is handling the boy in his arms. Pran is wet against him; it was probably the only reason that Pat could find for them to break the hug. He holds the back of Pran’s head as gently as he would hold a baby’s.
Pran looks up at him with vulnerable eyes that never failed to make Pat’s breath hitch at his throat. They’re both finding for a message, a reason in each other’s eyes. It is a desperate find, a plea to see something in there that would give them the courage to go forward with this.
“You’re wet,” Pat whispers. “Come inside or you’ll get a cold,”
Pran nods, stepping away from Pat albeit reluctantly. Pat wonders why he goes back outside but understands when Pran returns with a small bag and a guitar case slung over his shoulder.
“There is somewhere I wish to go with you,” Pran speaks as he is led by Pat to the bathroom for a hot shower.
Pat takes away his bags to keep them at the foot of his bed before handing Pran his towel. He had no other towels in his home. Pran seems to understand, accepting Pat’s towel with a small smile.
“Now?” Pat asks. He busies himself by grabbing one of his shirts and shorts for Pran while Pran waits for the water to heat up. “Go wait inside, I’ll bring the hot water,” Pat tells Pran.
Pran obeys, opting to speak properly with Pat once he has showered. As Pat prepares the small pot of hot water at the kitchen, Pran undresses and covers himself with a towel. Pat enters the bathroom in less than a minute, holding the hot pot of boiling water with a white cloth.
“Careful,” Pat tells Pran to step aside as he pours the hot water into a pail and gradually mixes it with cold water until it’s the perfect temperature for Pran to bathe with. When he’s done, Pat tries to step out of the bathroom, but Pran stands by the door, a hand stopping him on his shoulder.
“Pat,” Pran calls.
Pat remains silent, head turned to the side as he clenched his jaw with control.
“I want to give us a chance,” Pran speaks. “I promised myself that I will dedicate my life for the country and for the freedom of its people. There is a high chance that I will die in the midst of this. But until that time comes, will you stay by my side?”
The surge of excitement that flows through Pat should not be normal for a man. He knew that he should think this through, think about what Pran is saying and how much it could affect both their lives. Pran has willingly accepted his fate and wants Pat to stay with him until that time comes. Pat knew how much of a big decision that can be for a boy who thinks so much.
Now, Pat reaches forward to cup Pran’s flushed cheek, caressing his cheekbones with his thumb and smiling softly at the boy. “Shower first,”
Pat closes the door behind him and decides to wait for Pran on his bed so they can talk. The night is very cold and Pat know that the hot shower would not be enough for Pran to fight the cold, so he walks to his kitchen and prepares a steaming cup of tea for Pran.
Covering the cup with a lid and placing it on his bedstand, Pat resumes his position on the bed and hugs his pillow as he waits. He thinks about what Pran had said, long and hard. No matter how much he tries to stop himself, the excitement and happiness of Pran finally wanting to give them a chance overrules it. There will be a time when the harmless feelings they have for each other, morphs into that of something deeper, stronger and much more painful to handle. Pat knows that by that time, nothing they do will be able to get rid of those feelings.
It's a thought; were they willing to take this risk? Were they going to give each other the space to fall in love and suffer from the consequences if something happens to Pran or Pat.
Pran steps out of the bathroom, bringing the steam along with him. He was already in his shorts and the shirt Pat had given him, albeit still buttoning it up slowly. The shirt is slightly big on Pran who has to fold the sleeves so that they don’t cover his hands. Pat watches quietly, sitting against his bedframe. The towel is hung on the back of a chair near Pat’s table before Pran walks over to where Pat sits. He sits on the edge of the bed, right next to Pat’s thighs.
One of Pran’s hands come to take Pat’s and rests them over his thighs. Pran’s head is hung low enough that Pat could not see his beautiful eyes. Pat contemplates on whether he should tip Pran’s head back and take a good look at him.
“We should date,” Pran blurts out.
There was no going back from the words he had just spewed, so Pran looks up with determined eyes. It almost makes Pat laugh; how Pran who had been so adamant on not wanting them to even cross paths, was now asking him out.
“Why are you laughing?” Pran frowns, which only makes Pat laugh further.
He shakes his head when his chuckles die down. Pat shuffles closer to the boy and takes their linked hands to rest it on his warm chest. “You have no idea how long I have been wishing to hear those words,”
The smile that Pran gives him is something Pat has never seen before. He prays that he will be the only one to witness that smile and claim those dimples for himself. He gives in to the urge to touch Pran’s dimples with his free hand, tracing the dips using the pads of his fingers. They suited Pran. Everything suited Pran.
“This is a big decision we are making, Pran,” Pat whispers. “Are you sure about this?”
Pran hums appreciatively. “You’re right; this is a big decision,” he begins. “If we don’t date, I would be living a safe life. I would hurt no one and even if I died, it would not be remembered for long because I have no one.”
Pat waits patiently as he listens to Pran despite his heart thundering in his ribcage at the prospect of Pran having second thoughts.
“But,” Pran continues. “But I would not be happy. I could never be happy after knowing that I let you go on my own will. I will regret every second of the day, wishing I could hold you one last time. Hold your hand one last time and spend my minimal number of days with you. If we don’t date, I’d lead a safe life, but I’d die of regret. And for me, regret is the most painful thing a man can have,”
Just when Pat thinks that Pran has finished baring his heart before him, and just when he thinks he could not be developing feelings this fast for a boy, Pran leans forward to press the palms of his hands to Pat’s cheeks and presses them just like that day at the protest. And he repeats the exact words Pat had told him before;
“Just be with me,” Pran whispers. “We can figure out the details later,”
“Where are we going?” Pat asks for the umpteenth time of the day.
Pran had purchased two bus tickets for the both of them and is adamant on not telling Pat where exactly it is that they were going. The only thing that Pat is allowed to do is to hold Pran’s hand as he handles their transportation.
It’s seven in the morning in Pattaya and the roads are still in a mess from the protests last week. But they can already see them occupied by cars and motorcycles, along with the public transportations. Pran remains quiet even as they enter the bus and take the farthest seat.
“You really won’t tell me where we are going?” Pat decides to use his charms and pouts at Pran.
Pran had always been a stoic boy whenever Pat showed off his cute skills. Now, though, he doesn’t have the time to mask the surprise in his face when Pran coos and even pinches his cheeks. Pat feels his heart skip multiple beats.
“Fine, I’ll tell you,” Pran sighs with mock annoyance. He takes their linked hands and places them on his lap, smiling softly at it. Pat could not help but smile at that too. Happiness always looked good on Pran.
“I’m bringing you to meet my family,”
If there was a record scratch sound, Pat would most definitely hear it. He turns towards Pran with parted lips and wide eyes. Pran could not help but find him adorable even at a state of shock. “What?”
Pran hides his smile by looking out the dusty windows of the bus. They’re going to the outskirts of Pattaya, with only the dirt roads and mountains to supply to Pran’s views. The sun has not started to shine yet, so it was a gloomy morning but Pran felt at peace than he did on days where the sun shone brightly with rainbows.
“You brought me to visit your family, I cannot?” Pran cocks his head to the side, mocking Pat’s pout.
“That’s different!” Pat cries. “Pran, I didn’t even dress well!” he looks down at his floral printed short-sleeved shirt and the black slacks he had tucked it into. He looked like he was going to the disco. He should’ve worn a tie at least.
“My family is not so traditional,” Pran smiles. “You don’t have to worry,”
Somewhere along their small banter, Pat’s hand had fallen away from Pran’s lap, which was not a good thing. So Pran takes his lonely hand back into his and continues looking out the window bus. Pat coughs away the oncoming blush and squeezes Pran’s hand.
“Are you hungry?” Pran asks. “We have to get down in a bit before the next stop. Do you like wonton noodles?”
As if on cue, Pran feels Pat’s stomach rumble against their linked hands. He huffs out a laugh and tugs on Pat. “Let’s go,”
After breakfast, they hop back onto the next bus and continue holding hands. Pat sticks himself close to Pran just because he can. He hooks his arm around Pran and link their fingers together, a sigh of contentment escaping his lips.
They sit in silence, this time, comfortable silence while the bus rumbles around the dirt road. A small yawn escapes Pat and Pran catches it almost immediately. Pat would be tired given that Pran had knocked on his door so early in the morning.
Pran shuffles closer to the policeman and raises his hand to gently push Pat’s head down onto his shoulder. “You must be tired. We still have an hour to go,” Pran mumbles on the crown of Pat’s head. He smelled like aloe vera.
Pat, too tired to speak, only nods and nuzzles closer on Pran’s shoulder as he dozes off. He was never the one to sleep during the day, but with Pran’s arms around him and his head resting perfectly on Pran’s shoulder, sleep comes easily for Pat.
“Are you ready?” Pran smiles at Pat, almost laughing at the way he pouts. Apparently, Pat is still sulking at Pran for not telling him earlier.
“I’m still mad at you,”
Pran walks down the road with Pat in his hand until he notices the familiar house situated deep inside the greeneries. “Pat..” Pran pulls, enough to get Pat’s attention. “Trust me, they will like you,”
When Pat remains silent and only follows Pran, he leans nearer to Pat and whispers; “They’re just children, Pat,”
Pat stops in his track and looks at Pran with confusion threaded in his eyebrows. Pran smiles again and pulls him inside the house. He breaks their linked hands to remove the guitar case slung across his back and sets it down. Almost immediately, Pat hears the shrieks and laughter of children running towards him. Pran kneels down with open arms to hug all the kids that run into him whereas Pat could only stare.
“P’Pran!” they all cheer as they swarmed around Pran. “We missed you!”
Pat watches with fascination as Pran laughed and smiled widely at the children. “I missed you too,”
When the excitement has died down, the kids wrap themselves around his hand and arms and try to drag him towards the house. Pran resists lightly, trying to catch their attention first, albeit having quite the difficulties. Pat grips Pran’s guitar and bag, trying to make himself useful while he settles the kids.
“You’re here?”
They both look up and meet the gaze of an elderly woman, smiling brightly under the sunlight. Pran smiles back and turns around to take Pat’s hand in his while he holds the kids with his other hand. Pat follows Pran, gripping his hand tightly to mask the sudden nervousness in him.
“Hi, Mae,” Pran smiles; he wais at her.
The lady nods, motioning for the kids to leave Pran alone and walking closer to them. “Kids go play, give P’Pran some space to breathe,” the kids listen fast and disperse to run around the lawn of the house.
“How was the journey here?” the lady touches Pran’s cheek, a soft, motherly smile on her lips.
Pran nods. “It was fine, Mae,” he turns around, almost laughing at Pat’s pale face next to him. Mae turns to look at Pat too, her smile widening when she looks at their linked hands.
Pat notices the extensive attention on him and decides to break their hold to wai at the lady, bowing down respectfully. “Hello, Mae,” he speaks.
“This is Pat,” Pran introduces. “He’s my..” Pran trails off, a small hmph escaping his lips. What were they? Shaking his head, Pran decides to say what his heart wished to say. “He is my lover,”
“Wonderful,” Mae smiles at them. She squeezes herself between them and hooks her arms on each of Pat and Pran’s arms. “I am almost finished cooking. Join us for lunch,”
Together, they spend the day with the kids and Mae, laughing and playing along. The kids were very much delighted to have new company that were sporting enough to play with them. It gets boring in the orphanage, and their Mae does not allow them to play outside most times due to the attacks.
Pat, much to Pran’s surprise, is very good with kids. He sits with Mae on the steps of their home, peeling apples while she chopped them up. And he watches Pat run around with the kids, one of his sisters on his shoulder while he chases them. The sounds of their laughter can be heard all the way where Pran sits; Pat’s laughter sounds the loudest.
“He seems like a good boy,” Mae muses. “How did he fall for a rebel like you?”
Pran chuckles at that. “It took us a lot to even give this a try,” he sighs wistfully at Pat swinging the kids in his arms, them giggling with glee. “I didn’t expect to fall for him of all people,”
Mae hums as she occupies herself by chopping up the fruits. Pran keeps his eyes fixed on the kids playing with Pat. His heart bubbles with mirth at the sight. It flutters like the wings of a butterfly, tickling his ribcage.
God forbid he thinks about the future, but he could not help it. A future if Pat or Pran were not pulled in the middle of this mess. Where they would be living peaceful lives, and if they were blessed, they would have a child, a pretty daughter. Pran would spend the rest of his life just watching the way Pat would play with her.
“Our lives may not have fit together,” Pran tells Mae. “But, oh, did our souls know how to dance,”
The kids get to stay a little longer past their bedtimes, thanks too Pat and his adorable charms at wooing their mother. Eventually, when its half past midnight, the kids are passed out from exhaustion and Mae tucks them in their beds.
“Will you be staying?”
Pran nods for confirmation from Pat who does not waste a second to agree with a blinding smile. Mae nods with a yawn, informing Pran that they can just sleep in Pran’s old room while she retires to hers.
The traditional wooden house where Pran grew up in is dimly lit with orange lights. Pran does not let go of Pat’s hand as he guides them to his old bedroom. Pran’s room is untouched from the last time he had visited his family. Pat wasn’t surprised from the clean demeanour it shows.
He sets the guitar at the foot of the bed before sitting right next to it and pulling Pat with him. It’s almost impossible to see Pran if not for the shine of the moon that illuminated his face. Just like the first night they met, Pran glows under the moonlight, and the stars are in his eyes.
“Did you know..” Pat whispers between them, afraid that his loud voice would wake the kids up. Pran looks at him under the dim moonlight and Pat touches him wherever he wants because he can.
“The first night we met, you were so beautiful under the moonlight like this,” Pat continues. “You looked just like this,”
Pran leans into the warm palm that caresses his cheek and places a chaste kiss over it. “It’s a miracle how we have controlled our feelings for this long,”
Pat smiles at that. His eyes then catch the black guitar case that is slanted on the floor next to Pran. He jerks his chin towards it. “Play me a song,”
Pran lights up at the request, which sends fireworks exploding in Pat’s heart. It is unhealthy to fall this fast for someone.
Pran removes the guitar from its case and sets it on his lap. Under the darkness, Pat could not make out the colour or shape of the guitar, but he traces his fingertips over the polished wood and thin wires that elicit the softest sounds. Pran strums the guitar very lightly so as to not wake the kids up.
It sounded beautiful, the soft strumming, the music that floats between them accompanied by Pran’s low hums. Pat does not understand how he has lived a life without experiencing this at all. He wonders if he can ever live without this. Pran next to him, soft touches between them while he plays for Pat under the moonlight.
Unconsciously (or consciously enough), Pat’s face drifts closer and closer to Pran who sways to the soft music. And when he strums the guitar one last time for Pat, he turns around to find the policeman only a paper’s width away from him.
Pran knew that if there had been sufficient lighting, his cheeks would be pink from the proximity. But he was also very sure that he can feel the heat radiating from Pran. If Pat feels it, he does not say anything.
Their noses are touching and one of Pat’s hands are in contact with Pran’s chest. It was just a brush of his knuckles against the skin, yet, Pat feels his heart thumping loudly. “Your heart is beating fast,” Pat repeats the same words Pran spoke to him that morning.
Despite the tension between them, Pran chuckles softly, his breath brushing Pat’s lips. They smelled sweet like apples. “I would be surprised if it wasn’t,”
“Oh no,” Pat’s lips hovers right over Pran’s and their eyes never leave each other. Pran is gripping his guitar until his knuckles turned white. “We are in trouble,” Pat tells Pran.
“What do you mean?” it was a half-hearted question, because Pran couldn’t care less. The only thing that is running through his mind, and his whole body is Pat’s lips brushing against his in a teasing manner. He needed to hold Pat in place and kiss him properly. He needed to embrace Pat forever.
“We’re falling for each other,” Pat speaks and, yes, they wouldn’t be here if they weren’t falling for each other.
“I don’t see a problem with that,” Pran whispers back. “Can I kiss you?”
It was not supposed to come out that fast. Pran holds his breath. They were supposed to go into this slowly, like in the movies, where no one asked for permission and simply leaned forward until they met in the middle. Pran wants to scream and wants to curse for ruining the moment.
Pat had other plans.
The minimal gap between their lips are sealed when Pat cups the back of Pran’s head and pulls him close. The guitar is pushed to the floor behind them while Pran desperately grips on his collar to deepen the kiss. They don’t sleep that night.
Instead, they kiss and kiss and kiss under the moonlight and the cold breeze until their lips are swollen and they cannot breathe properly. Then they would undress and exchange kisses and soft touches all over their bodies and hold each other until the sun rises.
9th October 1973
Things get better for Pat and Pran. Pat is happier and so is Pran, even if they have to hide their relationship most of the times. They spend as much time as the can the past week. Nobody knew what the future holds for Pran and Pat.
Just like today.
“Where were you last night, hm?” Pat hugs his lover from the back as he prepares breakfast for them. “I was waiting so long for you,”
Pran looks to his side and hits his head to Pat’s head that rested on his shoulder. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbles.
Pat’s heart flutters at the term of endearment despite having heard it a handful of times.
“We’re so close to winning this fight, I sent more leaflets to Bangkok for them to distribute,” Pran explains. “If all goes well, the King might just grant us the freedom we have been fighting for,”
Pran turns around in Pat’s arms when he finishes cutting up the winter melons. He wraps his arms around Pat’s neck, pushing his finger up the damp hair to lightly scratch it. Pat loves that, Pran had come to found.
“Are you saying that things will get better from here?” Pat asks. “And we can live our lives happily?”
Pran pretends to think and nod nonchalantly but they both could feel the excitement that radiated off Pran. “If it all goes well, then yes,”
Pat does not stop the grin that stretches wide across his face as he hugs Pran tightly and showers him with kisses. “Then we can go out on dates, get married and have a daughter just like we wanted, Pran,” Pat smiles against Pran’s mouth.
Pran laughs, unable to hide the giddiness and happiness that comes from him whenever Pat is around. He lets Pat to kiss him everywhere on his face and holds him in place for a real kiss. “We’re so close, Pat,” Pran whispers. He strokes Pat’s messy hair back into its place while Pat busies himself by still kissing Pran.
Somewhere along the way, Pat’s itchy hand slip under Pran’s shirt and tickles his hips lightly. Pran chokes out a giggle and tries to elbow Pat away from his sensitive spots. “Pat!” Pran shrieks. Pat’s strong arms hold out longer than he had expected until he is full on tickling Pran.
Laughter floods Pran’s home as he tries to escape from the death grip Pat has on his body. “Shit, Pat!” he fails miserably and they end up tumbling down to the sofa. Pat does not stop there, kissing and pinching every form of skin on Pran’s body.
The sudden knocks on Pran’s door halt the boys’ tickling session and Pran looks over Pat’s shoulder. The knocks grow louder until Pran is able to make out Wai’s desperate cries. Pran furrows his eyebrows in confusion before he looks at Pat above him.
“Were you expecting him?” Pat whispers as he gets of off Pran.
Pran shakes his head and straightens his clothes, patting down his hair before he opens the door. Wai is on the other side, face flushed and eyes glassy as he heaved for breath.
“Wai? What are you-
“They took P’Thi,” Wai gasps. “And the others; they arrested them and accused them of overthrowing the government,”
Pran grips on the threshold harder when he hears Wai’s words. His heart lurches painfully. “What?” Pran croaks.
“They were- they,” Wai chokes out, trying his best to form coherent words. “They were caught distributing the leaflets you wrote. P’Thi asked you to run,”
Pran turns around to look at Pat who had stood behind him, arms crossed as he carefully waited for Pran to finish speaking. Wai is gripping his shoulders already, shaking him hard.
“Did you hear a word I said?” Wai cries. “Sooner or later, one of them is going to say your name when the police tortures them You can’t be here, Pran,”
“But what about the protests,” Pran snaps back. “They were all wrongfully arrested. All our hard work will go down the drain if no one speaks from the outside,”
“Screw the protest, Pran!” Wai screams, tears streaming down his face. “Your life is in danger they will find for you!”
“Not unless we fix this ourselves, Wai,” Pran grounds out. “I will go to Bangkok tonight; come with me if you want. If not, just stay here and hide like a coward,”
Wai looks behind Pran, at Pat who stands there clueless as to what was going on. Wai pushes past Pran into his home and walks to Pat. “Your lover is going to sacrifice his life for a hopeless cause,” he tells Pat.
“Wai, stop,” Pran snaps. He moves inside to grab Wai by the collar, trying his best to stop Wai from spewing utter nonsense.
“He’s going to Bangkok to lead the protest and they will kill him,” Wai continues. “Please, stop him, Pat. Only you c-
“Wai!” Pran pushes himself between Wai and Pat, effectively pushing Wai out of the house. “Get a fucking hold of yourself!” Pran screams.
“Pran,” Wai softens again. “Please, think this through. If you die, everything will be ruined,”
Pran shakes his head. “If I hide, everything will be ruined too,”
He slams the door close in Wai’s face and stares at it for a good minute. Pran knew that if he turns around, Pat would be there, eyes wide with fear as he asks Pran about what Wai was saying just now.
He rests his forehead against the wooden door for a moment to calm down his mind and heart that had caught on fire. Pran prepares on what to say to Pat, how to talk to him about the very thing they had worried for.
“Pran?”
Pat’s voice is right next to his ear and Pran jumps in surprise. He turns around to find Pat watching him with wide eyes and an unsure smile on his lips. Pran could not help but smile back at how much Pat is holding on. He reaches forward to cup Pat’s cheek, biting his lips to mask the pain inside him.
“A few of my seniors,” Pran begins, unsure of how to start. “Started this protest along with me. Day by day, it grew bigger and stronger. This,” Pran’s voice starts to shake.
He inhales, willing himself to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat.
“This is the final shot,” he continues. “But they got arrested and I have to continue this or all our efforts will be ruined,”
Pat remains silent and when Pran looks up, his face is stoic, but his eyes start to well up with unshed tears. The lump in Pran’s throat becomes bigger. “Pat..” Pran tries to nag as usual but it ends up cracking his voice. “We talked about this, sweetheart,” he strokes Pat’s face.
Pat looks down when the weight of the tears become unbearable for him. The drop onto Pran’s palms. He holds his lover quietly until all the tears are out of him. Pat knew that no matter how hard he tries, Pran would not budge. It was inevitable and exactly why they had refrained from falling in love.
Pran holds Pat by his flushed cheeks, begging him to look up so he could wipe those tears away. “We didn’t live in regret, did we?” he whispers. “We lived our lives to the fullest. It’s time for you to let go of me just for a while,”
Pat chokes out a sob, wanting to speak but not being able to from the lump in his throat. Everything becomes a garbled mess.
“Sweetheart,” Pran hums. “I will come back for you when all of this is over. All I ask is for you to let go just for a while,” Pran rests his forehead on Pat’s when he stops shaking violently. “Just for a while, yes?”
“Let me- Let-
Pat chokes off again, pulling Pran closer. He clears his throat, desperate to speak with Pran. “Let me come- with you,” he manages to get his words out.
Pran’s eyes harden at that. “Pat,” he warns, which only infuriates Pat further.
Pat runs his fingers through his hair and wipes off the remaining tears. “I agreed to you risking your life for this already. Why can’t you let me do the one thing that I want?”
“Because it’s dangerous,” Pran pleases.
“No, I need to be there with you. I need to take care of you,” Pat begs this time. “Please, Pran,”
Pran stubbornly shakes his head. “I can’t let you come with me, it’s a mess out there, Pat,” he whispers. “You think I would be fine if you’re there?”
“No negotiations Pran,” Pat replies. “We promised each other,”
“Pat,” Pran raises his voice slightly. It’s enough to get Pat’s attention. His eyes are wide and desperate for Pran to just listen to him. But Pran cannot let him come this time. “Please,”
Pran waits at the train station with his group that very night. Wai had followed him despite having a mental breakdown, but Pran is thankful enough. A few of them had ran away in fear of being caught, Pran could not care less. He needed to make things right and if going to the protest is the only way then so be it.
The ticket master alerts them that their train is in 15 minutes. Pran tells Wai to bring the others to wait inside the train. He takes a moment for himself, hoping that Pat would at least come to send him off.
Their argument that morning had ended with Pat angrily telling him to do whatever he wanted before he had stormed off Pran’s home. Pran knew that there was no point in fixing things with Pat who would stubbornly want to follow Pran again. Either way, Pran will fix this after he successfully makes it out alive.
That was a bigger question for Pran. Would he regret ending things badly with Pat? Or would he be lucky enough to get a second chance at fixing things with his lover?
“The train is about to go,”
Pran looks up at almost bursts into tears of joy when his eyes meet with Pat’s fierce ones. Pat is standing in front of him, smiling softly that Pran could not help but pull him into a hug. “You came,” Pran whispers.
The feeling of happiness is only for a few moments; just until he feels the small bag slung across Pat’s back. Pran’s smile vanishes in an instance.
Pat pulls back to see his lover’s face of anger and could not help but feel a tinge of smugness in him. “Don’t even bother trying to change my mine,” Pat speaks, already linking their hands together.
The last whistle to the train is heard and Pran does not even have the time to scream some sense into Pat before he is being dragged into the moving train. They sit opposite each other and check their tickets together; all while Pran resisted the urge to throw Pat out of the train.
“The second we reach Bangkok, you are not leaving the house,” Pran warns his lover. “You stay there unless I tell you to come,”
“No,” Pat shakes his head. “The second we reach Bangkok, I am following you wherever you go. I will stand by your side and make sure nothing happens to you,” he replies to Pran.
“Pat,” Pran groans, fisting at his hair. “This is a protest,” he grits his teeth. “And you are a cop. Don’t make stupid decisions. Think practical for once,”
“I did,” Pat snaps. “I resigned my job,”
“W-what?” Pran straightens up. “You did what?”
“It was the only way I knew to protect you,” he speaks, taking Pran’s hand in his. “If they find out a police man is in love with one of the protestors, your life will be in danger,”
“That doesn’t mean you should jus-
“Pran,”
Pran halts his ranting when Pat cuts him off. He lets Pat pull him to the empty seat next to him and link their hands together. “I want to stay by your side in thick and thin. Please don’t try to convince me. It will never work,”
At that, Pat mumbles that he is tired and proceeds to rest his head on Pran’s shoulder and falls asleep.
10th October 1973
They reach Bangkok at seven in the morning with Pat sound asleep on Pran’s shoulder. Wai and the group tells him that they will stay at the hideout and prepare for the protests at night. Pran tells them that he will settle things with Pat and join them.
Pran wakes his lover up and they quietly make their way to Pran’s college apartment his Mae had gifted him when he came to study here. Pat, still riddled by sleep, blindly follows Pran as they walk. The city centre had a few groups of students preparing for the protests that would be held all night long. Pran watches them, some passed out from dehydration, some sleeping on the heated road while the others weakly protested.
Wai had told him that all universities around Bangkok had been informed of their leaders’ arrest and that they would be arriving later in the day. Pran’s heart begins to lurch again. Things were only beginning to heat up. He looks to Pat that sleepily followed Pran to his apartment and Pran prays for a miracle.
When they arrive at his place, Pran sets their bags down and helps Pat get into the bed. Pat complies easily, falling against the mattress as his breathing evens out. Pran takes his time, stroking Pat’s hair carefully while he slept. He makes a quick meal for Pat in case he gets hungry and places the tray by his bedstand.
“Pat,” Pran whispers in his ear.
Pat huffs and moans a little, craning his neck closer to his lover. Pran smiles and gives Pat multiple kisses on his forehead, cheeks and lips. “I’m going out for a bit. Sleep well, sweetheart,”
Pat huffs again and tries to grope at Pran, but Pran places a pillow in his place and Pat stills again. Just as Pran leaves, he makes sure that the door is locked.
Pran returns at almost midnight just for a shower before he leaves again. They had protested and spoken with the leaders of other universities to find a way for the arrestees to be released. Things will only get more stressful from here.
When Pran unlocks the door to his home, the first thing he encounters is Pat’s body, slamming onto him in a tight hug. Pran chokes out a gasp, chuckling a little as Pat hugs him tightly.
“Don’t ever do that again,” Pat sobs against his neck. “I was so close to breaking that door down,”
“Pat,” Pran chastises, pulling him away to bring him inside his apartment. Pran locks the door behind them and tugs on Pat’s hand to follow him to their bedroom. “I’m fine, see?”
Pat shakes his head. “You promised to bring you with me. You promised, Pran,” he sobs into Pran’s arms again.
Pran coos and comforts his giant baby by giving him kisses and coaxing him back to bed while Pran pulls the sheets over their bodies. “When did I fall in love with a baby, hm?”
Pat smacks Pran’s chest lightly and Pran laughs against his ear. “Pat, I’m fine, sweetheart. Nothing has happened yet,”
Pat raises himself up from Pran’s chest to frown at him. “Are you going to say that every time you decided to lock me inside while you go risk your life?” he snaps.
Pran’s smile softens as he reaches to swipe away the tears that slips down Pat’s face. “I promise. I promise I’ll keep you right next to me from now on,” he whispers. “Sleep, Pat. I will be here when you wake up,”
Pran coaxes Pat to lie on his chest and sleep peacefully. Pran does not sleep the whole night, opting to clasp his hands together and pray for the safety of the one he loved. He prayed and prayed and prayed that all the bad things would come to him, and Pat would be safe.
12th October 1973
They have been on the road, protesting for two whole days. Pat feels his legs shake with exhaustion and his head throb from the heat. Pran is by his side, so everything feels a little better. Pat doesn’t understand how Pran can do this. He is too selfish to think about the wellbeing of other people. While his Pran is too selfless and only thinks about the wellbeing of other people.
Everyone there knew Pran. It both scares and impresses Pat that his lover was being looked up to. Scared because if anything happens, Pran would be the first one at risk. And Pat did not like that. There are kind civilians who volunteer to offer light snacks and water for the protesters. Though there are minimal food and water, Pran receives a lot of them.
Though he is being offered food, Pran does not even eat for once, opting to give the food and water away to the younger ones and saving some for Pat. “Drink this,” Pran would always say even when Pat refused to drink. He would stubbornly make sure Pat was well-fed. Pat could not say the same for Pran.
His clothes are dirty from picking fights with the police and his voice is sore from leading the protests with his loud screams. Pran’s eyes no longer held the stars in them, instead, they’re red from lack of sleep and energy. Pat prays every minute that the violence does not exceed to guns and knives. Let it just end with screams and physical fights. Pat knew how painful it was to suffer from gunshots and stab wounds. The last thing he would want is Pran suffering from them too.
Right now, the protests are a little quiet after fighting for the whole day. It is nearing four in the morning and people are exhausted, lying down on the dirty roads, fanning themselves from the heat. Pat is resting his head on Pran’s shoulder while he spoke to the respective leaders of the protests. He could not care less about what they were doing. As long as he is safe in Pran’s arms.
“Pran?” Pat croaks, raising his head to rub the sleep of his eyes.
Pran stops talking to his group almost immediately as he shifts his focus on Pat. It’s almost endearing, watching the confused faces look at Pran who had just been laying out plans to trash talk politicians, now turning to baby a grown man.
“Yes, sweetheart?” Pran strokes Pat’s hair. “Are you feeling hot? Do you need some water?”
Pat shakes his head. “I just wanted to make sure you’re still here,” he mumbles, hoping that nobody had heard them.
Pran chuckles on the top of Pat’s sweating head. “I’m here,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep, I’ll wake you if there’s anything,”
“Mm,” Pat agrees and resumes his position back on Pran’s shoulder. The sounds of Pran discussing matters with other students, slowly lulls Pat back to sleep.
“Pat, wake up,”
Pat is gently stirred awake by his lover. When he opens his eyes tiredly, everyone is wide awake and standing. The sleep in Pat dies away at an instant. He lets Pran pulls him up to his feet and hold him close.
“What happened?”
“The government has sent their representative,”
Pat follows Pran to the front just as he watches an elderly man walks to where Pran stands with the leaders of the rebellion. Pat tightens his hand around Pran when the representative eyes him up and down.
“The government would like to speak to the leader,” he begins.
Almost immediately, there is an uproar among the people as they angrily shout at him to tell them the decision. The man frowns further, pointing to Pran and the other leaders. “One of you has to come with me,”
“Whatever you want to say, you can say it here,” Pran shouts back. “We’re not falling for your tricks again,”
Pat wants to ask Pran to shut up, to not say a word so that they can get out alive. But this was Pran, the boy who had asked Pat to promise that he would let Pran willingly risk his life for the country.
“Fine,” the man snaps, voice controlled from anger. “The government has decided to release all 13 arrestees on bail,”
Pran almost charges at the man, ready to punch the living daylights out of him if it were not for Pat and the other leaders. Pran throws colourful curse words at the man, face red with fury and fierce eyes.
“Fuck the bail!” another leader screams. “Free them unconditionally, they didn’t do anything wrong,”
The man could do nothing but retreat to the government headquarters when the protest heats up again. Pran grabs the microphone and leads it yet again, making sure that the governments hears them loud and clear.
“FREE THEM ALL!” Pran screams. The people follow violently.
They take turns sharing the microphone to speak on the ill treatments and nepotism that goes on the political parties. Pat stays right by Pran’s side as the protests increase by intensity. By that night, the whole campus of Thammasat University is packed with students holding boards and dressed in white, screaming for freedom.
“This won’t do,” Pran screams over the loud noises to his group. “We need to see the King,”
“Pran,” Pat tugs on Pran’s hand violently but all Pran could see was red.
The leaders do not question Pran at all. They simply grab the microphone and inform the people of their plans to invade the palace. Pran was sure the King would be able to do something about this.
“Pran, it’s too risk-
Pat is cut off by Pran’s hand on his cheek. Pat looks at his lover; the boy that is stained with dirt, blood on his shirt, sunken eyes and clenched jaw. Despite being drained, the fire in Pran’s eyes never died down.
“Just stick right by my side and everything will be okay,” Pran whispers.
Pat could do nothing but nod.
13th October 1973
Shortly after Pran had led the people to go to the King, all hell broke loose.
The first sets of gunshots were heard at the far end of the crowd, followed by the cries of the people. What used to be a big group of people advancing bravely up to the King, is now a scatter of people, running away and taking cover from the gunshots.
Every corner Pat notices is the familiar khaki uniforms of the police, holding long guns that are fully loaded with bullets and firing away at the innocent people. He doesn’t have the time to help save anyone because Pran is already dragging him to any isolated area he could find. The fear in Pat doubles up as he runs with Pran to seek cover.
Along the way, Pran tells everyone to hide first and move when the shootings have stopped. Some listened, while some didn’t, deciding to face the police. It resulted in many getting shot cruelly and Pran had no time to grieve. They run amongst the cries of the students at midnight until they find a quiet place, far away from the gunshots.
Pran pulls the both of them inside a narrow alleyway, enough to fit just the two of them. It’s pitch black there and would be dead silent if not for the wailing and gunshots. Pran holds Pat close to his chest, heaving deeply. When he pulls back, Pran checks Pat for any injuries that he has missed.
“Pran,” Pat whimpers. “They have guns,”
“Sooner or later, this is bound to happen,” Pran whispers back, comforting Pat with soft rubs against his back. “We need to stay here until the gunshots die down a little,”
“No,” Pat whispers back, holding Pran by his shoulders. “No, we have to go home. We have to go home, Pran,” he begs.
“I’m not leaving until they release my friends, Pat,” Pran fires back. “I’m not leaving until I get the answers I have been fighting for,”
“Sometimes I wonder why I fell in love with your stubborn ass,” Pat snaps back.
Despite being held in a life-or-death situation, Pran snorts at that. He gives Pat a weak slap against his chest. “Stop that,”
“What now?” Pat whispers between them.
Pran can only shrug. “We pray,”
“I thought you didn’t believe in God?” Pat asks.
Pran sighs wistfully, reaching up to push Pat’s messy hair back. “I started believing in God the moment he brought me into your life,”
They won.
But at what cost?
14th October 1973
400,000.
Those were the number of people that had gathered at the palace to fight for the freedom of 13 activists and their country. Those were the number of people Pran led into the palace. The King had been mindful enough to offer a safe space for the people who had escaped the bullets of the cruel police.
Pran holds Pat in his arms even as he kneels to offer his respect to the King. Pat thinks they are safe when the King orders for the gun to be put down and for the people to receive what they have been fighting for. He wonders why the King had nod done this sooner. Why would he wait until lives have been cruelly ripped away.
Still, Pat thinks on the optimistic side. Where he is still nuzzled into the crook of Pran’s arms while his lover smiled so brightly and wrung out tears of joy at the news of freedom. Pat is lucky. He is thankful that his Pran is with him.
It will be an end for they tyranny and nepotism, the King had told them. They would all be safe and they will all return home without the weight of the bullets hanging on them. Pran had kneeled down before the King to thank him for his kindness. Pat had followed. But all he did was thank the King for keeping his Pran safe.
As the King request for the students to disband, Pat watches the police enforce barricades along the road, creating a path for the student to follow in one order. He should’ve seen it coming. The recipe for disaster.
It was not possible to have 400,000 people follow the same narrow pathway back home. After fighting and screaming for almost a week, everyone had been tired, angry and just hoping to go back home to their soft beds. It was a miracle they lasted this long.
People started to get restless. The police started to lose their temper, and so did the government who had not been happy with the King’s decision. Pat’s hand is tight in Pran’s as they follow the crowd.
Until the gunshots came again.
Someone dies right before Pat’s eyes. It meant that there was a gun very near to Pran and him. Everyone started to scream and run just like the night before. Pran acts quick by pushing Pat down and sheltering him with his own body. Pat grips on for dear life, trying to resist Pran, to protect him just as much.
Too many people were dying around him, Pran noticed. It was only a matter of time that the guns would be aimed at Pat too. Pran crouches down, bringing Pat with him. The students are stumbling over one another and running away from the gun. Pran covers Pat even as he gets trampled on by the foot of fearful students. This is not good at all.
Pran removes the bag that had been slung over his shoulder and hooks it over Pat’s shoulder. Pat knew what his lover was doing, and he will die before listening to Pran.
“I need you to listen to me,” Pran begins, but Pat is already shaking his head, trying to remove the bag from his shoulder to give it back to Pran.
Pran’s grip is harder despite having a lot less energy than Pat. “No, no!” Pat screams amidst the crowd. “I’m not leaving you! I’m not,”
“Pat,” Pran tries to calm Pat down, holding onto his biceps. “Pat, PAT,” Pran screams. It seems to get Pat to quiet down. “There’s no time,” Pran cries. The tears flow freely down his face and Pat begins to sob too.
It was inevitable, their love.
“Just go to the city centre,” Pran cries, holding Pat close as yet another pair of feet trampled on him. “Take this and go to the city centre, okay sweetheart?”
“Pran, you promised,” Pat wails, gripping Pran by the collar. His vision is so blurry that he could not see Pran at all. Pat wishes he would stop crying so he could at least see his Pran one last time.
Pran cups his face tightly, hugging him until no air is able to enter Pat before he gives Pat a soft kiss. It was a kiss just like their first one; soft, quiet and pure. For a second, Pat forgets about the place they are in, the gunshots, and the smear of blood everywhere. For a second, Pat clings onto the boy he had fallen in love with, the boy he had begged a chance for and the boy who would risk his life for the country and Pat himself.
“Go,” Pran whispers against his lips. “Go and never turn back,”
“Pran,” Pat shakes his head slowly again, but Pran is already standing up, and pulling Pat with him
With one last kiss to Pat’s forehead, Pran says; “I love you.” And pushes Pat as far as he can.
Pat is not given the time to reply before he is being pushed by the crowd of people that ran. He turns his back on his lover, holding the satchel close to his heart and Pat walks away just as Pran tells him to.
He walks and walks and walks, and he never turns back even as the bomb explosions occur.
14th October 2022
Shariya watches as the grandpa’s hands shake from his story. The photo in his hand is crumpled from gripping too hard. Carefully, she places her hand over the old man’s hand.
“What was in the satchel?” Shariya asks from curiosity.
Pat laughs; it was his fault for not being able to finish his story.
“It was this picture,” Pat smiles. “And a letter,”
“A letter?” Shariya asks and Pat nods in confirmation. “What did it say?”
“Shariya!”
Both Pat and Shariya turn to the direction of the sound. A lady in a pink blouse comes sprinting to where Shariya sits with him. Pat could not help but chuckle at the wide eyes Shariya gives her mother.
“I told you to stay there,” her mother sighs, hugging Shariya close with relief.
“Sorry, Mae,”
The lady turns to Pat and wais in respect. “I am so sorry, sir,” the lady speaks. “I hope she wasn’t too much of a troublemaker,”
Pat shakes his head. “Not at all,” he replies. “Shariya was a good listener,” Pat leans closer to Shariya and pinches her cheek. “Now, you should listen to your mother,”
“But you didn’t tell me what was in the letter!” Shariya whines.
“Shariya that’s enough, we have to go,” her mother scolds.
Pat chuckles and gives in to the little girl. “Nothing much was said. He told me where he will be waiting for me after everything is over. I went to find for him and we lived happily. There,”
Shariya giggles excitedly. “Happily ever after,” she grins, half her teeth were missing.
Pat merely nods and bids his goodbyes to the mother and child. When he is alone again, Pat pulls out the burnt letter and reads it over and over again. Over and over again until whatever he tells Shariya would become a reality. Only a miracle would help Pat.
To my Pat,
I hope that you will never have to see this letter or that I will at least be by your side as you laugh at me for writing this. But if you aren’t, it means that I’m no longer with you.
Think of this as my final words to the boy who had made me live my life with no regrets. You have made me the happiest a man could ever be in a month. If I were to choose between dying or giving up the memories you have given me that month, I will happily die.
It just so happens to be that the October of 1973 does not seem to be our lucky year. But I promise you, that if there is another universe, another lifetime, I will pray that we meet again. In another time, in another place. I will love you fearlessly then, the way I should’ve loved you now.
If there is such thing as reincarnation, I wish to be reincarnated as your other half, as your missing piece. Because you are my missing piece, and I cannot bear to spend another lifetime with a missing piece in my heart.
I hope that if we meet again, it would be when October comes. I would love to make new and happier memories of that month than what has happened in this year.
Promise me that when October comes, you will wait for me.
And I will go to you. Forever and ever.
I love you.
Pr-