Pat’s door was locked. Pran expected as much, but it still stung.
And maybe Pran was too drunk to know when to give up.
“Pat?” he said. “Pat, can we talk, please? Pat?” He knocked again.
It felt like he was knocking for hours. But probably only a couple of minutes passed by the time Pat opened the door, in his olive t-shirt and shorts, blinking sleep out of his eyes. His hair was tousled. Pran wanted to straighten it.
Pat looked tired. “Pran, it’s late,” he said.
It was; it was nearly two am. Pran hadn’t wanted to drink that much at first, and then he drank too much. He wasn’t going to tell Wai anything, of course, but maybe Pran was a little overzealous in not telling Wai, or not thinking about Pat at all. Maybe he asked Wai to wingman for him, then told Wai all his taste in men sucked, and kept glancing at his phone as if Pat would text him first, even though Pran was the one who fucked up.
“Yeah,” Pran said sadly.
Pat sniffed the air. “And you’re drunk,” he said.
“Yeah,” Pran said again.
He thought Pat might let him in, but Pat just folded his arms and watched him. He was probably still hurt; Pran didn’t know Pat cared about his guitar so much. It was Pran’s guitar, after all. Why should Pat care?
But what came out of his mouth instead was—”Sorry,” said Pran, and he sounded so miserable he would've been embarrassed if he was sober. “I didn’t—I don’t know how, but I hurt you, and I know it, and I’m sorry. I’m just—I’m afraid of messing this up, and I know you—I don’t know how this is for you, but we’re—today just kinda sucked for me too, the play, but—I don’t want to make you think that I would just—shit, this isn’t making any sense, is it.”
He could feel his face gradually getting warmer with each word that came out; by the time he was done, he was almost regretting knocking on Pat’s door in the first place. Pat’s face was inscrutable, which was rare since Pran was so used to looking at his face their whole lives, he could read even the tiniest of Pat's micro expressions. But maybe Pran was scared of what he might see. Or he was really drunk.
“You aren’t making any sense,” Pat said, after a moment.
Pran sighed. He wanted to curl up into Pat’s body, like he dreamed of doing for most of his teenage years—and indulged in a few times over the past couple of months—but wasn’t sure how appropriate that would be, now. “And I’d hoped you’d sleep over,” Pran admitted, tipping forward.
Pat caught him on his shoulder. He didn’t push Pran away, and didn’t say anything when Pran let a few tears trickle out through the soft cloth of Pat’s shirt. “I’ll sleep over,” Pat said.
“I missed you.” Pran was aware that he was probably whining now, but he didn’t care. “Your door wasn’t open.”
Pat’s laugh tinkled, warming Pran all over his body, from his fingertips to his toes. “Sorry about that,” Pat said. “I’ll keep it unlocked next time.”
He made Pran wait in the doorway so he could get his old doll from his bed. Then Pat was holding his hand and leading Pran back to his own dorm across the hall. He helped Pran change into his pajamas, and once Pran was in bed, Pat turned off the light before crawling under the covers with him.
When Pran breathed in his scent, something inside him unfurled, as it did, as he wanted to. It didn’t matter how far away Pat was, or for how long, or what, even, the nature of their relationship was: Pat was always going to feel like home. “I don’t want to mess this up,” Pran mumbled sleepily into Pat’s chest.
Pat’s large palm stroked his back. “You’re drunk, don’t worry about it,” Pat said.
Pran could feel the vibrations from Pat’s chest on his cheek when Pat spoke. It was almost enough to soothe him to sleep—but not quite.
“Can I worry about it in the morning?” he asked.
Pat laughed again. Just the sound made Pran feel like things were going to be okay, even if his brain, sober or not, wouldn’t shut off.
“Sure,” Pat said. “Now sleep, will you?”
Pran slept.
–
In the morning, Pat was up already, making noise in Pran’s kitchen. Pran had an apology halfway up his throat, but then Pat said, “I made you breakfast if you want it.” He gestured to a plate of toast on the counter.
Touched, Pran said, “Thanks.” He picked up a piece of toast and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly. He was still in his pajamas; Pat was, too.
Pran swallowed his toast and said, “Pat, about yesterday—”
Pat shook his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, before Pran could continue. “I was just overreacting. Sorry for throwing a tantrum.”
“You weren’t,” insisted Pran. “I was—I wasn’t thinking—I thought I told you—”
“Yeah, I know.” Pat picked up a piece of toast from the plate too. “But I wasn’t thinking either.” He finished eating and smiled at Pran. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m not mad at you, you know.”
Pran wanted to believe it. He did; Pat was taking another piece of toast, anyway.
He wanted to tell Pat it didn’t mean anything—or, it meant more than Pat thought. He wanted to tell Pat that if he hadn’t given his guitar to Wai to hold onto, he might never stop playing songs about him, writing songs about him. His love and want for Pat ached so much in his chest, in his body, and the only way he could contain himself was to keep his guitar away, with someone else. He wanted to tell Pat about the twinge of guilt he felt last night during the conversation with Wai, the words he said and Pat had heard. Even though Pran didn’t know what was wrong, he still knew, in the moment, he had fucked something up, said something he didn’t want Pat to hear. Made Pat feel something Pran didn't ever want to make him feel.
But he couldn’t. And when he met Pat’s eyes again, he saw the guilt there, too—probably from making Pran cry, or maybe because Pran said he thought he’d messed it all up between them. It was hard for Pran to realize how much it all mattered to Pat, how much he mattered to Pat. He’d been carrying his love for Pat for so long and convinced himself that Pat would never see it; he was still learning that not only did Pat see it, but he was carrying his love for Pran as well. He didn’t want to mess this up as much as Pran. They could hurt each other so well.
“I’m not mad at you, either,” Pran said, and the relief that flickered across Pat’s face was brief, but it was there. “You can tell me if I hurt you. I want to know.”
Pat smiled at him again. “It’s your guitar, you can do what you want with it,” he said, so lightly that Pran didn’t believe him. “But I’m glad you and Wai are good enough friends that you’d take on the entire responsibility of leading the sound crew for him.”
“Oh no,” Pran groaned, slumping onto his elbows on the counter. “I did agree to that. Why would you remind me?”
Pat took another bite of his toast. “Why would you agree to it?”
“Ugh.” Pran grabbed the remaining pieces of toast from the plate. “And we have an early practice today. I swear, if Chart doesn’t show…”
“What’s that?” Pat asked, because Pran started mumbling under his breath.
Pran shoved the bread in his mouth. “It’s none of your business,” he said, and pretended he didn’t notice Pat grin, genuinely this time, in response. “Sorry for—last night, but you should go back home.”
A little too easily, Pat acquiesced. “Okay,” he said. “Good luck during practice today.”
He grabbed Nong Nao from Pran’s bedroom and left. Pran shut the door behind him, before starting to get dressed for the day.