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The first time that it happens, Pat will admit, is quite innocent.
There’s a dirty sock outside your room? Pick it up if you don’t mind. Thank you, your neighbor in 439
Pat had scoffed, sure, but the sock was discarded in the hallway, visible signs of its wear and use during rugby practice on its surface. He picked it up, tossed it in his laundry bin.
Sock is taken care of. Don’t have a heart attack. He wrote back.
Pat would’ve thought, like most, that this interaction would be the end of it. He’d never actually seen his neighbor from across the hall, and frankly, he wasn’t interested. They’re not a fan of socks in the hallway, that was the extent of what he knew about them.
The sock, however, was only the beginning.
Pat isn’t all work, work, work, and no play. He doesn’t believe that’s how a person should live. So when the clock is telling him it’s 11:57 pm by the time he’s finished his assignment, he’s got a bit of steam to blow off. He grabs his drumsticks and plays along to one of his favorite songs. The percussion is what he likes most. He was drawn to it, the direct impact that made music somehow.
His neighbor didn’t seem to agree.
I’d appreciate it if you didn’t have a drum session past 9 pm. Thank you, your neighbor in 439
Pat had laughed at the usage of the same sign-off that had been there before. As though Pat wasn’t supposed to know by the silly blue smiley face sticky note that it was the same sock-hater.
Noted, but compliance is not guaranteed. He wrote it and stuck it on the door right before heading off to class with bread between his teeth.
It was the start of a lengthy battle, with countless tree casualties worth of sticky notes.
—
“Hey, are you…are you using that?”
Pat hears the voice through the haze of being half asleep, the side of his face resting on his hand, his head dipping slightly. When he comes to, the first thing he sees is the book in front of him on the library table.
The Elements of Modern Architecture.
Why in the world had he been reading that ? He was an Engineering major. Though, he had a bad habit of grabbing a random book about literally any other subject when he was trying to avoid his work. He once found himself learning a lot about indoor gardening methods during a midterm season afternoon.
Secondly, when the fog clears, he sees the owner of the voice. The boy stands there kind of awkwardly, watching Pat with anticipation of whether or not they needed to Rock Paper Scissors for the book.
“You study architecture?” Pat asks, leaning back in the chair while the boy adjusted his tote bag. He seemed to avoid Pat’s eyes, which Pat was never a fan of. He was quite the fan of sustained eye contact, if he was honest.
“Yes.” The boy answers, finally looking at him and biting the inside of his cheek.
“Good.” Pat smiles, sliding the book over to him across the table with one fingertip. “Because I don’t. I didn’t understand a single thing in that.”
He sees the boy’s mouth twitch slightly, trying to be a smile. It was enough to reveal that the boy had dimples that crescent his cheeks. Pat held his face together.
“What exactly does this do for someone who doesn’t study architecture?” The boy asks curiously, picking up the book and studying the cover as though he didn’t clearly know what it looked like.
“Distracts me from the assignments I actually have to do.” Pat answers. “Don’t be offended that it put me to sleep. I’m sure it’s a riveting subject.”
The boy lets out a small laugh at this, enough that the dimples on his face become clear, small half-smiles to compliment the corners of his own. Pat’s chest does this excited spin, like there was some great joy in getting this boy he doesn’t know to smile. In the back of his mind, he’s kind of confused by the whole thing, thinks maybe he’ll have to mull this over eventually, but currently, he has some urge to keep talking to this boy in front of him.
“It can be.” The boy says, quietly and to himself, the way someone does when they are plotting their exit stage left from a conversation. Pat all but panics.
(Again, something he’s probably going to have to think long and hard about later, because why is he acting so weird ?)
“Why don’t you tell me something then.” He says, in a hurry with hardly distinguishable syllables, to which the boy looks at him like he’s a bit nuts. He straightens his back, clears his throat, totally cool and nonchalant. “I mean, convince me that it’s interesting. It could help you study, too, maybe. Since I assume you’re studying.”
The dimples return, and Pat feels triumph.
The boy holds up the book, dancing it around. “You assume that this isn’t just my light reading material?”
“I’ll bet it puts you to sleep just like it did to me. I’ll bet you’re bored in five minutes.” Pat crosses his arms, smirking with the feeling of challenge coursing through him.
(Seriously, what was he doing ? This really isn’t like him. Well, not unlike , but it just… was he flirting with this guy?)
The boy cocks his head and does something with the corner of his mouth. It makes his dimple crease, but menacingly, and Pat isn’t even sure how he achieved it.
(He likes it.)
“Deal. I’ll make this so interesting you’ll want to transfer to the architecture faculty.” The boy sets his stuff down and sits diagonally from Pat with purpose, opening to the first page with determination in his features. Pat really couldn’t give less of a shit about whatever he’d said at this point—all he knows is he got him to stay. He feels like he’s thrumming from the inside.
“‘Part One: The History of Architectural Styles’”, The boy reads with a slightly tuned voice, like he’s trying to sound much older and wiser. “‘From Gothic to Neoclassical to Postmodern—where do we begin the discussion of how architecture has changed in many forms over the centuries? This is a—‘“
Pat can’t help it, he feels a giggle bubble up inside of his throat and slowly leak out at the boy’s sudden change of demeanor and delivery, the obnoxious way he mimicked someone who very clearly taught an architecture course.
“Excuse me, young man, stop laughing! We are in the middle of a class!” The boy scolds, his resolved expression faltering slightly with a huffed laugh. This only makes Pat laugh more, his forehead landing on the table as his shoulders shake in silence.
“You obviously have no respect for this esteemed topic.” The boy puts a hand to his forehead in feigned dismay. He then dramatically extends his arm and pointer finger to another corner of the library. “Please leave class until you can come back with an appreciation for postmodernism.”
Pat can hardly hold himself upright from his laughter, but manages it and raises to his feet, trying to look very disappointed in himself. He bows apologetically to the boy, starting to walk away. “I am sorry, sir. You are right. In fact, I will come back tomorrow with a ten-page paper. Don’t even count it towards my grade. I just want to show you how impassioned I am.” He says all of this while walking backwards, head hung low with regret.
He turns the corner of a bookshelf before he breaks the act, walking back to the table and still working out his laughing fit. The boy is also laughing, eyes small and cheeks high. Pat feels the need to clutch at his heart, to hold it still, chalking it up to the laughter though he thinks he knows better.
It’s around this moment that he realizes they are being stared at. Intensely. And unhappily.
They were, in fact, in a library, with a general expectation of quietness and lack of tomfoolery. He sucks in a breath to stop the next giggle from coming out, puffing his cheeks and quickly sitting to hide himself behind his hands.
“Don’t look now,” Pat whispers to the boy, who now looks confused from his spot across the table. “But we have now become Library Public Enemy #1.”
Against Pat’s suggestion, the boy starts to slowly look around at the annoyed faces, slowly covering his face with The Elements of Modern Architecture cover as he sinks down into his chair.
This makes Pat want to laugh again, but he holds it, mostly to spare this boy who now looks so genuinely embarrassed that it’s cute and a little sad. Mostly cute.
“Bored of this yet?” Pat asks, slinking a hand up to the book cover to tap at it. He’s dangerously close to touching the boy’s fingers when he does this, but thinks better of it and pulls away, putting them to use by flattening out his shirt sleeve.
“Not at all,” The boy whispers with confidence. “I could go on all day. You sure you’re not even the least bit curious about—?”
The boy is cut off by the vibration of his phone against the wooden table. He looks flustered and mumbles “sorry” as he goes to grab it, and Pat registers then that the boy seems to slip in and out of acting this part with him, matching his snide playfulness partially, and the other part is spent in an awkward unassured quietness. He finds it endearing. Intriguing even.
He watches the boy type something out, look around, land on Pat and linger there momentarily (now he feels the need to tear his gaze away. What happened to sustained eye contact loving, Pat? Not the master of his trade.)
The boy puts his phone away and starts to stand up. Pat wants to panic a little bit again. Where are you going? I was having fun, I liked this, I liked you, let me get to know you more. Who even are you?
“Sorry, my friend needs my help with something, so I have to go.” The boy walks away, not taking the architecture book with him on the way, “See you around.”
“Hey, what about the book?” Pat goes to pick it up, turning to hand it to him. “By the way, I’m Pa-“ Pat. The boy has already left when he turns back around.
—
Pat wouldn’t say he’s an easy person to annoy. He’s really not. There were a few things that got him a little hot— badmouthing him on the rugby field, for one. Or saying that his favorite song sucked. Or that he didn’t have nice teeth (thanks Pa, his beloved sister).
It was all personal stuff. What other people did with their time and their space wasn’t his business. After all, he had much more important things to worry about (such as: being good at rugby. Having excellent music taste. Always wearing his retainer at night.)
That being said, it seemed like his neighbor across the hall was trying their best to be the kind of annoying that Pat actually couldn’t stand on other people.
He swears he’s heard them vacuum their carpet three times in one day already today. And he would bet money that one of those times they actually brought the vacuum out into the hall and swept in front of their doorstep (was that even allowed in an apartment complex? Pat had never given it thought.)
He arrived back today after class to another sticky note at his door, along with a long white envelope.
Got your mail by accident yesterday. Not responsible enough to come looking for it? Regards, your neighbor in 439
Regards , his voice in his head echoing his own rendition of the whiny, totally unbearable made-up voice of his neighbor. What a jackass.
Pat doesn’t even pay attention to what the mail is before he is going inside and grabbing his own sticky note from off of the desk.
Yesterday? Not responsible enough to give it to me on time? That’s pretty lame. Regards, your neighbor in 444
He sticks it on the door quickly with one foot out of the door, before retreating back inside undetected.
Pat’s neighbor was really a pain in his backside. No more thinking about them. He’d much rather think about the boy from the library, who he’d actually been thinking about for four days, give or take. Not that anyone was counting.
He plops over on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He wonders if he’s got a crush. It’s been a while since he’s had a crush on someone. He supposes the last time felt pretty much like this, though. Seeing their face in his mind, replaying something they said, waiting for the next moment to see them.
Except, he may never see that boy again. He didn’t even get his name, and this campus is huge. He knows he studied architecture, but did he even know that for sure? Would someone spend 20 minutes making fun of something they studied with him? Maybe it was all a lie. He was trapped in a web of lies.
And now he’s being completely ludicrous. Yeah, he was definitely getting a crush. Who could blame him? He hadn’t thought of it too much in the moment, but upon the much-needed reflection, he found the boy nothing short of adorable. And he’s sure something awoke in him because of those dimples like, seriously , he’d never seen anyone with dimples that so perfectly suited their face.
He liked his voice, too. Even when he talked like an uptight professor, he had a soft landing on his words that was so pleasing to Pat, he swore he could listen to it to fall asleep.
If I do see you again, Dimples, Pat thinks one last time before he sets this aside for the day, I’m gonna have to think its fate.
—
You see, Pat is a romantic at heart. He, too, has his fantasies of being swept off his feet, of somebody serenading him on his doorstep. Roses and chocolates and soft things and all that junk that might make someone else run hunched over towards the toilet. He has his rose-colored glasses on sometimes, he entertains the idea of love at first sight, of making everyone jealous because he and his partner are just so in love with each other it makes the world go every shade of emerald.
That’s why it surprises him that, upon seeing the boy from the library again, his gut reaction is one of utter disbelief, and also mildly scared shitless.
He actually contemplates turning and walking away from the bus stop, deciding that another bus will just have to do and he can wait the extra half an hour, it’s not a problem.
Then he decides that he’s ridiculous and also an idiot if he does that, and it would go against everything he’s ever stood for as a man who’s in love with love. He has a reputation to uphold here, too.
Once on the bus, he follows the head of soft dark hair to the back. Dimples lets another man take the aisle seat near him, opting to hold onto the center railing and stand.
And he’s a gentleman, Pat thinks with glee.
Dimples is looking down at his phone when Pat finally approaches, the bus slowly starting to roll out of the stop.
He places his hand on the pole just above the other boys’ and clears his throat. “I’m really sorry, Prof, but I don’t have the ten-page paper I promised you.”
He watches as Dimples looks up with wide eyes, his mouth going a little slack at the realization of who Pat is. Their faces are far closer now, and Pat smiles exultantly.
Dimples’ mouth changes into a small smile that is almost a smirk, faux coolness coming over his demeanor as he meets Pat’s eyes. “Unacceptable.”
Pat will take the fact that this gives him chills to the grave with him. Six feet under the ground.
“To be fair, you’re not that great of a professor. I think you’re one of those classes where people only take it for your looks, not your academic merit.” Okay Pat, sure, turn the flirting on all the way to one hundred, why don’t you? Coming on strong much?
“Is that so? Are you really that shallow?” Dimples teases, looking at Pat questioningly, and Pat suddenly feels the need to prove to him that he’s not that shallow, truly, though of course, this is all just fun and jokes. He desperately wants this boy to think he’s cool to the point that he knows he will end up looking sorely the opposite.
“Of course not,” Pat feigns offense, hand to his chest.
“Not sure I believe you,” Dimples tuts, and Pat is trying to decide between being annoyed at his proud smirk or being warm under the collar. He’s not sure he has a choice in the matter.
“Where are you headed?” Pat asks, bending his knees back to survey the bus in the pursuit of being casual.
Dimples scoffs lightly. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Yes . “Well, so much for me making conversation. No, no, you’re right, I can’t even ask someone whose name I don’t know where they’re headed on a Friday afternoon. How silly of me.”
Smooth, Pat. You’ve still got it. He whistles a little, awaiting his diabolical plan to unfold.
“That’s a shame, isn’t it?” Dimples says. And then he doesn’t say anything else. Just looks out the window, nothing more to add. Pat deflates.
“Well, it just so happens that I’m also going somewhere very interesting and cool that you can’t know about. Don’t let the curiosity eat away at you.” Pat huffs, shoving his hand that wasn’t holding on to the railing deeper into his jacket pocket.
“I won’t, you can count on it.” Dimples answers, still not quite looking at him, eyes fixed on the passing streets. Pat bites down on the inside of his lip.
Just as he was about to come up with his master plan to get Dimples to speak to him again, he realized the bus has already come to his stop. He sighs regretfully. “This is my stop. Guess you’ll never—“
He stops in his tracks when he realizes the boy is walking with him at the same time he goes to exit the bus. They pause and look at each other for a brief moment, before Dimples casts his eyes away and mumbles, “This is my stop too.”
At first, Pat is too stunned to speak. Then, a smile spreads across his face.
—
“Let me guess,” Pat hums as they walk down the same street to the same general destination. “What does a dimpled boy from the faculty of architecture need at the mall?”
Dimples looks at him with high eyebrows, like he is waiting for Pat to genuinely take a guess. He plays along, hand to his chin in thought. “I’ve got it. You need action figures to put in a beta model to make sure the ceilings are high enough.”
Dimples snorts. “Pran.”
Pat pulls his eyebrows together, completely lost. “That’s what you need at the mall? I’ve never heard of it.”
Dimples rolls his eyes. “My name . Is Pran.”
A zing goes through Pat’s chest, quick and sharp, and he’s smiling. “It’s a pleasure, Pran.” He likes the name in his mouth. It matches the way Pran talks. It sits there softly. Pran. Pran.
“Do I get the pleasure of acquaintance? Or just you?” Pran questions, frowning.
Pat hums. “I think you should guess.”
“Oh, come on. Not fair.”
“Who said I play fair?” Pat defends. Pran gives him a look. He chuckles. “I’ll give you a hint.”
“Get on with it.” Pran urges, appearing to be fighting to show his dimples for all it was worth.
“Starts with the same letter.”
Pran scrunches his nose. “Peanut.”
“What?“
“I don’t know! I like peanuts.” Pran murmurs.
“Should I change it to Peanut?”
“I’ll bet it’s better.”
“Try again.”
“P-Pretty much getting on my nerves.”
Pat scowls. “You’re a really horrible guesser.”
Pran shrugs, but his mouth is upturned.
Pat is not going to lie, he’s got himself quite the competitive streak. His gut instinct is to not give in, even when it’s something so silly. The other part is completely ready and willing to never be stubborn again if it meant that him and Pran could get a little closer.
His body creates a reaction that caters to both of him before even has time to think it over. He reaches over, hand coming to softly hold either side of Pran’s chin and turn it to face him so they are looking straight at each other. Pran’s skin is warm to the touch on his fingertips and his heart isn’t hammering but drilling in his chest. “Pat. Repeat after me. Paaaat .”
Pran’s eyes have gone impossibly wide, and he’s silent for long enough to scare Pat into thinking he’s gotten it all wrong. Then, quietly, much like his other mutters under his breath when he seems to lose the guise of confidence, he utters, “Pat.”
Pat moves his hand away, making a thumbs up out of it with a wide grin. “That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”
Pran is still looking at him, almost as though he’s gone frozen.
“So, seriously, what did you come to the mall for?“ Pat questions as he keeps walking and Pran finally comes to catch up.
—
Pat is starting to get a little creeped out.
He doesn’t know the exact odds that he would see Dimples— ahem, Pran — again, and then compounded with them both going to the mall then compounded again that they were both headed to the music store. He guesses that they’re pretty low.
“Stand here.” Pat orders, just in front of the entrance. He steps back, glancing at Pran head to toe, surveying him. He deliberates for a moment before declaring: “Keyboard.”
Pran’s jaw drops. “How did you know?”
“Am I just that good?“ Pat asks, proud of himself as he brushes through his hair.
“No,” Pran deadpans. “I actually play guitar.”
Pat frowns. Inside, though, he thinks he might be just a bit enthralled.
“Guitar, huh? How long have you been playing?” Pat asks as they begin to peruse.
“Since I was 7 or so. My parents aren’t big music fans, didn’t really encourage me to do it, but I found ways around it. I don’t know. It’s, like, the one hobby I still keep up.” Pran clears his throat and looks distantly as though he feels he’s said too much. “Not sure why I’m telling you this.”
“Because I asked.” Pat reminds gently, with a small smile. He thinks Pran returns it, maybe, or it could have been a trick of his eyes.
Pran hums quietly like he can’t refute Pat’s point, but is now consciously stopping himself from saying more. Pat wishes he wouldn’t. Pat wants to learn something new about this boy. Pat wants to watch his (pretty) brown eyes light up about something. He might be losing his mind.
“I’m more of a percussion guy myself,” Pat says instead, doing the motion of air-drums around himself. He even adds a few “tum-badum-tum”s in the mix, for effect.
“Is that how you play? Scary.” Pran says as he moves his eyes between Pat’s unpredictable movements and his face.
“It’s better with actual drums.” Pat says as he drops his hands.
“I hope so,” Pran says, but he smiles, and his dimples show, so Pat can’t be upset. He just can’t.
“What are you looking for anyway? I could help.” Pat offers.
Pran pulls out a piece of crumpled paper from his pocket. “Looking for new strings. Apparently this is the only store that carries them.”
The paper is pink, with a cute bunny design on the corner. The name of the strings is written eloquently in the middle. Pat chuckles. “Are you a stationery fan?”
Pran yanks the paper back from him, concealing it once more. “Don’t need your judgment.”
“I’m not judging you!” Pat says quickly, overly sincerely. He retreats, not wanting his reaction to be too much. “It’s cute.” He adds quietly.
Pran doesn’t say anything, but Pat hopes with everything in him that he’s not fabricating the color he sees growing on Pran’s cheeks. “Did you see the names of the strings?”
“Yes, sir.” Pat straightens his back and salutes, walking in the opposite direction to look at the other string section. To be honest, he was a little distracted by the cute bunny, and he only remembers what size the strings were supposed to be while pretty much any other detail became obsolete. He picks up something he hopes is close. “Maybe these?”
Pran comes over. He stands against Pat’s right shoulder, looming over him as he looks at the strings. He smells nice , Pat thinks dazedly, watching Pran rather than trying to figure out what he may have been looking for. He snaps out of it when Pran backs away, facing him. “These are nickel. I need brass.”
Pat frowns, looking at the strings with perplexity. “What’s the difference?”
“I need brass because I play acoustic guitar,” Pran explains, tracing his finger to the shelf before landing on some with a more golden hue. “Like these.”
“Huh,” Pat says as he sets the strings down. “This gets pretty complex.”
Pran snorts at him. “It’s all about the details. That’s how architects think.” He taps his temples.
“Engineers have to be detail-oriented too,” Pat argues, “We’re more alike than different.”
“An engineer,” Pran says like he’s pondering on it. “Wasn’t my guess.” Pat realizes that he never actually told Pran that. He has the startling realization that he is just as much a mystery to Pran as Pran is to him. It’s a strange feeling, both exciting and limiting. “You must be pretty smart.”
“Top of my graduating class,” Pat flashes his teeth and places his chin between an outstretched thumb and forefinger. “And hey, was that a compliment?”
“Not really.” Pran says, walking away with the strings he actually needs and towards the checkout counter.
“It so was.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It was.”
They walk out of the store together, Pat not realizing until later he didn’t even buy what he came there for.
—
“Mall pretzel.” Pat concludes. “Mall pretzel. Mall pretzel. Mall pretzel.”
Pran eyes him funnily. “Is a mall pretzel better than a normal pretzel?”
Pat stands still, putting an incredulous look on his face. “What do mean, are mall pretzels better than normal pretzels? Mall pretzels are the apex of pretzel. How do you not know this?”
Pran shrugs. “I don’t even like pretzels.”
Pat shakes his head. “This isn’t going to work. Come on. Come on .” He grabs Pran’s wrist loosely and drags him on towards the bright red canopy emitting hot airy goodness from a backlight of dim yellow. He doesn’t want to drop Pran’s wrist when they finally get there, but he also doesn’t want to be pushy, so he lets it fall. But he stays close.
Pat orders for both of them, watching as Pran pokes his eyes around the menu and the display in front of them. “Why would you put that on a pretzel?” Pat hears him whisper, and he thinks he’s starting to like this guy so much it’s going to be the death of him.
“Thank you!” Pat singsongs when the man at the stand finally hands him the order. He turns to face Pran with excitement all over him. “It’s time.”
Pran rolls his eyes, but follows as they sit. “Can I at least—“
“Shh. It’s time for the experience.” Pat sits in front of him. “Close your eyes.”
“I am not —“
“Just do it. Close ‘em.” Pran makes a put-upon expression and sighs, but he does as Pat asks. “Now open your mouth.”
“Pat.” Pran’s voice is full of exasperation that Pat doesn’t buy for a second. He also feels a jump of his heartbeat reach his throat at how Pran has just said his name.
“Are you chicken? You’re scared of a blind taste test of a mall pretzel? I thought you were better than this.” Pat chastises. He thinks he’s learned enough about Pran now that he can get him to crack.
“Fine. Whatever.” Pran concedes and opens his mouth halfway. Bingo , Pat thinks proudly, smiling as he goes to feed Pran a small piece of pretzel.
Pran takes the bite gently like he’s afraid he’ll take Pat’s finger with it. Pat is acutely aware somewhere in the back of his mind of the proximity between the tips of his fingers and Pran’s lips and really, if he let the moment drag on a second longer, he’d be in deep shit. He pulls away hastily, leaving the pretzel half out of Pran’s mouth.
“Gee, thanks,” Pran struggles to say around the dough. He chews for a moment, Pat watching in anticipation ( and watching the way Pran’s cheeks puff out, maybe).
“Oh, oh my god…” Pran says as he finishes off the bite. “Pat, I can’t believe it, I mean seriously that was…”
Pat smiles to himself as he gets prepared to say See? WhatdidItellya?
“…The most mediocre pretzel I’ve ever had.” Pran finishes, finally opening his eyes.
Pat’s face falls like a demolition project. “You’re so mean!”
Pran looks like he’s trying not to laugh as he shrugs. “I told you there’s nothing special about a mall pretzel.”
“I think you’re lying.” Pat says as he angrily takes a bite. It’s too salty. “You just wanted to make me feel bad.”
“You talked up the mall pretzel. It didn’t live up to its name. It’s nothing personal.” Pran says airily as he reaches over to grab another one. Pat bats his hand away.
“You don’t get any more.”
“It’s not that bad. Come on.” Pran all but whines and well, Pat is a man with a weak resolve. Especially when it’s a pretty boy with dimples. He can’t be blamed for how quickly he gives in.
They sit for a moment silently enjoying the admittedly half-assed pretzels. The mall wasn’t very busy today; they seemed to be in their own little area where nobody was roaming around. The occasional child in a stroller or small group of friends, but mostly they were just encased in this orange-colored corner. Pat felt a warmth come over him.
When they throw away their garbage and start to make their way out of the mall, Pat finds himself once again talking ahead of his thoughts. “Are you into guys, Pran?”
Pran almost chokes on nothing, coughing violently into his elbow a couple of times, readjusting his tote bag with stiff hands. “Huh?”
“I guess that was a little too direct. What I mean to ask is, if I were to ask you for your number, would you say yes?”
Pran looks at him for what seems like an eternity. Now it’s Pat’s turn to feel this sour unease come over him. This fear for having made the wrong assumptions, picking up the wrong signals. He swallows thickly.
Then Pran’s expression changes. It’s back to the way it looks when they’re being playful, small smirk and even smaller dimple. “I’ll tell you what. If by some chance we actually see each other again like this by accident, I promise I will give you my number.”
“A chance I’m willing to take.” Pat says as he eases over, and they shake on it.
—
There is another dirty sock in the hallway. If you’re doing this on purpose, it’s not funny. I’ll throw it out if I find another one. — your neighbor in 439
“Oh what, no regards this time?” Pat mumbles to himself as he tears off the note. He picks up the sock (which wasn’t even dirty, by the way, it literally fell out of the laundry) and flips off his neighbor's door for good measure.
I bet you don’t even wear socks. That’s kind of messed up dude. I’m just leaving them out for you. Do better :(
—your neighbor in 444
He sticks it on the door with one loud tap and goes back to his room. They’ll make you share an apartment complex with just anyone these days.
—
In the morning, Pat wakes up to another note on the door.
That’s unpleasant. I do wear socks, for your information. Have you bought a new pair since you were 15? Or does your mom buy them? — your annoyed neighbor in 439
Pat narrows his eyes. Sure, his last birthday present from his mom was socks but— ugh, this person gets on his fucking nerves.
Don’t worry about my socks and worry about your underwear, since they seem to be in a twist all the time — your unbothered neighbor in 444
—
“I mean seriously, who even cares that much about socks?” Pat says with an annoyed sip of his strawberry milk. “What a prick.”
Ink looks at him with one of those looks that he doesn’t like because she’s about to say something much more rational and level-headed than he would’ve thought of. “Pat, living in an apartment means respecting other people’s space. You can’t just leave socks in the hallway.”
“I don’t do it on purpose!” Pat cries with defense. “They could politely ask, it wouldn’t be a big deal. But they’re a total jerk about it.”
Ink just shakes her head with amusement, taking another bite of her pastry. “Maybe they’re elderly and cranky. You’ve never even seen them, maybe you’re making assumptions.”
“I don’t think they’re elderly,” Pat reasons, “Although they don’t talk like someone our age. Unless it’s just a really hip and somehow also really uptight 75 year old.”
“Okay, right, well, enough about your annoying neighbor.” Ink digresses. “I wanted you to tell me more about this mystery guy of yours. You’ve been so elusive, it’s really not fair to me. You know I have to know everything.”
“His name is Pran,” Pat says, and he feels a fond smile come over his face, “I think he actually may be into me. I mean, why else would he say he’d give me his number if we saw each other again? I’m hoping it wasn’t just to get me away. Shit, Ink, do you think it was to get me away? That would be really embarrassing. And kind of fucked up. The more I talk the more I think that’s totally what happened. Ink, tell me to stop talking.”
“Pat, please keep talking.”
“This isn’t funny, Ink,” Pat whines, “I think I like him and want to get to know him more. He’s got these dimples, Ink. It’s really messed up for me. I mean, am I just expected to not fall for him?”
“Fall for who?” Pa inquires as she sits down with her second helping of vanilla cake.
“A guy Pat is infatuated with,” Ink answers uninterestedly. Pat frowns as he watches Ink lean over his sister’s shoulder and pout, asking for a bite of cake. She feeds her some and smiles.
“Erg!” Pat groans, “Can you guys please not be in love in front of me right now? I’m going through something.”
“A guy?” Pa says with intrigue. “You haven’t mentioned anything about this.”
“Because you are my sister. It’s bad enough you’re dating one of my best friends. I figured you would just find out everything by word-of-mouth.” Pat says with a mocking opening and closing of his fingers to resemble a talking mouth.
Pa scowls and moves her fork at him threateningly. “I’d rather hear it from you, jerk.”
“Should I explain from the beginning?” Pat asks, hands flattened on the table. “We’ve got all afternoon— oh my God.”
“What?” Pa and Ink say to him in unison. He barely hears them. His eyes are glued across the cafe. On a navy blue bag with a bowed knot. On a head of dark hair. On a dimpled cheek.
“Oh my God.” Pat repeats. “He’s— he’s-“
“Spit it out, Pat.” Pa says with agitation, and Pat hunkers down to the table.
“Pran is literally right behind you.” He hisses.
“Huh?”
Both Ink and Pa turn around to look, and Pat grabs at their arms desperately. “Don’t look! ” Pat cries, hushed through his teeth.
“Why not?” Ink asks, turning back to face him. “Is it the one in the striped shirt? He is quite cute. Do you like nerds?”
“ Ink .” Pat whimpers.
“Sorry.” She giggles to herself. “He really is cute. Pat, what the hell are you doing?”
Pat has disappeared behind the cafe’s menu, open like a large book in front of him. He’s wondering why he didn’t get the cinnamon roll.
“What is wrong with you?” Ink berates him, plucking the menu from his grasp and making it unreachable under her plate. “Don’t you want to see him? This is a good thing!”
“Yeah, but you guys are here.” Pat says, trying his best to conceal himself behind where Pran’s line of sight would lead to Ink and Pa’s hair.
Ink and Pa look at each other and then him with raised eyebrows. “What did we ever do?” Pa bristles. “You’re such an ass.”
“You might say something that I don’t want you to say .” Pat answers with distress.
“Well, I wasn’t, but I probably will now.” Ink says with a raise of her shoulder. Pat drops his head in his hands.
“Please, just pretend like you don’t know me.” Pat begs.
“Does that include me?”
Everyone at the table jumps. Pat feels his blood pressure spike. Pran was standing right by the table, a small beverage in hand.
Ink and Pa both press their lips together, the beginning of laughter starting to come out of their noses.
“Pran.” Pat says, unintelligently.
“Hi there! I’m Pa.” Pa interjects, and Pat watches in horror as they shake hands over the table in front of his face.
“Pran.” Pran answers, and glances at Pat. “As he said.”
Pat just watches, mouth slightly agape, unable to get his vocal cords to produce sound.
“Ink.” Ink introduces. “What brings you over here, Pran? I know we are quite the attractive bunch, but my friend Pat here is the only single one.” She says, raising her and Pa’s interlocked hands as explanation.
Pat blinks. He still can’t speak.
“Well, that’s a relief.” Pran says with a small smile. Ink and Pa look at Pat, Pat looks at Pran. Pran looks between them as he takes a small sip of his drink.
Without anyone saying anything else, Pran reveals a small piece of paper and places it on the table. Pink, a bunny cartoon in the corner.
“I believe I owe you that.” Pran says, and then as quickly as he appeared, he leaves.
Pat slowly picks up the paper, numbers scribbled on the page. He’s flushed. His heart is thundering. It’s on tornado watch.
“What just happened?” Pa asks.
—
Pat is practically skipping and jumping on his way back to his apartment, the paper tucked between his hands.
“And not even you can ruin my good mood!” He says out loud to his neighbor’s closed door before he heads inside his room.
Then he stares at his phone. It’s placed on his couch against the cushion across from him as if it had its own seat. He’s got his elbows to his knees and thumb to his mouth, watching it like it will move and text Pran on its own if he thinks at it hard enough.
This is ridiculous . He thinks. What’s so hard about texting him? You literally want to do it so badly, so just suck it up and—
His phone buzzes once loudly and lights up, to which he yelps out loud and almost slides off of the couch.
When he gets over the embarrassment of having done that, he checks his phone.
iMessage from Dumbass Landlord DON’T ANSWER:
Pat, I have received a complaint about discarded clothing in front of your door in the hallway. Please take care to avoid this, I would appreciate it. Thanks.
Pat grits his teeth. No way they contacted the landlord. That was just a low of lows.
IT WAS TWO SOCKS!!! He texts back. Then , but don’t worry it won’t be a problem anymore.
He reaches angrily for his notepad and pen, scribbling out a message.
Had to go to a middle man, huh? Why don’t you talk to me about a problem to my face? I’m sure you’re a grown adult. That’s what adults do —your pissed off neighbor in 444
He sticks it on the door.
Once back in his room, he breathes out one gust of air, hands to his hips, walking around to blow off the steam. What a pain in the ass—
Pran. Pran. I need to text Pran. Right now.
“You won’t get in the way of my happiness.” He says as he points to his door, laser-pointing his anger through it.
He types in the number, saving it to his contacts under “dimples”.
Pran. Thank you so much for giving me your number. I’m actually crying inside. Did you have dinner? I hope you—
No way. Pat deletes it, starting over.
Is this really Dimples?
He cannot reveal his adorable secret nickname this soon. He erases it.
I want to talk to you so badly but I don’t know how, is this even how people should interact? If you think about it, why were phones and texting ever invented anyway? It’s really diminishing our people skills. There was a study back in 2019 that—
Delete, delete, delete forever. Was he an idiot or what?
Hi.
He hits send.
He regrets it immediately.
“ Hi ?!” He yells to himself in his empty room. “Hi. He said ‘hi’. Way to go, Pat, you’re never getting a boyfriend. You will never get to–“
His phone buzzes in his hand.
I’m really hoping this message is from Pat. Otherwise, this is really creepy.
Pat’s heart leaps in his chest.
it is me. sorry. i got nervous.
He awaits Pran’s reply as he lays down on his stomach on the couch.
-And what are you so nervous about?
well, i was thinking about texting this really cute guy, but he kind of intimidates me. i’m not sure if he likes me.
-Would someone who didn’t like you give you their number?
maybe…
-Did you text him?
no, i texted you instead.
-Asshole.
Pat giggles at the texts. He realized right about then that he’s been swinging his feet back and forth in the air and drops them. He was getting embarrassing.
so you like me
– …
you do.
-Where did i say that?
you implied it.
-Not sure that’s enough
it is for me
-Well, if i like you, what should I do about it? hypothetically
asking me out might be a good first step. not sure tho. i’m just a lonely boy. what do i know
-Would it go something like this:
-Pat, you’re kind of crazy, but i like how i feel when i’m around you. let’s go get dinner.
-?
Pat presses the back of his hand to his face. He’s burning up.
something like that
-Good to know. I will keep that in mind.
give me a break, dimples. when and where
Keeping the nickname concealed was a bust.
—
Pat takes down the sticky note with about as much energy in him to read it as his physics homework (that’s to say, none).
I would, but nothing in our interactions has indicated you are mature enough for that conversation — your fed up neighbor in 439
Pat just tosses the note in the trash and doesn’t bother to respond.
—
Pat double-checks his hair.
“Pat, your hair looks fine.” Ink says over the FaceTime call. “It literally always looks like that.”
Pat looks at her tiny face on the screen in panic. “Well, is that bad? Should I change it? I could go for the slick back—“
“Absolutely not.” Ink interrupts. “I wasn’t saying that. I mean, it looks good the way it is. You’re overthinking it.”
“Of course I am,” He groans in frustration, removing his hands from his head and vowing not to touch it again. “I want this to go well.”
“It will. That has nothing to do with your hair.” Ink assures. “Unless you gave yourself a mullet I guess. Which would not be your look.”
Pat pouts. “I could rock a mullet…”
“No.” Ink says shortly. Pat frowns further. “Just be calm and be yourself. Clearly that’s what got him to like you. You charmer.”
Pat smiles. “Hey, Ink, is my sister anything like me? I’m just wondering like, I hope I’m a good influence and you see the same good qualities in us—“
“I am hanging up.”
—
Pat enters the hallway to leave for his date with Pran, don’t even remind him, when he stops dead in his tracks.
A guy emerges right in front of him from the room across the hall and closes the door behind him. They both stand on opposite sides of the corridor, facing each other. He’s got dark hair and is around Pat’s height. He’s wearing an apron that looks like it’s for a restaurant or bar. The name tag reads ‘Wai’ .
Pat glares at him with as much evil and menace as he can muster. This guy must be his asshole neighbor.
“Are you alright, dude?“ Wai asks, and Pat rolls his eyes at him. The nerve! The gull!
He doesn’t think about why the guy looks confused as all hell when he walks away, leaving him there. He’s got other things to worry about.
—
Pat catches sight of Pran, sitting at a table under calm yellow string lights outside the food truck. Waiting for him.
He’s waiting for me , Pat thinks giddily, and of course he is, but it still makes his heart ache. He looks nice.
Pran is looking down when Pat approaches, meeting him when he sits down in the seat across from him.
“Hi.” Pat starts, and they both start to chuckle.
“You have such a way with words.” Pran teases, and then, in a much quieter voice, “Hi.”
“You– I mean, you look… I like your shirt.” Pat finishes lamely.
“I don’t think you actually like my shirt.” Pran accuses lightly, no meaness in his voice. Just gentleness.
“Okay, it’s not something I would wear myself , but…” Pat reasons, and Pran laughs. “It suits you, though.”
“Thanks.” Pran bites at his lip. It’s probably just out of nerves and— don’t look Pat don’t look. He’s looking. It's totally obvious that he is looking. Now Pran is also looking. Okay. No more looking. He’ll die.
“I’ll go order for us.” Pat blurts suddenly. “What would you like?”
Pran glances over the menu and then places his chin in his hand, humming. “Surprise me.”
Pat huffs. “Watch me get your favorite dish. Hold tight. You’re going to be astonished.” He points at Pran while he rises, who is nodding and smirking like he doesn’t quite believe him.
Pat orders two orders of pork dumplings and soup, bringing them back to the table and setting the food in front of them.
“Careful, it’s hot,” Pat warns, and Pran glances at him with a tiny smile. Pat sits back down, smelling the food. “What do the French say? Bon- bon ap-“
Pran just giggles, then cuts into a dumpling, his face falling. “Pat, I’m vegetarian.”
Pat drops his hands to the table in defeat, frowning down at Pran’s bowl and then his face. Did he just totally mess this up? “Shit.”
“Kidding.” Pran smiles wide, plopping the dumpling into his mouth and chewing happily.
“You’re mean.” Pat complains. “How would I have known anyway?”
“You wouldn’t. That’s why your reaction was so funny.” Pran says around a small mouthful. “You’re cute when I trick you. Don’t expect that to end any time soon.”
Pat is sulking and pushing a dumpling around his bowl before a word sinks into him and spreads like sun rays. “Did you just say I was cute?”
“When I trick you,” Pran points with his chopsticks for emphasis, pulling his eyes away. “You left that out.”
“Sure. I totally believe you don’t think I’m cute in general. You’re convincing me,” Pat says sarcastically as he bites a dumpling.
Pran flicks broth at him.
—
“It didn’t get past me that you referred to me as ‘Dimples’,” Pran says from beside Pat as they walk around the town after dinner.
Pat purses his lips, feeling warmth in his cheeks. “You can put it past you. If you’d like.”
“It’s…” Pran is quieter, looking at his feet while he walks. “I liked it.”
Pat is overcome with some emotion; he’s not sure how to pinpoint it, but it’s all over his chest and arms and legs and he’s looking at Pran wishing he could just pull him in and not let go.
From behind Pran, he catches sight of a stationery store that’s still open, cute multicolored lights blinking around the window with signs advertising new inventory. “Let’s go.” Pat points, shuffling Pran over.
“I can’t spend any more money on this stuff.” Pran whines, but laughs lightly as Pat pulls him along.
“You can and you will.”
As soon as they are looking around the store, Pat knows he’s made a good decision. Pran is looking fondly at all kinds of different trinkets and things to write with and write on and stick somewhere. Pat has never cared all that much about this stuff; he’d take his notes on a napkin and No.2 pencil if that’s what he had to work with. He has to admit though, the cat shaped tape dispenser was pretty cute.
He finds Pran holding a pen in each hand, seemingly contemplating heavily. “Is this a competition?” Pat asks, coming up next to him, allowing their arms to touch lightly.
“I can’t decide between the 0.1 millimeter and the 0.5 millimeter.” Pran mumbles as he looks between them.
To Pat, the pens looked exactly the same. He supposes for an artistic person it might make a world of difference. “Uh… the 0.1 millimeter?” He shoots in the dark.
He holds his breath and then lets it out as Pran slowly begins to nod. “You’re right. 0.5 is more likely to streak.” He puts one of the pens down and then holds the other up in front of Pat. “Thank you.” He’s grinning, one side’s dimple creasing further than the other and Pat is overcome with this feeling again, like he’s finally feeling Earth’s gravity.
Oh. He wants to kiss him. That’s what that was. He wishes he could take the pen from his hands and crowd into him until there was no space left. Right in the middle of this store. In front of the Hello Kitty display and all her friends.
Instead, he plucks the pen out of Pran’s hands and walks away with it. “My treat.” He wiggles it as he makes his way to checkout.
Pran gives him a look, but he just smiles back.
He hands Pran the bag as they walk out. He watches from the corner of his eye as Pran opens up the bag to look in, a smile growing on his face, before deliberately fixing it to a more neutral expression.
God, Pat wants to kiss him.
“Got any other plans for tonight?” Pat asks, innocently.
“I do actually,” Pran says, almost regretfully, “I have to drop something off to my parents. They’re on a schedule, it’s—“ Pran waves his hand to forget it. “but anyway. I have to go there in a little bit. But I… had a nice time.”
“I did too.” Pat says quietly.
They stare at each other for a moment longer than they should and Pat really thinks he’s going to do it. He wants to and it’s driving him crazy. He’s looking at Pran’s mouth. Rosy. Slightly open to breathe and he really thinks he’s going to do it.
He leans in and plants one quick kiss to Pran’s cheek.
When he backs away and looks at Pran again, his eyes are slightly widened, dilated and looking somewhere right past him.
“Um. Sorry.” Pat says instinctively.
Pran shakes his head. “Don’t apologize . You’re a mood killer.”
“ Me? ” Pat cries, dropping his shoulders. “You didn’t even say anything!”
“I was processing.” Pran says with a long swallow.
“Okay.” Pat says cautiously. “Are you done processing?”
“Not really.” Pran says with an honesty that Pat wasn’t expecting. “But I probably won’t while we’re still standing here, so.”
Pat feels himself grin. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Pran clears his throat, “I have to get going but… I’ll text you first this time. Trust me.”
“Can I do that?” Pat squints. He watches as Pran pulls out his phone and quickly types something.
His own buzzes a moment later.
iMessage from dimples:
Yes.
—
Pat all but floats back to his apartment. When he gets there, he leans his back against this door and knocks his head softly into it a few times and bites his lip like he’s in some movie.
He’s in such a good mood and when Pat’s in a strong mood, good or bad, he listens to music to mirror his feelings. He heads over to his stereo and puts on the most sappy fun love songs he can think of on queue, twisting to volume 80 and singing along as though he even has the voice to do so.
A little while later, he hears two loud thumps on his door.
He turns down the volume and goes to check. All that he’s met with a sticky note. Blue smiley faces.
Hey asshole, I can’t hear myself think with how loud you play that music. Kindly turn it down— your nearly deaf neighbor in 439
Pat rips the sticky note off his door with a low grumble, crumbling it up and stuffing it into his shirt pocket.
How many times does one person need to vacuum their apartment in a day? Answer honestly. —your normal neighbor in 444
He scribbles, sticking it just under the peephole and giving one bump of his fist before he goes back inside.
Whatever, loser , Pat thinks at his neighbor. I’ll bet you’re not falling in love.
—
The week has kicked Pat’s ass (the part of the week where he wasn’t texting Pran, planning for them to meet again on Saturday, biting his nails). Physics sucks so bad, his neighbor sucks so bad. He just needs a break, to lay down and relax.
His phone buzzes.
iMessage from Asshole #1 (korn):
dude, what have you been up to? we need to get a drink. go out with us tonight.
Or he could go get drunk. Getting drunk worked too.
He meets up with the friend group at their favorite bar to frequent near the campus. They’re already there waiting for him, cheering his glass when he goes to sit.
“You’ve been ghosting us, my friend.” Korn accuses as they all take a sip.
“Busy week.” Pat groans. “At least I have tomorrow to look forward to.”
Ah. Great. He has said too much.
It wasn’t like he couldn’t tell his friends; they knew he liked whoever he liked. It’s just, he hadn’t thought to do it. Maybe he didn’t want to jinx it. Maybe he didn’t want them to harass him. Maybe he felt like Ink could relate to him a little more, or offer better advice. Whatever amounted to him not mentioning it before, it didn’t really matter now.
“What’s Saturday?” Mo asks.
“Tomorrow.” Pat answers as he takes another sip of his drink. “You ever seen a calendar?”
“Asshole. What are you doing tomorrow that you’re looking forward to?” Korn presses.
Pat doesn’t say anything, looking around from behind his tilted-back glass.
“Date.” Chang concludes.
“Definitely a date.” Mo adds.
“No doubt.” Korn agrees.
“I didn’t say anything!” Pat sets his glass down forcefully.
“You didn’t need to. It’s in your eyes, bro.” Mo shakes his fingers in front of his face.
“Okay, I am going on a date, no you cannot meet him because I do not want to subject him to you yet, and now this topic is no longer being discussed.” Pat declares, downing the rest of his drink.
“That’s no fair!” Korn complains, “Can’t we at least see a picture.”
Pat isn’t really listening anymore, though. He’s looking across the bar where his neighbor, Wai , is tending to a table.
“Ugh. It looks like my dumbass neighbor works here.” Pat says.
“The one who called the landlord because of socks?” Korn twists in his seat. “Want us to kick his ass?”
“No.” Pat insists with an eye roll. “Quit acting like you can even kick ass.”
Korn sits back in his seat, mumbling into his shot.
As Wai walks by, Pat waves at him. “Hey, you. Can I ask you something? Why exactly do you get a kick out of making my life harder?”
Wai just stares at him, looking around at him and the rest of the table with pinned eyebrows. “How many drinks have you had? I don’t know you.”
Pat frowns, “I’ve only had one drink, and don’t play dumb, I saw you. I live in the Plaza 444.”
Wai looks like he’s thinking for a moment before he starts shaking his head. “You’ve got it all wrong, bro. That’s my friend’s place, I was dropping something off for him. Take up your drama with him.” Then he walks away.
Oh. Well, now Pat feels like an idiot. And an asshole. “Sorry,” He mumbles, but the guy has already walked away.
If he doesn’t live there, then who does?
—
Your friends are loud when they’re drunk. —your tired neighbor in 439
Pat sticks his tongue out at the closed apartment door across from him. This was just getting petty and bothersome.
He still wrote out another note. Pat had a fatal flaw of wanting the last word.
At least I have friends. —your popular neighbor in 444
His neighbor had to do better than that to bring his mood down. It was Saturday, after all.
—
“I told you this was a bad idea.” Pran complains as he tries for the third time to make even one score at ski ball. “I’m almost out of tokens and I suck at this.”
Pat chuckles, watching another white ball bump the edge and hit the gutter. “Look, it’s not that hard.”
Pat comes up behind Pran, settling against his back and reaching his arm around to line up their hands so both of them could hold the ball. His other hand goes to steady him on his hip on the opposite side. It feels like Pran has stilled slightly against him, like he’s afraid to breathe. Pat can’t blame him– he’s not exactly calm right now either, feeling the way their arms link into place together, how his chin can easily rest on the soft part of Pran’s shoulder, how Pran is warm and lets himself be limber to Pat’s movements.
“You want to move back far enough that you get some momentum,” Pat says quietly, near Pran’s ear. “Think about which spot you want the ball to go in and don’t take your eyes off of it until you let go.”
He feels Pran turn to him, and as much as he wants to look too, he’ll forget the whole point of this as soon as it happens if he does. “What did I say? Eyes on the target.” He teases lightly, and Pran looks away quickly, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Did you pick one?” Pat asks, and Pran nods lightly. “Good, now we’re going to pull back,” He takes their hands together, reaching backwards. “And then we’re going to swing forwards and you let go when I do.”
Pran nods again, and somewhere in the process of that, their hands swinging forward, and Pat watching the base of Pran’s neck, he’s overcome with that fresh laundry, daily moisturizer scent and he doesn’t really think about it before he says, “You smell really good.”
Pran lets go of the ball too early, causing it to clack unpleasantly into the metal gate that separates them from the goals, but somehow it still slips up and into an opening.
“Woo! Look at that, 500 points.” Pat cheers. Pran doesn’t cheer, rather he turns to Pat with a look on his face like he’s seen a ghost. “What? You weren’t going to get the 1,000 pointer on your first try.”
Pran pulls his mouth out of raising slightly, shaking his head at him. “You are so…”
“So good at table football.” Pat finishes. “Let’s play that next.”
On their way over, Pran yawns just slightly, rolling his head against his shoulder to stretch. “Bored of me already?” Pat jokes, though he really hopes it’s not true.
Pran shakes his head, eyes softened. “No, it’s just that my sleep wasn’t the best last night. It’s alright.”
“Okay,” Pat says, and he silently hopes whatever kept Pran from having the most lovely, fulfilling eight hours of sleep fucks off. “You think you’re too tired to beat me?” Pat changes the subject, spinning one of the table football dudes in a little circle.
“Not a chance.” Pran says, cracking his knuckles.
He’s right. He beats Pat, badly.
“Why do you have a secret talent at table football?” Pat cries when the final score is 5 to 1. “You can’t just keep things like this hidden.”
“That is exactly what you are supposed to do.” Pran retorts, “We can always rematch, but you’ll probably lose again.”
Suddenly, when Pat turns to Pran to say something else, probably dumb and witty, he realizes they’ve backed themselves into a little corner of the arcade. Pran takes a moment to lean up against a wall, boxed in by a claw machine that’s emitting yellow and purple and blue. It casts shadows on Pran’s face and makes his eyes shine as they reflect the moving colors, looking at Pat like he’s waiting for something.
Pat looks around. They might very well be the only people still here. The group of kids they saw earlier aren’t visible, at least, and the main counter is all the way around a corner. It feels like they’re the only two people in the world.
Pat turns back to Pran. He’s dim and yet so bright, blue dancing on his face. There’s something inexplicably magnetic about it, about him, in this moment and Pat really doesn’t want to think twice or psych himself out. The glow is smoothing him over. Everything drowns out.
“Pran,” He says quietly, when they’re close enough, “I really, really want to kiss you.”
Pran’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes darting around the other sides of them, only to find what Pat had found. They were alone.
“I’ve never been kissed in an arcade before.” Pran says with a funny smile. “Never been kissed, actually.”
A big fat oh slams through Pat’s chest and gets lodged there like stone. “Jeez, way to put pressure on a guy!”
Pran makes a face like, exactly .
Pat leans toward just enough that they both feel the touch that should be there, but isn’t. “You need to tell me to.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then I won’t kiss you.”
“You’re relentless.” Pran sighs, and kisses him instead.
Pat is shocked, initially, but it is quickly replaced by this hot molten feeling that simmers into kissing Pran. Finally. He’s soft. He smells so nice. It’s better than I imagined.
Pat is flush against him, Pran’s back to the wall, his own shoulder to one glass side of the claw machine. His hands go somewhere, anywhere, a shoulder or a hip or a curve of the neck. Pran does the same, and it’s exhilarating.
They part a few moments later, eyes glazed over and apparently so in the candy light. Pat can’t help it, he smiles wide and full. God , he’d been wanting to do that.
“More please.” Pat says. “Kiss me more.”
“I’m doing all the work?” Pran quips, not seriously, but Pat takes it and runs with it, leaning into Pran this time. It’s more controlled, slow, but Pat likes that too. Pat thinks he could go crazy with the smallest touch, so this has him thrumming to his bones.
“You’re beautiful,” Pat whispers in the breath before a kiss. Pran digs into him and pulls him closer as a response. Pat wishes it could last forever.
Suddenly, they both freeze. They hear the clicking of coins, then the musical start-up sound that bubbles into mechanical movements.
Pat slowly turns around, revealing to Pran and himself that a boy has just started playing the claw machine.
“Sorry,” The boy says, not watching them at all, but watching what he’s doing with his hard-earned coins, “I want the dinosaur.”
—
They kiss again at the bus stop. It’s quick and nothing that’s meant to be more than what it is, but it makes Pat feel his feet leave the ground nonetheless.
—
Pran has to get off at his parent’s house again. He explains that they’re semi control freaks, and it’s not always easy to go more than a week without a visit and an update of pretty much everything in his life. Pat doesn’t ask if he’s told them about him. He’d be a hypocrite if he did.
They talk for a long time on the bus ride. Pat learns a lot about Pran. He only likes architecture because he likes to draw, but thought it was more practical this way. His uncle gave him his first guitar. He learned how to string them himself. He’s an only child (and he thinks that’s apparent).
Pat tells him some things too, when it seems like a good spot to tell them. His sister and his best friend are dating, which sucked at first, and now they’re probably the people he’d rather hang out with. His dad wants him to play rugby and he doesn’t even really like it that much.
Pran starts falling asleep on Pat’s shoulder. He kisses his head before making him get up at his stop.
—
Two days later, Pat wakes up to something almost as good as his birthday morning.
He steps out into the hall, and there, he sees it— a crumpled receipt, discarded, right outside of his neighbor’s door.
“Aha!” He pumps his fist, triumphant. “Now I’ve got you, you son of a bitch. You aren’t so perfect, are you?”
He tapes the crumpled receipt to the door along with his next message.
Seems to me we have a litterbug. Not so high and mighty now, are you? Would be a shame to tell the landlord someone’s discarding trash in the halls, but I’m not that low. —your gleeful neighbor in 444
He comes home from lunch later, the response awaiting him.
Wasn’t mine, but nice try. —your guilt-free neighbor in 439
Pat balls the note into his fist and tosses it at the door, watching it land close to where the receipt had. He goes into his apartment, scorned. He then thinks better of it, picks up the note from the hall and tosses it into the bin under his desk.
—
“Tell Pran to come out with us sometime,” Ink suggests, Pa under her arms as they both watch Pat fail his most recent round of Mario Kart.
“I don’t know. I mean, I want to. But is it too soon?“ Pat wonders out loud as he launches a green shell that Ink effectively dodges.
“You made out in an arcade.” Pa inserts. “What is ‘soon’?”
Pat looks away from the game, mortified, as Ink unloads squid ink onto his screen. “Did you tell her that?”
“You said it yourself,” Ink starts, taking one hand off of the controller to press her thumb and fingers together in a talking motion. “Word-of-mouth.”
Pat clutches his controller and groans. “I hate you guys. I’m kidding, I love you so much Ink, you’re my best friend. Please do not use the blue shell.”
—
what is your contact name for me?
-Wouldn’t you like to know.
that’s why i asked
come on, i’ll tell you if you tell me
-I already know what mine is
you don’t though
-You’re painfully predictable
-it’s Dimples
…
cheater
-I don’t think you would like yours
it’s probably something like “total idiot, dumbass, not even sure why i like him, also #1 best kisser and hottest guy in bangkok”
-I think that’s too many words for a contact name
-it’s Peanut
you’re going to give me a heart attack.
—
Are you leaving a window open? There’s been a draft in here all day. Find a better way to watch people have more fun than you. —your cold neighbor in 444
Two hours later, when Pat gets home from the gym.
You’ve got me. Window is now closed. Not that hard to be polite, is it? I suppose you wouldn’t know. —your thoughtful neighbor in 439
—
“Is my neighbor ever going to just leave me alone?“ Pat whines into Ink’s shoulder as she attempts to edit one of her latest photoshoots on her laptop. She bats him away.
“Not unless you also leave them alone,” Ink answers, like it’s that obvious. “I can’t believe you still haven’t seen this person. What if they’re totally hot, like supermodel hot, and you’ve been badmouthing them this whole time?“
Pat makes a face at her. “It wouldn’t matter how hot they are when they have a shit personality. Plus, I like Pran anyway.”
Ink hums, nothing more to add to his neighbor debacle, probably as over hearing about it as Pat was dealing with it. “Listen, do you think this is a good hue for the backlight?”
“That looks like the same picture.”
“No, I changed the hue of the backlight.” Ink says impatiently.
“Second one.” Pat says, guessing.
—
Pat was going to surprise Pran today.
They’d been talking about seeing each other again at some point after the business of this week subsided. And Pat had some extra time to spare. Call him crazy, clingy, whatever, he missed Pran. Missed his smell, his sense of humor, his presence. He wanted to kiss him again. He certainly hadn’t done enough of that yet.
what are you doing right now?
-Are you trying to initiate sexting?
hello? what? no?
unless you’re into that?
no, seriously, i’m asking if you’re busy.
-Nothing I can’t put off. What’s up?
Pat gets up happily, sliding on his jacket and double-checking his pockets so he’s ready to go.
okay, i want us to do something.
im being romantic and spontaneous
so i want you to meet me at the front door of the Plaza apartments asap
-Pat
-?
-How did you know where I live?
Pat stops in his tracks, about to grab his keys from the dish and head to the lobby. Instead he stands there puzzled.
i live here?
wait
you live in the Plaza apartments too???!!!
wait meet me in the lobby right now this is so crazy
If anything, he’s elated that Pran lives in the same building as him. This makes everything so much easier. They should have a sleepover or something.
He’s just about to send another text when he opens his door. It takes him about 5 full seconds to process everything that happens after.
One: he opens the door and sees feet appear across from him.
Two: He follows the feet up to a body, half holding the door to the room across the hall open as they try to leave.
Three: He follows the body up to a face.
Four: The face belongs to Pran.
Five: Oh. fuck. no.
They stare at each other. Disbelief is invading their every feature. Pat looks down— Pran’s phone is open to their conversation.
Then like everything hits them at the same time, they shout in unison:
“You?”
—
Pran stands there for the collective of 3 more seconds before he turns around back into his room and shuts the door, loudly . Part of Pat wants to joke that that’s something they’d write a note about, but there’s no humor in it, even in his own mind. He just feels a little sick.
He’s frozen. His thoughts are whizzing by him faster than he can really give justice to, he can’t think. What’s there to think? The guy I’m falling for and the neighbor who makes me want to rip my hair out are one in the same. C’est la vie!
Then he thaws, everything catching up, and he’s knocking at Pran’s door.
“Pran? Pran, can you please answer? Come back out, please. Don’t hide from me. Can’t we just talk?”
He stands there, but nothing happens. The door doesn’t open.
This is fucked.
—
4:25
hi
sorry
pran, don’t ignore me
5:00
okay you can ignore me but can you give me a sign of life
i guess that’s not ignoring
you can send a knife emoji if you hate me
at least i’ll know you’re there
7:34
im sorry about the socks
9:59
i really like you pran
that hasn’t changed
i hope it hasn’t changed for you
sorry
—
“Let me get this straight,” Ink says, combing a finger through Pat’s hair as he lays in her lap, eyes glued to the ceiling. Pa is making soup. “The neighbor who you hate, who called the landlord over two socks, and basically called you a good-for-nothing,” Pa scowls at Ink, “and the guy who you’ve been obsessed with and are all but falling completely in love with… are the same person?”
She’s silent for a moment. Then she lets out a long whistle. “This is brutal.”
“I’m never going out of my apartment again.” Pat proclaims.
“Don’t be silly.” Pa says. “You can’t just never leave. Hell, you went this long without seeing him and figuring it out. Who’s to say it won’t go back to that?”
Pat feels something sour and spiteful in the back of his throat. “I don’t want to go back to that. I want Pran.”
Ink looks at him sympathetically. “I’m sure he’ll come around. He was probably just too shocked to talk about it. I mean, in your minds, the two people were nothing alike.”
He sees it now, though. In small things. The dry humor. The cute stationery. Hindsight is a bitch.
“What if he can’t like me knowing my flaws?” Pat says, sadness breaking through in his voice though he tried to keep it from doing so. “Now he knows that something he hated about another person was actually something he hated about me . He probably doesn’t even like me anymore. Why should he?”
“If you want my perspective,” Ink starts, tapping at his forehead gently, “I think that it’s deeper than that. Neither of you knew who the person behind the door was. You made these assumptions off of the briefest of interactions. Yet, when you were together, person to person, you didn’t want to be away from each other. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Pat doesn’t know. He’s too busy feeling embarrassed. Ashamed, like he let out something ugly. And it was probably not a good tell of his character that he only feels bad because who he was talking to was Pran.
“Stop that.” Ink flicks him.
“Ow! I didn’t say anything.” He cries. “Stop what ?”
“Feeling sorry for yourself and like you’re the worst person ever because of whatever you said or didn’t say. You are a kind person, Pat. You did something you might not be proud of. It happens, but you’re not going to sit here and convince yourself or anyone else that you don’t have an amazing heart.”
“It’s true.” Pa adds, sitting down with the soup. “No matter how annoying you are, you’re a great big bother, and you’ve always been there for me.”
He feels himself smile, just a little, sitting up to eat the soup she made for him. “You’re a good sister, too.” He takes a mouthful of the soup. It’s delicious. Then he starts crying.
“Oh, my.” Ink and Pa pat his shoulders.
—
A few days later, Pat puts a note on Pran’s door.
I’m really sorry about everything that’s happened and everything I’ve said. I want to talk about it. Please give us a chance to at least talk about it. —your neighbor who’s crazy about you and misses you (in 444)
He knocks once and hopes Pran sees it.
—
The next morning when Pat trudges himself to class despite everything telling me not to, he finds a reply on the door. He pulls it off so fast it nearly tears in half.
Come into the hallway at 9 tonight. —your neighbor who’s still kind of pissed but also misses you (in 439)
—
When Pat opens his door at 9 pm sharp, he finds Pran where he said he’d be. He’s cross-legged and leaning against the wall. He has his guitar.
Pat slinks down to the floor, mirroring Pran’s position. He’s about to say something stupid, like “Hi” again, but Pran beats him to it.
“I haven’t played for you yet.” He says, strumming absently, “Guess I should break in the strings you helped me buy.”
Pat doesn’t want to speak for fear of breaking some invisible sanctity of the moment.
Pran is playing a song, Pat doesn’t recognize it but he knows that it sounds beautiful. Pran was so talented.
At some point he stops, the cut-off kind of awkward, enough for Pat to take notice of it. “Haven’t written past that part yet.” Pran explains.
“You wrote that?” Pat says, and his voice is quiet because he’s still so afraid of shattering this moment like untempered glass. “It’s really…you’re really talented.”
Pran smiles just enough that Pat can tell it’s there. “Thank you.”
There’s a few beats of silence that stretch out between them, down the corridor and back before it meets them in the middle.
Pat says, “Pran, I’m sorry. I don’t know what the right thing to say here is. I mean, you probably think I’m really irresponsible and immature and rude. And I thought my neighbor was uptight and egotistical, but now you’re my neighbor…” Pat catches Pran’s eyes and he looks weary. “Right. Shutting up now.”
Pran sighs, leaning a long arm across the neck of his guitar and he looks away, “That’s all true. I did think you were immature and rude. I’m uptight and egotistical. Where do we go from here?”
“I don’t think that’s true, and I like you anyway.” Pat says. “That’s what I think. I don’t think either of us are actually the people we put on those notes. I really don’t. Do you think that?“
Pran is silent for a long time. Pat feels dread in his stomach, like he’ll be going back inside tonight without what he really wanted. Then, voice barely loud enough to hear, Pran says, “No.”
“So then,” Pat begins, treading lightly, “I say we get to know each other, for real, flaws and all. Because I haven’t liked someone as much as I’ve liked you, ever. I don’t think an argument over dirty socks is worth losing that.”
Pran smiles. Dimples. “Me neither.”
—
“That’s a really great love story, you know,” Ink dotes, “The ultimate case of mistaken identity, a tale as old as time. Really romantic, if you think about it.”
“I don’t know,” Pa says with melodramatic disbelief in her voice, “I know Pat’s hygiene habits. There was definitely more where that first sock came from.” Pat elbows her hard in the side. “What? It’s true! I did your laundry for 17 years and this is the kind of thanks I get, what happened to “you’re the best sister Pa”, “I love you Pa,” “I’m so glad I introduced you to Ink, Pa.”
“I never said that last thing.” Pat points out.
“I added that.” Pa smiles, and Ink gives her a kiss on the cheek.
—
Made you lunch, don’t let it get cold before you eat it. Good luck on your exam. You’re perfect. You’ll do great. —your boyfriend who loves you and wants you to eat even when you’re stressed
Pat leaves the lunchbox outside Pran’s door and the note under his peephole.
He comes back later after all of their classes were finished to a note on his door in return.
If you are reading this you must come to room 439 and get kissed a lot. It is required by law. —your boyfriend who passed his exam, probably because you didn’t let him starve
Pat smiles and tucks the note into his pocket, wasting no time to open Pran’s door.