Chapter Text
“I never asked for my eyes. Never in my whole life; Yet after loving you, I wish I could have my eyes. Even if it’s just for one minute,”
---
April 16th 1990
The roads of Bangkok are very busy with everyone walking home, rushing to catch the last bus or taxi. Pran hated crowds. Especially after working hours. Working as a primary school teacher, Pran thought he would get it easier; Teaching children, leaving work early, school holidays.
But no.
Here he is, finishing work just like any other office worker, rushing back home because Pran hated the heat and the people crowding him. Even now, Pran brisk walks past the wave of people to find a tuk tuk that could get him home.
It’s almost impossible to spot the three-wheeled vehicle that was not occupied by people. So Pran walks and walks until he finds the familiar yellow-green body of a tuk tuk, parked by the roadside. Pran’s tense shoulders relax a little at the prospect of being able to go home.
The tuk tuk is quite far away from where Pran stands next to a man the smokes his cigarette right across his face. Pran bites his tongue from picking a fight and sprints for the tuk tuk. He grips the students’ exam papers in one arm while the other raises amongst the tall people to wave at the driver.
Pran whistles at the driver, running through the people as fast as he could, yet the driver does not see him, too busy leaning against his rickshaw to smoke. Pran shoulders past multiple people, earning glares and curses but her couldn’t care less. Pran just wants to go home. He runs nearer and nearer, until-
He’s hit by someone, and he falls flat on his back, and the other person falls on him. The heavy thud on his chest punches out a painful groan from Pran. When he manages to raise himself up, he finds his test papers being strew all over and the ignorant people stepped on them.
Pran curses out loud, scrambling to collect the papers. He spares a glance at the person before him and he glares. Pran is too busy with collecting the papers to scream at the guy. He could control his temper, on most days. But this guy had the audacity to come closer to Pran, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, are you okay?” he speaks so calmly and it absolutely irks Pran.
Pran pushes the hand off his shoulder and compiles the papers before sprinting again, just in time to see the last ever tuk tuk zooming past him with another passenger. Pran curses out loud again. He turns around just in time to find the very culprit who had pushed him, walking as slowly as ever.
“I’m sorry you missed your tuk tuk,” he says again. “Maybe I can-
“Are you fucking blind?” Pran cuts him off, screaming at the guy. He jumps in shock; eyes wide and Pran shakes his head, grumbling to himself.
Fuck this, fuck everything.
Without sparing a glance at the man, Pran hugs his belongings tighter and makes his way back home on foot.
---
April 22nd 1990
“Are you sure the kids will like pottery class?” Pran asks Wai as he warily looks at the list of activities his colleague had listed down for him.
Wai nods encouragingly; “Kids love to get messy for no reason; We could at least make this knowledgeable,” he informs Pran.
Pran bites his lips, contemplating on Wai’s argument. He looks at the list of other activities; “Ah!” Pran points to the crumpled paper; “Bingo’s good,” he tells Wai.
“Pran,” Wai whines, shaking his head. “These are young adults, not old people! The kids need to love afterschool activities. Trust me, pottery would be the best class,”
Pran sighs, giving a tired look at Wai; “Fine, but where are we going to find a teacher? It’s hard enough to find a decent shop that sells pottery,”
Wai smiles widely at that. Pran sighs again.
“You already thought this through, didn’t you?”
Wai grabs the piece of paper that Pran holds and pulls the pen that he clipped on his breast pocket; “There’s this shop that sells very nice pots and plates near the school. Here’s the catch; The owner is blind,”
“What’s so catching about that?”
“Eh,” Wai exclaims, eyes lighting up with excitement. “Imagine how inspired the kids would be to have a blind teacher! He’s done some classes in his own shop; and from what I’ve heard, he’s a very nice guy,”
“Wai,” Pran rubs his face tiredly; “I can’t trust your idea based on things you’ve heard. We don’t even know the guy; how can I trust him with the kids?”
“Then let’s go,” Wai announces. “Tomorrow is Saturday, let’s go to his store and speak to him about this,”
---
April 23rd 1990
When Pran enters the cosy store, the first thing that registers in his mind is the smell of clay mingled with the scent of flowers Pran is unable to name. Then, he registers the minimal number of customers browsing through the shelves that displayed multiple pots and vases of different colours and designs.
Wai is next to him, waving at some guy that stands by the cash register. He follows Wai’s gaze, frowning when he sees a guy with thick eyebrows and fluffy hair that covered his forehead. The man waves back at Wai before walking to where they stand.
“He doesn’t look blind to me,” Pran hisses to Wai.
Wai is looking ahead even as he elbows Pran. “That’s not the owner; He’s just the manager,”
“Hello,” the man greets, clasping his hands together in a wai and a respectful bow. “My name is Korn, I’m the manager here,”
Pran and Wai greet him back with respectful smiles.
“Wai told me about your school and the classes,” Korn tells them. “I told Pat about it too; He’s just taking out the clay,” Korn motions to the rattan chairs by the counter. “Please sit down, I’ll get him for you,”
Pran watches as Korn goes at the back of the store and calls out for Pat. In less than a minute, Korn comes back out and sits behind the cashier counter. Pran clasps his hands together and keeps his eyes trained on the thin curtain that covered the store room at the back.
Then, the curtains push back and a block of grey clay emerges from the room, followed by strong, mud-stained hands that held it hard. A young man walks out, smiling so brightly. His cheeks are chubby and smudged with the dried clay, and so was his plastic apron.
“That’s Pat,” Korn motions to the boy.
Pat’s head is slightly upturned, his ears take in every audible noise, turning at the direction of Korn’s voice. Pat’s smile widens as he makes his way to where they all sit. Pran watches, with horror, as he walks around the furniture and people so swiftly, head held high and eyes always looking straight.
That was the man that had hit him a week ago.
“Are you fucking blind?”
Pran’s whole body spasms in guilt and shame. The boy places the heavy block of clay on the table beside Korn and then takes his seat on another rattan chair opposite Pran. His eyes look normal, Pran notes. Yet they’re unfocused, staring at a wall behind Pran. Pran gulps, wondering if the boy would recognise him if he spoke.
“Good morning,” he speaks with that calm and bright tone that Pran had heard that evening. Guilt seeps into his blood. “I’m Pat, nice to meet you,”
Pat thrusts his mud-stained hand towards Wai first, and he takes it, oblivious to the stains just to be respectful. Pat must’ve forgotten that his hands were dirty. Then, after shaking hands with Wai, Pat’s head turns directly to Pran and he leans closer with his thrusted hand.
Pran hesitantly takes it, and shakes it.
“Hmph,” Pat hums, eyebrows furrowed before he speaks again; “Your hand feels familiar, have we met before?”
The surprise in his face couldn’t come any faster. Of course, blind people would have sharper senses. Pran exhales shakily and contemplates on whether he should beg for forgiveness of play fake.
“No, I don’t think we have,” he lies, biting his lips hard.
Pat freezes for one second, then his lips part in a silent Ah before he stops himself. There’s a gentle smile dancing around his lips before he shakes his head and retracts his hand to place it on his lap. “So,” Pat begins. “I hear you want to start extra pottery classes for your students?”
Business is easy with Pat. The pottery store owner is gentle and easy going, agreeing to everything Pran offers and even pitching in ideas of his own. Throughout their small session, the guilt inside of Pran gnaws at him, nagging at him to spit it out. To apologize for his rudeness.
“If you’re not so sure about my skills, would you like to attend one of my classes for confirmation?”
Pran’s thoughts are wiped away at the sound of that question. He looks to Wai with raised eyebrows. Wai shrugs; “Pran likes to see everything with his own two eyes,” he informs Pat.
“Wrong words, asshole,” Pran hisses, pinching Wai over his clothed thigh.
Pat, however, only laughs softly at that, eyes crinkling. Pran finds himself frozen yet again. How could eyes so beautiful like that become so useless? He wonders how beautiful the world would look through those eyes. Because beautiful eyes always give way to a beautiful world.
“I like that,” Pat muses. “He’s alert, like me,” he shoots a grin at Pran who can’t help but grin back, but then feeling bad because Pat can’t see it.
“Maybe Pran should go,” Wai offers, ignoring the wide-eyed glare Pran gives him whenever he’s panicked. “I have another appointment to get to, actually,”
Pat nods in agreement, smiling as beautiful as ever. Pran stares, he doesn’t know why. “There’s one class at noon,” Pat informs. “You can stay and see if my services are up to your expectations,” he jokes.
Silence ensues between the four of them when they wait for Pran to answer. Wai nudges Pran, “So? Say yes, it’s not like you have anything better to do,”
Pran gives Wai a dirty look at proceeds to turn to where Pat sits, his stained hands holding his chin. His head is slightly turned to the side to hear Pran. Pran sighs internally; “I.. guess it wouldn’t hurt,”
Pat’s eyes brighten up instantly (Pran’s doesn’t know how that’s possible) and he clasps his hand together; “That’s great,” he smiles. “Feel free to look around our store while I work on my new projects. You can leave whenever you’re satisfied. I tend to get very occupied with my work and forget my surroundings,” he looks sheepish when he speaks, the tips of his ears having a light blush.
Pran ignores Wai who had gotten up with Korn to discuss the payment and paperwork. He decides to focus on Pat instead. Focus on the soft voice that speaks to him as if they’ve met for ages.
Pran listens.
“Um,” Pat stammers, eyes casted downwards to the ground as if judging Pran’s old shoes. It takes him a while to realise that Pat was most definitely not judging his shoes because he was, well, blind. “Usually, I don’t do the talking; So I’m sorry if I speak nonsense,” he laughs nervously.
Pran scrambles to correct him; “No! You’re, um, it’s okay. I- I like it,” he curses internally. Fuck, just why would he say that? They were here on business, not his first date.
But it was worth it, when Pran looks up to find Pat’s soft smile again. This time, it’s accompanied by a faint blush that dusted his cheeks. Pran finds his heart fluttering. There is silence between Pat and Pran again, this time, not awkward.
Pat turns his head up again, eyes looking straight at Pran but not quite seeing him. “I’m.. I’m going to get ready for the class; You can follow me if you want?” he offers, almost shyly.
The last thing Pran would want is to be away from the special boy before him. He doesn’t understand why he feels the urge to always follow Pat; Maybe it was the guilt of him screaming at Pat a week ago. Pran tenses up; He should really come clean.
Later, Pran thinks.
“I’d love to,” Pran informs Pat. The young artist nods and stands up without the help of any walking stick, Pran noticed. When he turns around to grab back the big block of clay, Pran is still looking around him to find for any walking stick Pat could own.
When he doesn’t find one, Pran furrows his eyebrows in confusion and turns to face the blind boy that was feeling around the cube shaped clay. “Pardon me for asking.. Isn’t it dangerous for you to walk around without a cane or a..” Pran didn’t want to sound rude and say walking stick. So he trails his sentence off and waits for Pat to understand.
“Ah,” Pat pulls, shaking his head with a gentle smile. His head turns in the direction where Pran stands next to him as he lifts his clay up. “I only use my walking stick when I’m outside,” he tells Pran.
Pran hums in acknowledgement, and follows Pat through the stores. As they walk past the customers, Pran walks right next to the boy who hugs the heavy block of clay, smiling and greeting his regular customers. Pran looks out for Pat just in case he trips or hits anything, but the young man swiftly walks as if he wasn’t blind at all.
When they reach a set of narrow and spiral stairs, Pat tries to hold the block of clay with one arm while the other tries to hold onto the railing. Pran, seeing the discomfort in Pat’s face, offers to hold the block for him.
Pat denies instantly. “Oh, no, please. You’ll get your shirt dirty. I wouldn’t like that,” his nose crinkle adorably at the mere thought of getting Pran’s attire muddy and Pran’s heart skips a beat.
“How about you lean on me for support then?” Pran offers, hesitantly, afraid that Pat would get the wrong message.
The blind boy’s head cocks to the side adorably. He looks ahead despite craning closer to hear Pran better. “How do I do that?”
Pran raises his hands, then pauses, biting his lips. “M-may I touch you?” he mumbles with a faint blush. “Just around your waist,”
Pat’s eyes squint with laughter for a few seconds before he nods slowly. “My, my, what a gentleman. No one’s ever asked me permission to touch,” Pat teases. “It honestly scares me when they touch me without warning; So, thank you for asking,”
Pran smiles sheepishly at that; he gives himself time to pat himself on the back for respecting Pat’s boundaries. Then, with a soft warning, Pran wraps one sturdy arm around Pat’s waist and pulls him close.
Their heads are touching from the close proximity, Pat doesn’t seem to be affected by the warm breath that hits his cheek. His smile remains fixed, head always turned straight before him and he walks with Pran. Pran makes sure to keep another arm in front of Pat just in case he trips and falls forward.
“Careful,” Pran whispers as they make their way up slowly, step by step. “How do you walk up here every day?” he asks Pat.
Pat hums, shrugging. “I don’t know,” he answers truthfully. “I just feel around and hope I don’t break my neck,” Pat jokes, yet Pran doesn’t laugh.
“That’s dangerous, Pat,” he speaks.
“Oho,” Pat teases again. “Are you concerned, Pran?” he chuckles against Pran’s head. “Well, then I guess I have to assign someone to help me walk up the stairs like this,”
Pran successfully gets the both of them up the set of spiral stairs and keeps his arms secured around Pat for no logical reason whatsoever. Pat grins so beautifully at him despite looking at the large window behind Pran’s head. “Thank you,” Pat grins.
Pran clears his throat and croaks out a basic welcome. Then, he follows Pat to the empty classroom. Pat walks straight to the main counter that was slightly larger than the other tables provided. Then, he sets the block of clay down with a heave.
“Where would you like to sit?” Pat looks up to where exactly Pran stands in the middle of the classroom, awkwardly clasping his hands together. He’s looking around the room, noting the various mini vases and pots the students have created. The tables around him are basic wooden counters stained with mud and equipped with a pottery wheel of its own.
He realised that Pat had asked him a question almost a minute ago, and Pran snaps out of his daze, walking to where Pat stands, the counter separating them. “Um, anywhere is fine,”
Despite his head turning straight and looking ahead, Pat motions to the table that is set up on Pran’s right side. The table closest to his; “Maybe you can sit here? That way you can ask me any questions easier,”
“Yes, yes, um,” Pran coughs behind his fist. “That would be great,”
Pat gives him yet another blinding (not his intention) smile and nods. “There’s still some time before class starts; Make yourself comfortable, I’ll be getting the clay ready for them,”
Pran nods, then realises that Pat can’t see, so he hums in agreement. Pran sits on his counter and watches the gentle hands as they split the huge block of clay into smaller pieces using a sharp wire. Pat handles the things so perfectly, that Pran wonders how long he has done this.
“Quite long,” Pat laughs, head turned in the direction of Pran’s voice as he slowly bends down to feel for the knob of a drawer.
It was only then that Pran realised that he had involuntarily voiced out his question. He slaps a hand to his face and rubs it in annoyance. One day, Pran needed to plaster his mouth shut.
“I grew up in this store; It’s the family business,” Pat informs Pran. He continues to mould each clay block to soften it for his students. Pran realises why Pat had warned him before. About being too inside of his head that he forgets to speak.
Pran finds his behaviour endearing, unable to hide a smile from forming on his face when Pat continues working again. Pran remains quiet, wanting to wait until he realises himself. Pat continues moulding the clay into oval shapes, a soft smile on his face.
It takes a solid minute for the boy to realise he was supposed to be talking; Pat straightens up and gasps, then erupts into a fit of soft giggles. Pran visibly melts and thanks the heaven for Pat not being able to see him. “I’m so sorry!” he exclaims.
Pran chuckles, and he notices Pat’s cheeks getting redder at hearing him. “It’s almost like a home to me,” Pat continues with a long exhale, looking around his room as if he could actually see it.
“Don’t you ever miss it?” Pran whispers. It was an honest question, and Pran figures that Pat is nice enough to not misunderstand his question.
As usual, Pat gives him his normal smile, feeling around him to get to where Pran stands. “How could I miss something I never had?”
Pran’s breath hitches at that; Pat is close enough to notice the tension next to him. The blind boy simply places a hesitant hand on Pran’s shoulder to manoeuvre him exactly where the pottery wheel is fixed. “I was born blind,” he states as if it wasn’t obvious enough to Pran.
“I’m.. sorry,” Pran tells Pat, involuntarily stepping closer to him. Their shoulders brush briefly and Pat doesn’t flinch, having known that Pran was already at close proximity.
Pat shakes his head, leaning down to switch on the machine. The soft whir of the pottery wheel aides to the comfortable silence between the two of them. Somehow, it soothes Pran despite sharing a room with a person that had been a stranger to him just an hour ago.
“Don’t be,” Pat answers. “It is meant to be for me to be born blind in this life; Who knows?” Pat grins, setting the lob of clay on Pran’s pottery wheel. “I might be born with blue eyes in my next life,” he jokes.
Pran chuckles at that, trying to imagine the boy before him with plain blue eyes. He couldn’t. Not when he is enamoured by the beauty of these eyes. So Pran hums in a disagreement tone; “I’d prefer your eyes look just like this; Fierce,”
Pat perks up at that, and he turns his ear to face Pran, just in case he heard him wrongly. “Fierce?”
Pran speaks of his agreement simply because Pat can’t see his nod. “Yes, fierce. You have fierce black eyes. I like that. I wouldn’t like it if you have boring blue eyes,”
Pat’s smile becomes softer, as if contemplating Pran words, trying to find meaning to it. Then his usual smile comes back, brighter than the sun. “I’ll.. I’ll keep that in mind then,”
The boys stand in silence, unsure of what to speak after that despite wanting to speak about so many things together. Pran tries to open his mouth, to speak about something, anything to Pat, but the doors to his classroom is pushed open and loud laughter and chatters of middle-aged women disrupt their calm silence.
If Pran had not been staring at Pat for long, he wouldn’t have notices the way his eyes light up at the voices of his students (friends) entering the class. They all greet Pat with smiles and warm hugs and respectful wais before going to their designated counters. Pran watches with awe, the happiness that radiates from Pat, rubbing off on him too.
Pat is still standing next to Pran on his counter, helping him with the set up. He pushes a small, mud-stained plastic tub filled with water to Pran with a smile. “Class has started, we’ll talk more later,” he whispers and does not give Pran the time to retort.
Pran watches with his fluttering heart, as Pat feels around the counter, talking to the ladies and positioning himself behind his larger table.
Class goes on just as how Pran expected it to go. Pat with his gentle hands, moving slow as ever and waiting patiently for his students to learn. He smiles at the ones that successfully follows his instructions and moves to help the ones that end up destroying their clay pots.
Pran had always been a good listener and a good student, so listening to Pat gentle instructions become easy for him. Even as his eyes always follow wherever Pat walks, he hears everything the teacher says and does so perfectly. Pat is walking in between the counters, hands on both tables, feeling around as he speaks to his students.
The class consists of making two forms of pottery; A flower vase and a decorative mug. Pran successfully finishes his on the first try and notices that none of Pat’s creations have colour on them. He understands why.
Pat was just returning to his teaching table to repeat back his instructions for the others. As he feels around and reaches Pran’s table, the boy pushes his creations to Pat with a hopeful smile. “You finished already?”
Pran hums; “It was fairly easy,” he had wanted to compliment Pat on his teaching skills, but now looking back, Pran realises that it was not how he sounded. He visibly cringes at the way Pat giggles to himself, and then Pran adds; “You’re a good teacher,” he adds on.
Pat clicks his tongue in mock impressiveness; “Coming from a teacher himself? It’s an honour,” Pat smiles. He leans next to Pran, touching the still soft pot of Pran’s vase. “You teach primary school right?”
Before Pran could answer, another student of Pat’s asks him if she could use the oven to harden her finished pot. Pat excuses himself with yet another guilty smile and follows the student. He looked hesitant in Pran’s eyes, as he walks to where the big ovens are stored.
It’s dangerous for a blind man to handle extremely hot items, especially when it requires placing your things in a huge metal box filled with electric heat. Pran finds himself grabbing his vase and mug, and following Pat.
“Oh, Pran,” Pat jumps in surprise when he feels Pran run up to match his slow pace. “Are you going to use the oven too? Oh, yes, you did finish,” Pat answers himself with a chuckle and a shake of his head.
“Do you usually handle the oven by yourself?” Pran asks.
Pat is quick to shake his head, standing before the giant metallic oven they had installed. “Oh, not usually. Korn does it for me, or my students who know how to do it,”
Pran nods, an involuntary sigh of relief exiting his body. He helps the other ladies to place their pots in the oven to harden them. Pat is next to him, watching with a kind smile, occasionally chattering with the others. Pran feels the heat of the oven even with thick mittens coating his hand. He wonders if Pat was lying to him.
There was no way he could have done so many clay pots with someone next to him. With that question in mind, Pran closes the oven door and slowly turns his head to peek at Pat’s arms. Pat wears a short-sleeved shirt, so it was easy to catch the golden skin of his arms. He notices the biceps first, most probably from carrying heavy clay his whole life.
Then the blotches of darkened skin around his forearms.
Not many, but enough to know that Pat had burned his arms before. And somehow, Pran feels like his heart is burning too.
Still, he pretends like he is fine at the imagery of it and follows Pat back to his station. Back at his table, Pat decides to repeat his question to continue their forgotten conversation.
“Mathematics,” Pran answers. “I teach Mathematics for the kids,”
Pat whistles at that, eyes wide and zoning in on Pran’s shirt collar. “I could never,” Pat gasps.
Pran freezes at that, eyes wide; Pat freezes too, unsure of whether Pran had even understood his joke. “Pran,” he begins, voice riddled with the pressure of holding back his laughter. “I was joking; I can’t do Maths,”
“Oh,” Pran chuckles, albeit nervously. “Oh, sorry,”
“Did I scare you with my dark humour?” Pat wraps a warm hand around Pran’s shoulder in a brief and warm hug which ends almost right when it started. Pran tries not to dwell on the loss too much. “I promise to thread lightly again. I see you’re new to visually impaired people,”
“You don’t have to do that,” Pran blurts out. “You can talk openly with me anytime, I’ll try to understand as much as I can,”
“That’s very kind of you, thank you, Pran,”
Again, Pat smiles like the sun; Blinding, hot and so, so beautiful.
Class ends an hour later, when everyone has finished painting their pots and prepared to bring them back for their loved ones. Pran checks his watch and his eyes almost bulge out at how much time has passed; It was already nearing six in the evening.
“Thank you all for coming,” Pat waves and smile. “And today’s class is free!”
Almost immediately, Pran hears the collective gasps and curious questions flooding towards them, but all Pat does is accept those questions with a warm smile and nod, and refusing the money. “It’s my treat,” Pat answers. “Birthday treat,”
---
“It’s your birthday today,” Pran states lamely as they clean the dirty equipment after class. They stand shoulder to shoulder and Pran had offered to soap the instruments while Pat rinsed them because there was no way he would let the boy touch such sharp knifes with a slippery soapy sponge. Pat had blatantly refused but if anything Pran was, it was being stubborn.
And so the two boys stand by the sink, Pran tediously washing clay and dirt off each item while Pat rinses them slowly with the low pressure water from the sink. He’s looking ahead again, at the white, clay stained tiles in front, lips still curved in a small smile upon hearing Pran’s question.
“Yes, it is,” he replies. “April 23rd 1965. You?”
“June 16th 1965,” Pran replies, the surprise in his tone, evident. As usual, Pat release a happy laugh, high pitched and excited.
“So,” Pran continues, handing Pat a soaped-up metal scrapper to Pat (not before warning him about the sharp edges, of course), “Any plans for your birthday?”
Pat hums in question at that; “Hm, I think I will close the store earlier, head home and listen to some nice luk thung,”
Pran pauses scrubbing his plates and turns to look at Pat. He is oblivious at first, until Pat feels the breath fanning against his cheek and the tense shoulders next to him. His head turns to the side, lips parted; “Why did you stop?”
Pran realises the tension he exhibits and the smile faltering from Pat’s face. Bad. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want Pat’s smile to falter because of him. So Pran mumbles a small no and continues scrubbing. “Let me treat you to something,” he tells Pat.
“That’s very kind of you,” Pat’s smile wides, accepting the soapy plate from Pran’s hands. “You don’t have to, though. I’m sure you have a family to get home to. I wouldn’t want to hold you back,”
“The only family I have are my parents back in Chai Nat. And I want to,” Pran argues.
“No one else?” Pat asks, eyebrows raised in question and Pran doesn’t know if he realises it or not. Either way, Pran finds his heart skipping a beat at how adorable Pat is.
“As of now, I don’t think so,”
“.. No lover?”
He hesitates at his question and somehow, it gives Pran hope. Hope for what? He will accept the answer to that question on another day. Another day when that hope is turned into a reality. So now, Pran hums teasingly.
“No,” he answers. Silence ensues between them as Pran finishes soaping the last equipment and hands them over to Pat who washes them slow and steadily. As he waits, Pran turns to lean his back on the sink, crossing his arms and watching Pat finish his side.
He is able to linger his eyes on Pat as much as he wants, as cruel as that sounds. But Pran could not help it. He could never help himself for the whole of today. When he finds his eyes trailing everywhere Pat walks like he has magnets attached to them.
“You’re staring,” Pat suddenly says. Pran is able to hear the amusement in his voice. “Why are you staring at me?” he nudges Pran.
“What?” Pran straightens, looking anywhere else but at Pat. “I wasn’t,”
“Blind people have very heightened senses, you can’t lie, Pran,” he grins widely enough to make Pran want to kneel down and nod his head and say yes, yes I looked at you and I want to keep looking at you.
Instead, Pran just clears his throat and changes the topic. “Anyway, I’d like to treat you for your birthday,”
Pat sighs and politely shakes his head again. He wipes his hands on the cotton pants he wears and walks forward, leaving Pran behind. “I’m really fine, please don- Ah!”
If Pran had not been keeping an eye on Pat, he wouldn’t have notices the small lob of clay on the cement floor, a result of careless students dropping them down. Pat had stepped on it, along with the smoothness of the cement floor, and his legs gave out.
Pran had acted fast, jumping and gripping Pat by the crook of his elbows and turning him around so that Pat stumbles against his chest instead of the hard floor. Pat’s unsure hands grip onto Pran’s shoulders and allows the boy to hold him close.
“Are you okay?” Pran is breathing heavily from the rush of adrenaline, eyes trailing all over Pat’s face and body to check for any signs of pain or discomfort.
Pat is holding onto him tightly, panting from the rush too. His unfocused eyes are now latched along Pran’s jaw, eyebrows furrowed, cheeks flushed and lips parted. He didn’t seem to hear Pran’s question. There a strand of hair that had fallen down his forehead as he grips Pran for dear life.
Pran doesn’t notice his actions until he’s doing it. One hand grips Pat by the waist tightly while the other moves up to swipe his thumb along Pat’s damp forehead and pushing the hair back. His hand stays against Pat’s face. “Pat,” Pran gently shakes the boy’s head. “Are you okay?”
Pat takes a while to reply, nodding shakily and loosening his grip on Pran’s shoulders. His bent legs soon straighten and he stands up, giving some space between the two of them. Pat’s smile returns, even if it looks a little shaken.
“Sorry,” Pat whispers. “Sorry, I-I tend to freeze up when I trip over things. I guess it’s like the anxiety of it,” he smiles even as Pran’s heart breaks upon hearing this. “Thank you, Pran,”
“Please,” Pran says. “Don’t go anywhere alone, get someone to be with you,”
It was the first time, Pran noticed that the eyes he thought were fierce in a beautiful way, actually turns fierce. In an angry way. Pat’s jaw becomes clenched with an effort to not snap at Pran and his hands clench at his side. He turns his head, not wanting Pran to look at his face as he says his next words.
“I don’t have anyone,” he grits out. “Who could I possibly have? Who could possibly want to waste their life away, doing charity work for a blind guy? The world is not as easy as you think it is, Pran,”
He speaks calmly, but Pran knew how much pain and anger Pat would be holding inside of him to be able to say things like this so peacefully. The silence between them becomes tense, with Pat not even bothering to wait for an answer. Pran watches, the boy walking slowly and surely towards another room.
He comes back less than a minute later with his walking stick, still in its folded form. His jaw is no longer clenched, and Pat’s usual smile had returned. He comes to stand beside Pran, body turned to face the exit of the room. Pran notices that he was wearing a red sling bag.
“I’ll be closing up now,” Pat announces. “Let’s go,”
Pat prepares to take another step forward, when Pran stops him. “Pat,” was all he said before Pat freezes and turns back around to look at Pran. His fierce eyes are substituted with those wide doe eyes he always equipped. Pran tries not to get too sucked into them.
“I’d be there,”
Pat looks up, eyes following the direction of Pran’s voice. “What?” he whispers.
“I’d be there,” Pran steps closer to Pat as he spoke. He gives Pat enough time to register the fact that Pran was close to him before placing his hands over Pat’s shoulder. “I’d be there for you,”
Pat inhales harshly, gripping the walking stick in his hand. “Pran-
“I’d help you. I’ll come by every day on weekends or holidays or when I finish work. To help you. I will,”
Pat’s head turns slightly to the side, even he does not realise it. “Why?”
“Because,”
“What?”
“Because,” Pran repeats again. “Do I need a reason? To want to help you?”
“Yes,” Pat laughs, but its nothing like the beautiful laugh Pran has heard. “Is this a joke to you? Or are you doing some sort of lab research? Is that what this is?”
“I can assure you that I am just a Maths teacher,” Pran smiles. “And I want to be there for you,”
Pat chuckles again, bitterly this time. “Why? Is it because of last week?”
Pran’s eyes go wide even if Pat does not see it. He’s not looking at Pran, but facing the exit. Pran could only see the side view of Pat’s face. “You knew?” he whispers.
“Of course I do,” Pat answers, turning only his head this time. “I may not see, but my other senses work very well,” he tells Pran.
“But it was less than a minute. How-
“Your voice, firstly,” he raises his index finger in a symbol for the number one. “Your smell; You smell like sandalwood, even now. And that day, you mumbled something about your test papers flying around. I assumed you were either a student or a teacher. And today, with that familiar voice and smell, I knew that it had to be you,”
With the guilt from earlier this morning and the shock of Pat being so observant about Pran, the young Mathematics teacher could only stare with parted lips. “Sorry,” was all Pran is able to say.
Pat shook his head; “Don’t be, it was my fault for trying to walk in the busy street,” his smile turns back normal. “Now, may I go now?”
“No,”
“Pran,”
“No,” Pran remains firm. “No, I am not helping you because of last week, although I felt very bad about it. But I’m helping you because I can. Because I want to,” he exasperates. “If you feel uncomfortable, or unsafe with me, let me at least walk you to the bus stop. It’s peak hours, I don’t want you having the same altercation we had,”
Pat whistles, impressed by Pran’s answer; Somehow, it makes Pran blush. With a soft sigh, Pat nods, “Excuse me for saying this, but you are quite stubborn, aren’t you?”
This time, Pran is the one that laughs, holding Pat’s bag as he tightens his walking stick. “Stubborn is a word,” Pran agrees. “But I’d rather call myself determined,”
“And why are you so determined about this?”
Pran shrugs, offering his arm to Pat who hooks his own hesitantly. The touch is soft, shy and very much awkward as they just met that day, but Pran wouldn’t trade his encounter with the special boy by his side on any day.
So he holds Pat gently and guides them out of the classroom and down the stairs of Pat’s family store, and then Pran gives his answer. “Do I need a reason?”