Chapter Text
Things start going wrong right from the beginning. Pran is standing outside the bar with his friends when a large black car pulls up to the curb, attracting everyone’s attention. An excited murmur sweeps through the crowd, people turning their heads, pulling out their phones, pointing out the car to their friends. Actors? Foreign pop stars? No one knows what’s going on.
The doors open slowly. A white sneaker hits the ground. Korn steps out of the car like a movie star at a premiere, his every move slow and smooth and calculated. His friends follow suit, their heads held high, sunglasses perched on their noses. If Pat wasn’t one of them, Pran would have lost interest in their shenanigans the moment he realized this is nothing more than an elaborate prank.
People keep staring at them. Some look confused; others are amused. Wai rolls his eyes with a long-suffering sigh and turns back to his friends.
“Sheesh,” he says, loud enough to be heard by everyone in the vicinity. “That’s the most embarrassing thing I have ever seen. What are these guys, thirteen?”
Pran cringes inwardly, hoping for a miracle, praying for a miracle, but then Korn yells, Hey! I heard that! and he feels foolish for even thinking that this Friday night could end in anything other than a disaster.
Pran’s friends turn around to face the group. Korn strides up to them, the rest of the guys trailing behind him. They have taken off their sunglasses, and they all look like they’re out for blood.
“You know what?” Korn says, jabbing his finger at Wai’s chest. “I’m sick of seeing your face around here.”
“Why don’t you fuck off, then?” Wai asks.
“We’re not going anywhere. This is our bar. We were here first.”
“Your bar? We’ve been coming here for years—”
Pran takes in the chaos unfolding around him. Mo argues loudly with Louis, and Chang and Safe circle each other like two sharks, waiting for the right moment to attack. He has no choice but to play along. He has no choice but to slip into the role he hates because that’s what everyone expects of him. It’s easier than the alternative; it’s easier than sticking out like a sore thumb.
“Hey, you!” Pran lifts his chin in a defiant manner as he marches towards Pat. “What the hell is wrong with you and your friends?”
Pat scowls, his eyes throwing daggers at Pran. “Us? Why don’t you find another bar to go to? You guys always ruin our fun.”
They stop right in front of each other; Pat grabs Pran by the collar of his shirt, and Pran responds by fisting his hand in the front of Pat’s tank top and yanking him closer. They glare at each other like lifelong enemies, their jaws clenched, chests heaving with short, uneven breaths.
“Have you seen my earbuds?” Pran asks in a low voice. “I’ve lost them.”
They have perfected this dance a long time ago. To everyone else, they look like two rowdy young men muttering threats at each other. In reality, they’re using this opportunity to catch up before the night begins. Pran is tired of it, tired of this ridiculous performance they’re forced to take part in week after week, but what else are they supposed to do? This is the only way they can talk to each other in public. This is the only way they can touch each other in public. It sucks, but it’s better than nothing. It’s better than not being able to talk to Pat at all, better than not being able to touch him at all.
“They’re in my car.” Pat’s eyes are even more intense up close. “You left them there last week.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to come and get them.”
“Asshole.” Pran shakes him a little, and Pat tightens his grip on Pran’s collar, his arm trembling with exertion. “Can I drop by later tonight?”
Pat feigns a thoughtful expression. “I don’t think so. I might have other plans.”
Pran snorts as something dangerous stirs inside him, a heady mixture of resentment and desire. “Yeah, right.”
Around them, the argument is about to escalate into a full-blown brawl; Mo and Louis look like they’re ready to rip each other’s throats out, Chang and Safe are hurling increasingly vulgar insults back and forth, and Korn and Wai are shoving each other, arguing, shouting—
“Guys! Calm the fuck down or none of you will ever set foot in this bar again!” one of the bouncers bellows from the door.
The guys stop at their tracks and step away from each other. Pat and Pran hold on for a second longer before letting each other go. They regroup with their friends, shooting dirty looks over their shoulders as they adjust their shirts, but the crowd is no longer interested in them. Even Pran’s friends seem oddly sheepish now, daunted by the prospect of being banned from their favorite bar. If Pran wasn’t still breathless from the mock fight, he might even find it funny.
He doesn’t pay attention to Pat anymore, but he can feel the heat of his stare on his back, and it makes him want to squirm. Pat’s presence can’t be ignored; even when they’re not looking at each other, Pran knows exactly where he is—and now he can tell Pat is moving closer. He glances over his shoulder and locks eyes with Pat as he walks past him with his friends, heading to the entrance of the bar. The edge of Pat’s mouth curls into a slight smile. Pran responds with a half-smile of his own before turning away and smoothing his expression back to neutral.
The first act is over. From here on, they are free to play their own little game.
–
Later that night, two girls strike up a conversation with Pat at the bar.
They’re both pretty, the shorter wearing a purple skirt and a black sleeveless top, the taller’s hair cascading down her back in soft waves. They stand closer to him than they should, holding their drinks and laughing at whatever it is Pat says, vibrantly alive in a way that makes even Pran’s heart beat faster.
Pran lets out an annoyed huff and takes a sip from the bottle of beer he’s been nursing. The three other chairs around the table are empty; Louis and Safe slipped out for a smoke, and Wai has been gone for so long that he might as well have disappeared into thin air. It feels a little awkward, but other than that, Pran doesn’t mind being left alone for a while. It gives him room to breathe. It gives him an opportunity to keep an eye on Pat.
The noise of the bar fades into the background as Pran stares at Pat and the two girls. The rest of the world is a blur—a blur of bodies, a blur of motion, a blur of light in the periphery of his vision. The only thing that remains sharp and clear is this: Purple Skirt’s fingers trailing up Pat’s bare arm, the brush of Wavy Hair’s lips against the shell of Pat’s ear as she leans in to whisper something to him. Pat is smiling and laughing, charming as always, lapping up the attention. Pran growls and looks away, seething.
He’s still keyed up from the mock fight, adrenaline flowing through his veins, blood pounding in his ears. Pran needs to channel that pent-up energy into something, something that’ll make him feel better, something that’ll make Pat pay attention—
Pran turns his head, and his eyes land on a guy around the same age as him, a guy he has seen here a few times before. He’s been sneaking looks at Pran from across the dance floor all night, only turning away when his friend nudges him with her elbow, clearly annoyed by the distraction. He’s also sporting a green wristband like Pran, which means he’s available for flirting. Pran makes eye contact with him, and this time, he doesn’t look away. This time, he’s speaking with his eyes, and the message is clear.
Green Wristband says something to his friend before making his way over to Pran, encouraged by the eye contact. Pran suppresses a smile; this is perfect timing.
“Hi,” he says when he’s close enough, sliding into a vacant chair. “Do you mind if I sit here?”
Pran gives him his most charming smile. “Not at all.”
“So,” Green Wristband says, nodding his head towards the stage, where a local band is warming up. “Are you here to see the band?”
He’s fiddling with the label of his beer bottle, clearly a little nervous. Pran leans closer to him and brushes his fingers against his forearm, playing with the fine hairs there.
“Actually, I want to do something else,” he says, voice lower now, seductive.
Green Wristband smirks at him, something shifting in his eyes. Pran keeps touching him but only because he knows Pat is watching. He’s actually not interested in flirting with strangers. He’s not really interested in making out with strangers either, but he will do it if the situation calls for it. And this—well, he’s had to make do with worse. The guy is actually pretty hot; he smells like aftershave and has beautiful eyes and nicely toned arms. Pran keeps the smile on his face, and even though this is no less a performance than the fight outside the bar, it doesn’t entirely feel like it.
“Come with me,” Pran says under his breath.
They get up, and Pran steers him towards a secluded corner that doesn’t actually provide much in the way of privacy. As soon as they’re out of the crowd and in clear view of the bar, he turns around, puts his hands on Green Wristband’s hips, and leans over to tug at his earlobe with his teeth, his breath ghosting over his jaw.
It works like a charm. Green Wristband shoves him against the nearest wall and claims his mouth, hungry for more. Pran shuts his eyes, wraps his arms around his waist, and lets himself get lost in the kiss, but only for a moment. He has to look like he’s enjoying it, and he is, to some extent, but he can’t lose sight of what he’s actually trying to achieve. The guy he’s kissing doesn’t matter; only the one at the bar does.
Pran opens his eyes and looks over the Green Wristband’s shoulder at Pat. Pat is not smiling anymore. He’s not paying attention to the girls anymore. He has gone completely still, his eyes fixed on Pran; he doesn’t even blink. Then, a flicker of something dark in his eyes, something that casts a shadow over his face. A burst of satisfaction surges through Pran, sick and twisted but so, so good.
He closes his eyes and shifts his focus back to the guy kissing him. He’s not a bad kisser, his mouth hard and soft at the same time, his tongue teasing and playful. If Pran’s heart didn’t already belong to someone else, he might even be willing to give him a chance.
When Pran cracks open his eyes again, Pat is gone. The two girls sit at the bar, twirling the stems of their glasses between their fingers. Pran’s friends are nowhere to be seen, the room too dark and crowded to pick out individual faces. It’s fine; they’ll bump into each other sooner or later, no matter if Pran wants it or not.
Pran slides his hands up to Green Wristband’s chest and pushes him away.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m not really in the mood for anything else tonight, after all.”
Green Wristband looks disappointed but steps back nonetheless. Pran squeezes his way past him and heads outside, preparing himself for the next round of the game.
–
Pat confronts him on the far end of the parking lot. He storms over to Pran like a thundercloud, eyes dark and fierce, jaw set in a tight line.
“Who was that guy?” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth.
Just the sight of him is enough to make heat pool in the pit of Pran’s stomach. Now Pat is all worked up and jealous—this is exactly what he likes.
Pran schools his face into a look of bland innocence. “What guy?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Pat says.
“Oh.” Pran looks away for a moment, lets a small smile play on his lips. He knows the power of a well-placed silence, the effect it has on Pat. “That’s none of your business.”
Pat comes closer, not breaking eye contact with Pran. Pran takes a step back, his back hitting the nearest car. They’re alone in the parking lot, hidden behind rows and rows of cars, protected by the darkness that surrounds them. Further down the street, music from the bar spills out into the night, along with the occasional burst of raucous laughter.
Pat places his hand on the car door beside Pran’s shoulder and leans into his space.
“It is my business.” Pat is so close now that Pran can feel his breath on his face.
Pran raises his eyebrows at him. “How is it your business?”
Pat stares at him. His throat works as he swallows; his lips twitch as he searches for the right words. Pran lets his head fall back and enjoys the show, his heart thrumming in anticipation of what he’s going to say.
“That guy doesn’t deserve you,” Pat finally spits out. “He doesn’t know you like—”
Pran snorts, but he’s pleased—oh, he’s so pleased. “You know nothing about our relationship.”
“There is no relationship.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know what you’re trying to do,” Pat says.
For a moment, they just stare at each other, breathing hard, each daring the other to say something. Pran is about to open his mouth, but then he catches a whiff of something on Pat’s skin, and his mind goes blank. It’s a perfume he doesn’t recognize, floral with a hint of spice, and Pran’s chest tightens when he makes the connection, something dark and ugly rising inside him, not unlike poison.
“Those girls at the bar,” Pran says. “Did I interrupt something?”
"Ha." The corner of Pat’s mouth lifts into something resembling a smile, feral delight lighting up his eyes. “You’re jealous of me.”
Pran leans closer to Pat, so close that the tips of their noses almost touch, and gives him a smirk that brings out his dimples.
“Why would I be jealous of you?” he asks, voice low, each word spoken slowly, deliberately. “You didn’t go home with them. You’re here with me.”
Pat doesn’t say anything. Instead, he puts his mouth on Pran’s neck, all hot breath and slick tongue, as his fingers find the waistband of Pran’s pants, flicking open the button and pulling down the zipper.
Pran throws his head back and leans back against the car. He’s hard just from the banter and the heat of Pat’s body, and he lets out a ragged breath as Pat slips his hand into his pants and gives him a firm squeeze. Does this count as a win for Pat? This is one of his signature moves, an easy way to make Pran shut up. Pran has to admit it works, because Pat is extremely skilled with his hands, and his mouth, especially his mouth—
Once, in the early days of whatever it is that is going on between them, Pat tried to kiss him. Panicked, Pran shut him down, and Pat has not made the same mistake since. Pran can tell it bugs Pat, his gaze turning into a glare every time he catches sight of Pran making out with a stranger in some secluded corner of the bar, jealousy radiating from him like static electricity. Part of him enjoys it, the opportunity to rile Pat up like this, but the truth is that he’s doing it to protect himself. If he crosses that line, if he lets Pat kiss him on the mouth, there’s no turning back. If he lets Pat kiss him on the mouth, his feelings will come tumbling out, and there will be no way to stop them.
Pat’s lips travel lower, trailing down Pran’s neck, brushing against the hollow of his throat. He yanks the collar of Pran’s shirt aside and attacks the spot where his neck meets his shoulder, kissing and sucking hard, tongue lapping out to taste him. Pran bites back a breathy moan and arches his neck to give Pat better access to his skin—and oh, there will be a mark there tomorrow, barely hidden under Pran’s collar, yet another secret between just the two of them—
Pran’s phone buzzes in his back pocket. They both ignore it, Pat’s face still buried in Pran’s neck as his hand works up and down Pran’s cock, Pran chewing his lip in an effort not to moan. The buzzing stops, then starts again a minute later, persistent and distracting. It cuts through the haze of pleasure that fogs Pran’s mind, forcing him back to reality.
Reluctantly, he wraps his hand around Pat’s wrist to stop him. “I think I need to take this.”
Pat pulls his hand away but doesn’t look happy with the interruption. They share a look of mutual exasperation before Pran shifts and fishes out his phone. Wai’s name flashes on the screen, and Pran almost lets out a bitter laugh when he sees it, because of course it’s Wai. Of course it’s fucking Wai.
“What?” he says into the phone, trying and failing to keep the annoyance from his voice. “Wai, I’m kind of in the middle of something here—”
“Pran.” Wai’s breath comes in short bursts. A commotion sounds in the background: raised voices, shouted arguments, a glass shattering as it hits the ground. “Where are you?”
“I’m outside—where are you?”
“In the back alley,” Wai says. “Do you know what those fuckers did? They threw a drink at Louis’s face—you need to come here, Pran, we need some backup, we have to show them they can’t mess with us—”
Pran sighs. “Can’t you just let it go for once?”
But Wai is not listening anymore. There’s a loud clatter, followed by a string of muffled curses, and then the line goes dead in Pran’s ear.
“Shit.” Pran shoves his phone back into his pocket and zips his pants. “We need to go.”
Pat takes a step back, his brow knitting in confusion. “What’s going on?”
“There’s a brawl in the back alley,” Pran says. “One of your friends threw a drink at my friend.”
Pat lets out an annoyed huff and shakes his head.
“Those guys,” he says, muttering this under his breath; Pran’s not sure if he’s referring to his friends, or Pran’s friends, or both.
“This is getting ridiculous,” Pran says, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “You need to stop associating with jerks and find better friends.”
“What? You need to find better friends.”
“Whatever.” Pran smooths his hair before pushing Pat away. “You wait here. I’ll go first.”
He breaks out into a run, weaving his way between the parked cars, and even if Pat yells something at him, he’s too far away to hear it.