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Do you think all of this is a mere coincidence?
He is the first one to wake up.
The room is dimly lit by the glow of the night, by the stars outside that pry open the curtains, a faint smell of burnt vanilla and basked lemon permeating in the air, not overly sweet with hints of mature, masculine tones.
He is the first one to wake up and he can’t help but press his lips to the curve of Tharn’s shoulder, the same place where he had laid the same caress just before he closed his eyes to the slumber arriving on his muscles, the fatigue seeping to his bones. The tiredness of investigating the art exhibition case caught up to his biological clock and yet – he presses another kiss to the supple yet firm skin (he almost wants to bite it just to imprint the taste in his mind forever) – and yet, it was Tharn and him, himself and Tharn, limbs intertwined as if time started on their joined hands and lost itself along the back of his ear, along the ridges and valleys of his spine, inside of Tharn as the scorching warmth enveloped him.
Phaya hums against his shoulder, the moan escaping his lips as he remembers how good it was to be in Tharn.
I can’t love anyone, Phaya.
A dry breeze brushes past the window to the duvet covering their bare bodies, stifled and almost muted, but it slaps him at the corner of his eyes. He closes them in a rehearsed reflex as the sound of flipping pages catches his attention. Without stirring much the mattress to not wake up the sleeping beauty next to him, Phaya sits at the edge of the bed and takes a good look at the surroundings. Even in the complete darkness of the long-lost hours of the night, he knows every single corner of his room – the oval coffee table, the eagle he repeatedly draws every time he dreams, the desk where his favorite pencils and markers are.
And there is the folklore book he borrowed from Wi. He clearly remembers having it closed.
You mark my words. I will do everything I can to keep you two apart.
The face on the worn page is almost the same, if not identical, as of that imitation of a doctor, that wanderer in suits who insists on taking what is not his to have. Phaya smirks and huffs. He hopes the insolence of his tone travels through the pages to the rightful owner. There is a small, really tiny part of his brain that wishes for that rascal Chalothon to see them, Tharn and him, him and Tharn, together, but especially Tharn, his Tharn, there, naked, the luster of the afterglow of his ecstasy touchable and adorning his skin, the sated smile on his sleeping face. He wishes even that he could hear the bliss in his broken voice as Phaya reached that soft spot inside, again and again, until he chanted his name, first with all the syllables but less coherent and into primal cries as lust overtook his senses.
Perhaps not.
Better not, Phaya rethinks, as he stares back at the fixed gaze on the page, unrelentingly unwavering. Definitely not, he concludes, his hand curling into fists subconsciously, the nails digging into the lines of his palm. Tharn is his and his only, not to be shared with that stranger of a doctor that he knows nothing of and yet his face makes the nerves of his whole body contort to the point of being sick.
Like right now.
Until your time is done, khun Phaya.
The lines on the paper seem to be thicker as seconds go on a marathon, the ink darker and deeper on the page, the glare of the irises more focused, and sharper. Phaya swallows dry as the thin stroke of is mouth maneuvers upward, scrutinizing and…
… mocking him.
Even if he has to die.
“Phaya!”
Phaya shuts the book with such a force it almost falls to the ground. He turns around automatically, that voice recognizable even miles away. Tharn is trying to sit, his arms dragging his torso to the cushioned headboard. Phaya notices how those sluggish impulse contrasts with the shallow breathing and the puny trembling of his hands, scarcely perceptible.
Phaya does notice it.
“I’m here.”
Tharn gently nods, the proximity of their bodies grounding him, easing the oxygen into his lungs. He tries to reach for the taller man, but his hand stops mid-air, the same fear Phaya had witnessed before lodging again on his eyes, and he catches it before Tharn can fully retract it, pulling the two of them into an embrace.
“I’m here.” He repeats, running his fingers through the shorter, unruly strands of hair. He can feel Tharn nodding again, his warm breath tickling his neck where his face is buried. “Did you miss me this much?”
The punch he receives on his bare chest is less taunting and he pretends to be hurt, his face grimacing exaggeratedly. He is a terrible actor and Tharn shakes his head, finally breaking the deafening silence.
“You evil jellyfish.”
True to the name, he wants to let his tentacles grab another handful of svelte meat, and yet he stops. He is locked in place when the man in front of him leans forward, slowly, nonchalantly vagarous. Tharn’s fingertips sweeps through his bicep in a ghost trace, to his neck, his cheek, probing, testing, wanting to deepen the touch but afraid the person in front of him would break.
“Phaya…,” a whisper that is almost a plea, and Tharn presses his lips to the corner of his mouth, a gesture so chaste it betrays what they had done a few hours before. It takes no effort for the taller man to change the angle of their mouths, impatient as always, as he takes control of the kiss, an urgency he can’t explain taking him prisoner.
Phaya pushes both of them to the mattress and pillows, cutting Tharn’s escape route and stealing the chance of the startled cry as he inserts his tongue, drinking of the same sweetness on their tongues.
“The sting of this jellyfish…,” Phaya admires the glistening trail of saliva on his lips, slightly bruised and swollen, “… is very painful.”
Tharn chuckles as he gives a tentative lick to Phaya’s mouth. “It didn’t go to the heart.”
“Oh, it didn’t?” And the younger man shakes his head until a hand holds him by the neck in place, not so forceful or demanding that he couldn’t evade from. Tharn tilts his head to give him better access. It is almost erotic how such a simple gesture can be. “Your mouth was more obedient when you were on your knees.”
He can see the same craving reflected on the fog in Tharn’s eyes. It is of the same magnitude as of his desire and hunger.
“Make me.”
It is almost day and the cotton clouds have finally brewed their storm. Yet, the rain drops stop at the windows, unable to invade the room, staining only the glass panes.