Chapter Text
Bangkok was melting. Not just heating up — truly melting, dripping from the sky in a viscous haze onto the scorched rooftops.
On Friday evening, the city shed its daytime armor of business ties and traffic jams, exhaling humid heat into the sky, mixed with the smells of street food and heated asphalt. The air conditioner in Sky's apartment was working at full capacity, but still losing the battle against the scorching concrete walls. Twenty-sixth floor, panoramic windows facing west — the sun flooded the living room with molten gold, turning dust particles in the air into a luminous suspension. It seemed that in a little while longer, the paint on the windowsill would start to bubble.
Sky stood at the stove barefoot.
His toes curled on the cool tile — the only island of salvation in this oven. He was stirring pad kra pao in the wok too vigorously, dropping rice over the edge, and talking. He was always talking — even when no one was around. The phone, wedged between his shoulder and ear, broadcast his indignation somewhere into the void of a conversation with a colleague.
"...no, listen, Min. He said 'too much air.' Air! In an atrium! Can you imagine?" Sky shook the wok, and a droplet of hot oil landed on his wrist. He didn't even flinch, only rubbed the skin with his thumb mechanically. "It's like telling a fish in an aquarium 'you have too much water.' What does he think I'm designing, a bunker?"
He hung up without waiting for an answer, tossed the phone onto the counter, and inhaled. The sharp chili pepper hit his nose, and Sky coughed — once again, he'd overdone it. For himself, he cooked it half as spicy, but today was Friday, and on Fridays, pad kra pao had to be perfectly fiery because Nani only ate that version, and Sky didn't care that his own stomach would remind him of it until morning.
Nani.
The name surfaced in his mind softly, without knocking. The way it always did.
Sky transferred the food into a deep bowl — handmade ceramic, uneven sea-green glaze, a gift from Nani on one of his birthdays. He placed it on the low table by the sofa, tossed two spoons beside it. No plates, no ceremony. On Fridays, they ate from one bowl, because that's how it had been since high school, when they had one container of rice between them and dividing it — with spoons, brother-like, mixed together — seemed like the only true ritual.
He wiped his hands on his house shorts — old ones, with a faded print of some anime — and glanced at the clock.
Seven in the evening. Nani should be there any minute.
Sky paced through the living room, gathering things scattered over the week: a sketch scroll with notes in red marker, an empty coffee mug with dried foam on the bottom, socks — why were they always under the coffee table? He tossed everything into the bedroom and closed the door. For Nani, the apartment had to look lived-in, but not chaotic. Sky knew that mess unsettled him, made him inwardly tense up, even if Nani would never say so.
The sound of a key in the lock came at 7:02.
Nani never rang the doorbell. He'd had his own key ever since Sky moved into this apartment five years ago. He'd handed it over without ceremony, just said: "Here, just in case." Nani took it silently, and from then on, it became a given — as unquestionable as watching dumb movies on Fridays, or Sky sending him a silly cat sticker on Monday mornings.
"I'm here," Nani said quietly, though it was already obvious.
He entered the living room, and the space immediately changed. It wasn't that Nani brought silence with him — rather, he made the existing silence noticeable. Tall, in a loose linen shirt the color of baked milk, with a drawing tube under his arm and a canvas tote bag across his shoulder. Hair slightly damp from the shower — meaning he'd stopped by his own place before coming over. Always stopped by his place. Never came to Sky straight from work, as if a ritual of purification was required between the "outside" space and "their" space. An ablution.
"You're late," Sky said without reproach. "By two minutes."
"The elevator was waiting. Someone was moving."
Nani kicked off his sandals by the doorstep — neatly, toes facing the exit — leaned the tube against the wall, and lowered himself to the floor by the sofa. Not on the sofa. On the floor. Sky had told him a hundred times: "Sit like a normal person," and a hundred times received silent disregard in response. Nani loved the floor. Back against the sofa, knees drawn up or crossed, the plane in front of him like a desk, like a foundation to push off from. He pulled tracing paper out of the tube, spread it right on the wooden flooring, weighed down the corners with odds and ends within reach: Sky's lighter, the air conditioner remote, his own phone face down.
"New project?" Sky asked, settling onto the sofa behind Nani. The bowl of pad kra pao stood between them on the floor, and Sky immediately scooped up a spoonful, even though five minutes ago he'd sworn to himself he'd wait for Nani.
"Japanese garden. For a residence on Sukhumvit 49." Nani didn't lift his eyes from the tracing paper. His fingers glided over the lines — slender, with neat nails, without a single ring. Sky had three on his right hand, and they clinked softly against the ceramic bowl now. "The lady of the house wants 'zen, but with orchids.'"
"Sounds like an oxymoron."
"It is. But she pays."
Sky snorted with his mouth full and held the second spoon down. Nani took it without looking; their fingers touched for a second — a dry, habitual contact, so fleeting neither of them noticed. Or pretended not to notice. Nani placed the spoon on the edge of the bowl and continued studying the drawing.
"It needs a bridge. Over a dry stream. And a stone lantern, but she wants the lantern to light up. LED lighting." He said it as if it were a crime against humanity. "I'm trying to figure out how to fit electricity into a zen garden without wanting to hang myself."
"Hide the wiring under the stones. Make a hidden hatch." Sky leaned forward, peering over Nani's shoulder. His chin almost touched the crown of Nani's head, and Nani caught the scent: sandalwood oil, basil, something else — hot, spicy, clean. "You're a landscaper, Nan. The earth is your ally. Bury it — no one will find it."
"If it short-circuits during the rainy season, I'll be the one getting buried."
Sky grunted and leaned back. His hand rested on the back of the sofa, his fingers ending up right above Nani's head. He hesitated for a second — just because he was thinking about the project, about Nani's client, about how stupid it was to cram technology into a garden that was supposed to be about silence — and mechanically, without any intent, touched the hair on the nape of Nani's neck.
His fingers moved lightly, threading through the strands. The short buzz cut on his neck, softer than it looked, slightly damp at the roots. Sky had done this a thousand times. When Nani was tired. When Nani was nervous. When Sky himself needed to occupy his hands to calm down. It was part of their language — pre-verbal, physical, the one that had developed over the years of friendship.
Nani didn't react. Only his shoulders dropped slightly — maybe a millimeter. Maybe it just seemed that way.
"Come on, eat," Sky said, continuing to run his fingers through his hair. "It'll get cold."
"It's already hot as lava. You overdid it with the chili again."
"It's fine. Eat."
Nani sighed and picked up the spoon. He ate silently, quickly, still looking at the drawings. He didn't raise his head to Sky's hand — but he didn't pull away either. He just accepted. The way he accepted everything Sky gave him: food, warmth, presence. The way one accepts air — without gratitude, but with vital necessity.
Sky looked at the top of his head, at the way his cheekbones moved as he chewed, at the thin blue vein on his temple, pulsing almost imperceptibly. He looked and thought: it's strange that a person can be this close. That you can know what his skin smells like after a shower and before, what his breathing sounds like in his sleep and when he's angry, how he holds a spoon — with three fingers, not two — and still occasionally catch yourself thinking that he's still a mystery. An equation that can't be fully solved, no matter how hard you try.
"I have a problem," Nani said.
He said it into the tracing paper, without turning his head. The spoon froze in mid-air.
Sky stopped running his fingers through his hair. His hand remained on the back of the sofa, but his fingers tensed.
"What kind?"
"Suphaphon is coming back."
Silence fell sharply, like a guillotine. The name hung in the air, and Sky felt as if even the air conditioner had paused for a second, digesting the information.
"Suphaphon," he repeated slowly. Not a question. A statement. "That Suphaphon? From school?"
"She's the only one."
"Why?"
Nani finally set down the spoon. He leaned his head back against the edge of the sofa cushion — right where Sky's hand had just been. Now his head was touching Sky's thigh, and he was looking up at the ceiling, where the light fixture cast soft shadows.
"She has a conference. Something about sustainable architecture. She wrote to me on LINE."
"After how long? Eight years?"
"Nine." Nani closed his eyes. His lashes laid shadows on his cheekbones. "She said she wants to meet. Have coffee. Talk."
"And you agreed?" Sky heard his own voice and didn't recognize it. Too sharp, too loud for the room that had just been quiet and cozy. He forced himself to exhale. "I mean... why?"
"Because refusing would have been rude."
"Rude?" Sky slid off the sofa. He ended up on the floor next to Nani — back against the sofa, knee to knee. Now he could see his face in profile, and that was even worse. Nani looked calm, but Sky knew this calmness. It looked like the water in a pond when something unspoken lay at the bottom. "Nan, she ridiculed you in front of the whole school. She called you... I don't even want to repeat that word."
"Emotional invalid," Nani said evenly. "I remember."
"And you want to meet her?"
"I don't want to. I agreed. Those are different."
Sky fell silent. His fingers found the edge of the rice bowl, clutched the ceramic rim — just to occupy his hands with something. He looked at Nani's profile: straight nose, sharp chin, a jawline that could be drawn with a ruler. "Moon Prince," they teased him in university, and it was spot on. Nani truly seemed carved from a different material — not flesh, but something cooler and more fragile. Porcelain, marble, ice.
But Sky knew that ice cracked. Knew that behind that face was an abyss of anxiety, sleepless nights, and a fear that Nani never spoke of.
"And you're just going to go have coffee with her? Like nothing happened?"
"Not quite." Nani opened his eyes and turned his head. Now they were looking at each other — too close, shoulder to shoulder. "I told her I'm in a serious relationship."
Sky blinked.
"What?"
"She asked how I was doing. In my personal life. I said I was in a relationship. Serious." Nani spoke quietly, but every word fell like a stone into water. "She was like, 'Oh, wonderful, bring your partner, let's meet.' And I said 'yes.'"
"You don't have a partner."
"I know."
"Why did you lie?"
Nani looked away. Now he was looking at his hands — slender fingers resting on the tracing paper. The blue lines of the drawing showed through them like veins.
"Because I didn't want her to know that nothing had changed in nine years. That I'm still..." He cut himself off. "Never mind."
Sky knew that "never mind" always meant the most important thing. But he didn't push. Instead, he took the spoon, scooped up the remaining pad kra pao, and shoved it into his mouth to keep from saying what was trying to burst from his tongue. Something about how Nani didn't have to prove anything to anyone. That Suphaphon was nobody. That if he, Sky, met her now, he'd say everything he thought, and to hell with politeness.
But he stayed silent. Because this was Nani, and Nani never asked anyone to stand up for him. Even when he really needed it.
"I can help," Sky said, finishing his bite. Casually, as if talking about the weather. "I can play your boyfriend. For one evening. Or however long it takes."
Nani froze. Slowly — very slowly — he turned his head back. His eyes widened by a fraction of a millimeter — unnoticeable to anyone else, to Sky — like a scream.
"Are you serious?"
"Why not?" Sky shrugged, leaning back against the sofa. The posture — relaxed, the voice — light, inside — a strange chill, the nature of which he didn't bother to analyze. "We've known each other almost our whole lives. Who could play a boyfriend better than me? I'm very convincing, by the way."
"You're too convincing. You overact."
"And you underact. Perfect balance." Sky stretched his lips into his best smile — the one that usually left people with no chance. "Come on, Nan. It'll be fun."
Nani was silent.
He looked at Sky and thought that the word "fun" in Sky Wongrawee's mouth usually meant a catastrophe. That this smile — too wide, too bright, like the sun you couldn't look at directly. That somewhere deep inside, under the layers of linen and politeness, he desperately, achingly wanted Suphaphon to see him not alone.
"I'll think about it," he finally said and turned back to his drawings. "It needs gravel. Fine. Almost sand, but not sand. So the rake leaves a pattern."
Sky understood: the topic was closed. At least for today.
He didn't push. Instead, he got up, turned on the laptop connected to the TV, and started scrolling through Netflix. Something stupid, something funny, something that could be watched with half an eye while Nani drew his gardens.
"Attack of the Giant Zombie Sharks or Space Ninjas vs. Robot Dinosaurs?" he asked without turning around.
"Both sound like an insult to intelligence."
"Then we're watching both. Sharks first."
He started the movie and returned to the sofa. Nani stayed on the floor, but ten minutes later, when a CGI shark on the screen bit the CGI head off the first extra, he set aside the tracing paper and climbed onto the sofa himself. Without comment. Just sat at the other end, tucking his legs under him, and took a pillow from Sky.
By the middle of the movie, they were both lying down. Or rather, Sky was lying down — sprawled across three-quarters of the sofa, because the sofa was large and Sky always took up more space than physically required. And Nani was sitting in the corner, but his head had gradually slid sideways, and now he was half-lying, resting his temple against Sky's shoulder.
On the screen, a helicopter was exploding. Sky could feel Nani breathing — steadily, calmly. Could feel the warmth of his body through the fabric of his shirt. Could smell the scent — not shampoo, not cologne, but something underneath, something that was simply Nani. Freshly cut grass, morning mist, the pages of an old book.
He glanced sideways. Nani was looking at the screen, but his gaze was unfocused. Thinking about something of his own. Maybe about Suphaphon. Maybe about the gravel for the Japanese garden. Maybe about the fact that he'd lied about a serious relationship and now didn't know how to get out of it.
Sky wanted to say something. Something like "hey, it'll be okay" or "I'm here, you know that." But the words stuck in his throat — sweet, sticky, like honey. He swallowed and just pressed his shoulder a little more firmly against Nani's temple.
Nani didn't pull away.
Half an hour later, the movie ended. Sky reached for the laptop to start the second one, but Nani suddenly spoke:
"You know what the funniest part is?"
"What?"
"She wrote: 'I hope your boyfriend is someone special.'"
Sky froze with his finger over the trackpad.
The silence in the room shifted. Not cozy, like before. Charged. Like the air before rain, when there's no lightning yet, but your skin already feels the approaching discharge.
"Nan..."
"I'm tired," Nani cut him off, and his voice wavered for the first time that evening. "Let's do tomorrow. Second movie tomorrow."
He stood up — smoothly, gracefully, the way he did everything. Gathered the tracing paper into the tube faster than usual. Shoved his phone into his pocket without checking notifications.
"Are you staying?" Sky asked, and this was a tradition too. On Fridays, Nani often stayed. He had his own pillow in Sky's bedroom, his own toothbrush in the bathroom — pink, while Sky's was orange, they bought them together at Chatuchak Market, laughing at how childish it looked.
"Not tonight. Early morning." Nani wasn't looking at him. Was fastening his sandals by the doorstep. "We'll talk."
"Okay."
"Okay."
The door closed. The lock clicked.
Sky was left alone in the living room. The movie's end card froze on a stupid frame — a CGI shark with its mouth gaping open. The pad kra pao bowl was empty, only oil with chili left at the bottom. Outside, it had grown completely dark, and the glass now reflected the room — the sofa, the light fixture, the figure of a person sitting on the floor.
He touched his shoulder. There, where Nani's head had just been resting, the fabric of his T-shirt still held warmth.
Sky thought about Suphaphon. About how she stood in the middle of the school corridor — beautiful, confident, with perfectly styled hair — and told Nani: "You're like a robot. It's impossible to date you, you feel nothing." About how Nani smiled then and said: "You're probably right," then went to the library and didn't come out until evening. About how Sky found him there, between the shelves on landscape architecture, and said nothing, just sat down beside him and stayed for two hours, pretending to read a textbook on structural mechanics.
He thought: "I won't let her hurt him again."
And he also thought: "I'll play this role so well she'll choke on it."
And somewhere on the periphery of his consciousness, in the place Sky Wongrawee never looked into unless absolutely necessary, a thought flickered — thin as a spiderweb: "Will I even have to pretend?"
He shook his head. Got up. Collected the bowl, carried it to the sink. Turned on the water and watched for a long time as the oil streaks dissolved under the stream.
In the bedroom, he lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The pink pillow lay untouched. Sky reached out his hand and pulled it closer to himself. Just to feel — that it was there. That Nani would come back next Friday, or sooner, or later, but would definitely come back, because he had a pillow here, a toothbrush, and a shared life inscribed into the concrete and glass of this apartment.
He closed his eyes.
The scent of freshly cut grass still hung in the air. Or maybe it just seemed that way.