Chapter Text
A steady blare stirs Pat from his sleep.
He flips onto his back, sleepily huffing as his fingers pat the surface of his side table for his phone. He swipes his thumb across the screen and it falls silent. He stretches out onto the mattress, his joints creaking like the wooden floorboards of his home.
Thirty-five years alive has done a number on his body. He takes ten minutes to fully haul himself off his bed.
Pat pads into the bathroom and picks up his toothbrush from its holder. He notes the fuzzy, splayed-out bristles and reminds himself to buy a fresh toothbrush at the end of his workday. He looks at himself in the mirror as he brushes his teeth.
He runs his fingers through his hair that waterfalls down his forehead, almost dry from last night’s shower. It’s long now, unlike before when he was younger and cared more about his outward appearance. He feels the sudden urge to cut it, a compulsion he hasn’t felt in a very long time. He figures if there’s a time to look his best, it would be tomorrow.
Pat finally spits toothpaste into the sink. Mint green foam swirls down the drain as water pours from the tap.
Port Renfrew, get ready for a sprinkling of snow on the tip of your nose today as we will be reaching a riveting low of - wait for it - minus one Celsius!
Pat turns the coffee pot on on his way to peek out the window at the weather. He chooses a long-sleeved knit from his slim pickings of clothing and throws it on as he waits for his water to boil.
With a piece of bread hanging off his mouth, he types: ‘It’s snowing’. He presses send and a small swooping tune plays from his phone. He doesn’t wait for a reply; he pours hot coffee into his thermos, shrugs on his jacket, and slips his feet into his outdoor boots. The beanie he puts on his head flattens his long hair over his forehead.
Pat slots his key into the ignition but before he starts the engine of his truck, he types out another message: ‘buy a jacket’. Pat’s truck rushes through the unpaved dirt road of his property, the towering pine trees lining the way speckled with white.
Four hours later as Pat leaves the construction site for his coffee break, he sees a reply. He walks towards the small creek that snakes around the half-constructed log cabin they’re working on.
‘I’ll buy one at the airport. Just touched down.’
Pat’s thumbs fly over the screen.
‘see you later’
“So, who are you picking up from the city?”
Pat chuckles, shaking his head. He stretches his measuring tape from one beam to another. “Mind your own business.”
“Is it your pretty sister?”
Pat straightens. “Korn.”
Korn laughs, brushing away the flecks of snow on the tip of his nose. “I kidding, I know she’s off limits.”
“She’s off the damn planet where all of you are concerned,” Pat warns, pointing a finger at his fellow workers. He gets a chorus of unbothered chortles.
“Who is it, then?” Korn asks, excited, “Is it someone famous? Come on, I wanna know.”
Pat returns to measuring the beams again. “Would you even know him if I told you?” Korn is Thai-Canadian, heavy on the Canadian. He speaks the language but doesn’t watch a lick of Thai media. He also dresses like a lumberjack. He didn’t even know who Pat was until he finally divulged his past in a drunken stupor five years ago.
Korn shrugs. “I dunno. I’m just nosy.”
Pat marks the timber with a pencil. “A friend.”
“A friend?” Korn asks, and then asks a second time, thick brows wiggling, “Or a friend?”
“You’re not gonna be mine if you don’t get back to work,” Pat points out, “I’m still your site leader.”
Korn raises his hands in the air in surrender. “Okay, okay.”
Pat gratefully takes the piece of lumber one of their workers, Adam, hands him. He goes back to the circular saw and makes the designated cuts needed for the floorboards.
Korn is suddenly next to Pat again, his muddy boot tapping against Pat’s leg. “Do I get to meet him? Me, your best friend of seven years?”
Pat barely hears him from the metallic shriek of the electric saw.
“Maybe.”
It starts with a friend request.
Internet has always been spotty in Pat’s part of the island, so when he sees Por.Pran in his message box, he’s convinced it’s a glitch of some sort. It’s a name he never expected to see again. But Pat is an endlessly curious person despite his reservations, so he clicks on the profile. It is only after a lengthy internal debate with his common sense that he clicks accept. He receives his first message from Pran the next day.
Pat realizes through their time difference that Pran must still live in Bangkok.
‘Pat? Is this still you?’ his message says.
Pat, with fingers that inexplicably tremble, types a reply on his phone: ‘still me’.
It’s been ten years, Pat thinks. If it’s not okay now, when will it ever be? So, he follows it up with ‘how are you?’
Pat settles onto his couch, the back of his head on one armrest while his tired feet rest on the other. He takes a blanket and buries himself under it.
‘I’m okay. How about you?’
Pat’s heart thumps against his chest as he types out his next reply. They go back and forth like that for weeks.
And then, it’s a call.
Pat nervously paces all over his small cabin, his socks slipping and sliding over the buffed floorboards. He runs his hands through his hair, distressed, fingers pressing against his eyes as he grits his teeth. I shouldn’t have said yes. I shouldn’t have said yes I’m so -
His phone rings; the sound almost makes him jump out of his skin. With a desperate prayer up to whoever exists upstairs, he answers the call.
There’s a brief lag. And then: “Pat?”
Pat lowers himself in front of his fireplace, the warmth an unequivocal comfort. His thumb worries the hem of his shirt. “Hi, Pran.”
A brief pause fills the line, only to be broken by a soft chuckle. “It’s nice to hear your voice again.”
Pat watches the embers glow, a small smile occupying the corners of his mouth. It surprises Pat, the ease he feels. “You too.”
And then, before Pat knew it, it was a video chat.
Pat must have run his fingers through his hair ten times in the last thirty seconds. “Do I look old?”
Pran pitches his chin onto his folded knee. It’s funny how even in their thirties Pran has not outgrown the habit. There are things even the years cannot claim. “I was gonna say mature.”
Pat makes a face. “Somehow that sounds worse.”
Pran chuckles again, shaking his head. “Can’t believe how long your hair is now.”
The comment makes Pat fiddle with a stray lock again. He pulls it over his nose, the ends almost touching his upper lip. “You like it?”
Pran smiles, his head cocking to his side. “I like it.”
Pat’s tongue darts over his lip. He wills a response, but all that comes out is a bubbling in his chest that reeks of years-old apprehension.
“I can’t believe you’re making log cabins,” Pran teases, “And with your bare hands.” Pat doesn’t, but Pran is known to embellish. He has always been the better conversationalist of them both. For that, Pat is thankful.
“And you’re still one of the country’s best actors. I saw the trailer for your new movie.”
Even the pixelated screen couldn’t hide the redness that painted Pran’s cheeks. “That little thing?” He waves Pat’s compliment away. “And I’m only the best because you’re not here to take the spot.”
Pat smiles at the thought. “Past life. Not me anymore.”
Pran nods in response, slow and careful. He worries the inside of his lip with his teeth. It’s unbelievable how clearly Pat could still read the ins and outs of Pran despite the ten years that have elapsed.
“At least I get to use my degree here,” Pat says, filling the void, “I’m an Engineer, after all.”
Pran sighs. “The part of my brain that knows architecture is disintegrating as we speak.”
“Come here, then,” Pat suggests. He doesn’t know if he means it to the fullest extent, but it feels right the moment the words alight from his tongue. He continues.
“The company I work for is looking for new designs for the upcoming summer cabin season. A real estate mogul in the city acquired a bunch of land on the island they want to develop.”
Pran pauses for a moment, rolling something invisible between the pads of his fingers. “We’ll see. I got a movie lined up soon.”
“Oh,” Pat says, “For sure.” He ignores the inexplicably strong tug of disappointment in his chest.
“Gotta go,” Pran says as he pushes against his desk, rolling his computer chair back, “Busy day.”
Pat nods. “Okay. Have fun at work.”
Pran chuckles. “I’ll try. You too. Wear a helmet or something.
Pat laughs. “Sure.”
“Bye, Pat.”
“Bye, Pran.”
The video chat disconnects. Pat sees his barely-there reflection on the screen of his phone; it’s odd seeing him so unquestionably happy. He walks up to his side table and finally charges his phone.
Pat doesn’t realize how much a three-hour video call eats away at your battery.
“Pat lives there?”
Pran clicks through the images of Port Renfrew. It’s beautiful in a quiet, nondescript way, bordered by sand beaches that meet the waves of the Pacific and giant Douglas Fir forests that people travel long distances to see. The water looks cold. Pran imagines Pat’s little log cabin at the edge of a creek, hidden by the pine trees that border his property.
“And he builds cabins.” Ink now hovers over his shoulder.
“He’s the head engineer of a construction company,” Pran corrects.
Ink points at a photo of a beach. “Click there.” Pran does. Ink exhales. “Wow.”
Pran worries something invisible between his pointer finger and thumb. “He invited me to come visit.”
Ink looks at him. “Did he mean it?”
Pran shrugs as he leans back onto his chair. “Maybe.”
“How do you even get to this place?”
“A ferry from the city to the nearest port. Then a three-hour drive.” Pat taps his finger on his desk. “And that’s after a twelve-hour plane ride.”
Ink leans against the edge of Pran’s desk. “Why do you want to go?”
“I didn’t say I want to.”
“Pran,” Ink says again, “Why do you want to go?”
Pran falls silent, his mouth suddenly parched. “I’m not sure,” he finally answers.
Ink gazes at him with pain in her eyes. She presses a hand onto Pran’s shoulder, her tone soft and advisory when she speaks.
“Remember not to be selfish.”
“How’d you end up where you are now?”
Pran isn’t half a body sitting on the chair anymore. This time, he is a chest and a face, his chin pressed against his sternum as he balances his laptop on his belly. Pat wants to laugh at how ridiculous he looks all contorted that way; instead, he wraps his blanket tighter around his shoulders and over his knees. He hides the beginnings of a grin behind the fabric.
“I have family in the city. I asked myself what did I know other than acting? It was only ever Engineering. So, I took the bridging program and got my license to practice here. Just so happens the job I found took me to Port Renfrew.”
“It looks beautiful where you live.”
“It’s so nice,” Pat says, “Quiet. Everybody knows everybody. It’s a small town.”
A slow grin grows on Pran’s lips. “Do your neighbors know you were once Thailand’s most promising actor?”
Pat gawks at the title, laughing. “Most promising? That’s too much, and this is coming from someone who thinks too highly of himself on most days.”
“Shush,” Pran scolds with a smirk, “Take the compliment. You were good.”
Pat shrugs, hiding the preening smile he knows is on his lips. “If you insist.”
“That movie you made with Apichatpong Weerasethakul,” Pran exclaims, “A Century of Sadness. Holy shit.”
“Dream role,” Pat agrees.
“Your face was on a screen at Cannes, Pat.”
Pat rests his chin on his knees, grinning. “Now I’m a small-town boy.”
“How does it feel?” Pran asks, his voice hoarse from sleepiness, “People not knowing who you are?”
“Good,” Pat admits, “And bad.”
Pran cocks his head curiously.
“The first time I walked down the street without getting mobbed, I think I cried a little,” Pat laughs. “That weight that we’ve carried since we were fifteen - gone, in a blink of an eye.” His eyes flutter in remembrance. “But novelty fades, you know. And then you realize the extent of how lonely you could truly, possibly be.”
Pran’s eyes, expressive as they always have been, glaze with something undefined.
Pat wiggles his toes inside his socks. “You get to thinking. A lot. What happens to me now? Am I worth something, just me, or was I ever just worth the things I produce? Did I just make the biggest mistake of my life?”
“Wow,” Pran exhales. He blinks up to the ceiling. Pat straightens slowly, jaw falling slack.
“Are you crying?”
“No,” Pran mumbles, “Just stuffed up.”
Pat shakes his head. “You’re such a liar.”
“You must’ve been so sad.”
“I was,” Pat admits. He gathers his knees closer to his chest. “Immigrating is weird. You leave everything to gain something. But the problem is exactly that; you’ve left everything. I used to wait in bus stops at ungodly hours. I know some people who wipe down tables with one hand and hold doctorates with the other.” He chuckles at a memory coming to mind. “For the first time after months of riding the same line, I finally work up the courage to talk to the person sitting next to me on the bus - only to find out he didn't understand any of the mispronounced English that came out of my mouth.” He shrugs fondly despite it all. “You learn to live with it, you know. The loneliness and the embarrassment.”
Pran wicks the wetness that grows in the corners of his eyes. “Shit. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Pat smiles, moving closer to his phone screen. “I’m fine now. I’m happy.”
“You got friends?”
“A best friend. Known him for seven years.”
“I’m jealous of you.”
Pat knows the answer but asks anyway. “How come?”
Pran straightens, his legs crossed underneath him. He lays his laptop on the bed, his elbows pitched upon his knees. “You went through all that but look at you now. You’re the happiest you’ve ever been.”
“You’re not?”
Pran laughs hoarsely. “You’d be surprised how lonely you could be in a room full of people.” He sniffs again, leaning back onto his headboard as he cradles a pillow in his arms. “I want to experience it at least once. Be the most inconsequential person walking down the street.”
“Come here, then,” Pat says again. He means it even more this time.
Pran’s head lolls to the side as he gazes down at Pat through the screen.
“Maybe.”
Ink slings her bag over her shoulder. “Ready?”
Pran hides under a baseball cap and slips on a large pair of sunglasses. He tries to shrink behind his jacket as much as possible. He could already see the continuous flash of bright lights through the door of the hotel. Even in by the elevator hallway, Pran can hear the incessant noise of the crowd that he knows wraps around the hotel entrance. Two towering men flank him and Ink on either side. Apprehension runs a bare finger down Pran’s spine.
“Is there really no other way out?”
Ink looks at him apologetically. “They want photos of you coming out of the front doors.”
“And Sun?”
“Thirty minutes later.”
“You made sure she has security detail with her?”
Ink nods. “Of course.”
Pran huffs an irate exhale, frowning at his phone as he swipes up to check for any messages. Nothing yet. “This is bullshit. Can’t promote a movie the normal way anymore.”
“You know how it works.” Ink shrugs gently, sympathetic to Pran’s frustrations. “Sex sells, as they say. Even rumored ones.”
“Are there lots out there?”
“All around the block.” Ink turns to Pran, her reassuring touch against his tense shoulders. “We got enough security, okay? I got you.”
The question comes out of Pran with velocity that he does not expect. It’s the wrong place and the wrong time but it escapes him anyway, a runaway fugitive. “How long do you think I have left in me?” he asks, his voice hollow, “How much more of this can I take?”
“Oh, Pran,” Ink murmurs, “You’re supposed to let me know, not the other way around.” Pran doesn’t think he can handle the empathy that he finds in Ink’s eyes. It cuts through like a knife’s edge of kindness, a gun made of caring. Pran doesn’t understand how something so gentle could hurt so well.
Pran blinks up at the ceiling of the hotel in which they stand. He forces air in and out of his nose and it feels tight as if he can’t get a big enough breath through his lungs. He looks at his phone one last time. Nothing yet.
“Let’s just go.”
“So, this friend of yours, is he super famous?” Korn asks mid-chew. He takes another bite of the apple he steals from Pat’s basket of fruit.
Pat swiftly scrubs his towel over his wet hair. “I dunno, what’s your definition of super famous?”
Korn shrugs. “Does paparazzi follow him around?”
“Depends where he is,” Pat says, hurriedly hanging his damp towel on the back of his door. He speeds past Korn who’s sitting cross-legged on his bed and searches through his closet. He holds two of his best shirts out for Korn to see. “What do you think?”
“Show up shirtless,” Korn suggests, “If I had your body that’s what I would do.”
“You’re no help,” Pat complains. He throws on his favorite black long-sleeved knit over his head. Black shirt matches black pants, Pat thinks. Easy peasy.
“You’re so nervous.”
Pat cringes. “That obvious?”
Korn takes another bite of his apple and mumbles around the mouthful, “You must like this guy a lot.”
Pat puts his socks on as quickly as he can. “He was very important to me.”
Korn’s thick brow bumps to his hairline. “Was?”
“It was a long time ago.” Pat straightens, making his way to the living room.
“So, what then?” Korn calls as he pads leisurely out of Pat’s bedroom, “You guys will reminisce the whole week?”
“Are you ever gonna run out of questions?” Pat asks as shrugs on his puffer jacket. He laces his boots and grabs the keys to his truck.
“Nope,” Korn quips, popping the ‘p’ playfully.
“You’re ridiculous,” Pat points out as he holds the door open. “Now get out.”
Korn raises his hands in the air. “You better introduce me to this man before he leaves.”
“We’ll see.”
“Give me a name, at least!” Korn demands as he slips into his shoes, “Lemme Google him.”
“Fine,” Pat finally acquiesces, “Parakul Siridechawat.”
Pat is on the ferry on the way to the city when he receives Korn’s message.
You fucker! This guy is my mom’s favorite movie star! You dated an A-lister! Get my mom an autograph or she will never welcome you in her home again!
.. Wait, were YOU an A-lister?
Pat snickers.
ask your mom
Pat slips his phone back into his pocket and pulls his puffer jacket tighter around himself. The ocean wind is specifically cold today as he stands on the deck of the ferry.
Pat hopes Pran bought a thick enough jacket.
“I don’t know why you’re making it so difficult for yourself.”
Pran rolls his eyes. His fingers skate over the lip of his drink. “Wai.”
The man behind the bar, Wai, looks at Pran pointedly, his hands busy wiping down the counter with a cloth. “He invited you. Twice. He even said you could stay in his place. He even told you his vacation days.”
Pran shakes his head. “You don’t get it.” He takes another burning sip of whiskey, one he feels snake from his throat down to the center of his belly. He hears a murmur from somewhere behind him, one he chooses to ignore. ‘Is that Parakul? The actor?’ He drags his nail across the glass surface of his drink, his nail bed blanching with the pressure.
Wai hangs the damp cloth over the sink ledge. “What’s actually stopping you from going?”
“I got work.”
“That’s next month.”
“Mae’s sixtieth birthday.”
“You’d be back by then.”
“The business.”
“I can manage this bar on my own while you’re gone. You got any more excuses?”
Pran scowls. “Get off my back.”
Wai chuckles, shelving the loose bottles of alcohol that sit around his work area. “If you’re scared, just admit it. It’ll feel better.”
Pran blinks down at his glass, his brow furrowed with worry. His fingernail taps a slow beat onto the smooth surface. “Why would he want to see me?”
Wai leans forward, palms pitched upon the counter. “Why did you send him a message after all these years?”
Pran’s gaze flickers up to meet Wai’s; he takes another sip of his drink, one he winces through as it coats his insides with fire. “You and Ink need to sync yourselves together.” Wai looks at Pran curiously. “She gave me the total opposite advice.”
“Don’t listen to Ink,” Wai says with finality, “Listen to me. Do it.” He takes Pran’s half-finished drink because he knows Pran and Pran doesn’t really drink whiskey. Pran figures that’s how Wai knew something was wrong. “It’d be nice for you not to regret something for once in your life.”
Pran rubs his stomach, wincing. “Harsh.”
Wai snickers. “But true.”
The last of their patrons slink towards the exit and Pran doesn’t miss the hopeful glances they toss his way. He turns away from their probing gaze, the muscles in his shoulders tensing protectively. Wai sees this and immediately waves a hand at the customers, giving them a loud and pointed drive home safe!
The door swings open, tinkles, and slams closed.
“They’re gone.” Wai says.
Pran passes a hand over his eyes, closing them in exhaustion. “Thanks.”
“So?” Wai asks again as he slides a glass of water toward Pran’s direction, “You going?”
Pran gratefully downs its contents.
“We’ll see.”
“Do you miss your life here at all?”
Pat shifts his head against his pillow, the sound of his hair rustling against the fabric loud in his ear. His phone screen casts a bluish-white glow against his face. “I miss the food.”
Pran, still halfway between asleep and awake, chuckles low. He buries himself under his blanket and Pat knows the AC is at full blast just the way Pran usually likes it. “No good pad kra pao over there?”
“Korn’s mom makes a good one,” Pat says, “Slightly different ingredients though.” He blinks in remembrance. “Hey. You used to make really pad kra pao.”
“Used to?” Pran bemoans, “I still do.”
Pat grins. “You might just have to prove it.”
“Is that another official invitation to come visit?” Pran asks, a dimple notching on his cheek as he burrows deeper into his blanket.
“Your third one now,” Pat complains, “You just won’t bite.”
“Tempting bait,” Pran laughs, “But I’m grown. I won’t travel over twenty-four hours for someone unless I know what I’m doing it for.”
Pat shrugs easily. “I miss you.”
There’s a pause at the other end of the line.
“Don’t worry,” Pat assures, “It’s all pretty platonic.”
Pran’s eyelids flutter languidly, the press of his lips together betraying his hesitation. He finally asks, “That’s why you messaged me back that day?”
Pat nods. “Because I wanted to talk to you.” He could see Pran’s fingers fidget under his blanket.
“Even after everything?”
“Pran,” Pat murmurs, “We broke up when we were twenty-three-year-old kids. At the turning point of our careers. It’s all so long ago, and now, we’re different people.” He watches his reflection flicker in Pran’s eyes. “We get to be fine now if you’d let us.”
Pran shifts his head against his pillow again. “You’ve always said whatever is on your mind.” he says, “You should teach me how to do that.”
A stagehand peeks through the dressing room door. “Ten minutes.”
“Okay,” Ink responds as the stagehand stands in the hallway. In his peripheral vision, Pran can see the stage hand waiting, a clipboard clasped in one arm as she speaks into her headset.
Pran takes a staggering breath in and pushes it out. His make-up artist, Prew, pauses his work, his brush hovering over the swell of Pran’s lip in accommodation of Pran’s rituals. Pran apologizes as Tam, his hair stylist, runs a light hand over the wave of hair across his knitted brow.
Pran’s hand closes upon his phone.
“You ready?” Ink asks.
Pran nods curtly. “Yeah.” He rises from the makeup chair once his team finishes with last-minute retouches. He quickly glances at his phone.
If Ink has her suspicions, she doesn’t say anything. Her sharp eyes flicker over Pran’s clothes, fingers ironing out the slightest imperfections with quick, smooth motions. “Do you want me to hold onto that?” she finally asks.
Pran allows himself one last check of the screen. Nothing. “Yeah.” he croaks. He swallows the spit that coalesces in his throat as he passes Ink his phone.
“It’s probably best if he doesn’t call right now,” Ink murmurs as she pockets the device, “You are going on stage in..” She looks at the stage hand.
“Seven minutes,” The stagehand supplies, “We gotta go.”
Pran nods and before he knows it he is out the door and moving fast. The concrete underbelly of the amphitheater is filled with the crisp sound of Pran’s shoes clacking against the floor as he, Ink, their stage hand, and the rest of his team speed walk through the hallway. The bright, fluorescent lighting of the basement is swallowed by the darkness of the theater as they reach the landing of a staircase that brings them squarely offstage. Pran looks out at an audience comprised of industry members who, in one way or another, have been responsible for his career trajectory.
Something acidic claws up Pran’s throat.
Ink reminds him, “You’re just presenting an award. You’ve stood in front of a crowd countless times.”
“Four minutes,” another stagehand manning offstage says.
Apprehension runs a bare finger down Pran’s spine as he forces his breathing to slow down and stretch across several beats. His heart is punching through his chest, his palms cold and clammy, and Pran knows it too well - he is caught in the undertow of an anxiety attack that started way before he even stepped into the building.
It still happens once in a while. Pran has never been immune to it despite his fame; one can argue it has been its ultimate culprit.
He feels his chest tighten, his palm coming up to press upon it.
“Pran,” Ink says, hand on his shoulder.
“I’m fine,” Pran mutters, brow knitted in frustration, “Just - I need a second.” He swerves past someone in the dark, pitching a hand against the wall as he stumbles through a small hallway past the throng of people mumbling under their breaths, no doubt talking about him. He walks and walks until he feels his knees wobble and hit the ground with a heavy thud. It’s cold even as he’s drenched with sweat, and it’s dark even when his eyes are wide with panic. His heart thrashes within the cradle of his lungs with so much force a gasp escapes his gritted teeth - and then, he feels something being pressed against his ear.
“Pran?”
Pran squeezes his eyes shut, lost for a moment. “What..?”
“Pran, you gotta breathe.”
The sound in Pran’s ear is what he would imagine the wind at Port Renfrew would feel like. Pat has described it to Pran so beautifully; cool, gentle, and smells of the ocean. Pran could see long stems of washed up seaweed catching his shoes as he walked along the beach. He would spend an eternity brushing sand from his body.
“That’s it. Nice deep breaths. I got you.”
“Pat?” Pran croaks as if he doesn’t know the voice down to the way he pronounces his ‘t’s, as if it’s not the sound he falls asleep to at the end of a long day.
“Is this what becomes of you after one day of not talking to me? It’s a bit embarrassing.”
Pran shakes his head as he manages to chuckle hoarsely, “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Oh, I think I will.”
Pran could almost hear the smile on Pat’s mouth and it makes him laugh out loud. He feels the coolness of the air as he bobs above the water’s surface, finally beyond the undertow’s reach. Sheer relief buoys him. He feels like laughing and crying in equal measures, nerves raw and singed from so much adrenalin.
“I think you gotta go work, Pran.”
“I know,” Pran mumbles as he pushes himself up. He feels Ink’s familiar touch on his arms. They start walking.
“You want me to hang up?”
“No,” Pran says, a bit too sharp for his liking, something he will have to apologize for on their next call. He finds himself back offstage. “Keep talking.” He straightens, fighting the reflexive hunch of his shoulders as he feels the sharp pricks of the many eyes that follow his every move.
“I saw a bear on my way to work. Does that help?”
Pran swallows the laugh that bubbles in his chest. “What do you think?” He closes his eyes so Prew can dab the sweat from his eyelids and Tam can fix the clumped pieces of hair across his brow. Ink blasts him with a handheld fan. They all move in a coordinated effort that rivals a special ops team.
The stagehand catches Pran’s attention. “You’re on in five, four,”
“We’ve switched categories to accommodate the delay,” Ink says as she hurriedly cleans the knees of Pran’s slacks, “You’re presenting best screenplay now. Just read the prompter. It’s Thitichaya Dhanyaphasit in the envelope okay? Do not get the winner wrong, please.”
“What do you want to hear to make you feel better?”
There’s a pause on the line.
Pran focuses his gaze on the stage. “What do you want to say?”
“Three, two,”
Through the small speaker of Pran’s phone, with his voice tinny, Pat says, “Come see me,”
“One.”
The voice of the award show announcer booms over the amphitheater. Presenting The Bangkok Critics Assembly Awards for Best Screenplay, please welcome Parakul Siridechawat!
Pran, with a brilliant smile on his lips, steps into the light.
Pran walks offstage. Ink awaits him.
“Well?” he asks nervously. He didn’t trip on his lines nor did he say the wrong name. Staff offstage were congratulatory as he made his exit. He wants to know what Ink, his most trusted, closest friend and manager, has to say.
But when Ink opens her mouth to answer, it isn’t about his presentation or his panic attack that almost derailed the program. In her hand is Pran’s phone, the screen lit up with small flashes of Pat’s messages.
‘you can do it’
‘i know you’ll get through it no problem’
‘we’ve had our fair share of award show mishaps, haven’t we’
‘can’t wait to hear all about it’
“You should go see him,” she says with finality.
“Yeah?” Pran asks. He swallows the lump in his throat.
Ink nods. “Yeah.”
When Pat answers Pran’s call that night, he’s barely awake. “How’d it go?” he yawns, blinking sleep away.
“It went okay,” Pran answers. His fingers close upon his toothbrush, the pads pressing upon the handle nervously. “See you in two weeks?”
It takes a few moments for Pat to realize what Pran means. An excited smile grows on his lips.
“Okay,” Pat says, his voice hoarse the way the early mornings always make it so, “See you in two weeks.”
Pat puts his truck in park. He pulls out his phone and types out a text.
i’m here
A few beats pass. Then, his phone dings.
Coming.
Pran breathes in, holds it, and breathes out. He closes his eyes for a moment. He listens to the steady ‘ding’ of the elevator as it descends through the floors of the hotel; sixteen, fifteen, fourteen.
His fingers tighten around the handle of his luggage. It’s too big, he knows, and Pat’s going to make fun of him for it. Pran is a chronic overpacker and Pat essentially lives in the wilderness. Who knows what kind of microclimate Pran’s going to encounter there? Who knows what new allergen can trigger his hyperactive immune system?
Thirteen, twelve, eleven,
Pran thought time to be sluggish when he was in the thick of his twelve-hour transatlantic flight, but now that he’s minutes away from Pat, he thinks it too quick.
It’s been ten years.
Ten, nine, eight,
At twenty-three years old, Pran remembers loving Pat so much it broke him in half. At twenty-three years old, Pran remembers being loved by Pat just as much. They knew absolutely nothing and everything in equal measures. They’ve done to each other things that only time and perspective could mend.
Seven, six,
In these ten days, what does Pran want? What does Pat stand to gain from enfolding Pran back into his life aside from a companionship that will have to prove itself against geography and time zones?
Five, four,
What will Pat feel seeing Pran in person? Will he change his mind? Will it be too much? Will he tell Pran to go home and forget the past few months ever happened? Pran, in his dejection, wonders how much a last-minute ticket back home would cost.
Three,
It's funny. For even in Pran’s wild ideas of imaginary rejections and self-sabotaging assumptions, a solitary, sobering thought rises to the surface of his mind, oil to water.
Two,
He just really, simply wants to see Pat.
Ground.
The elevator doors open.
Pran steps out. Pat sits on a chair by the concierge desk, patiently waiting, knee bouncing beneath the palm of his hand. Their eyes lock together with a satisfying click only Pran can hear in his head, and when it does, Pat stands up and starts walking. Pran matches his pace.
Pran doesn’t quite know when in this split-second of a moment they start picking up speed. Pat’s swerving past guests, almost tripping on his own two feet as Pran just about breaks into a run, his suitcase dragging noisily behind him. Pat looks just like the small collection of pixels on his computer screen but now he’s real, real in a way that Pran can touch him and his color won’t shift under the pressure of his finger. Pat is oddly different yet completely the same, a few steps away yet still so unfathomably far and Pran thinks maybe if he reaches out -
Pat is warm as he presses against Pran’s chest. He smells like the ocean air he promised Pran he’d love the moment Pran experiences it. Pran, just as Pat does, buries his nose into his shoulder as his palms gently skate across the smooth back of Pat’s jacket.
“You took so long I had to find a spot to park,” Pat says.
Pran blinks in realization. “Sorry.”
Pat looks behind him. “Your suitcase is ridiculously big.”
“I know.” Pran warns, “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I can’t not.”
Pran laughs. He smacks Pat’s shoulder. “Asshole.” He could feel Pat’s grin against his shirt.
“I’m glad to see you too.”
Finally, they let go. Pat’s smile doesn’t let up when he looks at Pran again. “Ready?” he asks.
Pran’s cheeks hurt. “As I’ll ever be.”
They walk out the hotel doors together.