On Fear

Edan is no stranger to fear.

He’d been a mere three years old when he’d made first contact with the earliest root of his distress. His mother had lifted him to sit at the picnic table, terracotta paint chipping with age and with the scorching sun that so often spans over country parks.

Would you like a marshmallow?

As children do when presented with sweets, he’d nodded with wonder-like enthusiasm. The pillowy cloud of sugar is springy between his near-full set of teeth, squishy and slightly sticky in his tiny fingers. The confectioner’s sugar dusts his grin a snowy white, much to his mother’s disdain.

Look at you! You’ve got it all over your face. Hold still, I’m going to wipe your mouth.

The rest of the treat is gone with several more bites, and as the grown-ups bustle around him to dispose of paper cups and barbecue nets into large black bags, he’s left to entertain himself with not much more than the knot in his shoelace.

When the fuzzy yellow creature lands on his knee, he stares. No larger than his fingertip, he becomes entranced with the microscopic movement of tiny feelers and the gentle flutter of translucent wings. An aunt had once remarked how he had beady eyes like that of a bumblebee, to which he’d giggled in delight. 

Hello, friend.

As if it understands, its hairs stand on end, eyes shifting to meet his in greeting. He smiles, reaching with his forefinger to pet his new friend by its golden fur, as he often does with the neighbour’s labrador puppy. 

The pain is sharp, and where there’d previously been syrupy sweetness, there now emits a wail so loud that it sends birds scattering from the nearby trees, alerting the grownups to his cry of alarm.

What’s wrong? What happened?!

Whatever coherency that may have otherwise been formed from his words are garbled and drowned in his cries, then soothed by his mother’s shushing as she carefully removes the shell of the needle that the perpetrator had left behind.

It’s okay, baby. You’re okay. Let me see.

On his skin, it appears as a tiny red pinprick like the target of a laser pointer, highlighted only by the mild swelling of the surrounding skin. How could something so small, one that creates the sweetness on his morning toast, cause such overwhelming pain? 

The entire ride back to the city is endured with an icy soda can held to his knee, the wound swelling to match his earlier snack but the pain somewhat subsiding to a dull ache.

It’s on this day that Edan learns to be cautious.

On his tenth birthday, his classmates gather at the gates of an amusement park that he’d been to several times before, although he’d never been tall enough to attempt any rides beyond those for which his baby sister could reach the height requirements.

Without his family in tow and the egging on of his fellow fools, he stands in front of the gaping mouth of the swinging pendulum ride he’d only experienced from the sidelines and on the TV in commercials. A group of sprightly young adolescents with exhilarated grins whooshing past the screen come to mind, and Edan is utterly bewitched.

What a rush, it would seem, to have the wind whipping through his hair and to see the vast ocean and emerald hills from a view otherwise only witnessed by birds! 

Whoever pukes is buying everyone ice cream!

He announces this with a loud bravado that he isn’t sure his friends are entirely convinced by, and makes quick strides towards the growing line. 

As his feet dangle off the side of the seat and the bar pulls down over his head to secure him in place, his heartbeat accelerates beyond the resounding tuba bass line from the carousel some distance away. The ground disappears from beneath him and with the blink of an eye, his entire being is whipped in an entirely different direction, 













nor shelter

only nausea and 

disarrangement of 

sight and sound.

His screams fall deaf on his own ears and with his eyes screwed shut, it doesn’t even occur to him that the swinging has ceased until one of his friends shakes his shoulders, patting his wet face as the bar releases over him.

He falls forward, crouching and rolling onto his side to make home on the solid ground. When he eventually finds his footing and, his first instinct has him staggering directly towards a nearby trash can.

A concerned hand soothes over his back as he heaves repeatedly over the open receptacle.

Ten times, one for every year.

The following week, his teacher poses the class a question: If you were as free as a bird, where would you fly to?

Birds are not free, he writes. They are snatched to wherever the wind takes them. 

At the budding age of fourteen, he falls again, this time head over heels for the girl his class teacher has indignantly assigned to be his deskmate that month. 

She laughs at his jokes, so openly that her nose crinkles with unabashed glee. She teases him for his chicken scratch handwriting, and lends him her nice gel pens that she keeps in twenty-four colours. She makes mindless chatter with him with fingers tugging at the long straps of her pastel-pink backpack and flips her hair over her shoulder as she complains about the late bus. She grasps at his arm as she feign tripping over her feet in the corridor, then laughs at her own supposedly clumsiness. She pushes the sleeves of his sweater up her slender wrists to pour cola into a plastic cup, one of many scattered across the desks, shoved together for the Christmas party.

She’s beautiful, he thinks, and he’d like to pen her smile into his days.

And when the entire student body gathers in the hall for that year’s selection of festive performances, he clears his throat into the microphone at the piano, finding her eyes in the crowd before pressing into a melody he’d practised a hundred times over.

This is for you.

Their peers are lively with teasing hollers and cheers after his very public display, but Edan finds her expression vacant disconcerted as he steps down from the stage. 

When the bell rings, he clutches at her sleeve at the school gate, for once quiet with hesitation.

He’d kept the festive card in his backpack all morning, eager to find the perfect time to pass on his sentiments. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d developed a fondness for the opposite sex, nor is he unfamiliar with boastfully changing his relationship status for others to gush over, but certainly the first time he decides he’ll act on his affections.

It’s a long minute that he spends waiting. Every scan of her eyes across his haphazard penmanship fills him with unprecedented restlessness, his heart lifting with the upward turn of her lips, then plummeting with every crease of her brow.

Her response comes in the form of the thick paper being pressed back into his own hands along with his loaned sweater. 

You’re nice, she says with a smirk. But I think you’ve misunderstood.

And with that, he watches her back fade down the street and into what he presumes will be a carefree holiday season for her. 

When he reaches home and drops his backpack wearily onto the living room floor, his phone buzzes urgently in his pocket.

Have you seen her post yet?!

dude…what happened

wtf man pick up your phone

Are you coming home for dinner?

are u ok :(((

Not having spoken to anyone else since leaving the school, it takes a few moments to process before he finally opens his news feed, where her profile picture now mocks his confession.

Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and to remove all doubt. Seriously? Do you have no shame?

On the first day back, he begs his class teacher to move his seat, and doesn’t speak a single word to his new deskmate. 

I’ve had a premonition, his father bursts into his room one evening. You’re not going to Korea this summer.

Pulling his headphones down onto his shoulders, he listens to his old man’s frankly absurd, foreboding tale of a supposed plane crash that awaits him if he dares go on the exchange trip he’d signed up for with his classmates. 

Dad, that’s nonsense. I’m not going to die in a plane crash.

If you go, I’m not paying a cent for your living expenses.

There’s warning in his tone, and Edan’s penchant for mischief dies on his lips. In his years of poking the bear of his parents’ strict regimen for his academic pursuits, he’s found that it’s easier to comply than to bicker, and if there’s anything he despises more than going against his own desires, it’s disappointing those around him. 

Okay. I won’t go.

Instead, he finds himself among ninety-nine other young men in a packed auditorium, the number 63 printed on a tag pinned to his sweater, familiar lyrics running amuck through his head and a practised dance twitching in his fingers.

Out of habit, he bounces his knee repeatedly in a fidget of nerves, accidentally bumping into the contestant next to him. He apologises, then smiles.

He’s seen him before. 

The last time Edan had encountered him, the boy had been dressed a baggy white shirt and cream basketball shorts to match, hair bleached a brassy platinum and eyebrows tinged a bold, dark brown. 

He’d recognise the handsome dancer anywhere, having been captivated into watching him for almost a full half hour through the slotted window of the practice room door upon visiting a friend’s hall to borrow lecture notes. 

You’re from City, right? I’ve seen you dance before. You’re brilliant!

Even through the thickly applied layer of makeup, the boy can’t mask his blush that forms with the pleased grin on his face.

N-not anymore. But thanks. 

I’m Edan. 

He extends a hand out, which the other boy shakes with amusement.


I think you’ll smash your performance, Anson.

Not that Edan had ever had trouble making friends, but especially in recent years, he’s lingered on the side of vigilance in making the first move. And yet, with no apparent reason, he finds himself spilling over his precursory boundaries in a rush that’s fuelled by either the high tension of the room or a need to disperse his mind’s disquiet.

I hope to see you around, Edan.

They’re placed into opposing teams, although one would never know from the way they fall so easily into extensive conversation on lunch breaks and fall asleep on each other’s shoulders on the train after long days spent in rehearsals. 

The summer blurs past with the scorching heat, and with every passing week, the once-full auditorium is trimmed down by the dozens. He almost feels like an imposter, having made it through every round by a crosshair. Until, that is, he finds himself in the elimination zone, heart in his throat as once again, he makes it through by whatever saving grace the heavens had blessed him with.

You had all of us on the edge of our seats just now, Jer tells him as they pack up for the evening. I saw him crying in the green room earlier.

Edan’s shirt sleeve has bore witness to many a tear shed from Anson, but never over himself. The knowledge creates a sickening twist in the pit of his stomach and a bitter taste in his mouth that will persist for weeks before he forgives him. He decides that he’d rather be stung by a thousand bees than make him cry again.

Don’t be silly, he says when he finds the boy later, eyes still puffy from the night’s events. You won’t be on this journey without me.

They’re in the taxi home from a full day of shooting, and Edan’s eyes are sore from wearing contacts all day, but still, he dims the brightness on his screen to reconnect with the day’s bygones.

The cold of January has them bundled up in cosy layers, although Anson isn’t dressed too differently than usual. And in their state of post-adrenaline, he’s fallen asleep against Edan’s chest, caring little about his hair being mussed under his cap at the end of the day and more concerned with making home in his favourite napping spot. He smells like a warm, syrupy glaze, a scent that over time, has brought comfort to Edan’s days. 

He can certainly go without leaving a comment under the boy’s latest post, although out of habit and perhaps to leave a virtual memento, he still does, but not without scrolling through others first. After all, what use is making his mark if someone else has already beat him to the punch? 

There’s nothing out of the ordinary in his findings; the usual strings of hearts and smiley faces, mixed in with the occasional frisky remark that seems to come with the territory of being attractive in the public eye. 

Except one, and his freezing thumbs tense over the screen as he reads. How much bitterness does a person amass to dedicate time towards forming such absurd speculations about a complete stranger? How much could this faceless coward possibly even know? 

Surely not more than Edan himself, and with news surfacing with misinformed variations of matters Anson would rather put to rest, Edan braves confrontation in the name of loyalty. 

Just stop it man 😂 everyone can buy followers for him, wt u are doing now is meaningless

The not-so-funny thing about the Internet, though, is that everything is forever, and with the immediate thousands of likes from fans that build up in his favour, he suddenly recalls why he avoids conflict. He doesn’t dare move, lest he wake the boy on his shoulder from what might otherwise be peaceful rest.

Yes, you are right, everyone can buy followers and likes for him, why he don’t delete the fake followers after he knew? because nearly 1/4 of followers are fake? What he did is only blocked a few fans who found it and reminded him it will be discovered by others via dm, we are so disappointed what he did!

The response comes just as the taxi pulls up to their destination, and Edan shoves his phone into his jeans both to regulate his erratic, agitated breath and to gently tap his friend awake as he pays the driver with a crumpled bill from his coat pocket. Anson sniffs from the cold and rubs his eyes with the softness of a small child, then smirks at him briefly. 

I could’ve easily slept for several more hours like that.

You’d get a stiff neck sleeping upright. Call me when you’re home, okay?

He doesn’t, but not out of forgetfulness. Rather, in the relative silence of his childhood bedroom, Edan’s phone becomes a loudspeaker for their manager’s crazed lecture about watching his words on social media and doesn’t he know that he’s a public figure and that people will take things out of context? Doesn’t he know that he’s not a child anymore and he has the power to make or break both their careers?

Of course he does.

But when a knock comes on his dressing room door the next day, followed by an unprompted embrace and thank you whispered into his shoulder, Edan finds that once in a while, fear is but a molehill.

It’s practically a game to them now.

Ha! Wanna see us kiss?

Uh…not really.

They do it anyway, mostly for their own amusement than whatever sorry excuse they give the raised eyebrows around them. Just a short peck with a resounding smack that’s followed by a fit of giggles that Edan isn’t sure is entirely genuine anymore. 

I mean, we’ve practically made out before, and it really didn’t do anything for me, he fibs straight to the camera, although his gaze darts around the wall in front of him, plastered with a jumbled collage of polaroids, one of which bears a smile that has taken up residence in his mind without his notice.

The lie feels awkward in his mouth, and as they’re sat in a corner hunched over foam boxes and plastic spoons, Edan decides he doesn’t like lying.

Between the two of them, they share a fair number of apprehensions. There are soothing affirmations after unwanted kisses from a fish, bold defences made in the face of scathing accusations, and a wordless embrace after dark secrets are wept into a quiet room. In return, there’s a reassuring grip to his hand as he trembles under a balloon full of mealworms, a steadfast arm to clutch onto as they listen to a particularly chilling story, and subtle words of encouragement when the days stretch over fifty hours.

Edan is no stranger to his emotions.

He allows them to slide like water off a duck’s back, refusing to let them dwell beyond his threshold for panic response. But for the past three years, he’s developed an ineffable magnetism that both renders his senses haywire and simultaneously fills a gap that had escaped his notice.

Can we swap lunches? There’s spice in mine.

He nods smiles, happily trading over his plain but harmless option. 

There’d been a time when he’d actively avoided the sources of his fear Heartbreak, horror, disappointment, vertigo, and paranoia have yet to dig him a grave thus far. Bravery, he’s learned, comes in doing the things you fear the most, and being comforted in the fact that he’s not alone. 

Edan has one fear that he’s had yet to overcome, but as Anson fills his cheeks with plain rice and a quiet grin, he thinks today’s the day he’ll brave the consequences.



I need to tell you something.


Prompt by @crimsonfool on Twitter.

Arthit likes to consider himself proficient in the art of self-control. 

It’s evident in the way the way he’ll grumble at his laptop screen as he’s up late finishing another assignment, disallowing himself to indulge in the icy pink drink in his fridge until he’s finished. It reveals itself when his peers are snickering at their professor’s jiggling underarm skin as she cleans a patch of the chalkboard, and Arthit merely mashes his lips together and looks down at his notes, messy but complete. 

But the most boast-worthy example of his ability to resist temptation comes in the form of successfully dodging his boyfriend’s admittedly enticing advances before they can manifest themselves into yet another sleepless night that has both of them rubbing at sore muscles the next day. 

Because Arthit knows…if he gives in, he’ll lose himself to the feeling of warm hands against his pale skin and hot breath whispering sweet nothings in his ear, and that will be the end of his credibility as the more disciplined one, the more mature one, and he’ll hate himself for the way he can barely keep his eyes open in class the next day. 

So he shoves his hands in his pockets and turns his head when Kongpob’s eyes cloud over with a certain want, afraid that his own expression will give away his equal desire.

Now, it’s a weekend, and they’re strolling back to campus side by side, separated only by a ghost’s whisper of space between their forearms; nothing to drawn in suspicion from prying eyes, but close enough to share each other’s warmth as intimately as they can manage. 

It’d been a good evening, as many of their dates are. They’d gone to the local planetarium to look at stars, just as Arthit had promised Kongpob after they’d unfortunately missed a meteor shower. Arthit had fallen asleep on Kongpob’s shoulder under the giant dome theatre as they linked their fingers together in the dark, and Arthit had swiped blue ice cream off the corner of Kongpob’s lips with a laugh as they sat in an inconspicuous corner of the museum’s cafe. 

They’re leaving now, buzzing with the adrenaline of each other’s uncomplicated company.

And then Kongpob stumbles briefly, and Arthit snaps out of his date-happy daze to grab his elbow.

“Ah, my shoelace,” his boyfriend clicks his tongue before walking over to the side of the pavement and raises his foot onto the edge of large concrete planter to re-tie the loose cord into a tidy bow.

He takes his time, as he always does, and Arthit finds himself suddenly with his attention unoccupied and with no place to direct it…until his gaze falls on Kongpob. Or, more specifically, a part of him that sticks up and out now, that wouldn’t otherwise be so prominent to Arthit’s view when they’re walking side by side. 

Arthit blinks a few times, and gulps. He knows Kongpob is attractive, but he rarely takes a moment to admire just how so when they’re both fully clothed, and certainly not in public.

Yet here he is; mouth hanging slightly open as he traces the deliciously curved outline of his boyfriend’s glutes, snugly wrapped in fitted khaki trousers.

Date attire, Kongpob calls it.

Arthit calls it (in his head) bubble wrap.

He wonders briefly, a ghost of a smile forming on his lips, what it would be like if he could play Kongpob at his own game. Just sneak a hand out and—

“P’Arthit!” Kongpob suddenly yelps, turning around to face him, cheeks slightly reddened. “You just…”

“What? What did I do?”

Arthit treads back a few steps, blinking rapidly.

Shit. He’d managed to let his hand take on a mind of his own, and if the growing smirk on Kongpob’s face is any indication, he won’t get away with this one quite so easily.

And then his back meets the cool concrete of the exterior of the building they’d stopped outside, in the dim shadows just out of the street light’s warm glow, and mischievous thumbs come to hook themselves in his front belt loops.

“P’Arthit,” Kongpob says, in a low growl that Arthit hates for…reasons. “If you were this eager to get back to the dorm, you could’ve just said.”

“I’m—don’t be ridiculous,” he says, craning his neck as far back as possible, as if a mere inch would put him out of kissing range.

“Tell me, P’Arthit, why did you do that then?” Kongpob is so close now that Arthit can smell the peppermint he’d eaten earlier. And it’s all he can do to resist now, his eyes wandering desperately over every curve, edge, pore and freckle he can make out in the dark.

“B-bouncy,” he manages to blurt out, still dazed with the hypnosis of Kongpob’s closeness.

“Bouncy?” Kongpob chuckles with amusement, then bites his lip, leaning in to whisper hotly, “You can uh, bounce it again if you want.”

Eyes wide with realisation, Arthit swats Kongpob’s hands out of his belt loops before side-stepping out from between him and the wall.

Kongpob shakes his lead with a laugh as Arthit rubs at his reddening ears, clearly flustered. He lightly kicks at a tiny stone on the pavement, before—

“Kongpob! Are you coming or what? Hurry up, or I’m going back to my own room.”

He snaps his gaze up, taking in Arthit’s words.

A few seconds, and then he catches his boyfriend’s hidden smile, and it’s all they need to sprint back, laughing between pants for breath.

Arthit sleeps in the next day, but not before planting soothing kisses to sore muscles.

Especially the bouncy ones.

After the Beep

Warnings: Implied MCD.

Kongpob leaves Arthit some voice messages.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!

“P’Arthit, you really need to change your voicemail greeting. Anyway, I’m guessing you’re in a meeting or something. I’m just getting off work right now, and I’m about to head to the market to buy dinner. Do you want anything specific? I was thinking that maybe if you’re up for it, we could go to that noodle shop you like. The one with the really good meatballs? We haven’t been there in a while. Right, well, call or text me when you get this. Or…maybe I should’ve just texted you. But I’m an exception, right? You won’t just ignore or delete my voicemails? I’m kidding. See you later, P’Arthit. Love you!”

Message recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!

“You’re really going to give people the wrong idea about you with that message. Please let me help you record a new one. Anyhow, I’ve just finished dinner, but you’ve probably gone to bed by now. I hope you’re at least taking the time to have a little fun on this business trip! You always did say you wanted to go to Seoul, you closeted koreaboo. Don’t think I haven’t heard you singing Into The New World in the shower when you think I’m not home yet. Don’t worry; you sound great, P’Arthit. You have a nice voice. I bet the food there is great. Bring me back some snacks, please? I think I deserve a reward for having to be away from you for a whole week. Other types of rewards are always welcome, too….you’ll probably have woken up by the time you hear this, so good morning, my love. I hope you have a great day ahead. Bye, now. Love you!”

Message recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!

“I—never mind. P’Arthit you need to come home. Like, right now. There is a monster in our kitchen. It’s enormous, and hairy, and its antlers—is that what they’re called? Feelers?—ah, who cares? The creepy things on their heads! They’re like, a foot long! I can’t remember where you told me the bug spray was. In any case, I’m pretty sure that it would still survive whatever I throw at it. I read somewhere that cockroaches will outlast even humans because they adapt too easily. Why?! Who decided that we need their existence?! Never mind, just please come home ASAP! I’ve locked myself in the bathroom and stuffed the crack under the bathroom door. Do you think I should’ve turned on the exhaust first? ….Ha, you know, it feels kind of weird standing in the shower fully clothed. The last time I did that was, well, you know about that. Kidding. I love you. Oh, you’re almost out of shampoo, by the way. I’ll get you the nicer kind next time I’m at—”

Message recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!

“P’Arthit……I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You’re right. I shouldn’t still be doubting that you love me. I guess I just got insecure because M and May are now engaged, and Knot and Tob got married, and…I want that, too. I know we can’t, legally anyway. And I know it’s silly to whine all the time about something that we can’t even do. I just…I want that for us. I don’t mean a wedding or a ring, or any of the fancy parts. I want…I want to grow old with you, and share a life with you forever. I realise now how crazy it was to suggest we move to a completely foreign country just to be legally recognised, especially when we don’t speak the language….

…I love you. So much.

…I hate this couch. It’s so lumpy. But I deserve it.

…Are you asleep yet? I hope you’re not still ang—

Kongpob! Just get in here if you’re going to mutter to yourself all night.

Krub, P’Arthit!”

Message Recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!

“Phiiiiiiiii…….did you knowwww? Margheritas have…*hic*…alcohol in them. I thought it was…a pizza? Anyway…I drank a lil’ bit…hehe, okay more than a lil’ bit….oops, oh my gosh, sorry…no…no, I’m goooood, thank you…you’re fantastic. Bye! …Aaanyway, where was I?….Hehehe…Tew brought some of his work friends today, and one of ’em tried to…to hit on me! Me! I…ha…I told them that my boyfriend is the most wonderful on Earthhh. Iz truuue! I even showed ’em a picture…hehe the one where you sent me a kissy face…I love that pictuuure…..you’re soooooooo handsome. You’re extra pretty without clothes…hehe…they all agree! You shoulda come with me…so I can show you off. But iz ok…I know you’re tired after work. Did I tell you marg..marga…something. It’s not a pizza! Funny that…I looooove you. I…oh no…I need to…I…—”

Message Recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!

“Okay, I know you’re still at work, and I really hope your presentation went well. You deserve every bit of recognition you get, and no matter the outcome, I’m so proud of you. About dinner tonight, I’ve got a little surprise waiting for you. Nothing elaborate, don’t worry. But I think you’ll really like it. I’m excited; I think this is a new beginning for us. Can’t wait. See you soon. Love you!”

Message Recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!

“Hi, P’Arthit. Is everything okay? I’m…just at the restaurant. Did something happen at work? Or are you stuck in traffic? I hope you didn’t drive. You never manage to stay awake in the taxi, I don’t want to imagine you behind the wheel after work. Anyway, call or text me. I’ll be here. Love you!”

Message Recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!

“P’Arthit? I…don’t know if you got my texts. Where are you? It’s been almost an hour. Let me know what’s happening, please? Love you.”

Message Recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!

“Gah, this damn message. P’Arthit, please. The restaurant is closing. Where are you? I’m starting to get worried. Did you forget we had plans or something? …Anyway, I’m on the way home. Maybe you are, too. Please call me back…..love you.”

Message Recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!

“P’Arthit, I don’t know what happened, but I’m calling the police. Please, if you’re okay, just please…please call me or let me know in any way. I-I’m…I need to hear your voice. I just need to know you’re okay. I love you.”

Message Recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!


Message Recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!


Message Recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!


Message Recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!

“I miss you.”

Message Recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!

“I know you don’t like seeing me cry. But I can’t help it…I’m…it’s not fair. It’s not fair. I was going to—you were going to…sorry, I just…I miss you so much, P’Arthit. I wish you were here…The bed feels so empty……I love you. I always will.”

Message Recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!

“Hi, again, P’Arthit. I know I shouldn’t, but I just wanted to hear your voice. I miss bickering with you. You always stood so firmly in your opinions and I always admired you for it. Everything seems duller now. I miss you. Nothing is the same. Except that I love you.”

Message Recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!

“Mae thinks I’m silly for still paying your phone bill. She doesn’t get it. She thinks I’m willingly wallowing instead of trying to get back on track with things. I don’t know, maybe she’s right. But I can’t just forget. We were going to apply for civil partnership, P’Arthit. I don’t care what anyone says. You think I’m being childish, don’t you? Well, allow me this one, because I’m never taking my ring off, and I’m taking your gear with me to the grave….Anyway, I miss you every day. I love you.”

Message Recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!

“You have a ridiculous amount of stuff, you know? Your parents gave me full permission to do what I wanted with your belongings, including your childhood stuff. I had no idea you had this many Pokemon cards. I’m definitely keeping those, by the way. Why do you have so many books on baking? You don’t even bake. I miss your cooking. I tried to make myself breakfast the other day and set off the smoke alarm. It was a mess. The smell didn’t subside for a week! I ended up buying food in the end. Maybe I should go home for meals more often. But you always made the best omelettes. Anyway, love you.”

Message Recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!

“P’Arthit, I got a cat! I found her stuck in a drain hole on my way home yesterday. I was going to drop her off at the shelter, but then she put her paw on me when I was bathing her and that was it. I was gone for her. She doesn’t have a name yet, but I’ll figure it out soon. She’s so tiny, but she’s got a little temper. She gnaws—not hard—on my hand when I try to pet her or give her kisses. Ha, kind of like you. I hope you don’t mind, but I moved some of your comic books to the study to make room in the living room for a cat tree. I don’t think she can use it just yet; she’s too small for that, but I know she’ll love it eventually. You would’ve loved her. Say hi to P’Arthit, kitty! Anyway, I love you.”

Message Recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!

“I took the cat to the vet today. I…may have made a slight error in judgment. It’s a boy kitty, it turns out. Anyway, I’ve named him Oon. He’s taken a liking to your sock drawer. He’s fantastic. Just like you, P’Arthit. I love you.”

Message Recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!

“You would’ve made a great father, Arthit. I remember how my nieces loved you immediately and it was like they’d forgotten all about their biological uncle. Oon can only meow, but I’m sure he agrees, don’t you, Oon?


Right. See? By the way, did you know that cats have nine lives? I know it’s dumb to be thinking about that when he’s still pretty young, but I hope you’ll look after him before his next life until I get there. He’s tripled in size since I found him. Sometimes I wonder what it would’ve been like for us to have a kid together and watch them grow up. It’s a nice thought, isn’t it?…I’m okay. I’m not sad. I just miss you. Having Oon helps when I feel lonely. He would love you, I just know it. Because I do. Anyway, I love you.”

Message Recorded.

He-hello? Is it recording? —Yes, P’Arthit, it’s recording—Oh, right. Um, this is Arthit. I’m…busy or something so leave a message. Maybe I’ll get back to you. —P’Arthit, you can’t say that!— What? It’s not a guarantee I’ll reply! —Well, no, but—BEEP!

“The funniest thing happened today. Not funny like, humorous. Funny like weird. I was on break at work today and went to get pink milk at the café downstairs. You know, the one with the gossipy barista. Anyway, it’s crazy, but I could’ve sworn…I thought I saw you. I don’t know, I’m probably just imagining things because…wow, it’s been two years now, hasn’t it? …Sometimes it feels like just yesterday. But I’m getting better, P’Arthit. It doesn’t hurt as much most days now. I still miss you every day, but like…I don’t feel like crying all the time anymore. You won’t get jealous if I don’t call you anymore, will you? I’m joking. I’ll still talk to you when I can, until the day I can kiss your face and make you turn red again. I love you, P’Arthit.”

Message Recorded.

Not proofread. I know I’m technically supposed to be on hiatus, but I just felt like writing something sad-ish this morning. Anyway, have a great week!

Laundry Day

[click play to start]



Thanks for joining us tonight as we take a peek into the quiet, simple lives of one boy and his favourite companion.

Let us gently rinse away our worries and tension of the day.

There’s a laundry room on the basement floor of the dormitory building where Arthit stays. It’s shared among all the students who live in the same building complex. Most of them do their laundry in the late morning or early afternoon of the weekends, shuffling in and out of the room with their large linen drawstring bags and plastic baskets. By Sunday evenings, the several dozens of machines have gone through thirty or more cycles, finally whirring to a quiet sigh of rest as dusk settles in view of the hazy windows.

Arthit likes to do his laundry in the last hours of the evenings, his last errand of the day before he returns to his room for bed. He prefers having the room all to himself, so he can take his time, stretching and unravelling each item in his basket until all the deepest creases are smoothed out, all his socks are turned right side out, and the pockets of his favourite jeans are emptied of any loose change and stray receipts.

Tonight, he’s washing his darks. Most other residents of the dorm don’t bother with separating their washes, choosing instead to throw all their clothes in with each other like a technicolour whirlpool where all the different hues fade into each other, blending together into a bubbly, nonsensical smoothie. 

Arthit, however, prefers to at least separate his darks from his lights, as his wardrobe mostly consists of crisp white t-shirts and his several deep, crimson red workshop jackets. He doesn’t have an issue with wearing pink, but he just doesn’t think the colour suits him well, already possessing a naturally rosy complexion.

He walks over to his favourite machine in the back corner of the room. He likes that one in particular, partly because he’d been using it since the first time he’d ever visited the laundry room. It’s also his favourite because it makes just the right amount of white noise, a steady, background hum – not too loud, and without the distracting clicks of a loose hinge or rickety part. The consistent, muffled sloshing of water that occasionally whirs into a pleasant trickling sound as the soapy liquid drains from the machine.

It’s on the bottom row, right next to a large window that overlooks a quiet road within the campus. Even though the window is often translucent with a steamy haze from the humidity of spring, you can still make out the warm glow of a street lamp. Every now and then, a car stumbles by, luminating the walls with a passing wash of white, followed shortly by a faint red that lingers until the car’s tail lights disappear from view. The room itself is lit with warm white fluorescent tubing, carefully tucked away out of view behind the moulding of the artificial ceiling. It’s not too dim, nor so bright that it overwhelms you. It simply makes you feel lovely.

Arthit likes to sit on a long wooden bench that’s pushed up against one wall opposite the familiar machine while his cycle is running. As it happens, there’s nothing too unique about it. It’s just your average wooden bench, a long slab of birch lumber that stretches about one and a half metres. But Arthit can tell you that it’s the perfect bench to accommodate his weight, with just the right amount of give as he settles, the wood cool and vibrating slightly from the machine next to it, like a soothing lullaby for his tired muscles. Some days, he likes to stretch out on the bench, lying down with his back flat against the wooden panel, his knees pulled up slightly at an arch, as he’s too tall to straighten his legs out fully.

Tonight, though, after he’s put his own clothes in their usual machine, he waits, not adding detergent, not setting the washing mode, nor shutting the machine door. Instead, he sits on the bench, his posture slightly curved with relaxation, his shoulder blades gently pressed up against the wall. 

He pulls out his phone from the front pocket of his comfortable, grey sweatpants, the inner lining warm and soft with its gentle terrycloth. He’ll later go to sleep without them, but something about wearing them in the warm, dry air of the room brings him a tender feeling, like a loved one gently rubbing his hair dry with a large, fluffy towel. 

He’s in the mood for some music; nothing too rhythmic or with a prominent resounding bass line, but rather a collection of warm, brilliant acoustic tracks, imperfectly harmonising with the hum of the tumble dryer. He puts one earbud in, tilting his head backwards to lean against the wall, his chest rising and falling slowly and steadily as he closes his eyes and waits.

He’s on the second song of his playlist when he hears the door of the room click open quietly, followed by the gentle slapping of sandals against the blue linoleum floor. The corners of his mouth turn up ever so slightly. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know who’s there. 

It’s Kongpob. 

Or, in their moments alone together, just…Kong. 

In recent months, they’d agreed to do their laundry together, both so that they wouldn’t have to wait several weeks to justify doing a full load, and because Kong, too, prefers to separate his darks and lights.

Kong smiles softly upon seeing his boyfriend’s peaceful, half-drowsy state, a whisper of exhale escaping slightly parted lips as he just…breathes. He makes slow, careful work of unwinding and disentangling his own clothes to prepare them for the machine. Kongpob puts his own socks and his familiar red workshop jacket into separate mesh laundry bags, so that they don’t get mixed up with Arthit’s almost identical clothes. While the two of them are of similar height, Kong has slightly broader shoulders, and wears his jacket just a size up from the other boy.

With all his clothes now in the barrel of the machine, he gently shuts the door in place with a click, bidding a temporary farewell to the pile of fabric behind the thick fisheye lens glass. The detergent they like to use has a clean, refreshing scent. ‘Citrus Breeze’, it’s called. And that’s exactly the kind of fragrance that Arthit likes; reminding him of the familiar smell of Kong’s grapefruit shampoo, a smell that calms his nerves like an energising embrace. 

Kong, on the other hand, likes the sweet, earthy aroma of lavender and thyme, which is what he’s opted for as their fabric softener. The calming, syrupy perfume mimics for Kong the taste of Arthit’s favourite pink drink, mixed with the unique breathlessness of their first few slow, nervous kisses. He doesn’t tell his boyfriend that’s why he likes it, but then again, Arthit has never questioned it.

Kong clicks the dial on the front of the machine until the faded grey line stops at Cotton Mix. Then, he pulls out the handful of 10 baht coins, laying them out flat in a row on his open palm, before gathering up four of them in his other hand, inserting them one by one, listening as they roll their way down the machine’s coin slot. The rest, he pockets for now, reserving them for the dry cycle. He watches and listens as the machine begins to fill the stainless steel drum with warm water, submerging the deep hues until they become several murky shades darker.

And with that, he stands up slowly, moving over to the bench to join Arthit. He doesn’t sit too close; just enough that their thighs are pressed gently against each other, the warmth of each other’s bodies permeating into the other’s clothes. Kong can hear the faint hum of music coming from the loose earbud, the other one still placed in Arthit’s left ear. He takes the stray bud and inserts it his own right ear, shifting in his posture slightly so that his back is straightened, flat against the cool, dry wall.

They simply sit and breathe next to one another, falling into a lucid, ethereal state, listening to the gentle whirr of the single machine, and half of a simple tune in their respective ears. As a second hand of the wall clock ticks faintly in the background, Arthit grows drowsier with each slow second, and eventually, his head begins to droop to his left, where it naturally falls softly onto a warm, firm shoulder. Kong sighs in content, nudging his cheek ever so slightly against the soft, rustling head of ebony hair, breathing in a waft of Arthit’s green tea and mint scented shampoo.

As the clothes tumble in endless circles of a dream-like vortex, so do the two boys fall into a restful, tranquil slumber, not to be stirred until the cycle comes to a natural finish. 

In case it isn’t clear, this isn’t really meant to have any plot or meaning; it’s purely designed to help the listener gradually fall asleep. This somewhat silly idea came to me because I’m somebody who has trouble sleeping due to rumination OCD, so I often listen to meditation podcasts to help me take my mind off any spiralling thoughts I might have. One night, though, I ended up thinking about this scenery instead of actually going to sleep. So let’s call it an experiment in creating some relaxing, ASMR-style KongArt fic. This isn’t really for anyone other than myself but I thought I’d share it anyway. If you do like it, let me know, and I might just make more. 

Do excuse my voice if it sounds more weird to you than relaxing. I’m more accustomed to doing voiceovers for my school’s PA system than this kind of thing. I also naturally have more of a Southern British accent (although only vaguely), so this is me trying to be more consistently American-sounding. If you’d like to hear my more natural accent, though, I’d be willing to try that out. Let me know what you think! Any (especially constructive) feedback is welcome <3 

Goodnight, loves.

Enfermo de amor

Traducido al español por StSassa

Los planes de Kongpob para ir a China cambian inesperadamente debido al brote de COVID-19.

No es como si fuera a decirlo en voz alta, pero desde que Kongpob anunció que había sido aceptado en su programa de maestría y que se iría pronto, Arthit sin duda alguna se había sentido ansioso y pesimista.

Aunque había pasado meses ayudándolo a estudiar día y noche luego de la graduación de su menor, una parte de él temía el día en que tendría que ir dejar a su pareja al aeropuerto. Se sentía inmensamente orgulloso de los logros de Kong y no conocía a otra persona más merecedora de estudiar tan prestigioso curso; no obstante, la egoísta y paranoica parte de él quería mantenerlo aquí, consumido por el miedo de tener que lidiar con la distancia.

En realidad, el pensamiento de estar lejos de ese molesto niño mimado durante dos años lo dejaba sintiéndose tan vacío y perdido que Arthit había hecho unas no muy vagas referencias a los múltiples problemas con los que se encontraría Kongpob durante su tiempo lejos, sin ser capaz de soportar la idea de no estar a su lado cuando estuviera enfermo, o peor, distanciándose de él.

Kongpob, por supuesto, no se preocupaba por nada de eso. Aunque, para ser justos, algunas de las preocupaciones de Arthit eran válidas.

—P’Arthit, no voy a contraer coronavirus. De todos modos, lo peor ya pasó.

—¡No sabes lo que podría pasar! Podrías estar en cuarentena y no poder volver jamás.

—También te extrañaré, P’.

Otras, sin embargo, eran bastante tontas.

—Kongpob, leí que los jóvenes en Beijing y Shangai a veces son promocionados por sus padres como bienes en mercados nupciales. Deberías tener cuidado.

—Mis padres no tienen intenciones de promocionarme como si fuera ganado, mucho menos en el extranjero. Además, ya tengo una bastante buena idea de con quién me quiero casar.

—Eso está fuera de lugar. Sólo digo que tengas cuidado.

Arthit había derramado lágrimas silenciosas cuando Kongpob lo sostuvo con ternura mientras dormían en su última noche juntos en el apartamento de Arthit. Por supuesto que lo extrañaría. Habían pasado por mucho juntos y, aunque a veces siguiera resistiéndose al afecto de Kongpob, este era una cómoda constante en su de otra forma tediosa vida. La noche siguiente, Arthit no dormiría en los brazos de su novio ni frunciría el ceño ante su conducta traviesa.

La mañana llega y Arthit permanece con la mirada fija en el techo, sin haber tenido ni un minuto de sueño. La luz solar se asoma gradualmente entre las cortinas y Arthit echa un vistazo al reloj en la pared. Las 6 am. La última vez que se despertó así de temprano, había estado entusiasmado porque Kongpob tendría sus resultados. Ahora, prefiere regresar y nunca haberlos sabido.

La silueta durmiente de Kong está inmóvil, con su rostro relajado y en paz. Arthit sabe que, de los dos, su novio es infinitamente más valiente y que tomaría la responsabilidad de ser valiente por ambos.

Se da una ducha más larga de lo normal, esperando en silencio a derretirse bajo el agua caliente y convertirse en líquido para irse por la cañería y de allí a la nada. Con lo que termina es con unos alarmantemente rojos cuello y hombros y una sensación de cosquilleo en sus venas cuando, dentro de un rato, sale de debajo del chorro del agua.

Cuando emerge del baño, Kongpob está sentado en su escritorio, aún en pijamas y navegando por algo en su laptop. Mira a Arthit cuando este se acomoda en la otra silla, con su cabello aún húmedo descansando sobre el hombro de Kongpob.

—P’Arthit —Kongpob besa su cabeza suavemente. —Tengo noticias.

Arthit se sienta ante esto, buscando en el rostro de su novio alguna pista de lo que eso pueda significar.

—¿Buenas noticias o malas noticias?

Kongpob piensa la pregunta por un momento.

—Ambas…depende de cómo lo veas, supongo.

Kongpob voltea la pantalla de su laptop ligeramente hacia Arthit, quien alza una ceja, pero lee el documento que está abierto. Está en inglés, lo cual le toma el doble de tiempo para procesar.

Asunto Urgente: Suspensión del semestre Enero-Junio 2021.

—Espera, ¿qué? ¿Cómo así?

Viernes 18 de diciembre de 2020

Queridos estudiantes y cuerpo docente:

Primero que nada, esperamos que estén a salvo y tomando medidas de prevención para protegerse a pesar del gradual descenso de número de casos reportados de neumonía causados por el COVID-19.

Entendemos que este último año escolar ha presentado grandes retos tanto para los estudiantes como para el cuerpo docente y se agradece el esfuerzo de nuestros profesores al asegurar que los estudiantes se mantengan aprendiendo mediante las estrategias digitales. Debido al festival de otoño, la Comisión Municipal de Educación de Beijing ha anunciado que todas las universidades públicas tienen la libertad de decidir si desean o no reanudar las clases como lo estipulado para el siguiente semestre en febrero, así como para permitir a los estudiantes de posgrado proceder o no con las actividades de orientación de inicios de enero. Previamente, la universidad había tomado la decisión de empezar el próximo semestre tal como estaba estipulado.

—Kong, sabes que mi inglés no es tan bueno. ¿No me lo puedes resumir?

—Está en la siguiente parte, P’Arthit.

Sin embargo, debido a las circunstancias imprevistas en las que cinco de nuestros estudiantes locales de la Facultad de Negocios y Economía así como la confirmación de infectados de COVID-19 en la Facultad de Lenguas y Culturas Modernas, la universidad ha tomado la difícil decisión de posponer el próximo semestre hasta nuevo aviso. Esperamos que tanto los estudiantes como el cuerpo docente comprendan que hemos tomado estas medidas para prevenir la propagación del virus entre los miembros de la universidad.

Mientras tanto, estaremos trabajando para proveerles materiales relevantes para el aprendizaje en línea en caso de que la suspensión de clases persista por más de tres semanas. Se recomienda que los estudiantes locales se queden en casa tanto como sea posible y recomendamos ampliamente que los estudiantes internacionales se abstengan de regresar o de llegar al campus. Por favor contacten a sus aerolíneas para obtener más información sobre la cancelación o reprogramación de sus vuelos. En caso de ser necesario, la universidad puede proveer un pequeño reembolso para las cuotas de cancelación o reprogramación…

Arthit deja de leer. Los engranes en su cerebro siguen trabajando para entender varias palabras. Cuando lo comprende, se gira hacia Kongpob, quien está esperando su reacción.

—Así que… ¿no irás?

—Bueno, no aún. Tengo que esperar a que anuncien que es seguro.

—Vas a… quedarte. Por al menos dos meses más.

—Sí, P’ —Kongpob sigue intentando leer la expresión de su novio. —¿Qué opinas?

Arthit está saltando internamente. Su mal humor de la noche anterior se convierte en alivio. Aunque en el exterior, simplemente asiente.

—Está… bien, supongo.


—Sí, bien. Te dije que podía propagarse, ¿o no?

—P’Arthit —Kongpob lo toma de una mano y juega con sus dedos. —¿Estás feliz porque me quedaré?

—¿Q-Quién dijo que estaba feliz? —Balbucea Arthit. —Ahora harás que mi factura del agua siga siendo elevada por dos meses más.

—Está bien si estás feliz, P’ —Kongpob sólo sonríe, tomando su rostro entre sus manos.

Arthit se pone de pie abruptamente y señala la puerta del baño.

—Ve a ducharte. Tengo que ir al trabajo.

Son las 4:54 pm cuando Kongpob le envía un mensaje.

Kongp’arthit, quieres que salgamos a cenar esta noche?

Arthita dónde?

Kong: a los fideos?

Arthitok, ya casi salgo. 5:30?

Kongya estoy abajo

Arthitpor supuesto que lo estás -.-

Kong: :*

Arthitusaste cubrebocas? No deberías salir sin cubrebocas.

KongSí P’, estoy usando cubrebocas

Fiel a sus palabras, el rostro de Kongpob está cubierto por una mascarilla quirúrgica en color azul y Arthit trae una propia. Incluso cuando la mayoría de su rostro está cubierto, Arthit sabe que Kongpob le está sonriendo.

—P’Arthit —su voz está ligeramente amortiguada por el material. —Vayamos a dar un paseo.

—¿Por qué? Creí que querías ir a cenar.

—Sigue siendo temprano.

Se toman de las manos, caminando por el parque cerca de la oficina de Arthit.

—¿Hay algo de lo que querías hablar?

Kongpob se detiene, tomando ambas manos de Arthit entre las suyas y envolviéndolas alrededor de su cintura.

—¿Qué haces? —Arthit se tensa, pero no aparta sus manos. Están increíblemente cerca ahora, con sus rostros a centímetros de distancia.

—Ayer hablé con mis padres.


—Les dije del aplazamiento.

Arthit asiente, un poco más relajado ahora y entrelazando sus manos, descansándolas en la espalda baja de Kongpob. Hay algunas miradas de los transeúntes, pero nada más.

—¿Así que te mudarás a tu casa?

—Bueno, no lo sé. Quiero quedarme contigo, por supuesto. Pero sé que estás preocupado por tu factura del agua…

—Estaba bromeando. Lo sabes, ¿cierto?

Los ojos de Kongpob se arrugan de los costados y deja salir una suave risa.

—Bueno, la cosa es que tendría más sentido que me mudara de regreso a mi casa, dado que el semestre ya terminó.

Arthit regresa sus manos hacia el frente, poniendo un poco de distancia entre ellos.

—Entonces, ¿cuándo te mudarás?

Kongpob suspira, volviendo a acercar a Arthit.

—Podría no tener que hacerlo.

Las cejas de Arthit se fruncen y su mirada es inquisitiva.

—No les he dicho aún, pero estaba pensando si… ya sabes, es hora.

—Oh —exhala. Si Kongpob fuera a quedarse en los dormitorios (ni siquiera en uno propio), necesitaría una razón para justificarlo a sus padres.

—Sé que es un gran paso y por eso te estoy preguntando primero. No quiero escondérselos más, pero si no estás listo, entonces…

Arthit mordisquea su labio inferior y su respiración es algo superficial. Por supuesto que ha considerado sacar el tema con sus propios padres, y aunque todo resultara mal, al menos él podía solventarse económicamente. Kongpob, por otro lado, tenía que perder mucho más que su familia. No tenía un empleo, ni un lugar para quedarse. No era como si a Arthit no fuera a acceder gustoso a que se quedara con él, pero no era sostenible a largo plazo.

—También quiero decirles a los míos —empieza. —Pero quiero que esperes.

—¿Por qué?

—Sólo me preocupa que, si les dices ahora, haya alguna probabilidad de que dejen de financiar tus estudios si es que sale mal.

Kongpob se queda en silencio por un momento, pero asiente.

—Tienes razón. Esperaremos a que me gradúe.

Kongpob alza una mano hacia su cubrebocas y tira ligeramente de él hasta que el material está plegado bajo su barbilla.

—¡Kongpob! ¡No te saques el cubrebocas!

—Pero… quiero besarte, P’Arthit —dice, con sus ojos brillando con picardía.

—No, no me sacaré el cubrebocas, así que olvídalo —Arthit pone mala cara, tirando del cubrebocas de Kongpob para volver a cubrir su nariz y su boca.

—De acuerdo, podemos dejarnos los cubrebocas.

Se inclina hacia adelante, presionando sus bocas sobre las capas de algodón. Arthit se tensa por un momento, pero también frunce sus labios, sintiéndolos cosquillear y su estómago revoloteando incluso con las capas extras que los separan.

Kongpob se aparta, con los extremos de sus ojos arrugándose con una sonrisa. Incluso con su cubrebocas puesto, el furioso sonrojo de Arthit alcanza sus orejas.

—Vete a empacar ahora mismo —se aleja por el camino, con Kongpob trotando para alcanzarlo.

—P’Arthit, ¡pero no podremos hacerlo tanto cuando me vaya! 

Traducido al español por StSassa


Kongpob’s plans to go to China take an unexpected turn due to the outbreak of COVID19.

Not that he would ever admit it out loud, but ever since Kongpob had announced that he’d been accepted into his masters programme and would be leaving soon, Arthit had been decidedly anxious and pessimistic.

While he had spent months following his junior’s graduation helping him study day and night, a part of him dreaded the day he’d have to send his lover off at the airport. He had immense pride over Kong’s accomplishments, and didn’t know anyone else who was any more deserving of studying such a prestigious course. However, the selfish, paranoid part of him wanted to keep him here, the fear of navigating the distance slowly eating at him.

In fact, the thought of being away from the annoying brat for two years left him feeling so empty and lost that he’d not-so-subtly hinted at the various problems that Kongpob could encounter during his time away, not being able to bear the thought of not being at his side when he was sick, or worse, potentially growing apart.

Kongpob, of course, was having none of it. Although, to be fair, some of Arthit’s worries were valid.

“P’Arthit, I am not going to contract coronavirus. The worst of it is already over, anyway.”

“You don’t know what could happen! You could be quarantined and never be able to come back.”

“I’ll miss you too, P’.”

Others, however, were positively absurd.

“Kongpob, I’ve read that sometimes young people in Beijing and Shanghai get advertised like real estate at marriage markets by their parents. You should be careful.”

“My parents have no intention of shuttling me off like a farm animal, much less in a foreign country. Besides, I already have a pretty good idea of who I want to marry.”

“That’s besides the point. I’m just saying, be careful.”

He’d shed silent tears as Kongpob held him tenderly in their sleep on the last evening that they would be together in Arthit’s apartment. Of course he would miss him. They’d been through far too much together and even though he still put up a front of apprehension towards Kongpob’s affection, it was a comforting constant in his otherwise mundane life. The next evening, he would not fall asleep in his boyfriend’s arms, nor glower at his mischievous advances.

Morning comes, and Arthit remains staring at the ceiling, not having caught a single wink of sleep. Sunlight is slowly seeping through the blinds, and Arthit glances over the wall clock. 6 AM. The last time he’d been up this early, he’d been buzzing with excitement over Kongpob getting his results. Now, he’d rather have gone back and never found out.

Kong’s sleeping figure is still, his face relaxed and at peace. Arthit knows that between the two of them, his boyfriend was infinitely braver and took it upon himself to hold enough courage for them both.

He takes a longer shower than usual, silently hoping he might melt under the hot spray and trickle into liquid himself, slipping down the drain and into nothingness. What he does end up with is an alarmingly red neck and shoulders, and the prickling sensation through his blood vessels as he eventually steps out from under the shower head.

When he emerges from the bathroom, Kongpob is sitting at the desk, still in his pajamas and scrolling through something on his laptop. He glances at Arthit when he parks himself in the other desk chair, his still-damp hair resting on Kongpob’s shoulder.

“P’Arthit,” Kongpob gently kisses the top of his head. “I have some news.”

Arthit sits up at this, searching his boyfriend’s face for any clue of what he might mean.

“Good news or bad news?”

Kongpob ponders the question for a moment.

“Both…depends how you look at it, I guess.”

Kongpob turns his laptop screen slightly towards Arthit, who cocks and eyebrow, but reads the document that’s open. It’s in English, meaning that it takes him twice as long to parse.

Urgent Notice: Postponement of 2021 Spring Semester

“Wait, what? How come?”

Friday, 18th December, 2020

Dear students and international faculty,

First of all, we hope that all of you are safe and taking preventative measures to protect yourselves in spite of the gradually decreasing number of newly reported cases of pneumonia caused by the COVID-19 coronavirus.

We understand that this past academic year has posed some great challenges for both students and faculty alike, and we are grateful for the continued efforts of our teaching staff in ensuring that students maintain their learning progress through online learning and teaching. Prior to the Mid-Autumn festival, the Beijing Municipal Commission of Education had announced that all public universities were at liberty to decide whether or not to resume classes as scheduled for the Spring Semester in February, as well as allow students at postgraduate level to proceed with orientation activities in early January. Previously, the University had made the decision to begin the coming Spring Semester as planned.

“Kong, you know my English is only so-so. Can’t you just summarise it for me?”

“It’s in this next part, P’Arthit.”

However, due to unforeseen circumstances in which five of our local students in the Faculty of Business and Economics as well as in the School of Modern Languages and Cultures have confirmed to be infected with the COVID-19 coronavirus, the University has made the difficult decision to postpone the commencement of the Spring Semester until further notice. We hope that students and faculty alike understand that we have taken these measures in order to prevent the further contracting of the virus among all members of the University.

In the meantime, we will be working to provide the relevant learning materials for online learning should the situation persist beyond three weeks of class suspension. Local students are recommended to stay at home as much as possible, and we strongly recommend that international students refrain from returning or arriving on campus. Please contact your relevant airline companies for information on rescheduling or cancelling flights. If needed, the University can provide a small reimbursement for cancellation or rescheduling fees…

Arthit stops reading, the cogs in his brain still working to comprehend several words. When it dawns on him, he turns to Kongpob, who’s waiting for his reaction.

“So…you’re not going?”

“Not yet, anyway. I have to wait until they announce that it’s safe.”

“You’re…going to stay. For at least two more months.”

“Yes, P’,” Kongpob is still trying to read his boyfriend’s face. “Thoughts?”

Arthit is internally jumping up and down, any sour mood from the previous night dissolving into relief. Outwardly, though, he just nods.

“That’s…fine, I guess.”


“Yes, fine. I told you there was a chance of it spreading, didn’t I?”

“P’Arthit,” Kongpob takes one of his hands and plays with his fingers. “Are you happy about me staying?”

“Wh-who said I was happy?” Arthit stammers. “Now you’re going to continue racking up my water bill for two more months.”

“It’s okay if you’re happy, P’.” Kongpob just grins, taking his face in his hands.

Arthit stands up abruptly and points to the bathroom door.

“Go shower. I have to go to work.”

It’s 4:54 when Kongpob texts him.

Kong: p’arthit, do you want to have dinner out tonight?

Arthit: where?

Kong: the noodle place?

Arthit: ok. i’m leaving soon. 5:30?

Kong: I’m already downstairs 😉

Arthit: Of course you are -.-

Kong: 😘

Arthit: Did you wear a mask out? You shouldn’t be out without a mask.

Kong: Yes P’ i’m wearing a mask

True to his word, Kongpob’s face is covered with a blue surgical mask, Arthit wearing one of his own. Even with most of his face obscured, Arthit can tell Kongpob is grinning at him.

“P’Arthit,” his voice is slightly muffled by the material. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“Why? I thought you said you wanted dinner?”

“It’s still early.”

They link hands, strolling through the park near Arthit’s work.

“Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

Kongpob stops, taking both of Arthit’s hands in his and wrapping them around his waist.

“What are you doing?” Arthit tenses, but doesn’t remove his hands. They’re incredibly close now, faces centimeters apart.

“I talked to my parents today.”


“I told them about the postponement.”

Arthit nods, slightly more relaxed now and linking his hands together, resting them on Kongpob’s lower back. There are a few glances from passersby, but nothing more.

“So you’re moving home then?”

“Well, I don’t know. I want to stay with you, of course. But I know you’re concerned about your water bill…”

“I was joking. You know that, right?”

Kongpob’s eyes crinkle at the sides, and he lets out a low chuckle.

“Well, the thing is, it would make the most sense for me to move home, seeing as the semester has already ended.”

Arthit brings his hands in front of him again, putting a little bit of distance between them.

“So when are you moving out?”

Kongpob sighs, pulling Arthit closer again.

“I might not have to.”

Arthit’s eyebrows furrow, his eyes questioning.

“I haven’t said anything to them yet, but I was wondering if…you know, it’s time.”

“Oh.” he breathes. If Kongpob were to stay in the dorms (not even in one of his own, no less), he’d need a reason to justify it to his parents.

“I know it’s a huge step and that’s why I’m asking you first. I don’t want to hide it from them anymore, but if you’re not ready, then…”

Arthit gnaws at his bottom lip, his breath a little shallow. Of course, he’d considered bringing up the subject with his own parents, and should things take a turn for the worst, he was at least able to support himself financially. Kongpob, on the other hand, had more than just his family to lose. He wasn’t working, nor did he have a place of his own to stay. Not that Arthit wouldn’t happily let him stay with him, but it just wasn’t sustainable in the long run.

“I want to tell mine, too,” he starts. “But, I want you to wait.”


“I’m just worried that if you do it now, there’s the chance that they might not fund your studies anymore if it goes badly.”

Kongpob is quiet for a moment, but nods.

“You’re right. We’ll wait till I graduate.”

He brings a hand up to his mask and pulls at it slightly until the material is bunched up under his chin.

“Kongpob! Don’t take your mask off!”

“But…I want to kiss you, P’Arthit.” he says, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“No, I’m not taking my mask off, so you can forget it.” Arthit scowls, pulling Kongpob’s mask back up so that his nose and mouth are covered again.

“Okay, we can keep our masks on.”

He leans forward, pressing their mouths together through the layers of cotton. Arthit tenses a moment, but purses his mouth in return, his lips still tingling and stomach fluttering, even with the added layers of separation.

Kongpob pulls away, the corner of his eyes crinkling with a smile. Even with his mask, Arthit’s furious blush reaches his ears.

“I’m sending you packing now.” he stalks off down the path, Kongpob jogging to catch up.

“P’Arthit, but we won’t be able to do that as much when I’m gone!”

Tras puertas cerradas y ventanas abiertas

Traducido al español por StSassa
Advertencias: contenido sexualmente explícito

Los exámenes trimestrales están a la vuelta de la esquina y Arthit y Kongpob apenas y pueden encontrar un minuto para estar juntos. Una noche, tienen que ponerse creativos si quieren ponerse íntimos.

Si Kongpob pudiera mencionar una cosa que definitivamente ha cambiado entre él y su novio desde hace un año, sería que Arthit ya no huye de sus toques. Al menos, no tras las puertas cerradas.

Le tomó un mes o dos para que el temperamental mayor permitiera a Kongpob entrelazar sus dedos por el campus sin ponerse ansioso ni retirar su mano con la mera vista de uno de sus amigos a la distancia. Le tomó otros pocos meses para dejar que su travieso novio lo llevara detrás del edificio de la facultad, donde le sostendría el rostro entre manos cálidas y lo besaría con suavidad. Intentaba disfrutarlo, pero en ocasiones mantenía un ojo abierto por si uno de sus menores decidía, por la razón que fuera, usar las escaleras traseras que por lo regular estaban reservadas como una ruta de escape en caso de un incendio. Incluso ahora, gruñiría y le diría a Kongpob que era un ridículo, pero no sin sentirse ligeramente feliz con un rosado rubor expandiéndose por sus pálidas mejillas en lo que era el espectáculo favorito de Kongpob.

En el dormitorio de Arthit, con la puerta asegurada y las cortinas cerradas, Kongpob se deleitaba con la forma en que su novio respondería hambriento a todas y cada una de sus insinuaciones, incluso yendo tan lejos como para tomar la iniciativa de vez en cuando. La primera vez que intentaron tener sexo, Kongpob se había pasado media hora sentado desnudo fuera de la puerta del baño, asegurándole a su extremadamente avergonzado novio que estaba bien haber terminado tan rápido, y que, de hecho, se sentía halagado. Aunque con el tiempo, ambos apenas podían mantener sus manos y sus bocas fuera del otro, y Kong tenía una erección semipermanente con sólo pensar en estar en el cuarto de Arthit. El menor recuerda su cuerpo estremecerse cuando, una noche, un normalmente silencioso Arthit lo trajo consigo dentro de su cuarto y le pidió (no, le suplicó) que lo pusiera contra la pared.

Así que, está de más decir que sus exámenes trimestrales los maldijeron con una muy fuerte sequía en su vida amorosa. Las noches que por lo regular las pasaban meneándose y jadeando los nombres del otro entre sábanas, ahora eran reemplazadas por horas de quejas por problemas de matemáticas y de mordisquear resaltadores de texto con vasos de café apilándose dentro del bote de la basura. Esta noche es una de esas noches.

Es pasada la medianoche (a decir verdad, un poco pasada la 1 de la mañana) y Arthit ha decidido que, de todos modos, no podrá digerir nada de lo que estudie ahora, sin mencionar que tiene una clase a las 9 de la mañana (ugh) al día siguiente. Se pone de pie y se estira, mirando vagamente hacia afuera para encontrarse con que el dormitorio de Kongpob es el único con las luces encendidas del lado de su edificio.

Kongpob contesta la llamada luego algunos cinco timbres.

—¿Uhmm? ¿Qué sucede, P’?

No se oye como si hubiera estado durmiendo, pero en definitiva se oye cansado.

—¿Por qué sigues despierto?

Eso suena un poco como a un regaño, pero Kongpob sólo sonríe.

—¿Qué hora es? —dice. El cansancio se oye evidente en su voz y su garganta irritada por haber practicado su presentación frente al espejo durante tres horas seguidas.

—Kong, casi es la 1:30 de la mañana. ¿No deberías estar en cama?

—También estás despierto, P’Arthit.

—Lo sé, es porque estaba estudiando. Estaba a punto de irme a dormir cuando vi que tus luces seguían encendidas.

—¿Me estabas observando, P’? —Vacila su novio.

—Me voy a la cama —Arthit gruñe al aire.

—Oww, lo siento. No cuelgues aún.

La voz de Kongpob, más suave que la seda, sería considerada un arma letal si Arthit pudiera opinar. En demasiadas ocasiones, se encontró aceptando cosas que ni siquiera le gustaban porque los tontos y armoniosos tonos con los que hablaba Kongpob lo forzaban a hacerlo.

Como esa ocasión en la que de alguna forma dijo que sí a llevar a su novio a un parque de diversiones, pensando que jugarían a los dardos y que le ganaría a Kongpob un osito de peluche o algo igualmente asquerosamente lindo y sin sentido. Pero él no fue sólo un total asco con los dardos, sino que Kongpob se sintió culpable por semanas luego de ver que Arthit vomitaba de forma violenta tan pronto como se bajaron de una especialmente aterradora montaña rusa.

—Entonces, ¿de qué quieres hablar? —suspira, dejándose de caer en su cama con sus piernas colgando de la orilla.

—Te extraño, P’ —dice Kongpob con voz suave y susurrante. Arthit sabe que no dice eso nada más, porque por lo regular, tal declaración trae consigo un coqueteo. Esto es puro y honesto, dicho más como una verdad que como para obtener una reacción.

—Sí… yo también —admite Arthit.

Ellos de verdad no habían tenido mucho tiempo para el otro durante las últimas tres semanas. Estos días, les parecía cada vez más difícil verse en el campus para la comida, peor para pasar la noche en el cuarto del otro. Sus interacciones estaban limitadas a pequeños besos y fugaces roces de manos cuando pasaban por los pasillos, o mensajes apresurados y cortas llamadas para desearse buenas noches. Arthit no lo diría en voz alta, pero como que extrañaba las provocaciones y los coqueteos que venían con el paquete de estar en una relación con Kongpob Sutthilack.

—P’, quiero verte —Arthit oye movimiento en el fondo.

—Casi son las 2 de la mañana, Kong. Tengo clase a las 9.

—Entonces ven a la ventana.

Arthit suspira, pero obedece. Se levanta del colchón y arrastra los pies hacia la ventana. Abre las cortinas para ver a Kongpob viéndolo de vuelta, con los dedos presionados sobre el cristal.

—Hola —Kongpob sonríe con cariño, diciéndole hola con un ademán. Arthit no puede evitar sonreírle de vuelta.

—Hola —responde, colocando su mano en el vidrio para encontrar la de Kongpob.

Es la primera vez que se ven el uno al otro de forma apropiada en las últimas dos semanas y Arthit siente un ligero dolor en el pecho al darse cuenta de que en serio, en serio extraña ver y tocar a su novio.

—¿Cómo estás, P’Arthit? —Kongpob se inclina hacia la ventana.

—Uhm, ¿cansado? No puedo esperar a que terminen los exámenes para dejar de leer este tonto libro —hace un vago gesto hacia el escritorio, intentando contener cualquier sollozo que se haya atorado en su garganta. No importaba lo abiertos que eran con el otro, no quería que Kongpob se preocupara por él sólo porque estaba un poco estresado.

—Terminará pronto. Quizá luego podamos a ir a ese restaurante japonés que te gusta. Yo invito.

Arthit ríe.

—Claro, sugar daddy.

—Lo que sea por mi sugar baby —Kongpob ríe también.

Arthit observa cómo la figura alta y delgada se aparta de la ventana y regresa al cristal. Se quedan mirando anhelantes el uno al otro por un rato más, antes de que Kongpob suspire de forma ruidosa, mirando a sus zapatos. Su mano en la ventana se vuelve un puño.

—Te deseo tanto, P’ —casi suspira su menor, atrapando a Arthit con la guardia baja.

Las mejillas del mayor se calientan, tímido por la franqueza de su novio.

—¡Kongpob! —Balbucea.

—¿Qué? Ya han sido algunas semanas —se queja.

—Entonces ve a solucionarlo en la ducha.

—No puedo, no es lo mismo.

—Estoy muy cansado, ¿sí, Kong? No es que no quiera ir —dice. Es cierto. Estaría mintiendo si dijera que no quiere algo rudo seguido por abrazos y besos dulces en la frente, pero no puede permitirse que sus calificaciones bajen y pierda la beca sólo porque se sentía caliente.

—No tienes que hacerlo —dice en respuesta la voz baja de Kongpob. Está mirando fijamente a Arthit, con sus ojos brillándole aun bajo la tenue luz a diez metros de distancia.

—¿A qué te refieres?

Ve a Kongpob acercarse al cristal y mirar arriba hacia su izquierda y luego hacia su derecha para después escanear en ambas direcciones, ahora hacia abajo.

—No hay moros en la costa.

—¿En qué estás pensando, Kong?

La línea se queda en silencio y Arthit se acerca un paso más a su propia ventana, antes de casi atragantarse por lo que ve.

Está oscuro y en realidad apenas puede distinguir los rasgos de Kongpob, pero no se equivoca al ver que su novio aventura una mano dentro de sus pantalones para tocarse, todo mientras, atento, ve directamente a Arthit.

—¡K-Kongpob! ¡Estás en la ventana! ¡Cualquiera podría verte!

A Arthit se le cortó el aliento y, de forma inconsciente, sacó su lengua para humedecer su labio inferior. Su respiración era inestable.

—Ya revisé, P’Arthit. Sólo tú sigues levantado —la voz de Kongpob se oye jadeante y necesitada y Arthit pasa saliva mientras ve a la atractiva figura tirar de la cintura del pantalón para bajarse la prenda por las caderas, haciendo que su pene duro se sacuda al ser descubierto y que cuelgue libre sobre el elástico.

Una cálida sensación de hormigueo se extiende por el abdomen de Arthit y siente su propia erección humedeciendo sus propios shorts. Abre la boca para protestar, pero no puede sacarle los ojos de encima a la vista de su insaciable novio quien ahora está chupando sus dedos con entusiasmo, lo cual provoca que un húmedo sonido se oiga por la línea telefónica cuando estos dejan su boca. Arthit ya olvidó cómo hablar.

—P’… te quiero en mi boca —la misma mano, húmeda por su boca, pasea por su parte delantera y hace su camino por debajo de su camiseta gris para dormir, alcanzando la piel color olivo que se estira sobre sus músculos tensos para pellizcar uno de sus obscuros pezones.

—Kong… Yo… —su voz se corta, pero nada de lo que está a punto de decir dispersa la nube en su cabeza que ha nublado su sentido común.

—Tócate para mí, P’. Quiero verte.

Arthit está aferrando su teléfono y, durante varios segundos, se las arregla para apartar la mirada de la increíble imagen frente a él para escanear las ventanas a su alrededor. Ciertamente, ningún otro cuarto tiene las luces encendidas ni las cortinas abiertas.

—Por favor, P’Arthit… —La voz temblorosa de Kongpob alerta a Arthit para mirarlo de regreso. De nuevo ha envuelto su longitud con sus dedos largos y delgados.

Arthit siente que sus orejas y mejillas arden mientras tira del borde de su propia camiseta e inserta un dedo bajo el elástico de sus shorts y de su ropa interior. Debo estar perdiendo la cabeza, piensa. Lento y tímido, los baja hasta sus rodillas y con duda se toca con la palma de su mano, aunque la simple imagen de Kongpob ya lo tiene dolorosamente duro.

Se han masturbado frente al otro con anterioridad, pero una cosa es verse el uno al otro con lujuria entre el vapor de la ducha, y otra es tener alrededor de 80 posibles espectadores que son los otros estudiantes en el complejo de dormitorios. Agradece que al diablillo caliente de su novio no le da vergüenza en este momento, porque aunque sus aventuras sexuales en la cama han sido lejos de ser convencionales, Arthit sigue sintiéndose como una prostituta en una iglesia.

—Lo que daría por estar dentro tuyo en ese momento… maldición —Kongpob tiene un codo contra el cristal para sostenerse y Arthit piensa que podría desmayarse cuando ve a su esbelto y atlético menor frotándose contra el cristal, deslizándose con su propio presemen.

—Maldición… Kong… —jadea, nunca ha sido alguien de muchas palabras. Y cualquier duda que haya tenido sobre miradas entrometidas desde dormitorios vecinos se desvanece mientras sus ojos se nublan con lujuria debido al estado por completo obsceno de Kongpob. La expresión de la luna del campus es tanto de angustia como de concentración; sus cejas están muy juntas una de la otra, sus ojos desesperados fijos en Arthit y sus mechones húmedos por el sudor sobre su frente.

Arthit está por completo fascinado por el grueso miembro deslizándose arriba y abajo con facilidad, y antes de que pueda convencerse de lo contrario, lame sus propios dedos de forma descuidada antes de llevarlos detrás de él. Su trasero ignorado le pide ser llenado y su entrada palpita con cada latido de su acelerado corazón.

Inhala con dificultad con la presión del primer dedo, que fue bastante sencillo porque es sólo uno, pero la saliva es un lubricante poco ideal. El segundo dedo lo hace estremecerse, pero no le importa porque sólo necesita sentir algo, lo que sea. Sabe que podría evitarse esto, pero meses de ellos explorándose durante las noches le enseñaron a Arthit que, en realidad, le encanta ser quien recibe, y le encanta la forma en que Kongpob da besos de satisfacción sobre su pecho cuando se corre sin tocarse.

—P’Arthit… qué… maldición, ¿te estás dilatando para mí? —un desesperado gimoteo llega a su oído. Arthit está sorprendido consigo mismo por seguir siendo capaz de estar de pie, con sus ojos rebosándole de lágrimas por la abrumadora sensación de observar a su normalmente tranquilo novio desatándose frente a él y por su propia mano haciendo tijeras dentro de su apretada calidez. —Eso es… hhmmm. Mírate…

—Quiero estar listo para ti… ahhh —gruñe con voz ronca cuando sus dedos rozan ese lugar.

—Acércate… contra el cristal —Kongpob ahora ha reducido la velocidad de sus empujones. Su mano libre sostiene sus testículos.

Arthit se acerca un paso, pero su longitud permanece lejos de la ventana. Ahora está jadeando y suaves gimoteos escapan de su boca al restregarse contra sus propios dedos.

—P’, estoy tan cerca… —Kongpob se aleja y envuelve su longitud con sus dedos, masturbándose frenéticamente con sus ojos cerrados y la boca abierta en un silencioso grito antes de correrse con un sollozo afligido, chorreando caliente y pegajoso sobre el cristal.

Su mayor siente sus piernas cada vez más débiles mientras retuerce los dedos dentro de él.

—Córrete para mí, P’… Eres tan hermoso —su novio exhala pesado al auricular, aún recuperándose de su clímax.

Y con eso, Arthit gruñe durante su tembloroso orgasmo; toda la sangre en su cuerpo le proporciona una cálida sensación que llega a cada uno de sus nervios. Ahora aparta el teléfono de su oreja, jadeando mientras se recarga contra el cristal, haciendo que su cálido aliento deje un rastro húmedo en él. Es sólo cuando sus párpados pesados se abren lentamente que puede ver el desastre que hizo frente a él.

Kongpob, igualmente agotado por la actividad, oye un estrépito y se sobresalta, mirando hacia arriba para descubrir que Arthit desapareció de la ventana. Se preocupa un poco por si acaso fue demasiado lejos y cruzó una línea que Arthit no estaba listo para cruzar.

No obstante, pronto la figura despeinada regresa a la ventana, esta vez con un trapo para limpiar descuidadamente la salpicadura blanca de semen que escurre por el cristal. Por el teléfono, Kongpob puede oír los vagos murmuros sobre “¡no me devolverán el depósito!” y “¡por arruinar el azulejo!”

No se ha subido los shorts y Kongpob no puede evitar reír por la vista. Se sube sus propios pantalones y toma algunos pañuelos del escritorio para limpiar su propio desastre.

—Eres adorable, P’ —dice con cariño al aparato cuando ve que Arthit vuelve a levantar el teléfono del suelo.

Arthit gruñe algo sobre tener que ducharse de nuevo y tira de sus shorts hacia arriba, negándose a mirar hacia la ventana.

—Te amo, P’Arthit. Buenas noches.

—Uh… —Arthit ahora se sienta en el borde de su cama, trayendo sus rodillas hacia su barbilla. —También te amo.

Ante eso, la sonrisa de Kongpob alcanza sus orejas mientras una calidez llena su estómago y su pecho.

—¿A la misma hora mañana? —Dice, con un rastro de astucia en su voz.

—¡Kongpob! ¡Voy a colgar!

Para la mala suerte de Kongpob, no fueron los únicos estudiando hasta tarde la noche siguiente. De todos modos, los exámenes trimestrales serían pronto.

Traducido al español por StSassa

Happy Little Pill

Warnings: Sexually Explicit Content, Non-Narcotic Drug Use

Nursing his hangover, Arthit takes a pill to ease the pain…and gets more pleasure than he asked for.

Arthit likes to think that he’s not the type to get drunk easily, and more often that not, he’s usually the last one still somewhat sober after some particularly rowdy nights out with the guys. It’s both a blessing and curse, in that while he rarely feels hungover the next day, he’s often stuck with the task of hauling his inebriated friends back to their dorms at the end of the night.

Tootah is usually the first to lose his composure, often ending the night by curling up and dramatically crying in one corner over his solitary relationship status and mourning his non-existent past relationships.

He’s closely followed by Prem, who becomes oddly quiet and vehemently glares at his liquor glass on the table as if conjuring up telepathic powers to break it into a million shards.

Bright becomes an exaggerated version of his usual self, starting by (unsuccessfully) hitting on every girl (and one time, a guy) in his line of vision, before gradually moving on to rather entertaining attempts at seducing inanimate objects .

Even Knot, who is unanimously agreed to be the most level-headed member of their group, struggles to stay awake after about three beers.

But, possibly because he’d been in a particularly high spirits that night, celebrating the end of the semester, or because he knew that someone would be around to take him home, Arthit had had a few more drinks than he normally would. As the alcohol settled, he’d launched into a surprisingly coherent lecture for anyone who would listen to him about the basic principles of organic chemistry and listing off the atomic structures of various synthetic polymers.

In this particular instance, his sole audience member had been none other than his boyfriend, who’d remained mostly sober, and had listened to every word, convincingly nodding in encouragement and offering reassuring compliments to the effect of That’s fascinating, P’, and You’re so smart, P’, delivered in earnest with an amused, endearing smile. Kongpob barely even pays mind to his own friends, who are in various states of drunkenness themselves.

Arthit had continued his lecture all the way back to his dorm, comparing the different advantages of injection moulding of polypropylene versus those of extrusion methods. Kongpob had simply played the part of the attentive student until finally, Arthit had slowly drifted off into a peaceful sleep, muttering something about how he expected the supposed assignment to be turned in next lecture while Kongpob had promised him as such, feeding him sips of water through a straw.

When he stirs the next day, he tries twice as hard to force his eyes open, the daylight especially blinding to him. His head is a little foggy and he feels the beginning of a minor headache, but more in the way that one might feel after hanging upside down from a monkey bar for too long rather than a full on pounding migraine. He’s felt worse before, and is grateful that his slightly excessive intake the previous night had only brought him this minor extent of suffering.

He rolls onto his other side to face away from the window, and is met with Kongpob’s chest. His boyfriend is lying on his side, head resting on his propped up hand held up by his elbow.

“Good morning, P’Arthit,” he says gently, tucking a tuft of hair behind Arthit’s ear. “Or, almost noon, I guess.”

Arthit squints at the clock on the wall behind Kong. Indeed, it’s already 11AM. He groans slightly, then shifts himself up into a sitting position, Kongpob doing the same.

“What time did we get back last night?” he blinks blearily and rubs his eyes. His voice is hoarse and a bit scratchy, both from sleep and the alcohol. He takes in Kongpob’s decidedly fresh-looking state. “Did you already shower?”

“Almost 2AM. And yes, I’ve already showered. I only woke up a little bit before you.”

Arthit nods, and lazily drops his legs over the edge of the bed, heaving a dehydrated sigh before slowly padding to the bathroom. He takes a multi-purpose, all-encompassing shower, brushing his teeth and peeing while the shampoo rinses out of his hair.

Normally, he’d be grossed out at the idea of taking a piss in the shower, but he’s too groggy to care. Soon enough, though, the minty toothpaste and hot shower alleviate some of the dry burning in his throat, and serve to awaken his senses just a little more.

Kongpob is at the desk, tidying up a few stacks of papers as Arthit comes out of the bathroom in a fresh set of comfortable clothes. There’s still a mild tension in the forefront of his head, and he rubs his temples through his towel as he finishes drying his hair.

“Do you need a painkiller, P’Arthit?” Kongpob takes the towel from him and gently massages the fluffy cloth over his damp hair.

Arthit shakes his head briefly, watching Kongpob’s face as he intently rubs the towel at the nape of his neck.

“It’s fine, I’ve felt worse after a night out before.”

“You were very talkative last night, P’,” Kongpob grins teasingly, draping the towel over the back of the desk chair. “I learned a lot about different polymers.”

Arthit narrows his eyes in a half-hearted glare.

“At least I’m not a perverted or angry drunk. Nobody ever got hurt with a little more knowledge.”

“I’m not complaining, P’Arthit.”

They sit at the end of the bed, Arthit pulling his legs up on the mattress to sit cross-legged.

“Any plans for today?”

Kongpob shakes his head, leaning back on his wrists.

“I was thinking maybe we could go off campus for lunch later. That sound good?”

“Yeah, okay,” Arthit continues rubbing at his temples with the heels of his palms, an attempt to stimulate blood flow out of his head and through the rest of his body instead. “But I need to clean my room first. It’s a mess and I haven’t done laundry in a week.”

Kongpob nods, and pulls Arthit’s hands away from his head, pulling it down to plant a furtive kiss on his forehead. Arthit shuffles away, slightly pink, at which his boyfriend just chuckles.

“Are you sure you don’t need a painkiller? It would help more than endlessly rubbing your head.”

Arthit squeezes his eyes shut briefly. Maybe, just maybe, he could do with some relief.

“Fine,” he says. “There are some in the bathroom cabinet.”

Kongpob nods, and goes to fetch a glass of water as Arthit begins picking up stray clothing items off of various surfaces and piling them into his laundry basket. He sets the basket aside when his junior comes out of the bathroom with a small, white capsule and hands him the glass.

“Drink all of it. You’re probably dehydrated, too.”

Chucking the pill back, he glugs down the entire glass as though it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Instantly, the moisture sends relief down his dry throat.

“I’ll take this to the laundry room,” Kong says, picking up the full basket. “Be back in about ten minutes.”

Arthit nods, moving to make the bed as the room door clicks shut. He briefly smiles to himself, secretly glad that his boyfriend had stayed with him overnight to look after him. Not that he would ever admit it, but he liked being pampered every so often, and in his current state, he’s not really in the mood to refuse whatever affection Kongpob is willing to shower him with.

As he’s lifting the blanket over the width of the mattress, he catches a familiar whiff of Kongpob’s clean, musky scent. He runs a hand over the blanket to smooth it out, and begins to feel himself sweat slightly, his skin pricking with the faintest sheen of moisture. He must have been harbouring a mild fever, hence the headache, and the painkillers are helping him sweat it out. He’d never had them take effect so quickly before, though.

As he’s adjusting the pillows, smacking them repeatedly so they’re just the right amount of fluffy, the bed creaks slightly from the impact. His chest begins to warmly tingle with a sensation that he’s familiar with, but can’t at that moment quite put his finger on. He ignores it, moving to stack his loosely strewn textbooks into a pile on the end table.

However, it’s as he looks at himself in the mirror at the end table near the door, that he sees his pupils blown wide, and his breath feels heavy, his blood trickling through his veins like a gush of warm water over his nerves. The nape of his neck is damp, although not from his washed hair, but from sweat.

Soon, Kongpob pushes the door handle open, placing the laundry basket into the bathroom under the sink, before noticing that Arthit is just staring at himself in the end table mirror.

“P’Arthit? Are you okay?”

He moves to take Arthit’s hand, pulling him towards him to look at his face, eyes wide with concern. Arthit doesn’t answer, finding himself looking straight into Kongpob’s bright eyes, his own half-lidded as his gaze flickers down to his boyfriend’s alluring, pink lips.

Kongpob just smiles, and leans forward to press his lips softly against Arthit’s in a sweet, patient kiss, mouths gently nibbling at each other at a comfortable pace. Something seems to stir in Arthit as he feels his boyfriend’s arms snake around his waist, the wave of tingling nerves washing over him even more intensely now, and he recognises the well-acquainted sensation that’s been building up in his chest for the past few minutes.

The faint sweating, the heated prickling of his skin, the tingling nerves.

He doesn’t have a fever. He’s…horny.

And rather than pausing to question why, mostly because they’re already kissing and stopping to Google his ‘symptoms’ right now somehow seems more embarrassing than admitting that he’s turned on, he decides to give in to his body. Kongpob almost startles back when he feels Arthit exhale heavily and pull him closer, deepening their simple kiss into a searing, desperate one.

He’s further alarmed when Arthit is the one to hungrily capture his lips again, drinking in his gasp as his back hits the wall near the front door. Arthit isn’t sure what’s happening, but all he knows is that right now, he feels a dying thirst that can only be quenched by kissing his boyfriend. His hands seem to have a mind of their own, grasping at the material at the sides of Kongpob’s shirt as his mouth moves down to leave wet, open mouthed grazes against his junior’s sharp jaw.

“P-P’Arthit…” Kongpob whispers breathily, bringing his hands up to dig his fingers into Arthit’s hair. “Are…are you feeling okay?”

“Shut up, Kong,” comes the response, low and almost growling as his hands work their way to the hem of his boyfriend’s shirt, shoving the soft fabric up his chest as he lowers his head to leave more hot, moist kisses on tanned skin. Soon, he’s pulling the offending shirt over Kongpob’s head, and wrestling his own off before tossing both on the floor beside them, much to his lover’s understandable shock.

He can already feel his erection growing in his boxers, begging for any sort of contact. His lips take a break from Kongpob’s, pulling back only slightly to look into his fully blown pupils, trying to wordlessly communicate his desperation to be touched.

Thankfully, the younger male seems to receive his silent plea, walking Arthit backwards until he’s leaning against the other wall, hands groping their way down pale, milky skin and thumbs grazing over pinkish-brown nipples, hard even before the heated contact.

Arthit’s desperation comes out in choked whimpers, his breaths sharp and quick, trying subtly to push Kongpob’s head further down until his boyfriend realises what it is he wants from him.

“P’Arthit, I’ve never seen you so…” Kongpob breathes, coming face to face with Arthit’s painfully hard length tenting in his boxers. “…needy.”

“I swear to god, Kong…” Arthit groans, his thumb toying with the elastic of his own boxers, but still maintaining a trace of his usual hesitance. His entire chest, groin and even his face is aching with desire, and if Kongpob doesn’t do something soon, he’s going to-

“Oh, fuck…” his voice trembles as Kongpob makes quick work of pulling down the sheer blue material and wasting no time taking the angry red length into his mouth, sucking softly at the head that’s already glazed with pre-cum. Arthit tangles his fingers in Kongpob’s dark locks, trying not to pull too hard, but needing to hold onto something.

Kongpob runs a teasing lick from the base of his lover’s shaft, his tongue barely darting out, and occasionally he pauses to press soft, deliberate kisses along a protruding vein.

“Quit fucking around, Kong,” Arthit chokes out through clenched teeth, his grasp on the younger’s hair impossibly tighter. Kongpob is a little stunned, but takes him into his mouth, lips stretched around the girth and circling the tip of his tongue under the length, before he gasps, harshly being pulled back up by the hairs on the base of his neck, mouth meeting ravenously with Arthit’s again.

“Bed?” Kongpob whispers against Arthit’s cheek as the elder is shoving his shorts and underwear down together, firmly grabbing handfuls of his small, but firm, buttocks. Arthit shakes his head rapidly, finger tugging haphazardly at his boyfriend’s leaking length. “Are you sure? It’ll be more comfortable.”

“I…uh…I just made the bed,” Arthit’s head rolls back in a groan as Kong chuckles, his breath hot against the crook of his boyfriend’s neck, sending shivers through his body. They’d barely started kissing just mere minutes ago, but a raw hunger for contact is raging through him, and he may actually implode with need if he isn’t satisfied soon.

“But…lube…and condoms…” Kong gasps out lamely as he begins to blindly grind himself against his boyfriend, their erections carelessly sliding against each other, producing the most beautiful moan from Arthit’s lips.

“I don’t care. Just…just do it here.”

“Are you sure? It’s right th-“

“For fuck’s sake, Kong, I’m not going to get pregnant!”

The normally stoic hazer grabs Kongpob’s hand and brings it up to his mouth, sucking on the tan, slim digits greedily as they continue to roll their hips together. His junior just stares incredulously at the puffy pink lips that his fingers disappear between, still trying to process what’s happening, but in no way complaining. Deciding that the fingers are wet enough, Arthit turns himself around, one hand grasping at the wall, the other pushing Kongpob’s hand down to his puckering entrance.

Of course, Kongpob takes his time, gently inserting the first finger with tantalisingly slow movements, his mouth pressed beneath Arthit’s ear, suckling at the skin there and drawing out needy, high-pitched gasps.

“Are you sure you’re not still drunk, P’?” he says, maneuvering a second finger into the warm, wet hole, scissoring into it gently and gradually.

“Do you hear me l-lecturing you – ahhhh – about polyethelene?” his whimpers, still trying to sound somewhat intimidating, despite his painfully hard length slowly overtaking the thinking process.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Kongpob chuckles slightly, taking Arthit’s earlobe between his teeth, grazing lightly over the skin. “You’re very sexy when you talk about polymer engineering.”

“Kongpob!” he tries to scold his junior, but it comes out as more of a pleasured cry. “S-stop talking and just fuck me already!” he whisper-yells, turning back around and pulling his stunned junior towards him.

“I…y-yes, P’!” 

Kongpob stammers, stepping closer yet and hooking Arthit’s leg behind his back before lining himself to his entrance. He spits into his hand, giving his own throbbing cock a few more pumps before pushing the head in slowly, earning a hiss (of pleasure? of pain?) from the elder, whose eyes are squeezed shut. Kongpob shudders at the raw sensation, for the first time feeling the full extent of his lover’s warm, impossibly tight cavern, his breath trembling when he’s fully inside.

Arthit pulls his lover’s face towards him, feeling the need to kiss him, both to hide his own embarrassment as well to soothe the sharp sensation in his nether regions. They still against each other for a few moments, simply breathing lazily into each other’s mouths and grazing their noses together. Several more breathy kisses, and then Arthit’s raised leg pulls him closer, indicating for Kong to move.

Both boys’ lips erupt with loud, urgent moans as Kongpob slowly builds up a steady rhythm, one hand pressed against the wall beside Arthit’s head to steady himself.

“Mmm…Kong…” Arthit can barely keep his eyes open, his head thrashing against the wall behind him as his prostate is repeatedly pounded into. His impending climax escalates far sooner than it normally would, their bodies only having been fused together for less than a minute. He’s gasping for air now, shaken cries of delicious anguish emitting from him as Kongpob’s movements jolt his entire body upwards with each thrust. “I’m gonna…mmrnnnaghhh!”

He muffles his scream into his boyfriend’s shoulder, his entire body clenching around Kongpob’s length. He erupts repeatedly against Kongpob’s stomach, paralysed momentarily by his all-consuming release. He’s never felt an orgasm this intense before, and he’s motionless and numb against the wall now, just barely shuddering when he feels Kongpob’s hips shake against him and the warm eruption of cum spill inside of him, indicating his lover’s own finish.

It takes another minute or so of Kongpob holding him up before Arthit can feel his legs again enough to stand on his own. He winces slightly as Kong slips out of him, lazily kissing his still panting mouth as a distraction.

Kongpob is catching his own breath now, both of them now shiny with sweat.

“You’re…already hard again, P’.” he says quietly, looking down between them. Indeed, Arthit’s length is still twitching and erect, although nowhere near as hungry for contact as it had been previously.

His face flushes, and he’s glad that he can blame it partially on their activity, but he still sidesteps out of the space between Kongpob and the wall, before slipping into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He rubs a hand over his face in embarrassment, feeling the trickle of cum running down his thigh, then steps into the shower for the second time that morning.

What on earth had possessed him to maul his boyfriend like that and behave like a wanton harlot? He groans in humiliation as he rinses away the suds from his body, reaching behind himself to clean the sore opening a little more thoroughly.

It’s as he’s looking in the mirror that he remembers that they’re supposed to go out for lunch, so after he gets dressed, towel around his shoulders, he opens the bathroom cabinet for his hair wax. But something else catches his eye.

He picks up the blister pack of painkillers, and narrows his eyes in confusion. The pack is still full, not a single pill having been taken out, which means –

His head snaps back up, and he sees it. It’s another blister pack, the white pills almost identical. You would never know the difference unless you took the time to read the tiny blue print in the shiny foil.

“Kong,” he says tersely, coming out of the bathroom.

His boyfriend has simply pulled his boxers back on, ready for his own turn in the shower. He looks up upon hearing his name being called.


“What did you give me earlier?” he holds up the two blister packs.

Kongpob looks between the two plastic packs and shrugs, brows furrowed in question.


Arthit shuts his eyes in disbelief, pinching the bridge of his nose. He holds up the unopened blister pack, showing it to his junior.

“These,” he shakes it for emphasis. “Are painkillers. These,” he holds up the other, opened pack. “Are…”

He trails off, not even believing he has to say it out loud.

“Are what, P’?” Kongpob stands up, taking the second blister pack from him, squinting to inspect the fine print. “What’s Spanish Fly?”

“I didn’t buy them myself!” he protests. “Bright bought them as a joke…when we first started dating.”

“What? I don’t get it. Are these not painkillers? What are they, then?”

“They’re…” he sighs and rolls his eyes, feeling his cheeks warm all the way to his ears. “An aphrodisiac.”

Kongpob’s look of confusion morphs into one of sheer amusement, before he laughs freely, pulling Arthit’s now very red face towards him, kissing the crease that’s formed between his angry brows.

“Awww, P’,” he chuckles as Arthit shoves him away by the shoulder.

“I’m gonna kill Bright…” he mutters, snatching the blister pack away and attempting to chuck them in the trashcan before Kongpob grabs his arm to stop him.

“Well, P’Arthit…” he says, taking a step closer, a cunning smile forming on his lips. “At least your headache is gone. Maybe you should take it again the next time you’re hungov-“

“Kongpob! Go shower and get dressed!”

Behind Closed Doors & Open Windows

Warnings: Sexually Explicit Content, Exhibitionism…kind of.

Midterms are around the corner, and Kongpob and Arthit can barely find a minute to spend with each other. Separated by the windows to their dorms, they have to get creative to get intimate.

If Kongpob could put his finger on one thing that had changed between him and his boyfriend in the last year, it would be that Arthit no longer shied away from his every touch. Behind closed doors, at least.

It had taken a month or two for the prickly senior to let Kongpob lace their fingers together on campus without getting antsy and snatching his hand away at the mere sight of one of their friends in the distance. It had taken another few months for him to let his cheeky boyfriend pull him behind the faculty building, hold his face in warm hands and kiss him softly. He would try to enjoy himself, but he’d occasionally peek an eye open lest one of their juniors decided, for whatever reason, to take the back stairs usually reserved as a fire escape route. Even now, he would scowl and tell Kongpob he was ridiculous, but not without being faintly pleased, Kong’s favourite sight of rosy blush creeping into Arthit’s pale cheeks. 

In Arthit’s dorm, the door locked and curtains drawn closed, Kongpob revels in the way his boyfriend responds hungrily to any and all of his advances, even going so far as to make the first move sometimes. The first time they had tried to have sex, Kongpob had spent half an hour sitting naked outside the bathroom door reassuring his extremely embarrassed lover that it was okay for him to have finished so quickly, and that he was, in fact, flattered. Over time, though, the two could barely keep their hands and mouths off each other, and Kong now has a semi-permanent hard on just thinking about being in Arthit’s room.The junior remembers the shiver up his spine that he had felt when a normally silent Arthit had pulled him into his room one evening and straight up asked – no, begged – to be fucked against the wall. 

So to say that their upcoming midterms had cast an extremely dry spell on their love life is an understatement. Nights usually spent rolling around and gasping out each other’s names between the sheets are now replaced by hours grumbling over math problems and gnawing at highlighters, coffee cups piling up in the trash can.

Tonight is one such night. 

It’s past midnight – a little past 1AM, in fact – and Arthit has decided that no amount of studying he does now will even be digested properly anyway, not to mention that he has a 9AM lecture (ugh) the next morning. He stands up and stretches, vaguely glancing outside to find that Kongpob’s lights are still on, the only one on his side of the building. 

Kongpob picks up after about five rings.

“Hmm? P’, what’s up?” he doesn’t sound like he was asleep, but he definitely sounds fatigued.

“Why are you still awake?” 

It comes out a bit like a scolding, but Kongpob just smiles.

“What time is it?” he says. The weariness is heavy in his voice, his throat irritated from having practised his presentation in the mirror for three hours straight. 

“Kong, it’s almost 1:30 in the morning. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“You’re awake, too, P’Arthit.” 

“I know, because I was up studying. I was about to call it a night and saw your lights still on.”

“You were watching me, P’?” his boyfriend teases.

“I’m going to bed.” Arthit scowls at nobody.

“Aww, I’m sorry. Don’t hang up yet.” 

Kongpob’s smoother-than-silk voice would be considered a lethal weapon if Arthit had his say. Far too many times, he had found himself agreeing to things he didn’t even really like because Kongpob’s stupid dulcet tones had coerced him into them. Like the time he’d somehow said yes to taking his boyfriend to a fairground theme park, thinking they’d play dart games and he’d win Kongpob a teddy bear or something equally pointless and disgustingly cute. Not only was he completely shit at darts, but Kongpob had felt guilty for weeks after seeing Arthit violently throw up as soon as they’d come off a particularly terrifying rollercoaster. 

“What do you want to talk about then?” he sighs, flopping down onto his bed, his legs hanging off the edge. 

“I miss you, P’.” Kongpob says, his voice quiet and breathy. Arthit knows he isn’t just saying that, because usually, such a declaration would be dripping with flirtation. This is just pure and honest, spoken as truth rather than to get a reaction. 

“Yeah…me too.” Arthit admits.

They really hadn’t had much time for each other in the past three weeks. It seems increasingly hard for them to even meet for lunch on campus these days, let alone spend the night in each other’s rooms. Their interactions are limited to quick pecks and fleeting grasps of the hands as they passed in corridors or hurried texts and brief calls good night. Arthit won’t admit it out loud, but he kind of longs for the constant teasing and flirting that comes with the territory of being in a relationship with Kongpob Sutthiluck. 

“P’, I want to see you.” Arthit hears shuffling in the background. 

“It’s almost 2AM, Kong. I’ve got a 9AM class.”

“Come to the window, then.”

Arthit sighs but obliges. He heaves himself off the mattress, and shuffles to the window. He draws his curtains open wide, to see Kongpob looking back at him, his fingers pressed against the glass. 

“Hi,” Kong smiles lovingly, giving a brief wave. Arthit can’t help but smile back. 

“Hi,” he says back, placing his own hand to meet Kongpob’s. 

It’s the first time they’re properly looking at each other in the past two weeks, and Arthit feels a dull ache in his chest at the realisation that he really, truly just misses seeing and holding his boyfriend. 

“How are you, P’Arthit?” Kongpob leans against the window frame.

“Um. Tired? I can’t wait for midterms to end so I can stop reading this stupid textbook.” he gestures vaguely at the desk, trying to choke back any tears that might have bubbled up in his throat. It doesn’t matter how open they’d become with each other, he doesn’t want Kongpob worrying about him just because he’s a little stressed. 

“It’ll be over soon. Then maybe we can go to that shabu-shabu place you like. My treat.”

Arthit chuckles. “Okay, sugar daddy.”

“Anything for my sugar baby.” Kongpob laughs, too. 

Arthit watches as the tall, tan figure pushes off the frame and moves to the glass again. They gaze longingly at each other for a while longer, before Kongpob sighs noisily, looking down at his feet, his hand on the window curling into a fist. 

“I want you so bad, P’.” his junior almost whispers, catching Arthit off guard.

The senior’s cheeks bloom with heat, bashful about his boyfriend’s frankness. 

“Kongpob!” he sputters. 

“What? It’s been a few weeks already.”  he whines.

“Go take care of it in the shower, then.”

“I can’t, it’s not the same.” 

“I’m really tired, okay, Kong? It’s not that I don’t want to come over.” he says. It’s true. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to engage in a little rough and tumble followed by cuddles and sweet kisses to his forehead, but he can’t afford to let his grades slip and lose his scholarship for something as trivial as being horny

“You don’t have to.” comes Kongpob’s response, his voice low. He’s staring intently at Arthit, eyes glistening even in the dim light, ten metres away.

“What do you mean?” 

He sees Kongpob come closer to the glass and look up to his left, then right, then scan both directions below him. 

“The coast is clear.” 

“What are you talking about, Kong?”

The line goes quiet and Arthit takes a step closer to his own window, before almost choking at what he sees.

It’s dark and he can really only make out Kongpob’s usually sharp features roughly, but he is unmistaken at seeing his boyfriend sneak a hand into his sweatpants and touch himself, all the while staring intently, straight at Arthit. 

“K-Kongpob! You’re at the window! Anyone could see you!”

Arthit’s breath hitches, and he subconsciously pokes his tongue out to lick at his bottom lip, his breath shaking.

“I’ve already checked, P’Arthit. You’re the only one still awake.” Kongpob’s voice is breathy, needy, and Arthit swallows as he watches the handsome figure pull himself out of the waistband and push the offending garment down his hips, hard cock snapping out of restriction and hanging freely over the elastic.

A warm, tingling heat spreads in Arthit’s abdomen, and he feels his own erection straining in his own shorts. He opens his mouth to protest, but he can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away at the sight of his insatiable lover who now sucks greedily at his own fingers, a wet popping sound coming through the phone as they leave his mouth. Arthit has forgotten how to form words. 

“P’…I want you in my mouth.” The same hand, wet from his mouth, trails down his front and makes its way under the hem of his grey sleep shirt, reaching up smooth olive skin stretched over taut muscles to tweak at one of his dark nipples. 

“Kong…I-” he chokes out but anything he’s about to say fades away in the fog that has clouded his logic. 

“Touch yourself for me, P’. I want to see you.” 

Arthit is gripping hard onto his phone and he manages to look away from the unbelievable sight in front of him for several seconds to scan the surrounding windows again. Indeed, no other room has their lights on or their curtains open. 

“Please, P’Arthit…” Kongpob’s trembling voice alerts Arthit back to him, and he’s wrapped his long, slender fingers around his hard length again. 

Arthit feels his cheeks and ears burn as he lifts the hem of his own shirt and tucks a thumb under the waistband of his boxers and shorts. I must be losing it, he thinks. Slowly and shyly, he pushes them down to his knees, and palms at himself hesitantly, although the mere sight of Kongpob already has him painfully hard. They’d masturbated in front of each other before, but it was one thing to stare at each other through the steam of the shower, and another to have a potential audience of about 80 other students in their dorm complex. He’s glad his horny little shit of a boyfriend has essentially no shame in this moment, because while their sexual escapades in bed thus far had been far from vanilla, Arthit still feels like a prostitute in a church. 

“What I would give to be inside you right now…fuck.” Kongpob has an elbow against the glass to hold himself up, and Arthit thinks he might pass out when he sees his lean, athletic junior begin to grind against the glass, squeaking and gliding with his own precum. 

“Fuck…Kong…” he pants, never one for many words. And then any hesitation he might have had about peeping eyes from neighbouring rooms melts away as his eyes glaze over with lust at Kongpob’s completely debauched state. The campus moon’s expression is one of both anguish and concentration, eyebrows pinched together, eyes piercing with desperation at Arthit, his bangs damp with sweat against his forehead. 

Arthit is completely entranced by the thick flesh smoothly sliding up and down, and before he can convince himself otherwise, he laps sloppily at his own fingers before allowing them to timidly drift behind him, his recently neglected hole begging to be filled, the opening pulsing with every beat of his pounding heart. 

He inhales sharply at the pressure of the first finger – easy enough because it’s just one, but spit is a less than ideal lubricant. The second finger makes him wince, but he doesn’t care because he just needs to feel something, anything. He knows he could technically forgo this process, but months of their late night explorations had taught Arthit that, in fact, he loves bottoming, and loves the way Kongpob plants satisfied kisses on his chest when he comes untouched. 

“P’Arthit…holy…fuck, are you opening yourself up for me?” comes the desperate whine in his ear. Arthit is amazed at himself for still being able to stand, his eyes brimming with tears at the overwhelming sensation of watching his usually composed boyfriend come undone in front of him, and at his own hand scissoring into his tight warmth. “That’s…mmmph. Look at you…”

“I want to be ready for you – ahhh…” he groans hoarsely as his fingers graze over that spot. 

“Come closer…against the glass.” Kongpob has slowed his thrusts now, his free hand cupping his balls.

Arthit does take a step closer, but his length remains away from the window. He’s gasping now, quiet whimpers escaping his mouth as he grinds against his own fingers. 

“P’, I’m so close…” Kongpob steps back and wraps his fingers around his own length now, frantically pumping himself, eyes squeezed shut, mouth hanging open in a silent scream before he releases with an anguished cry, spurting hot and sticky against the glass.

His senior feels his knees growing weaker and weaker as he quirks his fingers inside himself.

“Come for me, P’…you’re so beautiful.” his boyfriend breathes heavily into the receiver, still coming down from his high.

And with that, Arthit groans through his own shaking orgasm, all the blood in his body delivering a warm wave that rushes over every single nerve. He pulls the phone away from his ear now, heaving as he leans against the glass, his warm breath leaving a patch of condensation. It’s only as his hooded lids slowly flutter open that he can see the mess he’s made in front of him.

Kongpob, equally spent from the activity, hears a loud clatter, and startles, looking up to find that Arthit has disappeared from the view of the window. He worries briefly that he might have gone too far and crossed a boundary Arthit hadn’t been ready for. 

Soon, however, the fluffy-haired figure returns to the window, this time with a washcloth, haphazardly mopping up the white splatter of cum dripping down the glass. Through the phone, Kongpob can hear Arthit’s faint mutters of never getting my deposit back! and ruining the tile

He hasn’t pulled his shorts up, and Kongpob can’t help but giggle at the sight. He pulls up his own pants and grabs a few tissues off the desk, cleaning up his own mess.

“You’re adorable, P’.” he says lovingly into the speaker when he sees Arthit pick the phone up off the floor again.

Arthit grumbles something about having to shower again, and tugs his shorts back up, refusing to face the window.

“I love you, P’Arthit. Good night.”

“Uh…” Arthit sits on the edge of his bed now, pulling his knees up to his chin. “Love you, too.”

Kongpob’s smile reaches his ears at this, warmth filling his belly and chest.

“Same time tomorrow night?” he says, a cunning edge to his voice.

“Kongpob! I’m hanging up!”

Unfortunately for Kongpob, they aren’t the only ones up late studying the following evening. Midterms would be over soon, anyway. 

Utility & Satisfaction

Warnings: Sexually Explicit Content, Slight OOC

Kongpob is having a really difficult time studying for his entrance exam, so Arthit offers him some…assistance.

Sometimes, Kongpob wonders if he’s truly cut out to study economics, or if his naïve high school self had simply been looking to go against the grain of what his parents expected of him. Engineering, while not his first choice, had least been a fruitful experience both in his learning and, of course, his personal life.

It’s a Friday evening, and while most of his friends are either already starting their first jobs, or out enjoying their last summer of unadulterated fun before their contracts begin, Kongpob is cooped up indoors staring at the jumbled diagrams and words on the pages his three-inch thick textbook, the top recommended resource in preparation for the entrance exam to his applied programme.

He’s been glaring helplessly at the same page for the past half hour, occasionally copying out half-assed key points into his notebook, but none of the information forming any coherence in his goo-like brain. 

Utility is a term in economics that…something….defines whether or not something has the ability to gain or not gain from…something…

It doesn’t help that the textbook is in his second language, and it’s taking him twice as long to parse each and every word to full comprehension. Why, again, had he thought it was a good idea to do a masters? Who in their right mind would subject themselves to more studying after over fifteen long, grating years of schooling? He must be a glutton for punishment.

“P’Arthiiiit,” he whines, looking up with a pout and his best puppy dog eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that, you’re the one who has an exam to pass.” 

Arthit doesn’t even look up from his comic book, but he shakes his head and smirks.

They’re in his apartment, Kongpob hunched over the small table by the window, Arthit leaning against the headboard of the bed. Despite that the academic year had already finished, Kongpob had somehow convinced his parents to let him stay on campus until he had to go abroad (if at all), claiming that it wouldn’t make any sense to move twice in such a short space of time. However, he still spent most nights with Arthit, gradually weaselling his way into cohabitation by taking up drawer and bathroom counter space, cooking their meals while Arthit was at work.

Kongpob gets up, plopping down on the edge of the bed with the gargantuan book in hand. 

“Help me.” he pulls the comic book down away from his boyfriend’s face. Arthit rolls his eyes, placing his comic book to the side of him on the bed.

“How would I be of any help? I don’t know anything about economics.”

“I’ve been reading this page over and over again and I still don’t really get it. It’s not actually that difficult, but I just can’t absorb it for some reason.”

He huffs in exasperation, then pushes Arthit’s legs apart before shifting himself backwards to nestle between them, his back against Arthit’s chest and his head tucked into the crook of his neck.

“What are you doing?”


Arthit sighs, but brings his arms around his junior to rest his hands on his stomach, pulling him closer. Kongpob’s back is warm, the material of his shirt soft, and his hair fluffy and smelling like grapefruit shampoo. It’s nice, Arthit admits, this comforting feeling of closeness. 

With Kongpob constantly being stressed out over this wretched exam that would take place in three weeks, they hadn’t really found the time to go out on dates, nor really done much together at home other than study.

Kongpob runs a finger over the same line he’s been repeatedly scanning, as though trying to magically absorb the information through pure touch. The book is propped up on his bent knees, feet planted firmly onto the mattress. 

“Seriously, I just can’t process any of it.” he grumbles. “It’s like I suddenly forgot how to read.”

“You know, you can’t just study by reading. There are studies that show that you need to use more practical techniques. Like writing concise notes about it, or trying to teach someone else.”

Arthit absent-mindedly pets his boyfriend’s hair, separating the strands before pulling out a stray white hair on the top of his head. They’d taken to doing this for each other ever since Kongpob had first spotted one in the back of Arthit’s head, and said it made him look wiser. Arthit, on the other hand, had insisted he pull it out, saying he was too young to have greying hair. Thus ensued a chain of plucking like monkeys picking fleas out of each other’s matted fur. 

“Ow! I did try writing notes, but after a while it just felt like I was copying out words to practise my penmanship.”

“Okay, why don’t you try and teach me about what you’re reading then?”

Kongpob tilts his head to glance up at Arthit’s face, grinning.

“Can I?”

“I’m not promising I’ll actually get it, but if it helps you, yeah.”

There’s a glint of mischief in his eyes, and Arthit already dreads the next predictable question that’s about to come out of his mouth.

“What do I get if I manage to explain it to you?”

“You get to go back to the desk knowing that you’ve studied well and are more likely to pass your exam.”

“You’re no fun,” Kongpob groans. “Please? We haven’t done it in a week now.”

He takes Arthit’s chin, angling his face down to kiss him. Arthit yanks his chin away and glares at him indignantly. 

“Delayed gratification, Kong. It’ll be worth the wait. Now come on, explain this to me.”

Sighing, Kongpob returns his gaze to the indecipherable page, trying to figure out where to even begin. 

“Okay. This chapter is talking about utility, which is basically how much power something has to provide satisfaction. So like, how much you enjoy pink milk -“

“Kongpob!” Arthit lightly smacks his stomach.

“I’m kidding!” his boyfriend laughs. “Okay fine, for example, how much satisfaction I get from being in your arms.”

Kongpob can sense his senior’s eyes rolling so far into the back of his head that he can see his organs.

“Therefore, utility is the measure of how much satisfaction something can bring. Anything where we can make a decision between more than one option has comparable utility.”

“So it compares how much satisfaction one thing brings over another.” Arthit ponders aloud, fiddling with a loose thread on the hem of Kong’s shirt.

“Exactly. And we draw this comparison by using the measurement unit of utils. As with most measurements, the higher the unit of utils, the higher the level of satisfaction. Obviously, we can’t really measure satisfaction, per se, but…”

As Kongpob continues to ramble on about utils, Arthit is either feeling slightly delirious from the smell of his boyfriend pressed up so close against him, or the seriousness with which he’s explaining these terms to him has put him in the mood to tease him. His fingers graze lightly over the material of Kongpob’s shirt, drawing slow, lazy circles right below his belly button.

“Wh-what are you doing, P’Arthit?”

“Nothing. Keep reading.” His voice is calm and steady. “I’m listening.”

“O…okay.” Kongpob says, but Arthit can feel him tense slightly against his chest. “Utility is different from how ‘good’ something is. You can gain satisfaction from something, but it doesn’t mean it necessarily has g-good…consequences.” 

His breath hitches slightly as Arthit lifts the hem of his shirt to toy with the downy hair leading down past the elastic of his boxers.

“Can you give an example?” Arthit smirks, his voice feigning innocence. He carefully slips a hand under Kongpob’s waistband, fingers gently running through the thick, wiry hairs lining his groin.

“I- uh….an example…” Kongpob’s head is cloudy and struggling to focus on anything but the sensation of the teasing hand in his shorts, but scrambles for any words that might help him form an answer.

“Yes, an example.” 

Arthit’s warm, soft hand has reached the base of his boyfriend’s cock where he fondles it between his fingers, the flesh slowly hardening under his touch. Kongpob’s breathing heaves unsteadily against Arthit’s chest, rising and falling with difficulty.

“F-for example, I can get s-satisfaction – oh god – um, from uh….eating pizza.”

“Mmhmm…go on…” 

Kongpob grapples between his brain and his groin to form the next part of his explanation, his vision glazed over with craving and need, but he gulps, hands gripping the pages.

“But…um…even though I looo-ove pizza…it….it isn’t really g-good – so good, ahhh…for me…”

Arthit is carefully pumping the thick length now, deeply breathing in the familiar musky scent of Kongpob’s dampening skin on his temples. He leans down and takes the shell of his junior’s earlobe between his teeth, scraping the skin lightly and delighting in the shiver this produces in the body in front of him. 

“Does it matter whether or not it’s good for you?” 

“That….that would depend on…shit, P’, I’m gonna -“

“Ah, ah, not yet.” Arthit slows his movements, pressing his thumb over the slit and gently rubbing the precum over the head in a manner so tantalisingly slow that it has Kongpob gasping. “Keep going. What does it depend on?”

“It – oh fuck! It depends on…wh-whether or not…the person..eee-eating the pizza…cares about – nngghhh – about that kind of thing…”

He’s trembling now, the need to come some overwhelming that the book has slipped out of his hands and between their legs onto the mattress. Instead, his hands are gripping Arthit’s thighs, pulling him closer, and he’s arching against his boyfriend’s chest, a whimper escaping his lips.

“So would you consider this simply useful, or…satisfying?”

“I…I’d say it’s…almost satisfying.” he manages to choke out between desperate sobs.

“Almost? And here I was thinking I was doing a good job.”

He’s practically tugging at Kongpob’s throbbing length now, slick with moisture and enlarged with all the blood rushing to his groin. Arthit’s own hard on is forming in his shorts with the friction from Kong’s anguished squirming against his front. 

“Yes…yes! Please, P’Arthit, I just need to-“

“Come for me, Kong. Don’t I satisfy you?”

“You do…I…oh, god, I’m -“

The writhing mess of a young man grasps at the material of Arthit’s shorts, and he spills onto the front of his own shirt and onto Arthit’s fingers, the fluid coming out in several hot spurts as he shudders with each one. 

Arthit, clearly amused and deeply content with how Kongpob has completely collapsed against his chest, pulls his sticky fingers out of his boyfriend’s shorts. He looks at them briefly, wondering what to do with his hand, eyes searching for tissues but finding none. Normally when Kong did this to him, he had no issue making a show of lapping Arthit’s come off of his fingers, but he’d never done the same in return.

Slightly self-conscious and nervous at the prospect, he cautiously brings his hand to his own lips, carefully and tentatively sticking his tongue out to scoop up a drop of the results of his work. He revels in the unique salty taste, not unpleasant, but nothing like he’s ever tasted before. Deciding that he actually quite likes it, he begins lapping up the rest, thankful that Kongpob is still too distracted by his high to notice. 

Once he’s licked his fingers clean, he tilts Kongpob’s chin sideways to look at him, then places a soft, wet kiss on his mouth. They continue to kiss like this for a few moments, up close and nibbling, noses deeply breathing each other in.

“Do you understand it now?” Arthit teases once they break apart. 

Kongpob just stares at him, his eyes full of wonder and amazement at what’s just happened.

“I think I understand this page now, yes.” he breathes, his chest still heaving slightly.

“Good,” Arthit smirks at him. “Now you’ve gotten both the satisfaction and usefulness, you can study on your own now.”

Kongpob immediately sits up, turning around to pin Arthit’s shoulders to the headboard.

“Wait, P’Arthit,” a playful grin forming on his lips. “I should thank you for being so…helpful.”

Arthit narrows his eyes in a glare.

“I would be very thankful if you would get back to your actual studying.” he says, prying Kongpob’s fingers off of him and slithering out from underneath his hold. 

His cheeks bloom with a faint wash of pink, flustered by the attention. His boyfriend pouts, walking two sauntering fingers up Arthit’s leg, cheekily inching towards his inner thigh. Of course, he’s promptly swatted away.

“But -“

“Stop it. No more rewards until you’ve covered at least another two chapters.”

Kongpob’s pout morphs into a simpering smile.

“Is that a promise?”