The room was the colour of unsweetened tea when Tawan woke. Not night, not day—just that washed-out in-between where furniture looks like memory. He lay on his back and tried to name what felt wrong. Nothing. Everything. He reached to his bedside for the familiar rectangle, flipped the lighter with his thumb, listened to the hinge tick. Imel's. He weighed it in his palm, held a cigarette, didn't light it, put both down. Breath over ritual. Fine.
He padded to the kitchenette, filled a glass, took the morning pills with the seriousness you reserve for small truths. The water was colder than he expected. It confirmed he existed. He leaned on the counter and watched the window admit a little more day with each blink. A message from Saint buzzed through.
noodle run? later. i'll behave. mostly.
Tawan typed without looking: later is good. He turned the phone over so the screen faced the table. The kettle clicked. The apartment made its usual quiet noises: the tiny protest of pipes, the lift muttering somewhere, a bird that had business with the gutter. He stood in the middle of the floor until the stillness decided to be company instead of an argument.
By late morning he was reading on the carpet with his back to the bed, the book open but not advancing, when he felt the mattress dip. Imel sat, elbows on knees, hands slack between them like he'd forgotten what hands were for. He was looking past the wardrobe, past the wall, past the day. It wasn't the usual stillness he carried like a tool. It was the kind that empties out a room.
"You want tea?" Tawan asked, testing the temperature of the moment.
Imel didn't answer at first. His mouth opened, shut, opened again. "Don't know."
The words came scraped. He didn't move. Tawan shifted his book aside and came to sit beside him on the bed, shoulder to shoulder, close enough to be felt, not enough to crowd. He kept his voice the level people use when they're handing glass over glass.
"Quiet or company?"
"Here," Imel said, and even the one word sounded like it cost something.
So Tawan stayed. He put his palm flat between Imel's shoulder blades, heavy enough to be a weight, not a pat. He didn't count breaths, but he listened as they found a rhythm that didn't argue with the room. Imel exhaled in short edits for a while, then slower, then steadier. The jaw unclenched a degree. The hands remembered how to rest. The chest lost that held-between-two-notes tension.
After a long time—several pages' worth even though neither of them looked at the book—Imel spoke, eyes still on the wall. "I can't find the label."
"You don't need one," Tawan said.
"I know." He swallowed and grimaced like the action was too bitter for the thought. "But I—"
"Don't force it." Tawan's thumb moved once at the back of his shoulder. "We're allowed to leave some drawers shut."
Imel breathed, like he was trying the sentence on to see if it fit. He nodded, almost not there, and sat more upright. The room felt less like a boat.
Saint's second message arrived then, a buzzing at the edge of the scene. i have tragic news: my best pencil refuses to draw straight lines. noodles will help. 5?
Tawan typed 5 and set the phone down again.
Imel's mouth twitched. "Noodles."
"I'm a man of culture," Tawan said, deadpan enough to work. "Also broth."
Imel stood, slow, and reached for the glass on the counter. "I'll be at the café for a while. We're arguing with numbers and a wall that refuses to be a wall."
"Want me to bring anything?"
"Just you," he said, then winced because he hadn't meant to sound like a film.
Tawan pretended not to catch it. "I can manage that."
Imel left with the quiet you learn from early shifts and machines that don't like drama. When the door clicked, the room didn't feel emptier. It felt like it had decided to hold.
Roenfé was awake in the way busy places are: the grinder's throat clearing, the milk's soft yelp, a door that didn't exactly stick but liked to complain. Imel moved through the space as if the floor had asked him to demonstrate its uses. He coached Pim through the grind like he always did, pitched his voice low to keep the morning calm, and only once told Natee that a screw is not a theory but a fact.
"Phi, is there anything else to do with the place, regarding the expansion?" Natee asked, trying to be helpful.
"Not much…It's going to take a while," Imel said, and put his phone away before it told him anything that needed a reaction.
Around three, the room clogged with the late lunchers. He leaned on the counter for a second, not because he needed to, but because stopping on purpose can feel like control. The light coming in was patient. He filed that away.
Saint honked from the car park exactly once and sent get in loser we're getting soup, then immediately followed up with jk don't cancel me. Tawan huffed a laugh without quite smiling and took the lift.
Saint had cleaned his car since last time; it still looked like a painter's studio had tried to become a hatchback, but he'd won a small battle against the crumbs. He wore a shirt with an alarming fish on it and sunglasses that had no business being that confident.
"You look theatrical," Tawan said, buckled in.
"I woke up with main character syndrome," Saint said, easing into traffic. "How's your head?"
"It's attached."
"Good start."
They rolled out of the city, windows margin-open to let the warm air in without arguing with the AC. The road shouldered the river for a while, then lost interest. They didn't talk for the first twenty minutes because sometimes that's how you earn a conversation.
The stall they chose was one Saint swore existed and Tawan thought he'd imagined until it appeared: two tin tables, a blue tarp, a cat that supervised like management. The old man at the pots didn't ask what they wanted; he pressed bowls into their hands like blessings.
Saint leaned in, steam beading his nose. "Right. Business. I heard three rumours today: a gallery intern has opinions about brushstroke economy, my hair has become sentient, and you didn't light a cigarette this morning."
"The third one is true," Tawan said. "The second one is a weekly event."
"And the first one?"
"The intern's already drafting a manifesto."
"Miserable beast," Saint said cheerfully. He slurped and, between mouthfuls, looked at Tawan in that way that is clear without being interrogative. "You want to tell me what happened?"
Tawan turned his spoon in the broth, watched the sheen move like oil remembering it was water. "He had a moment," he said. "Like the inside of his chest forgot what shape to be. I stayed. That's… what there was to do."
"Good," Saint said. "You're good at staying."
Tawan reached into his pocket, set a small, rattling bottle on the plastic table. "This helps me stay. Sertraline. Keeps the ground where I can step on it." He didn't look up for a beat, then did, waiting for a reaction he wasn't sure he wanted.
Saint tapped the bottle with his chopsticks once like a toast. "I love functional furniture."
Tawan blinked. "That's not a piece of—"
"It holds the floor for you," Saint said, as if explaining sunrise. "I like anything that holds. Me: ADHD with RSD. I can paint for fourteen hours, forget to eat, and then cry because someone liked my post too slowly. The brain is a prank. On us."
"Do you tell people that," Tawan asked, "or just me."
"You, because you're collecting the unpopular hobby of believing me," Saint said, cheerful and sincere in the same sentence. "If I go quiet, I'm probably in a tunnel. Nudge once. Twice if you want me to bite."
"I'll bring food to the tunnel," Tawan said.
"Sexy," Saint replied. "You going to tell Imel?"
"I will," Tawan said. "He deserves the version with the lights on."
Saint lifted his bowl a little, in salute. "To lights on."
They ate until food replaced metaphor. The cat surveyed their empty bowls and allowed them to exist. On the drive back, Saint sang off-key to a ballad as if it were a sporting event. At a red light he glanced over and said, casual, "You're softer today."
"I'm tired of only being angles," Tawan said.
Saint reached and poked his cheek once. "Round looks good on you."
The roof had inherited blue by the time Imel reached it. The edge of day had that losing-the-argument look he liked. He stood with both hands on the parapet and let the river wind be his face's business for a minute. When he lit the cigarette it wasn't a statement; it was punctuation.
Korn came with the timing of a person who often arrives when you're hoping they will. He didn't open with questions. He leaned on the wall and nodded at the lighter.
"You're cheating on coffee," he said.
"Occasionally."
Korn accepted the cigarette, took a narrow drag, handed it back. "You look like rehearsal for a tragedy."
"I'm fine," Imel said.
"Tragedy always starts with 'I'm fine'," Korn said. "Then the curtain lifts and everyone's in black."
Imel breathed smoke out of one corner of his mouth. "Is the way I am getting between me and Tawan?"
Korn made a face like something sour had tried to be sweet. "That's spectacularly cliché."
"It's a fair question."
"It's television," Korn said. "If he didn't want what you are, he'd be somewhere else being noble about it. Has he done that?"
"No."
"Then the thought is just a mosquito," Korn said. "You can't stop them existing. You can stop them running the city."
Imel watched the far bank, the lit windows freckling on like a slow rash. "Sometimes I want a big speech."
"Then I've got a small one for you," Korn said. "He left, yes. Did he slam anything?"
"No."
"Did he promise something he didn't keep?"
"No."
"Then maybe he went to make more room," Korn said. "That's an act of love in some heavy languages."
Imel let the ash fall, watched the ember run out. "Thank you."
"I'll invoice you for poetry," Korn said, and bumped his shoulder against Imel's once with the kind of affection you share with someone who wouldn't know where to put flowers.
Saint parked in the basement like he'd been born in tight corners. "Go to your boy," he told Tawan in the lift, then yawned so hard his eyes watered. "I'm going to fall in love with my pillow and apologise in the morning."
They split on the fourth floor. The corridor had collected the day's heat and softened it.
Tawan let himself into his place, flicked the bathroom light, and stood under the shower until the skin at his shoulders prickled. He dried off, pulled on shorts and a vest, and stared at his face in the mirror long enough to recognise it. He texted: I'm back. Where are you? The reply came immediately: Rooftop. I can come to yours if that's okay. He frowned, typed: Of course. Why wouldn't it be? The little "read" flag appeared. Nothing else.
He poured water to take his night dose and was tipping the pills into his palm when the knock came. He set everything down and crossed to the door.
Imel stepped in with the carefulness of someone who thinks they might be interrupting. He shut the door softly and hovered by it as if domestic thresholds were customs checkpoints.
"You're quiet again," Tawan said, heading back to the counter. He didn't make it a complaint. "Is this about earlier."
Imel's answer had to fight its way out. "Is the way I am getting in between us?"
Tawan stopped, glass halfway to his mouth. He turned. "Why would you think that."
"I don't know," Imel said, too quickly to be true. "I just— the thought sits there. I can't find where it starts, I can't—" He cut himself off, frowned at the floor. "It's not useful."
"No," Tawan said, "but it's real to you." He set the glass down. He crossed the room and took Imel's hand like a reasonable person. He didn't squeeze. He didn't lace. He just held it long enough to make the contact a fact. "I'm sorry."
Imel's head lifted, sharp. "For what. You didn't do anything."
"I'm sorry you felt like that," Tawan said. "It matters even if it's wrong."
"It isn't—you didn't—" He exhaled and then actually laughed, one short breath of surprised sound.
"I'm bad at letting nice sentences touch me."
"I'll try again," Tawan said. "I like you." He said it the way he says his own name at doctor's appointments. "All the yous. The quiet one. The precise one. The one that can't find the label and sits anyway. I like you when you're here and when you need air. I like you on my bed and at your counter and in the middle of a street when you're solving the geometry of traffic with your eyebrows."
Imel stared at him with the focus he gives to machines he respects. The mouth betrayed him with the beginning of a smile and then recovered. "I need you to fight me when I say stupid things."
"I will," Tawan said, automatic. "I will also be annoying about water and hours of sleep and telling me when words go missing."
Imel's head angled slightly, which in his body meant yes. "And I will tell you if the mosquito returns."
"Good," Tawan said. He lifted his free hand to Imel's face, thumb on the cheekbone, the kind of touch that is medically precise about being gentle. "Look at me."
Imel did. The pupils jumped once and then held.
"I like you," Tawan said again, quieter, like he was lining the sentence with felt so it would land softly.
The kiss was not sudden. It was something they both reached to at the same time, not dramatic, not shy. The first was to test a theory; the second proved it. They tasted of smoke and mint, of hot water and fresh air from a car with the windows down. The room's temperature adjusted to them, not the other way round. When the backs of their knees met the bed, they let the mattress decide where to put them. There was no hurry. There was that slow, gathered way people move when they're not trying to sell the moment to an audience.
Tawan reached up first, his fingers finding the simple tie that held Imel's hair back from the day's work. He tugged it loose with a gentleness that matched the room's dimming light, watching as the strands fell forward, framing Imel's face like a curtain parting on something familiar yet new. The hair brushed against Tawan's cheek as Imel leaned closer, and Tawan let his hand linger there, threading through the softness, not pulling, just feeling the weight of it.
His hands moved to Tawan's vest, fingers tracing the hem before lifting it slowly, exposing skin to the air that had cooled with the evening. Tawan shifted to help, arching just enough, and the fabric whispered off, discarded to the floor like an unnecessary layer of the conversation.
Tawan eased back against the pillows, his gaze steady on Imel, not demanding but inviting, the kind of look that says stay without the word. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts, sliding them down with deliberate slowness, the motion unhurried, as if time had agreed to stretch for them. "I want to do this," he said quietly, his words sparse, weighted like the heat lingering in the sheets. "With you."
Imel's response was action first—his own shirt came off in a fluid pull, revealing the lines of his body, practical and unposed, like the countertops he polished daily.
He paused, shorts following, stepping out of them with the same precision he used for measuring coffee grounds. Then he was on the bed, knees sinking into the mattress, closing the space. Their lips met again, deeper this time, Imel's hands framing Tawan's face, thumbs brushing jawlines as the kiss built in layers, breaths mingling in the quiet.
It grew insistent, not aggressive, but insistent like the river outside insisting on its path. Tawan's hands roamed Imel's back, feeling the warmth, the subtle shift of muscles under skin. He guided Imel down gently, his touch firm but careful, like handling glass that might reflect back his own vulnerabilities. Sliding lower, Tawan traced kisses along Imel's abdomen, slow and exploratory, his mouth warm, deliberate. He lingered, using lips and tongue to map the terrain, up and down in unhurried strokes, drawing out soft sounds from Imel that filled the room like distant rain.
Imel let out a low breath, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment, head tipping back against the pillow. "That… feels," he started, words halting as sensation overtook, his hands finding Tawan's hair, fingers curling loosely, not gripping, just holding on as if to steady the world. "Warm. Good."
Tawan glanced up, his movements pausing just enough to meet Imel's gaze. "Tell me if it's too much," he said, voice muffled against skin, but clear in intent—always checking, always leaving room for the quiet they both carried.
"Not too much," Imel replied, his tone grounded, a faint curve to his lips. "More."
Tawan obliged, quickening slightly, his hands steady on Imel's thighs, grounding them both. Imel's breaths came deeper, his fingers tightening in Tawan's hair as waves built, eyes half-lidded, lost in the rhythm. Tawan moved upward then, trailing his mouth across chest and collarbone, kisses light but insistent, tongue flicking against skin that tasted of salt and the day's faint sweat. When he reached Imel's neck, he nipped gently, soothing with a lick, drawing another soft exhale.
Imel's hands slid down Tawan's back, nails grazing lightly, tracing spines like reading a familiar page.
Tawan met his lips again, the kiss slow, tongues brushing in a shared exploration, no rush to conquer. He sucked gently on Imel's lower lip before pulling back. Reaching for the bedside drawer, fingers finding the small square packet. He tore it open with his teeth, careful, methodical, sliding off his own underwear in the process.
But Imel shifted, sitting up slightly, taking the condom from Tawan's hand with a steady gaze. "Let me," he said, voice low, practical as ever, but his touch lingered as he rolled it on, fingers warm, unhurried. Tawan's breath hitched, eyes locking on Imel's, the moment stretching like the city's lights outside.
"Feels… right?" Tawan asked, his voice breathy, checking again.
"A bit snug," Imel admitted, a dry hint of humour in his tone, "but fine. Good."
Tawan let out a soft huff, almost a laugh, but it dissolved as Imel positioned himself, entering slowly, carefully, giving time for adjustment. Tawan's head fell back, a low moan escaping, his hands clutching the sheets before finding Imel's arms. The pace built gradually, not frantic, but building like heat in a room with no fan—mid-tempo, steady.
Imel leaned down, his tongue tracing patterns across Tawan's chest, up to his neck, alternating licks and kisses, a gentle bite here, a breath there, all while moving, breaths heavy but controlled. "This okay?" he murmured against skin, always literal, always confirming.
Tawan couldn't form words at first, his body arching, eyes rolling back in quiet ecstasy, legs trembling faintly as pleasure mounted. His hands roamed Imel's back, fingers digging in lightly, then into his hair. "Yes," he managed, voice strained, "keep… going just like that." The sensations layered, overwhelming in their simplicity, Tawan's breaths turning to whispers of Imel's name, soft and reverent.
Imel smirked faintly, a rare expression, pulling back to remove the condom before lowering himself, teasing with slow licks, saliva trailing as he took Tawan in his mouth, gentle, rhythmic. Tawan's hand tangled in Imel's hair, his other biting down on his lip to muffle moans that grew despite it. He uncovered his mouth eventually, gasping. "Closer," he said, voice rough. "Come up."
Imel complied, sliding on another condom with efficient motions, then leaning in for a kiss, tongues meeting slowly as he entered again. Tawan's eyes fluttered shut, moans vibrating into Imel's mouth, kisses broken by groans. Imel slowed deliberately, trailing kisses from neck to cheek to forehead, then lips.
"I like you too," he said, the words plain, but heavy with the day's unspoken truths.
They eased apart eventually, breaths syncing as they slipped back into underwear, bodies cooling in the night's air. Tawan shifted closer, eliminating the space between them, Imel's arm draping over his waist, hand resting low on his back with casual possession. Their lips met again, kisses lingering, soft and repetitive, like a conversation without end, until Imel pulled back slightly, pressing one to Tawan's nose.
"I left earlier to breathe," Tawan said into the space between kisses, because honesty works better before bed.
"Not away from you. I'll tell you next time with more words."
"I didn't need an excuse to stay," Imel said, because he meant both the sentence and all the others he couldn't yet name. His mouth almost shook into a rueful smile.
"But tell me anyway."
"I will," Tawan said.
They didn't try to win anything after that. The night made room for them and they occupied it.
On another floor, Saint cracked Dan's bathroom mirror with steam, towel-dried his hair into something worse than before, and pulled on a vest that belonged to a larger man with broader shoulders and soft morality. He slipped into bed with the caution of a thief and the entitlement of someone who had been told he lives here whenever he wants.
"You don't have to be quiet," Dan said, eyes closed, voice smiling.
"Habit," Saint whispered, already moving closer.
A hand caught his waist. "How was time out?"
"Hot soup. Good conversation. Tawan's made of granite with a polite voice."
"Mm," Dan said, the kind of agreement that lives in the chest. His hand wandered, anchor and invitation. "Come here."
Saint did, pressed their mouths together, slow, letting the day leave the room through that single door. When they parted, he breathed against Dan's lip, "Ask me the thing tomorrow."
"What thing."
"The thing in your chest with paperwork."
"I will," Dan said, lazy with certainty, and kissed him in a sequence that felt like a joke he never wanted to stop telling—forehead, nose, mouth, mouth again. "Sleep."
"I intend to," Saint said, already gone.
The building decided to be quiet. Somewhere a lift negotiated its tired cables. Somewhere a fridge performed its continuous small miracle. On the roof, the last heat let go.
In Tawan's room, neither of them pretended to be asleep. They lay on their sides, the long line of them breathing in a shared discipline. When Imel's fingers found Tawan's wrist, they didn't lace, just rested there.
"Say the thing again," Imel asked into the dark, not because he doubted it but because hearing words twice is sometimes how you learn their weight.
"I like you," Tawan said, and felt the sentence settle the way heavy rain settles dust.
"Me too," Imel said, which was his version of a thank you and an I'm here and whatever the slowest promise is. He pressed his mouth once to Tawan's temple. Tawan closed his eyes and let the room keep them.
Outside, a motorbike murmured along the river. The sky loosened another notch. The night didn't solve anything. It did the more impressive trick: it held. Someone always stayed.