Chapter 1 The Brat Comes Home
The soft Saturday morning sunlight filtered through the gaps in the curtains, brushing against the feet of a young man curled up under a blanket on a bunk bed. Inside this compact rental room in the heart of Bangkok, every corner was filled with the messy traces of student life.
'Ice,' a twenty-year-old second-year Computer Engineering student, was still lost in the depths of slumber. He lay face-down on a soft pillow, the faint scent of clean detergent and the lingering warmth of the thick duvet making it impossible to pull himself out of bed. The atmosphere was quiet and slow, as if the entire world had stopped spinning just to grant him this moment of rest.
However, that fleeting peace was shattered by the shrill scream of his smartphone. The persistent vibration against the mattress traveled up to his chest, making his heart race with irritation.
Ice groaned, trying to bury his face away from the light and the noise. But the device wouldn't give up, blaring its ringtone repeatedly as if declaring that if he didn't wake up, he would never know peace again.
"Ice! Get your butt home right now! I told you to study in Nakhon Pathom. We have universities here, too. Why do you have to struggle out there and waste money?!"
The high-pitched voice of the woman of the house pierced through the phone speakers. It was a tone he knew all too well a mix of scolding and the familiar nagging. Ice rolled his eyes toward the ceiling as he flipped onto his back. He let out a long, heavy sigh, his sleepiness completely replaced by a growing weight in his chest.
"Mom..." he tried to soften his voice, hoping a calm approach would work.
"I... I just want to try living here a bit longer."
"No more 'longer'! Stop being so stubborn. Go catch a bus home this afternoon. Today! We'll talk more when you get here. That's all!"
Click.
The line went dead, leaving only a hollow silence. Ice slowly lowered his hand, letting the phone drop onto the pillow. He stared blankly at the ceiling, where a faint stain was beginning to show. The room was quiet again, but this time, it didn't feel peaceful.
He knew a storm was waiting for him in Nakhon Pathom. And when Mom said,
"We'll talk," it usually meant you will obey without objection.
"This is ridiculous! Out of nowhere, she wants me to move back? I'd have to leave everything behind!" Ice shouted into the cramped room. He bolted upright, his hair a messy bird's nest. He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. His bright eyes were now trembling with confusion and anxiety.
He scanned the room he had worked so hard to decorate his computer desk with neatly organized cables, the stacks of programming books against the wall, and the freedom he had only just begun to taste. Everything was crumbling because of one single family decree.
"Drop out and start over in Nakhon Pathom? What about my friends? My life here?" he muttered, his voice shaking. It felt exactly like having the power cord ripped out while a program was still running. Everything was frozen, dark, and lost. Ice leaned back against the headboard, exhausted. He knew how serious his mother was, but he wasn't ready to give up his big-city dreams so easily.
Tears welled up in his eyes from the sheer unfairness of it all. What should have been a bright Saturday morning had become the start of a storm he couldn't escape.
The shimmering heat of Saturday afternoon beat down on the pavement. Ice stood stranded in front of an old two-story wooden house in a small alley near a temple in the heart of Nakhon Pathom. It was the home he grew up in, yet today, looking at it felt like a heavy burden.
He dragged his oversized suitcase off the van, looking exhausted. Beads of sweat formed along his hairline and soaked through his thin t-shirt. He stopped to take a deep breath, trying to gather his scattered courage. But the familiar scent of the old community and the distant sound of temple bells only served as a reminder that the freedom he craved was truly gone.
But before his feet could even reach the shade of the trees in the yard before he even had a chance to sit down and rest a thunderous voice erupted from the chicken rice stall downstairs.
"Ice! You're finally here, so why are you standing there like an idiot? Get in here, now!"
His father's voice pierced through the steam of the soup pots and the smoke from the charcoal stove. Ice jumped in surprise. He looked over to see a plump middle-aged man in a white tank top and a faded apron. His father was vigorously chopping chicken on a wooden block. Thwack! Thwack! He beckoned Ice over with a stern, commanding gesture.
"Go put your bags away and change! The shop is packed can't you see we can't keep up?!"
Ice gripped the handle of his suitcase tight. His hopes of negotiating about school or even just getting a nap were instantly folded away. He realized then that this homecoming wasn't just a visit it was a return to the cage called "duty," set to the rhythmic beat of his father's cleaver.
In a chilled, air-conditioned room filled with the scent of antiseptic and the steady hum of a tattoo machine, 'Leo' sat focused. A well-built 32-year-old man whose body was a canvas of art, he was meticulously sinking a needle into a customer's back.
His stoic aura was shattered in an instant when the front door swung open violently. 'Oat,' his best friend, came rushing in, drenched in sweat and gasping for air.
"Leo!! Little Ice is back!"
The shout echoed through the studio. Leo, who was in the middle of lining a delicate stroke, flinched slightly. His sharp, fierce eyes narrowed behind his intense features. He calmly withdrew the needle from the skin before turning to look at his panting friend.
"Who did you say?" Leo asked. His deep voice was steady, but a flicker of something unusual sparked in his eyes.
"Ice! The chicken rice stall owner's son! I just saw him get off a van and drag his bags into the house!"
Leo went silent for a moment. He carefully placed his tattoo machine on the armrest and picked up a clean cloth to wipe his hands. His composed demeanor felt slightly forced as his heart hammered against his ribs all because of the name of a boy he hadn't seen in nearly two years.
"He's back..." he murmured to himself. He glanced toward the studio window, which offered a faint view of the alley across the street. The corner of his lip quirked up into a barely visible smile. The return of that
"rebellious brat" was about to make his quiet life as a tattoo artist anything but ordinary.
After tidying up the shop and seeing off his last customer, Leo threw on a jacket to cover his muscular arms, which were wrapped in intricate vine-like tattoos. He walked his tall, imposing frame down the familiar sidewalk until he stopped at a lamp post near the chicken rice stall.
The fragrant aroma of seasoned rice and the sound of the cleaver were still going strong. Uncle Chai, Ice's father, was busy dishing out rice when he looked up and saw the tall figure blocking the sunlight. The moment he realized who it was, his weathered face turned hostile.
"What are you doing here? Come to bother my son again?!" The voice was harsh. Uncle Chai slammed his cleaver onto the chopping block with a loud thud. His eyes were full of suspicion, as if Leo were a dangerous predator ready to snatch away his precious child.
Leo remained unfazed. He simply offered a faint smile and bowed respectfully to the elder. His calm, polite behavior stood in stark contrast to the "fierce tattoo artist" reputation everyone in the alley whispered about.
"Just passing by, Uncle Chai..." His voice was unusually low and soft, making Uncle Chai pause for a second. Leo didn't linger.
His sharp eyes flickered toward the back of the shop, searching for a shadow of the person he had missed for so long.
He turned and walked away silently, leaving Uncle Chai confused and leaving a strange tension hanging in the sweltering afternoon air.
In the dead of night, the dim orange glow of a convenience store sign reflected off Leo's large frame. He wore a plain black t-shirt that made his dark skin and the tattoos on his biceps look even more intimidating. Ripped jeans added to his rugged look as he leaned casually against a top-up machine. His sharp eyes were fixed on the store's interior like a predator waiting for the right moment.
Before long, the automatic doors slid open, and the boy he had been yearning for stepped out.
Ice walked out looking surprisingly relaxed. He was in an oversized t-shirt and shorts that showed off his fair legs, with thin black-rimmed glasses that made his face look soft. His hair was slightly messy, as if he couldn't be bothered to style it. He was busy on a call with a close friend.
"Dude, I'm so exhausted. My dad made me chop chicken the second my feet touched the ground. No mercy at all..."
That clear, slightly whiny voice went dead silent the moment Ice turned around and nearly walked into the massive chest of the man standing in his way. The distance was so close they almost touched, causing the boy to jump back so hard he nearly dropped his bottle of green tea.
"Whoa! Who are you?!"
Leo didn't answer immediately. He simply held out a bag of Ice's favorite snacks and spoke in a deep, resonant tone.
"You still like green tea and cake, I see."
Ice's eyes widened in shock, and he immediately took a step back. His heart hammered with caution.
"Who are you?! And why are you giving me this? I don't know you, man!" The words tumbled out like machine-gun fire. His pretty face scowled as he glared at the tall man. His thin lips moved fast, hurling insults as per his mischievous nature.
"Should I call the police? You just shove snacks into a stranger's hand like this? And your face... you look super suspicious!"
Leo listened to the ramblings with calm patience. A small, amused smile tugged at his lips. He moved a step closer until his shadow completely enveloped the smaller boy.
"Still as foul-mouthed as ever... you little brat."
That nickname so familiar yet long forgotten made Ice freeze for two seconds. A blurry memory flickered in his head, but he couldn't quite grasp it. He looked utterly confused before blowing up again.
"Brat? Who? Are you crazy? Who's a brat? You've got the wrong guy!" Ice yelled, adjusting his glasses that were sliding down his nose. His fair face flushed red with a mix of anger and fluster. He truly couldn't remember when the "scary giant" with arm-sleeves of tattoos had entered his life.
Leo let out a low chuckle. His heart felt strangely full seeing the fiery attitude he hadn't witnessed in years. He leaned down toward the smaller boy until their noses almost touched. The heat from his muscular body and the faint scent of cologne mixed with a hint of tobacco made Ice hold his breath involuntarily.
Ice hurried home without looking back at the tall man who stood there with a teasing smirk. His heart was still racing in a strange rhythm he didn't like. As soon as he reached his second-floor bedroom, he threw his backpack aside and flopped onto the mattress. He let out a huge breath before grabbing his phone to text his group chat.
💬 Ice: "Guys, I just met this scary tattooed guy at 7-Eleven. He gave me snacks. I'm like... in shock!"
Within seconds, the screen lit up with replies.
💬 Mo: "For real?! Is he scary or is he hot? You always attract weirdos."
💬 Tum: "Is it that guy who used to hit on you in high school? The one you ran away to Bangkok from?"
💬 August: "Don't tell me... is it P'Leo?!"
Ice read August's message and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. His fingers flew across the screen.
💬 Ice: "Who the hell is P'Leo?!"
He sat there staring at the screen, feeling completely lost. That name was like a faint mist in his memory, yet it had a strange effect on his heartbeat. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't recall when the
"big brother next door" he used to follow around had turned into a massive, tattooed, dangerous-looking man.
Ice was about to ask August more, but his fingers froze. His eyes drifted to the snack bag on his bed.
Green tea and a small piece of cake... his absolute favorites. He couldn't even remember when he had taken them, or if that fierce-faced guy had just forced them into his hand.
"Ridiculous..." He muttered to himself, pouting slightly to hide his fluttering nerves. But his clear eyes stayed fixed on the snacks.
The man's intimidating yet strangely gentle tone echoed in his head. He shook his head to brush the feeling away, but something deep down whispered... this ret
urn to Nakhon Pathom wasn't just about chopping chicken. And that "P'Leo" definitely wasn't going to let things end at the 7-Eleven.