Arthit stirred awake with difficulty, his head pounding and his senses sluggish from the lingering effects of alcohol. His last clear memory was of Johan, that bastard, shoving him mercilessly to the floor.
Now, as his blurred vision adjusted to the dim surroundings, he took in the unfamiliar room. The air was cold—no, freezing—making his body involuntarily shudder.
A faint rustling sound made him turn his head. On the bed nearby lay Daotok, curled up beneath a thick blanket. Ah, I see. Lost my key card again, and they dumped me here. With a sigh, he accepted his situation.
There were only three of them staying on this floor—himself, Daotok, and Min—and since Min wasn't around, that left only Daotok.
It wasn't the first time Arthit had crashed somewhere unexpected after a night of drinking, though he usually ended up on the couch, not the floor.
The dim glow of a streetlamp filtering through the window suggested it was still nighttime. Groaning, he forced himself up, stretching his stiff limbs before heading to the bathroom.
By the time he returned, he had confirmed it: the room was unbearably cold.
"What the hell, Shorty?" he muttered under his breath, rubbing his arms for warmth.
Daotok was always complaining about being too hot, but did he have to turn the AC into a damn icebox? And if he was going to blast the room with Arctic temperatures, the least he could do was toss Arthit a blanket instead of letting him freeze on the floor.
His gaze drifted to the bed. The couch was an option, but just looking at it, he knew it wouldn't be any warmer than the floor. The bed, however, was plenty big. And as far as he could tell, Daotok was fast asleep.
Carefully, Arthit sat on the edge of the bed, testing the waters. If Daotok woke up and kicked him off, so be it. He wasn't planning to move, though.
His eyes fell on the smaller man curled up tightly under the covers, his frame slightly trembling. So even he's cold, huh? Then why not just adjust the damn AC? Arthit huffed, shaking his head at the irony.
Deciding to take his chances, he lay down and reached for the blanket, only to meet resistance. Daotok had a death grip on it. It took some effort, but Arthit finally managed to pry a portion away.
Surprisingly, Daotok didn't stir. Fine, he thought, nestling into the warmth. If he wakes up and complains, I'll deal with it then. It wasn't often Arthit shared a bed with someone. As far back as he could remember, he'd never done so—not with his father, Direk, not even with his mother.
The only times he'd been in a bed with another person had been... well, for other reasons. Sleeping next to someone like this? Never. First time for everything, I guess. Including first love. Damn... guess I really am still drunk.
Despite the exhaustion settling into his bones, sleep didn't come easily. Instead, he found himself watching Daotok's sleeping form. His face was turned away, but the proximity wasn't far.
If he wanted, he could reach out... His thoughts came to a screeching halt as he noticed Daotok's breathing— too fast, too labored.
A deep frown formed on Arthit's face. Suspicious, he reached out, pressing a hand to Daotok's forehead. Burning hot. Ah. That explains the way he's curled up like that. He's sick.
And I just stole the blanket from a sick person. Great With a sigh, Arthit pushed himself up, adjusting the AC to a more reasonable temperature.
He flicked on the bedside lamp and rummaged through the room, searching for fever medicine, but found nothing. Seriously? He gets sick all the time, and he doesn't keep any medicine? What an idiot.
His eyes returned to the figure lying motionless on the bed, face flushed all the way to his ears. A pang of unease crept into Arthit's chest.
Had he caught this from his recent trip abroad? Whatever the cause, it didn't matter now. The real question was what to do about it. Taking him to the hospital would be an option—if Arthit actually had his car.
But his vehicle was still at the bar, and the other car's keys were locked in his own room. And, of course, his damn key card was missing. No hospital, then.
It's probably just a normal fever. He'll be fine after some rest. Arthit grabbed a towel, dampened it with cold water, and began wiping Daotok down.
A necessary task, though a small part of him enjoyed the excuse to mess with him just a little. Not that he'd admit it. As he pulled back the blanket, he gently dabbed at Daotok's neck, watching as beads of sweat formed from the heat burning beneath his skin.
Then, without thinking much of it, Arthit lifted his shirt to wipe down his stomach. And immediately regretted it. ...Damn. Daotok's skin was pale, unfairly so.
And worse, his waist—slender, almost delicate—fit so perfectly into Arthit's hand that it made something deep in his chest tighten. This guy... His mind wandered into dangerous territory, and he quickly yanked the shirt back down, pressing the damp cloth to Daotok's forehead instead.
He turned off the light and lay back down, facing away. Calm down, idiot. He's sick. Even as he told himself that, his body remained tense. His mind whirled with thoughts he wasn't ready to face. Then, a slight movement behind him made him freeze.
Something brushed against his back. When he turned, he found Daotok shifting closer in his sleep, his hand barely grazing Arthit's side. His face was still flushed, his expression peaceful despite the fever.
The dim light cast soft shadows across his features, making him look almost... Beautiful. Arthit exhaled sharply. So you're cold, huh? That cold? Fine. With a frustrated sigh, he pulled Daotok into his arms, tucking him against his chest.
The smaller man fit easily, like a kitten seeking warmth. Arthit's arm slipped beneath Daotok's head, while the other wrapped securely around his waist, holding him in place. He's so small.
If I squeeze any harder, I might break him. Not that the thought stopped him from wanting to hold him even tighter. The warmth between them should have soothed Arthit, but instead, it set him on edge.
Daotok's breath was warm against his skin, the scent of him— something faintly sweet, something uniquely him—driving Arthit to the brink of madness. He hadn't even realized he was pressing his nose to the crook of Daotok's neck until it was too late.
Why the hell does he smell so good? Before he could think better of it, his lips brushed against the smooth skin, his teeth sinking in lightly. He bit him.
Arthit couldn't hold back any longer. His restraint had been wearing thin all night, and with Daotok lying so close, warm and vulnerable in his arms, it finally snapped. Leaning in, he pressed his lips against the soft skin between Daotok's neck and shoulder before sinking his teeth into the delicate flesh again.
The taste, the sensation of breaking through that tender skin, sent a rush of satisfaction through him, awakening something primal. He wanted more. But he stopped himself, pulling away before his self-control completely unraveled.
His breathing was uneven, his pulse racing. He shouldn't have done that. It was reckless, impulsive—yet utterly irresistible. Who could possibly hold back when the person they longed for was right there, within reach?
Arthit's fingers ghosted over the fresh bite mark, tracing the indentations his teeth had left behind. Already, red bruising was forming against Daotok's pale, flawless skin. A strange sense of pride settled in his chest.
That mark —he had put it there. Proof that, even if only for a fleeting moment, Daotok belonged to him. He adjusted Daotok's collar back into place, concealing his impulsive act.
Soon after, the exhaustion from the long night caught up with him, and he drifted into one of the most peaceful sleeps he had experienced in a long time.
When morning arrived, sunlight streamed through the window, warming the room with a golden glow. Arthit stirred, feeling a weight on his arm.
Blinking away the drowsiness, he glanced down to find Daotok still asleep, nestled against him. His steady breathing, the way his fingers unconsciously curled into Arthit's shirt—it was an image Arthit knew he would struggle to erase from his mind.
Right. Last night. Daotok had been feverish, unwell, and Arthit had stayed by his side. Holding him had been instinctual, natural. Now, his body wasn't burning up anymore—his fever had gone down. Carefully, Arthit slid his arm out from under him and sat up, watching for any signs of stirring.
So, this is what it's like to sleep while holding someone. It's... nice. Too nice. He sighed, rubbing his face.
He shouldn't have let himself get so carried away. Wasn't he supposed to be moving on? Letting go? And yet, holding Daotok had felt too damn good.
It was almost cruel, realizing how much he wanted something he shouldn't. If he could wake up to this every day, to Daotok sleeping soundly in his arms, then maybe— No. He shook his head, dismissing the thought before it could take root.
It was a one-time thing. That's all it could ever be. As he stood up, Daotok shifted slightly in his sleep, his collar slipping just enough to expose the bite mark in the morning light.
Arthit froze. The red bruise stood out against his skin, a stark reminder of his lack of control. Guilt crept in for a moment—had he taken advantage of someone unconscious? But even as the question crossed his mind, the answer was clear.
No, he didn't regret it. The mark would fade in a few days. Daotok probably wouldn't even remember.
Leaving the room quietly, Arthit made his way down to the lobby, retrieving another key card from the building manager, who shot him a mildly disapproving look before handing it over. He ignored it, heading back to his own room. As soon as he stepped inside, reality sank in—he had a morning class.
Cursing under his breath, he hurried to get ready, pushing last night's events to the back of his mind. During a break, he found himself sitting with Johan, sipping on a half heartedly made cup of coffee.
His friend studied him with a knowing smirk before speaking. "How're you feeling? Hungover?"
"Not really," Arthit replied, honestly surprised that he felt fine despite how much he had drunk the night before.
Johan raised an eyebrow. "So, how was it? Staying in his room?"
"Hell." Arthit ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in his voice. He and Johan were alone for now, with Hill and Tonfah occupied elsewhere.
Arthit leaned in slightly, intrigued. "Let me ask you something, then."
"Here we go again."
"Do you think it's possible for a person to smell insanely good?"
Johan hesitated. "...Of course."
He grinned knowingly. "Ah, I see. Your boyfriend, huh? Should've known." Arthit sighed, rolling his eyes. "Why do they smell so good, though? They're just normal people."
Johan gave him a pointed look. "Because you like him. That's why you like his scent."
"Tch." Arthit pursed his lips, looking away. He hated how easily Johan could read him.
Johan smirked. "Guess you're not really over it, huh?"
"I'm serious about moving on," Arthit muttered.
Johan scoffed. "Yeah, sure. A 'serious' person doesn't sleep while holding the person they're trying to get over."
Arthit stiffened. "Shit. How did you know?"
Johan's eyes widened before he burst into laughter. "I just guessed. Wait, really?"
"...Yeah," Arthit admitted reluctantly.
Johan leaned back, smug. "Damn, I was just messing with you. So, what happened? Spill."
"He wasn't feeling well. Looked cold, so I held him," Arthit explained.
"Oh, I see~" Johan's voice dripped with amusement.
"Joe, you asshole," Arthit grumbled.
Still grinning, Johan leaned forward. "Hill told me once—don't approach someone with half-hearted feelings. Either you like them, or you don't. Make sure your actions and words align. Seriously, Thit. You know this, don't you?"
Arthit exhaled heavily. "Yeah."
"Did you tell Fah you're trying to move on?"
"Not yet."
"Are you really still planning to?"
Arthit remained silent for a moment.
"Just move on for real already," Johan said with a sigh.
"That's the plan."
Johan gave him a skeptical look. "Doesn't seem like you want to. Besides holding him, what else did you do?"
Arthit hesitated. "You guess."
Johan narrowed his eyes. "You hooked up already?"
"No!"
Johan tilted his head. "Really? Figured you'd go for it."
"Hell no. I just... bit him."
Silence.
Johan blinked. "Why?"
Arthit groaned. "I don't know. He was irresistible."
Johan's laughter erupted again. "Wow, so this is what moving on looks like now, huh? Learn something new every day."
Arthit shot him a glare. "Can you stop mocking me?"
Johan shrugged. "You're just a walking contradiction."
Arthit sighed. "Stuff like this takes time, doesn't it?"
Johan smirked. "Yeah, yeah. Take your whole life if you need to."
Arthit grumbled under his breath. "It won't take my whole life... probably."
☆☆☆☆☆
Daotok stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection for what felt like an eternity. His eyes fixated on the deep, unmistakable bite mark on his shoulder.
A chill ran down his spine. Where had it come from? How had it gotten there? The imprint was distinct—too precise, too human. His fingers touch over the bruised skin, a sharp sting confirming that it wasn't just some fevered hallucination.
He had woken up close to noon, still feverish and sluggish, his head pounding with a dull ache. The remnants of last night's illness clung to him, making every movement feel heavy.
His memories were hazy, fragmented. He vaguely recalled hearing a knock at the door in the middle of the night —North and Arthit. North had explained that Arthit had lost his key card and needed a place to crash.
Daotok had barely registered it at the time, too exhausted to argue. He'd let Arthit sleep on the floor and drifted off again, paying him no further attention.
Something about a doctor had been mentioned before he succumbed to sleep, but in his fevered state, the details were lost. When he had finally woken up, the room was empty.
The night had been strange, unsettling. He had dreamt of endless darkness, wandering aimlessly through the void, shivering from an unbearable cold.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, a light had appeared—a brilliant white glow that wrapped around him like a cocoon. The moment it touched him, warmth seeped into his bones, melting away the chill.
It was comforting, almost familiar. After showering and pulling on a fresh set of clothes, Daotok noticed a damp towel left beside the bed. He frowned, picking it up.
It was still slightly wet. He was sure he hadn't left it there. If he had to guess, Arthit must have placed it on his forehead last night while he was asleep.
The thought was oddly comforting, but it didn't answer the real question—the bite. He tossed the towel into the laundry basket, determined to move past the strangeness of the night.
Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he winced as the strap pressed against the sore wound. A sharp jolt of pain shot through him. What the hell? That's definitely a human bite mark. His brows furrowed in annoyance.
Who the hell had the audacity to bite him in his sleep? He wasn't one to let things slide so easily. If someone tried to mess with him again, they'd regret it.
"If anyone tries to hurt me like last night again, I won't let it slide," he muttered to the empty room. He wasn't sure who—or what—had done this, but something had changed.
They had lived together peacefully for so long. Why the sudden aggression? With a lingering scowl, he grabbed his phone and dialed a familiar number. The line barely rang before his grandmother picked up.
"Hello, Grandma."
"What's wrong, dear?" came her warm yet slightly wary voice.
"Grandma Puwongthong, I think a ghost attacked me."
"Huh? A ghost in your room? What happened? What did it do to you?" The alarm in her voice was immediate.
"I'm not sure. But I woke up with a bite mark on my neck. It hurts a lot. It's definitely a human bite."
"How scary! Did you do anything to upset them?"
"No, I haven't even been in my room for days. We've always gotten along fine before."
"Then why now?"
"Oh, and I think I got shaken up in my sleep too," he added, rubbing his arm as if recalling the sensation.
"Maybe they're upset because you didn't make an offering. Tell you so, I'll make merit for the ghost that bit your neck. I was just about to head to the temple anyway."
"Thanks, Grandma. I appreciate it."
"Alright. Let me know if you need anything else. Take care, okay?"
"I will." He ended the call, sighing. Would his grandmother's offering even work? He wasn't sure.
But once Grandma Puwongthong decided to do something, there was no stopping her. As he reached the elevator, the doors slid open to reveal Arthit standing inside.
Arthit seemed a little surprised to see him. "Oh, you're up. Heading to class?"
"Yeah."
"Feeling better now?"
"Yeah. Thanks." Daotok glanced up at him briefly, noticing the slight raise of his brow. He hesitated before adding, "About the wet towel, I mean."
"Oh, right. I just left it on your forehead," Arthit replied nonchalantly.
Daotok nodded. "Yeah."
"How are you getting there? Motorcycle?"
"Yeah."
"Got it." The conversation would have ended there, but just as the elevator doors were about to close, Arthit reached out and pressed the open button.
"Want me to give you a ride? You just recovered, so you might not be fit to drive."
"No need."
"I'll take you."
Daotok frowned but didn't argue further when Arthit stepped fully inside. The silence stretched between them until curiosity got the better of him.
"Was there anything strange last night?"
Arthit blinked. "Huh? Strange? Like what?"
"I have a bite mark on my neck."
"..."
"I'm trying to figure out who did it." Daotok turned his gaze toward him, watching his reaction closely.
Arthit frowned, an unreadable expression flickering across his face.
"There were three people around. No idea who it was or why they did it."
"Three?"
"The ghost in the room. There are three if you don't count P'Donut, who already moved out. But the one in the bathroom can't leave, so I guess there are two left."
"One of those two for sure. Right, didn't you hear or see anything strange?"
"Not sure. Let me think about it."
"Alright." The elevator reached the first floor, and as expected, Arthit strode ahead toward the motorcycle parking area.
Daotok had assumed he drove a car, but instead, Arthit swung a leg over a sleek black big bike. Without a word, he handed Daotok a helmet. Hesitant, Daotok put it on and climbed onto the back.
He had never ridden a big bike before and immediately felt uneasy. The moment the engine roared to life, the bike surged forward, and he instinctively grabbed onto Arthit's shirt. "Where's your class?" Arthit shouted over the wind.
"Science faculty!"
"What?"
Daotok groaned and leaned in closer, pressing against his back to speak into his ear. "Science faculty!"
"Got it."
When they arrived, Daotok struggled to remove the helmet until Arthit helped him.
"What time does your class end?"
"Five."
"Then wait here."
"You're picking me up?"
"Of course. I dropped you off, how else would you get back?"
"I could walk."
"Funny. Just wait here."
Daotok sighed. "Alright. Thanks for dropping me off, P'Arthit."
Arthit stiffened, eyes wide. Then, looking a little flustered, he blurted, "Uh... yeah! No problem! I'm off!" before speeding away.
Daotok watched him go, puzzled. He was the one who insisted on being thanked—why look so annoyed now?
☆☆☆☆☆
Arthit flopped onto his bed with a deep sigh, staring at the ceiling as a wave of frustration and self-reproach washed over him.
He felt stupid—utterly and completely stupid. The whole afternoon had been a waste, with no classes at the faculty, yet he had rushed straight back to his dorm as if escaping from something.
He wasn't even sure why. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was something else. On his way up, he had bumped into Daotok heading to class. The sight of him—still pale from his fever, yet stubbornly dragging himself to lectures —had sparked an inexplicable irritation in Arthit's chest.
Seriously, why was he so damn persistent? Freshly recovered and already running off to class like nothing had happened? The idiot didn't even know how to take care of himself.
Then came the dreaded moment—Daotok had asked about the mark on his neck. Arthit had nearly panicked, but thankfully, Daotok had suspected ghosts in his room.
That was his way out. He had seized the opportunity and shifted the blame onto supernatural forces. Smooth, right? He told himself it was.
If Daotok had figured out the real reason, he would've been screwed. First, the inevitable question: Why the hell did you do that? Not that Daotok would phrase it rudely—he was more likely to shoot him that calm yet piercing gaze and ask in a steady, quiet voice, Why? And then... he'd probably stop talking to him altogether.
Arthit had worried Daotok might collapse on the way, so he had done the decent thing and given him a ride to his faculty. Daotok had clung to his shirt the entire time, his grip tight enough to leave wrinkles.
Probably out of fear. Arthit couldn't blame him—motorbikes were a hell of a lot scarier than cars, especially with someone like him behind the wheel.
That ride should've been uneventful, just another errand, but no—he had made the mistake of telling Daotok to say something random.
And when he actually had, it had hit Arthit like a sucker punch. Damn. Even now, hours later, he still couldn't shake it. The way Daotok had said it, so casual, so nonchalant, and yet... it had killed him.
He had ridden back in a daze, his mind floating somewhere between reality and whatever ridiculous emotions had taken hold of him. And now, lying in bed, his heart refused to settle.
A knock at his door pulled him from his thoughts. With a groan, he got up and opened it, finding Min standing there, looking as disheveled as ever.
"Thit, let's drink."
"Drinking already? Weren't you at it last night? Give it a rest. I told you— I'm cutting back."
"Start cutting back tomorrow."
"You said that yesterday." He narrowed his eyes. "I wasn't going to ask, but... what's up with you?"
Min pouted. "Come on, Thit. Drink with me, and I'll tell you. Please, please, please?"
Arthit sighed heavily. "No. I'm taking a break." He had indulged too much lately—it was time to ease up. "But fine. You can have a beer in my room. You'd better tell me what's going on."
Min's face lit up as she sauntered inside and plopped onto his sofa. He fetched a beer from the fridge, handing it to her. She cracked it open, took a deep swig, and sighed. "You really want to know, huh?"
"Yeah. What's got you in this state?" Min's expression crumpled, and then—shockingly—tears welled up in her eyes. "Donut dumped me."
Arthit frowned. "You mean the ghost? Why?"
Min sniffled, grabbing tissues from the table. "I lived with him like a normal couple—husband and wife—even though he's a ghost. But lately, other spirits kept showing up. They wouldn't leave me alone."
"...What?"
"Donut tried to help, but it just got worse. I went to see a monk, and he said I'd been connecting with spirits too much. It was making me vulnerable. Some of them weren't friendly, Thit. One even hurt me."
Arthit's mind flashed back to Daotok's brush with the supernatural. He had almost gotten attacked too. The coincidence made his stomach churn.
"Damn... Wait. Connecting with spirits? This happened to Shorty next door too."
Min's eyes widened. "By spirits?"
"Yeah."
"That's dangerous. I'm not strong enough to handle it either. The only way to stop it is to cut the connection completely."
"So, Donut broke up with you for that?"
Min nodded, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "He said it was for my own good. That if I cut ties, I'd be safer. He told me to move on. And then he just... disappeared. I haven't seen him since, Thit. No matter how much I call for him... he's gone." She sobbed harder, her shoulders shaking.
Arthit wasn't good at comforting people. He wasn't the type to spout sweet words or offer warm embraces. All he could do was place a hesitant hand on her shoulder and let her cry.
"Thit," Min hiccupped, voice raw. "I always knew. I never really got over his death. When I realized he was still around, I was so happy. But in the end... the dead are still dead. What can you expect from someone who's already gone?"
Arthit exhaled softly. "Yeah." He had understood that truth when he lost his mother. No matter how much you wished otherwise, the dead didn't come back.
Min wiped her face and forced a weak smile. "You know, you've changed since coming back from abroad. Or is it just me?"
"It's just you."
She snorted. "Liar."
Arthit ignored her and got up to fetch her some water. Once her tears subsided, an odd question slipped from his lips before he could stop himself. "Now that Donut's gone, do you regret it?"
Min tilted her head. "Huh?"
"If you knew it would end like this, would you have chosen not to be with him?"
Min didn't hesitate. "No."
"Why?"
"Because if I hadn't had him, I wouldn't have made it through those days. I'd rather have had him, even knowing it would break me in the end. Not once have I regretted loving him." Her words struck something deep inside Arthit, unraveling the tangled mess of emotions he had been struggling with. "If that person disappeared tomorrow," Min continued, eyeing him curiously, "would it really be okay? Wouldn't it be worse to have never had them at all?"
Arthit didn't answer. Couldn't answer.
Min stood, stretching. "Think about it, okay? Tell your friend to really think it over." With a teasing smirk, she left, shutting the door behind her.
Arthit collapsed onto the sofa, running a hand through his hair. His thoughts spiraled, replaying every moment—the touch, the warmth, the way that short idiot had looked at him, the way his voice had made something in his chest tighten. Even now, he found himself wondering what Daotok was doing. Was he okay? Was his fever gone? Was he cold in the lecture hall? With a quiet sigh, Arthit closed his eyes.
Arthit glanced at the time on his phone. 4:40. He had told himself he'd leave around now to pick him up after class. It wouldn't take more than ten minutes to reach his faculty, but he wanted to leave early, just in case. Leaving early...
Since when did he care about waiting for someone? He had never gone out of his way to give anyone a ride before. Not once. Damn it.
Min's words echoed in his head like a relentless loop, each syllable carving deeper into his thoughts. "If tomorrow comes and they're gone... would it really be better?" No. No fucking way. "If they disappeared now, would it really be okay?" Hell no.
How could it be okay? How could he even begin to accept something like that? And if—no, when—he disappeared... What then? How was he supposed to survive without him? Go back to the way life was before they met? As if that were even possible.
Damn it. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms as he let out a slow, shaky breath. His chest felt tight, suffocating under the weight of emotions he didn't know how to handle.
He wanted a cigarette, but he'd run out last night. He hadn't even felt like going out to buy more. What the hell was wrong with him lately? He was slipping—losing himself, unraveling at the seams, all because of him. And yet...
If every day could be like this, would that be so bad? He wanted to be the one to drive him to class. The one to hold him at night, to feel his warmth in his arms until sleep took them both.
The one to take care of him when he got sick, to sit beside him at meals, to watch the way his lips curled around the edge of a coffee cup in the mornings.
He wanted to see his face. To listen to the music he played. To read books side by side in comfortable silence.
To teach him how to drum again. If anyone asked if he was willing to endure breaking apart all over again for him, if he would risk the pain, the heartbreak, the inevitable... He didn't have an answer.
But if tomorrow came and he wasn't there—if that day finally arrived—one thing was certain. He wouldn't survive it. He would never love anyone else the way he loved him.
Even if they were apart, even if time and distance and fate tried to rip them away from each other, he would always be the one. So, if there was still a choice left to make, he'd already made it.
Because if he could spend the rest of his life with him—no matter what happened, no matter the cost— He would never regret it. Not for a single second.