In the silence of the luxury hotel suite, the only sound was the rhythmic, aggressive tapping of rain against the floor-to-ceiling glass. Asnee stood by the window, his breath fogging the pane. His heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand.
Santichai had lied to him.
For ten years, Santichai had been an open book—predictable, submissive, and honest to a fault. For the boy to take such "extra measures" to escape meant that someone else was writing the story now. Asnee's eyes darkened as he watched the blurred headlights of the city below. He knew Santichai was out there, somewhere in this seaside maze.
The sound of the rain intensified, a low roar that began to drown out the present. Asnee closed his eyes, and suddenly, the smell of the expensive hotel vanished. It was replaced by the humid, heavy scent of wet asphalt and '90s pop music.
The rain didn't feel like a storm anymore; it felt like a memory. It felt like the night his world finally collided with Santichai's seventeen years ago.
Back he was a young teen at seventeen years old racing through the drizzle began to fall, turning the streetlights into glowing halos. Asnee was running, his heart hammering against his ribs—not from the exertion, but from the raw excitement of a boy who had finally decided to claim what he wanted.
Through the blur of the rain, he saw a slight figure huddled under the cinema awning. Santichai. He looked small, his shoulders hunched as if trying to disappear into his own jacket.
Asnee reached him, his own clothes soaked through, clinging to his skin. He didn't offer a greeting. He didn't offer a smile. He simply stood in front of the trembling boy and demanded, "I'm ready for your answer."
"I'm not gay," Santichai had whispered, his voice trembling in the rain. "I want a girlfriend... but I want your friendship more."
Asnee had used the only weapon he had: the threat of silence. "I never considered you a friend, Santichai. If I'm not your boyfriend, I'm nothing to you. I don't want to see you again."
That was the hook. Santichai, who had been discarded by his own family, couldn't lose his only sun. He had chased Asnee through the rain, crying, begging for the "warmth" he had never received from anyone else. He had traded his body and his identity just to keep the person who didn't "look down" on him.
Later that night, in Asnee's oversized bedroom, Santichai had stood at the door, afraid to dirty the expensive floor. Asnee had pinned him to that door, his hands working at Santichai's belt.
Stop, Santichai had thought. But he didn't say it. He knew Asnee would be angry if he spoke. He knew that if he just bore the pain, Asnee would stay. Asnee had noticed he wasn't aroused, but it didn't matter. He wanted Santichai, and Santichai belonged to him. Santichai's soft, pained moans had always satisfied him most—the sound of a boy who belonged entirely to him.
The sharp sound of the suite door opening cut through the memory like a knife. The humid air of the teenage bedroom vanished, replaced by the sterile, air-conditioned chill of the hotel. His mother, Mrs. Siriporn, entered with three suits—white, blue, and black.
Mrs. Siriporn walked in, clutching three suits as if they were battle flags. "Asnee, come and see which suit you want to wear."
"The blue one," Asnee said, his voice flat.
She sighed, a sound of sharp disapproval. "No. The black one is more appropriate for our status." She snatched the others back, her control absolute.
Asnee's phone buzzed. It was Decha, his friend and private investigator. "I found nothing, Nee," Decha sighed over the line. "Chai left a statement. He wants to be left alone. Maybe it's time to give yourself—and him—a chance to start over."
"Never," Asnee growled, his eyes fixed on the rain. "He's mine."
"What did you say?" Mrs. Siriporn's voice whipped around from the doorway. She snatched the phone from his hand, convinced it was Santichai on the line. When she realized it was only Decha, she didn't apologize. She simply gave Asnee a cold look and left with the suits.
Asnee turned back to the window, the black suit lying like a shadow on the bed behind him. "Chai," he murmured against the cold glass. "I miss you. Do you miss me?"