HYSM

Three

TW: Description of brief physical assault (NOT sexual)

Entering the bar, Gulf stepped over a threshold into another world: Dark and decadent, intoxicating in its window display of temptations. A cave of sugar-rimmed cocktail glasses, intimate leather booths and sultry whispers into ears on the dance floor. Beats were slow enough to grind a body to, heavy bass vibrating through the soles of feet as their owners twisted together up above, eyes closed in mutual fantasy.

It wasn't Gulf's typical venue of choice, naturally gravitating towards the jovial lighting, lager bottles and mounted TVs of the student sports bars that dotted the campus perimeter, but having accidentally eavesdropped on Grace and Jom enthusing about the place, it had struck him as somewhere that matched precisely the tone he was looking for that night.

'Smooth, Kanawut' he applauded internally, nodding in smug approval as he surveyed the setting and scene.

Then, a wave to him from a corner booth, and he was sliding in to seat himself beside Som, a kiss to one another's cheeks in greeting. So European, so flirtatious. Both knowing the game they were there to play.

The young woman was assuredly attractive. Body of curves, hair of luscious waves and dimples to cheeks, like the cherry on the cupcake. But she was primarily confident and independent, and those were the qualities that had drawn Gulf in her direction as she performed with the cheer squad during the half time interval of one of his university team's football matches. Heavy, slate-grey clouds had finally torn - the commencement of monsoon season in the opening semester of first year - and as spectators and sportspersons scattered asunder, the two had found themselves sheltering together beneath the tiered seating of the outdoor stadium. By the time the game recommenced they'd shared their first kiss, and by the time the return fixture of the match kicked off, were already an official couple; the 'golden couple' of their year group, footballer and cheerleader, cringe-worthy in its inherent sexist cliché.

Yet they worked well together - became one another's closest ally, of sorts - comfortably connected. Eighteen months down the winding road of life, though, both acknowledged that there was something lacking emotionally, a thing that neither could put their finger to, and it was this unquantifiable, unidentifiable 'thing' that eventually drove them apart.

Apart - except for the convenient sex. And it was the sex that they were dancing around that night, as Som's hand snaked gradually higher, higher up Gulf's thigh whilst they giggled and drank and teased in their familiar way.

All was going smoothly, everything according to plan. Until Gulf saw him.

It was on a return trip from the bar - tequila shots and lime wedges in hand - that he felt eyes on him. A sort of warm tingling on his back, an invisible thread to spin him around. So he turned, and locked brown eyes to darker, staring brown, in the face of Mew Suppasit.

But before Gulf could react - curses already prepared and rising like dragon fire in his throat - the elder man broke their gaze, directing attentions back to his dance partner.

And it was only then that Gulf realised that Mew was dancing with a man. Not just dancing in the 'part-of-a-group, let's shuffle our feet and wiggle our elbows' sense, but dancing with bodies pressed together, Mew's hands on the other's hips.

The dragon fire suddenly rose as bitter bile instead, Gulf swallowing hard to stem the surge of vomit. He felt at once light-headed - it was as if all of the alcohol consumed across the past hour had activated in the flick of a switch. He needed to sit, yearned for terra firma, yet couldn't detach his eyes from those hands, on those hips.

What was it? This feeling. Disgust? No, he held no prejudices. Shock? He had seen Mew with girlfriends in the past, so perhaps that was it. But why did it...ache...

There was a rushing in his ears, a swirling of his vision, and he felt himself swaying, swaying on the spot, struggling determinedly to maintain focus on the hands and the hips until...Som's smaller hands were pulling him, dragging him away from the hypnotic, flashing strobe of the dance floor and back towards the safe seclusion of their booth.

"You took forever!", she was eye rolling in jest, lining up shot glasses along the table edge for them to tackle. Without a word, Gulf was reaching for the first, the second, the third, slamming each empty vessel back to the table as he scorched his throat repeatedly with punishing, burning liquor.

"Hoy, Gulf! Slow down!", Som was wide-eyed as his audience, her hand reaching for his below the table.

But suddenly Gulf didn't want her touch one bit. Even the comforting familiarity of that once-loved hand. And he was pushing it away to lean back against the dark leather, head resting and eyes closed. He didn't want to see any more. Just wanted blankness, blackness.

He was vaguely aware of Som calling a friend to come and pick her up - complaining, with validity, that her ex was being "an asshole" - then snatching her clutch bag from beside him as she departed haughtily, teetering on highest heels.

Gulf needed to leave too. He wasn't certain how long he'd sat there alone before the thought came to him, but once heard, he took decisive action. Grasping the table ledge to pull himself to standing, he staggered - one hand against the wall - towards the side exit.

He felt those eyes on him again, and flushed with angry heat as he stretched further and further away from them. Escape. Leaving pulsating hedonism behind to burst into the unknowing tranquility of the city's night air. Down a back street - where was he? - faster, faster, stumbling and rushing, muttering and swearing under his breath until: Slam. He rounded a tight corner at speed and crashed headlong into the frame of a second man, sending both sprawling heavily to the floor on their backs.

The stranger leapt up, wild, narrowed eyes and clenched fists, to bellow an inebriated slur:

"Watch where you're going, stupid prick!"

And then he launched himself clumsily atop Gulf - fist slamming into his nose to release a tide of crimson blood - the punches coming, hitting cheek bone and jaw and eye socket, in an unending wave of aggression as Gulf just lay there and took it...

...Until stronger hands were hauling the assailant away from him. Were holding him roughly by the collar to thrust him, scurrying, back in the direction from whence he came.

Then they were lifting Gulf, raising him to his feet - all 185cm worth of lean, athletic muscle - to rest him safely back against the neighbouring wall of a shuttered department store building.

And through the spiralling mists and fogs of his mind, Gulf heard a familiar, deep voice - one he knew almost as well as his own - calling to him:

"Gulf...Gulf...Are you ok?"

The hands of his rescuer were shaking gently at his shoulders, his face drawing closer to finally sharpen into focus.

The silky black hair, the straight symmetry of dark eyes and long nose and chiselled jaw. Pink lips that were mouthing words that Gulf was no longer listening to, lips...

And without a rational thought - or any thought at all, really - Gulf was leaning suddenly forward towards those lips.

"Hate you so much", he hiccuped.

And then he kissed Mew Suppasit.