HYSM

Six

The Jongcheveevat living room lay silent and still - but not calm. Bathed in early afternoon sunlight and cooled by the invisible drafts of climatised air, two young men sat at opposite ends of a central, fawn brown suede sofa, heads turned away from one another.

Not calm, because the air was heavy, pregnant, awkwardly imbalanced: The bruised man unconsciously biting his nails beneath a ferocious scowl, the towelled man fidgeting with silver rings on his right hand as his eyes darted inquisitively towards the other.

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock...

...Came the sound of a mischievous, glinting, gold-faced clock on the wall above the mantle piece, building tension with its marking of time and every passing second.

Then a clearing of the throat, and at last Gulf spoke, rushing out words as if cleansing his body of some unwelcome toxin, that thing that was making him uncomfortable:

"I know we don't normally do this, but I wanted to apologise about last night. I was in a weird mood and so, so drunk - God knows how much tequila I'd thrown back - and I...crossed a line. So, sorry...and thank you for making sure I got home. I was a fucking mess. Anyway, that's all, so I'll go..."

And he stood abruptly, wiping clammy palms against the soft fabric of his shorts, and turning, crimson-eared, towards the door and his escape.

But Mew moved quicker, striding to close the gap and reaching his hand to Gulf's elbow as he spun him around until they faced one another.

They were close then, mere centimetres between their noses - a return to that hazy scene of some twelve hours earlier - as Gulf swallowed, leaning backwards from the waist up, as if in fear of what was in front of him, before his very eyes.

And Mew spoke in a warm voice - a glow to it somehow - eyes twinkling and eyebrows raised in surprise, beginning to grasp that something was shifting:

"It's ok Gulf"

Three small words that could convey so many meanings, and as Gulf tried to decipher the intent, he lifted almond eyes to meet Mew's and suddenly found only solemnity there.

Both men were uncharacteristically serious, one searching, one defending, as Mew slowly lifted a hand - bewitched? - to brush a thumb along the soft, pink plumpness of Gulf's lower lip.

There was just audible breathing for some seconds, Mew's bare chest and Gulf's clothed chest rising and falling, and then - as if the hypnotic spell was suddenly broken by a distant clicking of fingers or clapping of hands - the elder man's smile returned to his crescent eyes as he stepped away with:

"Sit back down Gulf, at least let me clean up those lips a little - you'll scare the poor kids playing out in the street"

And he retreated through an imposing, marble archway to the rear of the room, to rummage busily in the cupboards of the modern open plan kitchen, simultaneously searching for antiseptic ointments whilst filling a bowl of water.

The younger man slumped back down onto the sofa. He was breathless, oddly flushed. Grabbing for the nearest scatter cushion to place on his lap, covering his groin (hiding his shame). Because he was hard.

'What the fuck is happening?' Gulf was battling with himself. He could feel that knot twisting in his stomach, that rising nausea once again. He should leave, he thought. But then, wouldn't Mew see? Know that he had been there, in his living room, with a big boner and no frigging explanation for it?

"Get a grip, Kanawut" Gulf muttered under his breath - teeth clenched - in a haphazard attempt at self motivation, hands running in anguish through the back of his own dark, wavy hair.

"Did you say something?" - it was the elder man, returning with gathered supplies on a tray that was subsequently placed atop a decorative nest table, to be pulled over towards the sofa's edge.

"No just...yawning. This hangover...", the younger mumbled vaguely, then watched in rapidly rising panic as Mew dropped to his knees on the pristine parquet, between Gulf's own bare legs.

Seemingly unaware of his 'patient''s turmoil, Mew dipped a flannel into the warm water, squeezing out excess liquid before raising it to Gulf's face to begin his work.

He started at the nostrils, dabbing delicately at the crusted, dried blood within - a frown of concentration. Next, with a fresh flannel, a gentle wipe across each and every bruise on that most familiar face - the one he dreamt of, be it night or day - before, emboldened by the fizzing, brave, transformative atmosphere of the room and the moment...

"Close your eyes Gulf" - as he traced across his eyelids.

And suddenly, the patient realised that it was a man's fingertips, not cloth, that were touching that near translucent skin, and his eyes blinked open in shock.

Mew's hand pulled back and hung, suspended uncertainly in the air between the two faces for a moment, before swiftly reaching to the table for a tube of ointment - business-like once more - and squeezing a small amount onto a finger, to attend to Gulf's split lip.

"Oiii", Gulf reacted with a sharp intake of breath, the sting of antiseptic on his wound.

"Sorry Nong, nearly finished" came the steady reply, belying, masterfully, the racing of the speaker's pulse.

And then Mew cleaned the remainders of sticky ointment from his hands, replaced the lid onto the tube, and returned it to the tray on the table. Systematic, methodical, buying himself precious time to consider the next move, that line that shouldn't be crossed - should it?

"That's better", he said finally, resting back on his haunches to survey the younger's freshened face with satisfaction.

And Gulf opened his mouth to say 'Thank you, I'll be going now', but instead what came out was:

"I saw you with your hands on that man"

Wide-eyed shock: Both speaker and listener.

Then before either could travel any further along that unexpected, dangerous path - a twisting, bramble-tangled route down which no one could see around the first corner - there was the sound of a key in the front door lock, of Jom's voice thanking a friend for the lift home, and Mew and Gulf sprang apart, the latter's flailing elbow knocking the bowl of water to the floor with a hollow smash.

Broken china lay in shattered shards amidst a pool of spilt water. Like distant lonely islands, apart and separate once again, in the silent, still - but not calm - air of the Jongcheveevat living room.