"Saint, they're all acting weird today," Fighter said, resting his head on Saint's shoulder as they settled at Saint's work table. The prying eyes of his colleagues were noticeable, and Saint shot them a silent warning, waving his hand as if to say 'it's not what you think'.
"What do you mean?" Saint asked softly.
"They keep mentioning someone else's name to me," Fighter replied, his lips pursed in frustration. The CFO and accounting clerk exchanged a quick glance, which Saint noticed, prompting him to send them a silent reprimand.
"They're just mistaken, don't worry about it. Okay?" Saint reassured Fighter.
Fighter nodded in response, trying to calm himself despite the lingering unease caused by the strange reactions of the people around them.
As darkness enveloped the sky, Saint and his colleagues continued their work on the new project. Fighter, with nothing to occupy himself, sat silently beside Saint, occasionally playing with the zipper on Saint's leather handbag. As time passed, the quietness of the room and the late hour made Fighter drowsy. He leaned his head on Saint's desk, using his arms as a makeshift pillow, seeking a moment of rest amidst the bustling activity around him.
A loud snore from Fighter, who had fallen asleep on Saint's desk, caught everyone's attention. Saint smiled at the sound and absentmindedly brushed Fighter's hair from his forehead. However, his smile faded as he realized they were not alone and were still in a professional setting. He glanced at his curious colleagues, shrugged it off, and cleared his throat.
Checking his wristwatch, Saint saw it was almost 7:45 PM. "Wrap things up for today. It's time to go and have your dinner," he instructed, avoiding eye contact with his colleagues.
"Yes, because sir has a date," Zol teased, prompting Saint to roll his eyes.
"I'm not, Zol," Saint replied with a hint of exasperation.
Fighter stirred awake and groggily asked, "What time is it, Saint?" His voice was husky as he leaned back and rubbed his eyes.
"Close to 8:00," Saint answered, checking his watch again. Fighter jumped up in alarm and grabbed the paper bag containing the Pad Phet Pla Duk Tod.
"Why didn't you wake me up! I cooked this for you," Fighter exclaimed, showing Saint the lunchbox.
"You came here for this?" Saint reached out to take the lunchbox from Fighter's hands.
"Of course! Taste it!" Fighter beamed eagerly, looking at Saint's colleagues who were listening intently.
"Or we could have dinner with them!" Fighter suggested cheerfully.
"No, Fight. They're busy," Saint replied firmly, grabbing his leather bag and pulling Fighter along as they made their way out of the office. He could hear some of his colleagues booing, but he wasn't in the mood to deal with their nosiness.
"But— Let's share it with—"
"No, Fight. I'm hungry," Saint insisted, dragging Fighter completely out of the office before he could protest further.
In the parking lot, inside Saint's car, Saint noticed Fighter becoming increasingly fidgety all of a sudden.
"You okay, Fight?" Saint asked with genuine concern, but Fighter didn't respond, as if he hadn't heard him.
"Fight...?" Saint called softly again, and there was a moment of silence before Fighter finally spoke up.
"Are you... mad at me?" Fighter asked tentatively, clearly worried. He knew he had come to Saint's workplace without notice, and it was causing him anxiety.
"I am, actually," Saint admitted honestly, his earlier worry and frustration surfacing. "I was worried, Fight!" he raised his voice slightly. "And what's this?" Saint grabbed Fighter's hand, noticing a scratch on his palm from where he had tripped earlier outside. Fighter flinched at Saint's sudden outrage.
"I... I am sorry," Fighter's voice shook as he lowered his head.
"You're a healer, this is nothing to you. Going out alone is no big deal, right? So, heal it, Fight," Saint exclaimed exasperatedly.
"I... I can't," Fighter stuttered, not meeting Saint's eyes, afraid of his reaction.
"What do you mean you can't?" Saint's voice rose again.
"I... I can't heal myself. You... you're hurting me," Fighter managed to say, trying to free his hand from Saint's tight grip on his wrist. Saint immediately and gently loosened his grip, softly rubbing small circles on Fighter's wrist with his thumb. Fighter slowly withdrew his hand from Saint's hold, causing Saint's heart to ache.
"I'm sorry, Fight. I'm just worried," Saint apologized softly, noticing Fighter's tension.
"You're... scary too," Fighter murmured.
"I'm sorry. Can I hold you?" Saint asked gently, wanting to comfort Fighter, but Fighter shook his head and looked out the window beside him. Saint could see the glassiness in Fighter's eyes, and he swallowed the pain he felt.
"Let's go home. I'll tend to your scratch so we can have dinner after," Saint added softly, not waiting for Fighter's response. He started the engine and soon began to drive.
The entire ride home was quiet. Saint kept glancing at Fighter, who stared fixedly out the window. He regretted his earlier outburst; he didn't realize he could become so angry. He had been worried, but his anger had frightened Fighter.
They finally arrived at their apartment, and Saint parked the car. As soon as the engine stopped, Fighter rushed out and something fell from his back, landing on the passenger seat. Saint couldn't stop Fighter in time; he was already dashing away, leaving Saint behind. Carefully, Saint picked up the item that had fallen—a small, gray feather.
Saint furrowed his brows in confusion. Fighter's wings were not gray; they were blue. Saint was certain of this; he had seen Fighter's wings with his own eyes, even in his dreams. There was no way this feather belonged to Fighter, yet it had fallen from his back. Now thoroughly puzzled, Saint decided he would ask Fighter about it later. He carefully slid the small feather into the side pocket of his pants, intending to bring it up when the time was right.
Fighter sat on the couch in the living room, staring blankly at the turned-off television. Saint went straight to the bathroom to fetch the first aid kit and a bowl of water, then joined Fighter on the couch.
"Fight? Can I see your hand?" Saint asked softly. Fighter obediently extended his hand towards Saint, who held it gently before beginning to rinse it with water.
"I'm sorry, Fight," Saint murmured tenderly as he cleaned Fighter's palm.
"Does it hurt?" Saint inquired, concerned.
Fighter shook his head in response.
"Are you still scared of me?" Saint asked gently, and Fighter shook his head again. Saint smiled warmly.
"Can I hug you?" Saint asked, looking at Fighter with affection. Fighter stared back at him, smiling and nodding eagerly. Saint giggled at Fighter's adorable response.
"But later, after I tend to your palm, okay?" Saint continued, and Fighter hummed in agreement, his lips pursed upward.
"You're so cute," Saint remarked fondly as he started to apply antibiotic ointment to the scratches on Fighter's palm.
"Can I see your right hand?" Saint then asked, wanting to check the other hand for any cuts or scratches. Fighter gladly showed him his right hand, and Saint inspected it carefully, relieved to find it unharmed. However, something on Fighter's wrist caught his attention.
"What is this, Fight?" Saint pointed at a small, oblong reddish spot on Fighter's wrist.
"Oh, this? Lexus said it's a birthmark," Fighter explained casually.
Saint nodded understandingly and gently placed Fighter's hand back on his lap.
"So, why can't a healer heal himself?" Saint asked curiously.
"I don't know. I just found out a few weeks ago. I accidentally cut myself while slicing an onion," Fighter explained, showing Saint a small scar on his index finger. Saint gently touched and caressed the scar.
"I tried to heal it, but it didn't work, no matter how hard I tried," Fighter continued. Saint hummed in understanding and gave Fighter a half smile.
"I'm sorry for scaring you earlier," Saint apologized sincerely.
"Can I have my hug now?" Fighter asked, extending his arms eagerly.
"But promise me that you will NOT do it again," Saint firmly requested.
"I promise," Fighter replied with a smile, wiggling his arms in anticipation.
"Am I forgiven?" Saint inquired.
"Forgiven. Am I forgiven too?" Fighter asked back.
"Forgiven," Saint confirmed, and they both chuckled before Saint pulled Fighter into a warm hug. They stayed like that for several minutes until Saint's stomach growled.
"I'm hungry now, Fight," Saint murmured, which made them both burst out laughing.
"Let's reheat the Pad Phet Pla Duk Tod you made," Saint suggested warmly, already looking forward to enjoying the meal Fighter had prepared.
