Papering over the Cracks in Your Heart (Completed)

Papering over the Cracks in Your Heart

Kongpob leaves on a Tuesday.

Arthit knows it's a Tuesday because that's the day that the pink milk is delivered, and sure enough when he opens his door to accept another stream of apology deliveries from Kong's parents, his mother is holding the crate of milk in her hands and sobbing so that her tears trickle down the glass like rain drops.

"Where's he gone, my lovely Oon?" She cries as she drops the crate of milk almost on his toe which has him hopping backwards out of reach.

She tries to pull him into her arms, but he struggles free, nearly elbowing her in his desperation to get away. He's had quite enough of both sets of parents acting like Kongpob has died or smashed his heart so badly that it will never be whole again.

Of course, he himself had felt that way for the first three weeks after Kongpob had stood up abruptly during dinner and announced that he needed time to 'find himself'.

He had left the following morning with a rucksack and an attempt at a kiss goodbye.

Arthit had refused him.. and now regrets it of course. Now longs for that last press of his mouth on his own.

There had been one phone call, staticky, like his boyfriend (can he call him that anymore?) was in a tunnel or something. It had dropped out before Kong had even told him where he was, but at least Arthit had heard his voice and knows that two weeks ago he was alive and able to make a call.

Other than that, it has been radio silence and he's trying to push down the part of his heart that thinks he should be looking for Kongpob, trying to mash it beneath the bruised parts that are angry and in pain all the time.

So far, it's about fifty-fifty. Both sides have blackened skin and the rich redness has long since seeped away to leave an angry scar that he's certain will never heal.

After 6 weeks, he stops answering his phone. His parents haven't left him alone, always checking in to see if he's okay and coping since that fateful day, and to be honest he doesn't want to talk about it any more. He just wants to forget it's happened and move on if he can.

His friends, though they mean well, just want him to come out and get drunk and try to forget that way. But for Arthit it's not a mechanism that will ever work. He got drunk during week three, when he was furious at the world, ripping pages out of photo albums, tearing letters and then taping them back together, the clear sellotape papering over cracks that he can still clearly see.

There's one from a holiday long ago - when Kongpob had pressed him against the wall of their private swimming pool, water sloshing around them as he had shown Arthit with touches exactly how much he desired him. It's a photo of them, side by side, hands clasped on a candlelit table, wine glasses meeting in the middle. Except they don't meet anymore. One is off centre, a slice of it missing where Arthit's fingernails had dug into the fragile paper and gouged it out.

There are lines missing from letters - love proclamations that Kongpob wrote from China long ago. Sweet words that had soothed Arthit's broken world then, but that now seem like the worst kind of lies. Lies that bite at him, leave red-raw patches and open wounds that will not close.

No, Arthit does not want his mother, hysterical in his hallway, reminding him of it all.

He just wants peace and time to heal.

Seven weeks have passed and he's back at work fully now, Kongpob's father having given him grace to take his time and follow part time hours at first.

It's hard, walking the hallways they used to trail together, headed for lunch or to a meeting, nudging each other with their elbows, laughing at things only they understood.

It's harder seeing pitying looks. People know that Kongpob's gone - a sabbatical of sorts it had said in the memo sent company wide - and their knowing eyes follow Arthit with every signature, every phone call, every sip of coffee in the break room.

Coffee. When did he start drinking this bitter sludge that slides down his throat like treacle, thick and unforgiving? When did he lose his appetite for sweet things, light and happy.

Arthit supposes it left the building with Kongpob, his fridge is no longer full of pink bottles and bars of chocolate in shiny wrappers. In fact, it's barely full. Full stop.

Eating isn't the same. There's no one to tease him across the table, no one to whisper that if he finishes all his eggs, there'll be a surprise in their bed later on. So, sometimes he avoids it - definitely at home - and sometimes he eats bird-like bites to appease watching eyes.

Bed? No.

The couch is more comfortable anyway.

Even if the springs are digging holes into his back.

It's a Tuesday, one hundred and two days after Kongpob left.

Arthit loads the last box in his trunk and slams it hard. His hands are shaking as he looks between the truck, parked haphazardly in its space, to the door to their condo, closed and locked by his own hand.

He slides the silver key from his pocket and squeezes it, indentation forming in his skin. Then he heads for their mailbox and deposits it with a clang.

It's time to step forward. Time to move on.

"P'Arthit?"

Familiar and all at once alien to his ears, yet he still scrambles to turn around.

Kongpob stands before him, hair curling down past his ears, eyes weary and wrinkled, exhaustion seeping out of every pore. His mouth is twisted into a hopeful little grin, hand outstretched towards him.

Arthit shudders. His heart thumps painfully and there's a roar in his ear that wasn't there before.

He sucks in a gulp of air, trying to push down the waves of pain that are itching to escape from his throat. The words he wants to yell in this dingy parking lot. The sounds he wants to make as he sobs, uncontrollably on the floor.

He lifts his head, controlled, aware. Stares at Kongpob. At his ex-lover.

At the man who was his whole world.

Then he leaves.

He's fixed himself once, he can't be sure he can do it again.