Junak Baruah wants to win the prestigious short film competition in his university. But with hundreds of participants and a stellar jury on board, winning means making a film that's never been made before.
And that means breaking the rules and taki...
Fun fact, Junak means moon-light (where Jun means moon) and Dikhou is the name of a river.
╮(. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)╭
On another note, check out the playlist? (link in my bio)
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Dikhou barely managed to catch Junak as the latter collapsed, limp and heavy. And smelling really good for whatever reason.
"Go get help," Dikhou cried to Lohor who was already running down the yard of the nearest house. Dikhou got to his knees, gently lying Junak on the ground, his head on his thigh. "Please don't pass out after I made you run as part of a petty prank," he muttered, his eyes frantically searching Junak's face; he looked impossibly calm like he was just sleeping and not unintentionally plotting Dikhou's death sentence. "Everyone's going to have my head!"
Dikhou reached out to take off the woollen beanie Junak was wearing, and then fidgeted with the collar of his sweatshirt. "Why on earth are you wearing so many layers, it's not that cold!" Under the sweatshirt, there was a thin sweater over a shirt. He was sweating profusely underneath all the clothes.
As much Dikhou wanted to leave him and let someone else help, he could not afford Junak dying in his arms or something. So, sucking in a deep breath, he reached out to catch the hem of Junak's heavy sweatshirt and, as gently as he could, pulled it over his head.
Junak groaned and shifted slightly as the sweatshirt was brushed past his face but did not wake up.
"What's wrong?" a middle-aged woman who lived in the hut beside the road ran up to them, her mekhela raised up to her ankles. Behind her was Lohor, clutching a glass of water in his hands. "Isn't this Baruah bor-deuta's grandson?" The woman paled. Baruah koka, an ex-civil servant, was one of the most reputable men in the village and no one wanted to get on his bad side. Making his grandson pass out possibly qualified as getting on his bad side.
"Yeah." Dikhou took the glass from Lohor, poured some water on his palm and sprinkled it on Junak's face. "Wake up!" he hissed. His heart was hammering so hard in his chest he briefly wondered if he was going to pass out as well. With the wet hand, he lightly patted Junak's cheek; the skin was soft under his palm.
Junak's brows furrowed, then slowly, he opened his eyes.
Waves of relief rolled into Dikhou. He brought a hand to his face, heaving.
"What the–" Junak's voice was low and throaty.
Instead of answering, Dikhou reached out to hook an arm around Junak's shoulders and helped him sit up. He then took the glass of water from Lohor and held it to Junak's lips. Obediently, Junak cupped his hands around it, over Dikhou's fingers, and gulped down the water.
Dikhou watched, not daring to move a muscle. Junak was sitting between his knees, and with one of Dikhou's arms around his shoulders and the other trapped between his fingers, it almost felt like an embrace. He could smell the products he used – sweet and flowery – and from this up close, he noticed Junak was wearing a small silver earring along the rim of his ear that had a crescent moon dangling off it.
