rain in your heart - patpran

16.

A month passes by quickly, with Pat giving him more gifts- an ointment for the scar on his forehead- one that Pat himself put on for him, a bag for him to hold his sketching supplies with when he goes out- the same two P’s embroidered on it.

It has become a habit to eat dinner together, and on one of those days, Pran points out with a fond smile tugging on his lips, “You always eat messy, like it’s the last meal you’ll ever have.”

Pat glances up, his eyes lingering on Pran for a moment before he pulls his gaze away from the noodles he’s been slurping. A bitterness swirls at the back of his throat, and he tries to school his expression before Pran catches him faltering.

Pran notices immediately. “Hey, what’s wrong? Did I overstep?”

“No, Pran,” Pat says softly, his voice faltering as he gathers the words. “It’s just… eating fast became a habit when I was a kid. When my father used to punish me, he’d lock me in a room. Sometimes, I didn’t know when I’d be fed again. My mother would sneak food in whenever she could, but…” His voice trails off, the shadow of an old memory- a bad one, casting over his face.

“What?” Pran’s jaw drops, disbelief written all over his face. It’s hard to believe that the Ming now, the one who had been so attentive and supportive to Pran since he first stepped into the pack, used to be this man who would treat his own son so cruelly.

“He’s not like that anymore,” Pat adds quickly, almost as if trying to protect his father from further judgement. “I’m not sure of all the details, but when I was twelve, your mother visited our pack about the alliance, and she gave him advice. She talked to him, and I guess that’s when he began to change. He realised how wrong he had been, that he had unconsciously been passing on to his son what his father had given him.”

Pran’s brow furrows as the memories resurface. “Oh,” he murmurs, nodding slowly as he recollects coming to the pack before. He had gotten sick, and therefore had not come across Pat or Paa at the time, instead burrowed under thick furs in the guest tents. “I’m sorry, Pat, I didn’t mean to bring up something so painful.”

“It’s not your fault.” Pat offers a small, reassuring smile. “My father has come a long way since then. He treats me with so much respect now, but…” His voice cracks a little, betraying the hurt still lingering deep down. “It’s just hard to forget, you know? The things he did… they stick with you.”

Pran reaches over, placing his hand gently on Pat’s. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. But I’m glad your father has changed. And I’m here for you, okay? You don’t have to carry that alone.”

Pat looks at him, eyes softening as gratitude washes over him. “Thank you, Pran,” he whispers, the heaviness in his chest lightened, if only just a little.

🥀˚｡🍷✶🖤

Pat remains downcast after that.
Even once they finish eating, even when they walk back home- hands shyly brushing against each other, even when they get ready to settle into their bed- furs with their scents mingled.

Pran decides that it's time.

“Pat,” Pran calls, voice soft as he pulls open the drawer of the nightstand, grabbing the tiny wooden box from there. He lets his finger run over its surface, over the carving there- the same Ps that Pat had embroidered before.

Pat hums in response, turning to look at him from where he’s sitting on the opposite edge of the bed, eyes falling to the box in his hands. “What’s that?” he asks, head tilted curiously. It's so endearing- the knit of his brows, the jut of his lips- that Pran wants to kiss him silly.