Autumn is a second spring

120. Lines

Prem woke up with the heaviness of a stone pressing down on his head. His body felt too warm, too heavy, his throat dry as if sand had settled inside it. Fever, he realized almost instantly, still clung to him. His vision was blurry at first, shapes swimming in and out of focus, but slowly the haze cleared enough for him to notice something odd: a hand holding his own.

He blinked and, somehow, he wasn't surprised to see Boun slumped in the chair beside him, head tilted awkwardly, his hand firmly wrapped around Prem's.

Prem let his gaze drift to the nightstand. A bowl of water sat there, a folded cloth perched on the rim, its edges damp from use. The sight was enough for Prem to piece things together—Boun had been here, caring for him, wiping his fevered skin, staying through the long stretch of hours. He didn't remember any of it, though. The last thing he recalled was going to bed after a brief conversation with Earth.

Turning his head was effort enough, but his eyes land on the digital wall clock across the room. The glowing numbers display the time, the date—and Prem's heart stuttered. Two days. He had been asleep for nearly two days. The faint tug at his arm told him he had been on IV fluids the whole time.

Prem carefully, almost instinctively, tried to slip his hand out of Boun's grasp. But even the faintest movement stirred Boun awake. His lashes fluttered, his body jerked upright in confusion, and for a moment he looked utterly lost, a man dragged from uneasy dreams. Then his gaze settled on Prem—and all that disorientation burned away.

"You are awake," Boun breathed, leaning forward, voice tinged with disbelief and relief. He gripped Prem's hand tighter as if afraid it would vanish if he lets go. "How do you feel?"

Prem's lips parted but no words come at first; his throat is parched, his voice hoarse when he finally managed, "Heavy."

Boun didn't seem deterred. He reached across the bed, pressing his palm against Prem's forehead, his brow knitting instantly. "Still warm. The fever's not gone completely, but it's better than before." The concern etched on his face was almost painful to look at.

Prem, however, felt nothing. No joy at waking to this care. No anger at Boun's presence. Not even sadness. Just... blankness. Where before emotions had twisted him into knots, now there was only an echoing emptiness.

"You should eat something before taking the medicine again," Boun said, trying to muster lightness in his tone. "I made chicken soup for you. Let me reheat it—it will only take a minute." He offered Prem a smile, soft, almost boyish, before he rushed out of the room.

Prem leaned back into the headboard with a sigh. His body was weak, every limb heavy, his head still fogged. He knew, deep down, that Boun had probably spent the last two days sitting right there, keeping watch, sacrificing his own rest. But instead of gratitude, a quiet confusion takes root in him. What did it mean, all this care? Why now, after everything? Why was Boun always sending him mixed signals—here when Prem didn't want him, distant when Prem reached for him?

The questions gnawed at him. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, determined to at least make it to the washroom. His steps were shaky, his body swaying dangerously.

The door opened just then—Boun, balancing a tray with steaming soup and utensils. His eyes widened in alarm at the sight of Prem staggering, and he quickly set the tray down on the coffee table. In two long strides, he was by Prem's side, slipping an arm around him just before his knees could gave way.

"Careful," Boun scolded gently, his voice trembling despite the controlled tone.

Prem rasped, his voice rough, "Just... need the washroom."

"You should have waited," Boun murmured, steadying him against his chest. "Or called me. I would have helped you." He didn't sound angry—just worried, like Prem is made of glass.

With patient steps, he guided Prem toward the washroom. But just before they reached the door, Prem halted and shook his head weakly. "I can do it. You don't need to come in." His words were soft but firm.

For a heartbeat, Boun just stared. He wanted to argue, wanted to ignore the line Prem was drawing, but something in Prem's eyes stopped him. So he loosened his grip and watched him go, watches the door close with a quiet click that felt louder than it should.

Outside, bitterness gnawed at Boun's chest. Prem had never cared for boundaries before. He used to barge into the bathroom when Boun was brushing his teeth, grin cheekily, and relieve himself without a second thought. If Boun ever complained, Prem would shrug, "There's nothing you haven't seen."

But now... now Prem shut the door in his face, even when his legs could barely carry him. That single act cut deeper than any words could.

Minutes later, the door opened again. Prem looked paler, more drained, and Boun swallowed the bitterness to step forward, gently guiding him back to bed. He said nothing, only lifted the tray and settled beside him again.

"I will feed you," Boun offers. Prem doesn't protest.

Spoon by spoon, Boun raised the soup to Prem's lips, blowing softly to cool each mouthful. Prem accepted it without comment, his eyes unfocused, his body weary. The silence stretched between them, fragile, almost suffocating. By the time the bowl was empty, Boun's hands trembled faintly—not from fatigue, but from fear. Fear that any word he says might shatter the fragile thread still holding them together.

He set the bowl aside, retrieved the small set of medicines prepared by the doctors, and pressed them into Prem's palm. Prem swallowed them obediently, leaning back against the headboard again. Boun dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a tissue, fingers lingering for just a moment too long.

Then Prem spoke. His voice is soft, almost too soft, but the words cut like ice. "You don't have to do this, Hia"

Boun froze. "Do what?" His tone was light, pretending ignorance, though his heart pounds violently.

Prem's tired gaze lifted to meet his. "You know what I am talking about. We should stop this."

Something in Boun splintered. His carefully maintained calm slipped for a second, but he gathered himself quickly. "I am sorry," he says, his voice rough. "It was just an act. I didn't mean it that way— I will do anything to make up for it."

Prem's eyes lingered on him, sharp despite the fever's haze. "Do you even love me?"

"Yes," Boun blurted instantly. "Yes, I love you. How can I not love you? You make me happy, Pao. You gave me this family, this home. You made me feel like the luckiest man alive—"

Prem's lips curled, not in warmth but in derision. "Listen to yourself." His voice was almost a whisper, but each word landed heavy. "Every reason you gave... it's about what I gave you. What I did for you. Where am I in that? Where's me?"

Boun stared, struck silent. He has never thought about it that way, never realized how selfish his love might sound.

"You don't love me," Prem said quietly. "You love what I give you. And I don't love you anymore."

Boun's body jerked forward as if struck. He fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching at Prem's legs, desperation raw in his voice. "Don't—don't say that, Pao. Please. Don't say it."

But Prem's face was unmoved, blank in its exhaustion. "I have lost every ounce of feeling I had for you."

"Pao, please, just hear me out—"

"No." Prem's voice was firmer this time, though weak. "Get out. I don't want to see you."

He tried to push himself upright, but dizziness overtook him, and he swayed. Instinct took over—Boun leapt up, catching him, easing him back against the bed. But Prem shoved at him weakly, his hands trembling with the effort.

"Leave," he repeated, his voice hoarse but steady. "Just... leave."

And this time, Boun could not bring himself to move, cannot bring himself to accept the finality in those words. His heart was breaking, but Prem's eyes were clear: the line had been drawn.