SOTUS Drabbles and One-Shots

23. No Kiss Goodnight

Canonverse

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Arthit wakes to an empty bed. He's expected this, so he finds himself running on autopilot as he slips on slacks, socks and shoes, buttoning up his shirt, adjusting his tie. There's no breakfast on the stove, no evidence of a breakfast having been made. That's no surprise either.

Arthit gets something to eat on his way to work.

His coworkers ask after Kongpob and he smiles and wais and tells them, "business trip," and none of them see the way his face falls when he reaches his desk, head dropping to rest in his hands. It's the third business trip this week. Arthit wonders if perhaps the other is going for a record.

On the other side of the world, Kongpob wonders if Arthit's awake, the time looks about right, wonders how he's doing, figures he's alright. He goes to meeting after meeting, and Arthit eventually slips from his mind the way he slipped from the bed that morning—quiet, a ghost.

Arthit makes dinner for one, and when his mother calls, he chokes on his tongue, wishing he could say something other than, "He's away," when she inevitably asks after Kongpob.

She never liked him much, despite his charisma, his charm. Kongpob would always tell Arthit she hates him, falling onto the couch dramatically, Arthit falling with him, the pain of her hate kissed away by Arthit's love, and they'd end the night laughing. Arthit can't kiss away the hurt anymore, not with love, not simply with his lips either. Kongpob is never around long enough for Arthit to get close. Arthit isn't even sure if he wants to try and get close.

His mother's disgust lingers long after the call ends, and Arthit climbs into a too big bed with bile rising in his throat.

The next day a look at the calendar pinned on the wall (covered in red, red 'x's, red lines, red notes, Arthit grabs the pen to cross out another day) reminds him there's a get-together tonight at Bright's bar, him still managing it with unmatched dedication even after all these years.

He tries to recall if Aim and May are coming, May tending to skip these reunions as her stomach stretches wider, her face grows softer, Aim simply the adoring husband left to follow. He wonders why it matters whether or not they do show.

"So when are you two getting married?" Bright asks, still so inquisitive, still so insensitive. (He doesn't mean any harm in it. Arthit knows he doesn't mean any harm. It's still a glass shard in his heart.)

Arthit smiles. "You know we don't want that."

"Yeah, right," Prem laughs. "Kongpob would move a mountain for you. You think he wouldn't want a wedding?"

"I don't want a wedding," Arthit replies, quiet.

He means it.

"And Kongpob is too busy to move mountains," he says. It's a joke. He laughs because it's a joke, and not because if he doesn't, he'll cry. He laughs because it's funny and because he shouldn't mean it, he doesn't mean it—but, like not wanting a wedding, he does. He hates that he means it.

"He could be the busiest man in the world," Aim says suddenly, one hand on the back of the couch, the other on May's stomach, his ring glinting in the light, "but he'd drop everything for you, P'Arthit."

He's at least out of the bar when the first tears start to fall.