Phuwin woke to gray light, the kind that slipped through curtains like water through fingers, and the first thing he registered was the weight—Pond's hand heavy on his hip, palm flat against the jut of bone, fingers curled loose and trusting against his skin. His own leg was hooked over Pond's thigh, their bodies tangled in the sheets like something that had been knitted together in the dark. The ceiling fan turned slow overhead, stirring the air, and the scent of Pond's cologne was everywhere—in the pillow, on Phuwin's shoulder, in the hollow of his own throat where Pond's mouth had been.
Last night flickered through him in fragments. The phone set down on the arm of the couch. The painting still glowing on the screen. Pond's hand reaching for his, not to take the phone, not to speak, just to cover his fingers where they trembled over the ink. And then—mouth meeting in the dark, slow at first, almost questioning, as if Pond was asking if this was still okay, if the centuries between them could be crossed by something as simple as skin against skin. And Phuwin had answered by pulling him closer, by letting the phone fall to the floor, by saying Pond's name against the leather cushion until it became the only word that meant anything.
He shifted now, and Pond's arm tightened reflexively, pulling him closer even in sleep. The movement sent a warm ache through Phuwin's lower back—a reminder of how thoroughly he'd been held, how completely he'd let himself be taken apart. His clothes were gone. At some point in the night, Pond had stripped him out of his t-shirt and shorts, and the sheets were bunched around their hips, leaving his chest bare to the morning air.
He turned his head on the pillow. Pond's face was slack with sleep, black bangs falling over his closed eyes, lips slightly parted, breathing slow and even. He looked younger like this. Softer. The cocky mask that he wore through campus like armor was nowhere to be found, and all that was left was the boy who called him wife at the school gates, who promised no more secrets, who stayed when every instinct told him to run.
Phuwin tapped his chest. Two fingers against the warm skin over his heart. "Babe."
Nothing. A breath. A shift of Pond's jaw against the pillow.
"Pond." He tapped again, firmer this time. "Wake up."
Pond's eyes opened halfway, unfocused and heavy, and then closed again. A smile touched his mouth—slow, sleepy, almost drunk with it. "No."
Phuwin laughed, the sound surprising him, light and easy in his own chest. "No? That's your answer?"
"Mmph." Pond's hand slid from his hip to the small of his back, fingers spreading, pulling him closer until there was no space between them. "Stay."
"I'm not going anywhere." Phuwin leaned down, his lips brushing Pond's forehead, then the bridge of his nose, then the corner of his mouth. The kiss was quick, barely a press, but he felt Pond sigh against him, felt the tension in his shoulders ease. "You'll get more when you get up."
Pond's eyes opened again, and this time they stayed. He looked at Phuwin for a long moment, something shifting behind his gaze—warmth, recognition, the slow return of the world. Then he sat up, the sheet falling to his waist, biceps flexing as he rubbed both hands over his face. His hair was a disaster—black tangles sticking up every direction, the carefully styled look he wore through campus completely demolished.
Phuwin watched him, a smile pulling at his own mouth. "You look like a bird's nest."
"I look like a man who was very busy last night." Pond dropped his hands and grinned, the mask sliding back into place, but softer now, gentler. "You wore me out, wife."
"Fiancé."
"Same thing."
Phuwin swung a leg over Pond's hips and settled onto his lap, the sheet bunching between them, his knees pressing into the mattress on either side of Pond's thighs. His hands found Pond's shoulders, then slid up to cup his jaw, thumbs tracing the line of his cheekbones. The morning light caught the edges of Pond's face, the shadows beneath his eyes, the small dent of a smile that hadn't quite faded.
"Good morning," Phuwin said, and kissed him.
Deep. Slow. A kiss that started as something tender and deepened by degrees, Pond's hands finding his waist, his hips, the curve of his spine, pulling him down until there was nothing between them but heat and skin and the slow drag of a mouth that didn't want to let go. Phuwin's fingers slid into Pond's tangled hair, holding him there, the kiss stretching into something that didn't need words because it had already said everything.
When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing harder.
"We have classes," Phuwin said, his voice rough, the words barely making it past his lips.
Pond kissed him again. Quicker this time, but no less certain. "Later."
"Pond—"
"Later." His hands tightened on Phuwin's hips, pulling him closer, and Phuwin felt the warmth of him, the want of him, pressing against his own. "Classes can wait. You can't."
Phuwin's laugh was breathless. "That's the worst line you've ever used."
"Did it work?"
He wanted to say no. He wanted to be responsible, to think about the project deadlines and the professors who would mark him absent. But Pond was looking at him with those dark eyes, his hands warm and certain on his body, and the morning light was soft and forgiving, and last night was still pressed into his skin like a bruise he didn't want to heal.
"Maybe," Phuwin said, and leaned down to kiss him again.
The morning held open between them. The sheets shifted. The ceiling fan turned. And when they finally pulled apart, breathless and flushed, the light through the windows had changed, grown brighter, more insistent.
They made it downstairs eventually. Godji was in the kitchen, flour dusted across her apron, a plate of fresh rolls cooling on the counter. She took one look at them—Phuwin's rumpled hair, Pond's barely-suppressed grin—and raised an eyebrow so high it nearly disappeared into her hairline.
"Well," she said, turning back to the stove. "Good morning."
"Good morning, Aunty." Pond's voice was warm, unbothered, as if he hadn't just spent the morning tangled up with her nephew. "Something smells good."
"Something is good." Godji slid a plate of eggs and rice onto the table, followed by the rolls and a dish of butter. "Eat. You have classes."
Phuwin slid into a chair, and Pond sat beside him, close enough that their knees touched under the table. Phuwin didn't move away. He didn't want to.
Breakfast was easy—Godji teasing them about staying up too late, Pond deflecting with charm, Phuwin laughing into his coffee. It felt normal. It felt like something he could get used to, this quiet domestic morning with the man he was going to marry and the woman who had raised him.
Then they were in Pond's car, the black sedan purring through the morning streets, and the campus gates loomed ahead.
Phuwin kissed Pond quick before getting out, a press of lips that was over before it fully landed. "I'll find you later."
Pond's hand caught his wrist, holding him for a second longer. "Promise?"
"Promise."
Phuwin walked across the yard to where Santa, Siyh, and Jungkook were already settled on the grass beneath the big acacia tree. The morning was warm, the sun still low, and the campus was filling with students heading to their first classes. He dropped his bag onto the grass and sat down next to Siyh, who immediately turned to him with a knowing look.
"You look happy," she said, not quite a question.
"I am."
"Good." She leaned back on her hands, a small smile playing at her lips. "You deserve it."
Santa was scrolling through his phone, and Jungkook was half-asleep against the tree trunk, his head tilted back. The group was quiet, comfortable, alive with the slow hum of a morning that hadn't yet been claimed by deadlines.
Phuwin took a breath. His hand went to his pocket, where his phone sat warm and heavy. The site was still open in his browser, the ink painting still glowing on the screen, the story of another him and another Pond waiting to be shared.
"I found something," he said. "Something that has to be impossible. And it's crazy, but—" He stopped, his throat tightening. "You have to listen."
The group sighed, a collective exhale that carried the weight of a thousand previous conversations. They turned to him, their attention settling like a hand on his shoulder.
Siyh leaned forward. "What is it?"
Phuwin pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and navigated to the site. He turned the screen toward them. "There was another me. And another Pond."
The group leaned in. Santa took the phone first, his fingers scrolling through the site, his glasses catching the glow. Jungkook leaned over his shoulder, and Siyh craned her neck to see. The photographs and ink drawings passed before their eyes—the Empress Phuwin in her pavilion, the Emperor Pond on his throne, the wedding procession through Ayutthaya's streets.
Jungkook looked up at Phuwin, then back down at the screen. He zoomed in on one of the photographs, his eyes narrow, his mouth opening slightly. "Have you looked at this photo already?"
Phuwin nodded.
"This person looks exactly like you." Jungkook's voice was quiet, almost reverent. He looked up again, a smile spreading across his face. "You look quite beautiful in a dress. As an empress of most of Asia—" He glanced back at the screen. "—three hundred and sixty-nine years ago."
Phuwin rolled his eyes, but there was no heat in it. "I know I look good in a dress. That's not the point."
Siyh took the phone from Santa, scrolling through the text with the speed of someone who read a thousand pages a week. Her face cycled through expressions—curiosity, disbelief, something that looked like recognition. She looked up at Phuwin. "You're not joking around about this."
"Obviously not." Phuwin's voice came out tighter than he meant it to. "It's just shocking to know. This empress—" He swallowed. "She's a thing called an omega. A man that can get pregnant. And has a vagina rather than what a normal man would have."
Santa nodded slowly, his gaze steady on Phuwin. "Well, obviously. Look at the description and the drawings. It's pretty clearly stated."
"How did you find this?" Siyh asked, her tone shifting to something more serious.
Phuwin took a breath. "I was looking for a getaway. Like a romantic trip idea for me and Pond." He paused, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "Obviously, my husband is going to pay."
Siyh smiled, the tension breaking for a moment.
"So I was scrolling through some history sites, and I found this. And I checked it out, and the story is—" He stopped, his hand pressing against his chest. "The story is similar to me and Pond's. Really similar. The empress had eleven children. Was said to have the proportions of a woman—slim and young—and the beauty of all the women across the lands, which is this whole continent. Almost everyone—" He paused, remembering the text he'd read. "Well, not everyone. The Northern lord and Emperor Pond's father, women and maids in the palace and on the streets. But everyone else around him cherished him. Was happy to be around him. Millions showed up to see him after he married Pond. Stared at him like he was the most beautiful person they'd ever seen."
The group was silent. The tree rustled overhead, and somewhere, a bird called out, a sound that seemed to come from another world entirely.
"There's an entire storyline about it," Phuwin continued. "You should read it—I'll send the links. But I haven't read everything. It's just—" He shook his head. "It's a lot for me to process."
Jungkook reached out, his hand resting briefly on Phuwin's shoulder. "It's okay. Everyone here understands you in a way—" He glanced at the others. "Even if we don't have other versions of ourselves across centuries or decades or years."
Siyh's voice was quiet, steady. "I get you."
Santa leaned back, his glasses catching the light. "Finding another version of yourself is hard to understand. Not easy to take in. But it's okay. You don't have to have it figured out right now."
Phuwin took a long breath, the knot in his chest loosening by a fraction. "You should read it." He held out his phone. "Read the story. It'll make more sense."
Siyh took the phone, and the group gathered around it. Minutes passed. The sun climbed higher, warming the grass, and the sounds of campus grew around them—footsteps, voices, the distant chime of a bell. Phuwin watched them read, his heart hammering in his chest, his palms damp against his knees.
Santa scrolled through the text, his face unreadable. Jungkook leaned in, his eyes moving across the screen. Siyh's thumb paused over a certain paragraph, and she read it twice before looking up.
Then she handed the phone back to Phuwin.
"We read it all," she said. Her voice was quiet, her eyes holding something that looked like the weight of centuries. "That's a lot."
Phuwin took the phone, his fingers brushing against hers. "Yeah."
Siyh's eyes were distant. "The empress—" She paused, her throat tightening. "The empress killed four men while pregnant with the sixth daughter of the emperor. And He was—" She stopped. "She was raped while she was pregnant. Captured by the Northern lord whose name has been forgotten. Not spoken of in the records."
The words hung in the air, heavy and cold.
Santa's voice was softer than Phuwin had ever heard it. "Empress Phuwin and Emperor Pond's love was deep. Inseparable." He met Phuwin's eyes. "That's nice. And it's just like the Phuwin here and the Pond you're currently engaged to."
Phuwin let out a long, slow breath. The words didn't make the weight of the story any lighter, but they made it feel—real. Shared. Held.
He looked down at his phone, at the painting that still glowed on the screen, at the face that was his own and wasn't. The ink figure in the pool stared back at him, and for a long second, he felt something pass between them—a breath, a memory, a thread of three hundred and sixty-nine years that bound them together like the warmth of a hand that never let go.