The bathroom door clicked shut behind them, and Dice's hands were already on him—one gripping his hip, the other sliding up his chest to curl around the back of his neck. Phuwin's spine met the cold tile, the shock of it sharp through his thin sweater, and Dice's mouth found his before he could think.
He kissed back. Of course he did. Dice's tongue slid against his lower lip, familiar and insistent, and Phuwin's hands came up automatically—palms flat against Dice's chest, not pushing, not pulling. Just there. A placeholder for a decision he hadn't made yet.
Dice hummed against his mouth, pleased, and his teeth found Phuwin's jaw, then his throat. The scrape of stubble, the heat of breath, the way Dice's thumb pressed into the hollow of his collarbone—Phuwin's eyes slipped shut. Two years. Three years since this mouth had been on his skin, and his body remembered before his mind did. His hips tilted forward. His fingers curled into the fabric of Dice's shirt.
And then—Pond.
Not a thought. An image. Pond's face in the cafeteria, the way his hand had crushed the coffee cup, the way he'd stared at the doors after Phuwin walked through them. The way his thumb had traced circles on Phuwin's knuckle in the bakery that morning—six days ago now—light falling through the foggy window, and Phuwin had closed his eyes and believed.
His hands stiffened against Dice's chest.
"Dice." The word came out quiet, almost lost against the wet heat of Dice's mouth still moving down his neck. Phuwin pushed. Just a little. "Dice, stop."
Dice pulled back, but only far enough to look at him—dark eyes half-lidded, mouth wet, a smirk already tugging at the corner. "What?"
"I have to go." Phuwin slid sideways along the tile, putting an inch between them. His voice steadied. "Auntie Godji needs me to help at the cafe. I have to pick up milk and some stuff."
Dice's hand dropped from his neck to his waist, fingers spreading, proprietary. "I'll drive you." His thumb hooked through Phuwin's belt loop, tugged him closer. "It's been two years, Phuwin. You're really gonna leave me standing in a bathroom?"
Phuwin's jaw tightened. "I have to get the milk first. From the store. It's on the way to the bus stop."
"Then I'll drive you to the store." Dice's hand slid lower, squeezed his ass once, firm and deliberate, and his smirk deepened. "Come on. One ride. I missed you."
Something flickered in Phuwin's chest—heat, maybe, or irritation, or both. He pulled Dice's hand off his waist and stepped back. "I'll take the bus."
He bent down, grabbed his bag from where it had fallen near the sink, and slung it over his shoulder. His reflection caught his eye in the mirror—hair mussed, lips red, a flush high on his cheeks. He looked like someone who'd been kissed. He looked like someone who didn't know what he wanted.
"I missed you too," he said, because it was true, and then he said what was also true: "But life's been moving without you, Dice. I have stuff to do."
Dice leaned back against the wall, arms crossing, that smirk still in place. "You're different."
"Yeah." Phuwin pulled the door open. The hallway air hit him—cooler, cleaner. "I am."
"Bye, Dice." He said it in Thai, the word soft and final, and walked out without looking back.
The door swung shut behind him. Through the gap, he heard Dice's breath—a long, slow exhale. Then nothing.---
Siyh was waiting in the hallway, arms folded, her sharp eyes tracking him the second he appeared. Santa stood beside her, quieter, but his gaze took in the same details—the flushed lips, the rumpled hair, the way Phuwin's hand was already reaching up to push his bangs out of his face.
"So," Siyh said, her voice flat. "That happened."
Phuwin's shoulders dropped. "I know."
"Do you? Because you were just making out with Pond six days ago. And I saw that kiss from the window, Phuwin. That wasn't nothing." She stepped closer, her voice dropping. "And now Dice shows up, and you're in a bathroom with him while Pond is standing in the cafeteria with coffee dripping off his hand?"
Phuwin's throat tightened. "I know."
"There's going to be drama. Fights. People talking." Siyh's hand landed on his arm, not harsh, but firm. "You need to figure out who you want, Phuwin. Because you can't have both. And the longer you wait, the more it's going to hurt—you, Pond, Dice, everyone."
Santa nodded once, slowly. "She's not wrong."
Phuwin looked at them—Siyh with her sharp jaw and worried eyes, Santa with his glasses and his calm, patient weight. His best friends. The ones who'd held him when he cried in the courtyard, who'd drunk soju with him in the garden, who'd slept piled in his bed and held his hand under the blanket.
"I know," he said again, quieter this time. "I'm going home. To get milk for Mae Godji. I need to think."
Siyh's grip softened. "Fine. But we're talking later."
"Okay." Phuwin squeezed her hand, then Santa's, and turned down the hallway. His sneakers squeaked on the polished floor. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and somewhere behind him, a door opened and closed, and he didn't look back to see who it was.---
The university gates came into view, and the air changed as he stepped through them—less sterile, more alive. The late afternoon sun was starting to slant, long shadows stretching across the pavement, and the street outside was busy with motorbikes and tuk-tuks and the low hum of Bangkok settling into its evening rhythm.
Phuwin walked. Past the food stalls, past the 7-Eleven where he and Santa always grabbed slushes between classes, past the bus stop where he and Pond had—
He stopped walking.
Pulled out his phone.
Opened Pond's chat.
The last message was from earlier today: Can we talk? from Pond, and Phuwin's reply—Later. I need to think.
He typed. Deleted. Typed again.
Dice kissed me. I let him. For a second.
His thumb hovered over send. His heart was pounding, that familiar tightness in his chest that came before something that couldn't be taken back. He pressed send anyway.
Three dots appeared immediately. Then:
Are you okay?
Phuwin stared at the screen. No anger. No accusation. Are you okay. Pond's first instinct, even now, was to check if Phuwin was alright.
I don't know, he typed. I'm going home. I need to think. I'm sorry.
Don't be sorry, Pond replied. Just come back to me when you're ready.
I'll wait.
Phuwin's throat burned. He pocketed the phone and kept walking.---
The bus stop was nearly empty when he got there—just an old woman with a shopping cart and a man in a work uniform scrolling through his phone. Phuwin sat on the bench, the metal warm from the day's heat, and let his bag slump between his feet.
He pulled out his phone again. Opened his gallery.
Scrolled past screenshots of assignments, a photo of Godji's cat, a blurry shot of Santa laughing mid-bite of a pastry. And then—
The photo from three days ago.
Pond in a loose white t-shirt and baggy jeans, a cream sweater draped over his shoulders, those round glasses perched on his nose—the ones he only wore when he was tired, the ones that made him look softer, younger, like the serious version of himself that Phuwin only got to see when they were alone. Phuwin was wearing his favorite crop top, the black one, and jeans covered in tiny metal charms that clinked when he walked. His bag hung from one shoulder—huge, impractical, covered in straps and buckles that Pond had called "a crime against fashion" with a grin.
They were kissing in the photo—Phuwin's arm stretched out to hold the phone, his smile pressed against Pond's mouth, their faces tilted at an angle that caught the golden light of the evening. His hand was visible in the corner, fingers curved around the phone's edge, and Pond's hand was on his waist, thumb hooked through a belt loop.
The same belt loop Dice had grabbed ten minutes ago.
Phuwin looked at the photo. At Pond's face, half-hidden but unmistakable—the mole near his eye, the way his lips parted against Phuwin's, the way his hand looked so natural resting on Phuwin's hip, like it belonged there.
His chest ached. A good ache. A real one.
He smiled. Just a little. Just enough.---
The bus pulled up, brakes hissing, doors folding open with a tired groan. Phuwin pocketed his phone, grabbed his bag, and climbed aboard. He fed coins into the machine, heard the click of his fare, and found a seat near the back by the window.
The bus pulled away. The street started moving—stores and trees and people on motorbikes blurring past. He pulled his headphones out of his bag, plugged them into his phone, and scrolled through his music until he found something soft. Something instrumental. Something that wouldn't make him think about Dice's mouth or Pond's voice or the way both of them had looked at him today like he was something precious.
The music started. His eyes drifted half-closed. The bus swayed gently, and the evening light slanted through the window, warm against his cheek, and he let himself just exist in the motion—not deciding, not choosing, not hurting anyone yet.
Just moving. Toward home. Toward Godji's cafe and the smell of flour and the milk he was supposed to buy. Toward whatever came next.
The bus turned a corner, and the sun caught his phone screen in his lap—the photo still open, Pond's face still lit up, smiling against his.
Phuwin didn't close it.