Pran was spending more time alone lately, he knew. He hadn’t made any friends yet—he forgot how hard it was, when he’d been surrounded by the same people his whole life. He used to be quite alone when he was younger, frequently told by his teachers that he was so independent and serious. But he’d grown out of that, he thought. He’d made friends eventually, people he laughed and joked with, and even the people who didn’t want to be friends with him had grown fond of him. He didn’t know what it was amounting to, but it was starting to go somewhere.

Not like any of that mattered anymore. A single incident, and his mother had plucked him out of school, the city he’d lived in his whole life, to be out here at this new school all by himself. He didn’t know anyone. He didn’t know how to get to know anyone; it was like being eight years old all over again. The anger in his chest had died down, or maybe it hadn’t, because when he thought about how lonely he was, when he thought about it too much, it felt empty, an ache. And when he wanted to glance at someone—anyone for reassurance that he wasn’t in this alone—

No one was there. He was in this alone.

The sky was overcast. The school had a football field that he was treading along; it was off-season, so he couldn’t watch anyone practice even if he wanted to. Maybe it was for the better, because Pran’s imagination had been especially cruel to him lately. Dreams of going back to his old school, entire classrooms and hallways full of unrecognizable faces. Dreams of going back home, and the house next door occupied by a strange new family. Dreams of his window creaking open at night, except when he’d glance over, it would be the wind, and nothing else.

Sometimes it felt like he was lost. Pran could blink and the things that he was starting to get familiar with would suddenly look foreign to him. But he woke up every morning with the same face behind his eyes, and before he went to sleep, with his hands slipped under his shorts, that face would flash in his mind again. And it would remind him, still, that he was alone. That he was here. That no matter how much was different, there was one thing, one person he could never forget.

Lost in thought, Pran nearly didn’t notice that he was being watched, until he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone—a man—was lounging against the bleachers, watching him. He’d adjusted a bit, as Pran started trudging along to the other side of the field, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His gaze was focused on Pran.

Pran scowled; they were a good ways away. “What do you want?” he called.

The man put his hands up and shook his head. But he kept staring.

Pran didn’t have time for this. He made a frustrated noise and started storming over. “What do you want?” he said again. “You shouldn’t be trespassing, and it’s creepy, what you’re doing, this is a school—”

“Pran,” the man said.

And now that Pran was closer, he could recognize that there was something—something eerily familiar about this man. It wasn’t Pat, because Pat was back in Bangkok, reigning effortlessly at the top of their—his class. This man just kind of, sort of, looked like Pat. The same fierce eyes, the same intonation in his voice when he said Pran’s name. He was wearing a blue button up over a black t-shirt and white jeans. His hair was a bit longer, coiffed and styled. He was tall, too, toned and broad-shouldered and relaxed, sure in his body in a way that fifteen year old Pat, for all his love of wrestling and touching, hadn’t quite figured out yet.

He was so blindingly hot that Pran’s mouth instantly went dry. He felt like a little kid, telling an adult off. This guy watching him was creepy, but did he really mind it? When the man was looking at him with fierce eyes that reminded him of Pat’s, with such an intensity that it made Pran stupid with want?

And then he remembered that this guy knew his name.

“How do you know who I am?” Pran demanded.

The way the man chuckled reminded him of Pat, too. “Do you know who I am?” he asked instead.

“I asked you first!”

“And I asked you second,” the man said calmly. “Come on. No guesses?”

He knew Pran had a guess. There was no way he didn’t. Pran’s life was so entwined with Pat’s that there was no way this man didn’t know. But Pran didn’t want to say it, because there was no way it could be. Pat was all the way in Bangkok. Pat didn’t look like… this. Sure, Pat made him feel the same as he did right now, but that was because of how Pran felt about Pat and how this man looked like a painful reminder, not because this man was…

“No, I’m not telling you,” Pran said stubbornly. He was probably reading into things. He thought about Pat enough anyway, as much as he pretended not to. “You better get off campus before someone reports you,” he told the strange man, and started to walk away.

He didn’t get very far when the man said, “You keep your broken watch from the incident at the lake, in a box at home even though you know it works.”

Pran stopped, chilled. Goosebumps ran over his spine.

“You kept the guitar pick with my face on it too, even though you never really use it,” the man continued. His voice was getting closer. “I put a heart on your shirt for Valentine’s Day as a joke in Mattayom 3, and you keep the sticker on your diary. Your dream job is to be a musician, but since your parents want you to get into something practical, you’d like to be an interior designer as well. You met your best friend in Creative Writing class in boarding school, when you bonded over having similar tastes in music.”

At the last one, Pran frowned in confusion. “My best friend?” he asked this—maybe stranger. He wasn’t sure anymore. “I don’t have any friends here.”

“Oh.” The man covered his mouth with one hand. “I got the day wrong.”

“How do you know all that?” Pran said. “You can’t be—you’re not—”

“You can say my name, you know.”

The way he was looking at Pran made Pran feel like he was splintered open, like this man could see Pran for all he was. Inside and outside. When Pran said, “Pat,” it sounded like a plea, a wish, everything at once. Everything that he wanted from Pat, missed from Pat rose in his throat, behind his eyes. And Pat, this Pat, somehow, dragged Pran into his arms, and brought him close as Pran began to cry.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Pat said, stroking the back of Pran’s head, pressing Pran’s face into his shoulder. He smelled like Pat, woodsy and better, a touch of cologne, something mature. Pran was in boarding school and he was fifteen and he missed Pat so much, a part of his heart so large and he didn’t realize it until it was gone. It was earth-shattering, like he was stranded, except he had been pulled away, viciously, until he was left with nothing. Nothing but a sea of new faces and new people and none of them, none of them would ever be Pat.

But this Pat held Pran like he knew how Pran wanted to be held, as Pran cried into his shirt and drank him in, hoping this would fill him up once more, heal him. And when Pran thought he had cried enough, stupidly sobbing into the shoulder of the grown man he loved, he pulled away, looking at Pat—

And Pat’s eyes were glistening down at Pran, and then Pat leaned in to kiss him.

Pran nearly jolted in surprise—but he was so entangled in Pat’s arms and Pat was kissing him that he melted right away. Pat cradled his face in his hands, cupping his cheek, leading with a confidence that boasted he had done this millions of times. He kissed Pran like it was all he wanted to do, and Pran had to pry his eyes open to watch him, watch the way Pat’s lips moved and parted like he was lost in Pran’s mouth. He teased his tongue against Pran’s, breathing heavily through his nose but not wanting to part.

Pran closed his eyes again and tried to mimic the motion, tentatively flicking his tongue into the warmth of Pat’s mouth too. Pat caught his tongue and sucked on it lightly, and Pran suddenly wanted more, pressing back up against Pat’s strong body. He nipped Pat’s bottom lip, sucked, and Pat let him, returning the favor on Pran’s upper lip. Pran wanted to feel Pat everywhere, taste his warmth inside, so he did, sliding his tongue back into Pat’s mouth, thrusting in between his teeth, then out, then in, just to feel the scrape of Pat’s teeth along his tongue. The second time, Pat caught his tongue between his lips again and sucked on him hard, rhythmically. The sensation went straight down to Pran’s dick, and he gasped and pulled away, his head dizzy.

The white spots were flashing behind his eyelids, but it was nothing compared to the phantom—and first ever—feeling of a mouth against his own, hungry and desperate and making Pran feel wanted in this awkward body of his. When he looked at Pat, Pat was blinking too. His lips were dark and red and his hair was disheveled. Pran thought, I did this to him, and it made him so insanely hot with want, insane that Pran could do this to him. He wanted this Pat so badly, and he could tell Pat wanted him so badly, and he was painfully, achingly hard in his shorts.

Then Pran remembered who he was. Who Pat was.

“Why the—” Pran stumbled backwards, realizing what had just happened. “What are you—Why did you do that?”

“Pran,” this Pat started.

“No,” said Pran. “No, this can’t—you’re not real, this can’t be—”

“Pran,” Pat said again, gently. “Baby, this is real—”

“Why are you calling me that?”

Pran knew he sounded hysterical, but he didn’t care. Pat wasn’t supposed to like him like this. Pat would never like him like this, and even if he did, that wasn’t—not a Pat who looked so much older. If someone came onto the football field and told him Pran had been kissing, screaming at a ghost, he’d feel assured.

But they were alone and Pat’s face was screwed up in regret, and Pran hated that too. “Pran, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you,” Pat said. Pran had always envisioned if Pat had ever—ever—said that, it would be under vastly different circumstances. “Not without telling you more about myself at first. I am Pat, you’re right,” he said, and Pran’s head was spinning, brain wild. He didn’t know if he could look at this man or not. “I’m a Pat from, from the future.”

“From a different world?” Pran asked, strangled.

“No. Well.” Pat turned thoughtful. “I guess I wouldn’t know. I don’t know how this time travel stuff works. But it is me, and you—you from the future—told me that you, um, lost your virginity around this time—”

“What?”

“That’s what he said,” Pat said defensively. “And I just, I don’t know. I didn’t want you to—I don’t know. I know you’re missing me a lot. I missed you a lot too.” He smiled wryly at Pran. “But we’re better about that, in the future. We don’t miss each other as much.”

Pran didn’t know what that meant. He hated how it was assuring, even though Pat hadn’t really provided him with proof, or anything. It was so fucking cryptic. Pran wasn’t sure how much of it he believed.

At the same time, Pat did know all these things that Pran hadn’t told a single soul, not even his diary. The guitar pick was one thing, but the watch and the Valentine’s Day heart were things he wouldn’t even admit to his mother on his deathbed.

But—”My virginity?” he said. “But I haven’t—haven’t even.” He cleared his throat and blushed, because it was against their rules to admit defeat. It was against their rules to admit anything. “But I hadn’t even kissed anyone,” he said to Pat. “Now. Before—you.”

Pat’s eyes widened. “Oh,” he said. “Then that was your first—I.” He was taller than this Pat, than Pran. His hesitation made Pran’s reservations crumble, because Pat wanted to be good, to be respectful, and Pran had always liked pushing him a little, if he didn’t get pushed back first. It gave him an excuse to let Pat see a side of him in exchange for seeing that same side of Pat.

Pat said, “I mean, you’re—if you’re not—we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do?”

“What do you want to do?” Pran asked shyly.

Pat closed his eyes and breathed in, deep. Pran could see his throat working as he swallowed, the long column of his neck, the muscles along his jaw tensing and then unfurling as he flexed his knuckles.

“A lot,” Pat said, opening his eyes again. “You’re—I’ve always wanted you, Pran. Even before I knew it. God, I want you so bad.” His face was earnest and his eyes were dark and Pran didn’t need to know, didn’t care for anymore because he knew this was Pat. And he knew he was telling the truth.

And the circumstance was so strange it was almost unreal but he wasn’t going to pass it up, not with this desire burning inside of him, this ache of loneliness. Not when he was missing Pat so badly he felt empty and now this Pat was here to fill him up, to take him. Pran wanted it, too.

“You can have me,” he said, laying himself bare.

Pat was buzzing under his skin. He didn’t think—didn’t know that this Pran, Pran from fourteen years ago would be like this. This angsty, this teary, this cute. God, Pran was so cute. He wore his heart on his sleeve and his face was so open and he kept glancing at Pat like he couldn’t believe this was real.

Pat didn’t blame him; he could hardly believe it was real himself. A couple of days before, in his own timeline, he had been coming home from a work trip and missed Pran so much in the two days that he was gone that he wondered what Pran had been up to when he was gone. And then he dreamt that he was back home during the day he was absent, and in his dream Pran was surprised but didn’t say anything, and they watched a movie and made love on the couch and Pat woke up. Then when he’d gotten home, he told Pran about his dream, and Pran had said it was all real – that it was his day just yesterday.

It was a strange time bending ability that Pat didn’t really understand, but the night previous, after a few good rounds in bed, Pran had casually mentioned that the first time he had sex was early on in his boarding school transfer. He’d mentioned in passing that he was experienced before their relationship, and that it usually made Pat jealous—and of course it made Pat blindingly jealous again to be reminded about it. Who would Pran have slept with, when he’d been wanting Pat for so long?

But as they started to trek back to Pran’s dorm after Pat suggested it, Pat was starting to have new suspicions.

It didn’t matter. This Pran was here with him now, confused and starstruck all at once. When Pat reached out to grab his hand, Pran startled—but took it, staring at Pat’s fingers lacing with his own. “What are you doing?” he asked nervously.

Pat smiled as winningly as he could. “Making you feel better,” he said. Pran’s hand was soft and clammy. In his own timeline, Pran’s hands were a bit bigger, much rougher from all the sketch work he had to do for his job. Definitely not as sweaty. Pat found he didn’t mind either way.

Pran, for how indignant he’d been earlier, blushed. “I’m fine,” he mumbled, as they walked inside the dorm building. “And I don’t—what does this mean? What are things like where you’re from?”

Pat’s heart hammered in his chest; he didn’t know if he could tell Pran that yet. “Let’s get to your dorm first,” he said, and tugged Pran in front of him. “You lead the way.”

Pran had shown him around his old boarding school campus before, including where his dorm had been, so Pat knew where they were going. But it was cuter to watch this Pran fumble and step a little closer, a little quicker, and say, “Okay.”

Pat might’ve been worried about getting odd looks—a grown man with a teenage boy—but there weren’t many people in the dormitory hallway, and those who were there didn’t spare them a second glance. “Where is everyone?” Pat wondered. “It’s the beginning of your second semester, isn’t it?”

Pran fidgeted. “Yeah. Most kids go back home during the weekend.”

“Oh,” Pat said, realizing. He tried to think of the weekends during the years of Pran’s transfer, but he was pretty sure that he was too annoyed at Pran for leaving him alone and for being told it was his fault to even spare a glance at Pran’s room anymore.

“I’ll go, eventually,” Pran said, answering his thoughts. “It’s just…I’m mad at Mom too, you know? I hate being here. I don’t know anyone.”

“Not yet,” Pat said encouragingly. “You will.”

They made it back to Pran’s dorm, and Pran disentangled his hand from Pat’s to open the door. Pat watched him, struck with all the similarities and differences between this Pran and his own. The same dimples, the same nose he liked biting, the same sweet musky scent here, raw like his own Pran when he first woke up. This Pran hadn’t put on that much weight yet, skinny in his wrists and legs, and he was a bit shorter, reaching Pat’s nose instead of his hairline. Pat knew he should feel weird, guilty even that Pran was a teenager, inexperienced with what they were about to do. But instead it made him hot and possessive, that Pran still wanted him, no matter how young Pran was or how old Pat was. This was still his Pran, and Pat wanted him as much now as he did when Pran was fourteen years older.

Pran let Pat in first, then closed the door behind him. “Now what—” he said, but Pat didn’t let him finish, just took Pran’s face in his hands and kissed him again. Pran squeaked—squeaked, he hardly did that anymore—but his hands came up to Pat’s body automatically like he couldn’t help it. His hands roamed Pat’s broad chest, which Pat knew he always liked. He clung to Pat and Pat hoisted him up, wrapping Pran’s legs around his body and pressing him against the door so he could grab at Pran’s fantastic ass. Pran moaned into his mouth. It was obvious he hadn’t done this before, his technique sloppy and enthusiastic, letting Pat guide him instead of pushing back for control. But Pat liked this, too. He didn’t need Pran to fight with him all the time.

“We can talk,” Pat breathed against his mouth, even though he was rock hard in his jeans, and he was sure Pran was too, through their clothes. “If you want.”

Pran’s eyes were hazy and dark when he looked at Pat. “I just can’t believe you want me at all,” he blurted, and Pat’s heart tugged. “Is this what it’s like? In the future?”

“Do you really want to know the answer to that?” Pat asked.

Pran paused, and stared up at him. His cheeks were flushed and Pat was this close to kissing him again to shut him up and having his way with him. But if Pran wanted to know, he deserved to.

Pran said, “I don’t care,” and dragged Pat back down to kiss him.

He was making little hungry noises against Pat’s mouth, muffled as Pat guided them from the door, carrying Pran in his arms. Pat set Pran gently down on the bed and then joined him, pushing Pran onto his back and covering his entire body with his own, kissing him deep. Pat’s fingers slipped up the bottom of Pran’s shirt, and he smirked when he felt Pran shiver against him. Pran’s skin was soft and warm and Pat touched him, teased him, rolled his hips as he slid his tongue into Pran’s mouth, reveling and familiar with how much Pran was opening up to him.

“Pat,” Pran said, and then, “Pat,” again. It took Pat a moment to realize that Pran’s voice was thick, and he was looking up at Pat though glittering eyelashes.

“Oh, baby,” Pat said, and he felt his heart ache. Pran’s eyes were shining and wet. “What’s wrong?”

Pran hiccuped. “Nothing,” he said. He kissed Pat again, sucking at Pat’s lips like it was all he could do, opening his mouth and nudging his tongue against Pat’s teeth, trying to get Pat’s tongue to slip inside him too. Pat did, and Pran sucked on it, and he was clumsily kissing Pat all he could as Pat lifted his legs and slid Pran’s shorts off.

He could taste the salt from Pran’s tears trickling down his face as they kissed, and when he pulled away to drag Pran’s shorts off his body, Pran’s eyes were red-rimmed too. “Baby,” Pat said as he started to fold Pran’s shorts, and he saw Pran shudder at the nickname. “Do you miss me?”

Pran turned his face away, but Pat knew he was dead-on.

“Do you want me that much too?” Pat continued. After tossing Pran’s folded shorts onto his nearby desk, he got Pran’s boxers off too, freeing his cock. Pran tried to twist his body to hide himself, but Pat batted his hands away. “No, no,” he said. “I want you like this. Pran, I want all of you.”

Pran was breathing heavily through his nose. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck, Pat, you’re so—”

“Yeah?” Pat asked. He spat in his hand and guided it around Pran’s cock, without warning. Pran bucked and gasped—and then he was coming all over Pat’s fist. His body thrashed with the force of his orgasm, spasming as little moans left Pran’s mouth at the pre-ejaculation. He came so much, warm and wet, and it was the first time someone else had ever touched him before. Pat felt amazing just knowing.

When Pran was done, his chest was heaving. Pat laughed. “Wow.”

“Shit,” Pran said, and covered his face. “I didn’t mean to—”

His face was pink and he looked humiliated and Pat wanted to eat him up. “I barely touched you,” Pat teased. “You came just from that?”

Pran flung his arm over his eyes so he didn’t have to look at Pat. “I know, I’m inexperienced, okay, you can’t have expected it to be good—”

“Oh, it will be good,” Pat said. That got Pran to look at him again. “You think we’re done already? Baby, I haven’t even come yet. And I’m going to make you come at least two more times, if I can.”

“Two—?” Pran started, but then Pat used the hand covered in Pran’s slick and his saliva, rubbed beneath the soft hair on Pran’s balls, then teased the tips of his fingers at the rim of Pran’s entrance.

Pran bucked forward, body convulsing. His hole was tight. Pat didn’t have to see it—he was well-acquainted with it by this point—but Pran’s virgin hole was still a different experience. Pat knew his fingers were thick, and two fingers was not enough to start out with, so he teased just his middle finger, circling around Pran’s rim. “Relax,” he soothed.

Pran whimpered. “I’m trying,” he said.

He was trying too hard. Then again, it wasn’t just the lack of experience—this Pran was always wound tight anyway. Pat saw it earlier, on the football field. His older self had less of a weight on his shoulders, wanted to let Pat in, gave as much as he got that sometimes Pat could slide three fingers into him all at once. But this Pran he’d have to open up like he did the first few times.

Pat wanted it. He wanted to spread Pran apart, make him realize how good Pat could give it to him. “Don’t think too much,” he told Pran, and Pran retorted, “I’m trying.” but then Pat kissed him and slid his tongue between Pran’s teeth as he slipped the first centimeter of his thick finger into Pran. Pran’s mouth fell open against his, and his body was tensed like he was trying not to wince.

Pat kissed Pran again, getting him to focus on their mouths. Pran didn’t try to push Pat away, and after Pat nipped at his lips a few times Pran started nipping back, sucking on his tongue, going back and forth. Pran had always loved kissing. His fingers threaded into Pat’s hair as he brought him closer and deeper, and when Pat started wriggling his middle finger in a few centimeters more, Pran hitched his legs up to let him and didn’t seem to notice.

His hips were pushing up against Pat’s, the bed creaking beneath them with every movement. His hands went from Pat’s hair to his back, palms running up and down his spine, feeling his shoulder blades. “Pat,” Pran was mumbling between their lips again. “Pat.”

“Yeah, baby, I’m here,” Pat breathed.

Pran tore their lips apart, only to kiss Pat’s jawline, then bite it. His mouth took to Pat’s earlobe, tugging on it. When Pat didn’t react, Pran frowned.

“I thought you’d be sensitive there,” he said.

Pat laughed. He swirled his finger inside Pran, and Pran gasped. “You’re getting close,” Pat told him.

Determined, Pran pulled Pat toward him again, this time going for Pat’s collarbone through his open shirt, his neck. Pat shivered this time, and felt Pran smile against his skin. Pran scraped his teeth down, sucked, and the sensation was making Pat’s cock twitch and way too stifled in his pants. He stopped teasing and pressed right where he knew Pran’s prostate was, and Pran cried out against him.

“Pat,” he said. “Fuck, Pat, please. I want—”

“I know what you want,” Pat said. “But you’re not loose enough yet.”

“Hurry it up,” Pran whined, and his eyes were glimmering and his neck was flushed and his lips were so, so dark. “I have—my desk drawer.” He gestured to the side.

It was good, because Pat’s fingers were starting to get sore and dry from using just spit and come. He yanked open the desk drawer and found the bottle of lube, lathering it all over his fingers, then getting a large glob on his palm to spread onto Pran’s hole. Pran squeaked and winced at the sensation as Pat rubbed the lubricant in with his drenched fingers, nudging two fingers at Pran’s entrance. Pran wasn’t quite there yet, but this time his muscles flexed instead of protesting at the intrusion, and he was so wet inside form the lube now. As Pat pushed his two long fingers in, Pran clung to his shoulders.

“Pat, it’s so much.” His grip was tight.

“My dick is bigger,” Pat said, and watched with delight as Pran’s eyes went wide, like he forgot what the end goal was. “Are you sure you can take that?”

Pran bit his bottom lip. But he nodded, and Pat could see him concentrating on letting Pat in more, breathing in deeply. Pran loved bottoming, he knew; Pat didn’t blame him. Pran loved opening up and letting Pat fill him, making Pat fill him over and over again until Pran forgot who he was, inside and out. Even from the beginning, Pran was always like that—and even now, as Pran loosened and was so warm inside that Pat just wanted to slip inside him now.

He took his fingers out again and Pran made a noise of protest. Pat laughed. “You already want it this much?” he asked as he started to undo his jeans. On second thought, he took off his button up and shirt, too—he knew Pran always liked the view of his body. Pran watched as Pat folded his clothes and set them on his chair at his desk. His eyes were sparkling when Pat returned. “What?” Pat asked.

Pran said, “Nothing,” but his hands were on Pat’s body, and he was kissing him again. It was like he was determined to be a better kisser, to prove to Pat that he could be good, better than anyone else at their first time. Pat laughed a little into his mouth but kissed him back, draping his body over Pran’s and letting Pran slide his palms over his shoulders, his spine, dragging to Pat’s front and thumbing at his nipples and abs. “Pat,” Pran said, and moaned desperately. He spread his legs around them. “Pat, I’m ready.”

He looked so young in this bed. Pat scrambled, a little too eager to deflower Pran right here. He stroked his cock with one damp hand—and then on second thought, spat in it, because his Pran liked that. And then, to his surprise, this Pran (the fucker) grabbed his hand and licked up the saliva from his palm. Pat’s hand got wetter, and so did the tip of his dick, and then Pran pulled away, looking way too satisfied with himself.

Pat could see his husband in this Pran; could see, still, this fifteen year old Pran in his husband. He smirked at Pran. “Okay,” he said, and rubbed both wet hands along his length, press the fat head of his cock against Pran’s hole.

Pran tensed up immediately. His legs curled upward. Pat’s cock was thicker than his fingers, and even though Pran was already spread open, Pat could only imagine the difference in girth for the first time. The first time—he thought, at least—when they were in college, Pran had been the one to slide Pat inside himself and took him in like it was all he was made for.

Even though it was clearly new to him, this fifteen-year old Pran looked determined too. But the pained expression on his face made Pat want to go slow. He was barely millimeters in. Pran kept loosening and tensing around his cock.

“Come on,” Pran mumbled. His eyelids kept fluttering, like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to watch Pat, or close his eyes to concentrate. “Come on, Pat, go.”

Pat frowned. “But I don’t want to—”

“You can hurt me,” Pran said, and Pat remembered what Pran liked to say, so often during sex: I like it when it hurts. “It’s okay. Let me—make me feel it.”

His voice was shaking, but he met Pat’s gaze as he said this. And, well. That was enough for Pat to grit his teeth, grab Pran by the ankles, and shove himself all the way in.

Pran cried out. But he didn’t try to squirm or get away as Pat started fucking him, raw and with saliva and lube and a bit of come between them. Pran was so fucking tight and young and he still wanted it, so much, that he was pleading for it and moaning as Pat hiked up one of his knees so he could drive into Pran deeper. Pran went, “ah, ah, ah,” and his mouth was hanging open like he couldn’t close it, and Pat wanted to kiss him but he wanted to come inside Pran first, make Pran feel it from behind his eyelids to the tips of his toes.

He was so warm inside, clenched around him. It felt like Pat was carving out in a space in Pran’s body, for him. When he pressed his thumb against where he and Pran were joined, he could feel the skin tight around Pran’s hole, where Pat’s cock was sliding in and out. Pran felt so good, so right, and he bore down on Pat’s cock like he didn’t want Pat to get too far away. Pat kissed Pran’s ankle hanging off his shoulder as he fucked him deep, fucked him hard enough in a way that Pran would never forget. His balls slapped against Pran’s ass, the sound of their skin coming together echoing around the small bedroom. “Ah, Pat,” Pran moaned. “Pat, please, come on.”

Pat breathed hard through his nose. “What?” he asked Pran. “What do you want?”

“I want,” Pran said, and then tears sprung to his eyes. Pat should’ve been alarmed, but it made his cock twitch inside Pran more, and he went even harder. Pran’s words were getting lost in the rhythm of his thrusts, his teeth clacking together. “I want you so much,” Pran said desperately.

“You have me,” Pat said, and bent down to kiss him. Pran kissed back, lost and hungry, and when Pat came inside him, Pran moaned and came too, just from the sensation of Pat filling him up. Neither of them had touched Pran’s cock; it was all from Pat’s orgasm, marking Pran from the inside, claiming Pran as his. Wanting to empty so much of his come inside of Pran that Pran would always be full with him, stretched open. His hips jerked violently against Pran’s as he came, even though he had done this thousands, millions of times at home—because at the end of the day, this was still Pran. He licked Pran’s tears from his cheeks, his lips as Pran continued coming as well, pearly and white splashing over Pat’s stomach, and his school uniform, and his thighs. Pran was twitching and hiccuping, and Pat kept kissing him and kissing him until Pran was kissing him back.

“Are you okay, baby?” Pat asked between their mouths. Pran pecked his upper lip, then his bottom lip, then his upper lip before replying.

“I’m okay,” he said softly. “You don’t—You don’t have to keep calling me that.”

“Why not?” Pat asked, and Pran turned his head away. “Why not, Pran? You’re my baby, you know.” He giggled and rubbed his nose against Pran’s collar. “Baby, baby, my baby Pran, I love you so much—”

He stopped, suddenly. Pran was still crying. His face was screwed up and he was sobbing into his pillow, tears streaming down his cheeks again. “Fuck,” said Pat, and started to move away, started to take his cock out of Pran. “Pran—”

“No, don’t go.” There was genuine fear in Pran’s voice, and Pat slowed, keeping himself at less than an arm’s length distance. Pran’s hole was gripping his cock like he wanted to keep Pat inside. Pat’s cock was now soft, and it hurt a little, but it was hot, too, making the heat stir in his stomach. Pran said, “I don’t want you to—Please.”

“What do you want?” Pat asked gently.

Pran sniffled. His hair was a mess against his pillow; his eyes and cheeks were so red. He didn’t answer, but he searched for Pat’s hand and clung to him, like he was trying to touch all of Pat that he could, afraid that otherwise Pat would disappear into thin air.

Pat squeezed Pran’s hand back. “Come on, let’s change positions,” he said, and slipped out of Pran.

Pran whimpered at the loss, but Pat was only sitting up so he could drag Pran up from the bed. “I know what you’ll like,” he said as he turned Pran’s body around so he was faced with Pran’s back, his cute little butt. Pran was so compliant with his movements, so easy, so obedient for his first time. Pat loved it, as much as when Pran was bossy at home. “Come here,” Pat said, and Pran clambered backwards onto his lap. Pat nudged his cock between Pran’s cheeks, and Pran seemed to get the idea because he sank down immediately, letting Pat’s full cock breach his insides again.

They both moaned. “Pran, you feel so good,” Pat murmured against Pran’s neck. He drank him in, lightheaded at Pran’s scent. It was the same as always, maybe tinted with something powdery, younger, but Pat didn’t mind it either way. He kissed Pran’s neck. “I missed you too, baby, you know?” he said. “I always love it when you’re on my cock.”

He bounced Pran in his lap, hands on his hips, and heard Pran let out a breathless shudder. “Ah,” Pran said, but that was all he could say as he met Pat thrust for thrust, trying to get Pat in as much as Pat wanted to get into him.

Pat nuzzled his neck, kissing and whispering and calling him sweetheart and love and Pran could only whine. He was crying again, Pat realized, maybe overwhelmed at everything. At Pat inside of him, at Pat loving him in ways that Pran had only dreamed of. Pat said, “Turn around, baby, I want to see your face,” and Pran tensed up around him and shuddered.

Then he lifted himself off Pat’s cock and turned to face him. He’d come, Pat realized, all over his now ridiculously messy shirt, and there were rivers of tears dripping down his face. His eyes were black and raw but Pat just smiled at him and pulled him in, kissed him sweetly and guided Pran back down onto his cock as he thrust his tongue into Pran’s mouth. Pran let out a moan, and he was all loose inside now, just like a pussy, just like his Pran back home. “God,” Pat said, and circled his hips, letting Pran ride up and down his cock. “You were made for me, Pran.”

Even with his voice wet, and thick, Pran said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” with the rhythm of his thrusts. He wasn’t as practiced or as sure of himself as his older self, but that made this hotter—that it was still Pran’s first time, that Pat was the first and only person Pran would ever do this with. He was so eager, and so wet inside, and ran his fingers through some of the warm come on both of their bodies to touch behind himself, Pat’s cock and his own rim. “Pat,” Pran said. His shirt flapped with each bounce, and the mattress springs squeaked. “Pat, I love this, I love you.”

Pat gripped onto Pran’s ass and fucked him faster now, intent on the angle that he knew would brush his cock against Pran’s prostate. Pran gasped and let out a litany of noises, his mouth wide open, lips sore and dark. It was too enticing for Pat not to spit into Pran’s mouth, and Pran flinched—but Pat did it again, and shoved his cock in deep, and Pran leaned in and licked the saliva that was still hanging from Pat’s lips. He licked it up, and then he kissed Pat, and Pat kissed back as he squeezed and spread Pran’s ass, wriggling in and palming Pran’s cheeks apart before he was clutching onto him and coming.

Pran had no right to be so sexy like this, but he was grinding back down against Pat’s cock as Pat spilled inside him, lodging Pat deep inside, pushing down as Pat emptied his balls. Pat could feel his own come seeping down his cock, around Pran’s hole, and he groaned. Pran took Pat’s face in his hands and kissed him as he kept Pat inside, rocking his hips back and forth, circling, so that Pat’s cock, his come was spreading all around his warm walls.

Pat huffed against his mouth. “You’re too good for your first time,” he breathed.

Pran laughed. Evidence that he had been crying was still on his face, dried tears and a red nose, but his eyes were sparkling. He looked happy. “What can I say, I’m a quick learner.”

Pat’s first time had been the first time he and Pran had ever slept together, but he had been a quick learner then, too. He decided not to tell this Pran—Pran was riding on Pat’s praise. “I’ll say,” Pat said, instead. “You better remember everything I taught you. For later.”

Pran snorted. “You didn’t teach me anything,” he said. His fingers were tracing thoughtless shapes on Pat’s chest, and he was staring down at the sweat glistening on Pat’s skin. Pat thought he maybe felt the shape of a heart. “I just figured it out myself.”

“Okay,” Pat snickered.

Pran looked up at him then. His eyes were big—hopeful, maybe. “Are you going to stay here?” he asked. “Or do you have to go back to where you came from?”

It was like the moment he asked, Pat could feel the tugging—he was asleep in his normal time, he knew, as real as this was. This was real, as far as he was concerned, but the edges around his consciousness were starting to get that light haze when your body knew was time for you to wake up soon. He figured he had a few minutes.

“I have to go back,” he confirmed, and Pran’s face fell, though he didn’t look upset, just disappointed. “But we’ll see each other again. I promise.”

“How?” Pran asked.

Pat remembered the feeling of a foot slamming into his chest, and a kick in a heart from something else entirely. He smiled.

“You’ll find out,” he said.

Pran’s mouth twisted in unhappiness. “But,” he said.

Pat slid Pran off his body. Pran fell with a thump back on the bed, and Pat stretched up, naked. He let Pran appreciate the sight—something to keep in mind for his next few years here. He turned so Pran could see his ass, his calves and thighs, the stretch of his back that Pran liked so much. His pecs and abs and admittedly still half-hard cock hanging between his legs.

“It won’t be that bad,” Pat told Pran. “You’ll make friends. You’ll be great. It’s only high school.” He winked. “Just wait until university.”

“But,” Pran said again, but Pat could feel himself fading, stirring in another time. He started to walk towards the door of Pran’s bedroom, and opened it.

“Pat?” Pran dashed off the bed to try to follow him through the doorway.

But when he looked into the hall, Pat was gone.

The next day, Pran was sulking at his seat in class. Pat’s clothes had disappeared from his desk chair yesterday too, giving Pran that aching loneliness again. He didn’t have anything left, except for the memories.

He was glaring at his Creative Writing homework when someone slid into the seat next to him.

“Hi,” said a voice. Pran looked up to see a boy smiling at him. “I’m Wai.”

Pat knew it before he felt it that he was home. He opened his eyes. The familiar half-darkness of their bedroom greeted him.

He turned to search for Pran, but didn’t have to look very far. Pran—his Pran—was watching him, propped up on an elbow, head in his hand.

“So?” Pran asked. “How did it go?”

Pat dove for him immediately, tackling and tickling his husband in the stomach. “You knew that would happen!” he said, and Pran laughed, giggling as he didn’t try to fight back. “I was the first person you slept with! Why didn’t you say so?”

“I would’ve ruined the surprise, wouldn’t I?” Pran asked. He was on his back, just like in Pat’s dream. Pat loved him so much.

Pran reached up. Pat didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t Pran touching at a tender spot at his neck. “You have a hickey,” Pran said thoughtfully. “Did I leave that? I forgot.”

Pat winced, and Pran smiled, putting his hands on both of Pat’s shoulders. “Come here, you dumb dog,” he said. “Let me see if I can remember any other sexual encounters that I had with you in the past.”

“Don’t lie to me next time,” Pat said.

Pran said, “No promises,” but Pat found that he didn’t really mind at all.

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for the sun to come, if it ever will

by aroceu

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© 2009-2026 aroceu