aroceu's ficPat had entered on a dare. He didn’t expect to see his childhood rival—a boy he saw at school and across the street every day—here too. Pran had barely dressed up, in a light button-up barely distinguishable from his school uniform, and khakis. He had his guitar and didn’t seem nervous at all, which surprised Pat. It wasn’t that Pran was the nervous type—but Pat had only ever seen him perform for school concerts and neighborhood festivals, and he was quite serious about it, that it would only make sense for Pran to have some nerves performing in front of judges to eventually be in front of a live audience.
Pat, of course, wasn’t nervous. He knew he wasn’t the best singer, but he was starting to get good and his friends said that auditions for this show were this weekend and if he thought he was so good he should go try it, so why not? There were more important things than getting into this singing show, but if he did, it’d be pretty cool, wouldn’t it? That was what he told his dad, who relented and lended Pat the car for this weekend, so he could make it.
Pran seemed equally surprised to see Pat here. “Pat? You’re trying out too?” he said. He didn’t have the squirrelly demeanor he usually did when he was nervous about being seen around Pat; his parents must not be here. They were usually so supportive, but given Pran’s calm self-assuredness, he’d probably asked to take this on independently. Pat didn’t really have to worry about that; his mother had to chaperone his sister hanging out with her friends, and his dad simply wasn’t interested.
Pat said, “Yeah. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here, too.”
“Yeah,” said Pran, although he was frowning. “Since when do you sing?”
Pat puffed. “I’ve always been able to sing.”
“Let me clarify: since when were you good enough at singing to be confident enough to be shown on TV doing it?”
“Hey,” Pat said, though he was laughing. “I’m not that bad, am I?” When Pran just stared at him, Pat amended, “Well, I’ve gotten better! You haven’t heard me recently. You’ll see.”
“I’m sure I will,” Pran said, amusement tinting his voice.
It was pre-show auditions, so there was no guarantee that they’d air—they only would if they got into the next stage of the audition process. When Pat walked in first, he didn’t care if he nailed it or not; he just wanted to have a good time. But the judges said that while his voice was a bit on the weaker side, he definitely had potential and more charm than should be allowed by a teenage boy on stage, which made Pat beam.
As soon as he walked out, Pran asked almost immediately, “How did it go?”
“It went great, they totally loved me,” Pat boasted. He didn’t know for sure yet; the judges were going to contact the contestants afterward to determine the lineup for the season.
Pran rolled his eyes. “Guess it’s a shoo-in for me if they liked you so much.”
“Hey,” said Pat. “Don’t say that until you meet me on the live stage.”
But he did. A week later Pat had gotten the email that he’d gotten through auditions, and when he looked out his bedroom window he saw Pran there, hovering over his laptop too. When Pran met his eyes, Pat gestured to him, and Pran nodded—and Pat grinned, because that meant something else he and Pran could compete at. He nodded too, and rolled his eyes at Pran’s shocked expression and shut his curtains. Pran hadn’t heard him sing for a few good years now—he’ll just have to wait to hear how good Pat had gotten.
It was another couple of weeks until it was the stage auditions—the one that was definitely going to be on TV, the one that even Pat’s dad was going to tune in for, especially if he saw that Pran was in the competition as well. Pat was excited, and even a bit nervous this time, as he drove himself and his sister to the venue. Paa seemed more nervous than him though, as she kept saying things like, “And don’t do something on stage that’ll embarrass me, like some stupid toilet joke or something like that. Are your laces tied? Please don’t trip, hia, my reputation is on the line too—”
“Excuse me, am I doing this audition for you or for me?” Pat interrupted.
Pa looked properly abashed. “I just want you to be cool! You’re my cool older brother, you know?”
“Yeah, I know.” Pat ruffled his sister’s hair. “And I guarantee that I’ll look cool even doing embarrassing things. Pran has a guitar, it’s going to be a lot harder for him to look cooler than me.”
“Wait, Pran’s doing the audition too?” Paa said. “You didn’t mention that before! Why didn’t you tell me?”
Backstage, Pat was alone; Paa had gone to her seat so she wouldn’t have to fight the rush later. Pat was practicing his vocal warm-ups when he saw Pran enter the room; he seemed to be talking with frustration to someone outside, though he entered alone.
They weren’t the only ones here, but Pran gravitated toward him anyway. “My parents are so annoying,” Pran grumbled, sitting on the unoccupied chair near Pat and beginning to take out his guitar.
“Family’s allowed back here, you know,” Pat said.
Pran looked up at him from tuning his guitar. “Yeah, I know,” he said.
An unspoken moment passed between them.
Pat cleared his throat. “So, what are you playing?”
“You’ll see,” Pran said, with a stupid little smile. “How about you?”
“You expect me to tell you if you won’t tell me?” Pat adjusted his shirt, pretending not to be checking himself out in the stand-up mirror in the corner. His sister had told him his outfit was very him today—a red and blue tropical button up and jeans. It was basic weekendwear, but now Pat remembered that this was the impression he was going to leave on the world, the judges and the audience.
Maybe there were little nerves at the tips of his fingers, but that just got Pat more excited. He wasn’t afraid: he didn’t have to be the best singer, but he wanted to have the most fun, showing off what he could do.
He glanced at Pran, who was still tuning his guitar. One of his hands was tapping the wood erratically, and he was cursing under his breath.
Pat knew if he asked Pran if he was nervous, he wouldn’t get a truthful answer, so he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Hey, Pran,” and Pran looked up.
Pat took Pran’s one restless hand. Pran seemed to freeze up, but he didn’t fight it.
“You’re never going to hear this from me again,” Pat said, “but you’re a much better singer than me. And you play guitar. And I already know I’m going to do great, so if that’s true, then you’re gonna kill it, man.”
Pran’s face softened. “Thanks, Pat,” he said.
Pat pulled his hand away and smirked. “Don’t get it twisted, though. No matter what happens, I’m still gonna beat you.”
Pran went back to tuning his guitar. His hands were steadier. “Sure,” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm.
And when the auditions began and his name was announced and he was sure he could hear Paa’s shameless shrieks from the audience even back here, Pat unconsciously fidgeted with the microphone in his hands. But then Pran was next to him and bumped his shoulder and said, “Good luck out there,” and Pat forgot that he even had those nerves in his fingertips in the first place.
His performance was to be exactly that: a performance, where he presented himself as a confident popular jock high school boy—which he was—with a punk rock edge. And then he was singing Never by 25 Hours, and pretending he wasn’t taking delight with the shocked expression on the judges’ faces, who almost certainly didn’t expect him to come out with a slow pop ballad. By the end, they were praising his performance and his singing, which, while still on the weaker side, was good enough for him to get a yes from all three judges.
Pran auditioned with a So Cool song, and even though he wasn’t as charismatic as Pat, he sang and played so confidently Pat was sure this wasn’t just a song that Pran practiced millions of times—he even closed his eyes, looked so at home on stage that Pat was sure this was a song that Pran loved, too. He wasn’t surprised when all the judges gave him a yes, too. They’d be fools not to.
When Pran got off the stage, Pat greeted him right away. “Now the real competition begins,” Pat said with an exaggerated wink, and Pran was too happy to do more than shove Pat’s face away.
*
But Pran’s parents were not happy, when they came backstage shortly after Pran’s audition, dragging him away before Pat could get another word in, glaring at Pat the whole while. Pat snuck across the roof later that night. He didn’t do this much often anymore now that they were teenagers, but he wasn’t going to pretend Pran’s parents’ rudeness didn’t hurt.
Pran opened his window a crack, but didn’t let Pat in. “What was that all about?” Pat hissed from outside. “Your parents?”
Pran twisted his mouth. “Sorry,” he whispered. “If it helps, I’d never seen my mother so angry before. She keeps threatening to transfer me.”
“What?” Pat practically squawked, but Pran hushed him quickly. “She can’t do that! You just got in!”
“Yeah, I know.” Pran sighed. “That’s what I told her. Hopefully, that’s all it is: a threat.”
“Is it just because we’re both on the program? You’d think she’d just want you to beat me.”
“I don’t know,” said Pran. “You know her. But I’m going to go through with this no matter what it takes.”
“You better,” said Pat. “I love seeing your face when you lose.”
Pran stuck his tongue out at him.
Pran didn’t get transferred. But when they got sent to the boot camp for the show, where they had to mingle with the other contestants, get some more talents under their belt, and improve at what they were already good at, Pran pulled him aside and covertly slipped him a note while everyone was busy. “What,” said Pat, but then Pran was already gone.
Pat read the note:
My mom made me promise that I wouldn’t interact with you so I could be here so we HAVE to follow these rules:
- no interacting when the cameras are around
- no talking about each other, especially in interviews
- don’t let the others know that we know each other beyond being at the same auditions
- if we NEED to communicate then we should send each other notes like these
Sorry, but if we don’t do this I think my mom will pull me from the competition entirely. And I know how much you want to beat me.
Pran didn’t sign the note, though Pat didn’t need him to. But he understood the gravity of the situation, and he knew how much Pran loved singing and performing—he was a good performer, Pat enjoyed it himself.
So he kept his distance from Pran throughout the boot camp. They were out of school for a good month, even though it wasn’t an overnight thing. But even at night, Pran kept his windows locked and his curtains closed, too, like even interacting with Pat outside of the bootcamp could be detrimental to his participation there. Which it could be. Pat wasn’t putting anything past Pran’s mom.
Pat practiced for interviews, learned to dance, and improved at his singing for those few weeks. But maybe not enough, as during the first round of the judges’ houses, when they were each set to perform privately in front of an individual judge and Pat was told that even though he had all the charm in the world, his vocal abilities weren’t enough to pull him through this alone. And Pat didn’t mind that he wouldn’t win—but there were still so many rounds to go, he thought he’d make it a little further.
Pran had the same judge’s house to perform at today. Since they had been avoiding each other the whole time, Pat wasn’t sure when it was, or how it went, just that they were in the same approximate group.
He was sitting in one of the makeup rooms with the other contestants who had been eliminated, when one of the judges came in. Trailing behind him was Pran, looking both confused and disappointed. When he met Pat’s eye, he shook his head—he hadn’t gotten in.
But then the judge stopped in front of Pat. “Hey Pat,” he said. “The other judges and I were thinking about you and Pran.”
Dread swooped in Pat’s stomach. Pran’s eyes went wide, too—he hadn’t been told this already. Were they caught? Did someone make the connection between them—or worse, think that all their avoiding meant they hate each other?
But then the judge said, “How do you boys feel about competing as a duo?”