Archive of Our Own

They were twenty-six when Pran got home from work later than usual one day. He came into the kitchen where Pat was setting up leftovers for dinner. Pat waited for a hug or a kiss, or any sort of greeting, as he stirred with a big wooden spoon. When he didn’t receive anything, he blinked up from the pot. Pran’s face beside him was unreadable.

“Baby,” Pat said. He startled a bit, turning to Pran. “How did it go?”

At the question, Pran winced. Pat nearly dropped the spoon into the pot. His felt his heart twinge. He felt useless as Pran looked torn between saying something and breaking down. Instead of either, he pulled out a folded piece of paper from behind his back. Solemnly he handed it to Pat, and stepped in to take Pat’s place stirring their leftovers. With a whirring mind, Pat unfolded it. 

It said a lot of things. Namely, it said a new job title, and Pran’s signature at the bottom. More notably, somewhere between those two items: a number. Pat looked at the number for a long time. Then he looked up at Pran. 

The poker face had given way to dimples. His eyes were sparkling on Pat. And even with that number, those eyes were hungry. He turned the stovetop dial off as some other dial inside him turned on. Pat started laughing.

“Pran —” 

He could barely speak before Pran was throwing his arms around his neck. They left a trail of clothes from the kitchen to the bathroom. Pat’s shirt lost a button. Pran promised, into the crook of his neck, to buy him a dozen new ones, pick a color.

It was a big number. Even still Pran wasn’t satisfied until Pat had him over the couch. They had to reheat their dinner twice.

A week later, Pat went out after work to meet Pran. From across the bar, Pran hadn’t noticed he arrived yet. He admired Pran like a stranger might. Then he felt a sweet flare of frustration at the little exercise. For any stranger encountering Pran like this, at least in Pat’s mind, there was really only one thing to do. With an elbow on the bar, Pat sidled up to him and said:

“What’s a cute guy like you doing out alone?”

“Waiting for my boyfriend.” Pran swayed into him. He pinned Pat with a glare, playful out of the corner of his eyes. “He’s late. As always.”

“Boyfriend? Is he crazy?” Pat took his hand and inspected it. Ran his thumb over his bare fingers. “You’re too cute to not have a ring.”

“We picked out rings. My boyfriend tells me he has a big proposal planned. Once again,” Pran had a menacing glint in his eyes, “I’m just waiting for him.”

“Pran.” Pat slipped out of the bit and into something else. “I thought you were going to propose to me.”

“Oh?” Pran regarded him seriously. “You said you wanted to get on one knee. I said I’d plan our honeymoon.”

“Wait.” Pat frowned. “But I already booked a flight for us.”

“You better be joking.” Pran swiveled around in his stool to face Pat. He squeezed their joined hands with a little more force than affection called for. But Pat squeezed back. “Pat. I told you I'd take care of it. I have our hotel booked already.”

“Shit. Can you get a refund?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. I'll call them.” Pat heaved a sigh. He pulled out his phone with his free hand. “Which hotel is it?”

Pran sighed, too. He scratched his free hand back through his hair. Frustration worried his brow. 

“The hotel is called, ‘Nice Try’,” he said. “The street name is: ‘I’m never telling.’”

But Pat had almost had him for a second. Through his teeth Pran cursed at him. When Pran tried to elbow him away, Pat snickered and moved in even closer. 

“You really won’t tell me where we’re going?”

“You’ll find out when we get there. If we get there.”

“Pran.”

“Don’t you know what ‘surprise’ means?”

“Fine. I have a surprise for you, too.” Their night just started, and Pat already wanted Pran to take him home. He held onto Pran’s ring finger, pinching just below the first knuckle. “Reserve this spot for me. Just a little longer. Will you?”

“That’s not the finger I’m reserving for you,” said Pran. Over the rim of his glass, his teasing smile only spurred Pat on. “I don't think you can surprise me anymore. I know you too well.”

“I’m going to sweep you off your feet,” Pat swore, “the same way I’ve been sweeping you off your feet since we were teenagers.”

“Go ahead.” Dimples reeled Pat in to the challenge. Pat was still holding Pran’s hand when he dropped to one knee at the bar.

“Stop. I know you’re joking,” said Pran, even as his eyes darted around nervously.

“Is it a joke to you?” Pat implored softly into his knuckles. “Pran. I’ve waited long enough. I wanted to ask you—”  

“No. Not—Pat, stop playing.” He nearly fell out of the stool, blanching. “Not here.”

“—if you’ve seen my wallet.” Pat popped up again, holding it out. “I must have dropped it.”

When the bartender stopped by, he used it to order another round for them. Pran muttered something rude under his breath, a future plot for payback already a twinkle in his eye. Under the bartop, Pat thumbed over his ring finger. “What’s wrong? You look surprised.”

A month later, Pran dragged his feet behind Pat as they retraced their steps back into their building one morning.

“I’m sick of taking an elevator every time we leave or come back,” he moaned as they waited for one in the lobby. He had forgotten his keys. He was lucky he and Pat hadn’t gone their separate ways for the day yet. 

“What if we bought a house?” Pat entertained it as if they didn’t frequently talk about it. Lately the conversations felt more like planning than daydreaming. “With a huge bedroom. And a huge bathtub.”

The elevator dinged upon arrival, and they stepped in together. Pran threw an arm around his shoulders, already brightening up.

“What if we built a house?” he said, not to be outdone. “With three huge bedrooms. And a pool.”

“How many elevators?” Pat wondered.

“Zero elevators,” Pran promised by the shell of Pat’s ear.

Pat shrugged. Pran’s idea didn’t sound too bad to him. He caught Pran by the waist, and then he caught his eye. “I know an architect. He might give me a discount. He’s had a crush on me for forever.”

A couple months after that, Korn was stocking a frankly shocking amount of baby food into their fridge. 

“Thanks for doing this again, guys,” he said. He then placed a ready bag of diapers and wipes and bottles on the kitchen island. 

“Thanks for trusting us,” said Pran. He was holding Benz. He barely even looked up at Korn as he spoke. “We’re excited.”

“That's an understatement. Pran’s become an infant care expert overnight.” Pat went over to rub a knuckle over the baby’s cheek. He gurgled as Pran bounced him. “You should see his Youtube history. He’s so prepared.”

“I’m so stressed,” Pran corrected. They laughed.

“Please. Don’t stress,” said Korn. He hefted another bag onto the kitchen island. It rattled; it seemed to be full of toys. “Benz’s gay uncles are going to show him the best weekend of his little life.”

At that, Pat snickered. Benz seemed to find it funny, too. A giggling baby sounded at home in their kitchen.

“This can’t be your kid,” Pat cooed. “He’s too cute.”

“You’ll see the resemblance when he starts crying,” said Korn. “Okay. Remember: for every diaper you change, that’s one free beer at the bar.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Pat. A little fist curled around his pointer finger. “You just have to return the favor in the future, when we want a romantic getaway of our own.”

After Korn left, Pat knuckled over Pran’s cheek like he had the baby’s.

“Look at you,” he cooed. “You’re never that excited to hold me.”

“You’re not as cute as a baby,” said Pran. He was delighted even as he passed Benz to an eager Pat. Pat learned that weekend that babies smelled really nice, until they suddenly very much did not. 

“Why do I feel like we signed up for a weekend of no sleep and hard work?” he wondered, digging into one of the bags on the island and pulling out a rattle. He shook it, and gasped as though it was the most exciting sound he had ever heard, and Benz squealed. 

“Come on, Pat.” But Pran was making eyes at him. “Think of this as practice.”

The next day and a half was marked by diapers, diapers, diapers. Pran and Pat were getting plastered after this, if Korn was true to his word. They cleaned spit-up off of two of Pran’s shirts, they shook even more toys in front of wide eyes, they got unreasonably excited after slipping every small spoonful into a small mouth. It was hard to tell who got more enjoyment out of Pran doing silly voices while reading a bedtime story: Pat, or the giggling baby in his lap.

Well past midnight on Sunday, Pat woke to the sound of wailing. He slipped out of bed before he was even alert enough for his legs to remember they were legs. In the guest room next door he scooped Benz up and hoped to calm him down before he woke Pran, too. 

But Benz wasn’t easily soothed. And soon after, Pran came into the room looking as bleary-eyed as Pat felt. His hair was all rucked up in the back. 

“Go back to bed, baby,” Pat whispered. “I’ll take care of him.”

Pran rubbed Benz’s back, dropping his cheek onto Pat’s shoulder.

“We fed him. We burped him,” he mumbled. “His diaper’s dry.”

“He just needs some help getting back to sleep.” Pat bounced him up and down gently in his arms as he bawled. “Right, Benz?”

“Shh, shh, Pat.” Pran held him around the waist from behind. “Gentle. Like this.”

Pran swayed them side to side, slow, like they were rocking on a boat or dancing on their balcony. After a few moments the crying died down to sporadic outbursts of frustration. The baby against Pat’s chest blinked sleepily even as his face scrunched up.

“Hum a lullaby,” Pat whispered.

“A lullaby?” Pran was nearly asleep against his shoulder even as he swayed. “I can’t think of any.”

“Hum a song you wrote for me, then.”

Pran started humming. Pat felt the vibration of it against his back more than he heard it. Benz grew quieter and quieter. Pat closed his eyes and rested his head against Pran’s as they rocked. 

“Hey,” Pran murmured into his ear after some time. Pat blinked his eyes open. Benz was out. “Don’t fall asleep standing up.”

Gently Pat laid him back in his crib. Then he shuffled Pran back into their room and poured him into their own bed, too, feeling accomplished and exhausted.

A year later, Pat came home after a long day to a warm house that smelled like curry. Pran came out to greet him, and must have recognized something in his eyes. He straightened Pat’s collar out, then yanked him closer by it.

“I wouldn’t have let you leave the house this morning if I knew you picked out this shirt,” he said, stern. It scored a real smile out of Pat, maybe his first of the day.

“Really?”

“Mm.” Pran’s hands climbed from his collar to hold his face, to squish in his cheeks. “Whose man is this? So handsome.”

When Pran kissed him, Pat felt his day up until this point rolling off his shoulders.

“How was work?” Pran asked. Warm eyes searched over Pat’s face.

“It was alright.” 

“I'm going to shower and then we’ll eat, okay?”

“Wait.” Pat caught Pran by the waist and reeled him back in before he could get away. “Let me smell you first.”

“You freak,” Pran laughed, but when Pat buried his face against his neck and took a deep breath, he held him there.

And he held him for a long time. Pat curled his arms around his waist, his head heavy on Pran’s sturdy shoulder. Pran’s fingers carded through the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Was it rough today?” he wondered. Pat sighed.

“Not really. It just sucks. I had to be on-site with my dad three days this week.” He pulled back smiling. “I can't complain if I get to come home to you, though.”

Pran kissed him again. And again. Before Pat could get one more, Pran’s hands came up to frame his face.

“Hey.” He pulled Pat’s attention up from his lips to his warm eyes. “What if you quit?”

Pat blinked at him. It was not something he expected to hear from Pran. After he processed it, and found nothing but earnestness in Pran’s gaze, he let out a huff of laughter.

“Who are you and what have you done with my husband?” Something like that was hard to even jokingly fantasize about. He frowned. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Not quit, then,” Pran conceded. He thumbed over Pat’s temple. “What if you took a long break?”

A long break, Pat could envision. Snoozing the alarm every morning. Clinging to Pran when he’d try to get out of bed. Bringing snacks into Pran’s office for him. Playing games in his boxers all day long. Sex whenever, wherever, in between Pran’s meetings, under Pran’s desk, secretly during Pran’s important phone calls, ready for him like dinner as soon as the clock struck five. Anchored by Pran’s hands on his face, he blinked out of the reverie. It was way too good to be true.

“My dad only just started asking about how your work is going,” Pat said. “It’d be back to square one, if he heard you just now.”

“Pat. I'm serious.” Pran cupped Pat’s shoulders and squeezed. “Just think about it. I can support us.”  

His smile went a little smug. Pat melted against him, finding a new thrill at being taken care of like that. Still he laughed at the prospect. It was kind of absurdly luxurious.

“How’s that fair to you?” he asked.

“It's not fair to me,” Pran countered, “that I have to send you off in the morning with your sad puppy eyes. Always begging for ‘one more kiss, baby, pleeeease.’ ”

As if Pran was actually begging, Pat gave him his kiss.

“What would I even do all day?” he asked. He squeezed Pran’s waist, lifting him up in the embrace a little. “Besides be clingy.”

Pran shrugged.

“Figure things out. Try different jobs.” He pulled Pat’s hair until he gasped. “Do my bidding.”

“I can be your househusband,” Pat offered.

“My househusband,” Pran said, sniffing his cheek before ducking out of his arms fast, “who can’t cook or clean.”

Not fast enough—Pat pinched Pran’s waist again and again until he was cornered against the kitchen counter, breathless. “I do plenty of important things for you. Things you need me for. That only I can do for you.”

“Do them full time, then.” He swatted Pat’s prodding fingers away from him. Pat braced his hands on the counter, caging Pran in with a grin. “What?”

“You love spoiling me,” he said into the crook of Pran’s neck. 

“I’m going to put you to work.” He patted the side of Pat’s face before escaping to take his shower, casting one last backward glance like a promise. Pat liked the sound of that.

After more conversations with Pran, and more than a few difficult ones with his father, he took Pran's advice. He took a long break.

He honed his handyman skills trial by error (“Baby. I love you. But water is not supposed to come out of the faucet in that direction. Or in that color.”), and error (“Ai’Pat. You asshole. Stop trying to change the oil yourself. Take it to the mechanic already.”), and error (“Pran. Don’t laugh. I built the shelf just fine. I wanted all the books to slide off.”). He did laundry just the way Pran liked it (this was a personal priority; he couldn’t tamper with the way Pran smelled), he went grocery shopping (though Pran often insisted on video chatting the whole way), and he deep cleaned the house (when Pran came home one day to a thoroughly sanitized kitchen he kissed Pat with a passion rivaling that first kiss they shared years ago). 

He also had time to make more plans with Korn and Wai (“You literally have a sugar daddy. You’re living the modern man’s dream.” “Damn. Maybe I really should have gone after Pran in university. Kidding, kidding.”) and his sisters (“If you ever want to model again, give me a call. I know a world-class photographer.” “That’s right. P’Ink has a Halloween shoot coming up. She’s been looking for real-life trolls.”). 

He still let Pran cook more often than not, but as a sous chef he ranged from being only a mild distraction (begging for frequent taste tests, but only after Pran blew on the spoon’s contents) to being the deciding factor in giving up and ordering takeout hours later (coming in the kitchen wearing nothing but an apron looped twice around his waist initiated a different type of taste test). 

During working hours, Pat usually kept himself busy while Pran holed himself up on task in his office. But sometimes…

Seconds after Pat sat down for the first time since getting up, his phone lit up with a text notification. He sprang up from the couch feeling renewed anyway. He went and knocked on Pran’s door, demure, before pushing it open.

“I heard someone in this office has been working too hard,” said Pat, his forearm resting up on the door jamb, “and needs his husband to recharge his battery.” 

“You must have come to the wrong room.” Pran folded his hands, his elbows on the armrests of his desk chair. “I just need you to read over this proposal for me.”

Pat went over to him. He leaned over Pran’s shoulder to see the screen. Pran took advantage of the proximity to kiss his cheek. Pat hummed. Then Pran nosed down to kiss his jaw, then his neck. Pat read the first sentence on the screen over again. When Pran’s fingers twisted in the collar of his shirt, and another kiss landed just under his ear, Pat realized he didn’t need him to read anything at all. And when he turned his head, Pran kissed his lips.

“You really were missing me.” He stood up straight again, scratching his fingers against the back of Pran’s head. “Feeling lonely in here?”

“I’m exhausted.” He was pouting up at him. Pat massaged the nape of his neck between his forefinger and thumb. His eyes fluttered shut. “I have my fourth meeting of the day in thirty minutes.”

“Poor thing,” said Pat. He patted Pran’s shoulder. “Keep fighting.”

Pran’s eyes fluttered open again into a glare. “That’s it?”

“Hmm. Maybe you want something else from me?” Pat wondered. He slipped his hand down the collar of Pran’s shirt to slide against his chest. Pran’s eyes were already blown looking up at him. His nipples were already peaked. He must have been having dirty thoughts all morning. “So naughty.”

“Yeah. I do want something else from you,” said Pran. His head tipped against the back of his chair. “Something I need you for. Something only you can do for me. Can you?”

“You don’t even have to ask,” said Pat. When he pinched Pran, Pran gasped. “I live to take care of my husband.”

 Pran was laughing at him, despite himself.

“You love spoiling me,” he sighed. He glanced at his watch. “Can you do it in thirty minutes?”

“Not a second more,” Pat knelt between Pran’s knees and undid the tie of his pants as Pran melted back in his chair, “and not a second less.”

Domestic bliss looked good on both of them. But Pat needed more daily stimulation and structure, especially on days when Pran was truly swamped, or the days he had to go on site for work. It wasn’t long before he was looking for something.

He was hired by an old client of his father’s on a six-month contract. But it was too much like what he was taking a break from. He made use of his Engineering degree for a year at Suvarnabhumi Airport. But the commute sucked. He tried freelance modeling for a company Ink often worked with. But it was too demanding, and the schedule was all over the place—after only a few months, Pran stayed up way too late one night waiting for him to get home and said, pulling a face that Pat could only ever give into, “We can’t live together and not see each other for weeks,” and that was that. He was a personal trainer (“I’m married.”), a bartender (“I’m married.”), and a general contractor (“Seriously, Pat? I’m trading in your ring for a collar.”). Trying new things was fun for a little bit, but it soon got tiresome. Nothing really stuck.

They were twenty-nine when Pran came to bed later than Pat one night, all dewy and fresh-faced despite the hour after his skincare routine. He put his head on Pat’s shoulder, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“It’s too late to be thinking this hard,” he said. Pat laughed into his hair.

“Am I that easy to read?” 

“Pat.” Pran took him by the chin. “What is it?” 

Pat hummed, considering it.

“Nothing. I’ve just been feeling restless lately. Like there’s something I should be doing. But I can't figure out what.” He wrinkled his nose down at Pran, and laughed a little humorlessly. “I’ve tried so many things already. Shouldn’t I know what I want to do with my life by now?”

“Hey.” Pran pinched his cheek. “It’s not like there’s a deadline. A lot of people feel that way. It’s okay to just live.”

“I know. It’s not like I’m unhappy. I’m just missing something.” He frowned. Pran stroked hair back from his forehead. “Maybe I need more hobbies.

“Maybe.” He shifted against Pat’s arm to better meet his eyes. “There’s also one thing you still haven’t tried out. I think you’d be good at it.”

“Being an astronaut,” Pat guessed, still feeling glum and wanting Pran to coddle him.

“Being a parent,” said Pran. 

It was as if he rang a bell. Pat pulled back to see his face. Pran raised his eyebrows. He wasn’t joking. 

“Pran.” The restlessness Pat had been stewing in began to make way for something bubbly in his chest. “What are you saying?”

“I’m serious,” said Pran.

Pat turned on his side, propping his head up with his hand. “You want to have kids with me?”

Pran mirrored him. “With who else but my husband, huh?” 

“I like to hear you say it,” he admitted in a whisper.

“We've talked about it before,” Pran reminded him just as softly.

(Their first conversation about it took place not long after they started dating, actually. They were in Pran’s dorm room, Pran at the sink washing their dishes, when Pat stretched his arms over his head with a pleased groan and said:

“The mood tonight has been so domestic.” He leaned against the counter at Pran’s side. “You finish the dishes and I’ll go tuck the kids in bed.”

“Domestic, my ass.” Pran’s laugh was a sharp huff out his nose. He scrubbed a bowl for longer than it needed to be scrubbed. Then he glanced at Pat out of the corner of his eyes, trying not to appear curious. “Do you want kids?”

Pat had to pause at the question. After a moment, he laughed. “I never thought so seriously about it. I think I do. Do you?”

“I do,” said Pran, evading his gaze but smiling. In the midst of the domestic mood, Pat suddenly felt grown up. With Pran at his side, it wasn’t a daunting pressure. It was a familiar inevitability, like midday sun, and just as warm.

“Imagine our genes mixed together?” he mused. “We’d make lovely babies.”

As Pat got way ahead of himself, Pran rolled his eyes and reined him back in. 

“It won’t be that simple for a couple like us,” Pran said. For a myriad of reasons, was the unspoken end of that sentence. But Pat was still in the honeymoon phase of this conversation; in fact, Pran referring to them as a couple was enough to send him reeling.

“You want to have kids with me?” He stuck his face in Pran’s periphery.

“I didn't say with you,” said Pran. His shoulders inched up by his ears when Pat grabbed his waist. His dimples totally gave him away. “I just meant in the future.”

“You want to marry me too, right?”

He only let up when Pran sprayed the hose faucet at him.)

They were ten years out from that fledgling conversation. In bed, they luxuriated unabashedly in the idea. Between them, it actually felt less like an idea and more like a plan. Another scheme for them to pull off. Another honeymoon phase for them to discover. Pat tucked his nose in Pran’s hairline, thrilled. 

“We’ll be in a good place. We'll have a big house in just a few months,” Pran reasoned. But Pat didn’t need convincing. “And if you’re feeling restless, having kids will keep us both busy.”

“So you’re saying, my job would be full time husband and full time dad?” he asked against Pran’s forehead.

“If you want. I told you, you’d be good at it,” said Pran. He pulled back with a hand on Pat’s chest. It was lovely to see him like this, coming down from a nervous energy, as if he had built himself up to talk to Pat about it. “What do you think?”

Looking into Pran’s eyes, it was hard to think about anything at all. In fact, for Pat, this was a no-brainer.

“Who would say no to a deal like that?” He took Pran’s face in his hands with care. Cheeks filled out his palms as Pran laughed. “How did I get so lucky, huh?”

“Let’s start thinking seriously about it, then.” He wiped under Pat’s eyes with his thumbs. “Deal?”

“Deal.” 

They sealed it with a kiss. A ripple passed between them, almost like a current. They were giggling. Pran was all dimples in Pat’s hands. 

“Where do we even start?” Pat asked, suddenly feeling wide awake.

“I think just saying we’re ready to start is enough for tonight,” said Pran, reasonable as ever. “We’re on the same page.”

Pran reached over him to hit the light, then tucked himself against Pat’s side. Pat pulled the blanket over both of them and threw an arm over his waist. Every breath he took smelled like Pran. The sweet darkness that settled around them was conducive for sleep. Or other sweet things.

Pat put his smiling mouth by Pran’s ear. His hand had crept, somehow, up the back of Pran’s shirt. “Don’t you want to try and knock me up?”

Later that night, Pat was gripping the sheets.

“Baby,” he said. He heard how ragged his voice was and laughed, breathless. “Are you going to finish?”

“Hey,” Pran said into his ear. “Let me take my time with you.”

And he was pulling out, and turning Pat onto his back by the hips, and sliding home again. And rattling the headboard against the wall at a pace that would have had their neighbors blushing if they were still awake. 

“Pran,” it was torn from his throat, “Let’s stay like this all night.”

Pran pressed him into the mattress. Pat held him in every imaginable way as they rocked. When their eyes met, it was pure heat. As if things could get hotter from here.

“Until the sun comes up,” he sighed against Pat’s mouth.

Even later that night, they kicked all the blankets to the foot of the bed. They sprawled, cooling down, connected by an imperfect tangle of their fingers between them. They caught their breaths.

“You’d be a good dad, too,” Pat said. He was sleepy. Pran had utterly worn him out. Pran laughed at the delayed comment. “I can see you helping with English homework. Or teaching our kids the right way to chop an onion.”

Pat reached over to poke at dimples. Pran grabbed his hand, pressing its palm to his chest instead.

“I can see you coaching a little football team,” he countered. “Or cuddling on the couch way past their bedtime.”

“We’d be good at it together,” Pat decided, content. “We make a good team.”

“Right. Between the two of us,” Pran gave him an open gaze that rendered every spent part of Pat inexhaustible, “that’s a lot of love.”

Pat basked in that love.

“Would our parents be good grandparents?” he wondered.

“If they want to be grandparents at all they’ll have no choice,” said Pran.

“At least we can say we learned from their mistakes, right?” He turned in toward Pran, pillowing his head on his beating chest, closing his eyes. “Our kids won’t need to hide anything from us.”

“And we won’t hide anything from them.” Pran cupped his jaw. Pat dozed off.

An interval of indeterminate time passed before Pran dragged his knuckles up and down Pat’s spine, feather-light, just to gently ease him into rousing in his arms. Sex always left him wired.

“Hey.” He nosed by Pat’s ear. Pat hummed. “I know we said we’d talk about it more later, but…” Pat could hear the smile in his whispering. “How many do you want?”

The sleepiness withdrew enough for him to smile up at Pran. He held up two fingers. Pran hummed; Pat felt the vibration of it between their chests. Ten minutes later, Pat was asleep.

Ten years later, Pat was in the living room with Pleng.

“Put your hands like this,” she said. She held up his wrists in position and configured his fingers. “Then do this.”

She did some shimmying little dance move. Pat copied her exactly.

“You’re doing it wrong.” She laughed at him even through her huffing. She ran over to his phone propped up against some books on the console table. “Do it at the same time as me and face the camera.”

“I used this move to get Pa to fall in love with me,” said Pat. “Pa, remember this?”

“Wait for the music, Pa!” yelled Pleng, exasperated, as Pran looked up at Pat from the kitchen island. Pat swiveled his hips. Pran wrinkled his nose and shook his head. Pearl stood on a chair next to him, sprinkling a fistful of some herb into a pot with Pran’s guidance.

“I think that’s enough TikTok for today, Pa,” said Pran, over the sound of music and a bubbling pot.

“Come on. Let’s go help Pa and Pearl finish dinner,” said Pat, but she was already running over to the kitchen.

“I’m hungry, I’m hungry,” Pleng declared.

Pleng was a lot like Pat. Bouncing off the walls and cuddly—at nine years old her teachers gave her advanced math homework to encourage her aptitude in the subject, and some of the problems had Pran scratching his head and deferring to Pat for help. But she also loved learning guitar with Pran; it calmed her and funneled a lot of her energy into focused creativity. Pleng would out-slurp Pat at the dinner table, and Pran would always give Pat a look as if it was all his doing.

“No running in the kitchen,” Pearl commanded from her station atop the chair.

Pearl was a lot like Pran. Meticulous and competitive even at her young age—at seven years old, she was already more precise with her origami than Pat could ever be and was happy to let him know it. But she could wear even Pleng out running around in the yard for hours; it did her good to get a little dirty and wild. Pearl would sit on Pat’s lap and play the xylophone until the whole house had a headache from it. 

Pearl pointed a spoon down at her older sister.

“I’m taller than you, so I make the rules now.”

“Pa makes the rules, even though Pa is taller than him,” replied Pleng. It was infallible logic, so Pearl couldn’t argue. 

Together, the two were troublemakers. They had learned from the best, after all. If Pleng started with roughhousing, Pearl followed up with mischief. They would recall fondly—though at the time it was rather alarming and kind of humbling—when the girls hid a stray cat in their room for three hours before Pat and Pran noticed something was up. So much for no secrets. If they were ever on the couch whispering to each other, Pearl glancing at her parents through giggles, they knew to be on high alert. Otherwise they might end up tackled to the floor, or starring in a nonsensical iPad movie, or pinned to the couch with pigtails in their hair. Pleng had a penchant for climbing—particularly for climbing Pat, and could leap from the floor to wrap her legs around his middle with frightening ease. Pearl learned to pout and reach her hands up to Pat if she wanted to be held like that—a foolproof move undoubtedly taught to her by watching Pran similarly get whatever he wanted out of his husband. 

Pat remembered when Pleng couldn’t see over the top of the counter. Now, she didn’t even need to stand on her tiptoes to look into the pot. With a hand Pran ushered her away from the active stove top. 

“Rule number one,” said Pran, “Pearl and I cook, Pleng and Pa set the table.”

“That’s the boring part,” said Pleng, but she was cheery about the promise of food.

“Smells good,” Pat said, wandering over to his family to peer over Pran’s shoulder.

“What does?” Pran wondered. As Pat ducked his face into Pran’s neck to take a deep breath, Pran gave his ass a warning smack even though he started it. “Go set the table.”

“We made it really spicy,” said Pearl from her perch. She laughed when Pat rounded on her.

“Oh? Did you? I'll just have to order pizza, then.” Pat nodded to the cutting board in front of her. “What kind of peppers are those, huh?”

“They’re mild. Right, Pearl?” said Pran. “We know how you guys like it.”

Pearl picked up a piece of pepper from the cutting board and ate it, as if to prove it to Pat. But she could be trusted just as much as her father could. 

“You know, Pa has tricked me like this before. During our first honeymoon, he fed me the spicy sauce Grandma makes. I almost lost my tongue.”

“Really?” asked Pleng. She had wandered over to look into the boiling pot again, and again Pran steered her away with a hand.

“Don’t be dramatic,” said Pran. “I never give you anything you can’t handle.”

“That's right.” Pat leaned his hands on the island, batting his eyelashes at Pran. “I have other good memories from that trip to balance it out, anyway.” 

The memory of their first time passed between their eyes. Fumbling, tender, full of love. Like every new step they took together. Pran shook his head, dimpling.

“What’s a honeymoon?” asked Pearl.

Pleng piped up as if she had just raised her hand in class: “It’s a vacation Pa and Pa took because they’re in love.”

“That’s right,” said Pran, impressed. He turned to give the pot a stir.

“What did you do on the honeymoon?” asked Pearl. She was in a phase where her follow-up questions had follow-up questions. 

“What did we do on our first honeymoon, Pa?” Pat asked. 

“Hmm. We hung out on the beach.” Pran shared a sparkling glance with Pat over his shoulder. “Went fishing.” 

“Pa wrote a song for me,” said Pat. Pran nodded when both Pleng and Pearl looked to him for corroboration. 

“I thought you went to Tokyo for your honeymoon,” said Pleng.

“That was our fourth honeymoon,” said Pat. “After our wedding.”

“Why have you had so many honeymoons?” Pleng asked, incredulous. Her follow-up question phase never passed. Pat squeezed her into a hug.

“Because we’re so in love,” he cooed, and she made a fake retching sound.

“I think we’re due for another one,” said Pran. Pat, Pleng, and Pearl all perked up at that.

“I want to go to the beach,” said Pearl.

“Can we come?” asked Pleng, tugging at Pran’s sleeve.

“Of course,” said Pran, and shoved a pile of plates and cutlery into Pat’s hands. “As long as you set the table.”

Pat let Pleng grab the glasses. With a hot meal on the way, setting the table was barely a chore. It was made easy. A lot about parenting was made easy. Because any hardship meant the promise of care and support to follow, that warm and familiar and inevitable upswing he and Pran fostered together to get through it all. But hardship was still hardship.

Becoming dads meant setting firm boundaries with their parents that, if not for their children, they might have continued to dance around—starting with Pran telling his mother that they were expecting Pleng, and then telling her that he would not have another conversation with her about it, good or bad, unless Pat was at the table with them. Trying to explain to a seven- and nine-year-old who knew only love what resentment meant in the context of their lives was tricky; after all, Pat and Pran learned it in a very different way, and at even younger ages. 

Then there was the sleepless night as new dads when baby Pleng cried for hours and hours with little reprieve, and by sunrise a barely-standing Pat had a teary baby on one shoulder and a teary Pran on the other. Or that endless day Pearl spent in the hospital, Pat by her side and heartsick over it even as he cheered her up, when she broke her wrist at a football game. Or the week when Pran had to be away for work and the girls were barely old enough to babble and Pat couldn’t even say hello to him over the phone before he was ugly-sobbing, and Wai had to swing over after work the next day to help him out. Or when Pleng, after what they thought was a hitchless celebration of her ninth birthday with Pat’s side of the family, went up to Pran and asked: “Pa, why does Grandpa still not like you?”

But the tough times were outweighed by an abundance of everything else. One morning Pran and Pat were looking down at their peacefully sleeping kids in between them in bed. Sunlight poured in even through the curtains. If Pat shifted back even an inch, his ass would be on the floor.

“Now that they’re more grown, it’s like we have two clingy best friends,” whispered Pran, sleep in his eyes, laughing still.

“Who smell kind of bad and eat all our food,” whispered Pat, poking up Pleng’s nose until she grumbled.

“Who do they get those traits from, I wonder?”

Then there was the surprise family trip to meet Chief Phupha and Teacher Tian in the countryside last spring, when they told the girls they were going to the dentist and stuck to the story until Pleng noticed they had cleared Bangkok an hour ago. Or the one weekend the kids were begging to be dropped off at Aunt Ink and Aunt Paa’s house so Pat and Pran could redecorate their rooms, and then ran out to the car to be picked up two days later, so excited to see their dads again—Pat actually took out his phone to record it. Or the day Pat had Pran and Pleng on his back and Pearl in his arms in the yard and threatened to start doing squats with all of them.

Or the weekend afternoon Pat walked in from a workout to see them all napping on the couch, Pran’s head in Pleng’s lap and Pearl on his chest. Or the countless playdates with schoolmates at their house. Or that summer night they all got so into Mario Party that they didn’t even realize they kept their poor daughters up past midnight until Pearl fell asleep sitting up on the couch with her hands folded on her stomach like an old man. Or that rainy evening when Pat and Pran took learning a TikTok dance way too seriously and had Pleng bowled over in embarrassment, hiding her face under a pillow and screaming, as they performed it. 

Every surface in the living room under a framed picture. Every afternoon a practice or recital or playdate or study session. Every inch of the fridge covered in colored-pencil masterpieces. Every laundry load twice as big, every car ride twice as loud, every plate of cut fruit cleared twice as fast. 

They were in bed after tucking the girls in after dinner, showered and tired and content. Pat could have fallen asleep with the lamp on, Pran’s weight in his arms, his nose against the nape of his neck, when Pran sat bolt upright and turned around.

“Pleng’s math homework,” he said, despairing. Pat sighed. He let Pran fret for an extra second or two before grinning up at him.

“Oh, that?” He stretched leisurely against the pillows. “We finished it as soon as we got home. While you were glued to your computer in your office.”

The stress melted from Pran’s shoulders. And then Pran melted on top of Pat.

“What would we do without you, huh? Huh?” he groaned into Pat’s cheek.

“Are you surprised?” Pat asked, pleased. “You’re the forgetful one.”

“Me? What about when you forgot to put your ring back on after taking a shower? And then went to Pearl’s football game?” He jabbed a finger into Pat’s chest, then walked it up to lay against his lips. “And I had to fight my way through a swarm of moms just to sit next to you on the bleachers.”

“How many headphones have you gone through by now?” Pat complained. “I’m surprised you still have your ring at all.”

“Aww.” He pushed his nose into Pat’s cheek. “I’d never lose my ring, Pa.”

Pat was mollified with more kisses. But he wasn’t satisfied yet. He slid his hands down Pran’s back to grab his ass.

“Hey. It’s after nine. I’m not Pa anymore.” He let their noses brush as he whispered. “You can call me Daddy now.”

Pran cringed and shuddered against him. Pat kissed that curled lip.

“In your dreams, maybe.” He tried to roll off of Pat. Pat held him closer.

“But you’ve called me that before.” He eased Pran onto his back, peppering kisses all over his face, neck, shoulders, chest. He got in between warm thighs and hitched them up against his hips. “Do I have to warm you up first? Huh? Does Daddy have to get you in the mood?”

He stopped when Pran placed a hand around his throat.

“Are you trying to start something on a school night?”

There was that dazed and dimply look that spurred him on. The one he fell in love with. The one he could always draw out of Pran because he could always surprise him, even after all these years. With Pran, he was always starting something. Before Pat could finish that something, the door to their bedroom pushed open wider.

“Pa,” said Pearl at their doorway, pitifully appealing to Pat. “Can I sleep here tonight?”

Pat collapsed onto the mattress next to Pran, pressing his laughter into his fist. Pran gave his chest a few firm pats, as if to snap him out of it and comfort him at once. “She gets that from her aunt.”

“Come here, baby,” he said to Pearl, who was already climbing onto their bed. He turned onto his back. He had Pran in one arm, and Pearl cuddled up in the other. He squeezed them both, kissing Pearl’s temple. 

“What’s wrong with the bed in your room, huh?” Pran asked, stroking her hair. 

Pat reached to hit the light. They settled down again into peaceful silence.

Pran murmured in his ear: “How long until—” but their door was already opening again. 

And then Pleng dove right between the two of them. Pearl was howling with laughter. Her older sister wiggled around until they made space for her. Then she wiggled some more just to keep Pearl laughing.

“Pleng,” Pat gasped when she kneeled on his ribcage. “If I’m not holding onto Pa all through the night, I can’t sleep, you know.”

“Really?” She looked at Pat wide-eyed. Pat nodded. She turned around again and clung to Pran. “Me too.”

“Settle down and sleep well,” Pran reprimanded the whole bed. And then he riled them up again: “We start planning another honeymoon tomorrow.”

Pat would be taking elbows to the face all night, he knew it. Both of his arms would be asleep before him. He would wake up with Pleng’s knee in his stomach, Pearl’s hair in his mouth, Pran’s morning breath giving him a groggy kiss.

Depressingly lonely had long since made an exit from his reality. As for figuring out what he wanted to do in life, he didn’t have time to be in his head about that anymore. His hands were full. His arms were full, his schedule was full, the trunk of his car after football tournaments—full. Everything was full. Teeming like stifled laughter in a parent-teacher conference. Bursting at the seams like the waist of his jeans after Pran made dinner.

Pran caught his eye over Pleng’s head and said, sparkling, “Isn’t that right, Daddy?” 

Pat might be surprising Pran for the rest of their lives. But he could always count on Pran to knock him flat. 

“Why are you laughing?” asked Pearl.

“What’s so funny?” asked Pleng.