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“Time to hit the shower, boys!”
The coach’s yell comes not a second too soon, Macau thinks. The muscles in his legs are aching and all he wants is a shower, some food and to go home. They’ve only been practicing for two hours, but due to their loss the previous weekend, the coach had been everything but merciful.
Droplets of rain start to fall from the skies as the coach’s voice still echoes off the bleachers.
The team runs off the pitch in a heard, yelling with laughter as they try to avoid getting drenched to their bones from the sudden downpour. It becomes a race to be the first one to the door that leads to the locker room.
Tai is the first one, as he always is, driven by his extreme competitive streak. He plays forward and with his competitive personality, it usually means he scores at least one goal during a match. Tai also plays better when they’re losing. Key and First play forward with him, and they’re also the ones hot on his heels. Macau laughs loudly with joy as he follows his team through the door and towards the locker rooms.
The noise of a group of twenty-something boys becomes even louder as they enter the hallway leading up to the locker rooms, their yells making it sound like there are a hundred of them there.
A hot shower, two towel-induced bruises on his ass, and a change into dry, clean clothes later, Macau feels like an entirely new person. His body is a bit sore from the penalty practice, which means getting out of bed tomorrow will be a bitch.
He bids two of their defenders, Nuea and Cap, goodbye before he exits the humid locker room, his bag hanging off one shoulder. Most of the team had already left, but Macau had stayed to discuss the upcoming match with their captain, who had taken much more time of his time than Macau had anticipated.
The locker rooms are located on the first floor of the old part of the school. It mostly houses locker rooms used for the sports teams, due to the easy access from the pitch, but it also has a couple of old classrooms that can be booked by the after-school clubs. Mostly it’s empty, especially this late in the afternoon. Macau had briefly checked his phone before leaving the locker room and had noticed it was almost six in the afternoon. Most club activities were over and most of the student body would be at the library or in the canteen if they even were at school.
As he heads through the corridor, passing doors to empty classrooms, with the soft noises of his teammates still hanging out in the locker room following him, Macau wonders if he should text Vegas to ask if he can pick him up. His brother hasn’t fully healed yet and is mostly bedridden, more by force than by choice, but he told Macau he could pick him up whenever. Pete had told him the same thing before Macau left this morning, and Pete wasn’t healing from getting shot like a hundred times in the stomach so Macau thinks maybe he’s the best choice out of the two.
Macau pulls his phone out of the pocket of his uniform shorts, unlocks it, and flicks through his LINE messages until he finds P’Pete („• ᴗ •„) in the list. A grin spreads on Macau’s face as he sees their last conversation, completely made out of idol stickers. He’s scrolling through his stickers again, watching thoughtlessly as the animated k-pop idol faces change on his screen. His thumb is hovering over a sticker of an EXO member when a soft, gentle sound reaches his ears.
Pausing to silence the sound of his own steps, Macau listens again.
It sounds like someone singing. It’s definitely a song, Macau thinks. It’s a consistent, even tune that goes on and on. He can’t recognize the melody or the lyrics, he’s too far away for that. The song grows louder the further down the corridor Macau walks, his phone still clutched in his hand, with Pete’s chat room open on his screen.
Just a little bit further ahead, Macau discovers a door that’s slightly ajar, looking like it was supposed to be closed but that someone didn’t shut it firmly enough when they entered. Macau knows that sometimes the school band or students who study music use the empty classrooms here to rehearse, so as to not disturb anyone else with their music. It’s not that the walls of the classroom are noise-proof or anything but as the other classrooms down here rarely are used, there are fewer students to disturb.
The music is much clearer to him now, as he stands next to the door, music seeping out through the tiny crack between the door and its frame. The tinny quality that the music has makes Macau think that it’s coming from a speaker and not a particularly good one. However, in addition to the recorded song, there’s also the gentle hum of a guitar playing along. There’s a guitar in the song as well, but there’s an additional guitar that’s following along to the recording in real-time. Someone’s singing along to the song too, Macau thinks, as there’s at least one other voice in addition to the male singer on the recording. The voice follows the song but it’s not following the tune of the song at all.
As Macau reaches out to quietly close the door to the classroom and leave its occupants to themselves, he hears it.
”If the whole world falls apart, that’s fine.”
There’s a split second where the recording is completely quiet. There’s no music, no singer. There’s nothing save for a gentle silence. And then someone sobs. The music returns with full force as the singer, who sounds awfully familiar to Macau, starts singing again. The song crashes over him, bathing the room and the corridor in the sore, apologetic voice that belongs to the singer. The music is back, but the sobs haven’t stopped. They’re easier to pick out now.
The voice that had been singing along to the song hadn’t been singing. It had been crying. Now that Macau has heard it, it’s much easier to separate from the singer.
Macau should probably leave. If someone’s hiding out here to cry, it’s probably because they want to be left alone. Another sob cuts through the music, heartbreaking and sore. It sends shivers down Macau’s spine, breaking his heart. Macau can’t leave.
”Even in a world without stars …”
His fingers curl around the doorknob as he gently pulls the door open.
The classroom looks like it hasn’t been used in a while, as dust particles are floating in the air, made visible by the setting sun that bathes the room in a warm, yellow color. The desks and chairs are stowed in the back of the classroom, making it seem oddly naked and empty.
In the front of the classroom, by the teacher’s desk and the blackboard, by the roof-to-floor window, sits a boy. He’s wearing the exact same uniform that Macau is wearing, with the baby blue short-sleeved shirt and the black shorts. He sits with his back against an old shelf filled with books whose knowledge probably are out of date. The boy sits cross-legged on the floor, an acoustic guitar in his lap. His long fingers are curled around the guitar’s neck as if he’s playing as if he’s in-between chords. Only he’s not, because he’s halfway bent over the guitar’s body, his face twisted in anguish as he cries. Macau can see the physical effect the sobs have on his body, can see how they tremble through his body, escaping through his mouth as the sorest, most heart-wrecking sobs Macau has heard in a while.
Macau wills himself not to think of Pete’s cries when Vegas had flatlined for those 20 seconds in the hospital.
There’s a phone lying on the floor in front of him, playing a video of someone playing guitar.
”Why don’t you stay?”
Macau steps fully into the room, hand curled around the frame of the door, still.
“Are you okay?”
Before even acknowledging Macau’s presence, the boy dives for his phone. In his lap, the guitar makes a wooden sound, followed by the slightly noisy sound of the strings being rubbed against his knee. The instant the boy presses the lock screen button on his phone, the screen goes black and the male singer stops singing.
The boy turns to him, then, and Macau’s heart breaks. The boy’s cheeks are wet from tears, his eyes swollen and heavy with unshed tears. His lips are red as if he has been biting them over and over to try and swallow his sobs until he couldn’t take it anymore. Looking past the sorrow and sadness that is painted across his features, Macau sees a boy his age with black hair, heavy bangs that cover his forehead, a round, friendly face, and big, brown eyes. The front of his uniform shirt is stained with small wet spots.
Macau recognizes the look on the boy’s face, because he has, until very recently, been seeing the same look on his big brother’s face. Heartbreak.
When the boy doesn’t reply, only stares at Macau like a deer in headlights, Macau speaks again.
“Are you okay?” Macau repeats kindly. “Sorry for interrupting you like that, but I was walking past and I couldn’t ignore— I heard the song and then I heard you.”
The boy nods once. A big, fat lie, Macau thinks. The boy looks anything but okay.
“Did something happen?” Macau prods, letting the arm that has been holding onto the door frame fall to his side, relaxed. He smiles, small and gentle, at the boy.
Macau watches as the boy bites his bottom lip again, gaze flickering from his phone to Macau and then back to his phone. The boy’s breath stutter and for a second it seems like he’s going to start sobbing again. As he tries to open his mouth, fresh tears fall from his eyes, trailing down his cheeks. He looks so lost and forlorn that Macau wants to take him home and feed him Vegas’s tum yum kung. Macau usually only gets it when he’s sick but he figures heartbreak could be counted as being sick, and thus Vegas would probably make it if Macau asked nicely.
He can imagine it: “Hia, please make tum yum kung for this boy whose name I don’t know because I just met him, but he looked so sad and your food is the best, Hia, please”.
The boy watches him warily as if he’s waiting for Macau to make one wrong move before setting off. He reminds Macau slightly of Vegas’s many hedgehogs, all of them would hide behind their pigged shields when Macau entered the room. They would do that with everyone, except Vegas. Macau still thinks it’s sad that Vegas had to send them all to live on that farm in Chiang Mai, especially because it made Vegas so sad every time they left.
Macau wants the boy to stay.
“My name is Macau,” Macau begins, trying again, placing his right hand on his chest in a greeting. “I’m a senior and I play soccer. My team and I had just finished changing after practice when I walked past this room on my way up and that was when I heard you crying. I was— I am worried.”
The boy blinks at him, dark eyelashes fluttering. “You don’t even know me.”
His words are sharp, eyes suspicious, but Macau sees him relax somewhat, and decides to close the door behind him, isolating them from the world outside. There might still be stragglers from his team passing by and Macau doesn’t want them to hear or see them.
“You’ve got a point,” Macau agrees, smiling. “But I am a decent human being and I don’t think someone should cry like that and be alone.”
“Way to blow your own horn,” the boy says flatly, but there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips and he sits back up now, scooting further back as if to make place for Macau by the window. He plucks his phone up from the floor and slides it into his pocket.
Macau crosses the floor and sits down by the window, across from the boy with the guitar. He dumps his heavy bag next to him. Macau sits down and crosses his legs, wincing slightly at the burn from his sore thighs as well as the bruises blooming on his ass after the towel fight in the locker room.
The boy looks at him curiously, eyes still wet.
“I just finished soccer practice after the biggest loss our team has ever suffered, followed by a towel war in the locker room,” Macau explains, wincing. The boy smiles, then. It’s teary and wet, but it’s nevertheless a smile and Macau counts it as a win. “My ass is probably looking like a huge blueberry at this point.”
The smile remains on the boy’s lips for a couple more seconds. Macau thinks he looks cute when he smiles and thinks the boy definitely should be smiling a lot more.
“Porchay,” the boy says after a while. Macau turns his head quickly to look out of the window, trying to discover the expensive luxury car that the boy had seen. But through the window, the only thing Macau can see is the janitor driving through the lawn, past the soccer field, on his tiny golf cart. That was surely not what the boy had seen.
“I can’t see a Porsche?” Macau says, frowning as he turns to the boy who has the nerve to roll his eyes at him. “What?”
“I said Porchay,” the boy says, stressing the last syllable. “As in my name. My name is Porchay.”
“Nice to meet you, Porchay,” Macau grins. Porchay’s soft smile shows for a beat and then it vanishes, his gaze fluttering back to the guitar in his lap.
Macau isn’t sure where to go from here but at least he got the boy, Porchay, to talk. He still looks sad and only seconds away from crying but he let Macau in, he let Macau sit down and talk to him. That has to count for something.
If there’s anything Macau has learned after the past two months what with Vegas almost ending up dead, and his father actually dying, two traumatic events that caused big changes in his life, is that everything always feels better after they’ve been talked about. Macau has spent so many hours the past months just talking with Pete. It had started when they had met by Vegas’s bedside and only continued after Vegas was released from the hospital wing in the main house. Some nights Macau will find Pete awake in the middle of the night, sitting outside, watching the rain. Macau will sit down next to him, then, and they’ll talk until the sun starts climbing over the horizon, dying the world a soft pink. Pete will then chastise Macau for being up so late and make him go to bed, even if it only is for a couple of hours. When he wakes up, Pete has made him an extra big lunch to bring to school.
Macau prefers Vegas’s food, but he doesn’t ever want to tell Pete that. What Pete lacks in cooking skills, he makes up in love and dedication.
The point is that the changes and problems, traumas, might still be present in Macau’s life but his head doesn’t feel as heavy and his heart feels a lot lighter, so Macau decides Porchay should give it a try. He just has to get him there or die trying.
“So,” Macau begins, resting his hands on his knees, palms open as he watches Porchay with interest. Across from him, Porchay leans back against the shelf behind him, fingers pressing chords into the guitar without actually playing them. The hand that would be strumming the strings, rests unmoving against the top of the guitar as Porchay lifts his gaze to stare blankly at Macau. It is as if he’s trying to look nonchalant but failing epically, as his bottom lip trembles slightly.
“I think you should talk about this with someone, Porchay,” Macau insists, nodding as if to emphasize his words. Porchay’s gaze flits to the floor again, staring emptily at the floor, his back curved and shoulders hunched. He leans on the guitar as if it’s the only thing that keeps him afloat and without it, he’ll drown. He looks like he has given up already. This isn’t the first time Macau sees it in a person. He has multiple times seen this very look on his older brother, but only when Vegas didn’t see him. Vegas is a master of disguising his feelings, has multiple masks to fit the people around him. His mask only slips when he’s alone or when he thinks he is.
Porchay has no masks. To Macau, he seems like the type of guy who wears his heart on his sleeve, so easy for others to exploit and manipulate.
“I can’t force you to talk, especially considering that we just met and everything, but you look like you need to talk to someone,” Macau says, trying to sound and seem as genuine as he possibly can. Porchay’s gaze flickers down to the spot on the floor where his phone had been playing that video of that singer that sounded so familiar to Macau, but he can’t place that voice. “When I was going through a rough time earlier, I found that it helped to talk to somebody about it. It’s not good for you to be stuck in your head, twisting and turning everything until you’ve analyzed every single word and action, but you don’t feel any better.”
“Don’t you have anyone to talk to, Porchay?” Macau urges again. He might be a bit forward and intense, but Macau needs Porchay to understand how important this is. Macau doesn’t even know what the reason for Porchay’s misery is. It could be something as small as him failing a subject. However, something tells Macau that it’s deeper than that, purely based on what he sees in Porchay’s body language, in his eyes, and the feeling in his gut.
When Porchay stays silent, Macau continues.
“Back when I was little, I used to talk to my hia. Especially when I had nightmares or something happened at school,” Macau tells Porchay softly. A small smile settles on Macau's lips as he thinks back to the night before his first day in elementary school and he was so worried he wouldn’t make any friends. He remembers not being able to sleep and walking across the entire minor family compound to get to Vegas’s bedroom. His bedroom door had been open, and Macau had sprinted on tiny feet across Vegas’s cold bedroom floor and had slipped into Vegas’s bed. Vegas had been confused, slightly tense at first, but when he realized it had been Macau, he let him settle into Vegas’s side and whisper his worries to him. They needed to be quiet, lest their dad would hear them and throw Macau out of Vegas’s room. They weren’t caught and Macau remembers falling asleep next to Vegas, feeling better after he had told Vegas all his worries.
“And now?” Porchay asks quietly, voice so soft and gentle that if it hadn’t been for the fact that the room is quiet, Macau wouldn’t have been able to hear him.
“Now—Now I talk a lot with my phi,” Macau says slowly, realizing that yes, he does talk a lot with Pete. As he quickly thinks back to the previous months after his dad’s death and Vegas’s injury, Macau has indeed been talking the most with Pete. It’s not as if he doesn’t want to talk to Vegas, but Vegas has a lot on his plate and Macau doesn’t want him to worry about him as well. Pete has a different angle and a look at life than Vegas has and talking to him makes Macau, too, get a different view on life.
“Not your brother?”
“Hia has—” Macau licks his lips thoughtfully. He can’t say: “Hia was shot four times in the gut and was hospitalized when I went through some traumatic shit”, without exposing the whole mafia business. He bites his bottom lip. He settles for: “Hia has been sick, so I didn’t want to bother him”.
Something akin to worry flickers across Porchay’s face so fast that Macau barely catches it.
“Do you have a sibling or parents you can talk to, maybe? Or maybe a senior or a friend?” Macau asks, trying to remove the focus from himself and over to Porchay, whom he actually is here to help.
“I have a brother,” Porchay tells him, voice cracking with emotion. Porchay closes his eyes, inhales sharply, and continues: “But I can’t talk to him, it’s— He’d—”
Porchay inhales shakily, his eyes big and shiny. He blinks once, sending a fresh batch of tears down his cheeks. More tears follow, and Porchay is crying again before long. It’s not sobbing, not as intense as it had been when Macau stepped into the room minutes earlier. Soft gasps escape Porchay’s lips, and his knuckles turn white from gripping the guitar. And for some reason, Porche doesn’t look away from Macau, keeps his gaze locked with Macau’s. Macau’s heart breaks.
Macau’s stuck between wanting to wrap Porchay in his arms and protect him from everything, and just wanting to leave Porchay crying. He’s not sure how long Porchay has been sitting here by himself, has no idea why he’s crying. A lot of times Macau feels better after crying his brains out, so he thinks maybe that’s what Porchay has to do. Maybe.
“I— I can’t seem to stop, sorry, ” Porchay apologizes for some reason, voice thick with tears.
“Don’t apologize,” Macau says quickly, frowning. “You should never apologize for how you’re feeling, Porchay. Right now your body feels that it needs to cry and you’re listening to it”.
Porchay moves, then, pulls his guitar from his lap, and places it gingerly on the floor before he pulls his knees to his chest, crosses his arms over his bare knees, and buries his face there. He’s setting up a shield, protecting himself from the hurt and the pain.
Macau watches helplessly as Porchay’s body shakes with the sobs, his shoulders trembling. Something fierce coils in Macau’s stomach, fury, and rage for whatever or whoever that made Porchay cry like this. It must have been something serious. It reminds Macau briefly of how he had found Pete one morning, when Pete hadn’t slept in almost three days, still wearing the clothes soaked with Vegas’s blood. He had been crying so loudly, so intensely that he hadn’t heard Macau enter the room. A day, two days prior and the first thing Macau would see whenever he entered Vegas’s hospital room, was Pete aiming at the door with his gun, eyes cold. He’d relax immediately when his brain registered that it was Macau who was standing in front of him, but the motion would repeat itself whenever anyone opened the door, until that very morning.
Pete had been crying because Vegas’s condition had gotten worse. Pete was crying because he was exhausted. Pete was crying because his heart was breaking.
And Macau, Macau might not be the most experienced person when it comes to love but he knows the sound of heartbreak and this is it.
Macau squirms forward a bit, closing the distance between himself and Porchay before he speaks. “I’m going to touch you. Tell me to stop if it’s not okay.”
He waits for a heartbeat but when Porchay doesn’t say or do anything, Macau places his right hand onto Porchay’s clothed left shoulder. Porchay’s baby blue uniform shirt is warm underneath Macau’s palm. Macau squeezes gently. The urge to hug him is there still, but Macau figures this is a safer way to say that Macau’s there.
Macau lets Porchay cry, lets his soft sobs fill the room again, just as they had been when Macau had entered earlier. Macau licks his lips multiple times as he tries to put together words and sentences that would calm Porchay down. What would Pete say? What would Pete do? Macau can’t come up with a single sentence that would calm things down, so he decides to just pet Porchay’s upper arm gently, hoping that would be enough.
Occasionally Macau can hear something buzzing. It doesn’t take him long to figure out that it sounds very much like a phone vibrating and checks his own quickly, but he doesn’t have any recent notifications. It must be Porchay’s phone.
“Porchay,” Macau says gently after a while when Porchay’s sobs are softer and fewer and his body isn’t trembling as much. “Your phone, it’s—”
Porchay looks up at him, then, red, swollen eyes barely visible over the protective shield of his arms. His long, black eyelashes are sticking together, heavy with tears. Macau swallows.
“It’s just—” Porchay begins but stops as his voice cracks, eyes blinking away tears. “My—”
Another sob escapes Porchay’s red, worried lips. Macau waits, smiles in what he hopes is encouragingly, smiles in what he hopes makes him seem safe. Porchay squeezes his eyes shut, forcing more tears out of his eyes, sniffling as he wipes his nose with the back of his hand.
“We broke up,” Porchay says in a whisper, not meeting Macau’s gaze. Porchay’s brown eyes are fixed on the tips of his sneakers as Macau tries and fails to meet his gaze. He just wants to smile at Porchay, to tell Porchay that it’s okay.
“Is it recent?” Macau tries, then, carefully watching Porchay’s eyes, still. They widen a bit before he looks up at Macau, watching him for a long minute before he nods.
“Two months ago,” Porchay says in a whisper, his eyes looking back down to his black sneakers. He sounds ashamed almost, the tips of his ear, the swell of his cheeks coloring quickly.
Macau wonders why he seems so ashamed, frowning as he thinks.
“First love?”
Porchay nods at this.
“I’m sorry,” Macau says genuinely, squeezing Porchay’s arm once again before letting go. Macau retreats to his previous spot, curling his legs underneath himself again as he listens to the silence. Porchay sits up again, too, brushing invisible dust off his black uniform shorts.
“That explains the sad song,” Macau muses out loud. In Hollywood movies, they always listen to sad songs when they’re going through a vicious break-up. He supposes there’s something healing in that, wailing along to sad lyrics when your heart feels like it’s breaking in your chest and you feel like you’ll never be happy again.
“Something like that,” Porchay mutters, gaze flickering to the guitar again. “You don’t seem surprised.”
“I’ve spent the better part of a month watching my brother pine over his crush, whom he thought didn’t like him,” Macau explains, rolling his eyes fondly at the memory of Vegas being sulky, moody, and tearing up when he thought Macau couldn’t see him, or hear him.
Porchay perks a little bit at this. “But his crush did like him back?”
“Yeah, it just was complicated”, Macau says, imitating the way both Vegas and Pete had told him about it later, separately. “I also watched his boyfriend—”
“Boyfriend?” Porchay parrots quickly, his already big eyes wide as plates as he hangs on to Macau’s words. “Your brother has a boyfriend?”
“Yes?” Macau says cautiously, bristling, eyes narrowing. Most of his friends hadn’t reacted at all when they found out Macau’s older brother had a boyfriend, but Macau knows the world isn’t perfect, knows that there are people out there who would say bad things about his brother’s love. “Do you have a problem with that?”
Macau mentally prepares himself to walk out the second Porchay says he’s got a problem with that. Porchay can cry all he wants, be as sad as he wants, be as heartbroken as he wants by himself. Macau wants nothing to do with people who think Vegas’ and Pete’s love isn’t as good as love between a man and a woman.
“N-No!” Porchay says quickly, shaking his head. He holds his hands out in front of him as if he was sensing that Macau would leave. “I don’t. It’s just— I rarely hear about boys having boyfriends.”
Macau relaxes slightly then, rests his back against the shelf behind him. He likes Porchay, wants to be here for Porchay. It helps that Porchay isn’t a complete homophobe.
“Hia has always been gay, I think,” Macau says. “I can only remember him having boyfriends or bringing boys home, but I could be wrong.”
A soft smile makes itself known on Porchay’s lips as he nods. The silence between them feels warmer now.
“Not that it’s any of my business,” Macau begins again, weighing his words. “But maybe you should try listening to happier music to cheer up? Isn’t it easier to start crying if you listen to sad songs with depressive as fuck lyrics?”
“I guess,” Porchay murmurs, shrugging his shoulders casually. His feet aren’t longer pulled up against his chest and Macau feels like he’s not closing himself off just as much as he had been previously. “I just don’t know what to listen to and— my mind seems pretty fixed on K— that song.”
An idea starts to form in Macau’s head when Porchay’s gaze yet again flickers to the guitar.
“Can I play a song for you?” he asks quickly, nodding towards the guitar.
Porchay looks awfully conflicted, eyes fixed on the guitar for a long time before he nods. Gently, as if he’s giving away his firstborn, Porchay plucks the guitar up from the floor and hands it to Macau, who accepts it carefully. The wooden guitar feels strange but also familiar in his lap. It’s much lighter than what Macau remembers it to be, but that might be because Macau has grown a lot since the last time he played guitar. A surprising warmth spreads through Macau’s body as he tries to strum. The vibrations of the guitar pull forgotten memories from his mind.
“Who taught you how to play?” Porchay asks, interrupting Macau’s train of thought. Macau doesn’t miss the quick once-over Porchay gives him before asking.
Macau doesn’t blame him. It isn’t every day that a guy who just told you he’s on the school soccer team sits in front of you and tells you he can play guitar. That’s some High School Musical shit right there.
“My cousin, actually,” Macau says, sounding surprised even to his own ears as his brain helpfully supplies him with mental images of him curled up on a lush loveseat with his cousin tucked behind him, showing him how to press just right so that the guitar would make the right sound.
“You sound surprised,” Porchay points out, sniffling. “Don’t you remember?”
“I had forgotten all about it,” Macau admits, releasing the neck of the guitar to scratch at an itchy spot under his chin. Porchay nods, fingers curling in his lap. His brain supplies him with more memories of Kim putting bandaids on his small fingers because they were sore and sensitive from strumming the strings, remembers Kim telling him in a gentle voice that it would be better with time and that Macau in no time would have the same calloused fingertips as Kim.
“We don’t really talk anymore, which is why I was surprised I remembered, I guess,” Macau continues, to fill the slightly awkward silence in the room. He’s used to this. Used to fill the silence between his dad and his brother, used to ignore the way his brother’s cheek always had a slight swell to it, often paired with the red print of his dad’s hand. Macau would see it but never comment on it in front of his dad. In private, when it was just him and Vegas, Macau would rage and say he’d break their father’s fingers, only for Vegas to tell him to stay out of it. There was nothing Macau could do to help Vegas.
Porchay sniffs again, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, pulling Macau out of his thoughts.
“Are you okay?” Porchay asks, voice tiny. Something in Macau softens even further by the concern Porchay is showing him, even though Porchay is the one who was sitting alone in this room, crying his eyes out just minutes ago. Even though he’s sad and Macau went in here to cheer him up, he’s showing concern for Macau.
“Yeah, sorry,” Macau grins sheepishly at Porchay in what he hopes is a friendly, comforting way. “We just don’t talk anymore. It has been years since we last did, I think.”
“I’m sorry,” Porchay says, but Macau shakes his head.
“Don’t be. It’s okay. I have nothing against my cousins and I only have good memories of us hanging out when we were kids,” Macau reassures Porchay. And it is, truly. The memory of Kim teaching him to play guitar during a weekend when he and Vegas slept over at his uncle Korn’s is actually one of Macau’s favorite memories from his childhood. Back when none of his cousins hated him to his face, and when Tankhun hadn’t started to pick on Vegas yet.
Macau will always remember that time with fondness.
“So, there are a couple of things you need to know for this to be even funnier, save for me not really knowing how to play that much on guitar,” Macau says, laughing. Porchay looks at him with interest as he wipes the corner of his left eye with his thumb.
“My brother and I were sleeping over at my uncle’s place back when I was maybe eight or ten years old. My uncle’s three kids, my cousins, were also there. All three of them are older than me, and my oldest cousin, who was like fifteen at the time, was going through a heartbreak,” Macau tells Porchay, who sits perfectly still, absorbing Macau’s story.
“At the time, my oldest cousin was also really into reenacting music videos, and especially music videoes of popular western artists, particularly American ones. And the youngest of my three older cousins is nothing short of a musical genius and knew all of these songs by heart, so of course, my oldest cousin had him play them.”
If Macau sounds proud as he tells Porchay about Kim, it’s because he is. Kim is just a couple of years older than Macau but still knows how to play all these instruments and even back then he knew how to compose, was writing his own songs and everything. Pete had told him that Kim was something of a pop star currently, but Macau hasn’t heard any of his songs. It isn’t as if fame is important, but Macau is happy Kim is able to do something he loves outside of the whole mafia business. When you’re born into it, it’s hard to get out unless you die. Macau hopes Kim is successful in whatever he does.
It’s only then Macau notices that he has stopped talking and that Porchay is looking at him expectantly.
“Anyways, so my youngest older cousin decided to teach me one of the easiest, if not the easiest, songs by an artist so we could play it together for my oldest cousin, for the reenactment of a music video that my oldest cousin loved.”
“And did you manage to learn the song?” Porchay asks, sounding genuinely curious, leaning slightly forwards toward Macau.
“Yes! It took like the entire weekend and lots of practice,” Macau says excitedly, sticking his chest out a bit at this. “I never would have been able to learn it by myself, so I’ll always be grateful to my cousin for teaching me how to play guitar.”
They had indeed spent the entire weekend holed up in Kim’s room, mostly in their pajamas as Kim taught him how to play. The practice had been cut short by Kinn who had decided they needed to taste his homecooked food, which had been burnt instant noodles, and Tankhun who wanted all of them to watch Cinderella for the thousandth time. Vegas had mostly spent the time by himself, occasionally turning up in Kim’s room to read, all huddled up in a rocking chair as he listened to Kim and Macau rehearse.
He could probably talk about this all day but decides to cut it short.
“Okay so, you gotta imagine my oldest cousin, fifteen years old, in hot pink vans and a fucking neon green band uniform, complete with a silly hat with something that looks like a feather duster on top,” Macau says, pausing to laugh at the memory of Tankhun in the band uniform he had found online, complete with a second-hand saxophone that he couldn’t even play. “All while reenacting this very music video, playing the main character while singing loudly to this crush.”
“Feel free to laugh if I play this wrong. I haven’t played this song in years,” Macau grins at Porchay, who looks back at him with a gaze Macau can’t interpret. “I can’t really sing either so, you’ll just have to hang in there.”
Porchay drags a guitar pick out of his pocket and hands it to Macau, his bangs falling into his eyes so Macau can’t meet his gaze, but he says thanks nonetheless, smiling.
His fingers curl around the neck of the guitar, finding the first grip as he starts to play. There’s a bit of an instrumental at the start, where he misses a note or two, but Porchay doesn’t laugh. That’s kind of him, Macau thinks, but the whole point with this was to make Porchay laugh, so he decides to goof it up even further.
“You're on the phone with your girlfriend, she's upset,” Macau begins in a scratchy voice, looking over at Porchay to watch his reaction. Porchay’s eyes are widening and something small tugs at the corners of his lips. He’s getting there.
“She’s going off about something that you said, ‘cause she doesn’t get your humor like I do.” Macau forgets to change the grip and laughs as he continues singing.
“I'm in my room, it's a typical Tuesday night. I'm listening to the kind of music she doesn't like and she’ll never know your story like I do,” Macau sings, emphasizing the I’s, as Taylor Swift would have done, singing in a slightly higher pitch than he should, rolling his eyes.
“But she wears short skirts, I wear T-shirts. She’s Cheer Captain, and I’m on the bleachers, dreaming about the day when you wake up and find that what you’re looking for has been here the whole time,” Macau’s focus has drifted away from Porchay to focus on his fingers on the fretboard. Playing guitar is much more difficult than he remembers, especially when he has to sing too. Last time it was Tankhun wailing along.
Singing like a lovesick, self-centered fifteen-year-old is difficult, and it strains his voice, but Macau gives it his all, truly trying to embrace what he remembers of fifteen-year-old Tankhun Theerapanyakul, dancing around in his room while Kim and Macau played along on guitar, Kinn recording it all on Korn’s expensive video camera, while Vegas made sure that the karaoke machine and Tankhun were in sync.
“If you could see that I'm the one who understands you, been here all along so, why can't you see?” Macau’s voice cracks twice but it doesn’t matter, Macau forgets to change grip yet again but it doesn’t matter, because as he takes a chance to peek at Porchay, takes the chance to look away from the fretboard for a second, Macau sees Porchay smiling
It’s not one of the small smiles he has seen Porchay smile earlier, no, this is a full smile with teeth and eyes crinkling at the corner. A full smile that’s all teeth, round cheeks, and shiny eyes. And Macau can’t do anything but smile back, his chest full of warmth and joy.
“You belong with me. You belong with me.”
Macau’s brain fails to procure the lyrics to the rest of the song, so he plays a bit of the chorus again before he stops, leaving the last strum hanging in the air as a loud, bubbling laugh fills the room.
It’s Porchay. It’s not a fake laugh or a strained laugh, but a wholesome genuine laugh that seeps into every corner of the room, warming Macau up from the inside, making him smile so wide it feels like his face is going to split in half. Porchay’s laugh is contagious and before he knows what really happened, Macau is laughing too. Laughing in delight, laughing in relief, and laughing in pure happiness.
When they eventually stop laughing, there are identical smiles on their faces. Porchay’s eyes are still a bit red from crying, his cheeks still red, but he looks happier.
“Smiling looks good on you,” Macau tells him, grinning at Porchay. His smile does falter a bit at Macau’s words but he smiles back.
“I—,” Porchay begins but is cut off sharply by Macau’s phone vibrating intensely in his pocket.
“Sorry!” Macau says quickly, fishing his phone out of his shorts. He takes one look at the screen, that says P’Pete („• ᴗ •„). Macau notices belatedly that he has several unread LINE messages as well.
“I just gotta answer this or else I think I’ll be killed,” Macau jokes halfheartedly, but the truth is that if he takes too long answering, Pete and Vegas will probably already be at the school, searching through the buildings for him.
Porchay smiles at him as he nods. “Go ahead.”
“Phi—”
“Macau? Are you alright? Where are you?” Pete’s voice cuts him off abruptly. Even though Pete’s voice is even, Macau can hear the worry. “I sent you messages like half an hour ago, why aren’t you answering?”
“I’m sorry, Phi, really—”
“I’m on my way, are you compromised?” Pete says quickly, voice clipped as Macau can hear him turning on the engine in his car. Macau is unable to hear anyone else in the background, so he guesses Vegas isn’t with him. That’s good at least.
“If you’re in a position where you can’t explain, just give me the safe word and I—”
“Phi!” Macau yells, effectively cutting off Pete’s increased bodyguard procedures. After he moved in with them, Pete had Macau come up with a safe word used for situations where he might be stalked or about to be attacked. They all had their issues after the failed coup, and this was Pete’s; he had an extreme urge and need to herd both him and Vegas, a need to know where they were at almost all times. Vegas had called him a border collie.
“I am okay, really, I was just occupied and my phone was on silent so I just didn’t see the messages,” Macau says quickly before Pete starts talking about morse code and whatnot.
Pete falls silent for a second or two before he speaks.
“Oh, well. I’m sorry for rushing to conclusions, Macau,” Pete says sheepishly, and Macau can imagine him scratching the back of his head, smiling that wide, wide smile. “I can still pick you up? I’m on my way after all.”
“Yeah, that would be amazing,” Macau says thankfully, smiling. “See you at the usual place, then.”
“See you there,” Pete says and hangs up. Macau shakes his head at the phone before he pockets it and looks back up at Porchay.
“Is everything okay?” Porchay asks curiously. He still has this whole worried look, but Porchay looks much more relaxed than he had been when Macau entered the room earlier. Just the sight of him makes Macau smile.
“Yeah, It’s just my brother’s boyfriend who gets worried when I don’t reply to his messages on time,” Macau says, imitating Pete, grinning. Macau expects Porchay to react negatively, but Porchay surprises him.
“Sounds like my brother,” Porchay says, laughing. Porchay makes this airy little sound before he continues. “If I don’t reply, he’ll panic and starts calling my friends and whatnot, but he doesn’t understand that I get mad if it takes him five days to reply to my texts”.
“Big brothers, huh?” Macau grins.
“They’re useless.”
They laugh again, so loud that Macau thinks they can hear them in the corridor.
“Thank you for lending me your guitar,” Macau says a while later, handing Porchay back his guitar. At his words, Porchay shakes his head.
“No, I should thank you for the cultural experience it was to hear you sing “You Belong with Me” as well as for the imagery of your cousin that you put in my brain,” Porchay chuckles, eyes shaped as crescents. “Your family sounds like quite a party.”
“Yeah, they’re definitely something out of the ordinary,” Macau agrees. In his pocket, his phone vibrates again and Macau knows their time is up for now.
“My brother’s boyfriend is picking me up,” Macau says, getting onto his feet. “Do you need a ride home?”
Porchay looks at him thoughtfully for a second before shaking his head. “No, thank you. I’m meeting my brother nearby for dinner later, so I’ll be fine.”
Macau picks his bag up from the floor, wincing at the smell of his sweaty soccer kit that has started to seep out of it. He has to remember to throw them straight in the hamper when he gets home before they could be classified as nuclear waste.
“Well—” Macau begins but he’s unsure of what to say. He doesn’t want this to be the last time he sees Porchay, wants to meet him again, wants to meet him more than once. They clicked well and Macau truly enjoys Porchay’s company. He doesn’t want to leave this room without knowing if he’d get to see Porchay again or not. Macau’s just unsure of how to say this.
Porchay, still seated on the floor with his legs folded underneath him, guitar in his lap, beams at him. Macau notices now how his ears stick out through his black mop of hair. Cute.
“Can I add you on LINE?” Porchay asks, digging his phone out of his pocket. Macau nods eagerly, almost dropping his bag onto the floor in his hunt for his phone. Porchay holds his phone out towards Macau, QR code ready on screen. Macau scans it and his phone informs him that he and xxchayguitarxx are friends.
“See you around?” Macau asks, not even bothering to conceal the hope he knows is seeping through his voice.
“Count on it,” Porchay grins widely. They smile at each other for a heartbeat before Macau nods and waves at Porchay.
Macau turns on his heel and walks out, bag heavy on his left shoulder. As he reaches out for the doorknob, Porchay’s voice makes him look over his shoulder.
“Macau?”
“Mm?” Macau hums.
“Thank you, I—,” Porchay pauses, shaking his head before the wide smile is back. “Just, thank you.”
Macau smiles at him. “My pleasure.”
He turns back towards the door, opens it, and walks through it. Just as he’s about to close the door, Porchay strums the guitar. Macau stops briefly, waiting. The smile on his face widens further as Macau closes the door behind him with the chords to “You Belong with Me” following him out of the room and down the hallway.