(cont)Mo laughs further down the table. "But when he's not around, it's all 'Wai this' and 'Wai that'! Just admit you miss your boyfriend." He expertly dodges a slap from Korn, but doesn't see the one from Chang coming. "Oww…" complains Mo, rubbing the back of his head.

"Come on, Wai, come and eat with us." Chang scoots down to clear out a space on the bench for him. "You can't tell us that the territory divide is /still/ in place now that you're dating your greatest enemy."

Wai hesitates, watching Korn pat the bench and make kissy faces back at him. The huge grins of the engineering gang were… unsettling, to say the least. He glances over at Pran. "I don't know, the two of us were about to eat together—"

"Ah, he can join us too!" jumps in Mo, before realizing Pat's also at the table. "Er, I mean—"

"No, it's fine," Pat says, voice devoid of emotion. "I can deal with him for one lunch." He and Pran very carefully do not make eye contact.

"So it's settled then!" Korn tugs Wai down next to him, then yanks on Pran's shirt to get him to sit down too. It takes some shuffling to get everyone situated, but once they're settled, Korn smacks a kiss onto Wai's cheek and begins digging into his food. Wai resolutely does /not/ flush.

Under the table, he notices Pat and Pran's knees knock together and linger. Maybe they could do this more often…

———

perfect amazing thank you "anon" you are my favorite person

Thank you dear anon! This is my first time writing high school Pat/Pran, so I hope you enjoy!

This mini-fic is not researched on rugby and just from what I've gathered about it from the show/other things featuring rugby haha. Rugby players look away 🙈 Actually soccer players and judo players look away too.

-

Pat had joined the soccer team only because Pran joined first. So naturally, when Pat signs up for rugby tryouts, it's no surprise to see Pran there too, even though Pran has never once expressed interest in rugby before.

Pat hasn't either. It's the sport that his dad wants him to play, and Pat happens to be pretty good at it, he finds out, during the tryouts. He'd been pretty good at soccer, too. Rugby's not quite the same, but Pat finds it more fun. He doesn't have to rely on his foot-eye coordination, just has to get his hands on the ball, follow the rules of the game, and outrun everyone else. Easy enough.

The tackling's easy, too. When someone tackles him for the first time during tryouts, Pat does feel a little winded at first. But it's only a matter of getting used to it, not being afraid to throw all his body weight on another boy, both annoyed and challenged when someone else's body weight is all on his. It's especially funny to watch Pran get tackled, because Pran is several centimeters shorter than him and slender and nimble--Pat knows that he got his own growth spurt before the summer of Mattayom 4, while Pran still dwarfs him at eye level.

But Pran is fierce and still doesn't back down no matter how many times he gets tackled. In fact, he seems to get faster to avoid them, slipping away from their grasps, dodging whenever someone tries to throw their body at him in the blink of an eye. Pat tries to pretend he's not watching as much as he is, but it's hypnotizing, seeing how Pran finds his way around things, especially for sports that Pat didn't think he would be particularly good at. They'd taken judo together back when they were ten, and Pran's eye for knowing exactly where to touch and grab his opponent until they were stunned was remarkably sharp. Even though he'll never admit it out loud, Pat knows that Pran won at judo against him.

Pran doesn't score quite as much as Pat, doesn't avoid the other mock team as much as Pat does, but there's still some satisfaction on his face when they break, sweat dripping down his forehead. He meets Pat's gaze and his eyes narrow; Pat smirks at him in response. Pran rolls his eyes and looks away, but when Pat turns to take a drink of his own water, he pretends that he doesn't notice Pran glancing at him again.

A week later, they find out that they've both made the team.

Pat's dad is thrilled--though, less, when Pat admits that Pran did too. Pat's not disappointed, though. Any excuse to compete with Pran is good. Pat knows that his dad wants him to do better than Pran, which includes trying out and getting things that Pran doesn't. But Pat knows that that's never going to happen in this lifetime--anything Pat has tried to do, Pran has met him on equal footing. It's just a matter of who can be a little better, outdo the other by a few points. Even the things that Pran has tried, Pat has discovered that he's not half bad at--guitar for a bit last year, a creative writing essay contest when they were twelve that he somehow won (Pran's glare from across the auditorium had made Pat grin at the memory for weeks), and, well, when he got the hang of his foot-eye coordination for soccer, he knows that he has a mean straight shot now.

For them, it's always been a matter of playing the competition, not trying to outrun it.

And so when Pat goes to practice for the first time, making his way to the locker room, he sees Pran with his nose buried in a book in the middle of walking down the hallway, and thumps him on the back. "What's up, teammate?" Pat says.

Pran's eyes are wide like a scared animal's. "What are you doing?" he mumbles, gaze darting around like he's not sure if he's allowed to look at Pat or not. "We're not supposed to talk to each other at school."

"No one's around," Pat points out, even though that's not true--plenty of other boys are making their way to the locker room as well, the other guys who made it to the rugby team. "At least no one who's gonna tell our parents."

"You never know," he hears Pran mutter to himself, although Pran doesn't really do much to shrug off Pat's arm from around his shoulder other than a single obligatory attempt.

Pat lets go when they enter the boys' locker room anyway, because three of his other friends made it too and they're not supposed to know that Pat doesn't really mind Pran's company. A couple of Pran's more athletic friends are on the team too, although when they come up to Pran they whine about how rough the sport is, and what tips Pran has to avoid being tackled. Pat smirks; Pran surely just made his friends join the rugby team just because Pran did, just because Pat did. Kind of like how Pat made one of his friends take drawing classes with him that one time in Mattayom 2.

It's easy enough to pretend to dislike each other when they go out in the field, especially when they get split into two groups to practice. They first run drills opposite each other, Pat's friends obviously having more fun than Pran's among all the other boys. The coach tells Pran's team to pick it up while praising Pat's, and while Pat knows that it's more a group effort than anything, that doesn't stop him from throwing a teasing smirk Pran's way. Pran ignores him and plays harder against his friend that Pat doesn't know the name of, who gets knocked down with a swift oof when Pran chucks the ball at him.

"Not that hard, Parakul, he's still your teammate," their coach calls to him, and Pran mumbles, "sorry" before helping his friend back up.

Eventually, their coach has them play against each other to see where they're at as a team, what they need to improve on both individually and together. Pat knew this was coming--he boasts his blue team jersey with pride as he and Pran come opposite to each other on the field, Pran in his red over his gym tshirt.

"We'll need tentative team captains," their coach says.

"I will," both Pat and Pran say immediately.

No one else on their respective teams volunteer. In fact, Pran's friends very obviously roll their eyes, while Pat's friends whoop for him behind his back. Pat winks at Pran, who just turns back and says, "Let's do this," before the coach agrees. Pat watches as Pran makes one of his friends high-five him, and chuckles to himself.

He hadn't really been thinking what it would be like to play against Pran, since they're technically on their same high school team--but now the adrenaline, the excitement overtakes him as he watches each one of Pran's moves. His eyes follow the ball, of course, as it gets passed from hand to hand--it's only their first practice, so several boys fumble and forget what direction they're supposed to go, and after fifteen minutes a few have had to sit out due to mild injury from tackling or exhaustion.

But not Pat. And not Pran, either, who hasn't even been tackled yet, as small as he is in comparison to Pat or to anyone else. He darts and ducks around everyone when he has the ball, trying to find openings before their coach even shouts to suggest it to him.

He's good, but Pat knows he's better. He has to be.

The thing about Pat getting bigger and taller (and, admittedly, bulkier) over the summer is that now certain parts of his body have particular reactions that he doesn't have full... control over, so to speak. So when he finds a way to tackle Pran for the first time, coming at him from the side and not the front so he catches him off guard, as soon as he feels Pran's warm, soft body beneath his, heat through the jersey and t-shirt and cotton shorts, Pran's bare leg pressed against his own, something fizzles in Pat's brain. What, he thinks, or maybe he doesn't think, as his chest meets Pran's as they both get pressed to the ground, faces so close to each other, Pran falling to his side with a small grunt.

For a second, it's all Pat's aware of--Pran's body, smaller than his, beneath his like Pat's caging him, protecting him, more than he's tackling him. The hair on Pran's calves tickle Pat's knees and both their shorts have ridden up slightly that Pat can feel the softness under Pran's thigh on top of his own.

And Pat's dick, well. As soon as he feels it stiffen in his shorts, perhaps too stimulated by so much body contact after having been tackled before, now with Pran maybe it was inevitable that he would have a... reaction.

He shoves himself off before he can fully think it, before his brain can fully process, I just got a random boner from tackling Pran. Adjusting his shorts, Pat looks down at Pran with bravado and gloats, "Hah, finally caught you."

"Not my fault you replaced all your brain with muscle," Pran says, under his breath.

Pat leans forward, putting his hand to his ear mockingly. "What was that? I couldn't hear you."

"You got dumber over the summer," Pran says, which seems like a nonsequitor. Pat blinks at him. "Now you're just big and stupid." He stalks off.

Pat watches him leave. "What's that supposed to mean?" he calls after Pran, but Pran flips him off without looking back at him.

Frowning, Pat looks back down at the outline of his dick in his shorts. It's still half-hard; he adjusts the cotton again, so the folds make it less prominent. Probably just part of his body changing, he's gotten a few random boners recently. Still, the memory of Pran's warm skin against his own makes him shiver--and does not help with his problem. Pat will have to tackle Pran to get used to it more, probably. Get less boners that way.

(When Pran goes through his own growth spurt that he's nearly eye-level with Pat again, it gets a lot harder to tackle him. It also doesn't get any easier controlling his body's reactions.)

I think this is cuddling? Haha. Takes place during the beginning of ep 11 - bus cuddles!

-

Pran's not sure when he fell asleep, but when he wakes up, the firm cushion of Pat's shoulder underneath his head is the first thing he feels. The second is the hard bus seat that's practically made his thigh and ass numb, along with the ache in his back for sitting up for so long.

He doesn't quite stir yet. Yesterday feels like ages ago, even though the memory is still fresh in his mind. The sharp, disappointed press of his mother's palm to his cheek. Pat's father shoving him to the ground, where a large bruise is surely forming on his side--Pran still winces when he thinks about it. Sobbing into Pat's shirt for what felt like ages even though it must've only been a few minutes, clinging onto him like he's the only thing that matters.

And with the way Pran doesn't want to move his head from Pat's shoulder, even though Pat's arm is around him and surely as numb as his thighs, Pat really is the only thing that matters. Pran can see the rise and fall of his chest when he creaks his eyes open, the slow breath of his sure and open mouth, his heartbeat which Pran likes to imagine is on pace with his own. Pran shifts and sighs, wanting to bury his face into Pat's neck like so many times he's done before, even though he doesn't want to wake Pat up.

Pat's fingers twitch from past his shoulder. "You up?" Pat rumbles, voice a bit throaty like it is fresh in the morning.

Pran tilts his head up. "What about you?" he says.

"I'm up." Pat moves his arm from around Pran, which Pran mourns. He has no idea how long is left on this bus ride--it's en route to the eco village, which had been about a seven hour drive, so maybe there's an hour or so left. The sky outside is still a dark blue, although Pran knows all too well how quick morning can come, like the world is shifting--like when their parents found out about them dating in half a second, and their universes turned upside down.

But he still has Pat. "How are you feeling?" Pran asks quietly. "I didn't get to ask yesterday, but--"

"Oh, don't worry about me," Pat says, much too airily for Pran's liking. "I'm fine, just tired."

Pran looks up at him from where his head is still resting on top of Pat's chest. He's all meat and bone and muscle; a long time ago Pran had thought to himself that if he was ever allowed to lie on Pat's body all day, he would. The sentiment remains.

"Tired after about five hours of sleep?" Pran asks cheekily.

Pat smiles down at him, pokes his dimple. "You had five hours of sleep too. And you usually need more."

"I do." Pran yawns. If he was up to it, he would sit up from lying on Pat and stretch. But he doesn't know what will come of this--this running away, this inevitable going back. At least, Pran thinks they're going back. But he doesn't know what will happen then, or what will happen now. So he lets himself indulge in Pat's body warmth, even at the expense of his sore neck.

"I'm going to sleep more," Pran says, closing his eyes. "Wake me up when we get there."

He feels more than hears Pat laugh in response. "Okay," Pat says, and starts sifting his fingers through Pran's hair. Pran smiles, and blindly looks for Pat's hand until he finds it, grabbing his thumb and bringing it to his cheek. Pat adjusts it so he's pressing more into his dimple.

"Okay," Pat says again. "You sleep. I'll let you know."

"That's what I just said," Pran says, but the smile is still on his face as he finds himself drifting off again, nestled so deeply into Pat's side that he thinks everything will be okay, as long as he gets to keep this.

(this is porn for anyone coming from twitter)

The first time they realize that the secrecy of their relationship is not only for their families' benefit, but for theirs, is when they're at a meeting for the class presidents of all the faculties about some more reconstruction around campus. Pran locates Pat among the handful of class presidents--then immediately looks away when he sees Pat has already spotted him.

It's hard, is the thing. To pretend that he doesn't want Pat at all, that he doesn't have him anymore. Sure, it might be easy for Pran to roll his eyes and fake a grimace and avert Pat's eyes--or meet them with a dead-on glare, when the situation calls for it. But the erratic beating in his chest always has Pran on edge, like he's always seconds away from grabbing at Pat and closing all the distance between them, no matter where they are or who sees.

It's exciting. It's thrilling. It's fun.

It's fun, the way Pran will not look at him during the meeting, but feel Pat's eyes on him. When Pat speaks up and says something to the room at large, his eyes pass over Pran like he's any other faculty president, and Pran watches and nods along like Pat is any other faculty president. He wishes he were closer to Pat so he could nudge and tease his foot along Pat's under the table. Maybe up his leg, up to his thigh. No one would see or know, but they would. But people could find out if they would bother to look under the table.

As it is, Pran is too far away so these fantasies live in his head for the next time they're out in public with a table between them. Something must show on his face, though, because when Pat glances at him again when he's done talking, his eyes flash. Darken, perhaps. It's for less than a millisecond so no one wiser would have even spotted it, but Pran has spent years analyzing Pat's face that even a hint of a microexpression is not lost on him. It's a look of, Let's get out of here, I want you.

Pran does not look at him for the rest of his meeting in his own form of answering, No.

But that No doesn't last when, as the meeting comes to an end, Pat says to the dean, "Hold on, would you mind if I took a look through the powerpoint again?" and the dean nods to him. And then Pran's packing up his own things from where he had been taking notes, but slowly, as everyone else in the room starts to trickle out.

And then it's just them, together and alone and in public, the way it shouldn't be.

Pran thinks he moves first; it's hard to tell, when Pat's abandoning the laptop that the powerpoint had been on and pinning Pran, who's already stood up, against the window. "Missed you so much," Pat breathes against his lips, hands on Pran's waist.

"You saw me this morning," Pran replies, but Pat kisses him anyway, desperately like they hadn't kissed each other goodbye after breakfast. Pran kisses back with equal enthusiasm, because Pat is too goddamn good with his mouth, his tongue, licking into Pran like he's trying to taste his lunch, too. It's so easy to get lost in this, fighting with the rhythm of their mouths, pulling and pushing and taking until Pran can't remember where he ends and where Pat begins.

Pat pulls away first; Pran leans in to follow his lips instinctively. When Pat smirks at him, Pran glares and wipes his mouth instead. "Aren't they gonna come back for the laptop?" Pran asks him.

"Yeah, probably," Pat says. "So we better make it quick, shouldn't we?"

"Make what quick?"

"This," and Pat grinds against his thigh, and while he's not fully hard (Pran knows, he can tell by the size) his semi makes Pran's mouth water nevertheless.

He has to put up a fight though, so he hisses, "What? Are you kidding me? Here? Now?"

"Why not?" Pat taunts. "Don't you want to? I can tell you do."

"Yeah, but--" Pran glances towards the door, unlocked. The laptop where the powerpoint is still open on it. The ceiling to floor window, which his back is still pressed up against. "It's really not the time or place, we're not supposed to be doing this."

Pat realigns his body, shoves a thigh between Pran's legs--and then Pran realizes too late exactly what Pat's doing. "You say that," Pat says, smirking infuriatingly, "but you're even harder than me."

And that Pran can't deny--what he would give to get his hand on Pat's dick, get Pat's hand on his dick, have them rub one off or fuck more if they had more time. If they had the time for Pat to fuck him where he's still a little wet from this morning, Pran's chest pressed to the window. "Well, make it quick," Pran says as dismissively as he can, and knows he's unsuccessful by the smug way Pat squeezes his ass and then unzips his jeans, shoving his hand down Pran's boxers.

The feeling of his large rough hand around Pran's cock is unparalleled, second only to maybe Pat inside of him (or himself inside of Pat). Pran crumples and moans, Pat holding him up by the hip and fisting Pran's cock arrhythmically. "God, you're always so hot," Pat says, warm breath on Pran's face. "I want to do this all the time, always see you like this."

"Shut up," Pran bites out, because Pat is filthy and unfair with his mouth--Pran would rather kiss him all the time too.

But Pat doesn't shut up, his motions getting a bit faster, that dark look in his eyes getting darker. "Why should I? I know the more I talk, the faster you'll come," he says. "And that's what you want, isn't it? Aren't you afraid of getting caught? Or do you like this as much as I do? Maybe you want to get caught."

"Maybe you're just annoying," Pran manages, even though Pat's thumb strokes over the head of his cock then, the slit. He's gone slower and that's even worse. Pat's other hand is still on his waist so Pran feels trapped between his body and the window, a position that he only dreamed of being in when he was sixteen. Pat strokes at him a few times like it's nothing, and Pran's knees buckle, so he grabs Pat's neck and kisses him again, determined to take Pat's breath away as much as Pat's taken his.

He slides his tongue into Pat's mouth, across his teeth; he smiles when he feels Pat shiver in response. The hand on Pran's waist slides up to his cheek, fingers running across his skin--poking, probably, at Pran's dimple still there. Pran keeps kissing him insistently, heat pooling in his belly when Pat sucks his tongue in response, trying to drag him into his body. His own hips twist against Pran's thigh, movement of his hands getting clumsier, sloppier.

They could get caught at any moment--anyone could walk in and see them, the presidents of the engineering and architecture faculties, who are supposed to hate each other, who are most certainly not dating, making out and grinding against each other like nothing else matters in the world. It's the worry, the excitement, the knowledge that they aren't supposed to be doing this but they are that makes Pran come only a few minutes later, trembling and gasping into Pat's mouth.

Pat catches all of his come in his palm, which is stupid hot that his hand is big enough to, that he just knows that Pran wouldn't want it smeared on the inside of his underwear all day. Before Pat can even say anything about it, when Pran comes to he takes Pat's hand out of his pants, eyes the white stains on Pat's heartlines, closes his eyes and licks it off.

It's bitter and unpleasant, but the way Pat bucks into him and buries his face into Pran's neck makes it all worth it. Pran doesn't need to feel it between their jeans and boxers to know that Pat's come in his pants; Pat's body always gets violent when he does, thrusting and shaking like he has no control over his limbs. It always reminds Pran that this is real, something he wouldn't have imagined Pat to do during an orgasm, but such a physical evidence that Pat wants him as much as Pran wants Pat. Pran kisses the side of Pat's neck as he finishes, still a little concerned about being caught but even more occupied with holding Pat at every chance he can get.

Eventually, he feels the vibration and puff of Pat's laughter against his skin. "I don't think I have a spare pair of pants," he says into Pran's shoulder.

Pran laughs at him, nudging him affectionately. "Want me to call Paa?"

"No, I should, otherwise she'll suspect what we did," Pat says, finally untangling himself from Pran.

Pran misses the warmth, though he won't say it out loud. "I feel like if you ask her for a clean pair of pants she'll suspect anyway," he points out, adjusting himself and stretching the kinks in his neck.

Pat smiles at him. He's got dimples too, but Pran knows that he has the monopoly on that nickname in their relationship. "Yeah," Pat says, stupidly. "It was hot though. We should do this again."

His stupidity must be rubbing off on Pran, because the idea of finding another place in public, another place where they shouldn't be looking at each other or talking like they're dating and stealing away to do so anyway makes his head feel light and his heart full. And Pran doesn't care, because being able to do all of this with Pat, the secrecy, the glances, the excuse to shove their tongues into each other's mouths, makes this all worth it.

"Yeah," he agrees, smiling back. "We should."

It's late at night so no one will see them again, although the last time they were out getting dinner this late was over a year ago, before even the bus stop project. Still, there's some comfort that they can be out together without fear of being seen by too many people. Pran had assumed they would have total secrecy at first - only together in their dorms, in the space that had once been his but now is happily, wholly theirs. But then Pat had said that he wanted to see a movie and it would be dark and Pran had agreed; then Pran had been visiting Wai at his bar while Pat had been out with his friends and they'd ended up making out in the bathroom; and now Pran is resigned to the fact that now that he's adjusted to being with Pat openly, even despite their families, it's not something he so easily wants to stop doing.

Pat goes to the stall while Pran picks out a table, watching Pat fondly. He sees Pat hold up three fingers and smiles. It's not that endearing that Pran likes exactly three wontons with his noodles, but Pat finds a lot of random things about Pran endearing anyway. He's always been like that, finding things that Pran thinks are mundane about himself special in some way. It makes Pran feel warm and giggly about it now, instead of confused and on the edge of heartbroken.

The stall vendor asks Pat something. He gestures towards Pran. Pran frowns, as Pat laughs and shakes his head in response. He leans in close to the vendor like he's telling him a secret, and Pran's frown deepens.

Pat's chuckling to himself when he comes back to their table, carrying their two bowls. "What was that about?" Pran asks, as Pat sets his noodles in front of him.

Sitting down himself, Pat takes his chopsticks out, looks down at his own bowl, and then laughs again.

Pran wants to smack him on the forehead with those chopsticks. "What?" he says, measuring his own.

"It's nothing," Pat says, which certainly means it means something. Then Pat adds, "Well, nothing anymore. Just, last year--" he breaks off and snickers again and Pran is this close to pulling Pat's food away from him until he can recompose himself "--last year when I had come here with Ink, khun asked me if she was my faen and I told him that I would tell him when she would be. So today he asked me why I haven't been going out with her lately and why I came here with you, and I told him that you were my faen instead." He erupts into giggles.

Pran rolls his eyes, even though he can't deny the flutter of his heart at the sound of Pat calling him his faen. "Well, what's so funny about it? It's true, isn't it?"

"It is true! It's just, Ink," Pat chews his noodles loudly and grins when Pran makes a face at him. "The idea of me dating Ink now is so funny, don't you think? Now that she has my sister and that I have you?"

"I think it's funny that you think I'll keep dating you if you keep being disgusting like that," Pran says, with no heat.

Pat sticks his tongue out at him, but does chew quieter. "I'm surprised khun didn't remember when we both got dinner here," he says thoughtfully. "When I was with Ink and you were with Wai."

Pran feels his neck heat up at the memory; it had been simultaneously satisfying and embarrassing that Pran just feels silly now when he thinks of their in-between time before the architecture play. "You mean when we were trying to make each other jealous?"

"Yeah," Pat says brightly. "Wasn't that fun? I think I won that one."

Pran taps his chin with his chopsticks as if he's in thought. "I remember pretty distinctly that I won that one, actually."

"No way," Pat says, in a way that Pran knows that he knows that Pran is absolutely correct. "You making me more jealous? You'd been jealous of me and Ink for years."

Pran swallows the mouthful of noodles he'd just chewed. "Yeah, so I was used to it. Meanwhile you kept giving Wai death glares even after you guys made up--"

"I don't know why he has to be so affectionate with you all the time!"

"See?" Pran says smugly. "Even now, you lost against me. Hah."

Pat narrows his eyes at him. "Best two out of three."

"It's already been two. I won both times."

"Okay, then best three out of five--"

As they bicker, the night fades around them like they're the only ones in the universe; not any other students lingering around wondering why the architecture and engineering class presidents who were rumored to have broken up are getting dinner together, not the vendor of the noodle stall smiling to himself and thinking about how this boy's new faen seems to suit him so well. They don't need secrecy nor the light of day nor the comfort of their own family homes to know that like this, to have each other, to be together, makes them luckier than anyone else in the world.