Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The room was dark except for the faint sliver of moonlight that filtered through the thin curtains, painting pale stripes across the floorboards. Eight-year-old Team shot up from his bed, his breath ragged, his chest heaving as though he had been the one drowning. Sweat clung to his forehead and dampened the collar of his thin cotton shirt. His small hands trembled as he clutched at the sheets, searching for something solid, something real, to anchor him against the storm that raged inside his mind. He had dreamed it again.

The same dream that had haunted him since the accident. His eyes were still wide with the image of his friend thrashing helplessly in the water, arms reaching, mouth opening in desperate gasps that never brought in air. The sound of choking, gurgling cries echoed inside Team’s ears even though he was awake now, as though the nightmare clung to him and refused to let go. He pressed his palms hard against his ears, as if he could block it out, but the memory was not made of sound alone. It was a vision that carved itself into the back of his eyes.

In the dream, the water was always too blue, the surface too bright under the midday sun. His friend’s head went under, bobbed back up, went under again, and each time Team reached, each time he swam harder, but his hands never closed around that thin wrist. His friend’s face had been pale, contorted by fear and pain, lips moving around words Team never understood. The sunlight caught in the ripples like cruel laughter, as if the world had turned away from the struggle. And then the stillness.

That was the part that always made Team’s breath stop in his chest. The moment the body went limp. The water that swallowed his friend without a ripple of mercy. Team woke every time at that point, gasping, as though he were the one whose lungs had filled with water.

He pulled his knees to his chest now, wrapping thin arms around himself. The blanket was tangled around his ankles, and his pillow lay on the floor, kicked off in his sleep. He pressed his forehead against his knees and squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to believe it had been only a nightmare, only a cruel trick of sleep, but it had not been. It had been real once. His friend had drowned right before his eyes.

Team had been there, close enough to see, close enough to understand what was happening, but not close enough to save him. The cramps had come suddenly, seizing his friend’s legs in the middle of the water, and no amount of frantic splashing or reaching had kept him afloat. Team had been frozen, a boy too young to know how to fight against death, too young to know how to carry another’s weight to safety. By the time help had arrived, it had been too late. The lifeguard had pulled a body out of the water, not a boy. And Team had never forgiven himself.

Even now, years later, he kept the wound open inside him. He would not let it scar over, because that felt too much like forgetting. If he let himself move past it, if he allowed himself to laugh freely again, would that not mean he had abandoned the boy who had once called him a friend? No, Team would not let that happen. He carried the pain deliberately, a heavy stone in his chest, because it was the only proof he still remembered.

The sweat cooled on his skin, making him shiver. He lay back down, but sleep would not return. He stared up at the ceiling where the shadows shifted with the faint breeze, shapes bending and reshaping like water currents. Every time he blinked, the image of his friend returned, eyes wide, mouth open, begging without sound.

Team whispered into the darkness, his voice a fragile thread. “I am sorry.” He said it every time. The words had never been enough. They were swallowed by the night, just as the lake had swallowed his friend. But he kept saying them, as though repetition might one day reach across the years and find the boy who had slipped away.

The silence of the house pressed around him. His parents slept down the hall, unaware of the storms that woke their son night after night. He had never told them, never told anyone, about the nightmares that plagued him. It felt like a punishment he was meant to endure alone. If he carried the guilt, then perhaps he was still protecting his friend, even in some small, unseen way. The hours stretched long. The moonlight shifted, inch by inch, across the wall. Team did not close his eyes again. He lay awake, remembering. Always remembering. Because forgetting was worse than the pain.

The morning sun spilled gently through the curtains of Team’s room, casting a golden wash across the wooden floor. He sat at his desk with a schoolbook open before him, pencil in hand, his dark eyes steady as he worked through a set of mathematics problems. His handwriting was neat, the lines measured and deliberate, as though the act of pressing lead against paper required all the discipline he could summon.

In the kitchen, his mother hummed softly while preparing breakfast. The sound drifted down the hallway, familiar and comforting. His father was already dressed for work, the low murmur of his voice carrying as he spoke on the phone with a colleague. Their home was not large, but it was warm, filled with the kind of affection that lived in small details, meals cooked together, evenings spent talking, the way his parents never forgot to ask about his day.

On the surface, Team’s life looked whole. He was a bright boy, polite to teachers, well-liked by classmates. His grades remained strong across every subject, though he carried a quiet preference for the precision of numbers and the rhythm of language. His report cards were praised, his parents’ smiles proud, and his teachers spoke of him as an example for others. But beneath the smooth surface, there was the wound.

Team had never spoken of it to his parents. They had been there the day of the accident, they had held him afterwards when he had shaken with cold and shock, but in time, they had encouraged him to move forward. They wanted him to heal. They wanted him to remember his friend fondly without allowing grief to consume him. Team understood their wishes, but he could not fulfil them. The grief had rooted itself too deeply, like ivy winding through the cracks of his heart. It showed itself most when he swam.

Team had joined the school swim team not long after the accident. His parents had worried at first, unsure if returning to the water would reopen the trauma, but Team had insisted. He needed to swim. It was as though the water had called him back, demanding that he face it again and again. He swam with discipline, every stroke sharp, every breath controlled, as if the pool itself would swallow him if he faltered.

His coach noticed his dedication early. “You swim like the water is chasing you,” he had remarked once, and Team had only nodded, unwilling to explain that in truth, he swam as though he were always trying to catch someone just out of reach.

At practice, his teammates respected him. He was not the loudest, nor the most outgoing, but he carried himself with quiet determination. When they laughed and joked in the locker room, Team smiled and joined when he could, though his thoughts often drifted elsewhere. He was kind, quick to help, never unapproachable, but there was a gravity in him that even children his age could sense.

His parents sometimes asked if he was happy. He would answer with a small nod, because it was easier than admitting that happiness felt like a foreign country. He loved his parents, he appreciated his teachers and friends, but joy slipped through his fingers too quickly. At night, when the dreams came, he was reminded of why. The boy who had drowned had once been his closest friend. They had shared afternoons of laughter, games in the park, whispered secrets in the corners of classrooms. His absence had carved a hollow in Team’s heart that nothing else could fill. The guilt had never eased, because no matter how many times his parents or his coach or even his teammates told him that it had not been his fault, Team knew differently. He had been there. He had been close enough to save him, and yet he had failed.

And so he swam. He swam to keep himself from forgetting, he swam to chase away the helplessness, he swam to honour the boy who no longer had the chance to move through the water. Every day that passed, Team carried that weight with him, hidden behind good grades, hidden behind a polite smile, hidden behind the image of a boy who seemed well-adjusted. Only he knew the truth of it. Only he chose to keep the wound open.

The indoor pool was alive with echoes. Cheers from the audience carried across the high ceiling, whistles shrilled, and the rhythmic slap of water against tile filled the air. Team sat quietly at the edge of the benches with his swim bag resting by his side. Around him, his teammates laughed, jostled each other, and called out encouragements, but Team’s focus remained inward. He rubbed his palms slowly against the fabric of his shorts, feeling the faint dampness of nervous sweat, though his expression gave little away.

The air smelled strongly of chlorine, sharp and clean, a scent that always took him back to that day no matter how much he tried to separate the two. He had learned, over time, to steady himself against the memory, to push it into a corner of his mind where it would not overwhelm him. Yet, when he sat in silence like this, waiting for his turn to step onto the starting block, the memory pressed closer.

His coach crouched beside him for a moment, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You have trained well, Team. Do not let your nerves defeat you before the race begins.” Team looked up at him and offered a small nod. His throat was too tight for words, but the nod was enough. The coach gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before moving on to speak with another swimmer.

The call came for the boys’ 100-meter freestyle. Team rose from the bench, slipped out of his shirt, and pulled his cap firmly over his hair. His fingers tightened around his goggles, the strap stretched between his hands. And as always, when the cool plastic pressed against his temples and the world narrowed to the small frame of vision before him, the memory arrived. The drowning.
It was never gone. The way his friend’s arms had flailed in the water, the sound of panicked splashing, the desperate eyes searching for help. Each time Team lowered his goggles into place, it was as though he stood again at the edge of that pool, frozen and helpless.
For a moment, his chest constricted. He felt the cold terror creep up from his stomach, winding through his ribs, stealing his breath. The cheers of the crowd blurred into a low roar, indistinguishable. Then he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. One long, measured breath, the way his coach had taught him. He held it, let the air expand his chest, then released it slowly. The fear did not vanish, but it loosened enough for him to move. He had learned how to live with it, to let it sit inside him without letting it consume him. He stepped onto the starting block.

The announcer’s voice echoed through the loudspeakers, calling the names, calling the lanes. Team bent forward, toes gripping the edge, arms relaxed but ready. The world shrank to the space before him, to the clear line of water that stretched out like a challenge. The whistle blew. He dove.

The shock of cold water closed over his body, and instinct took over. Arms extended, legs kicked, and the rhythm of swimming consumed him. Stroke, breathe, stroke, breathe. The water rushed past his ears, muffling the outside world, until only the sound of his heartbeat and the rhythm of movement remained.

At the turn, his hand slammed against the wall, and his body twisted with practiced precision. He kicked hard, streamlined beneath the surface, before breaking through with powerful strokes. His lungs burned, but he welcomed the fire, it reminded him he was alive, moving forward, never stopping.

The finish came in a burst of noise. His hand struck the wall, and the whistle signalled the end. He lifted his head, gasping, water streaming down his face. The scoreboard flashed his lane number, his name, and the position: first. The cheers roared, his teammates clapped him on the back as he climbed from the pool, and his coach’s proud smile met him from across the deck. But Team’s face remained composed, his breaths still heavy, his heart still racing not only from the effort, but from the fight he had waged against his own memory.

There was little time to rest before the 200-meter event. Again, he stood at the block. Again, the goggles pressed against his temples. Again, the image tried to return. And again, he took that deep, deliberate breath. When he dove this time, the water felt less like an enemy and more like a test. Each stroke carried him further, faster, until the rhythm itself became a shield. He was no longer chasing the memory of his friend. He was racing against his own fear, determined not to let it win.

By the final stretch, his muscles screamed, but his focus sharpened. He touched the wall with every ounce of strength left in him. The whistle blew, the race ended, and when he lifted his head, his name glowed once more at the top of the board. First. Again. His team erupted in celebration. His coach shouted his name with pride. And though Team forced a small smile, though he allowed himself to be pulled into the circle of congratulatory claps and cheers, deep inside, the weight remained. Winning did not erase the past. It never would.

But as he stood there, dripping water onto the tiles, chest still rising and falling with heavy breaths, he knew this much: he had endured the memory and still moved forward. That was enough for today.

Chapter Text

The dream had followed him into every stage of his youth, clinging like a shadow that refused to lift. At first, when he was a boy, Team had wondered why the same images returned to him over and over, year after year. He had thought it was only guilt, the guilt of failing to save his friend. But guilt should have lessened with time, should it not? He had grown taller, older, stronger. He had succeeded in swimming where once he had faltered. Yet still the water in his dreams remained dark, and the face of his friend still appeared beneath the surface, eyes wide, arms outstretched.

By the time Team turned nineteen, he no longer searched for explanations. He had stopped asking himself why. He accepted that some wounds simply refused to close, and some memories chose to stay, no matter how much one wished to forget. He understood now that the dream was not only about the drowning. It carried something else, something deeper, something he could never quite grasp. But if he tried too hard to name it, the weight only grew heavier. So he let it rest. When the dream came, he woke, breathed through it, and turned his face to the morning light. When the dream receded, he carried on with his day. He had promised himself that it would not stop him.

Pinyo University stood before him like a new horizon. The campus gates opened to wide paths lined with trees whose leaves shifted in the late summer breeze. The buildings rose with a mix of modern glass and older stone, an environment alive with students moving in clusters, voices carrying, laughter ringing in the air. For many, this was the first step into independence, and the energy was vibrant, tinged with nervous excitement.

Team walked among them with measured steps, his satchel slung over one shoulder. The strap pressed lightly into his chest, and the faint weight of new notebooks and pens reminded him of beginnings. His parents had seen him off with warm smiles that morning, his mother pressing a final snack into his hand as though he were still a child, his father patting his shoulder with pride. Their support filled him with quiet strength.

The Department of Economics was where his future would begin. Numbers had always made sense to him, their logic clean and undeniable. Economics, he hoped, would allow him to build something secure, something steady that could not be undone in a single moment like a life lost to water. Ahead, the line for student registration stretched out across the lobby of the main administrative building. New students stood in neat rows, shifting on their feet, some speaking eagerly with newfound acquaintances, others silent with nerves. The atmosphere was crowded but orderly, buzzing with the hum of hundreds of futures unfolding at once.

Team joined the end of the line, folding his hands loosely in front of him. His gaze lifted to the high ceiling of the hall, where light streamed through wide glass panes, illuminating banners with the university emblem. For a moment, he allowed himself to take it in, the weight of the past did not vanish, but here, surrounded by possibility, it seemed lighter, as though the world had given him permission to begin again. He exhaled slowly. This was his chance to write a new chapter.

The line shifted forward slowly, the shuffling of shoes against the tiled floor a steady rhythm. Team adjusted the strap of his satchel and glanced at the sheet of paper in his hand that held his student information. Around him, students whispered, laughed, and compared schedules. He stood quietly, neither uncomfortable nor eager, content to wait his turn. A soft voice broke the quiet beside him. “Is this the line for first-year registration?”

Team turned his head and saw a boy standing just behind him, clutching his own set of documents. His figure was slender, his face open and gentle, framed by dark hair that fell neatly over his forehead. The boy’s expression carried a polite uncertainty, as if he wanted to be sure he had not chosen the wrong queue. “Yes,” Team answered with a small nod. His voice was calm, steady. “You are in the right place.” The boy smiled, relieved. “Good. I was worried I might be standing here for nothing. Thank you.”

Before Team could respond, a girl approached and slipped into place beside the boy. Her hair was tied back with a bright ribbon, and her eyes sparkled with curiosity as she glanced around the hall. She nudged the boy lightly with her elbow. “Pharm, I told you this was the correct line,” she teased, then looked at Team with a grin. “He worries too much.” Pharm’s ears flushed faintly pink, though his smile remained. “It is better to ask than to stand here all day in the wrong line.”

Team felt the corner of his mouth lift in a quiet smile. There was something disarming about their interaction, a warmth that eased the silence between strangers. Still, he spoke with a touch of formality, as though cautious not to overstep. “My name is Team,” he offered. “Department of Economics.” The boy straightened slightly, returning the introduction with a small bow of his head. “Pharm. Department of Economics as well.” He gestured toward the girl beside him. “This is Mannow. She is my friend from secondary school.” Mannow beamed. “Nice to meet you, Team. It looks like you will not be alone in your classes after all. At least you already know two faces now.”

Team nodded politely, though inwardly he felt a faint stirring, something unexpected. He could not name it, but when his gaze met Pharm’s, there was a flicker of recognition, a sense that the boy’s presence resonated somewhere deep within him. It was not familiarity exactly, but something quieter, like the memory of a melody he could not place yet still knew by heart.

They moved a few steps forward as the line progressed. Mannow continued the conversation with ease, asking where Team was from, whether he had explored the campus yet, and what had drawn him to Economics. Team answered with short but thoughtful replies, his tone steady, his words measured. He was not one to speak at length, but his sincerity softened the brevity. Pharm listened attentively, occasionally adding his own comments, though he seemed slightly more reserved than his friend. When he did speak, his voice was low and gentle, the kind that invited rather than demanded attention.

The banter was simple, touched with awkward pauses where none of them quite knew what to say next. Yet the silences did not feel heavy. They felt like space, space that might one day be filled with ease and familiarity. By the time they reached the registration desk, Team found himself strangely reluctant for the conversation to end.

The registration hall was filled with the shuffle of papers and the murmur of voices as students moved away from the desks with their completed forms. Team stepped aside after handing in his documents, adjusting the strap of his satchel once more. Pharm and Mannow followed, each carrying their registration packets, faces lit with the same quiet excitement of beginnings. They found themselves standing together near the exit, a current of students flowing past them toward the courtyard outside. For a moment, the three stood in silence, as if uncertain whether their brief companionship in line would end here.

It was Mannow who spoke first, her voice bright and curious. “So, now that we are all officially students of Pinyo University, what comes next? Clubs? Activities? I heard they start sign-ups this week.” Team glanced at her, then at Pharm, before answering. His voice was calm, as though the decision had already been settled long ago. “I will try for the swim team,” he said simply. “I have been training for years. It seems right to continue.”

Pharm’s eyes widened slightly with interest. “You are a swimmer? That must take a great deal of dedication. I… I am not very good at sports.” His smile was self-conscious, but warm. “I plan to join the cooking club. I like preparing food for others. It feels… peaceful.” Mannow clapped her hands lightly, delighted. “That is perfect! Then you can cook, Team can swim, and I will join the drama club. I love the stage, even if it is only small productions. Imagine us, three new students, each with our own path.”

Her enthusiasm softened the awkwardness of the moment. Team allowed himself a faint smile, his gaze lowering briefly before he looked at them again. “Perhaps we can meet again after we register for the clubs. It would be good to see how we each settle in.” Pharm nodded quickly, almost with relief. “Yes. That would be nice.” Mannow grinned, satisfied. “Then it is decided. We will not lose each other in this sea of new faces. Well.. until we meet again.” They exchanged a small look among the three of them, gentle, tentative, unspoken. It was not yet friendship, but it was the first step, the fragile beginning of something that might grow.

As they walked out into the sunlight together, the noise of the campus swirling around them, Team felt it again, that quiet pull, a thread he could not see but somehow sensed, tying him subtly toward Pharm. He did not try to name it. He only let it rest, as he always did with things he did not understand. For now, it was enough that they had agreed to meet again.

The night air was heavy with stillness, and the small apartment where Team lived was silent except for the faint hum of the ceiling fan. He had gone to bed early, determined to rest before his first proper day at university. His body was tired, but his mind had taken longer to settle. When at last his eyes had closed and sleep had come, he had not expected anything different from the usual. He thought he would once again be dragged back into that endless nightmare of his childhood, the cruel memory of his friend’s final moments.

But tonight, the dream was not the same. It began with confusion. At first there was only sound, scattered voices echoing through a haze. He could not place where he was. The dream had no water, no swimming pool, no sun blazing above him. Instead, he felt himself standing in a place shrouded in dimness, with the sensation that he was not alone. The first voice rose sharply, calling out a name. The tone was desperate, urgent, as though the person was trying to tear someone away from danger. The sound struck him with such force that his skin prickled, and though the name itself was indistinct, muffled by the blur of dream, he felt it carry weight, a gravity that pulled at him. He strained to catch it, to understand, but the dream would not give it clearly.

The shout was followed by the sound of struggle. There were feet moving quickly, fabric being pulled, hands grasping. He could hear one person pleading, another voice insisting, and beneath it all the rising hum of several others speaking at once. It was chaos, but the kind of chaos that was not wild but born of fear. Team felt his chest tighten as the overlapping words pressed in on him, their meaning slipping just out of reach, as if he were standing on the edge of a conversation too important to miss, yet too distorted to grasp.

The noise built, louder and louder, until it seemed that the air itself vibrated with it. His heart raced in the dream, thudding painfully against his ribs. He wanted to push forward, to see who was there, to stop whatever was happening, but his body felt rooted, his legs heavy, as if the dream itself bound him in place.

Then, without warning, everything fell silent. The abruptness of it was so stark that Team felt as though the breath had been pulled from his lungs. The silence rang in his ears, heavier than the noise had been. He could see nothing but a dim blur, shapes in shadow, but in that suspended stillness, another sound began to rise. It was soft at first, but it cut through the silence like a blade. A low sob, broken and heavy, then another, until the silence cracked entirely with the sound of wailing. Crying filled the air, raw and unrestrained, and Team felt it pierce him to his core. He had heard people cry before, but never like this. These were not tears born of small sadnesses. These were cries from the deepest part of grief, from a wound that would never heal.

The dream pressed the sound upon him until it seemed to come from all sides, echoing inside his head. He covered his ears in the dream, but it did not stop. The cries were louder than the shouting had been, more desperate than the pleading. It was as if the dream wanted him to feel the despair, to drown in it, though there was no water here. And then, as suddenly as the cries had come, the dream fractured.

Team woke with a sharp gasp, his body jolting upright in bed. His chest heaved as though he had been running, and his hands were clammy with sweat. The room was dark around him, the faint light from the street filtering through the curtains, but the stillness of the night was unbroken. There were no voices here, no shouts, no sobs. Only the familiar silence of his room. For a long moment he sat frozen, his breath uneven, his eyes wide and fixed on the shadows around him. His ears still rang with the memory of the cries, as if the sound lingered even after the dream had dissolved. He pressed a hand against his chest, feeling the quick beat of his heart beneath his palm.

This dream had not been like the others. There had been no water, no thrashing arms reaching out to him, no helplessness at the edge of a pool. For years his nightmares had replayed that same memory, forcing him to relive the moment he lost his friend. This was something else, something unfamiliar, and that frightened him more than he wanted to admit.

He whispered to himself in the dark, his voice hoarse. “It was only a dream.” But the words did not ease him. He knew his mind had never created something like this before. The sorrow in that dream, the grief so deep it seemed to pull the world apart, it was not his own memory, and yet it weighed upon him as though it were. Team pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, as though he could block the images that still lingered at the edge of his thoughts. Sleep would not return to him tonight. He could feel it in the tightness of his body, in the restless churn of his thoughts. The dream had taken that from him.

At last, with a sigh, he pushed himself from the bed. The floor was cool beneath his feet as he walked toward the small bathroom. He did not bother switching on many lights, letting the dim glow of the hall guide him. The mirror reflected a pale version of himself, hair mussed, eyes still wide with the remnants of fear. He turned on the shower and stepped beneath the stream of water, letting the heat wash over his skin. The steady rhythm grounded him, pulling him back from the fragments of the dream. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the water run over his face. It felt cleansing, though the unease beneath his skin did not leave so easily.

When at last he emerged, he felt steadier, though the echo of the cries still clung to him. He dressed quietly, his movements deliberate, almost ritualistic. The morning had not yet broken, but he knew there was no point in lying back down. He would wait for dawn, and then he would go to the university. As he adjusted his collar in the mirror, he caught his own reflection once more. The eyes staring back at him were calm now, but deep within them lingered something unsettled. He wondered why this dream had come, why it had chosen tonight, on the eve of his first steps into a new life.

He had no answers. Only the memory of voices, the sound of a name being shouted, the weight of grief that was not his, and the silence that had followed. Team exhaled slowly, forcing the thought away. He would not let himself dwell. Whatever the dream had been, it was over now. The day would begin soon, and he had no space in his mind for shadows. Still, as he turned away from the mirror and gathered his things, the faint echo of the wailing lingered, as though a thread of it had followed him out of the dream and into the waking world.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight fell across the campus of Pinyo University with a steady warmth that carried both promise and weight. Team had risen early, far earlier than he needed to, partly because of habit and partly because of the uneasy restlessness that lingered after the strange dream of the night before. The dream was still there, tucked into the corners of his mind, but he pushed it away as he stepped into his neatly pressed uniform. Today was not for shadows. Today was for beginnings.

He arrived at the Department of Economics building with enough time to steady himself, to let his eyes roam across the unfamiliar faces that streamed toward the glass doors, laughter and conversation carrying through the air. Everything smelled faintly of fresh paint and polished floors, as though the place had been remade just for them. For a moment, he stood quietly near the notice board, rereading the timetable that had already been committed to memory.

It was there that he saw Pharm and Mannow again. Pharm’s posture was slightly hesitant, as if he still carried the softness of someone unaccustomed to large crowds, yet his smile was open. Mannow, by contrast, radiated the confidence of someone who thrived in every space she entered. She spotted Team first, waved broadly, and tugged Pharm along with her. “Team!” she called, her voice bright enough to make heads turn. He raised a hand, the corners of his lips lifting despite his natural reserve. “Good morning.” Mannow wasted no time. “Good morning? That is all you have for us? Do you know what you two look like?” She pulled out her phone, tapped quickly, and turned the screen toward them.

Team leaned in slightly, curiosity piqued, and found himself staring at a page from the official university website. The photo was from the registration day. There he was, standing beside Pharm, the two of them caught in a candid moment as they bent slightly toward one another, the light falling across their shoulders as if the photographer had chosen the angle deliberately. Mannow had zoomed in so that their expressions were clear. Pharm’s eyes were lowered, his smile small and unguarded. Team’s own profile looked unusually gentle, almost protective.

Below the photo was a caption that read: New Students Arriving – Department of Economics. But above it, in the comments section that had already gathered beneath, a thread of playful remarks had taken shape. Look at them, already a pair. Campus couple spotted on the first day. They look so good together.

Mannow grinned like a cat who had stolen something valuable. “See? It is official. You are the first campus couple of the year.” Pharm blinked at the screen, his face turning a shade of pink that spread quickly across his cheeks. “That is… not true. We only met yesterday.” His voice held its usual softness, but there was a faint stammer, as though the words were clumsy in his mouth. Team exhaled slowly, then shook his head with mock seriousness. “This is ridiculous.” He leaned closer, his lips twisting into a faint smirk. “I would never be with him.” Pharm’s eyes widened, startled for a beat, and then he caught the tone. He raised his head, his mouth curving in a rare, quick smile. “I would never be with him either.”

The two of them shared a glance, and for an instant the awkwardness of the moment softened into something lighter. Mannow, meanwhile, clapped her hands together and feigned exaggerated disappointment. “Oh, what a pity,” she said, her tone overly dramatic. “The campus couple denies everything. Still, the photos do not lie. I can already hear the whispers around campus when people see you two walking together.” Pharm ducked his head, hiding his expression, while Team gave a small laugh that felt strange in his throat, almost like a sound he had forgotten how to make. It was the first day, and already this girl had managed to stir them both out of the stiffness of strangers.

They made their way to the classroom together, and the conversation, though light, carried the first notes of familiarity. Mannow asked questions about where they lived, Pharm offered small pieces of information about his family’s restaurant, and Team responded with brief but honest answers about his own background. There was still space between them, the kind of space that always existed when people were only beginning to know one another, but there was also the slow weave of connection, thread by thread.

By the time they found their seats in the wide lecture hall, Team realised that the weight he usually carried in new spaces had lessened. He was not alone. He did not know why it mattered that Pharm sat two seats away, or why Mannow’s constant teasing carried no sting, but it did matter. And though he would never admit it aloud, he found himself glancing at the photo in his mind once more, that captured image of the two of them together, as if some part of it had been waiting for him before he had even arrived.

By the time the first Friday of the semester arrived, the air of the university had already begun to shift. The new students who had wandered with wide eyes and uncertain steps on the first day now carried timetables folded into the corners of their notebooks, maps memorised, paths charted. Laughter spread more easily in the corridors, and groups had started to form, clusters of voices that lingered outside classrooms and under the shade of trees.

For Team, the days had settled into a rhythm more quickly than he expected. Classes, though demanding, carried a certain familiarity, and the presence of Pharm and Mannow had softened the edges of strangeness. They often walked together after lectures, Pharm with his neatly arranged notes tucked under his arm, Mannow with her bag swinging lightly at her side, and Team trailing with his steady, quiet stride. It was not yet a friendship built on deep trust, but it was moving in that direction, small exchanges weaving a comfort he had not thought to find so soon.

On that Friday afternoon, they found themselves sitting at one of the shaded benches near the Economics building, the late sun falling warm across the pavement. Mannow was scrolling through her phone, sighing dramatically every few minutes as though the world had failed to entertain her. Pharm was unwrapping a sandwich he had made for himself, his movements neat and deliberate. Team sat with his arms folded loosely, his gaze drifting to the open courtyard where students moved in scattered lines.

When Mannow finally noticed his distant expression, she leaned forward. “You look like you are hiding something. What is it?” Team raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised by her directness. “I am not hiding anything.” “You are,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You have that look, the one that says you are thinking very hard about something but pretending it does not matter.” Pharm glanced between them, hesitant. “Maybe he is just tired.” Team exhaled, realising there was little point in arguing. “I have the swim team selection this evening.” Pharm’s head lifted slightly, surprise flickering across his features. “You are joining the swim team? I remember that.”

“Yes.” Team’s answer was simple, but the weight in his voice carried the truth. Swimming had always been the one place where he felt a rhythm strong enough to push away his restless thoughts, the one space where he was fully in control. He had been waiting for this chance since the moment he chose Pinyo University. Mannow’s eyes widened, and then, just as quickly, narrowed again with playful disbelief. “You? On the swim team? You are far too skinny for that. I don’t believe it sometimes!” Team turned his head toward her, expression steady, but there was the faintest flicker of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Skinny or not, I will swim.” Pharm gave a quiet laugh, soft enough that it seemed almost accidental. He looked down at the sandwich in his hands as though embarrassed by the sound, but the warmth lingered in his expression.

Mannow leaned back, satisfied that she had earned some kind of reaction. “Well, in that case, you had better invite us to watch. We will see for ourselves whether you are actually as fast as you claim.” “I did not claim anything,” Team said, though his tone had lost its usual edge. After a pause, he added, “But yes. Come and watch.” Pharm looked up again, his expression more open this time. “When is it?” “Five o’clock. The university pool.” Mannow tapped her phone, setting an alarm as if the matter was already decided. “Then we will be there. I will even cheer loudly enough that the entire pool will hear me.”

Team shook his head at her dramatics, but when he glanced at Pharm, he found the other boy smiling faintly, his gaze soft. For reasons he could not explain, that quiet agreement meant more than Mannow’s exaggerated promises. The afternoon light shifted as the three of them continued talking, their conversation meandering between classes, the cafeteria food, and plans for the weekend. Though the teasing remained, the silences between them no longer carried awkwardness. Instead, they held a sense of ease, as if the three threads of their separate lives had begun to twist together into a single pattern.

And beneath it all, Team felt the faint stir of something steadying within him. He had always been nervous before competitions, always carried the weight of doubt in his chest. But now, with their voices surrounding him, he could imagine the water differently, not as a place he had to conquer alone, but as a place where he would be met with voices cheering, waiting for him to rise again. By late afternoon, the university pool had begun to hum with energy. The sun dipped low in the sky, and the wide expanse of blue water gleamed under its fading light. The sharp scent of chlorine filled the air, mingling with the sound of footsteps echoing against the tiled floor and the occasional splash as early swimmers tested the lanes.

Team walked beside Pharm and Mannow toward the pool entrance, his sports bag hanging lightly from one shoulder. His expression carried its usual calm, but his chest carried a restless thrum that grew stronger with each step. It was the familiar edge that always rose before a competition, a mixture of nerves and anticipation. Mannow looked around with wide eyes, clearly impressed by the size of the facility. “This place is huge. Are you sure you will not get lost in here before you even start?” Team gave her a sidelong glance but did not answer. Pharm, walking on his other side, spoke quietly, his voice steady. “It is nice. Peaceful, almost. Even with so many people around.” Team considered that for a moment before nodding. Perhaps Pharm was right. The pool carried a stillness beneath the noise, a kind of order that came with the smooth lanes and the steady rhythm of swimmers cutting through the water.

Inside, the stands were already filling with students, some of them friends of the competitors, others simply curious. The chatter rose and fell in waves, blending into the echoing space. At the far end of the pool, Team noticed a tall figure standing with an air of quiet authority, his posture straight, his attention fixed on the swimmers warming up. Something about him caught Team’s eye immediately. The man wore a navy team jacket, his expression serious, his presence commanding without a word.

That was Dean, the captain of the university swim team. For a brief moment, Team felt a flicker in his chest, as though the air shifted. It was the same sensation he had felt when he first met Pharm, a subtle but undeniable tug of recognition, though he could not place why. Dean turned slightly, speaking to another swimmer, and Team quickly looked away, unsettled by the force of that unfamiliar feeling.

Next to Dean stood another young man, his smile quick, his stance more relaxed. He seemed to balance Dean’s seriousness with an easy charm, speaking with a few of the candidates and patting one on the shoulder in encouragement. His eyes scanned the crowd, sharp but friendly, and when they landed on Team, there was a brief flash of interest.

This was Win, the vice-captain. As the candidates were called to gather, Team adjusted the strap of his bag and made his way toward the benches reserved for swimmers. Pharm and Mannow found seats in the stands, Mannow already waving dramatically as though she intended to be the loudest supporter there. Team caught her movement from the corner of his eye and exhaled softly, torn between exasperation and reluctant amusement.

On the poolside, Win stepped forward, his voice carrying easily. “Welcome, everyone. Today we will see who has the skill and determination to join our team. Remember, we are not just looking for speed. We are looking for discipline, consistency, and teamwork. Give it your best.” Dean remained a step behind, his silence more commanding than words. His gaze swept across the group, landing briefly on Team. The weight of that look was enough to make Team’s pulse quicken, though he could not explain why.

In the stands, Pharm’s eyes had followed Dean from the moment they entered. He sat quietly beside Mannow, his hands folded in his lap, but his expression shifted in subtle ways, curiosity, recognition, and something softer, harder to name. He did not speak, and Mannow, distracted by her own excitement, did not notice.

Team glanced up once, and though his eyes meant only to seek reassurance from the stands, he caught the faint line of sight between Pharm and Dean. Something tightened in his chest, though it was not jealousy, not quite. It was more like awareness, sharp and undeniable. He looked away quickly, returning his focus to the pool. Win clapped his hands together. “First group, get ready.”

Team bent to open his bag, pulling out his swim cap and goggles. His hands were steady, but inside, the familiar nerves pressed against his ribs. He had always carried them into the water, but today, with new faces watching and with Dean’s unreadable gaze somewhere above, they seemed heavier than before. Still, as he glanced once more to the stands, he found Pharm leaning forward slightly, watching with quiet intensity. Beside him, Mannow shouted something too loud to be clear, her arms waving in exaggerated encouragement. The sight pulled a small breath from him, a reminder that he was not entirely alone.

He drew the cap over his hair, pressed the goggles into place, and straightened. The water waited, smooth and shining under the lights. Whatever else lingered in his chest, he knew he had to dive in and meet it head on. The whistle cut through the humid air, sharp and commanding. Team bent forward at the edge of the lane, his muscles taut, the water gleaming below him like a mirror waiting to be broken. For a fleeting instant, all sound faded, the shouts from the stands, the muffled voices of other competitors, the quiet authority of Dean and Win at the poolside, and there was only the rhythm of his own breath.

Then came the signal. He dived, the cool water closing around him in a rush, muffling the world above. For the first few strokes, all he knew was motion, the pull of his arms through the water, the steady kick of his legs, the familiar burn of lungs pushing against their limits. Each stroke drove him forward, his body slicing the surface cleanly, the lane markers blurring past at his sides.

Nerves still lingered, but they transformed into fuel, carrying him faster. He thought of nothing beyond the next breath, the next turn, the reach of his fingertips against the tiled wall before he pushed off again. The water was a refuge, as it had always been, demanding focus yet offering clarity. In the stands, Mannow’s voice rang loudest, rising above the scattered cheers. “Go, Team! You can do it!” Her arms flailed wildly, nearly smacking the shoulder of the student sitting next to her. Pharm, quieter, leaned forward, his eyes never leaving the swimmer cutting clean lines through the water. His hands gripped the railing in front of him, knuckles pale, though he himself seemed unaware of it.

Lap after lap blurred together until finally the last wall approached. Team pushed with every ounce left in his muscles, stretching long into the glide, and touched the wall with finality. His chest heaved as he surfaced, water dripping down his face, the sound of whistles and scattered applause filtering into his ears. When he glanced to the scoreboard, he saw his name flash at the top. First place.

Relief broke through the pressure in his chest, followed quickly by something steadier, pride, quiet and hard earned. He pulled himself from the pool, water streaming off his body, and tugged off his cap with a swift motion. His damp hair clung to his forehead, and as he towelled it back, his goggles hung loosely around his neck.

Pharm and Mannow had already scrambled from their seats, hurrying down the steps toward the poolside. Mannow waved both hands above her head, shouting his name with unrestrained delight. Pharm’s smile was smaller but no less genuine, his eyes warm with quiet congratulations as they closed the distance. Team straightened, still drying his hair, and turned toward them with a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Their excitement softened the edges of his exhaustion, easing the weight in his chest.

Dean and Win stood a short distance away, near the pool’s edge, their attention already shifting to the next set of swimmers preparing for their race. Dean’s expression was unreadable, eyes sharp as they tracked the competitors, yet now and again his gaze flickered back toward the stands, or perhaps toward Pharm, who had paused at the edge of the pool deck as though pulled into stillness for a heartbeat too long.

Team noticed it, just as he had noticed earlier. The way Pharm’s smile faltered slightly when Dean’s eyes met his, the way silence stretched between them despite the noise all around. Something unspoken passed in that glance, though Team could not name it. He glanced sideways at Mannow, and when their eyes met, both smirked, the same thought unspoken but clear: they had seen it too. Pharm, unaware of their shared expression, turned back to Team with another small smile, his voice gentle. “You were really fast.” Mannow clapped her hands together and added with mock seriousness, “Too fast. I was not ready for you to actually win. I thought we would be here to comfort you after you lost.” Team let out a low exhale, neither quite a laugh nor a sigh, before shaking his head. “You will have to wait longer for that.”

Together, they began to move towards the poolside, leaving behind the echo of water and whistles. Still, Team could not shake the lingering awareness of the captain’s unreadable gaze, nor the quiet weight of the look Dean and Pharm had exchanged. It followed him like a shadow, subtle yet unyielding, as the first day of this new chapter edged toward evening.

Chapter Text

Team stood near the low wall that bordered the poolside, towelling his damp hair as Mannow carried on with a relentless stream of commentary. She had decided that victory gave her full permission to tease without restraint, and she leaned into the role with mischievous delight. “You almost slipped on the start,” she said, wagging a finger as though she were a stern coach. “If you had lost because of that, I would have laughed so hard that Pharm would have had to carry me out of here.” Pharm, quiet as ever, simply smiled at her words, his eyes calm and amused. He shifted his weight slightly, hands clasped loosely in front of him, and said nothing, letting Mannow’s theatrics fill the space.

Team rolled his eyes, shaking his head, but a faint tug at the corner of his lips betrayed his amusement. He made no effort to argue, for it would only encourage her further. Instead, he flicked a drop of water from the towel in her direction, which made her yelp and laugh before she swatted at him in mock outrage. Their laughter carried easily in the open space, though it softened when a pair of footsteps approached. Team looked up just as Win came to stand in front of him, Dean at his side. Both men carried the quiet authority of their positions, though Win’s smile was more open, while Dean’s expression held its usual reserve. “You will be part of the team,” Win said simply, his tone firm yet encouraging. “You swam well.”

For a brief moment, the words hung in the air. Team felt a swell of satisfaction at the confirmation, steadier than the exhilaration he had felt when he saw his name at the top of the board. It grounded him. He nodded once, offering a polite but grateful, “Thank you.” Mannow let out a delighted squeal, clapping her hands together with exaggerated triumph. “I told you! Did I not say you would make it?” She turned immediately to Pharm, nudging his arm. “Did I not say?” Pharm’s quiet smile deepened, his eyes meeting Team’s with a warmth that steadied the moment. “Congratulations,” he said, soft but genuine.

Team gave a short nod in return, the towel still draped around his shoulders. His chest felt lighter, though he tried to keep his expression controlled. Win’s gaze drifted past him, settling on the two who stood at his side. “And these two?” he asked, his tone curious rather than dismissive. Team straightened slightly, slipping easily into the role of introduction. “This is Pharm,” he said, his voice carrying a faint, deliberate weight on the name. “He is single. And this is Mannow.” The last words were offered more quickly, but the subtle emphasis on Pharm lingered. Team noticed immediately the shift that crossed Dean’s expression. It was small, a flicker at the edge of his eyes, a spark that lit briefly before being tucked back behind his composed exterior. Yet it was enough to be unmistakable.

Pharm bowed his head slightly, his smile polite. “It is nice to meet you.” Mannow followed, her greeting equally courteous, though when she lifted her eyes, a smirk hovered there, subtle and knowing. She glanced once toward Team, and in that look, the shared understanding was clear: they had both seen it. The faint spark in Dean’s eyes, the quiet gravity in the way Pharm stood, the air between them carrying something unspoken.

Dean inclined his head in acknowledgment, his eyes lingering for a fraction longer on Pharm than courtesy alone required. Win, standing close enough to see both his captain and the boy before him, caught the exchange as well. His brows lifted slightly, though he said nothing, his lips pressing together in a line that hinted at withheld observation.

For a moment, silence stretched. Mannow’s smirk softened into a smile as she folded her arms across her chest, clearly entertained by the unspoken threads weaving themselves between the four of them. Team, meanwhile, felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward in quiet amusement, though he kept his face composed. Neither Dean nor Pharm spoke beyond polite introductions, yet the weight of that brief exchange lingered. It was enough that none of them missed it. And still, none of them said a word.

Team was still pulling himself out of the pool when his phone began to buzz insistently against the wooden bench where he had left his bag. Practice had ended a few minutes earlier, the chatter of teammates still filling the humid air of the natatorium, but he noticed the sound immediately. He dried his hands on the edge of his towel before reaching for the device, frowning when he saw Pharm’s name on the screen. He answered quickly. “Pharm?”

There was a pause, filled with the faint sound of uneven breathing. Then came Pharm’s voice, soft and trembling, stripped of its usual steadiness. “Could you meet me? At the usual spot?”

Something in the tone carved straight through Team’s chest. Pharm always spoke with quiet clarity, even in his lightest teasing. This was different. The words were fractured, broken by breath, each syllable carrying a weight that had never been there before. “I will be there,” Team said at once, his decision made before the words left his mouth. He did not wait for further explanation. He muttered an excuse to one of the seniors who asked why he was leaving so quickly, then pulled on his warm-ups with hurried, fumbling hands. His hair was still damp, his towel shoved carelessly into his bag, but he did not care. The urgency in Pharm’s voice left no room for anything else.

The walk across campus was a blur, though Team remembered later the way the evening light had lengthened shadows against the walkways, and how the usual murmur of students had felt strangely distant. His mind was entirely on that voice, on the break he had heard in it. The secluded quad came into view at last, the familiar little space tucked behind the department of economics. The table at its center was theirs, a quiet refuge where the three of them, he, Pharm, and Mannow, often settled with books and idle chatter. Tonight it seemed changed, charged with something heavier.

Pharm was already there. He sat hunched over at the edge of the bench, his shoulders trembling, his face buried in his hands. The sound that reached Team made his chest tighten. It was not just quiet sniffling, not the kind of mild upset that a kind word could mend. It was raw, broken sobbing, the kind that tore from the chest as though each breath hurt. Team froze for a fraction of a second, struck by the sight. He had never seen Pharm like this. The boy was always calm, always carrying a smile that softened the world around him. Sunshine, steady and dependable. But now that sunshine had been eclipsed entirely. “Pharm,” Team said, his voice low, his own steps slow as he approached.

Pharm did not lift his head. The sobs shook him harder, his body curling inward, hands pressing against his face as though he could hide from whatever storm had undone him. Team’s throat tightened, helplessness pressing in, but he forced himself not to ask questions too quickly. Instead, he moved to sit beside him, the bench creaking softly under his weight. He did not crowd him, but he did not leave space either. Slowly, carefully, he wrapped an arm around Pharm’s shoulders, pulling him close against his side.

The reaction was immediate. Pharm leaned into him, shaking, his sobs muffled now against Team’s shoulder. The dampness of tears seeped through the fabric of Team’s shirt, but he did not move away. His arm tightened, steady and firm, a silent reminder that Pharm was not alone. The minutes stretched, filled only with the sound of Pharm’s crying. Team said nothing. He had learned, through instinct and through knowing, that words were not what Pharm needed now. He needed space to let the storm run its course, a quiet presence to anchor him while it raged.

So Team held him. He rubbed slow circles against Pharm’s arm with his thumb, grounding him without pressing for explanation. His own gaze remained forward, watching the long shadows drift across the quad as the evening deepened. Each ragged breath from Pharm struck him, each broken sound pulling at something deep in his chest, but he bore it in silence. Eventually, the sobs began to ease. They did not stop all at once, but they shifted, the sharp edge dulling into softer tremors, quieter sniffles. Pharm still trembled against him, but the worst of the storm seemed to have passed. Team did not loosen his arm. He waited, steady as stone, for Pharm to decide when to speak. He knew he would, in time. Pharm always found words when he was ready, and forcing them would only break him further.

The quiet of the quad pressed around them, broken only by the faint sounds of campus in the distance. The last light of the sun lingered at the horizon, casting a faint glow over the leaves above. In that stillness, Team’s heartbeat felt heavy in his chest, not from exertion but from the weight of worry. He glanced down briefly, catching the sight of Pharm’s tear-streaked face pressed against his shoulder. His lashes were damp, his skin flushed from crying, and his lips trembled even in silence. The sight cut through Team with a sharpness he could not explain, a helpless ache that left him more determined than ever to simply stay. So he sat, silent and steady, his arm firm around Pharm, waiting for the boy to find his breath, his words, his strength. He would not rush him. He would not let go.

Pharm sat slumped against the bench, his hands gripping the edge of the wooden table as though it might hold him together. His breaths came uneven, trembling in the silence of the quad, broken every now and then by a ragged inhale. Team sat beside him, close enough that his shoulder pressed gently against Pharm’s. He had placed an arm around the other boy earlier, when the sobs had been harsh and unrestrained, and now he kept it there, steady and warm. He did not speak. He knew Pharm would find his words when he was able. For now, silence was safer.

The courtyard around them was quiet. A faint breeze stirred the leaves overhead, scattering sunlight through the branches. The distant murmur of passing students echoed faintly, yet here, in this little corner, the world seemed removed, softened. Team glanced down at Pharm, noticing how his lashes clung damp to his cheeks, how his lips pressed together as if afraid that any loosened breath might shatter him again. The sight made Team’s chest tighten. Pharm, who was always gentle, always smiling, looked nothing like himself.

Finally, Pharm inhaled slowly, as if gathering courage, and turned his face just enough to speak. His voice was soft, broken around the edges. “All my life,” Pharm began, his words halting, “I have had these dreams.” Team tilted his head, listening.

Pharm’s hands clasped tighter on the table. His knuckles paled with the pressure. “They are not like normal dreams. They feel… real. Too real. I see a boy. He looks as if he lived a long time ago, maybe in the 1980s. His clothes, the way the world looks around him, even the sounds, it all feels older, different from now.” Team said nothing. He kept his gaze on Pharm’s face, watching the way the boy spoke as though dragging each word from the depths of his chest. Pharm’s voice wavered. “This boy… he falls in love with someone. Another boy. I see it in the way they look at each other, the way they hold each other. The feelings are so strong. I can feel how much they love, even though it is not me living that life. But it was forbidden. People did not accept it. Their families did not accept it. The people around them… they looked down on them. They treated them as if they had done something terrible, just because they loved each other.”

Pharm swallowed hard, his throat working visibly. “It hurts to watch. Because I can feel it. I can feel everything they feel. The fear, the hiding, the joy when they could be alone, the despair when they had to go back to pretending. It is so heavy.” His voice cracked. “But the worst part… the worst part is how it always ends.” Team’s breath slowed, a weight pressing against his chest. He already knew, from the tone, that the words would not be easy. Pharm’s fingers trembled where they rested against the table. He lifted his gaze briefly, and his eyes glistened. “There are always gunshots.” The sound of the word lingered in the air, stark against the quiet of the quad. Team felt his shoulders stiffen, his skin prickling.

Pharm shook his head slowly, tears welling again. “I never see more than that. I never see clearly what happens after. The moment the shots ring out, I wake up. Every time. My chest hurts, as if my heart is breaking apart. I lie there, gasping, as if I had lived it. I have no idea what happened to those boys, only that the sound of the gunshots means I will never see them again. And I cannot stop thinking about them. About how much they loved and how cruel it was that their story could only end like that.”

His voice had grown quiet, almost a whisper. “The dreams come in pieces. Never whole. Sometimes it is their laughter. Sometimes it is an argument. Sometimes it is just a fleeting touch of their hands. But no matter how it begins, it always ends the same way. Gunshots, silence, and then my heart breaking.” Team felt a chill spread down his spine. He stared at Pharm, unable to look away. There was no hint of falsehood in the boy’s face, only a raw, trembling sincerity that made every word impossible to dismiss.

Pharm drew a shuddering breath, his hands lifting to wipe quickly at his eyes, though the tears did not stop. “I thought… I thought I could live with it. That I could just pretend it was only a strange dream. But today…” He paused, closing his eyes tightly. “Today I went to buy some things. Just small things for the cooking club, for the snack boxes we are making for the swim team’s event. It was nothing unusual. Just an errand.” Team shifted slightly, his arm tightening across Pharm’s shoulders. He could feel the tremor in the other boy’s body. Pharm’s lips quivered. “I ran into P’Dean.” At the name, Team blinked.

Pharm’s voice shook, his words spilling as if they needed to escape. “The moment he came close to me… I saw them. The two boys. Clearer than ever. It was not just a dream this time. It was like a vision. They were there, looking at each other, and I could feel their love so strongly. And then I felt my heart breaking, just as it always does when the dream ends. But this was not sleep. I was awake. I could hardly breathe. I felt like the world was collapsing around me.”

He pressed a trembling hand against his chest, as though the memory still clawed at him. “I do not know how I managed to drive back here. My hands were shaking. My mind was not clear. I kept thinking I would crash. At first I told myself I would not tell anyone. That it was too strange, too impossible. But…” His gaze lifted hesitantly to Team’s face. “Something inside me said I could trust you. That I needed to tell you, even if you would not believe me. I could not carry it alone anymore.” Silence stretched between them.

Team sat frozen, the weight of Pharm’s confession pressing into him with a force he had not expected. His mind reeled with the images Pharm had painted: two boys, forbidden love, gunshots, heartbreak. He thought of the dream he himself had endured not long ago, the one that had felt different from his usual nightmare. Shouting voices, someone being pulled away, the sounds of crying in the silence that followed. It had unsettled him in a way his recurring dream of the drowning never had.

Now, hearing Pharm speak, he felt something click uneasily into place. He did not speak of it yet. He could not. The thought was too raw, too unformed, and the tremor in Pharm’s body demanded his focus. So Team did what he could. He tightened his hold around Pharm, pulling him gently closer, letting the boy lean into him as much as he needed. He did not offer empty words. He did not tell him it was only a dream or that it would pass. He knew better. The fear and sorrow in Pharm’s voice had been too real. Pharm rested his head against Team’s shoulder, his breaths still unsteady but slowly calming, as if the steadiness of Team’s body beside him gave him something to hold onto.

Team’s eyes lifted to the trees above them, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. His mind, however, was anything but calm. He thought of Pharm’s story, of the impossible weight in those dreams, of the vision triggered by Dean’s presence. And he thought of his own dream, the one he had tried to dismiss, the one that now echoed with a resonance he could not deny. Two sets of dreams. Two pieces of a puzzle that made no sense. And yet, as he sat there with Pharm pressed against him, he could not shake the feeling that their lives had become entangled in something far greater than either of them understood. He did not speak of it. Not yet. Instead, he let Pharm’s quiet sobs fade into silence, and he remained still, steady, and present, offering comfort in the only way he could. For now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun beat down heavily on the tiled courtyard outside the examination hall, the air thick with the chatter of students as they spilled out of the doors in uneven waves. Laughter and groans filled the space, a mixture of relief and frustration that the final paper of the semester had at last ended. Intouch walked alongside Somkrit and three of their other classmates, his steps quick and restless. His wiry frame seemed to hum with excess energy, as though the written test had not been enough to exhaust him. He was already speaking animatedly, comparing answers, insisting that one question had been designed to trip them all up, and that he had seen through it just in time. Somkrit listened with the patience that came from long familiarity, his rounder face set in a fondly exasperated expression, as if he could predict every single word his friend would say before he said it.

As they descended the broad steps, the conversation shifted. The friends began to speculate about the weeks ahead. There were murmurs of trips home, of quiet afternoons catching up on sleep, of celebrations with family and, inevitably, of gossip that always threaded through the university like an underground current. It was then that Intouch stopped abruptly, so suddenly that Somkrit nearly collided with him. Intouch’s head turned sharply, his dark eyes widening, his lips parting in a soundless intake of breath. “Who is that?” Intouch asked, his voice lower than usual, almost hushed, but urgent.

His friends followed the direction of his gaze. On a low stone bench beneath a jacaranda tree sat a young man, strikingly handsome, his presence commanding without the need for movement. His posture was elegant, his long legs crossed neatly at the ankles, a book open in his hands. The sunlight fell across his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the calm curve of his mouth, the faint crease in his brow as he read. He seemed to exist slightly apart from the chaos of students around him, untouched, as though his world moved on a different rhythm.

“That is Korn Ariyasakul,” one of their companions muttered, lowering his voice instinctively. “Better to stay away from him. His family is dangerous. His father is said to be Mafia.” A ripple of unease moved through the small group. Everyone knew the name, even if they pretended otherwise. The Ariyasakul family was a looming presence, whispered about more than openly acknowledged, and this son, tall and silent, carried the weight of that reputation effortlessly. Intouch, however, did not look away. His gaze lingered, fascinated, caught in a way that unnerved Somkrit. “You heard him,” Somkrit said quickly, tugging at his sleeve. “Leave it alone, Intouch. Do not look at him like that. Come on, let us go.”

But Intouch did not move. His lips curved, the beginnings of a smile spreading across his face, mischievous and determined in equal measure. His eyes glinted, alive with something Somkrit recognized all too well. “I am going to talk to him,” Intouch announced softly, but firmly, as if the decision had already been carved into stone. Somkrit’s stomach tightened with dread. He had been friends with Intouch for years, long enough to understand the recklessness that lurked beneath his bright exterior, the part of him that ran headlong into trouble because he could not resist curiosity, or the thrill of challenging boundaries others respected. “Just talk?” Somkrit asked, suspicion creeping into his voice. “Just talk,” Intouch replied, his smile widening, his tone deliberately light, but Somkrit was not convinced. There was a glint in his friend’s eye, the kind that spelled trouble, the kind that meant Intouch was already imagining something more.

Before Somkrit could stop him, Intouch broke away from their group and began walking toward Korn Ariyasakul. His steps were unhurried, but purposeful, each one charged with intent. Behind him, Somkrit cursed under his breath, a chill running down his spine. Something about the way Intouch looked at that man unsettled him deeply, a sense that the moment was not as harmless as Intouch believed it to be. It felt like the beginning of something dangerous, something neither of them could escape once it started.

Team shot upright in bed, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat that clung to his temples and dampened the collar of his T-shirt. His breath tore through his lungs as though he had been running, his eyes wide, trying to pierce the darkness of his dorm room. The dream clung to him, vivid and sharp, so real it was as though he had been standing there himself, watching every word, every movement unfold. His hands shook as he pushed them through his hair, his heart thundering in his chest.

He remembered everything. The crowded courtyard. The way the boy named Intouch had laughed and smiled, the way his friend Somkrit had looked at him with barely concealed fear. And above all, the man sitting beneath the tree, Korn Ariyasakul. The name rang through his mind, echoing as though it had been spoken directly into his ears.

Pharm had told him his own dreams, had described flashes of a love story set in a time when such things were forbidden. Pharm had mentioned families, and the way it all ended in despair. But Pharm had never given him names. Not once. So why had Team seen them? Why had he known, without a moment’s hesitation, who Intouch was, who Somkrit was, who Korn was? The certainty unnerved him, chilling him to the bone. It was as though he had not been dreaming at all, but remembering.

He pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to make sense of the flood of questions overwhelming him. Who were they? Why was he seeing them now, in such detail? And why did he feel, so strongly it made his stomach twist, the same instinctive doubt that Somkrit had felt? That Intouch was walking toward danger with a smile on his lips and mischief in his eyes, utterly unaware of the storm he was about to stir?

Team’s breath slowed, but the unease did not leave him. He sat there in the stillness of his room, the shadows stretching long and silent, his thoughts circling endlessly. He remembered Pharm’s trembling hands, his voice breaking as he spoke of boys who loved and suffered. He remembered his own dream from nights before, the shouting, the wailing, the final silence that seemed to echo even after he had woken. And now this, names, faces, a story beginning to take shape in fragments that made no sense, yet carried the weight of inevitability.

He lay back slowly, though he knew sleep would not return. His eyes remained open, staring at the ceiling, haunted by the knowledge that something tied him and Pharm to these dreams, something neither of them understood. The names whispered through his mind again: Intouch, Somkrit, Korn. They should have meant nothing. Yet they felt carved into him, as though they had always been there, waiting to surface. And in the quiet, Team felt fear bloom in his chest. Not just for himself, but for Pharm too. Because if what they were seeing was not coincidence, then both of them were already entangled in something larger, something that might not let them go.

The morning sunlight had barely begun to soften the edges of the campus when Team and Pharm rushed across the grounds, their steps quick and purposeful as they made their way toward the parking lot where the swim team bus waited. The chatter of students, the sound of rolling luggage, and the metallic clinks of gear being stowed away filled the air. Team had his sports bag slung carelessly over his shoulder, his pace brisk but unhurried, as though he had made this walk countless times before. Pharm, however, carried a neat cardboard box, sealed carefully with tape, the edges smooth and precise, containing the snack boxes that the cooking club had prepared for the team’s day-long ice-breaking activities. His grip was careful, as if the contents were fragile and required protection.

Team glanced at Pharm out of the corner of his eye. He was almost amused at the seriousness on Pharm’s face. He wanted to tell him to relax, that these were just snacks and not royal offerings, but then he reminded himself that this was exactly how Pharm was. He took everything with quiet sincerity, with a weight that other people might have shrugged away. In a way, it was part of what made him so reliable.

The bus loomed into view, a large white vehicle with the university’s crest painted boldly on its side. Members of the swim team were already milling about, some laughing and talking, others yawning sleepily and dragging their feet. A few stood in clusters, tossing jokes back and forth, their camaraderie filling the space with an easy energy. Yet, the moment Team’s eyes swept across the group, he noticed something that broke the rhythm. At the edge of the bus door, standing with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, Dean was glowering at the team members as if each of them had personally offended him. His dark eyes were narrowed, his brows pulled together, and his entire stance carried the tense authority of someone who was not in the mood for excuses. Several swimmers who passed him to climb onto the bus cast wary glances, their voices dropping into uneasy murmurs as they avoided his gaze.

Team slowed slightly, frowning. He had seen Dean before, had felt that inexplicable pull of familiarity the first time their eyes had met, but right now, the older boy’s presence radiated something else entirely. He looked like a storm contained in human form, coiled and dangerous, every line of his body warning people to tread carefully. Win, standing a few steps away, leaned casually against the side of the bus. His posture was relaxed, but the look on his face betrayed exasperation. He shook his head slowly as if this was not the first time he had witnessed such behaviour that morning. His lips were pursed, and every now and then, his eyes flickered toward Dean as though silently pleading with him to calm down. Team felt a surge of curiosity rising in his chest. Whatever had set Dean off, it was clear enough that the rest of the team had decided to ignore it for their own safety.

“What happened to him?” Team asked as he approached, jerking his chin slightly in Dean’s direction. His tone carried the sharp edge of annoyance, but underneath it was a thread of intrigue. Dean looked like he was seconds away from tearing into someone, and that was not a sight Team saw every day. Win gave a short, humourless laugh and rolled his eyes. “Who knows? He has been sulking for no good reason since morning.” He pushed a hand through his hair, the corners of his mouth twitching with resignation. “I have stopped trying to figure him out when he gets like this. He will burn himself out eventually.”

Team smirked, though it did not quite reach his eyes. “Sounds like fun to be around,” he muttered, his gaze flicking toward Pharm, who had just caught up, his box of snack packages still tucked safely in his arms. Pharm had been quiet during the walk, but now he shifted nervously as his eyes followed Dean’s rigid frame. “Then what about the snack boxes?” Pharm asked suddenly, his voice soft, almost tentative. He looked at Win with a trace of worry, his brows drawing together in uncertainty. “Should I just leave them somewhere? Or give them to you?” His instinct was to avoid trouble, and Dean, with his dark scowl, looked like nothing but trouble at that moment.

“I will take it to him,” Win said without hesitation, already straightening up to relieve Pharm of the task. His hand reached toward the box, but before he could touch it, Team stepped in. “No, let Pharm do it.” Team’s voice carried a wicked edge of amusement. His grin spread across his face, mischievous and knowing. There was something about the way Dean’s mood shifted around Pharm that Team had noticed before, subtle but unmistakable. If Dean was hellbent on snarling at everyone, perhaps seeing Pharm would snap him out of it. Or at least, Team thought, it would be entertaining to watch.

Before Pharm could protest, Team placed a firm hand on his shoulder and gave him a gentle but insistent push in Dean’s direction. “Go on,” he said, his grin widening. “I am sure he will not bite you.” Pharm stumbled forward a step, his box still held tightly to his chest. He shot Team a look of faint panic, but Team only raised his eyebrows and gestured toward Dean, clearly unwilling to let him back out. Pharm swallowed hard, steeling himself, and began to approach. His steps were hesitant, his body tense, but he did not falter. Team crossed his arms, watching intently. There was something compelling about this moment, something that prickled at the back of his mind, reminding him of the strange dreams and the unsettling connections that seemed to thread between all of them. “P’Dean, these snack boxes…” Pharm began softly, his voice trembling ever so slightly as he held the package out. His words were gentle, like the first drops of rain before a storm.

Dean whirled around at the sound, his expression sharp, his jaw tight, ready to unleash whatever scolding or command he had prepared for the next unfortunate soul. But then his eyes landed on Pharm. The transformation was immediate, so sudden and absolute that it left Team breathless to witness. The anger bled from Dean’s face in an instant, his rigid stance loosening, his features softening as though he had been struck by something unseen. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked almost vulnerable, stripped of the harsh authority that had clung to him a heartbeat earlier.

Pharm froze under the weight of that gaze, his own breath catching. His hands tightened around the box, and he felt as though the world had shifted around him, leaving only the two of them suspended in that fragile, unexplainable space. Dean’s eyes softened further, and it was as though recognition had sparked between them, silent but undeniable, something old and deep resurfacing in the present moment.

Team’s grin faded into something quieter, more thoughtful, though his eyes still held the glint of amusement. He was not surprised, not really. He had seen it before in glimpses, the way Dean’s attention lingered on Pharm, the way Pharm seemed unsettled whenever Dean was near. Now, watching them, it felt as though they were two halves of a story that had begun long before any of them could remember. Win let out a low breath beside Team, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a complaint about being ignored. Team only smirked faintly, his eyes never leaving the scene in front of him.

Pharm’s lips parted, as though to say something more, but the words caught in his throat. Dean, for his part, simply took the box from Pharm’s hands with a gentleness that startled everyone who had witnessed his temper moments earlier. The shift was so complete that it was almost disorienting. Team shook his head lightly, still smirking as he brushed past them, Win falling into step beside him. He did not need to see more. Whatever was unfolding between Dean and Pharm, it was theirs to carry. But deep down, something twisted inside him, something that whispered of old connections and unanswered questions, of dreams that mirrored reality too closely. He pushed the thought away, stepping onto the bus with a final glance back at the two figures who still stood, locked in a silence that spoke louder than words.

Chapter Text

The bus had not been on the road for more than ten minutes when the noise began to swell. At first it was only a low hum from the back row, a tune someone was whistling without much care. But soon a voice joined, then another, and then the entire row was singing a chorus of a pop song that had been popular five years ago. The boys were not in tune, nor were they in rhythm, but they sang with such conviction that it carried through the bus like a rolling wave. The driver glanced at them through the mirror, his mouth twitching into a smile, and let them be.

A packet of chips was passed from one seat to another, then a bag of sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves. Food travelled easily across the aisle, hands reaching over shoulders, friends insisting that their seatmates “just try one bite.” Before long the floor was already littered with empty wrappers and water bottles, evidence of boys too excited to sit still. Someone had brought dried squid, its pungent smell filling the air until half the bus groaned and the other half begged for a strip.

Team sat near the center, wedged between two second-years who seemed determined to test the limits of his patience. One of them pushed a piece of dried fruit at his lips, and when Team reluctantly accepted it, his entire face puckered at the sourness. The taste was so sharp that he nearly spat it out, but the laughter around him was so loud he had no chance of recovering his dignity. In revenge, he shoved a sticky rice cake into the culprit’s mouth without warning. The older boy chewed with his cheeks bulging, eyes wide, and the bus erupted again.

In the middle rows, someone had started a clapping game. Two boys smacked their palms against each other’s, then tapped the seat in rhythm, then snapped their fingers. Soon a small group was chanting along with the beat, inventing verses on the spot, most of them nonsense that made the others howl with laughter. When the bus hit a bump, the youngest of the team shrieked dramatically, throwing himself into the aisle as if the impact had launched him from his seat. His friends followed his lead, pretending to tumble over each other, wailing and clutching their chests as though they had survived a crash. The performance ended only when the vice-captain barked their names in warning, though his voice lacked any true threat.

Dean sat at the front, his posture straight, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. To anyone who did not know him, he might have seemed entirely unmoved by the chaos behind him. But Win, seated beside him, noticed the subtle shift in his expression. Every now and then, the corners of his mouth twitched. His fingers tapped against his thigh, almost in rhythm with the clapping and stomping at the back. He was listening, though he would never admit it aloud.

A guitar appeared halfway through the ride. No one could agree on a single song, so they strummed fragments of several, changing every few minutes. The singing grew louder, more passionate, until even those who had sworn they would only listen were dragged into it. Team tried to resist, his voice low and self-conscious at first, but by the time the bus rolled past a stretch of rice fields, he was shouting verses at the top of his lungs with everyone else. His throat ached, his stomach hurt from laughing, and he felt a giddy warmth that had nothing to do with the summer heat.

The hours stretched on, broken by naps and teasing. Some boys collapsed against the windows, their mouths open as they dozed, while others leaned their heads together to whisper secrets that ended in muffled giggles. One boy tried balancing a soda can on his head while the bus rattled down the road. It lasted only ten seconds before crashing into his lap, spraying foam across his shirt. He shouted in dismay while the others howled, offering tissues only after they had doubled over from laughter.

Eventually, the driver pulled into a rest stop. The boys poured out of the bus in a rush, stretching their cramped limbs and running toward the convenience store like they had not eaten in days. Bags of chips, skewers of grilled meat, ice creams, and bottled drinks returned with them, clutched like treasure. The driver sighed when he saw the mountain of plastic bags, but he did not stop them. He knew boys like these never traveled lightly.

Back on the bus, the mood mellowed. The heat of the day pressed against the windows, and the rhythm of the road lulled several into sleep. Heads rested against each other without thought, shoulders pressed together. The loudest boys at the back lowered their voices to soft chatter, telling stories of their childhood, dreams of their future, or jokes so ridiculous that they set each other off again despite their drowsiness.

Team found himself leaning his head back, his eyes half closed, as he listened to the rise and fall of voices. He felt a sense of belonging, stronger than anything he had expected. It was noisy, sweaty, and chaotic, yet somehow it was safe. These were his people, his team, bound not only by swimming but by these small, unpolished moments on the road.

At the very front, Dean finally allowed the smallest smile to touch his lips, hidden in the reflection of the glass. Win saw it, of course. He did not comment, only leaned his chin against his palm, content to let the silence speak for itself.

The bus rolled on toward Hua Hin, carrying with it a team of boys who, for all their noise and mischief, were learning the rhythm of being together.

The resort in Hua Hin stood close enough to the sea that the smell of salt lingered in the air, carried on the breeze that rattled the palms. The buildings were low and whitewashed, the sort of place that catered to families during holiday months, but for the swim team it became a training ground. The moment the bus pulled through the gates, the boys pressed against the windows, pointing and shouting. Beyond the neat rows of rooms stretched a wide field of grass, a strip of beach, and the glittering surface of the pool that reflected the midday sun.

Dean was the first to step down, his bag slung over his shoulder, his expression sharp. Win followed him, his hand shoved into his pocket, watching as their teammates stumbled out behind them. It took no more than five minutes for the boys to scatter, some racing toward the field, others squinting up at the sea as though they had never seen it before. Team stood in the middle of it all, his hair windblown from the bus ride, his lips curved into an easy grin. He could already tell that discipline would come hard to them after hours of freedom.

Dean did not raise his voice. He did not need to. With one sharp clap of his hands, the sound cracked through the chatter. Heads turned. Backs straightened. The boys shuffled closer without protest, their voices dimming. Win smirked at the sight, leaning against the side of the bus as if he had expected nothing less. “You have twenty minutes to leave your bags in your rooms,” Dean said. His tone carried no warmth, but no cruelty either. It was simple instruction, and it carried weight. “Change into your training clothes and meet on the field. Do not be late.”

No one argued. They disappeared into the rooms like schoolboys, slamming doors and tossing bags onto beds. Team found himself sharing with three others, the space already cluttered within minutes. Shirts and towels were thrown across chairs, shoes kicked beneath the beds. He changed quickly, tying his laces tight, and followed the others back outside.

The field stretched beneath the sun, hot enough that the grass seemed to shimmer. The boys gathered in uneven lines, shading their eyes with their hands, squinting toward their captain. Dean stood at the front, his posture steady, a whistle looped around his neck. Win was beside him, his expression easier but no less watchful. “Warm up,” Dean commanded.

The group bent into stretches, groaning and muttering, but they obeyed. Arms reached overhead, legs bent into lunges, shoulders rolled. Dean moved among them, correcting postures with a firm hand, adjusting the angle of an arm or the depth of a stretch. His presence demanded focus. When he stopped in front of Team and nudged his elbow into position, Team felt a flare of irritation, though he bit back the words that rose to his tongue. He knew better than to challenge his captain during drills.

After warm-up came running. Around the field, twice, then four times, then six. The sun bore down, sweat rolling across brows, shirts clinging to skin. Some groaned, others dragged their feet, but Dean’s voice cut through the air each time they slowed. “Keep your pace. Do not stop. You are stronger than this.” Win ran with them for a time, his longer strides keeping him ahead, until he slowed back to encourage those falling behind. He cracked jokes between breaths, tossing teases that drew reluctant laughter. His voice was a counterbalance to Dean’s steel, but both carried the same goal. The team did not quit.

By the time they collapsed into push-ups, their faces were red, their chests heaving. Grass stuck to their palms and sweat dripped into their eyes, but they pushed through it. Sit-ups followed, then planks, then a drill of sprints across the field that left their lungs burning. Team’s head spun, his shirt damp, his muscles trembling. Yet he could not deny the strange exhilaration that filled him. It was painful, yes, but it was the kind of pain that promised growth. He glanced toward Dean, whose expression had not softened once, and felt a spark of admiration beneath his fatigue.

Hours blurred together. They moved from field to beach, running on sand that pulled at their ankles, testing their balance and endurance. They carried teammates on their backs, traded places, and learned to fall into rhythm with one another. Trust was built in sweat and breath, in the silent understanding that no one would be left behind. When Dean called for a break, they collapsed in the shade of the palms, panting as they gulped from water bottles. Someone lay flat on the ground, arms spread, muttering about death. Another tossed a handful of sand onto his friend’s stomach, provoking a groan. Win passed a bottle down the line, his smile crooked, while Dean stood apart, watching the group with eyes that measured and weighed.

It was in that moment, while the others sprawled in exhaustion, that Team pulled his phone from his pocket. He aimed it discreetly, capturing Dean as he stood against the backdrop of the sea, sunlight striking across his profile. Dean’s arms were folded, his shirt damp, his hair sticking to his forehead, and yet his posture was unshaken. The picture came out better than Team had expected. A wicked grin spread across his face as he typed a quick message, attaching the image before hitting send. Look at your P’Dean, standing like a soldier. Never smiling unless he is thinking of you or looking at you! He did not need to wait long. Pharm’s reply came swiftly, the words almost shy. He looks tired. Tell him not to push himself too hard.

Team chuckled, shaking his head. Leave it to Pharm to worry about the captain while the rest of them were struggling to stay conscious. He snapped another photo for good measure, this time of Dean crouching to adjust a teammate’s stance, his hand firm on the boy’s shoulder. The moment was unexpectedly tender, though Dean would have denied it if anyone pointed it out.

The rest of the afternoon was no easier. The pool became their next battlefield, laps upon laps until muscles screamed, drills repeated until the water itself felt heavy. Dean’s whistle cut through the splash of strokes, his commands sharp, relentless. Win, meanwhile, kept time, shouted encouragement, and once or twice shoved a lagging teammate forward with a laugh that turned frustration into determination. When the sun dipped low, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink, the boys dragged themselves out of the water, their limbs like lead. They huddled together on the edge, their wet hair dripping, their laughter exhausted but genuine. They had survived the first day.

Team sat among them, his body aching, his throat dry, but his heart strangely light. He could still feel the weight of Pharm’s reply in his pocket, the invisible thread that tied one boy to another even across miles. When he glanced toward Dean, he noticed a softness in the captain’s gaze, directed nowhere in particular, as though his thoughts lingered far from the training ground. Win clapped Dean on the shoulder, murmuring something that drew the smallest of nods. The vice captain’s eyes flickered toward Team then, catching him staring, and for a moment Team felt as though Win had seen more than he should. But the look passed quickly, replaced by the same easy grin. “Dinner,” Win announced, his voice loud enough to draw groans and cheers alike. “Shower quickly or there will be nothing left for you.”

The scramble that followed was chaotic, boys fighting for showers and towels, water running in half the rooms at once. Team laughed through it, elbowing his way into the line, his exhaustion softened by the sense of belonging that wrapped around them all. The first day at Hua Hin ended not with silence, but with the chatter of tired voices drifting through open windows, laughter echoing across the resort, and the knowledge that tomorrow would demand even more. And somewhere in the quiet of his phone, Pharm’s words remained, a small reminder that not every part of this training belonged to sweat and discipline. Some part of it, invisible and unspoken, belonged to something gentler, something only Dean and Pharm seemed to carry.

The night at Hua Hin fell warm and heavy, the air still carrying the salt of the sea. After dinner, which had been a noisy affair of clattering plates and boys competing over who could eat the most rice, the team drifted back toward their rooms. Some sprawled on the verandas, chatting in groups, while others disappeared inside, calling out promises of card games or late-night snacks.

Chapter Text

Team, who had eaten until he felt ready to burst, shuffled behind his roommates with sluggish steps. His body ached in every muscle, but it was the pleasant kind of ache, the sort that came after pushing limits. He yawned, stretching his arms above his head as they entered the shared room, only to freeze when he noticed the glowing screen on the television.

Two of his roommates were already sprawled on the floor with pillows propped behind their backs, their attention fixed on the screen. The sound was low, almost drowned by the whir of the ceiling fan, but it was unmistakable. Team blinked, his face heating as the realisation struck. “Seriously?” he asked, though his voice cracked between shock and disbelief. The boy closest to the remote looked back at him, grinning without the slightest trace of shame. “What? You are old enough to watch, Team. Stop acting like a kid.” “I am not….” Team began, then stopped himself. He dragged a hand through his hair, unsure whether to argue or leave. His heart thumped faster than it should have, his throat dry. The images on the screen were not something he had prepared himself to confront after a day of swimming drills and sand sprints.

The third roommate laughed, tossing a pack of chips at Team’s chest. “Come on, sit. We are not going to bite. It is not like we have much else to do here at night.” Team caught the packet clumsily, his fingers fumbling. His first instinct was to refuse, to retreat toward his bed, but something in their relaxed manner stalled him. They were not embarrassed. They were not even whispering about it. To them, it was just another part of being boys in a shared space. Reluctantly, he sank onto the edge of a mattress, his body stiff, his eyes darting between the screen and the floor. He opened the chips only to have something to do with his hands, crunching loudly to drown the sound of the television.

Minutes passed. His discomfort did not fade, but it shifted into a restless curiosity. He found himself glancing up more often, his breath shallow as the scenes unfolded. It was not the mechanics that caught him, though, but the intensity of the way two people looked at each other, as though the world had narrowed down to just them. The roommate beside him elbowed him lightly, smirking. “You look like you have never watched before.” “I have,” Team lied instantly, his ears burning. The boy raised a brow, unconvinced, but said nothing more. Team shoved another handful of chips into his mouth, his mind a storm of confusion. He felt out of place, too exposed, as though his inexperience had been laid bare. Yet beneath the awkwardness pulsed a spark of something he could not name. He thought of the way Dean had stood on the field earlier, the set of his shoulders, the intensity of his gaze. He thought of how Pharm always blushed when Dean’s name came up, how the quiet between them felt heavy with something unspoken. He shook the thought away violently, as though it had no right to exist beside what played on the television.

When the credits rolled, he had not even realised such films had credits, the roommates stretched, yawning as though nothing unusual had happened. One switched off the television, another tossed the empty chip packet into the corner. “Lights out?” someone asked. Team nodded quickly, almost too quickly, grateful for the chance to bury himself beneath his blanket. He turned his back to the room, his cheeks still warm, his mind refusing to settle. The sounds of his roommates’ breathing deepened around him, slow and even with the pull of sleep. But Team lay awake, staring at the wall. He replayed the evening in fragments, embarrassed at how easily his composure had cracked. He wondered if the others had noticed how awkward he had been, if they would tease him about it tomorrow.

But the louder thought, the one that refused to leave, was not embarrassment at all. It was the memory of that strange pull in his chest, the recognition that what he longed for was not what he had seen on the screen. It was something gentler, something quieter, something that looked more like the way Dean had softened the moment Pharm spoke to him. He exhaled slowly, clutching his blanket tighter. The night hummed with the chorus of crickets and distant waves, and at last, exhaustion overtook him.

The night air pressed heavy against Team’s skin as he stumbled out of the room, his throat burning from the bile he had just brought up into the bushes. His body felt shaky, his stomach unsettled, but none of it compared to the storm of emotions tumbling inside his chest. The images he had seen, the sounds he had heard, they left him disgusted, ashamed, and strangely restless all at once. He had not known what porn was before one of the older teammates, already slurring from alcohol, had grinned and suggested it. He had been too curious, too innocent perhaps, to refuse. Now he wished he had never agreed.

Team pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, wiping it, and sank down on the low stone border that framed the bushes. His breathing came uneven, his eyes stinging. He felt dizzy and too hot, as if the remnants of alcohol combined with something he did not even want to name were setting fire under his skin. “Team?” The voice startled him. He turned his head sharply, blinking through the shadows. Win stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets, watching him with a mix of concern and dry amusement. His hair was slightly mussed, his shirt collar open, as if he too had been dragged into the noisy chaos of the evening but had chosen to step away. “You look like you fought a war and lost,” Win said, but his tone was gentler than the words. He took a step closer, tilting his head. “What happened?”

Team opened his mouth, but no words came. His lips trembled, his throat closing. He dropped his gaze instead, staring at the grass. Win crouched down in front of him, leaning on one knee, trying to catch his eyes. “You are pale. Did you drink too much?” Team shook his head quickly. “No. I… I saw something.” His voice was rough, unsteady. Win waited. “It was disgusting,” Team whispered finally. “They… they showed me something, and I thought I could handle it, but I could not. I feel…. wrong. Sick.” The confusion in his eyes, the way his voice cracked, pulled at something deep in Win. This was not the confident swimmer who laughed easily and teased others without hesitation. This was a boy thrown into waters he had never known how to swim in. Win’s expression softened. “Porn?” he asked quietly. Team’s head snapped up, his ears burning. He did not answer, but his silence was enough. Win let out a slow breath, almost a sigh. “Those idiots,” he muttered. Then, looking back at Team, he added, “You are not wrong for feeling that way. Not everyone wants to see that.”

Team swallowed hard, pressing his hands together between his knees. “But my body….” He stopped abruptly, his face burning hotter. Win raised an eyebrow, but he did not tease, not this time. “Your body reacted?” Team shut his eyes and nodded, his chest tightening with shame. “I hate it. I do not understand.” For a moment there was only the sound of the cicadas buzzing in the bushes. Win reached out, not touching him yet, just holding his hand in the air, waiting for permission. “It is not something to be ashamed of,” he said quietly. “Your body reacts to certain things, but that does not mean your heart agrees with it. Do you understand?” Team opened his eyes slowly, and Win’s calm gaze steadied him. “Do you… want help?” Win asked after a pause, his voice low, deliberate. The words confused Team at first. He blinked, frowning slightly, trying to piece them together. “Help?”

Win leaned back just a little, giving him space. “Forget I said it. You are upset. I should not have….” But Team shook his head, cutting him off. “Wait. Help… with this?” His voice was shaky, but there was curiosity beneath the hesitation. Win searched his face, serious now. “Yes. But only if you want it, Team. Only if you understand what it means.” Team’s chest rose and fell quickly, his thoughts racing. He had never done anything like that before, never even thought he could with someone. But here was Win, steady, patient, offering not with a smirk or a careless laugh, but with sincerity. He licked his lips nervously. “And if I say yes?” “Then we take it slow,” Win said. “No rushing. No forcing. Only what you want. Do you trust me?”

The question struck deeper than Team expected. Did he? He thought of Win’s calm leadership on the team, the way he joked easily but never mocked, the way he had stood by Dean countless times, reliable and unwavering. He thought of the gentleness in Win’s eyes now, the lack of judgment. Slowly, he nodded. “I trust you.” Win exhaled softly, almost in relief, and rose to his feet. He extended his hand. “Then come. We will go somewhere more private. My room. No one else will be there.” Team stared at the hand for a moment before placing his own in it. His palm was clammy, but Win’s grip was warm, grounding. Win helped him up, steadying him when his knees wobbled.

The walk to Win’s room felt strangely long. Team’s heart beat louder with every step, his thoughts tangled in uncertainty and a flicker of anticipation he did not dare name. When they reached the door, Win unlocked it and gestured him inside first. The room was simple, two neatly made beds, the faint scent of clean laundry. Win closed the door behind them, leaning against it for a moment as if to give Team one last chance to change his mind. “You can leave if you want. No one will know. I will not be upset.” But Team shook his head, determined now, even though his hands trembled. “I want… I want to stay.”

Win crossed the room slowly and sat on the edge of one bed, patting the space beside him. Team obeyed, lowering himself onto the mattress, his heart thudding so loudly he was sure Win could hear it. For a moment, neither spoke. Then Win turned to him, his voice steady but tender. “Team, this is important. I need to ask you. Have you ever done anything like this before?” Team shook his head quickly, his cheeks burning. “No. Never.” Win nodded, as if he had expected the answer. “Then we go slow. You lead. You tell me if anything feels wrong. And I stop immediately if you say so. Do you understand?” “Yes,” Team whispered, his throat tight.

Win reached out, brushing his fingers lightly against Team’s hand. The touch was simple, almost innocent, but Team shivered at the warmth of it. When Win’s fingers slid between his, holding firmly, Team let out a breath he had not realised he was holding. “It starts like this,” Win murmured. “Skin to skin, slowly. Nothing more unless you want it.” Team looked at him, wide-eyed, vulnerable, but he nodded again. His heart was still racing, but for the first time that night, the fear was ebbing, replaced by something softer, something that made him lean just a little closer.

Team’s breathing came uneven, his hand still caught in Win’s warm hold. The older boy gave his fingers a gentle squeeze, then lifted his free hand slowly, as though giving Team every chance to pull back. He brushed his knuckles along Team’s cheek, feather-light, almost hesitant. “Your skin is cold,” Win murmured. “But you are burning up inside.” Team closed his eyes at the touch, something fragile and aching unfurling in his chest. He had never been touched like this before, not with care, not with patience. “P’Win…” His voice was small, trembling. “Shh,” Win said softly. “You do not need to say anything yet.”

But Team wanted to. He wanted to pour out the swirl of confusion and yearning inside him. He opened his eyes, finding Win so close now, the dim lamplight catching the curve of his jaw, the warmth in his gaze. “I… I do not know what I am supposed to do.” “You do not have to know,” Win replied. “You only need to feel. I will not rush you. I will not take more than you give.” The words anchored Team, steadied the storm inside him. Slowly, with a nervous courage, he leaned forward, closing the small space between them until his forehead brushed Win’s shoulder. Win shifted, wrapping an arm around him carefully, pulling him into the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

The embrace lingered, quiet and safe. Then, after a long while, Win tilted Team’s chin up, giving him a choice. When Team did not move away, Win bent closer and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. Team shivered. Another kiss followed, at the corner of his jaw, then one closer to his lips. Win paused there, waiting. Team hesitated only a moment before leaning in the last inch himself, their mouths meeting in a tentative kiss. It was gentle, almost weightless. Team’s lips trembled, uncertain, but Win was steady, guiding without pushing. The kiss deepened only slightly, enough for warmth to bloom in Team’s chest, enough for him to feel the strength in Win’s patience.

When they broke apart, Team let out a shaky breath. His whole body tingled, but not with fear. With something new, something tender. “Are you still all right?” Win asked quietly. Team nodded, eyes wide, lips still parted. “Yes. I… I want this.” Win smiled faintly, brushing a hand through Team’s hair. “Then we go further. Just remember, only what you want.”

They shifted, removing layers of clothing with slow, deliberate motions, as if each piece shed was another barrier falling away. When Win’s shirt brushed the floor, Team froze for a moment, struck by the sight of bare skin so close. But Win reached for his hand again, steady and patient, guiding him forward. Soon, skin met skin, warm and real. Team gasped softly at the closeness, the heat of Win’s chest against his own, the strength of his arms pulling him closer. He pressed his face into Win’s shoulder, overwhelmed and safe all at once. “See?” Win whispered near his ear. “Nothing frightening. Just us.” Team nodded, gripping him tighter. His body still trembled, but it was no longer from fear, it was from something deeper, something that felt like trust blooming into something more. Win kissed him again, slower this time, lingering, until Team melted against him completely. Hands moved carefully, exploring without crossing boundaries, memorising warmth and shape.

At one point, Win pulled back, cupping Team’s face with both hands. His eyes were steady, searching. “Team,” he said softly, “do you know who I am to you right now?” Team blinked, breathless. “You are… P’Win.” Win shook his head, a faint smile curving his lips. “No. Not just P’Win. Tonight, I want you to call me something else. Something that makes it clear you are choosing me, not just anyone.” Team swallowed, confused. “What do you mean?” “I want you to call me Hia Win,” he said, voice low, almost reverent. “Only if you mean it. Only if you want it.”

The words struck something deep inside Team, something he could not name but felt like warmth rushing through him. Hia. Not just a senior. Not just someone older. But someone he trusted, someone who held him with care. He whispered it, almost shyly. “Hia Win.” Win closed his eyes briefly, as if the sound itself was a gift. When he opened them, his gaze was softer than Team had ever seen. He kissed him again, slower, deeper, with something that felt like a vow. The rest unfolded in quiet tenderness, closeness deepening, bodies pressed together, breaths mingling, hearts syncing. Win guided him with patience, stopping often to ask if he was all right, if he wanted to continue. Each time, Team nodded, the fear replaced by a fragile certainty.

And when at last exhaustion pulled at him, Team found himself lying against Win’s chest, skin warm against skin, breath evening out. His body was loose, unburdened, as if something heavy had finally slipped away. “Hia Win,” he murmured one last time, half-asleep. Win pressed a kiss to his hair. “Rest, Nong. I am here.” Team drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, the first in almost eleven years, held safely in Win’s arms.

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered through the high windows of the lecture hall, streaks of pale gold cutting across the neat rows of wooden desks. Team sat with his elbows braced against the surface, chin in hand, while Pharm rummaged through his notebook with quiet efficiency on one side and Mannow twirled her pen lazily on the other. The familiar rhythm of returning to class after a trip had a strange comfort to it, even if Team still carried the faint weight of the weekend lodged somewhere in his chest.

His eyes strayed to the clock mounted above the chalkboard. The professor had not yet arrived, and the low hum of voices filled the room, groups of students catching up after the holiday break. Team leaned back in his chair, stretching a little, before Pharm nudged him with a soft smile. "You look like you have had a good few days," Pharm said quietly. His tone was light, curious, but his gaze was searching. Team grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. "I did. The trip with the swim team was… loud, chaotic, but fun. We sang the most ridiculous songs on the bus. One of the guys even tried to play the guitar, though he could not keep it in tune to save his life. There were snacks everywhere, and I swear someone kept passing around fried chicken until the bus smelled like a night market."

Mannow laughed immediately, leaning in with bright eyes. "That sounds like exactly the kind of thing your team would do. Who was singing the loudest? I bet it was you, right?" "Me? No way," Team said with mock offence, pressing a hand to his chest. "It was Beam. He would not stop belting out songs from the nineties even when half of us begged him to shut up. But I guess that is what made it funny. And then Phuwin started beatboxing, badly, so of course everyone had to join in." Pharm chuckled softly, shaking his head. "That sounds exhausting, but fun. I can imagine how noisy it must have been." "It was," Team agreed. His grin widened, genuine. "But honestly, it felt good. Like the kind of thing we will remember years later, you know? A silly bus ride that turns into a story we tell again and again."

He kept his tone light, skimming over the deeper memories of the trip, the late-night silence, the heavy conversation, the way Win had drawn him close, the way his body still hummed faintly with the echo of touch and trust. Those parts were his alone to carry for now, private and fragile. Mannow tilted her head, studying him with playful suspicion. "You are hiding something, Team. You are smiling way too much for someone who only ate fried chicken and listened to bad music." Team barked a laugh, swatting her shoulder gently. "That is all you are going to get from me, okay? Nothing scandalous, I promise."

Pharm leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his palm. There was a softness in his gaze that made Team pause, a flicker of warmth that carried more than casual interest. Team blinked and looked away, cheeks heating, before blurting out, "Actually, I think P’Dean missed you while we were away."

The effect was immediate. Pharm’s face turned a bright shade of pink, his eyes widening as he sat upright. "What? No… why would he….?" Mannow gasped dramatically, clutching Pharm’s arm with exaggerated delight. "Oh my god, really? Dean? The captain? He missed you, Pharm? That is so romantic!" Pharm ducked his head quickly, trying to hide his blush behind his hands. "Team, do not say things like that," he muttered, his voice flustered but not truly upset. Team could not help laughing at his reaction, his own grin stretching wider. "I am serious! He looked around like he was expecting to see you walk through the door any second. He tried to act cool, of course, but I could tell. I am telling you, Pharm, the man missed you."

Mannow squealed, shaking Pharm’s arm so hard that his notebook nearly slipped off the desk. "That is it, I am not letting you live this down. You and Dean are basically a drama waiting to happen. You better tell me everything the moment something changes." Pharm groaned softly, his face still buried in his hands, but Team caught the shy smile tugging at his lips. The sight made Team’s chest warm, easing the lingering heaviness from his own secret memories.

The three of them dissolved into laughter, the sound bright against the low murmur of the classroom. When the professor finally entered, clearing his throat, the mood at their small table had already settled into something light and easy, shared warmth, teasing, and the quiet comfort of friendship. But beneath Team’s outward ease, there lingered a quiet thought he could not voice. He carried it silently, tucked deep within. Some things, he realised, were too fragile to share yet.

The library’s reading room was quiet, broken only by the shuffle of papers and the occasional scrape of a chair. Afternoon light streamed in through the tall windows, spilling in wide golden patches across the long tables. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beams, moving as though time itself had slowed. Somkrit sat hunched over his notebook, pen tapping against the margin as he frowned at the notes Ren had laid out before him. His friend sat opposite, glasses sliding down his nose, eyes flicking rapidly between the textbook and the draft of their project report. "You forgot to reference the article from last month’s journal," Ren said matter-of-factly, pushing the paper toward Somkrit with a pointed finger. "That is why Professor Anan docked a few points from your outline last time. If you just add that citation, your section will be solid." Somkrit sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "I thought I had it there. Maybe I missed it when I reorganised the notes." His tone was distracted, weighted with fatigue more than annoyance. "You always do that," Ren teased lightly, offering him a small smile. "You get so caught up in making the sentences perfect that you forget the technical things."

Before Somkrit could answer, two of their classmates appeared, dropping into the empty seats at the end of the table with twin groans. Their expressions were a mix of frustration and defeat, and they let their bags slump heavily against the polished wood. "This professor is impossible," one of them muttered, dragging his hand down his face. "We put so much work into that project, and all we got was a C. A C!" "At least you passed," the other added bitterly. "I knew the grading would be tough, but this feels cruel. I spent nights on that paper, and it was not even worth it." Ren chuckled, though his voice was kind rather than mocking. "Maybe if you had submitted it sooner, you would not be complaining now. He always punishes late work."

The first boy groaned again, slumping dramatically against the back of his chair. "I will never understand how you can laugh about this. You probably aced yours as usual." Ren only lifted a shoulder in a modest shrug, though his faint smile gave the answer away. The second boy reached into his bag suddenly and pulled out a small stack of papers, flipping through them before sliding one across the table toward Somkrit. "Here. This is yours. Got a B, which is decent enough, I guess. Better than last time." Somkrit glanced down at the paper, noting the neat red-inked "B" scrawled in the corner. He gave a nod of approval, lips quirking faintly. "That is good. I worked for it."

The boy gave a half-smile, then pulled another sheet from the stack, hesitating before handing it over. His tone shifted, softened with an edge of weight that did not belong in casual conversation. "And this one… this is…. was Intouch’s. As usual, he scored an A+. Top of the class again." The words fell into the room like stones dropped into still water, sending ripples that no one wanted to acknowledge. The table went silent, every voice and shuffle of paper around them seeming to fade beneath the sudden heaviness.

Somkrit’s hand stilled as he took the paper, his fingers trembling just slightly as he looked at the name written neatly at the top. Intouch. The familiar handwriting, the clean structure of the sentences, it was so unmistakably him that it felt like a punch to the chest. Ren cleared his throat softly, his voice subdued. "I still cannot believe he is gone." The words twisted something deep inside Somkrit. His throat constricted, his chest tightening painfully as he stared down at the sheet of paper. He wanted to speak, but his voice caught, the words lodging somewhere between grief and disbelief.

Finally, he whispered, "I only wish he had told me." His voice cracked, breaking open the fragile dam he had held for too long. "I was his best friend. I could have done anything to save him. Anything. But he is… just gone." His vision blurred as tears spilled, hot and relentless, slipping down his cheeks before he could even lift a hand to stop them. His shoulders shook with the force of emotions he had buried, and the paper in his hand crumpled slightly under his tightening grip.

The other three exchanged helpless glances, their faces etched with sympathy. Ren reached across the table, resting a steadying hand on Somkrit’s arm. "Som, do not do this to yourself," he said gently. "You were there for him in every way you could be. Sometimes… sometimes even that is not enough." But Somkrit shook his head fiercely, tears still streaming unchecked. "No. He was everything. My brother, my friend, my… my other half. And he never told me. He carried it all alone until it destroyed him, and I was right there. I should have known. I should have seen." One of the boys leaned forward, his voice quiet but firm. "Do not blame yourself. None of us saw. Intouch was… he was always smiling. He never let anyone see what was behind it."

Somkrit pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes, trying to stem the flood, but the grief was relentless, raw. His voice trembled as he forced the words out. "Some nights, I see him in my dreams. Him and P’Korn. Together, laughing. Like nothing ever happened. And then I wake up and the world feels cruel all over again." His friends sat in silence, the weight of his sorrow pressing against them, binding them in shared helplessness. Ren tightened his grip, his tone gentle but steady. "Som, listen to me. I am sure he is happy where he is. You do not have to carry this alone anymore, okay? Let yourself believe that he found peace."

Somkrit drew in a shuddering breath, his tears finally slowing. He nodded faintly, though the ache in his chest remained sharp. Slowly, he straightened, wiping his face with trembling fingers, forcing himself to breathe through the pain. He rose from his chair, the paper still in his grasp. For a long moment, he did not move, his gaze fixed on the far side of the room where the tall windows overlooked the university grounds. His eyes found the large banyan tree, its branches sprawling wide, its roots thick and ancient.

It stood in the same place it always had, steady and unyielding, the silent witness to countless memories. It was there, under that very tree, that Intouch and Korn had once sat together, laughing, whispering secrets, their presence woven into the very air. Somkrit’s throat tightened again, but he did not let the tears fall this time. He simply stood there, staring, as though willing himself to see them once more. The world moved on around him, pages turning, footsteps echoing, but for Somkrit, time had narrowed to the sight of that tree and the hollow ache it carried within him.

The dorm room was quiet, shadows stretching long across the floor as the sun dipped below the horizon. Team lay curled beneath his blanket, the steady rhythm of his breath the only sound in the stillness. Sleep pulled at him quickly, heavy and insistent after the long day of classes and training. But the moment his eyes closed, the darkness filled with images that were not his own.

He stood in a place he did not recognise, a courtyard framed by tall buildings, their walls weathered with age. A soft wind rustled the leaves of a banyan tree that towered in the centre, its branches heavy with shade. Beneath it sat two figures, their laughter carrying like distant music. Team could not hear the words, but the warmth between them was undeniable, the bond so strong it seemed to radiate into the air. And then, just as quickly, the scene shifted.

The laughter faded, replaced by sobs, deep, wrenching cries that seemed to tear from a chest that could not hold the grief inside. Team saw him then, a young man clutching a crumpled paper, his face streaked with tears, shoulders shaking with sorrow. Around him stood others, but none of them could reach the depth of his despair. Somkrit.

The name rose unbidden in Team’s mind, though he had never spoken it before, had never seen this boy in waking life. Yet the connection was undeniable, like a thread pulled taut between their souls. "I only wish he had told me," the boy cried, his voice breaking. "He was my best friend. I could have saved him. He is just gone." The words pierced Team’s chest as though they were his own. Pain surged through him, sharp and consuming, and he felt his knees weaken beneath the weight of it. The grief was not his, yet it lived in him now, tearing open something deep he had never touched.

The boy’s sobs echoed, blending with the sight of the banyan tree, the laughter that had once been there now replaced by unbearable silence. Team wanted to reach out, to tell him he was not alone, but the dream pulled him under, blurring into darkness once more. He woke with a jolt. The dorm ceiling loomed above him, plain and familiar, yet his heart raced as though he had run for miles. His chest heaved with uneven breaths, the raw ache still clawing at his ribs. Slowly, he lifted a hand to his face…. and froze.

His skin was wet. Tears clung to his lashes, trailing down his cheeks, soaking into the pillow beneath his head. He sat up quickly, pressing both palms against his face as if to hide it, but the tears would not stop. They slid down in quiet streams, unstoppable, carrying the sorrow of someone else’s life into his own. "Why does it hurt so much…" he whispered to the empty room, his voice trembling. He could not explain it. The dream had felt more real than any memory, and the grief, raw, bitter, endless, still throbbed in his chest. It was as if his heart was breaking for someone he had never known, for a story he had never been told. Team curled his knees to his chest, burying his face against them as he tried to steady his breathing. But even as the night stretched on, the ache refused to fade, lingering in the depths of his soul like an unanswered question.

The next morning, sunlight streamed into the classroom, golden and soft, cutting across rows of wooden desks. The chatter of students filled the air, light and playful as everyone settled in for the day. Team slipped into his seat, his bag slung over his shoulder, though his eyes were shadowed, the dream from the night before still lingering like an echo at the back of his mind.

Pharm was already there, his hands busy unpacking a neat box of food he had brought from the cooking club’s kitchen. Mannow leaned over eagerly, curiosity bright in her eyes as she peered at the contents. "What did you bring today, Pharm?" she asked, already reaching to peek inside. Pharm swatted her hand lightly, though his smile was fond. "Patience, Mannow. I brought breakfast for you and Team. And," he added, lowering his voice a little, "a few extra desserts to share with your drama club later. They always ask me for snacks, do they not?" Mannow beamed, pressing her palms together in gratitude. "Pharm, you are truly the best."

Team, who had been quiet since he entered, glanced at the neat parcels Pharm laid out. He recognised some of them, sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves, small savoury dumplings, and on one side, a carefully packed row of delicate jelly-like desserts. "Leum Kleun," Pharm said softly when he caught Team’s gaze. "Sweet, smooth, and meant to melt on the tongue. I thought you might like it. There is enough for you to share with the swim team too." Mannow’s eyes widened, delighted. "Leum Kleun? That is perfect. You always know exactly what people will enjoy, Pharm."

Team hesitated, his throat tight. For a moment, the kindness in Pharm’s gesture brought back the dream with such intensity that his heart twisted. He could see flashes of Somkrit’s tears, the weight of grief that had carried through his sleep, and yet here, in the daylight, Pharm’s presence softened the ache just slightly. Team forced himself to smile, pushing away the heaviness. "You really think of everything, Pharm. No wonder P’Dean looked like he missed you at the camp. Honestly, he seemed miserable until you showed up with those snack boxes."

Pharm blinked, caught off guard, his cheeks flushing faintly pink. "P’Dean…?" he asked, his voice stumbling. "Yes," Team said quickly, leaning in with mischief glinting in his eyes. "You should have seen his face. The moment he saw you, it was like someone switched him back on. Right, Mannow?" Mannow laughed, nodding enthusiastically. "Oh, Pharm, you are blushing! So it is true then? Our P’Dean misses you more than he shows?"

Pharm ducked his head, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the food container. "You both are exaggerating," he muttered softly, though the pink in his cheeks only deepened. Team chuckled, satisfied with the reaction, but as his laughter faded, he felt the ache resurface quietly beneath the surface of his amusement. His gaze lingered on Pharm a little longer than usual, not with teasing this time, but with something heavier, something he could not put into words.

The dream had unsettled him, cracked open a depth of feeling he had not been prepared for. Looking at Pharm now, with his gentle smile and kind hands, Team felt his heart clench with an intensity that frightened him. It was not just friendship he saw here, nor even the fondness of someone he wanted to protect. It was something older, deeper, like a thread pulling him toward a connection he did not yet understand.

He stayed quiet, simply absorbing Pharm’s presence, hoping that one day he would find the answer to what tied them together so tightly. For now, it was enough just to be here, to listen to Mannow’s laughter, to see Pharm’s blush, and to feel, for a fleeting moment, that he was not entirely alone in this ache.

Chapter Text

The dream came again, sharper than before, so vivid that Team could not tell where the boundary lay between memory and imagination. He stood beneath the wide canopy of the banyan tree, the sunlight fractured through its leaves, and the sound of crying filled the air. It was not his voice, yet he felt it as if it belonged to him. Somkrit sat with his head bowed, shoulders trembling as his hands clutched a paper marked with red ink. Not the paper itself, but the name written at the top: Intouch.

Somkrit’s voice broke as he whispered into the still air, “Why did you not tell me? Why did you leave me like this?” The ache in those words hollowed the dream out, tearing into Team’s chest. His knees gave way as though they were his own, and he found himself kneeling beside Somkrit, though the boy never looked at him. Somkrit’s face was wet, his expression wrung out with pain too deep for words. “I could have done something,” he murmured, clutching the paper tighter, until it wrinkled and bent. “I was your best friend. I would have given everything to save you. Why did you not let me? Why did you go alone?”

The sound of his sobs echoed through Team’s mind, too close, too raw. He wanted to reach out, to put his arms around Somkrit and tell him it would be all right, that Intouch was not gone forever. Yet even in the dream, he knew it was not true. There was nothing left but the grief, the emptiness that no promise could fill. The air grew heavy, thick with despair. Somkrit looked toward the banyan tree as though expecting Intouch to appear, his lips trembling with words unsaid. “Sometimes I still see you,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Sometimes I see you and P’Korn in my dreams. Why is the world so cruel?” The image blurred then, smeared by his own tears, until all that remained was the sound of Somkrit’s grief. Team’s chest ached so fiercely he thought it might tear in two.

He jolted awake with a gasp, his body drenched in sweat, his breath sharp as if he had run a long distance. His face was wet, and when he lifted his hand, it came away damp with tears. He pressed his palm against his chest, the ache still there, as though Somkrit’s sorrow had not been left behind in the dream but carried over into his waking self. For a long time, he sat on the edge of his bed, head bowed, trying to steady the uneven rhythm of his breathing. He wanted to scream, to let the pain out, but the dorm walls were thin, and the night too quiet. He swallowed hard, willing the lump in his throat to fade.

When morning came, he plastered a smile on his face, the kind that barely reached his eyes. He told himself it was just a dream, no more than that, and went through his routine with mechanical precision, shower, clothes, books shoved into his bag. By the time he reached class, his mask was set in place. Pharm and Mannow were already seated, Pharm unpacking small containers of breakfast he had prepared at home. His gentle smile reached Team like sunlight breaking through fog, and for a moment, the ache dulled. “Team, you are late again,” Mannow teased, sliding over to make room. “You should have joined Pharm in the kitchen. At least then we would eat on time.” Team forced a chuckle and dropped into the chair, pulling his notebook out. “I will pass on cooking at dawn, thank you.” Pharm nudged one of the containers toward him. “I made extra. You should eat.”

Team accepted, murmuring his thanks, though his stomach twisted with the remnants of the dream. He picked at the food, nodding when Mannow chattered about her latest drama club rehearsal, but his mind wandered back to Somkrit’s tear-streaked face. He caught himself staring at the grain of the desk, his hands tight around the chopsticks, before quickly schooling his features. No one needed to know. It was too strange, too heavy to share.

He forced himself into conversation, tossing a joke at Mannow, distracting himself with her laughter. He smiled when Pharm scolded them both for being too loud before class began. On the surface, everything appeared normal, but the ache lingered, buried deep, waiting for night to bring it back again.

Dean had never been the kind of person who allowed others into his daily rhythm. His reputation across campus was sharp and cool, a man who excelled in academics and athletics, who carried himself with the unshakable confidence of someone born to lead. He was respected, admired, sometimes feared. But not many dared to get close. Pharm, however, slipped past those walls with the gentlest persistence. It began with food, always food. Pharm arrived outside Dean’s faculty building with small containers, his shy smile softening the rigid line of Dean’s posture. “I thought you might not have eaten yet,” he said more than once, holding out neatly wrapped portions of rice, curry, or sweets.

At first, Dean accepted with quiet politeness, murmuring thanks but eating alone. But over time, Pharm found himself sitting with him, the quiet between them filled with the sound of spoons tapping against bowls, the warmth of shared meals creating a rhythm neither acknowledged aloud. Dean began to notice the details: the way Pharm’s brow furrowed slightly when he concentrated on arranging food, the tiny laugh that escaped when he saw Dean’s expression soften after the first bite. He caught himself lingering on those details longer than intended. One afternoon, they sat together in the campus garden, Pharm unpacking a small box of fried dumplings. “I tried a new recipe,” he said, offering one with a hopeful glance.

Dean accepted, biting into the crisp shell. The taste unfolded, savoury, delicate, unmistakably crafted with care. He raised his eyes, and Pharm was already watching, waiting. Dean was not a man of many words, but he found himself saying softly, “It is good.” The relief that lit up Pharm’s face struck him in an unexpected place. Something warm flickered there, something almost too familiar.

Dean frowned slightly, unsettled by the wave of déjà vu that washed over him. He had felt it before, moments when Pharm’s smile seemed to tug at memories he could not place, when his gestures echoed something lost to time. It was like standing on the edge of recognition, the name of a song on the tip of his tongue but never reaching his lips. Pharm tilted his head. “Is something wrong?” Dean shook his head, forcing the tension from his features. “No. Nothing.” But the feeling lingered.

Over the next weeks, Pharm’s presence grew into something constant, steady. He appeared with warm meals when Dean worked late, small desserts when exams loomed, gentle reminders to take breaks when Dean’s focus consumed him. He never demanded, never pushed. He simply existed by his side, quietly filling the spaces Dean had not realized were empty. Others noticed. Students whispered when they passed, surprised by the sight of the stoic Dean walking with Pharm at his side, the corners of his mouth softened in ways rarely seen. Some teased, some speculated, but neither of them paid much attention.

For Pharm, it was natural. Caring for people through food was what he had always done, and with Dean, the instinct felt even stronger, as if some invisible thread bound his hands to the task. He did not question it. He only smiled when Dean’s expression softened, when the silence between them grew comfortable rather than heavy. One evening, Pharm stood in Dean’s dorm kitchen, stirring a pot of soup. The scent of lemongrass and ginger filled the air, mingling with the sound of quiet conversation drifting through the half-open window. Dean leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching. “You cook too much for me,” Dean said after a pause. Pharm glanced up, startled. “Do you not like it?” Dean shook his head. “I do. But you do not have to.” Pharm hesitated, spoon hovering in the pot. “I want to,” he admitted softly. “It makes me happy when you eat what I make.”

Dean’s chest tightened at the words, simple yet weighted with something he could not name. He looked away, out the window at the darkening sky. That sense of familiarity tugged again, insistent, as though he had lived this moment before, another kitchen, another life, someone else smiling at him with that same warmth. He did not understand it, but he did not pull away either. Pharm ladled the soup into a bowl and placed it in front of him. “Careful, it is hot.”

Dean accepted it, their fingers brushing for a fleeting second. He froze, the warmth of that touch shooting through him like a memory too quick to grasp. Pharm blinked up at him, and Dean found himself caught in those wide, earnest eyes. For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken things. Then Pharm smiled, small and genuine, and the knot in Dean’s chest loosened. He took a spoonful of soup, the flavour rich and grounding. “It is good,” he said again, softer this time. Pharm’s smile widened, his shoulders relaxing. “I am glad.”

Dean did not say more. He did not know how to put into words the strange sense of inevitability that threaded through every interaction with Pharm, the way it felt both new and impossibly old. Instead, he ate quietly, the warmth of the soup seeping into him, grounding him in the present even as something in him tugged toward the past. Outside, the city buzzed on, unaware. Inside, in the quiet kitchen, two lives continued to intertwine, piece by piece, moment by moment, without either of them yet knowing just how deep those threads ran.

Team sat at the edge of his bed, elbows braced against his knees, palms pressed into his face. His breaths came uneven, shallow, the remnants of the dream still coiled tight inside his chest. The image of Somkrit mourning, broken and inconsolable, clung to him like a second skin. No matter how hard he tried to shake it, the grief seeped into his bones, heavy and relentless. He had woken with damp lashes, his pillowcase spotted with tears he had not realized he shed. It was not the first time. It would not be the last.

Across the room, the morning light spilled in thin lines through the blinds, cutting the shadows into fragments. Team lifted his head, staring at those slivers of brightness as though they might burn away what lingered inside him. But nothing did. The sadness stayed.
He could not tell Pharm. His friend already carried so much weight, dreams of another time that left him trembling. Team feared that if he admitted his own nightmares, if he spoke Somkrit’s name aloud, he would only deepen Pharm’s burden. Mannow, with her sharp eyes and sharp tongue, would notice something was wrong, but he always deflected her questions with a smile, a joke, anything to shift the focus. She teased him often, but she never pressed when his answers grew short. Perhaps she knew more than she let on, but Team was grateful she did not pry too far.

That left Hia Win. Team’s throat tightened at the thought. Win had always been steady, the kind of presence that anchored a room without demanding attention. His laughter carried warmth, his gaze sharp but never unkind. Around others, he was confident, teasing, a leader among his peers. Around Team, though, he seemed to soften, as if he instinctively knew when to draw close and when to give space. And yet, even with Win, Team could not bring himself to share everything.

He remembered one evening, sitting together under the pavilion near the sports complex. The air was thick with the smell of grass, the faint echo of shouts from the pool drifting over. Team had been unusually quiet, staring at the ground, hands clenched in his lap. “You are far away again,” Win had said gently, his shoulder brushing against Team’s. Team had forced a laugh, shaking his head. “Just tired. Training was hard.” Win had studied him for a moment, his eyes searching, but he did not push. He only leaned back, stretching his legs out. “Then sit here and rest. I will keep you company.” The words had been simple, but they had lodged deep in Team’s chest, offering comfort he had not realised he craved.

Now, sitting alone in his room after another dream, Team thought of that moment. Of how easy it had been to lie, to keep the truth locked away. And yet, beneath the comfort, guilt simmered. Win deserved honesty. He deserved more than half-truths and evasions. But how could Team explain something he barely understood himself? How could he admit that he saw another life in his sleep, that he carried memories that did not belong to him? How could he say aloud that he felt the pain of someone long gone as if it were his own? The weight of it pressed down until his chest ached.

Later that day, Pharm came bouncing into the common area, carrying a bag of snacks. Mannow followed, her voice full of laughter as she teased him about something trivial. Their brightness filled the space, pulling attention like sunlight. Team smiled faintly, watching them from where he sat curled on the sofa. Their energy warmed him, yet at the same time, it reminded him of the distance he kept, the shadow he carried that they did not fully see. Pharm passed him a pastry. “Eat this. You look like you need sugar.” Team accepted, murmuring thanks. He caught the faint glance Pharm gave him, the almost-question in his eyes, but Pharm did not voice it.

Mannow plopped onto the armrest beside him, munching on her own snack. “Do not think I do not see you brooding. You always sit there looking like you are in a tragic novel.” Team chuckled, the sound light but not entirely real. “Maybe I am.” She narrowed her eyes but did not press further. Instead, she launched into a story about something that had happened in class, her dramatics pulling laughter from Pharm and easing the weight in the air. Team smiled, but his chest remained tight.

It was later, when Win arrived, that the tension shifted. He came in with his usual stride, easy confidence in every step, but his eyes went first to Team. Always to Team. “You did not answer my message,” Win said, lowering himself onto the sofa beside him. “Sorry,” Team mumbled. “I was busy.” Win studied him, quiet for a beat, then reached for the untouched pastry in Team’s hand and took a bite. “Too sweet,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “Just like you.” Mannow snorted with laughter, Pharm hiding his smile behind his hand. Team flushed, glaring. “Do not say things like that.” “Why not?” Win teased, leaning closer. “It is true.” The others laughed again, but beneath the playfulness, Win’s gaze lingered. He saw more than he let on, always did.

And in that lingering look, Team felt the weight of both comfort and fear. Comfort, because Win’s presence always grounded him. Fear, because one day he might not be able to hide the truth. One day, Win would ask, and Team would not be able to keep the secrets buried any longer. For now, though, he let the laughter carry him, let the warmth of friends fill the cracks left by dreams. For now, he stayed silent.

Chapter Text

The dream began with silence. Not the calm, peaceful kind of silence, but the heavy, suffocating quiet that wrapped around a funeral. Somkrit stood at the edge of a cremation ground, his body trembling, his face pale as ash. In front of him lay the casket draped with white cloth, adorned with garlands of jasmine and marigold. Incense burned thick in the air, the smoke curling upward as if carrying prayers that would never reach.

Intouch’s name was whispered in hushed tones. The crowd mourned, their sobs muffled, but Somkrit’s grief was louder than anything else. It was raw, unrestrained, and merciless.

Team watched from somewhere within, not as himself but as the vessel of Somkrit’s sorrow. His chest heaved with cries that tore from a throat gone hoarse. His knees buckled, and hands clutched desperately at the hem of the casket as though clinging could hold back the inevitable. “Please,” Somkrit begged through Team’s lips, voice cracked and desperate. “Please do not leave me alone. Please, Intouch. You promised….” But there was no answer.

The monks chanted in rhythm, their words hollow in Somkrit’s ears. The flames crackled, devouring wood, inching closer to where the body lay. It felt like the world was ending, and Somkrit was powerless to stop it. His grief tore him apart until he collapsed on the cold ground, sobbing uncontrollably. The scene shattered, but the sorrow did not.

Team jerked awake with a cry lodged in his throat. His sheets clung damp to his skin, his face wet with tears. His chest convulsed with ragged sobs that came before he could control them. He pressed his palms to his mouth, trying to stifle the sounds, but the pain surged out of him in waves too strong to contain. The room felt suffocating. The shadows pressed in from every side, the silence so sharp it echoed his broken breathing. He curled forward, burying his face into his knees, but nothing could block out the images still burned into his mind—the flowers, the fire, Somkrit’s desperate pleas.

He tried to tell himself it was just a dream, but it did not feel like one. It felt real, as if he had lived it, as if the grief belonged to him as much as it belonged to Somkrit. The sobs would not stop. Minutes passed, or perhaps hours, Team did not know. All he knew was the sound of his own shaking breaths and the hollow ache splitting his chest. Then, a knock at the door. Soft at first, then firmer. “Team?” Win’s voice.

Team froze, panic lancing through him. He scrubbed at his face with trembling hands, but the tears came faster than he could wipe them away. He tried to steady his breathing, but it only made his sobs louder. The door knob rattled and suddenly opened without waiting for permission. Win stepped in, his expression immediately tightening at the sight before him. Team sat hunched on the bed, face blotched red from crying, eyes swollen, shoulders trembling. He looked like he had been broken open, and no lie could cover it.

Win crossed the room in three strides and crouched beside the bed. His hand hovered for a moment before settling lightly on Team’s arm. “What happened?” Team shook his head frantically, pulling in a shuddering breath. “I…. It is nothing. I am fine. Just…. just a bad dream.” Win’s eyes searched his face. His tone was quiet but firm. “That is not nothing. Look at you.” Team pressed his hands harder against his face, trying to disappear. His chest ached with every breath, the weight of the dream still dragging him down. “Please, Hia Win. I do not want to talk about it.”

Win’s jaw tightened. He reached up, gently but insistently pulling Team’s hands away from his face. “You cannot keep saying you are fine when you are falling apart in front of me. Let me in.” The words cut through Team’s defences, tearing down the fragile wall he had built. His sobs broke free again, violent and uncontrollable. He collapsed forward, and Win caught him without hesitation, arms wrapping firmly around his shoulders. Team buried his face in Win’s chest, clutching at his shirt like a lifeline. “It hurts,” he choked out between sobs. “It hurts so much.” Win held him tighter, one hand stroking the back of his head, the other anchoring him close. His voice was steady, grounding. “Then let me carry some of it. Tell me what you saw.”

Team trembled, resisting for a moment, but the weight was too heavy, the sorrow too consuming. His words spilled out broken, raw. “It was… a boy. Somkrit. I saw him at another one’s funeral Intouch, the other’s name was. And Intouch’s lover Korn. He was… he was breaking apart. Crying, begging, like his whole world was gone. I could feel it, Hia Win. It was not just a dream. It felt like it was me. Like I was the one losing him.”

Win’s hold did not falter. He listened, his steady breathing a quiet rhythm beneath Team’s broken gasps. “I do not understand,” Team continued, his voice hoarse. “Why do I dream these things? Why do I feel like I am someone else, someone who lived and died before me? I am scared, Hia Win. What if I am not really me? What if I am only… carrying someone else’s sorrow?” The confession left him shaking, as though speaking it aloud had made it too real.

But Win did not recoil. He did not look at him with disbelief or pity. He only held him closer, his voice soft but unwavering. “You are Team,” Win said. “You are the one sitting here, breathing, crying, feeling. Whatever those dreams are, whatever they mean, they do not erase who you are now. They do not take you away from me.” Team’s sobs stuttered, his breaths uneven. He tilted his face up, searching Win’s expression for doubt, for judgment, but found none. Win’s eyes were steady, filled with a kind of quiet certainty that made Team’s heart ache.

Win reached up and brushed the damp strands of hair from Team’s forehead. “Dreams can hold many things. Memories, fears, grief. But they are not stronger than the person you choose to be in this moment. And I know who you are. You are Team. The boy who laughs too loudly at Mannow’s jokes. The boy who scolds Pharm for skipping meals. The boy who makes me want to stay by his side no matter what.” Tears blurred Team’s vision again, but these were different, softer, lighter. “Hia Win…” His voice cracked. Win’s thumb brushed a tear from his cheek. “You are real to me. That is all that matters.”

The words wrapped around Team like a balm, soothing the raw ache left by the dream. He still trembled, still felt the weight of Somkrit’s sorrow in his bones, but it no longer threatened to swallow him whole. Win’s arms anchored him, reminding him that he was not alone, that he had someone to share the burden. For the first time, he allowed himself to believe it.

The storm of sobs slowed into ragged breathing. Team’s chest still heaved, but the frantic edge dulled under the weight of Win’s steady embrace. He stayed pressed against Win’s shoulder, letting the warmth seep into him, grounding him against the echo of that dreadful dream. For a long while, neither spoke. The only sound was Team’s uneven breathing and the soft brush of Win’s hand along his back. The silence was not empty this time, it was patient, holding space for something fragile.

Finally, Win shifted slightly, enough to tilt his head so he could look down at Team. “Can you tell me more?” His voice was calm, quiet, as though asking permission rather than demanding answers. Team hesitated. His throat ached from crying, his mind still a haze of grief. But Win’s eyes held no pressure, only concern, only patience. Slowly, he nodded. Win adjusted, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze directly. “When did these dreams start?” Team swallowed, struggling to find words. “It has been… months. Maybe longer. At first, it was small things, faces I did not know, voices I had never heard. Then it became clearer. Somkrit. Always him. Always grieving, always carrying something too heavy. Every time I wake, it feels like I am stealing his sorrow, like I am living it.” He clenched his fists in Win’s shirt, his voice trembling. “I thought if I ignored it, it would go away. But it only grows worse. Tonight… tonight was too much.”

Win listened intently, his brow furrowing slightly but not with doubt. He let Team’s words settle before speaking again. “And you never told anyone?” Team shook his head quickly, shame burning in his cheeks. “How could I? They would think I am mad. Even you….” He broke off, his voice cracking. “I thought you would leave if you knew.”

Win’s expression softened, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Team. Look at me.” Reluctantly, Team lifted his gaze. Win’s voice was steady, each word deliberate. “There is nothing you could say that would make me leave you. Do you understand? Nothing. If you are hurting, I want to know. If you are carrying something heavy, I want to carry it with you.”

The words struck deep, unravelling another layer of fear that Team had buried. He felt his throat tighten again, tears prickling his eyes, but this time they came not from despair but from relief. Still, doubt lingered. “But what if… what if I am not myself? What if I am only….” Win cut in gently, his tone firm but kind. “You are yourself. These dreams, these memories, whatever they are, they do not erase you. They are a part of your experience, yes, but not the whole of you. You laugh, you cry, you love, you are here. That is what makes you Team.” Team’s lips trembled. He wanted to believe, but the weight of Somkrit’s sorrow still pressed on him like a shadow. “It feels like… like I am being pulled in two directions. Part of me is happy, living my life, being with you. But another part… it is drowning in grief I do not understand.”

Win reached up and cupped his cheek, brushing his thumb lightly against damp skin. “Then let us stand in both places together. I will not let you drown.” The conviction in his tone sent a shiver through Team. No hesitation, no doubt, only certainty. For a moment, he wondered how Win could be so steady, so unwavering. He wanted to ask, but the words tangled on his tongue. Instead, he leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. Win continued softly, almost like a promise. “Whatever Somkrit felt, whatever he lost, you do not have to carry it alone. Let it out. Let me be the one you tell when it hurts too much.”

The thought terrified Team. He had hidden these dreams so long, locking them away even from himself, terrified of what they meant. But here, in Win’s arms, the fear softened. He whispered, almost too quiet to hear. “Sometimes… I see him looking at Intouch, and it feels like I am looking too. The love, the pain, it is so strong. And when I wake, I feel guilty. Guilty because… because I am not him. Because I am here, and he is not.” Win exhaled slowly, as though choosing his words with care. “That is not guilt you need to carry. What you feel is real, but it belongs to the past. You are alive now, and you are loved now. Do not let the weight of yesterday steal your today.”

Team opened his eyes, staring at Win as though trying to grasp the truth in those words. His chest still ached, but Win’s certainty planted a fragile seed of hope in the cracks. The room was quiet again, the night heavy outside, but inside the silence felt different, gentler, no longer suffocating. Team’s voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “Why are you not afraid? Why are you not… pushing me away?” Win’s lips curved faintly, not a smile but something softer. “Because I know you. The boy sitting here crying in my arms is the same boy who steals extra dumplings from the pot, who sulks when I tease him, who makes my world brighter without even trying. That is who you are. That is who I choose, every day.” The words broke something open inside Team. A fresh wave of tears welled, but this time he did not try to hide them. He let them fall, his body trembling as he clung to Win. “I do not deserve you,” he whispered. Win’s arms tightened around him. “You deserve to be loved. And I will remind you until you believe it.”

The two of them stayed like that, tangled in each other, until Team’s sobs eased into quiet sniffles. His body sagged against Win, exhaustion finally pulling at him. Win shifted, guiding him to lie back against the pillows without letting go. He stayed close, one hand resting over Team’s, grounding him. “Rest,” he murmured. “I will be here.” Team’s eyes fluttered shut, heavy from the storm of emotions. For the first time in weeks, he did not dread the darkness that followed. With Win beside him, the shadows felt less threatening, the grief less unbearable. He drifted into sleep, not free from sorrow, but no longer alone within it. And Win, awake beside him, kept his silent vigil, steady, unwavering, a quiet promise made flesh.

The night stretched on in quiet breaths and the faint hum of the ceiling fan. Win had not moved from Team’s side, his body curved protectively around him. Team’s breathing had evened out into the rhythm of sleep, but it was shallow, restless, as though even dreams did not let him go easily. Win stayed awake, his eyes tracing the lines of Team’s face softened in slumber. The tear stains were still visible, and the faint tremor in his fingers lingered even now. Win felt an ache in his chest, not for himself, but for the boy who carried such a heavy shadow alone.

After some time, Team stirred. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then sharpening on Win’s face. He blinked, confusion flickering as though surprised Win was still there. “You stayed,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Of course I did,” Win answered softly. “Where else would I be?” Team swallowed, his gaze dropping. “You should not have to deal with this. With me.” Win tilted his head, studying him with quiet patience. “Why do you think that?” Team shifted uncomfortably under the steady gaze. “Because it is not fair. You did not ask for this. You should not have to hold me together when I fall apart.” Win reached over, taking his hand. His grip was firm but gentle. “Listen to me, Team. I am not here because I have to be. I am here because I want to be. That is the difference.”

Team’s lips parted as if to argue, but the conviction in Win’s tone left him without words. His throat tightened again, emotion surging, but Win’s hand anchoring his steadied him. “Tell me,” Win continued, his voice low but insistent. “When you wake from those dreams… do you feel like you are Somkrit?” Team hesitated, then shook his head slowly. “No. Not exactly. It feels like… I am watching him, but from the inside. Like I am both him and not him. His grief becomes mine, but it is not my life. It is hard to explain.”

Win nodded, his expression thoughtful. “So you are not him. You are you. You are experiencing something through him, yes, but you remain Team. That matters.” The words sank into the cracks of Team’s fear. He wanted to protest, to cling to his confusion, but Win’s steady reasoning gave him no room to spiral. Win continued, his thumb brushing lightly across Team’s knuckles. “And when you laugh with your friends, when you complain about morning practice, when you look at me, are those Somkrit’s moments, or yours?” Team blinked, startled by the question. His lips trembled. “Mine,” he whispered, the word catching in his throat.

Win smiled faintly, though his eyes stayed serious. “Exactly. Whatever the past holds, it does not erase who you are now. Somkrit had his life. You have yours. And I… I want to share it with you.” The simplicity of the statement struck harder than any elaborate reassurance. Team felt his chest squeeze, his eyes burning again, but he no longer resisted the tears. They fell silently, sliding down his cheeks as he stared at Win. “You make it sound so easy,” he said hoarsely. Win squeezed his hand. “It is not easy. But it is simple. You do not have to solve everything tonight. You just have to remember that you are not alone.” For a long moment, Team could only look at him, overwhelmed by the warmth and certainty in Win’s gaze. He had expected rejection, doubt, perhaps even pity. Instead, he found only acceptance, solid and unwavering. A shaky laugh escaped him, half sob, half disbelief. “Why are you like this?” Win tilted his head, his lips curving just slightly. “Like what?” “Always knowing what to say,” Team muttered, wiping at his cheeks with his free hand. Win’s faint smile deepened. “Because I pay attention. To you.”

The words unravelled something inside Team that no amount of resistance could hold back. He leaned forward suddenly, burying his face in Win’s chest. Win’s arms came up around him instantly, holding him close, steadying him against the tide of emotion. They stayed like that until the storm inside him ebbed again. Team’s breathing slowed, his body heavy with exhaustion, but this time the weight felt shared, no longer crushing him alone. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red but calmer. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice small but sincere.

Win met his gaze, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “You do not have to thank me. Just promise me you will not hide from me again.” Team hesitated, then nodded slowly. “I promise.” Win studied him for a moment longer, then leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Good. Now rest.” Team exhaled, a long, shaky breath. He lay back down, Win following to settle beside him. Their hands remained clasped, fingers intertwined under the blanket. As Team’s eyes drifted shut again, he whispered, almost too quiet to hear. “Do not let go.” Win’s reply was immediate, steady. “Never.”

The night carried them both into silence once more. But this silence was not heavy, it was healing, layered with unspoken promises and the beginning of trust deeper than either had known before. Team still carried Somkrit’s sorrow, but now he knew he did not bear it alone. And beside him, Win kept his quiet vigil, the anchor in the storm, holding him steady as he began to reconcile the fragments of past and present.

Chapter Text

The night arrived quietly, cloaked in a kind of stillness that felt almost deliberate, as if the world itself were bracing for something it could not name. The city outside the dormitories had gone to sleep, the soft hum of distant traffic reduced to the occasional murmur. Inside, the dorms were no different, lights dimmed, doors closed, the muffled echo of late-night showers replaced by silence. But for Pharm and Team, sleep did not bring rest. It carried them elsewhere.

Pharm’s dream began the way his dreams of Intouch often did, with warmth, a voice he recognised even though it was not his own, and the sense of stepping into a memory he had not lived but could feel. The room that formed around him was old-fashioned, its wallpaper fading, the air heavy with cigarette smoke. He saw Korn first, his expression calm but strained, lips pressed tight, as if he were trying to hold back all the things he could not say. Then, just a step away, Intouch. Pharm’s heart lurched.

Intouch was smiling that same open, guileless smile that always managed to cut through sorrow, but it was thinner tonight. His eyes glistened as though he knew that this was the last smile he would ever give. His hands trembled slightly, but he kept them steady by reaching for Korn’s fingers, squeezing them tight, refusing to let go. “P’Korn,” Intouch whispered, his voice soft, fragile, like glass on the verge of shattering. “We cannot run anymore, can we?” Korn closed his eyes. He did not answer. The silence was its own kind of reply.

Pharm could not breathe. He tried to step forward, to cry out, to warn them, but he was trapped, bound to watch. The dream forced him to witness, to hold every detail in his chest like a blade. Intouch leaned his forehead against Korn’s shoulder. His tears soaked into Korn’s shirt, but his voice did not waver as he said, “If this is how it ends, at least I am ending with you.” Korn’s lips parted, and for a fleeting moment, his calm cracked. His whole body shook with the weight of the decision already made. He lifted his hand and cupped the back of Intouch’s head, pressing a kiss against his hair. “I am sorry,” he whispered, the words so raw that Pharm thought his own heart might tear in two.

Then the gun appeared. Pharm had never touched a weapon in his life, but the sight of it, gleaming under the dull light, sent terror crawling down his spine. Korn held it with steady hands, though his eyes betrayed the storm raging inside. Intouch pulled back just enough to look into Korn’s face. He smiled again, a real one this time, wide and pure, as though this act, this ending, was not tragedy but proof of love. “It is all right. I am not afraid,” he said. “As long as you are with me.”

Pharm’s body shook. His throat worked, but no sound came. He wanted to scream, to beg, to fall at their feet and tear the gun away. But he was powerless. The sound when it came was deafening. A single shot, then another. Pharm’s world went white. He stumbled in the dream, clutching his chest as if the bullets had passed through him as well. He saw the bodies collapse, entwined even in death, their blood pooling together on the floor. He saw the gun fall, clattering against the wood. He saw Intouch’s final expression, peaceful in a way that broke him, and Korn’s lifeless arm still wrapped around him. The image seared itself into Pharm’s mind. He fell to his knees in the dream, screaming silently, reaching for them though they were beyond reach. And then the dream dissolved into darkness.

At the same time, in another room, Team’s dream began differently. He stood under a vast banyan tree, its roots twisted deep into the soil, its branches stretching like arms over the courtyard. The air was heavy with incense, cloying and sweet, and the sound of sobbing filled the silence. Before him lay a row of offerings, flowers, candles, and framed photographs. Among them, one photograph caught his eyes. Intouch. Smiling. Alive only in memory.

Team’s throat tightened. He tried to turn away, but the dream anchored him. He realized then that he was not himself here. He was Somkrit. He could feel it, the way his chest ached with a grief so profound it felt endless, the way his legs trembled under the weight of it. Somkrit fell to his knees before the photograph, clutching a folded paper in his hands. His tears stained the ink, smudging the words written there. His voice rose, raw and broken. “Why did you not tell me? Why did you not let me save you?”

The crowd around him shifted, but no one touched him. They only watched as he crumbled, as his grief spilled out into the open. Ren was somewhere nearby, eyes red, whispering words of comfort, but Somkrit could not hear them. He could hear only the silence left behind by Intouch’s absence. Team felt it all, the disbelief, the fury at the unfairness, the aching helplessness. He felt the moment Somkrit’s tears blurred the world, the way his sobs scraped his throat raw. He felt the longing, the desperate wish to turn back time.
And then Somkrit’s gaze lifted, drawn irresistibly to the photograph. Intouch’s smile stared back at him, eternal and unchanging. Team felt Somkrit’s heart fracture again, as if the loss were brand new, as if every breath without Intouch was another wound. “I was your best friend,” Somkrit choked. “I would have done anything, anything, to keep you here. Why did you not let me? Why did you leave me with nothing?” The words broke into sobs, the paper trembling in his hands until it slipped free, landing on the ground like another offering.

Around him, voices murmured, trying to soothe, but none of it mattered. Somkrit’s grief was uncontainable, a flood that drowned him from the inside out. Team tried to pull away, tried to remind himself that it was only a dream, but the sorrow would not let him go. He was Somkrit, and he was Team, and both of them were unravelling under the same unbearable weight.

The banyan tree loomed above, its leaves rustling like whispers. In that sound, Team thought he heard something cruel, an echo of fate, as though the world itself mocked the fragility of love. The incense smoke thickened, curling around him, choking him. He tried to breathe, but each breath dragged sobs from his chest. He reached for the photograph, fingers brushing the frame, as if touching it might bring Intouch back. But it was only wood, only glass, only memory. Somkrit’s cry split the air, a sound so anguished that even the mourners around him wept harder. Team woke with it still echoing in his ears.

The two dreams unfolded separately, yet they were bound by the same thread of tragedy. Pharm relived the final moments of Intouch and Korn, the choice that ended their lives. Team carried the grief of what came after, Somkrit’s unhealed wound, the despair of being left behind. Both woke in the same night, their faces wet with tears, their hearts hammering as though they had been there in truth. Both sat in their respective beds, staring into the dark, unable to shake the images that clung to them. The past had reached for them again, pulling them closer to the truth neither could escape. The night felt endless. The weight of memory pressed down, heavy and merciless. And somewhere in the silence between them, their fates continued to intertwine.

The morning light crept slowly through the curtains, pale and hesitant, as if even the sun understood that the world it was about to illuminate was not the same as it had been the night before. In the quiet dormitory, the sounds of morning were muted, the soft shuffle of slippers in the hallway, the distant clang of a kettle, the occasional door closing. But inside two separate rooms, silence reigned. Silence heavy enough to press against the chest, silence weighted with what had been seen in dreams that were not simply dreams.

Pharm sat on the edge of his bed, hands curled tightly around the blanket pooled at his waist. His body was cold, despite the early warmth of the sun seeping in. He had not slept again after waking in the night, jolted upright with tears running down his face. The images would not leave him: the sharp flash of metal in Korn’s hands, the fragile curve of Intouch’s smile, the sound of the gunfire. Each detail had carved itself into him, refusing to fade even with the dawn.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, trying to steady his breath. But his chest refused to calm. Every time he inhaled, it felt like the echo of the bullet was still lodged inside, reverberating through him. He was Intouch, he knew it now more deeply than ever. And he had died, no, they had died, because love had been forbidden. A knock on the door broke the stillness. “Pharm?” Dean’s voice was low, muffled through the wood, but it carried something, concern, perhaps even fear. Pharm flinched. He wanted to tell Dean to go, to leave him alone with the memory, but the pull was too strong. He needed Dean. Needed to see him, to remind himself that this lifetime was not that one, that the story was not doomed to end the same way. “Come in,” he whispered, though the sound barely carried.

The door opened, and Dean stepped in. His hair was mussed, his shirt pulled on hastily, as though he too had not found rest. His eyes, sharp and steady by nature, looked unsettled. He crossed the room in silence, sinking onto the bed beside Pharm without a word. For a moment, he did nothing, only reached out, sliding his hand gently over Pharm’s. Pharm’s breath caught. The warmth of Dean’s touch contrasted so painfully with the cold he still carried from the dream that it almost hurt. “You dreamt it too,” Pharm said at last, his voice cracking under the weight of the admission. It was not a question. Dean’s hand tightened. His gaze dropped, shadows flickering across his features. “I saw… fragments,” he admitted. “Not all of it. But enough.”

Pharm turned, searching his face. There it was, the same haunted glint that must have been in his own eyes, the same unspoken acknowledgment that this was not merely imagination. “I was him,” Pharm whispered. “Intouch. I felt everything he felt. The fear. The love. The acceptance.” His throat closed around the last word. “And then the end.” Dean drew in a slow breath, as though steadying himself. “I was Korn. I did not see the moment, not fully, but I felt… I felt the weight of the choice. I felt the despair. And when I woke, I…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It was as if I had blood on my hands.”

Pharm’s body trembled. Hearing it spoken aloud only deepened the certainty inside him. Their souls had carried it all, each fragment of tragedy, across lifetimes. They had been those boys. They had died in each other’s arms. Dean lifted a hand, brushing it against Pharm’s cheek, forcing his gaze up. “But this time, we are not them,” he said firmly, though his voice betrayed the crack in his composure. “We are us. We are here.” Pharm closed his eyes, pressing into the touch. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to let those words carve a new truth inside him. But the memory lingered too vividly, a wound that refused to close.

Elsewhere in the dormitory, another morning carried its own weight. Team sat slumped at his desk, staring blankly at the sunlight spilling across his books. His hands were clenched in his lap, his knuckles pale. He had not moved since waking in the night with tears choking him, his chest aching so violently it felt like he might break apart.

He had been Somkrit. He had been there at the funeral, surrounded by the heavy scent of incense, the crowd of mourners, the photograph staring back at him like a cruel reminder. He had cried, screamed, begged the memory of his friend to answer him. He had felt the bottomless pit of grief that no passage of time could ever mend.

The remnants of that grief still clung to him like chains. He could not shake it, could not pretend it was only a dream. He could still feel the rough texture of the folded paper in Somkrit’s hands, could still hear the way his voice had cracked. A sharp rap at his door startled him. “Team? Are you alive in there, or did you sleep through your alarm again?” Win’s voice was casual, teasing, but it carried that thread of familiarity that never failed to tug at Team.

Team swallowed hard, dragging a shaky breath before answering. “Come in.” The door swung open, and Win stepped inside, hair tousled, grin already tugging at his lips. But it faltered when he saw Team’s face. “What happened to you?” Win asked, his usual lightness giving way to something softer. He crossed the room, crouching slightly to meet Team’s eyes. “You look like you saw a ghost.” Team huffed out a bitter laugh. “Maybe I did.” Win frowned, reaching out instinctively to rest a hand on Team’s shoulder. The touch was grounding, pulling Team back from the edge of that grief. He leaned into it, against his better judgment. “I had a dream again,” Team admitted, his voice hoarse. “But it did not feel like a dream. It felt like… like a memory. Like something I had lived.”

Win tilted his head. “What did you see?” Team hesitated. The words were heavy, almost too heavy to speak, but they burned inside him, demanding release. “I was at a funeral. Intouch’s funeral. And I was not me. I was Somkrit.” Win’s brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. “I felt it,” Team pressed, his voice rising with urgency. “The grief, the helplessness, the anger. It was all mine, and yet it was his. I could not breathe, Hia Win. I still cannot breathe.” His chest hitched, and he forced himself to exhale. “And I realised something, his grief is still here. It is in me. I have been carrying it all this time without knowing why.”

Win’s hand tightened on his shoulder, steady and unyielding. “Then maybe that is why you had the dream,” he said gently. “Maybe it is not just his grief anymore. Maybe it is something you are meant to face.” Team’s throat worked. He wanted to argue, to dismiss it as nonsense, but the truth sat too heavily inside him. It had been real. It had always been real. Win’s gaze softened. “You do not have to carry it alone. Whatever it is, you can tell me. You can let me help.” Something in those words cracked open a small space in Team’s chest. He nodded, though his eyes burned with fresh tears. For the first time since waking, the grief did not feel entirely unbearable.

Two rooms. Two pairs. Two truths surfacing at the same time. Pharm and Dean, connected through the memory of death. Team and Win, bound by the inheritance of grief. The morning did not bring peace. But it brought recognition. Recognition that what they had seen could no longer be dismissed. Recognition that the past was not past at all, but alive, breathing inside them. And though none of them knew it yet, their paths were drawing closer, the puzzle pieces shifting toward their final place. The day had only just begun, but already it carried the weight of lifetimes.

The air in the café was heavy with the smell of roasted beans and steamed milk, the sort of scent that usually soothed Pharm. But not today. Today it only layered itself over the unease that had been gnawing at him since dawn. He sat in the corner booth, hands wrapped around a mug he had not touched, staring at the ripples fading across its surface. The world around him seemed muted, students chatting about assignments, laughter from another table, the hum of the grinder. None of it reached him.

Across from him, Dean studied him in silence. His coffee sat untouched as well, the steam curling upward between them. He had always been a man of few words, but now the quiet seemed sharper, weighted with things unsaid. The dream still haunted him, clinging to the edges of his composure. He had tried to steady Pharm, to hold him, to reassure him that they were not doomed to repeat the tragedy of the past. But inside, he had felt that same darkness, that same helplessness, and it had left him raw.

Pharm finally looked up. His lips parted, but no sound came. His throat felt constricted, as though the dream had lodged itself there, refusing release. Dean leaned forward, his gaze intent. “You do not have to force it,” he said quietly. “But I know you need to say it.” Pharm nodded faintly. “I keep seeing it. I close my eyes, and I am back there. I feel it all. And I cannot escape the thought that… that maybe it is not just memory. Maybe it is who we are.” His voice trembled, but he did not look away. “I was Intouch. You were Korn. And we….” He faltered. “We died, P’Dean.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, but his eyes softened. He reached across the table, his hand finding Pharm’s. The warmth of that touch anchored them both. “Yes,” he said finally, the word slow and deliberate. “I know it too. I was Korn. I felt his despair. I felt his love. And I ended it. But this life….” He squeezed Pharm’s hand. “This life is not that one. We are not bound to the same ending.” Pharm wanted to believe it. He wanted to take those words and hold them like a shield. But before he could answer, the sound of the café door opening drew his attention.

Team entered, his shoulders tense, his expression guarded. Win followed closely, eyes flicking between Team and the rest of the café. Team spotted Pharm and Dean almost instantly. For a moment, he hesitated, as if uncertain whether to approach. Then, with a breath, he crossed the room. When he reached the table, Pharm’s eyes widened. There was something in Team’s face, something achingly familiar. Grief layered over weariness, the same shadows that had haunted Pharm when he had woken that morning. “Can I sit?” Team asked, his voice unsteady.

Dean shifted slightly, nodding. Win slid into the booth beside Team, his presence steady, a quiet pillar of support. The four of them sat in silence at first, the weight of unspoken truths pressing down until it felt almost unbearable. It was Team who broke it, his words rough but certain. “I dreamt last night,” he said, staring down at the table. “It was not just a dream. I was… someone else. I was someone named Somkrit.” His hands curled into fists, resting against his thighs. “I was at the funeral of someone named Intouch. I felt his grief. His anger. His helplessness. And when I woke, I realised I have been carrying it all along. It has been inside me, even when I did not know why.”

Pharm’s breath caught. The pieces shifted instantly in his mind, aligning in ways that both terrified and comforted him. Dean’s gaze sharpened, as if he too felt the puzzle sliding into place. “Somkrit,” he repeated, low. “Then you…” He looked between Team and Pharm, the understanding dawning visibly across his face. Pharm whispered it, the words trembling out of him. “It fits. I was Intouch. P’Dean was Korn. And you were Somkrit.”

Team looked up then, meeting Pharm’s gaze. There was no denial in his eyes, only recognition. Recognition that struck like a spark, igniting the air between them. The silence that followed was not empty. It was alive, humming with the truth finally spoken aloud. The café’s noise faded to nothing. In that moment, there were only four of them, bound not just by the present but by threads woven across lifetimes. Pharm pressed a hand to his chest, his heartbeat quick and uneven. “All this time, I thought it was only me. I thought I was losing myself. But it is all of us. We carried it together, even if we did not remember.”

Dean’s expression softened, but his voice was firm. “Then maybe that is why we found each other again. Not to repeat it, but to heal it.” Team’s lips parted as though to argue, but then his shoulders slumped. The fight drained from him, replaced by something fragile. “I do not know how to heal this. The grief feels endless. Even now, sitting here, I feel like I am Somkrit, still screaming at a coffin that will never answer.” His voice cracked. “How do you heal something that never ended?” Win placed a hand over his, grounding him. “Maybe you do not do it alone. Maybe that is the point.”

The words sank deep, resonating with all of them. For lifetimes, they had carried pieces of a tragedy. But now, in this lifetime, they were not separate fragments. They were together. Pharm looked between them, Dean’s steady strength, Team’s fragile grief, Win’s quiet support. The puzzle was complete, and it revealed not just the pain of the past but the possibility of a different future. For the first time since the dream, Pharm allowed himself to breathe. It was not the end. It was the beginning.

The four of them did not leave the café for hours. They spoke little, but they did not need to. The silence was no longer suffocating. It was shared. And in that shared silence, the past loosened its hold, just enough for the present to breathe. The puzzle had clicked into place. And with it came a fragile, tentative hope.

Chapter Text

Win had always known that Team carried storms within him. It was something he had noticed long before either of them had spoken openly about dreams or the shadows of past lives. Team’s laughter was bright, his complaints loud and dramatic, but beneath them there was always a tremor, a weight pressing against his chest. Win had never minded. If anything, he had been drawn to it, the way one might be drawn to the restless sea. He understood that storms did not always need to be tamed. Sometimes, they only needed a shore strong enough to hold them.

In the weeks that followed their revelations, the rhythm of their relationship shifted. It was not abrupt, not the kind of change that announced itself loudly. Rather, it was subtle, like a tide creeping closer to the shore with every wave. Team began to allow himself to lean more heavily on Win. At first, it was in moments small enough to pass unnoticed by anyone else. He would reach for Win’s hand more often, threading their fingers together during walks across campus. He would sit closer, his shoulder brushing against Win’s arm, as though physical contact was the only way he could reassure himself that he was not alone.

Win never pulled away. He answered every touch with quiet steadiness, never demanding more, never pushing too far. When Team’s voice grew unsteady, when his laughter cracked, Win was there with the kind of patience that required no explanation. He had no need for grand declarations. His presence was declaration enough. There were nights when Team woke gasping, his body shaking with sobs that seemed too old to belong to him. In those moments, Win did not ask questions. He simply gathered Team close, wrapping him in an embrace that left no space for doubt. His hand traced slow circles across Team’s back, his voice low and steady as he whispered reminders of the present. “You are here. You are safe. I am with you.”

Team sometimes resisted. The grief that pressed against him was so sharp that it turned into anger. He would push Win away, snapping words that he regretted as soon as they left his lips. “You do not understand. You cannot feel what I feel. You are not the one who wakes every night drowning in someone else’s sorrow. You are not the one who carries the weight of their deaths.” Win never flinched. He never retaliated. Instead, he would step back just far enough to give Team air, but never far enough to let him fall. His gaze was steady, unwavering. When Team finally broke under the force of his own words, Win was there again, patient as the tide. He would cup Team’s face in his hands, his thumb brushing away tears that had not yet fallen. “I may not carry the same memories,” he would say softly, “but I carry you. That is enough.” It was not an answer that erased the grief, but it anchored Team in ways nothing else could.

Their romance blossomed in the spaces between pain. Win learned the patterns of Team’s silences, the difference between the quiet that meant he was lost in thought and the quiet that meant he was drowning. Team, in turn, began to notice the ways Win expressed love without speaking it aloud. The way he bought extra sweets at the convenience store, knowing Team would pretend to scold him but eat them anyway. The way he lingered at practice, waiting at the edge of the pool until Team climbed out, exhausted but comforted by the sight of him. It was in those small, steady gestures that Team found his footing again. The grief did not vanish, but it no longer dictated the shape of his days.

Dean and Pharm, in their own corner of the world, grew together with a quieter rhythm. Their bond had never been loud. Pharm’s love was tender, soft around the edges, like a blanket that wrapped gently around everything it touched. Dean’s was steadier, less adorned with words, but no less profound. He listened when Pharm spoke, and when Pharm did not have words, he listened to the silences as if they held meaning too.

Pharm had carried the weight of Intouch’s memories for so long that he had forgotten what it felt like to breathe without fear. But with Dean, breathing became easier. The past did not vanish, but it softened. When Pharm’s voice shook as he admitted to remembering the gunshot, Dean’s arms were already around him, firm and certain. When Pharm trembled with guilt for a death that was not his fault, Dean’s voice reminded him again and again that they were not bound to repeat it.

Together, they built something rooted not only in history but in the present. They cooked together, laughed over mistakes, teased each other over things so small that they might have seemed trivial to others. But to them, these moments were proof. Proof that love could exist without tragedy hanging over it like a sentence. Proof that even haunted hearts could learn to rest.

When the four of them gathered, Dean, Pharm, Win, and Team, the air was different. There was no longer the frantic need to hide what they carried. Instead, there was understanding, unspoken but palpable. Each of them had felt the echo of lives lost, but each of them was choosing, in this life, to love fully.

For Team, the difference was most visible in the way he carried himself. He no longer slouched beneath the weight of invisible chains. He laughed more, and when he laughed, it was not brittle or defensive, but whole. Win’s eyes softened each time he heard it, as though the sound itself was enough to remind him why he had chosen to stay by Team’s side.

It was not perfection. The storms still came. The grief still lingered. But they faced it together. And in the present, love became not just a balm but a foundation. Speaking the past aloud was the hardest step. For so long, they had each carried their memories like secret wounds, hidden beneath layers of silence. To voice them felt dangerous, as though the act itself might tear them open again. But silence was its own kind of prison.

Pharm was the first to break it. One evening, as he sat beside Dean on the balcony, the sky painted with fading light, he spoke words he had never dared to before. “I remember the gun,” he whispered. His hands trembled, but Dean’s grip steadied them. “I remember his hand shaking before he pulled the trigger. I remember screaming. And then I remember nothing. For so many years I thought I was losing my mind. I thought no one would ever believe me. But now I know. It was real. It was me. It was him.” Dean’s gaze was steady, his voice quiet but unyielding. “It was us. But it is not us now.” Pharm wept then, but the tears were not only of grief. They were of release, of finally unburdening himself after carrying silence for so long. Dean held him through it, not to erase the memories, but to remind him that he was no longer alone in them.

Team struggled longer. For him, the guilt was heavier, because Somkrit had lived. Somkrit had survived the loss, and in surviving he had carried grief that hardened into something almost unbearable. Team inherited it whole, like a wound passed down through time. One night, overwhelmed, he confessed it to Win. “He could not save them,” he said bitterly. “He watched his friends die. He stood at their funeral and did nothing. If I was him, then it means I failed them. I let them die.”

Win’s expression did not waver. He reached for Team’s hand, his thumb brushing across his knuckles with deliberate gentleness. “You are carrying a burden that was never meant to be yours alone. Somkrit did not fail them. He loved them. He grieved for them. But their choice was theirs, not his. The past is not your prison. It is part of your story, but it does not define all of you.” The words settled deep inside Team. They did not erase the guilt in a single night, but they carved a path through it. Slowly, painfully, he began to believe them.

When the four of them came together, they no longer avoided the subject. They spoke of dreams, of fragmented memories that had haunted them since childhood. Pharm described the way Intouch’s laughter still echoed in his sleep. Dean spoke of Korn’s despair, the way love and duty had torn him apart. Team shared the bitterness of standing at a funeral, of carrying helpless fury that refused to fade. And Win, though not bound to a past life, listened without fear. He reminded them, simply by being there, that memory was not destiny.

Acknowledging the past did not erase it. The grief still lived within them, sharp at times, quiet at others. But it became less of a wound and more of a scar. Something they could touch without breaking apart. For Dean and Pharm, speaking openly brought a deepened intimacy. They no longer had to shield each other from shadows. They carried them together, and in doing so, the shadows grew smaller. For Win and Team, it was a harder road, but one that led to strength. Team began to understand that his grief did not make him weak. It made him human. It made him someone who could feel deeply, and still choose to live.

In the end, all four of them understood the same truth: the past would always be a part of them, but it was not all of them. It was not a chain. It was a thread, woven into the fabric of who they were. And by acknowledging it, by speaking it aloud, they reclaimed it. They were not defined by tragedy. They were defined by the choices they made now. Together, they chose love.

The air had shifted between them ever since the revelations of the dreams. What had once been a set of isolated fragments had now become a complete tapestry, and with the clarity came weight. Team, Pharm, and Dean carried it quietly for several days, each turning over the same thought in silence: the past could not be undone, but neither could it be ignored. It was Dean who first spoke the words aloud, late in the evening when he and Pharm were sitting together in his apartment, the lamplight falling soft across their faces. He spoke in his usual measured way, but there was no mistaking the heaviness that lived under the surface. He said that Korn and Intouch deserved something more than memory and grief. They deserved to be honoured.

Pharm listened, hands twisting nervously in his lap, but when he finally looked up at Dean, there was certainty in his eyes. He said that he had felt the same for days, but he had not known how to bring it forward. He thought of Intouch’s laughter, of the easy warmth that came to him in every dream, and the ache grew until he knew he could not let the memories rest without giving them voice. They had to do something, even if it was small, to show that the past lives had not been lost in vain. The bond between them carried forward, and so too could love and remembrance.

When Team was told, he went quiet in that way he often did when emotions pressed too close. He folded into himself at first, uncertain whether his voice had the right to join theirs. He thought of Somkrit, of the endless loyalty and the sharp grief of losing both Korn and Intouch, of the crushing helplessness that seemed to echo in his chest whenever the dreams came. He did not know how to carry that pain, or how to shape it into tribute. But as Win sat beside him, his hand a steady warmth on his knee, Team realised that it was not about him alone. It was about all three lives lost, and the three who now stood here to carry the memory forward. He nodded, quiet but firm, agreeing to the plan.

The banyan tree came to them naturally as the place. It was Pharm who mentioned it, halting at first, almost afraid to suggest it aloud. In his dreams, Intouch had often lingered there with Korn, a place where the world seemed both tender and suspended. Dean had fragments of memory too, of sitting in its shade, of watching Intouch’s restless energy soften in the quiet moments. Team did not remember it directly, not in Somkrit’s voice, but when the others spoke, something within him settled as if recognising the truth. Yes, it should be there. Under that tree, they would give their tribute.

The day arrived with a strange stillness in the air, as though the world itself knew what they carried in their hearts. The four of them walked together, though Win trailed half a step behind, his presence steady but respectful, as if he knew instinctively that this act was not his to lead. Pharm clutched a small bundle of white jasmine flowers in his hands, gathered with trembling care. Dean carried candles, their plainness offset by the weight of intention behind them. Team’s hands were empty at first, but as they walked, he bent to gather a handful of wild marigolds blooming at the side of the path. He did not explain why; he only knew that Somkrit would have wanted something bright, something that carried life rather than sorrow.

The banyan tree stood tall and unyielding, its roots coiled into the earth like memory itself, its branches stretching wide as though sheltering secrets of decades past. There was a hush beneath its canopy, the kind of silence that did not demand words but invited them if one dared to speak. They knelt together, the three of them forming a small circle at its base. Win stood nearby, his hands folded loosely in front of him, his gaze unwavering as he bore silent witness.

Pharm was the first to speak. His voice trembled as he set the jasmine down, petals scattering in the soft breeze. He said that Intouch had laughed like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, that his presence had been a warmth that made the darkest day bearable. He confessed that carrying those echoes inside him had been both blessing and burden, but he wanted to believe that Intouch’s joy was not lost. He wanted to carry it forward, to live in a way that honoured the laughter that had once lit up another life. Tears slipped free, but there was a fragile smile on his face as he leaned into Dean’s steadying hand.

Dean’s turn came next. His voice was lower, deliberate, but tinged with a vulnerability he rarely let slip. He placed the candles in the soil, lighting them one by one until a soft glow pooled at the base of the tree. He spoke of Korn, of the quiet strength that had defined him, of the sacrifices he had made to protect what he loved even when it cost him everything. Dean admitted that sometimes he felt unworthy to bear Korn’s memory, because he had also carried Korn’s despair. But in Pharm, he had found a reason to believe in second chances. He said that this time, he would not let silence or fear claim what love had given him. His hand tightened around Pharm’s as if sealing that vow.

Finally, Team stepped forward. His marigolds were cradled carefully, almost reverently, before he placed them beside the candles and jasmine. For a long moment, he could not find his voice. His throat closed, his chest tightened, but Win’s steady presence behind him gave him courage. When he finally spoke, his words came halting but honest. He said that Somkrit had lived with loyalty so fierce it had burned him hollow, that grief had swallowed him whole when he could not save the ones he loved. Team admitted that he had felt that same helplessness echoing in himself, in every dream that left him broken. But today, he wanted to give Somkrit something different. Not endless mourning, but recognition. He said that Somkrit had loved deeply, and though the grief had consumed him, that love had not been in vain. Team’s voice cracked, but he lifted his chin, his hand brushing briefly against Win’s as if to anchor himself.

Together, the three of them let silence settle, heavy but not suffocating. The flowers lay bright against the soil, the candles flickered, and the banyan tree seemed to cradle their words within its roots. Win watched quietly, his chest tight with emotions he could not name. He did not share their reincarnated past, but he understood the weight of memory, of grief, of love that transcended lifetimes. He let his gaze linger on Team, pride and tenderness mingling in his expression, as though silently promising that this act of remembrance did not bind him to sorrow but freed him to live.

The world did not stop after the tribute. The candles had burned low, the flowers had withered, and the banyan tree had returned to its quiet vigil. Yet in the days that followed, life pressed forward, not as though forgetting, but as though weaving memory into its fabric. The weight of grief no longer sat as heavily upon their shoulders. Instead, it softened, transforming into something that could be carried without breaking them.

The grief softened there, beneath the banyan. It did not vanish, for grief never truly vanished. But it changed shape. It became something gentler, a shadow that no longer devoured but walked beside them. Peace came not as a sudden wave, but as a slow tide, rising with each breath they shared.

The tree swayed in the wind, leaves shivering in the dim light. It no longer seemed a place of endings. It no longer echoed with gunshots or broken sobs. Instead, it carried the murmur of memory, the weight of love that had endured beyond lifetimes. When they finally turned to leave, the air felt lighter. Their steps did not drag with sorrow but moved forward, steady and sure. Behind them, the banyan tree stood silent, its branches swaying softly as though in blessing.

It would remain long after they had gone, roots deep, branches wide, holding within its silence the truth that love did not die with tragedy. It transformed, carried across time, remembered not as burden but as gift. The final image was simple: the tree bathed in twilight, its leaves shimmering in the wind. Not a place of loss, but of remembrance and love, eternal and unwavering.