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(ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ) ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴍᴇ ʙᴀʙʏ
Pran is needier than he lets on, and he is almost — almost — needier than Pat. Not that his boyfriend realises, because Pat's clinginess allows Pran to satiate his own clinginess.
But then the day comes where Pat's sick and he doesn't see Pran. and Pran sends Pat these messages:
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Because the texts have been scarily slow and sombre, quite unlike usual.
Pran is both irritated that he can't be clingy, and worried that something is seriously wrong with Pat. So, he messages Pat in a way that Pat would usually message Pran, and it feels weird.
But also right.
When Pat finally responds, Pran isn't even at their apartment building, he is down at the shop buying all manner of things.
'im sick not die. fele like i dying tho.'
Pran cringes at Pat's sick texting. 'i'm buying stuff. how sick are you?'
'cold. tehn hot.'
A fever, great...
Pran grabs packets of fever reducers and freezable compresses — because he knows that Pat won't have any — and grabs plenty of electrolyte drinks, just on the off chance that they might help.
A couple of hundred baht later, Pran is shouldering into Pat's apartment with the bags.
Dumping them onto the bench, he sticks the drinks into the fridge and the compresses into the freezer, praying that they cool quick.
Filling a cup with water and popping some acetaminophen from its blister, pran hurries over to where Pat is curled up on his bed, sweating.
His hair is sticking up wildly in many places, and the damp cloth that he must've had across his forehead is useless upon the pillow, making it damp.
Pran smiles painfully. Pat really tried to take care of himself without worrying Pran. It's both sweet and infuriating.
Setting the pills and glass on the strangely not cluttered bedside cupboard, Pran crouches down beside the bed and gently shakes Pat awake. "Pat, let's see if we can make you better, yeah?"
Pat's eyes are unfocused as they open, voice thick. "Pran...? Am I hallucinatin' again...?"
"I'm really here, theerak. Come on. We don't have a bath, so we're going to improvise."
Pran waits for Pat to tease about a sponge bath, but it doesn't come, and that's how Pran knows that his...whatever he may be, is really sick, not faking.
"Pat..."
"'m okay, baby... Lemme..."
"You're not going back to sleep." Pran helps Pat sit up, pillows behind him. "Take these, and drink the water — all of it. I'm going to get a bowl of water and a sponge, and we'll clean you up."
The joke still doesn't come, and Pran feels unmoored without Pat's usual flirtiness.
Instead, Pat grumbles but listens to Pran, not even cracking a joke when Pran forces Pat to take off his shirt and pants for the guitarist to wash him down.
He doesn't fight when Pran manhandles him from the bed and strips it, or when Pran wrangles him into clean clothes.
Pran forces a few more glasses of water into Pat before he lets the drummer flop back into his clean bed with a groan.
Crossing his fingers, Pran pulls out one of the cold compresses and silently cheers before wrapping it in a towel.
Pat moans in relief at the cold, and Pran smiles softly. "Baby... Stay with me, please...?"
"Scoot over, you big sook." Pran settles onto bed beside Pat, comfortable in one of Pat's large shirts. "Get some sleep, I won't go anywhere."
