Bubbles swirled and frothed incandescently as the clear, boiling kettle flicked itself loudly off, Gulf's focus grounded back to the present by the sound, away from thoughts of Mew's veiny hands on his pliant, submissive body some hours earlier - the click of a hypnotherapist's fingers to bring a patient round to full consciousness.
He added teabags to the two waiting mugs on a kitchen worktop below, pouring in the scaldingly hot water - Mew had offered courteously, of course, to do the brewing, but English tea had become a curious passion of Gulf's, and one he liked to take charge of, no matter the venue or circumstance - calling out then over his shoulder to enquire:
"Do you take milk or sugar, Phi?"
Reaching to open the door of the large - near-barren - fridge, spinning on his heel and then almost dropping the chilled, plastic milk bottle, mouth hanging momentarily agape, as Mew sauntered into the open living room area, casually, stark naked.
"Just milk for me please", the apartment owner replied coolly, blatantly unaware of the deadly impact of his choice of outfit. He retrieved his phone from the coffee table, fired a passing wink of encouragement to Gulf, and slid open the glass door to make a call outside. Apparently the balcony - and thus the inhabitants of the neighbouring elite skyscraper communities of the borough, Gulf suspected, must be well accustomed to the nude Adonis who paced back and forth as he spoke.
Odd, isolated fragments of the phonecall in progress drifted through a forgotten, adjacent window, propped slightly ajar, as the younger man added milk to two, and sugar to one cup, metal teaspoon tinkling melodically - almost the sounding of a high pitched alarm - as he stirred the rich coloured liquid, comforting steam trailing out into the quiet of the room.
"Did anyone come, Mild?...don't answer...shai, two weeks...flight to Bangkok...mai dai krub...complicated...tell Paithoon-" - and then the dull thud of the window being suddenly noticed, and closed from the outside, Mew's dark eyes catching Gulf's, unreadable, as the younger turned unwittingly at the noise, before breaking the gaze to carry mugs to the table, searching for coasters, since his host was clearly not one for mess - or signs of life in general.
And as if on cue, there was the busy sound of a key card bleeping at the front door, a brightly smiling further-end-of-middle-aged lady with a comfortable waist entering the room in a mint green uniform of some persuasion - presumably cleaning, judging by the products and utensils wheeled behind on a small trolley.
"Oh hello, duck!", the woman chirped at Gulf as he perched, blushing and uncertain, both cups still in hand, on the leather sofa. "I'm Pauline. Here you are lamb, this is where the coasters are kept. Don't worry, I won't be in your hair for long, there's never much to clean for 'His Lordship'. It's really not worth him having a daily facilities service, but perhaps being that rich, it's doesn't matter anyway!" - then, noticing Mew out on the balcony, she tutted "Ach! He'll catch his death of cold...", to herself, before retreating off down a hallway to begin her work.
Gulf swallowed in bewilderment, at last lowering the ceramic tea cups, placing each onto the coasters the agency worker had cast out onto the table from the drawer beneath. Had she even noticed Mew's naked buttocks? It must be a regular occurrence for her, the younger man summised. Finding the previous night's left over conquest present, as the 'master of the house' prowled unclothed and unabashed about his lair.
There was something so naturally dominant about it - butterflies suddenly awake to flutter giddily about Gulf's stomach and groin, intricately patterned wings leaving a glitter of heat in their wake. The elder man was that lion, chief of his pride, roaming majestically about his grassland kingdom as buffalo and gazelle grazed around him. Ever-watchful of his powerful presence. Waiting his deadly pounce.
But the lion was otherwise engaged just then - visible side profile serious and deep in thought...
Was Mew travelling to Bangkok soon? Gulf wondered idly as he sipped his sweet tea - mentally swatting away the achy twinge that the thought introduced to his chest. And who was...Phaibun? Paithoon?
//
By the time Mew re-emerged from the balcony, his own tea was stone cold. Pauline had been and gone - the pristine apartment appearing very much as it had prior to her visit - and Gulf had long since emptied his cup. The hug of a warm drink, discomfort of a stubbornly reappearing hangover and unique, physical exhaustion that followed bottoming for rough sex, all combining to coax the younger man into the unusual allure of an afternoon nap.
He was curled up, cat like, on the sofa below, knees hugged tightly to his own chest, borrowed - and subsequently oversized - red hooded sweatshirt and loose black shorts swamping his long but slight, tanned frame. His eyes were squeezed shut, a delicate, anxious frown clouding his elegant features.
'Beautiful', breathed that involuntary, reactive voice within Mew again, images of the younger man, hours earlier, crying out in flushed ecstasy, clenching around Mew's bewitched cock as he ejaculated onto the sheets below. White onto black.
Yet, in reality, things were not so black and white, were they? Mew reflected, as he returned to the bedroom to pull on a navy tracksuit, bare muscles shivering against the damp, wintry air as he had ended his phonecall.
They shouldn't have slept together - Mew cursed his own carnal weakness then - it had, predictably and inevitably, only served to complicate matters further. Because he had the strongest sense, as he returned to the living room and joined Gulf on the sofa, seating himself at the distant end alongside the younger man's bare feet, leaning back with a troubled sigh as he stretched his own legs out wide, that he had just opened Pandora's box.
Mew played around - fucked around - a lot. Tul and closest friend Mild had even nicknamed him the 'Panda Pimpernel' on account of his elusiveness and that famed fridge magnet quote: Eats, shoots, and leaves (those commas making all the difference).
But when he allowed himself, honestly and openly self aware then, to feel the nauseous loathing that simmered every time he caught sight of the dragon on the younger man's thigh as he limbered up for a training session, or the blinding rage triggered by the spicy-scented figure that had loomed over Gulf in the Soho restrooms, or the unfamiliar softness at the weight of the younger's head on his shoulder on the car journey home, or just the way he longed to kiss those lips with his own for the first time, he knew...
Gulf was different.
Even as Mew thought it, the younger stretched out in his sleep, shifting his feet to rest unwittingly atop the elder's lap. And Mew was instinctively compelled to stroke the smattering of dark hair across Gulf's lower legs, caught somewhere between longing for them to be wrapped, trembling, around his own waist while he took him wildly up against a wall, and wishing he could just lie down beside him on the sofa, to snake a gentle arm around his chest and nuzzle into the back of his warm body.
And that was a fucking problem. Because attachment was not the name of either man's game - after all, wasn't a target of two that much easier to take down than one? Both literally and metaphorically. Particularly for the professional marksmen that populated the sinister, sprawling Lang network.
So when Gulf woke up, they would talk - smooth things over regarding the previous night and that day's events, thank one another for the greatest fuck of their lives, and each go their separate ways.
No more watching him as he trained, no more stroking him as he slept. No, absolutely not. Line officially drawn, Mew nodded decisively...
Yet, somehow, that wasn't quite how the incoming moments panned out.
First, Gulf's phone rang - the footballer leaping up, disoriented, dragged violently from the depths of slumber, and evidently surprised to find himself stretched out on Mew's lap, and under his tender caress. Then the elder watched on as his eyes grew wide, a hand flying to his mouth as he computed Kaownah's words down the line. There had been a major flood on their floor of the apartment block at which they cohabited - he relayed, eyes distracted, to Mew after hanging up the phone. His friend had arrangements to lodge at a reserve teammate's house for the week or so that it would take to restore the flooring in the communal hallways and re-wire electrics throughout. But Gulf needed to find somewhere temporary to stay in the next couple of hours.
And Mew fully intended to say:
"Let me recommend and drive you to a good hotel"
But the words that were actually spoken ended up being...
"Stay here, if you want, for the week until it's fixed"
Yes - Gulf was different. Gulf Kanawut made him forget himself like nobody else. Gulf Kanawut made him want to risk it all. After thirty years of self-control: His exception.