The dim glow of the cabin lights cast long shadows over the interior, barely illuminating the sleeping figure beside Arthit. The rhythmic hum of the airplane engines filled the silence, blending with the occasional murmur of fellow passengers.
His gaze drifted downward to the sketchbook resting on his lap, its pages filled with intricate drawings. He had borrowed it earlier, intrigued by the skillful strokes and attention to detail. The notebook was nearly full, each page packed with sketches, leaving hardly any blank space untouched.
As he flipped through the pages, his thoughts began to wander, memories stirring unbidden in the quiet of his mind. It had been a long time since he had seen someone so engrossed in sketching, so lost in their own world of lines and shadows. It reminded him of someone—his mother. She used to draw like this.
She had always carried a small sketchbook and a pencil wherever she went. If she had a free moment, she would take them out and start doodling, sketching whatever caught her eye. She had called it a simple pastime, yet her deep concentration had always betrayed how much it truly meant to her.
Maybe that was why he found himself drawn to artists, pausing whenever he saw someone sketching. Maybe that was why he had kept asking this kid —this quiet, reserved seatmate—to draw scenes from the novel earlier. He hadn't thought much of it at the time, but now, the connection seemed obvious.
Reaching the last page, Arthit closed the sketchbook and placed it gently on Daotok's lap. The music in the shared earbud suddenly cut out, the abrupt silence jarring him from his thoughts.
Assuming the device's battery had died, he retrieved his phone and connected the earbud to it instead, scrolling through his own playlist. He had been listening to Daotok's rock-heavy selections for hours—he deserved a change.
Just as he settled on an oldie, movement beside him caught his attention. Daotok stirred, furrowing his brows slightly as he blinked awake. His expression, still groggy from sleep, settled on Arthit with mild confusion.
"You don't like my music?" he asked, his voice still laced with sleep.
"It's not that," Arthit replied with a smirk. "Just too much rock. Couldn't sleep."
Daotok reached into his pocket, retrieving his phone to check it. Sure enough, the battery had died. Without a word, he plugged it into a power bank, then reclined again, closing his eyes as if the conversation had never happened.
Arthit switched the playlist to something more soothing, a slow classic tune humming through the shared earbuds. He leaned against the window, his gaze drifting over the endless stretch of darkness outside.
His mind wandered, thoughts circling the same familiar paths until movement beside him pulled him back to reality. He turned, catching sight of Daotok's fingers tapping lightly against his knee in rhythm with the song.
"What are you doing?" Arthit asked, raising an eyebrow.
Daotok stilled, eyes flickering open as he glanced down at his own hand.
"Oh... I forgot myself."
Arthit tilted his head slightly. "You play piano?"
"Yeah."
"Really?" His surprise was genuine.
"Yeah."
Arthit huffed a quiet laugh. "You're good at a lot of things, huh?" He shook his head in amusement. "First an artist, now a pianist. What else can you do?"
Daotok exhaled, as if weary of the questioning. "That's a broad question."
"Alright, what other instruments?"
"Guitar."
"Sing?"
"Nope. Tone-deaf."
Arthit chuckled. "Sports?"
"Does taekwondo count?"
"Of course. What belt?"
"Brown."
Arthit smirked. "Really? I'm a black belt." He expected some reaction, but Daotok simply blinked, unfazed as always.
"You don't seem like the type to practice taekwondo," he remarked.
"Yeah."
"But North boxes, doesn't he? Short guys can do a lot."
Daotok frowned slightly.
"What's with the face?"
"No one's ever called me that."
"What? Short?"
He gave a small nod.
"Then I'll call you that," Arthit teased, grinning. "Shorty."
There was no reaction. No annoyance, no retort. Nothing.
"You're not even bothered?" Arthit scoffed. "If it were North, he'd be throwing a fit."
"I'm not North."
"Yeah, I figured," Arthit muttered, slightly disappointed. He had been hoping to provoke something, anything, from the usually unreadable guy.
Even when he had scolded Kram earlier, his expression had barely shifted. With a small sigh, Arthit turned his attention back to the window, letting himself sink into the comfort of his favorite songs once more.
The flight landed in Honolulu, Hawaii. Arthit stepped off the plane, his newly named "Shorty" trailing silently behind him. He hadn't forgotten the other's real name—it just didn't feel natural to call him "Dao" (Star). It felt… weird. North had warned him against messing with people's names, but Arthit decided he wasn't meddling. He was just opting not to use it.
Shorty would do just fine. After grabbing a quick meal—though Daotok barely touched his food— they left the airport. Arthit had arranged to handle everything himself, rejecting the need for a driver or household staff. He had no intention of making this trip more complicated than it needed to be.
"I'll go rent a car. Wait here," Arthit instructed before heading off. By the time he returned, Daotok was still standing exactly where he left him, looking as expressionless as ever.
During the drive to the vacation home, Daotok dozed off, exhaustion evident in the way his head drooped slightly against the window. Arthit didn't think much of it until they arrived.
He parked, turned off the engine, then glanced over at Daotok. "Jet lag?"
A slow nod.
Arthit got out, moving to the trunk to grab the luggage. Daotok followed, reaching for his own bag, but Arthit stopped him. "I'll carry it."
"..."
"Look at yourself first," Arthit added, handing him the house key. "Go unlock the door."
Daotok didn't argue, simply taking the key and heading inside, moving like a soulless body. Arthit watched him fumble slightly before finally getting the door open.
"The room on your left," Arthit directed, gesturing toward the guest room.
Daotok wordlessly obeyed, stepping inside. By the time Arthit placed the bags down and turned back, Daotok had already collapsed onto the bed.
Arthit hesitated for a moment before walking over and flipping on the air conditioning. He left the room quietly, smirking to himself.
Not only did I carry his stuff, but I also turned on the AC. Look at me being considerate. No way Tonfah can complain, I'm not taking care of him now.
At first, Arthit had wanted nothing more than for Daotok to help him search for his mother. Time was of the essence, and the urgency was burning in his chest. But then, as he stood there, a quiet realization dawned on him.
Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing to have a little time to himself. It would give him space to brace for whatever came next. He took in the stillness of the house, every room untouched since his last visit, every item perfectly in place.
Nothing had changed. Not even the faint smell of her perfume lingered. It was as if the house had been frozen in time.
"Direk must've sent someone to clean," he muttered to himself as he opened the fridge. A few items of food. And, of course, a pack of canned beers. He grabbed the entire pack, feeling the weight of it in his hands, and made his way to the backyard.
The air felt different here, more open. This was Mom's favorite spot, the place where she always came to watch the sunset. He could almost hear her laugh, a sound that had long since faded from his memory.
He laid down on one of the foldable loungers, the empty space beside him a cruel reminder of her absence. Sighing, he set the beer pack down, lit a cigarette, and took a slow drag, letting the cool smoke settle in his lungs.
He closed his eyes and let time slip away. The stillness wrapped around him like a familiar blanket. He didn't know how long he was there, lost in thought or perhaps a light doze, but when he finally opened his eyes, the sky had shifted. The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting the world in shades of red, and the automatic lights of the backyard flickered on, illuminating the path.
Footsteps broke the silence, and Arthit turned to find Daotok approaching, his silhouette outlined by the fading light. Without a word, Daotok dropped onto the lounge chair next to him, the tension between them palpable.
"Want one?" Arthit offered, pulling out another cigarette. He handed it over, but Daotok shook his head slightly.
"You're missing out. It's good," Arthit teased, a rare smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.
"I quit."
"Cigarettes?" Arthit asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah."
Arthit shrugged, unfazed. "How about beer?" He offered a can, the sound of it popping open filling the brief silence. Daotok hesitated, but after a moment, he accepted it, taking a sip. His eyes lit up, a faint surprise flickering across his face.
"Good. Really good," Daotok admitted, his tone soft but genuine.
Arthit smirked again. "Of course it's good."
There was a quiet pause before Daotok asked, "Should we start now?" His question, though simple, carried the weight of what they were about to do.
The search for his mother's spirit. A search that seemed to drag on with no answers.
"Let me finish this first," Arthit replied, gesturing to his cigarette, but Daotok didn't argue. He polished off his beer in silence and left, only to return shortly with his sketchbook in hand. Arthit didn't ask questions.
He watched quietly as Daotok began sketching, capturing the vibrant hues of the sunset.
"Got colors?" Daotok asked after a while, breaking the silence.
"What kind?" Arthit asked, already thinking about the art supplies in his mom's room.
"Colored pencils, watercolors, anything."
"I do," Arthit replied, the thought of his mom's collection making his chest tighten slightly. "Let me see that."
Daotok handed over the sketchbook, and Arthit's fingers lingered over the drawing. It wasn't until his eyes focused on the scene that a chill ran down his spine. The image felt eerily familiar. The perspective, the angle.
It was her view, the one his mom always captured in her art. He furrowed his brow, a jolt of recognition sparking deep within him. He stared at the drawing for a moment longer before handing it back.
"Let's go," he said, pushing the unsettling feeling aside. He stubbed out his cigarette, the ashes collecting in the tray, then stood, ready to continue.
Daotok removed his bracelet, the one that seemed to seal his powers, and slipped it into his pocket. His face was hard with concentration as he closed his eyes, searching for any trace of a spirit. But after a long silence, he shook his head, the answer unchanged.
Arthit led him around the house, room by room, each search more hopeless than the last. Each shake of Daotok's head was a crushing blow to his fragile hope. The house felt colder with every step. When they reached his mom's room, Arthit hesitated, his hand hovering over the door before he pushed it open.
Inside, everything was as it had been: neat, preserved, untouched. The silence hung heavy, and for the hundredth time that day, Arthit sighed, but this time it felt deeper, heavier. Daotok stood still for what felt like an eternity, eyes closed, as if he could sense something just out of reach.
And then, as expected, the answer was the same. Daotok's face went pale, his strength seemingly drained. He stumbled toward the desk and collapsed into the chair, his energy completely spent.
Arthit bit back the urge to snap at him for sitting in his mom's chair. But he could see how exhausted Daotok was, so he let it slide.
"Need water?" Arthit asked quietly, his voice betraying the weariness he tried to suppress.
Daotok nodded faintly, and Arthit went to get a glass of water. He placed it in front of Daotok, who took a small sip before slumping back in the chair.
"What about anything else?" Arthit asked after a pause, trying to keep his voice steady.
Daotok's eyes fluttered closed as he leaned back. "Last time, you said you could still feel warmth at Dad's place. What about here?"
"...Yeah, there's some warmth here too... especially right here," Daotok murmured, pointing to the desk. "I think she liked this spot."
Arthit's heart twisted at the words, a lump rising in his throat. "This desk? Why?"
"I don't know. She just... seemed to like it," Daotok answered, his voice barely above a whisper, the energy drained from him.
"Hmm," Arthit muttered, his mind racing. The warmth. The familiar feeling.
Maybe she was still here, in some form, lingering in the place she loved.
But it wasn't enough. Not for Arthit.
"Let me rest," Daotok said after a moment, pushing himself up with great effort. He stumbled out of the room, leaving Arthit alone.
Arthit sank onto the bed, letting his eyes close. It was hard to admit, but a part of him had always believed that his mother was gone. Dead. Just like he and Direk had suspected. But if there was even a small chance that she was out there somewhere, he couldn't let it go. Not yet.
He let the silence stretch on for a few minutes, taking deep breaths as he tried to calm himself. After twenty minutes, he finally accepted it. She wasn't here. He got up, slowly, and moved to Mom's desk.
This was her favorite spot. She'd always loved it here, where the light streamed through the windows at just the right angle. Arthit opened the drawer, pulling out her art supplies.
Neat and organized, just as they'd always been. The sight made something warm stir in his chest, and he couldn't help but smile faintly, even in his grief.
He shuffled through the papers, each one a glimpse into her mind, her heart. Some unfinished, others completed with care and precision. His hand stopped on one particular drawing: a view of the backyard. He stared at it, unable to look away.
It was exactly the same as Daotok's sketch. The exact same angle, the same perspective. It clicked then. The reason it had felt so familiar. His mother had drawn it many times. This was the picture that had stuck with him.
He noticed a small corner of the paper where the color hadn't been finished. His heart skipped. She always took her time with the coloring, adding layers slowly, as if she wanted to savor every moment.
He could almost hear her voice, soft and patient: "It's not finished yet..."
Daotok had been asking for colors. Maybe... maybe it was time to finish this.
☆☆☆☆☆
Daotok groggily stirred awake for the second time that day, feeling the exhaustion still hanging over him. The first nap had been a result of jet lag from the long flight, and the second was after a draining attempt to help search for the spirit of Arthit's mother.
He glanced at the clock, realizing he'd been asleep for almost two hours. As he stepped out of the room, he saw Arthit—sitting on the couch, looking like he was waiting for Daotok to wake up.
"Awake now?" he asked, his voice casual but with an underlying amusement. Daotok sank onto the small sofa, the heaviness still lingering in his body.
"Already falling asleep again, huh?" Arthit teased.
Daotok simply groaned, his stomach growling louder than his exhaustion.
"Is there anything to eat?" The hunger was starting to outweigh the fatigue, and the idea of skipping another meal made his stomach twist in discomfort.
His gastritis was a constant reminder that skipping food wasn't a choice for him.
"Do you know how to cook?" came the question, a lazy smirk on Arthit's face.
"Not really," Daotok replied, shrugging. Cooking was the one thing he couldn't seem to get the hang of. He had tried before, back when his grandmother had offered to teach him. But every attempt was a failure.
The food either came out bland or ruined. It was easier for him to just go out to eat, both for his sanity and his stomach.
"I thought you could do everything."
"Cooking is an exception," Daotok said, sounding resigned. He liked to dabble in many things, but cooking had always evaded him. He had even tried to learn on his own, but something always went wrong. Now, he just avoided it altogether.
"Well, try."
Daotok sighed, knowing he was being pushed into this with no choice. "If you don't, there'll be nothing to eat tonight," came the teasing response.
Reluctantly, Daotok stood and shuffled toward the fridge, opening it to find some fresh ingredients. He glanced back at Arthit. "Why don't you cook?"
"If I cook, the house might burn down."
"Right. Because that's better." Daotok shook his head, grabbing the ingredients. It looked simple enough—he'd just fry an egg. There wasn't any rice, so toast would have to do. It felt more like breakfast, but it would work.
He set a pan on the stove, cautiously turned on the gas, and then set to work toasting the bread. He cracked the egg into a bowl, ready to beat it. But just as he was about to pour the egg into the pan, he realized something crucial: he forgot the oil.
The moment the egg hit the pan, smoke started to rise, the smell of something burning quickly filling the kitchen. Panicking, he grabbed the oil, pouring it in, but it was already too late. The egg was ruined. In his distraction, the toaster pinged, and he turned just in time to see the bread turn black.
Daotok stared at the disaster before him. Half-burnt, half-raw, oil-saturated egg. And beside it, burnt toast.
"Yeah, okay, now I believe you can't cook," came Arthit's voice from across the room, amused.
Daotok nodded, taking a photo of the disastrous meal and sending it to North. He should've asked for advice before. North replied quickly with a long string of laughter, followed by detailed notes on where he had gone wrong, starting with the oil.
"I can't even trust you to make a simple fried egg, can I?" Arthit sighed, looking at the mess on the table.
"Is there any jam in the fridge?"
"There is."
"Then how about bread with jam?"
Daotok chuckled. "Sounds good." In the end, the egg had to be discarded— it was inedible even for him. Their dinner consisted of jam and chocolate spread on bread. If only he'd thought of that first, he wouldn't have wasted time trying to fry the eggs.
As he spread his own jam, Daotok noticed how much Arthit ate. Since the airport, he had been eating a lot, probably more than Easter. Daotok had his own theories about why, but right now, he just focused on the simplicity of their meal.
"Hey," Arthit said, interrupting his thoughts, "can you paint with watercolors?"
Daotok raised an eyebrow, unsure of where this was going. "Yes."
"Would you do a commission?" The question came quickly, and before Daotok could respond, a sheet of A3-sized paper was placed in front of him.
The landscape depicted the backyard, the same view he had sketched earlier. Only a corner of it was colored.
"Why?" Daotok asked, intrigued yet cautious.
"This is a picture my mom painted but never finished coloring," Arthit explained, sitting back down with another slice of bread.
"Are you sure it's okay for me to finish it?" Daotok asked, uncertainty creeping into his voice. It felt strange to be asked to finish something that wasn't his, especially something so personal.
"Yeah," came the easy shrug. "I think she'd be happy if someone helped complete it beautifully."
Daotok's fingers hovered over the paper. It felt like a responsibility, but he also understood the importance of what was being asked. He wiped his hands carefully to avoid smudging the delicate paper before picking it up and studying it closely.
"How much for the commission?" he asked, his professional nature kicking in.
"I'll let you know when it's done," came the nonchalant reply.
Daotok nodded, agreeing. "Fine." His mind began to work, considering the best way to honor the original artist's intent. It wouldn't just be about filling in the gaps; he wanted to preserve the essence of what the artist had started, and with that, Daotok felt a deep respect for the unfinished work in front of him.
"Honestly, there are a lot of unfinished pieces," Arthit added, surprising him.
"Then why only ask for this one to be completed?" Daotok asked.
"Are you planning to finish all of them in one night? We're heading to LA in the morning."
Daotok considered the option for a moment. "You could bring them along and finish them there."
Arthit looked at him, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Too much hassle."
"Not really," Daotok replied with a shrug. "If you only color this one, the other pictures might feel left out."
"Alright, just take care of it for me. Finish everything, and I'll pay all at once."
"Mm." Daotok set to work. He spent the next hour studying the pictures closely, observing the way the original artist had used colors. Every stroke, every choice was intentional. Daotok was determined to match the tone and style, ensuring that when it was finished, it wouldn't just be a random addition—it would feel like part of a bigger picture.
With each stroke of the brush, he found himself not only honoring the work but also helping to complete something that was never finished, something that, in a way, connected him more deeply to the family he was helping.
☆☆☆☆☆
Arthit woke up in the middle of the night, his body still heavy with sleep, needing to use the bathroom. Groggy and disoriented, he stumbled out of his bedroom and made his way down the hall. After taking care of business, he started to head back to his room when something caught his attention—a faint light spilling out from under the guest room door.
He paused for a moment, squinting at the crack of light. Was Daotok still awake at this hour? He probably hadn't gotten a good night's rest yet, having slept all day, or maybe he'd just left the light on. Either way, it didn't seem like a big deal. Shrugging, Arthit made his way back to his room, brushing it off as nothing more than a passing thought.
The next morning, they were preparing to leave for LA. Arthit stepped out of his room with his bag in hand, ready to go, only to find Daotok already sitting on the couch, waiting for him. Without saying a word, Daotok turned to him and handed over a large sheet of paper. Arthit took it, puzzled, and glanced down at the paper.
It was the painting of his mother, now completely colored. He had expected it to be good—after all, Daotok was skilled—but seeing it in full, finished form, surpassed all of his expectations. The way the colors blended, the depth it brought to the image, was nothing short of stunning.
"Wow, it's beautiful," Arthit said, his voice filled with genuine admiration.
Daotok stood up from the couch and handed over another painting, prompting Arthit to look at it curiously.
"Did you finish two already?" Arthit asked, still caught in the awe of the first one. His eyes flickered to the second piece but didn't focus on it just yet.
"No, this one was already colored," Daotok replied simply.
Arthit's brow furrowed in confusion as he looked at the second painting.
"Why are you showing me this one then?"
Daotok's gaze met his. "Do they look the same?"
"Huh?" Arthit blinked, unsure of what Daotok was getting at.
"Does the coloring I did and the one your mom did look the same?" Daotok asked, a knowing edge to his tone.
Arthit fell silent, staring at the two paintings in his hands. Slowly, his eyes moved back and forth between them, and a sense of shock filled him. The colors, the brushstrokes, the way they blended seamlessly—everything was identical. It was as if his mother had colored both paintings herself.
He hadn't expected Daotok to match the style with such precision. His heart skipped a beat at the level of skill and care that had gone into this.
"Damn, how did you do this? It's like my mom colored it herself," he muttered, his voice filled with awe.
Daotok merely nodded. "Mm."
Arthit shook his head, still stunned. "Was it hard to do this?"
"Yeah. Mixing the colors was really difficult and took a lot of time," Daotok explained, his tone matter-of-fact.
Arthit's gaze softened as the pieces fell into place. "Ah, so that's why you didn't sleep last night? You were up mixing colors?"
Daotok gave him a small, tired nod. "Mm."
Arthit didn't answer right away. His eyes were still focused on the completed painting, tracing the details, the subtle layers of color that now brought the image to life. It felt like his mother's vision had been completed exactly as she would have imagined it—every little detail captured perfectly.
It felt whole now, as though the picture had come alive. He handed the paper back to Daotok, his fingers lingering on the edge before he let it go. It seemed right for Daotok to keep it—after all, he was the one who had put in all the work, staying up late into the night without being asked, driven only by his own passion and love for the craft.
Arthit looked at the person standing in front of him, silently admiring him. He realized then just how much Daotok truly cared about painting. The effort, the late hours, the dedication—it wasn't just a task for him.
It was something he loved, something he poured himself into with no thought of rest or recognition. And he had done all of this for Arthit, without hesitation, just to help him. It was a kindness that ran deeper than Arthit had first realized.
"That's just..." Arthit's voice faltered for a moment as he struggled to find the right words. "Amazing."