The familiar bedroom stood unchanged, bathed in the soft morning light filtering through heavy curtains. A large bed with deep blue sheets dominated the space, its edges neatly tucked.
A sturdy wardrobe stood in the corner, its doors slightly ajar, revealing neatly arranged clothes. The side table held a few forgotten trinkets, remnants of a childhood that once thrived within these walls.
This room had been Arthit's sanctuary for as long as he could remember.
There had been a time when the floor was littered with toys, only to be replaced by high school textbooks as the years passed. Now, those books had been packed away, stored elsewhere.
The space had evolved with him, yet despite the subtle changes, it always felt the same—comforting in its familiarity, empty in its absence.
The house itself bore the same contradictions. It was home, even with the missing pieces, the quiet spaces that used to be filled with warmth. His mother's presence lingered here, woven into the walls, the furniture, the very air he breathed. It wasn't a house of sorrow as he once believed. It wasa house of memories, of love, even if they sometimes hurt to recall.
He and Direk had moved out long ago, visiting only once a year. The weight of the past was too much to bear for long. But the truth remained— his mother's final memories were here, with them, and those had been her happiest days.
Last night had been the first in a long time that Arthit had slept deeply.
Since leaving the country in search of her, true rest had eluded him. Perhaps it was the exhaustion that finally caught up to him, or maybe, just maybe, it was the peace that had settled over him after everything.
Crying until the tears had dried, talking to Direk, confronting what he had long buried—it had unshackled something inside him. Daotok's words had helped, giving him the clarity he hadn't realized he needed.
It was like being reborn. Revived from the depths, lighter than before.
Not that pain disappears overnight. Healing takes time. Acceptance doesn't mean the wounds have vanished, only that they ache a little less, that he can stand a little steadier.
By nine, he was up and moving. A quick shower, a light breakfast, and then he found himself drawn to the room that had always been his second home —the music room.
Drumming had been his passion since high school. A love for rock music had driven him to pick up the sticks, and Direk, ever supportive, had soundproofed a room just for him. It wasn't long before friends had caught wind of it, and a band had formed.
They played for fun, writing rough tracks, performing at school and local events. Surprisingly, they had gained quite a following. But like all things, it had come to an end with graduation.
The music room stood untouched. His drum set gleamed in the soft light, surrounded by other instruments Direk had collected over the years. He tried his hand at them occasionally, but his heart always returned to the drums. Checking the set, he found it in perfect condition. Of course, Direk had taken care of it in his absence.
Connecting his phone to the Bluetooth speaker, he scrolled through his playlist, settling on a familiar rock track. The opening chords filled the room, pulsing through his veins. Gripping the drumsticks, he spun them effortlessly between his fingers before striking the drums.
The rhythm took over, drowning out everything else. He didn't hold back, hitting with full force, pouring every ounce of himself into the beat. The music consumed him, piece by piece, until the last note faded and exhaustion settled into his bones. Gasping for breath, he wiped the sweat from his brow, reaching for his water bottle.
His phone buzzed.
[DAOTOK]: No food to eat.
A small smirk tugged at his lips.
[ARTHIT]: Bread and jam are on the top shelf.
[ARTHIT]: I moved it.
[DAOTOK]: Found it.
[ARTHIT]: Or do you want something else?
[DAOTOK]: It's fine.
[ARTHIT]: When you're done, come upstairs.
[ARTHIT]: Second floor, right side, black door.
[DAOTOK]: Why?
[ARTHIT]: You play guitar, right?
[ARTHIT]: Come jam with me.
There was a pause before the reply came.
[DAOTOK]: Okay.
A rare spark of anticipation flickered in Arthit's chest. Playing alone had its charm, but there was something exhilarating about sharing music with someone else. When Daotok arrived, his expression was neutral, as always.
He scanned the room briefly before meeting Arthit's gaze.
"How many instruments can you play?" Arthit asked.
"Guitar, keyboard."
"Show me the guitar."
Daotok said nothing but moved with practiced ease, picking up the electric guitar and plugging it into the amp. He adjusted his fingers, then began to play.
Arthit had expected something basic, maybe a simple melody. But as the solo started, he found himself frozen, stunned by the precision, the fluidity.
"Wow." The word slipped out before he could stop it.
Daotok's skills were a revelation. He hid so much beneath that quiet exterior —his art, his books, his music. Every time Arthit thought he had him figured out, Daotok surprised him again.
"You're really good. Ever been in a band?"
He shook his head.
"Competitions? Showcases?"
"No."
"Never?"
"No."
"You just play alone?"
"Yes."
"What a waste," Arthit muttered, watching Daotok's fingers dance across the frets. "You're this talented, and no one's ever seen it."
Daotok didn't respond, his focus on the guitar.
"So, why do you play?"
"It's fun."
"You play just for fun?"
"Yes."
Arthit studied him. Someone who practiced this much had more than just casual interest. But he didn't press further. Instead, he grabbed his phone,.scrolling through his playlist. "What songs can you play?"
"Quite a few."
He held up his phone. "How about this one?"
Daotok glanced at it and shook his head. Arthit scrolled further, then landed on a song that made Daotok nod.
"You can't play the simple ones, but you can play the hard ones?"
"I practiced it. I like that song."
Arthit smirked. "Alright, let's go for it."
As the track began, they fell into sync. The guitar's intro rang out, and when the drums kicked in, Arthit followed, his movements instinctive. Daotok stole a glance at him, his expression unreadable, but his fingers never faltered.
When the song ended, Daotok spoke first.
"That was cool."
Arthit blinked at him, surprised at the flat delivery.
"The drumming. It was cool," Daotok clarified. "You're really good."
Arthit smirked, raising an eyebrow. "Of course, I'm great."
Daotok barely reacted. Instead, he walked over, pausing before speaking again. "Can I ask for a favor?"
"What is it?"
"Teach me."
"Drums?"
"Yeah."
A slow grin spread across Arthit's face. "Alright. Let's do it."
Arthit shifted, rising from the stool to make space as Daotok settled in, his small frame barely filling the seat. The moment his fingers curled around the drumsticks, something changed.
A flicker of interest sparked in his usually unreadable eyes, a rare glimpse of emotion peeking through the layers of nonchalance. For someone so outwardly indifferent, he carried an intense curiosity, like a quiet flame burning beneath the surface.
Arthit observed as Daotok tapped experimentally against the drum pads, his movements unsure at first but quickly growing confident. He was the kind of person who, once he set his mind to something, gave it his all. It was fascinating to watch.
"Here, let me show you," Arthit said, leaning down beside him. He demonstrated a simple rhythm, keeping his movements clear and deliberate.
Daotok listened intently, his head tilted slightly, absorbing every detail.
There was no impatience, no dismissiveness—just pure focus. Within minutes, he mirrored the beat with surprising accuracy.
Arthit frowned slightly. "Are you a genius or something?" he muttered under his breath.
Daotok didn't respond, merely continued drumming with the same determined expression. His concentration was something else, like he was shutting out the rest of the world. Arthit found himself watching more than he should, studying the way Daotok's fingers moved, the way his lips pressed together in thought.
It didn't make sense. Someone with Daotok's quiet, detached exterior shouldn't be this engrossing. But the more Arthit got to know him, the harder it became to look away.
Suddenly, one of the drumsticks slipped from Daotok's grasp, tumbling to the floor near Arthit's feet. The sound snapped him out of his thoughts. He bent down, retrieved it, and held it out.
"You're holding it wrong. That's why it slipped," he said, noticing for the first time just how small Daotok's hands were compared to his own.
Daotok blinked. "How should I hold it?"
Without thinking, Arthit reached forward, gently adjusting Daotok's grip.
His fingers curled lightly around Daotok's hand, guiding it into the right position. A jolt of awareness coursed through him at the unexpected contact.
Why were his hands so small? No wonder the stick slipped.
"Uh, hey." Daotok's voice cut through the moment.
Arthit jerked his hand back like he'd been burned. "Sorry. I was zoning out."
"Yeah," Daotok replied, his tone as unreadable as ever. He turned his attention back to the drum set, adjusting his grip as instructed.
Arthit exhaled sharply. "Keep practicing. I'll be back."
Without waiting for a response, he strode out of the music room, his steps faster than necessary. The cool evening air greeted him as he stepped onto the balcony, reaching instinctively into his pocket for a cigarette.
His fingers closed around an empty pack. Annoyed, he tossed it aside, but his frustration had little to do with nicotine cravings.
What the hell was that back there? He had seen people play instruments before. He had even taught others. But watching Daotok had felt different. More than admiration, more than curiosity—something else entirely.
His fingers still tingled from where they had touched Daotok's hand. He raked a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath. This wasn't normal.
It couldn't be.
No way. No way in hell.
And yet—
He closed his eyes, but Daotok's image remained. His focused expression, the way he immersed himself in learning something new, the way he seemed utterly indifferent yet completely captivating at the same time.
Shit.
It wasn't just about the drumming. It was the way Daotok carried himself, the way he spoke, the way he listened to music no one else did. Arthit had always been drawn to unique things, and Daotok was unlike anyone he had ever met.
His mind spiraled into chaos. This wasn't happening. He refused to believe it.
But then why did the thought of not seeing Daotok again feel like a loss?
Why did the idea of letting these feelings fade seem like a waste?
His hands clenched into fists.
Damn it. He needed help.
Without thinking, he pulled out his phone and dialed the one person who could talk some sense into him. The line rang for longer than usual before a voice finally answered.
"What's up?"
"Fah, can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
Arthit hesitated, then forced himself to ask. "When you first realized you liked Typhoon, how did you know?"
There was a long pause before Tonfah's voice came back, tinged with suspicion. "...Thit."
"What?"
"That's a weird question, man."
"Just answer it."
Tonfah sighed. "I liked him because he seemed cute and I wanted to be around him. Something like that. Why?"
"Cute?" Arthit repeated incredulously. "What does 'cute' even feel like? I've never understood it."
"Wait," Tonfah said slowly. "Is this about you?"
"Hey! Why do you think it's me?!"
"Because you sound like someone having a crisis." Tonfah snorted. "Who did you fall for?"
Arthit groaned. "You idiot. Tonfah, you're too perceptive."
"So it is you."
"Shut up!"
Tonfah laughed. "It's Dao, isn't it?"
Arthit's silence was answer enough.
"You've been spending a lot of time with him," Tonfah mused. "And you were acting normal before that."
"Yeah, it's Shorty," Arthit admitted, rubbing his temple. "But I don't think I like him. No way. Definitely not."
"Oh, really? Then why did you call me?"
"...Shit."
Tonfah chuckled. "There's no rule that says you have to be a certain type of person to fall in love, you know."
Arthit swallowed.
"Then answer me this."
"Go ahead."
"Do you prefer having him around or not?"
A long silence stretched between them. Then, finally, a sigh escaped Arthit's lips.
"Fah," he said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"I think I like having him around more."