The Grim Lover

The wind brushing against my face brought back memories of a time, probably a year or two ago. It was when P'Fah and I went to the beach together.

 

Mid-October on Koh Kradad (which P'Fah had always spelt 'Kradad' until the day we arrived), a small, little-known island. It's flat, like a sheet of paper, without the hills that other islands have. But that's not where its name comes from; it used to be covered in paper trees, but unfortunately, they've all been replaced by coconut trees. 

 

There are over a hundred deer on the island, and that was one of the reasons we went. P'Fah excitedly exclaimed, "It's like Nara in the middle of the sea! It would be crazy not to go!" Therefore, I inevitably dedicated my limited vacation time to this tiny, nameless island with its deer.

 

It's not like it is here.

 

There, the seawater is clear and blue, just like the name "P’Fah" (meaning sky). The sand is a soft yellow, clean and pristine. A large sun shines at twilight. P’Fah tries to build a sandcastle, but the waves crash over it, engulfing and destroying it every two minutes—a group of deer.

 

They were running after us, chaotic yet peaceful. There's nothing quite like it here, except for the wind that makes me feel like I'm about to spread my wings and fly.

 

I'm about to take flight in a few minutes. Actually, I should have started long ago, but that last glimmer of hesitation clings to my wings, keeping me standing here, letting the wind whip my hair and shirt loose, gazing at the night sky, hoping to catch a bright star before soaring. But all I see is the deepest, most profound shade of blue. 

 

I know there are hundreds, thousands, millions, or even trillions of stars up there, but this crazy city is so brightly lit that it sadly obscures the natural beauty. Many times, I can't help but feel annoyed, even though I know this artificial light is a sign of life and death for many.

 

I thought I wouldn't feel anything anymore, but in reality, fear is still my constant companion. It seems they say that those who believe nothing are already dead. Before, I had a million kinds of feelings and emotions flooding and raging within me, overwhelming and pushing me to where I am. And when I was certain that I no longer wanted this world, those heavy burdens of emotion gradually loosened. Anxiety, anger, loneliness, even sadness—everything I thought was cutting into my flesh faded away.

 

I'm not afraid of regretting this decision. There's nothing for me to regret or be sorry about. Only those who have something in their hands can feel that way, but I don't. I only have myself, worthless, lacking the strength even to force myself to breathe. Therefore, this fear is merely the last remaining instinct of a living being. 

 

When faced with a situation that conflicts with survival, the intelligent tissue in my skull releases fear as a warning, using hesitation as a final desperate attempt to hold me back. I still perceive it vividly, but unfortunately, it doesn't change anything.

 

I looked down. No one was walking by in front of my condo. Of course, it was almost midnight; few people would be out and about. Even the security guard was probably dozing off in his booth. That's why I was relatively confident that no one would get hurt because of me. It may be chaotic, but whatever. It wasn't something I wanted to care about anymore. What happened after I died didn't matter at all, I tried to tell myself.

 

I took a deep breath, probably my fifth. Fear was making it hard for me to breathe properly, so I shifted my gaze from the ground below and looked straight ahead. In front of me was the rooftop of another building across the street. It was an office building. I'd never really noticed it before, and I figured it was too late to do so now.

 

Unless something catches my attention.

 

There's someone standing on the rooftop. Someone I was sure could never have been there, and that's the same person who brought me to where I am today.

 

"P'Fah."

 

No way.

 

That's not him.

 

"Jump."

 

He was across the street, yet I could hear his voice clearly, a whisper echoing in my ears. I even saw the slight, mocking twitch of his lips. He seemed to pity me, knowing I wouldn't dare jump, yet at the same time, he waited expectantly, waiting for my body to plummet onto the concrete below, limbs broken and disfigured, my brain a gruesome mess. He was waiting for my soul and body to be completely severed.

 

This may be a sign.

 

My fear gradually diminished and vanished when I thought that.

 

"P'Fah, are you here to pick up Won?"

 

P'Fah didn't answer, but smiled back. Although it wasn't the same smile I was used to, it miraculously calmed my heart.

 

"Jump."

 

He repeated the same sentence, this time more clearly.

 

"What are you waiting for? Jump, now!"

 

I looked at his face, tears welling up in my eyes, yet a wide, inexplicable smile spread across my lips. I only knew that I wanted to smile, to smile at him one last time as a human being with a physical body to be touched, because after this, I would become dust, weightless matter, without substance, and my name would slowly fade away with time. But as for P'Fah and me, we will be together forever.

 

"Yes," I replied softly, spreading my arms like a bird preparing to spread its wings. 

 

"Wait for me, Won."

 

I closed my eyes and plunged from the top of the building, my heart heavy with a sense of longing.

 

"No."

 

I answered hesitantly, my eyes scanning the report on patients scheduled for surgery tomorrow. My mind was divided into two thoughts: work, of course, and the person on the other end of the line, a matter I couldn't ignore even though I knew it wasn't very smart.

 

"No," I said in a low, firm voice, slightly more assertive than before, when the person on the other end started whining and refused to accept my initial answer. 

 

"Don't be childish."

 

[Why? Because I want you to go.]

 

I sighed wearily. I didn't know how to define this man. Sometimes he was as compliant as a stupid dog, while other times he was as difficult and stubborn as a four-year-old who kept saying "why" and calling for his mother.

 

"I know, and I've said it many times, I don't want to go."

 

[You cruel tofu!]

 

"This."

 

[Bad bastard]

 

"Phi Fah."

 

The person whose name I called fell silent when I addressed him in a serious tone, level four—almost the highest level. But I knew this silence wasn't because he felt guilty. That older man, though physically imposing, didn't feel guilty about whining at me like this anyway. He was just silent, rolling his eyes and mumbling something in a way that mocked my seriousness.

 

"If you roll your eyes too much, you might not be able to reverse the process."

 

[P'Fah didn't roll his eyes.]

 

"You know, the other day a patient told me that he rolled his eyes at his girlfriend behind her back and lied, saying he didn't. Three days later, he felt like someone—"

 

[Ouch! *Rolling, rolling, rolling* I just rolled it once!]

 

I couldn't help but laugh. Cornering this guy wasn't difficult at all. He was the most terrified of ghosts I've ever known. Because of that, anything and everything, just linking it to the supernatural, this coward would spill the beans.

 

[What's so funny? It's not funny.] The voice on the other end sounded irritated. Even though he knew I was intentionally teasing him, he still cowered in fear every time. [P'Fah just wanted you to watch him play soccer sometime. Is that asking too much?]

 

"It's not much, but I don't understand why they want him to go so badly. He can't play football, and he doesn't even know how to watch football."

 

[I wanted you to go and sit and keep watch.]

 

"Is he a child or something? Do I have to sit and watch him while he plays with his friends?" He grumbled childishly, his eyes still glued to the computer screen. I thought something was strange. I don't know if it's because the patient has an unusual condition I'm unfamiliar with, or if the resident doctor who wrote this report just haphazardly submitted the information.

 

[Everyone else's fans are coming, why can't P'Fah's boyfriend come too?]

 

"So, in short, you have a boyfriend just to show off to your friends, huh?"

 

[Fah definitely has more to show off than just being proud, but his boyfriend is totally worth showing off! We rarely get to see each other like this.

 

Knock, knock, knock.

 

"I have to go now, P'Fah, work has to come in," I cut him off immediately when I heard a knock on the door. The person who had been whining and complaining stopped immediately. Even though he often acts like a child, P'Fah never makes things difficult for me at work. He swallowed all his words and replied, "Okay, get back to work. I'll bother you again later," and hung up easily, as if he hadn't been complaining at all.

 

"Please come."

 

I responded, just as the door opened.

 

"Professor, the case I told you about this morning."

 

"Hmm, what's up?" I leaned back in my chair, trying to relax as much as possible, knowing that these residents were quite intimidated (or afraid) of me, even though I hadn't threatened or scolded them at all. Actually, I was the kindest person in the ward. But maybe it was because I wasn't particularly cheerful or smiling, especially when I was low on energy; my face was even less welcoming. That's why they secretly liked to call me ‘Strict Brother.’

 

Which means exactly what it says: "Have you gone to pre-order yet?"

 

"It's all done," the third-year resident said hesitantly. Although her communication was clear, her eyes and body language clearly indicated her desire to leave the room as quickly as possible. "The patient is ASA Class 32, BMI 403, intubated. It was a difficult procedure."

 

"So, what's your plan?"

 

"Let's see how difficult it is to insert. We'll try Ramp Position, Adequate Oxygenation, HFNC for Apneic Oxygenation, and Video Laryngoscopy."

 

1. Pre- or Premed comes from the word Premedication, meaning the administration of medication before anaesthesia. In the context of anesthesiology, it broadly refers to Preanesthetic Evaluation and Premedication, which includes evaluating the patient before anesthesia and administering medication based on the evaluation results.

 

2. ASA Class stands for the American Society of Anesthesiologists Classification. It's a system for categorising patients into groups based on their physical condition to assess surgical risk. There are six levels in total (though in practice, only five are commonly used, as level 6 refers to brain death). This sentence refers to ASA Class 3, meaning the patient has severe underlying medical conditions that significantly impact their daily life, such as hypertension, abnormal obesity, hepatitis, or alcoholism. In the context of anesthesiology, where anaesthesia is administered during surgery, patients in ASA Classes 3-5 are considered significant obstacles to anaesthesia and require careful planning to ensure the best possible surgical outcome.

 

BMI, or Body Mass Index, is a measure used to assess obesity and underweight in adults aged 20 and older. It can be calculated by weighing the patient (in kilograms) and measuring their height (in centimetres) using an obesity assessment program. In this case, the patient has a BMI of 40, which is classified as severely obese (obesity level 3), making intubation during surgery difficult.

 

4. A tube, or in this context, an endotracheal tube, refers to a breathing tube.

 

5. Ramp Position: This positioning during endotracheal intubation involves tilting the head higher, using pillows to support the head and shoulders, so that the external auditory meatus is level with the sternal notch to open the airway.

 

6. Adequate Oxygenation refers to ensuring the patient receives sufficient oxygen to allow tissues and organs to function normally, especially during surgery or procedures involving anesthesia or sedation.

 

7. High-Flow Nasal Cannula (HFNC) is an alternative treatment for patients with respiratory failure or hypoxia. It provides airflow of up to 60 litres per minute, along with humidification and optimal temperature, through the nasal canal. It maintains a constant oxygen concentration, helps remove carbon dioxide accumulated in the nasopharynx, improves sputum drainage, and increases oxygen levels in the body.

 

8. A video laryngoscope is a device similar to a regular laryngoscope but with a camera attached to the end. This allows visualisation of the larynx on a display screen and is useful for patients who cannot use conventional devices.

 

"Prepare tubes of various sizes. Prepare LMA. If it seems like that's not possible, then we'll probably have to use Awake Fiberoptic10."

 

She seemed to need several seconds to catch her breath after spewing out a long string of technical terms. I didn't immediately respond or ask a question, even though I had the words ready in my mind, waiting for her to catch her breath and relax her tense shoulders. I thought a few seconds of silence might help her calm down, but strangely, she seemed even more nervous, and I started to feel like I couldn't breathe anymore.

 

"What if fibre optic cables don't work?" I asked. "Oxygen drop, respiratory support...what else do we do?"

 

"A tracheostomy," she replied instantly, as if a single second delay would cause my claws to swing up and attack her face.

 

"Uh, okay," I nodded slightly.

 

"Huh?" The third-year resident widened her eyes slightly. She looked at me with a confused expression.

 

"That's okay then, just as you said."

She blinked. I guessed she expected me to say more, which I wanted to do, but I honestly didn't know what to say in this situation, since there was nothing left to say.

 

"Or would you like me to join in?" I started guessing about her preferences, thinking that this sentence might convey my concern.

 

"Um... please feel free to do whatever is convenient for you, Professor."

 

9. LMA, or Laryngeal Mask Airway, is a device that helps keep a patient's airway open while under the influence of anaesthesia or unconsciousness.

 

10. A fiberoptic bronchoscope is a coiled tube camera that is inserted into a patient's airway. It is used for examination and to assist in intubation in cases where normal intubation is difficult. In this case, the term "Awake Fiberoptic" means that the device must be used while the patient is awake.

 

But it doesn't help much.

 

"Then I won't go in," I replied calmly. The female resident seemed about a tenth less tense, but she wasn't sure whether it was because she was relieved I wouldn't be entering the operating room or because it looked like she would be leaving soon. "Call me if anything happens."

 

"Yes," she bowed quickly. "Thank you, Professor."

 

I nodded slightly before getting ready to get back to my own work. The third-year resident hurriedly turned and ran towards the door of my office as if this were a dark room for interrogating serious offenders. That kind of behaviour made me feel a little hurt.

 

"Nong Doctor"

 

"Yes...?"

 

The woman stood upright, her back straight, and quickly turned around at the sound of my voice. Her face looked like she'd seen a ghost in broad daylight.

 

"Yesterday's case went very well," I said calmly. I just realised I hadn't said what I wanted to say since yesterday. "You're the only one I feel I can let go of, someone who can be confident in themselves."

Her expression changed slightly. Of course, she still looked like someone who had seen a ghost, but her eyes softened. A calming demeanour swept over her shoulders. Finally, I felt like she was breathing normally again, in a regular rhythm.

 

"Thank you very much, Master."

 

She left with a wide smile that I'm sure I'd never seen before. At least, I was never the reason for that smile. In fact, the only smile I could manage was a forced one. Will I still be seen as a strict older brother in her eyes after this?

 

5:13 PM. I took the elevator down from the fourth floor, my usual floor. Today's workload as an anesthesiologist was hectic, so I left work considerably later than normal. It left me quite irritated, but my emotions don't usually affect those around me much. Whether I'm in a good mood or a bad mood, they'll always interpret it as me being irritable, so there's no need to try too hard to put on a facade (which I never do anyway). 

 

As soon as the lights outside the operating room went out, I quickly gathered my belongings and rushed out. Not just because I wanted to leave work so badly, but because someone was waiting for me.

 

I hurried along without looking to see who I was passing, and in a few minutes, I reached the hospital parking lot. A glance spotted my target. That sight should have made me feel relieved, but unfortunately, I could only sigh deeply instead.

 

Under a tree, there was a narrow walkway occupied by a young man. Even sitting there, he was clearly tall and well-built. He was wearing a fitted black t-shirt, faded straight-leg jeans, black sneakers with white stripes, and a baseball cap the same colour as his shirt, which I'm sure he wore to conceal his messy hair. In his right hand, he held a glass of bright red liquid—undoubtedly red soda with lime. His little finger dangled like a hook, with a bag of meatballs hanging from it. His left hand was offering his drink to a stray dog ​​at the hospital, which was licking it with great enthusiasm, and it was almost certain that there were meatballs there as well.

 

"Have you been here long?" I stopped in front of him. The dog-loving person looked up at me, then spoke with a neutral expression.

 

"Four fifteen."

 

"Sorry, I'm much later than I expected," I said apologetically. I knew he'd arrive on time, but I hadn't even had time to text him that work would be delayed. Or I did have a little time, but I carelessly assumed he'd know that if I was late, it meant an emergency.

 

"It's alright," he shook his head slowly, the blush on his cheeks making me feel even more guilty. Because it meant that it wasn't just the waiting that was making things difficult for him; the hot weather was unbearable as well. And this too: "I have to sit here and keep you company."

 

“Tong?"

 

"Here," he gestured towards the tea-coloured dog, which was now sitting beside him, licking its lips. It gazed at him with sparkling eyes, eagerly awaiting the next treat.

 

"How did you know its name was 'Tong'?"

 

"Set it myself."

 

"Since when?"

 

"It's been a while. We haven't seen each other much," he replied casually, stroking Tong's head as if to show off how close they were. "He always comes to see me whenever he's here. We're really close."

 

"Because it knows that once it arrives, it will get to eat."

 

"You can't be that greedy," his flat voice sounded serious, completely contradicting the content of his speech. This was one of the personality traits that made me think he was eccentric. Interestingly, the operating room nurse recently told me I was like that, too. "Actually, I bought some meatballs for you, but Tong was hungry, so I gave them all to him."

 

"Are you hungry?"

 

"P'Fah was hungry and ate three skewers all by himself!"

 

P'Fah accepted easily, as always. That made me smile uncontrollably. I knelt in front of him, pulled up the brim of his cap, revealing his face fully. Even though his cheeks were flushed and sweat beaded on his face, I still found it incredibly comforting to look at him.

 

He's really handsome. He's ten times too handsome to be sitting here sharing meatballs with a stray dog.

 

"Why don't you wait in the car? Isn't it hot?" I asked, picking up a small packet of tissues to wipe away his sweat.

 

"It's hot, but I can't just sit outside all alone," the handsome one replied. Anyone else hearing him would think he was joking, but as for me? I know nothing could be more serious than that. "Or maybe next time, should P'Fah let me ride in the car with him?"

 

"Do you want to use it, P'Fah?"

 

"kid"

 

He gave a wry smile. I knew he wasn't joking, just testing the waters. If I foolishly gave in and allowed it, next time he'd probably carry his best friend, Tong, up to sit in the air-conditioned car.

 

"Next time, if you have to wait a long time and don't want to sit in the car, you can sit inside the building. Or you can sit in the front, it's within walking distance."

 

"No thanks, I don't want to be around a lot of people," P'Fah said, tilting his head up so I could easily wipe the sweat from his forehead. I pulled his hat up almost off his head and dabbed his hairline with a tissue. It didn't make him feel as fresh as if he'd just taken a shower, but at least it was better than doing nothing. "I've seen enough today."

 

To the people around him, P'Fah might seem like the friendliest puppy in the world, but he's actually my timid cat. He's easygoing, cheerful, talkative, and I think everyone who knows P'Fah says they can easily befriend him, unaware that they're outsiders, strangers to the group—the timid cat befriending them but not intending to bring them into his territory.

 

P'Fah is a celebrity, that's obvious. There's no way someone so good-looking could escape the public's desire. No matter how much they hide or disguise themselves, beautiful things are eventually discovered. So, P'Fah, like a cat in a glass cage, reveals himself naturally while simultaneously drawing a clear line between himself and the outside world from the start. Only a few people are allowed to cross that boundary, and undoubtedly, I'm one of them.

 

"Let's go," I pulled P'Fah's hand, helping him stand up. He turned and waved lightly to Tong, his expression as he said goodbye looking much more wistful than when he dropped me off at work. I was getting a little fed up with that ice-cold, tea-loving guy.

 

"That was tough, the last case," P'Fah said as we drove away from the hospital. The car's cool air conditioning dried his sweat. I told him to take off his hat, but he refused, saying his hairstyle wasn't cool.

 

"Yeah, I'm going to watch over my sister," I replied listlessly, reclining the seat slightly. It was only now, sitting on the soft seat and feeling the cool air, that I realised how tired my body was.

 

"So you missed it?"

 

"The patient is awake."

 

"Oh, that's scary."

 

There's no need for further explanation. Even if you're not a doctor, you can probably guess that a patient waking up during surgery is not something that should happen. And as an anesthesiologist, especially for me, my job is to maintain a balance between the optimal conditions, the surgical procedure, and the patient's safety. Any difficulty breathing, hiccups, slight movement, or increased blood pressure due to pain are considered serious risks. I have a 'worst-case' image flashing through my mind every time this happens, whether it's my own doing or the work of one of the resident physicians I'm paired with.

 

"He wasn't really 'awake,' but the drug was too shallow, so he was breathing heavily and moving around. After that, it was a domino effect."

 

"This is going to be chaotic."

 

"This was tough," I sighed, thinking of the chaos in the operating room. Accidents that occur while the patient is conscious, while not fatal, can still be considered. 

 

The whole team was on the edge of their seats. The third-year resident who caused the problem was completely devastated. As for me, the staff member looking after him, when we walked out of the operating room—not only did he make a mistake, but he made one in a case where the surgeon was fiercer than a Rottweiler—I was the first to handle it. But believe me, the emotional impact was much more on that young man than on me.

 

"Poor thing," P'Fah said, stroking my head (or maybe ruffling my hair would be a more accurate description). "What do you want to eat? P'Fah will make it for you."

 

"Aren't you tired?" I asked, still leaning back with my eyes closed. "Being on set all the time, huh?"

 

"But mine isn't anything special, it's just the same old thing."

 

"What's Aya like in real life? Is she pretty?"

 

"Sooooo beautiful!" P'Fah dragged out the word, making me burst out laughing. It seemed the half-Japanese actress must be truly stunning; otherwise, the cameraman, known to be as stoic as he was, wouldn't be praising her so openly. 

 

"She's even more beautiful in person than on screen. When she was playing the detective, P'Fah thought she wasn't that striking."

 

"So, did the photos of him turn out well?"

 

"It also depends on the photographer's skill, kid," I reached out and lightly nudged his shoulder, feeling a little annoyed. P' Fah's skills are indeed unparalleled, and not just in Thailand. He's a fashion photographer at a level where I sometimes feel like I'm the non-celebrity boyfriend of a famous actor. But even so, his boastful attitude is really irritating.

 

"What a braggart."

 

"Hey! So you think P'Fah isn't talented?"

 

My man, a top photographer, made a grumpy face. Driving wasn't an obstacle for him in his childish behaviour towards me, because besides being a great photographer, he's also good at sulking, P' Fah.

 

He's also a great driver. I never have to worry about his driving, whether it's his skill or safety; he always does a good job.

 

"If you're not good, I don't know who is," I replied calmly, easily giving up. The result was clear; I couldn't argue with him about my abilities. "Just wait and see."

"It'll probably be a long time before it's released."

 

"Do you think I can't wait?"

 

"Just saying it's been a while. Hey! This kid!" The hand that had been resting on the gear shift reached out and squeezed my cheek. He wasn't that gentle with me. P'Fah squeezed and pinched my cheek until my face was misshapen and my mouth was crooked and ugly. When he saw my world-weary expression, he burst out laughing, clearly amused. He does this so often that I'm too lazy to stop him anymore.

 

"These days, when P'Fah calls me 'kid', it feels weirdly ticklish," I said, rubbing my cheek after her hand had pulled away.

 

"Why? Can't I call you?"

 

"Already asked for thirty-two."

 

"Are you saying I'm old?" His gaze remained fixed on the road ahead, but his expression showed no sign of compromise. Ever since turning thirty, P'Fah has seemed incredibly sensitive about age, even though it hasn't changed.

 

"I haven't said a word yet."

 

"If you feel you're not a child anymore, then what about P'Fah, who calls you a child?"

 

"So, is life just about being young or old? Won doesn't think of himself as old yet; he's just not young anymore."

 

"Even someone as young as thirty-two can say that."

 

"So, is thirty-seven really that bad?"

 

"Ouch." It was as if I had just poured boiling water on him. The childish boy groaned and complained when his age was mentioned for the first time that day. I really don't understand P'Fah.

 

Why worry so much about age? These days, he doesn't act his age anyway. He looks much younger than his actual age; no one would guess he's thirty-seven this year if he didn't tell them (he usually doesn't tell anyway). "Why do people have to grow up? I don't want to grow up."

 

"I haven't grown up much these days," I murmured.

 

"It might not be so bad now, but in three years, P'Fah will be forty, and Won will only be thirty-five. Will Won be embarrassed if he has an older boyfriend?"

 

"Forty years old and you're already an old man? What's the rush?" I sighed. "As if your lifespan is forty."

 

"Just thinking about it makes me sad, Fah."

 

"P'Fah, this isn't the first time," I said wearily, feeling both weary and sympathetic towards him at the same time. "When you were thirty, I was twenty-five, and we still managed to get through it without any problems."

 

"But it's not the same...."

 

"And it will just keep going like this, P'Fah. It's natural. I'm even happy to be with you as your age changes, not just from two to three, or from three to four, four to five, five to six. I'll watch it all."

 

My words calmed the grumpy one down. P'Fah didn't argue back; only the corner of his mouth twitched slightly, as if he wanted to smile but was trying to restrain himself. I didn't understand why he did that.

 

"If you want to smile, then smile," I said, drawn out, not thinking my words were particularly impressive. I just said what I thought. But it resonated with the listener. "Did you ever put on a facade?"

 

"That was like you proposing to P'Fah just now," P'Fah said, smiling.

 

"I would have asked," I replied calmly, "if someone else had already beaten me to it."

 

"You're no match for P'Fah in these matters, you little piggy."

 

If you want to know who P'Fah considers his "insider," the easiest way is to observe their nicknames. P'Fah likes to give nicknames to everyone he's close to, several to each person, depending on his mood and their origins. I have so many nicknames that I can barely remember them all. Most of them are food names, like tofu, pork sausage, boiled egg, meatballs, etc. There are so many that new ones pop up every day that I've gotten tired of asking about the origin of each one.

 

"Yeah, yeah, you're good." I didn't intend to beat him in this either. "When the organiser calls, please talk to them."

 

"Sure. He might not be able to communicate with you, but he can communicate with P'Fah."

 

"Fine, next time talk to them yourself. You're just asking for a headache."

 

"That means if P'Fah-"

 

"But you have to ask me first before making any decisions," I said, preempting him, knowing exactly what he was thinking. "And don't include anything weird at the wedding, P'Fah."

 

"I know," he said, drawing out the words, pouting and looking annoyed that I'd seen through him. Actually, he should be used to it by now. Did he think I hadn't learned anything about him in eight years? Right now, I could breathe for you.

Fah's Part.

 

"Okay...take your time."

 

The light flashed periodically, accompanied by a familiar beeping sound. Since getting acquainted with the camera, I've heard this sound at least a million times. It's similar to the sound of a car unlocking and to the sound of Won's condo door unlocking. It gives off a similar sense of excitement, but not quite the same. The vehicle unlocking sound signals that work is about to begin, that I'm about to go home, or that I'm about to see Won. As for the condo door unlocking, hmmm.

 

That means I'll get to meet Won, too. Besides photography, am I only excited about Won? I've never thought about this before.

 

"Okay, that's great. Excellent," I said after checking the final set of images on the monitor. "Wrap up the shoot. You all did a great job. Thank you."

 

I received soft cheers and sighs in response before everyone dispersed to finish their tasks. A Western-looking model came over to thank me and then left with her entourage. The styling team began cleaning the station and packing away the makeup. The lighting crew turned off the lights and started dragging cables to move the equipment, as if they had been waiting for this moment for a long time. I did too. I love photography, but that doesn't mean I don't like rest. I enjoy doing it, but the feeling of accomplishment is just as amazing.

 

"Want to go eat?" A voice called out nearby while I was busy arranging my belongings into a storage box. I didn't need to look up to know who it was.

 

"I'm busy today," I replied calmly.

 

"Are you making an appointment again?"

 

"Why are you making that sound? Are you jealous?"

 

"Please," Oscar drawled, his face contorted in undisguised disgust. Every time he made that face, it made me feel like the world was so unfair. Some people try their best to get the best possible picture, but it always ends up looking bizarre and ridiculous. At the same time, others try to look ugly and surprisingly end up looking good. And he was one of those people.

 

In the fashion world, an Oscar-worthy face is called a "model face." He possesses a captivating beauty unlike most movie stars or online celebrities these days. He's also a great driver. I never have to worry about his driving, whether it's his skill or safety; he always does a good job.

 

His eyes are asymmetrical, his nose is high with a low hump, he has scattered freckles on his cheeks, and his jawline is sharp. Add to that his broad shoulders and height of over six feet, and taking him out for ice cream just once would be something to brag about. And even disregarding the friendship aspect, he's still one of my all-time favourite models.

 

"I understand you really want to have dinner with P'Fah, but please don't make me beg you," I said, zipping up my second camera bag.

 

"Please stop acting so disgusting," Oscar grimaced. "Don't you dare scold me for acting like this?"

 

"If Won is going to be upset about something like this, there won't be a wedding this year."

 

"Hmph," Oscar chuckled. I wondered if he was annoyed, jealous of me, or maybe both. "Or maybe I should come over for dinner. What are you cooking?"

 

"Sorry, but there's no free food today," I immediately raised my hand to stop them. "We have an appointment at the tailor shop."

 

"Wedding dress?"

 

"Yes"

 

"Need my opinion?" the young model asked, his eyes sparkling. Sometimes I feel like he's more excited about the wedding than I am. Does he think he's the groom or something? "I know best what Won is suited for."

 

"Seriously, even if you're a friend, I can still kick you in the mouth."

 

"Oh..." Oscar groaned, slumping onto a chair and hugging the camera tripod as if his heart would break. "I want to get dressed up too."

 

"Huh?" I spun around.

 

"I mean, marrying someone else," he quickly corrected. "Don't be jealous for no reason."

 

"You can't be trusted."

 

"Do you think I'm so bad that I'd target my friend's boyfriend?"

 

"What if we break up?"

 

"Are you going to quit?"

 

"There!" I raised the tripod, while my snake-like friend automatically raised his arm, assuming a defensive stance.

 

"Lay down your weapons!" Oscar waved his hand dismissively. "Just kidding."

 

I slowly lowered my weapon (the tripod), but kept my eyes fixed on the dangerous guy. Even though I knew Oscar would never do something like that, I couldn't help but feel annoyed. Ever since the first year I've been dating Won, he's been constantly praising him, saying how cool he is. My own taste is impeccable, but maybe he doesn't need to be so over-the-top with his compliments. Shouldn't that be my responsibility instead?

 

"You're about to get married, and you're still being possessive," Oscar said, making a face of annoyance.

 

"I'll be possessive until I die."

 

"I really wish I could call the 'Fah' from eight years ago to hear this sentence."

 

I didn't respond, just shrugged, unconcerned that he dug up an old legend and retold it, because after all, it was true, even if it was a rather embarrassing truth for me.

 

"I really can't come eat with you. Maybe next time," I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

 

"Yeah, yeah, go ahead. Do you think I'd make you ditch your tailor shop appointment to have dinner with me?"

 

"Just like I used to do."

 

"But not this time," Oscar grumbled softly. "How could I possibly give Won a hard time?"

 

"It hasn't stopped yet."

 

"Just have manners."

 

The polite person replied in a drawn-out voice, then rested their chin on the camera tripod, utterly exhausted.

 

Seeing that, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the lonely model having to eat alone. What could I do? Right now, nothing is more important to me than the wedding.

 

"Go eat with the kids. They'll be leaving soon," I suggested.

 

"No thanks, I'll go back to my room and order something to eat."

 

"Trying to gain sympathy again, huh?"

 

"If you're going to choose your boyfriend anyway, then don't feel sorry for me."

 

"Okay, then let's go."

 

"Alright!" Oscar exclaimed. I burst out laughing. Though it seemed like a prank, it was really time for me to go. I affectionately ruffled my best friend's hair before gathering everything and leaving the studio.

Won's Part.

 

Days when Fah and I are both free are rare. Almost every time, it's our own effort to arrange things. We have to shift things around a bit to make it work; we wouldn't have any real time together. And those free days aren't usually planned for trips or anything like that. Mostly, we want to be together, really just be together.

 

I placed the supermarket bags on the kitchen counter. Today's grocery shopping was easier than usual because I only needed a few things, mainly ingredients we don't normally use. Since P'Fah would be the head chef for dinner, I used my free time this morning to sneak out and buy everything for him. Of course, the mission went smoothly because P'Fah had an online meeting with an international agency since morning. He didn't have time to ask me why I went grocery shopping alone, even though we usually go together.

 

The quiet in the house made me guess that the other resident had secluded themselves somewhere.

 

Where would he be? If it's daytime like this, P'Fah definitely wouldn't be in the bedroom because he says bedrooms are only for sleeping. So, if he's not watching a movie in the living room, he must be doing something in the backyard.

 

And just as I expected, the first thing I saw was his broad back as I stepped out the door. P'Fah had his own small space tucked away in the garden. It wasn't exactly a greenhouse, but close in structure, though more open and airy. Large trees lined both sides, providing shade. Inside, a long wooden table surrounded the structure, perfect for displaying the potted plants P'Fah diligently cultivated. 

 

In the centre sat a rectangular wooden table, used for anything he wanted to display; today, it held poster paints, various sizes of brushes, and a clear bucket of water the colour of canal water. Beside it, a canvas frame stood on an easel, a wooden chair, and a handsome man intently focused on his brushstrokes, completely oblivious to the sound of my footsteps.

 

P'Fah has a deep passion for art. Actually, I do too (that's one of the reasons we clicked from the first time we met). But he has something more than I. I don't know how to define it with a single word. Sometimes it's like an obsession, an intoxication; sometimes it's like a free spirit; sometimes it's like a core element that binds everything around him together. Perhaps... I should call it faith—the passion P'Fah has for art that I don't. It's a fervent belief, and that's why he can dedicate his life to what he loves, while I choose to devote everything to what I'm good at: being a doctor.

 

I picked up the spare canvas frame and easel that were leaning against the side and unfolded them close to P' Fah. There was no need to sneak or move as quietly as a thief, because as long as I didn't scream or yell, P' Fah wouldn't take his eyes off the canvas. Even now, he doesn't even realise I'm here. P' Fah is always like this when he's focused on something.

 

Once he's engrossed in something, he often forgets the whole world. Or, to put it another way, his entire world shrinks to the size of a canvas.

 

Almost an hour passed, and I finally had his profile in my hands. On my canvas, I had a picture of P' Fah, his brushstrokes touching the surface before him. His expression was relaxed, yet simultaneously serious, as if he'd forgotten everything. It's a shame I didn't include his faded jeans; only his white t-shirt was given its place. Next time, I'll have to try painting his full body. I really like how the waistband of his pants clings to his lower waist and how it reveals a glimpse of his underwear. Painting P'Fah like that might bring me to climax without any other physical stimulation.

 

"Hmm..." Finally, P'Fah's world slowly expanded. He straightened his back, his eyes fixed on his own painting on canvas, before slowly twisting his neck to relieve the stiffness. As he began to rotate his upper body, his gaze met mine as I sat beside him. "Oh!"

 

P'Fah flinched slightly when she saw me staring at her.

 

"Since when?"

 

"It's been about an hour," I replied calmly, dipping the tip of my paintbrush into the washing bucket.

 

"And you won't tell me?"

 

"There's nothing to say."

 

"At least you should have let me know you were here."

 

"Who would dare call?"

 

The photographer frowned, then stood up and gently kissed my head. He hid both hands behind his back, afraid the paint on his hands would stain me, even though I didn't really care.

 

"But this is really dangerous. What if a burglar breaks in, or a snake gets out?"

 

"This must be a big deal," I said, applying grey paint to P'Fah's hair on the canvas. I decided to add a little more shadow to make it look softer and more realistic, like the real thing I touch every day. "Couldn't you try a little less hard?"

 

"I'm trying."

 

"Still doesn't work"

 

"Oh dear..." P'Fah groaned softly, but offered no counterargument. "Oh! You drew P'Fah?"

 

Before he turned his attention to something else instead.

 

"Mm," I responded softly, my eyes still focused on the painting, my hands busy meticulously detailing P'Fah's hair. I did quite well this time. It seems I'm the complete opposite of P'Fah; what I'm best at are things I don't even try to do, many of them.

 

"It's so beautiful," P'Fah said. "You drew me looking so handsome!"

 

"Brother Fah is already like this."

 

"Hee?"

 

"This is P'Fah, the one I want to see every day."

 

The other person was silent as I averted my gaze from the canvas, dipped my brush in more paint, and turned to look at him.

 

"What?" I asked because P'Fah kept staring at me with a strange look in her eyes.

 

"If Won were a woman, we'd have a whole bunch of kids before we even got married."

 

"P'Fah," I burst out laughing. I wanted to smack his arm, but my hands were already dirty. So, I just ended up kicking him in the shin once, embarrassed by his crude joke.

 

"P'Fah has transformed into a handsome dolphin!" P'Fah said, chuckling, as he dodged my kick.

 

"dolphin?"

 

"Remember that documentary we watched together last night? Male dolphins have a high sex drive and can have sex multiple times a day."

 

"But it's twelve seconds at a time, right?"

 

The young dolphin covered his mouth with his hand and widened his eyes as if he couldn't accept what I said, even though he was the one who had brought up the topic in the first place.

 

"That pork sausage is so wicked!"

 

P'Fah came up behind me and hugged me, wrapping his arms around my neck while still being careful not to get his paint-stained hands on me. He hugged and kissed my ear and neck with considerable force; his urge to tease me was truly irresistible.

 

"Is it really twelve seconds, P'Fah?" he whispered in a small voice.

 

"And do you think it's true?"

 

"P'Fah never keeps records. I'm the one who should be."

 

"I've never counted," I answered truthfully, tilting my head to let him bury his face comfortably. P'Fah's prominent nose pressed against my skin. He took a deep breath, as if to inhale every ounce of my scent into his lungs. "But honestly, it wasn't twelve seconds."

 

"Less than that?"

 

"Swear to God, P'Fah," I retorted sarcastically. I heard a soft chuckle from the young dolphin-like man. Of course, he knew perfectly well that twelve seconds was a thousand times short of his usual average time.

 

"I swear," he whispered softly, still busy with the nape of my neck. His paint-stained palms were drying, and he began to trace his hand up my arm. The warmth of his lips as they brushed against the side of my neck sent shivers down my spine. I closed my eyes, trying to suppress the burning sensation within me. I didn't want to reject his touch, but at the same time, I didn't think I should let it erupt now.

 

I heard him laugh again.

 

P'Fah gently nibbled my earlobe while slipping his hand under my t-shirt. His hot palm deliberately brushed against my nipples, making me tense up slightly. I knew he just wanted to tease me, but in my mind, I imagined him sweeping everything off that wooden table, lifting me up to lie in his place, ripping off my cotton pants and the expensive underwear he'd bought me, before filling the emptiness inside me completely. Suddenly, his body, with its full force, made me tremble. The old wooden table leg must have been groaning pitifully. But we were both heartless until the very last second. My handsome man would destroy me, along with this wooden table, without mercy.

 

"Oh!"

 

P'Fah's caresses made my hands weak, the paintbrush slipped from my hand, and instinctively, I tried to catch it with both hands. The brush, stained with grey paint, danced on my hands before finally falling to the floor, leaving my hands smeared with grey.

 

"That's a mess." P'Fah reluctantly pulled away because I'd ruined the atmosphere. He chuckled softly before going to get a damp cloth and returning to wipe my hands, without a trace of annoyance.

 

"I really shouldn't wear it all the time," I sighed, annoyed at myself, noticing the stain on the ring on my left ring finger—the engagement ring that P'Fah gave me three months ago.

 

"It's alright," P'Fah said casually. He knelt in front of me and carefully wiped the stain from the silver ring adorned with a beautiful diamond. It wasn't a huge one like a woman's wedding ring, of course. Wearing a ring like that would look strange to me. Even for a man's ring, P'Fah tried to choose the simplest design possible because he knows I hate anything too flashy.

 

I mean...except for him.

 

"You can wipe off the stains. I intentionally bought a style that you could wear every day," P'Fah said with a smile, gently wiping off the paint stains from my hair. "Besides, this ring is ridiculously expensive. Wear it enough to get your money's worth, please."

 

I laughed, gazing at the handsome man who was five years older than me, and thanked myself. Eight years ago, whatever the reason for my acquisition of him, I was grateful for it all. Because whatever I had lost, I had now received it back a thousandfold, a hundred thousandfold.

 

I love hearing my own laughter when I'm with him.

 

"You wear it every day, too, right?" I asked, looking at the silver ring that looked just like mine on his left ring finger.

 

"Yeah," P'Fah replied, "I wear it all the time. I carry my camera like this now."

 

Without further ado, the photographer struck an unusual pose while holding the camera, one that didn't seem like it would work, but certainly did get a full view of the ring.

 

"Are your friends going to hate you for acting so dramatically?" I said, chuckling, and moved the hand that had just been wiped clean to stroke my boyfriend's head, my affection unmistakable.

 

"That's the main goal," he replied proudly. "Let them be jealous! P'Fah is getting married!"

 

"Are you that happy?"

 

"Of course I'm happy," the groom-to-be replied instantly. "I've waited my whole life for this. I wanted to get married, I wanted to be with the person I love so much until I die."

 

P'Fah spoke with a smile, like a balloon overflowing with happiness. I was really afraid that if he forced himself to absorb any more happiness, he would burst and disappear right in front of me. That would be terrible.

 

"Now that I've found that special someone, I can't wait for the day I can marry you!"

 

I completely understand what he means by "I can't." This is the third marriage proposal since we've been together. I don't even want to imagine how upset this little ball of happiness would look if I rejected him again.

 

"Just be patient. The wedding arch isn't even set up yet."

 

"Don't worry, P'Fah has already booked a colourful balloon arch. We'll definitely have one at our wedding."

 

"P'Fah," I said in a low voice.

 

"Just kidding," he grinned, saying "Just kidding" in his usual cute voice. "There are no colourful balloons."

 

"What if Won says okay?"

 

"That's good, then I won't have to call the balloon shop to cancel."

 

"You idiot."

 

I gently pushed the silly guy's head away before his hand was seized. P'Fah kissed the back of my hand and then kissed the ring he had personally put on my finger.

 

"Don't take off the ring, okay?" he said softly, his expression more serious than before, which I could sense. "Unless you don't love me anymore. If you still love me, you have to wear it all the time."

 

His promises were conveyed through his gaze and warm touch. I felt like we were already married, right here in the backyard, just the two of us. No archway, no witnesses, no priest, nothing but me, him, and two rings on our fingers.

 

A gentle breeze rustled, and the sparrows chirped incessantly. Paintbrushes were stained with paint, the wooden table was covered in dried paint residue, and a bucket of coloured water hung overhead, resembling stagnant canal water. His hands were smeared with dried poster paint.

 

His drawings are from my work.

 

And a painting of a dragonfly on his canvas.

 

"If you say that, then I've lost my chance to take it off," I said.

 

"That's good then," he replied with a smile. "Very good."

 

I'm not sure why P'Fah chose to draw a dragonfly today. He's never talked about it before. We've never watched any documentaries about dragonflies together, and I don't really know much about those insects.

 

But it made me feel a sense of turmoil and change. It may have meant the beginning of my marriage, or maybe not.