“ANGEL”

What would you do if you only have a few hours left to live?

That is the question Billkin, a business journalist has given himself when he decided this world is no longer worth a breath. After years of digging up the rotten realm of economical schemes run by those financial dictators, the 29-year-old has concluded that nothing can convince him about the beauty of this world anymore. To him, such cliche thing doesn’t exist, or at least, not for him. What’s the point of continuing this life when living is already a waste of time? And so he has plotted an early retirement for himself, more like, an ending.

He has already wrapped up his work at the publication house. His boss didn’t like the idea of him resigning, but also has never asked if he was well being the pen that unfolded the filthy currency strategies of the National Bank, nor did he care about Billkin’s nausea caused by the built up disgust while writing up on the control of the evil corporations driving the working class into abysses of debts. Mentally, he wasn’t doing alright, and he still isn’t.

His mom is battling critical Alzheimer and cannot remember him anymore, but he can never forget how his heart shattered into pieces that day when he visited her at the nursing home and she looked at him as if he was a stranger. It’s a feeling so painful and haunting that took him all the strength in the universe to not collapse and sob on his all fours right in front of the nurse who took care of his mom. His mom is his only hope left to cling onto this cruel world, yet she can barely recall his existence anymore. And so once again, it reaffirms his choice of ending his life.

It’s gonna happen anyway, for anyone, sooner or later.

That’s what he told himself on the morning of the day he believes to be his last hours on Earth.

He just came back home from the usual twilight walk in the park near his place, where he roams everyday under the falling leaves of the craggy trees. The grey sky and the howling wind make it clear that a huge storm is on its way. As much as he would like to stop breathing on a dry night, at least the thunder would be louder than his own fear of swallowing all the sleeping pills. He just made the payment for his mom’s residence at the nursing center several days ago, ensuring her living there for another year, and done filing insurance documents that would transfer all his assets to her after his passing.

And so he has only one thing left to do: trying something he has never tried before, and he has 6 hours to cross it off his list.

—

The former journalist stops and stares at the flashing neon sign ironically curved into letters that says ‘Heaven’, a strip club ranked #1 with a lot of recommendations from *************** forums. Billkin thought, for a second, if all those religious lectures are true, he might as well end up in hell for all the sins he has caused, especially for the pills he is going to devour later tonight, so why not experiencing heaven before leaving this damn world? Moreover, it is really the only place where he can find a little bit of excitement and curiosity without having to entangle his mind in complicated thoughts. He does not want to think too much during these few hours left of his life, nor does he want to spend them alone.

He has booked a room for himself, with the earliest private section served by one of the most loved performers named ‘Angel’. He will not need this money after hitting the soil anyway, so why not just spend it on someone who is guaranteed to do their job well?

After checking in with the receptionist lady in the lobby, he follows her to a room where the word ‘V.I.P’ is carved and coasted with a shiny golden layer of metal onto the heavy timber door, as if the owner of this club would like to announce to the world that whoever sets foot into this room is worth a fortune. He snorts at the thought of anyone who comes here probably looks for the most naked necessity – lust, while still trying so hard to declare their status, which appears ridiculous to him.

The receptionist pours him a glass of wine and politely asks him to wait for the performance, before she closes the door and finally provides the privacy he booked for. In front of his seat on the wide, leather couch is a ******all stage designed with chromic floor and pinkish violet neons run along the edge of the performing zone. It is also the only source of light of the room, looking a bit dark compares to his imagination of ‘heaven’. In the middle of the stage sits a transparent chair that absorbs the color from the neons nearby.

While getting lost looking at his own blurry image on the stage, wondering again whether it is a good choice to be here, just hours before his end, a deep, slow aroma of frankincense and cinnamon, mixed with a touch of ja******ine hit his sense. And the music plays, announcing the beginning of the play.

In the unhurried, echoing tune of the song playing in the background, the dancer makes his way onto the stage with a sparkling half-face mask. Judging from his booking, this must be Angel, Heaven’s most loved performers. He is dressed in a sleeveless dress shirt and trousers, both made of printed rosy organza that nearly changes the color in every movement. The fabric is almost see-through, making Billkin quietly thanking the low light condition for not revealing blood rushing to his face and turning him into a tomato.

Angel walks barefoot to the center of the stage before settling onto the chair and and start moving his body to the melodies echoing inside the room. At first, his moves begin with even and ******ooth motions, running his fingers along the curves of his neck and down to the curves of his thigh peaking under the layer of organza, but as the music gets more intense with the join of different instruments, his moves ******oothly shift from a sustained speed to a sharper one, while maintaining eye contact with the VIP audience him at the very end of the stage. At one point, Angel turns his back on the guest and percussively rips the shirt off, revealing the fair skin underneath. The light reflecting from the floor onto the slender curves of the performer leaves his audience dry in the throat and a stiff in his pants.

When he turns back, Billkin silently gulps at the tiny shiny rings pierced into one of Angel’s rosy nubs. With the help of neon light and sweats, Angel seems gleaming and unreal, so much that the VIP audience doesn’t recall seeing such beauty before in his life, left alone getting drunk with this view from such a close distance. He is slowly convinced why this is the most beloved dancer of the place.

Angel seems to have noticed the amazed look on the face of his guest, so he drops on his all fours and slowly crawl to the end of the stage, where they are only an arm length away from each other, and get ready for his most special move.

He sits up facing the guest, who is now trying his best to hide the painful swollen mess inside his beige khaki pants. Without a word, Angel opens his laps slowly, and rips away the trousers as well, leaving only a tight leather underwear sticking to his body. He can see his guest is enjoying the view so much, that they haven’t blinked once while he slithers onto their laps, brushing his bare skin against their fully clothed figure. He can hear the guest’s heart beating violently against their chest, and Angel giggles at the stiff body he’s dancing on.

“First time?” whispers Angel into the ear of the guest between his moves.

“So-Sorry.” babbles Billkin, who’s been forgetting how to breath since Angel landed on his thighs. He cannot takes his eyes off the rosy lips ******iling at him right under the edge of the mask.

“Relax.” comforts Angel before he grabs the guest’s hands and place them onto his waists. He rarely lets the audiences touch him, but the one tonight is cuter than he’s expected, so what’s the harm in toying with them a bit. The palms positioning gently on his skin is also warming him from the stupidly cold temperature of the room, so for the first time after a long while, Angle is enjoying his job at Heaven.

He turns his back on the guest, pushing himself further down and pressing his lower cheeks firmly against their thighs, before turning back, facing the audience once again. There’s something familiar in tonight’s guest that Angel cannot tell yet, but unlike most of his audience, who are usually greedy of his flesh and always end up touching him without consent, the one he’s performing for tonight is well-mannered and polite, which gives Angel a sense of safety that he appreciates.

Angel wonders, if he should give this good guest a bonus. So he whispers again into the redden ear of the audience, making sure it’s quiet enough for only both of them to hear.

“Want a gift?”

His guest gulps, and nods slightly.

“Then close your eyes.”

Angel whispers again, running his fingers along the sharp jawline of his audience before removing his mask. He teases the guy with short ******ooches on his neck at first, but eventually moves up and traces their lips together before forming a wet but gentle kiss. His hands places firmly on the toned chest of his audience, while the other moves his hands to the back of the dancer, shielding him from falling off as the kiss keeps getting deeper and deeper, with both tongues playing back and forth inside each other’s mouth, intertwine in a mix of peachy and minty flavored from Angel’s lip gloss. Both only let go when they remember breathing is fundamental.

Billkin opens his eyes and receives the sight of the face uncovered by the sparkling mask. It’s not a spotless, perfectly sculpted beauty, but an anomalous and unpredictable charm that spears sharply into one’s heart and scars it forever with its unforgettable appeal. The neon behind the dancer’s back wraps his curves in a purple aura that compliments his features even more, with eyes reflecting the lights making them gleaming the depth of the astronomical sky, even though somewhere in both irises, melancholy is peaking through. But, what’s stopping Billkin’s heart are the moles scattering randomly on the other’s face, that reminds him of somebody he used to know. Subconsciously, he wonders out loud.

“Krit?”

The satisfied ******ile on Angel’s lips immediately fades away after hearing that word from his guest. He frowns so hard his eyebrows nearly meet, but he thought the music was acting up and giving him weird noise, so he questions back to make sure it was just a meaningless sound.

“Excuse me?” murmurs the dancer at the unbelievable word from the guest.

“Krit, is it you?” reasserts the guest once again, not less confused than the dancer.

As the words escaping from the guest’s mouth, Angel’s face turns pale with fright and extreme anxiety, his dry throat stuck with speechless sound as he finally figures out why the person he’s lap-dancing on and kissing just now looks unusually familiar – this is his mother’s godson and his childhood playdate.

—

When Billkin steps outside, the hissing rain was whopping against the glass windows of the cars parking nearby. He’s tarrying under Heaven’s tiny curvy proof to wait for Angel, or Krit, as in his blurry memory. They used to be playdate every weekend when their moms visited each other. The ladies were so close, that Krit’s mom took him as her godson, until one day when Krit moved away with his family, breaking all contacts and never found their way back anywhere near Billkin’s home. They were both 12.

After the absurd reunion earlier, Krit was furious and Billkin was asked to leave immediately. When Krit disappeared into backstage, the sweet flavor from their kiss was still dancing on the tip of his tongue and his heart was still thrashing unquietly against his chest. The former journalist is excited to meet his friend again, but there are a tons of questions dragging inside his mind, and the only person that can resolve them now is Krit. He has about 3 hours left before leaving this world and he doesn’t want to go down the hole with this confusion. At least not after that kiss.

“Why are you still here?” a soft, but passive aggressive voice tears him off his thought.

Krit is standing at the exist, a few steps away from him, in the same outfit he rips off his body earlier during the performance. He has a few more shows waiting for him tonight, or so he thought.

“Hey…” awkwardly greets Billkin as he cannot come up with a proper answer. “I just… want to talk.”

“You paid for the service, I provided and it’s done. Now leave. I gotta work.”

The decisive response from the dancer still throws him off-guard, even though he has sort of foreseen its occurrence from Krit’s annoyed expression. At this point after so many years apart, it makes sense for Krit to be angry with him trying to linger around, but Billkin really wants to know what happened through out all those years, to his godmother’s family and her son’s bright ******ile, and most of all, what made Krit end up here in the name of Angel.

“I already paid triple to clear your schedule for tonight. And I just want to talk. I promise it won’t be long.” explains, but nearly begs the former journalist. “Please?”

The dancer looks at the long lost friend in front of him, whose shirt is already dam standing on the verge of the heavy rain. In the dim atmosphere of the night, he can feel those eyes awaiting for his agreement. He is still displeased at the thought of this person turns up out of nowhere and trying to pay exclusively for his time, but the trembling shoulders and the shoes soaking in rain water are telling him to just say yes, or else Heaven might end up having a dead man in front of its door.

—

The former journalist dashes in first to hide the pills lying by his reading table when Kirt was occupied taking his boots off. It’s unnecessary for his friend to know about his original plot. The encounter tonight is already off his design and another twist is the last thing he needs.

“Nice place.” commends the dancer while drying himself with the fluffy towel from his friend. The yellow light from the living room is embracing both of them with its warm hands and brushing away the freezing stroke of the first Autumn rain.

“Here, go change into dry clothes, or you’ll catch a cold. Bathroom is on the left.”

As Billkin hands his friend the neatly folded clothes, he dashes into the kitchen before Krit can say no. He honestly does not want to bother the house owner with these errands, but it is true that the light from the living room and the towel are not enough to stop his silent trembles.

“So, what are we talking about?” questions the dancer when he’s done with the changing, now leaning against the couch with arms crossing in front of his chest, waiting for the long lost friend who’s insisted on this conversation to open up first.

As the question is raised, Billkin looks up from his howling boiling kettle to meet Krit, in his own clothes. The white sweater’s sleeves are too long for his hands, swallowing his palms under its soft fabric and the trousers he’s wearing are also too oversized for his own figure. Only now the former journalist realizes just how skinny his friend is, a tender slenderness that makes him almost go protective thinking of any guest who will watch the performance after him. But he quickly gathers his mind after realizing he’s been staring at the dancer for too long it’s getting rude.

“I just… wanna know how you’ve been all this time, since you moved away and we lost contact.”

“Ah, that…” murmurs back the friend with an melancholic and grieving undertone, followed by a lengthy silence. He settles himself onto the end of the grey couch with both palms tucked under his thighs. He shivers. His hands and feet always remain cold, even with these oversized clothes covering him from head to toe. “My mom already passed away 5 years ago.”

Billkin seems to have recognized the unsureness in his friend’s voice. As much as he cares about the person sitting in front of him, he understands precisely how suffering it could be to talk about something that disturbs a person’s emotions. And so he hands Krit the mug of hot cocoa while also settling himself onto the couch. He makes sure the gap between them is far enough to not leave his friend feel invasive in this strange place, but still close enough to let the other know that he is willing to listen to anything he’s willing to share.

“I’m sorry. If you don’t feel comfortable talking about what happened, then you don’t have to.” reassures the former journalist. “How are you now? Do you mostly go by the name…”

“Angel?” Krit giggles out loud at his friend trying to address his stage name outside of work, stuttering out of shyness just like back in the club’s V.I.P chamber. It is not quite a bad idea to reunite with his playdate in this situation, especially when he is not pushed to trace back to a past still full of grief that he has no intention lingering in. He continues, still with a ******ile on his face. “Krit is fine.”

The atmosphere finally stretches out after a couple of sentences and chuckles in between. Krit is more relaxed knowing his friend isn’t holding any judgement against him and his occupation. He opens up more about his training to become a professional dancer, and his job at the club pays well enough to maintain his daily expense and tuitional fee. Though sometimes working late hours exhaust him, but on that stage, he can practice and gets paid. And the club is strictly limited to performing. Anyone who can’t keep their hands to themselves and get touchy without dancers’ consent can be dragged out of the door without refund.

As the dancer giggles and loosens up about his current life, Billkin finds himself dumbfounded. Those were the prettiest giggles he was given to, and it feels relieved to see his friend comfortably expressing his passion for dancing. Only now in this warm light, he has a chance to appreciate this friend up close. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy the performance earlier. Angel was skillful, impressive and awarding, but seeing Krit as Krit, for him, is nothing but content. And he can’t help but acknowledge, the last time he felt this worry-free was so long ago he couldn’t recall the reason.

Both men have been fond of their own endless conversation to only notice the time when the clock by their couch beeps 11.00PM. Not only the rain hasn’t stopped, but it seems to have gotten heavier with wind shrieking outside of the window.

“It’s so late already. I should leave.” says the dancer, with a reluctance in his voice. He has enjoyed this reunion more than he thought, but it’d be rude to keep bothering his friend at this hour. The taste of their kiss earlier is coming back to his mind as he is reminded how thoughtful Billkin was through-out their conversation, and how it gives him a sense of safety staying by this person’s side. But after all, they were just playdates, there is no reason for him to stay any longer, even when he wishes to.

As he gathers his stuff and get ready to leave, the former journalist asks without hesitation.

“The rain is still pouring down. Do you want to stay here tonight?”

—

Billkin tosses around on the couch, finding it hard to close his eyes. He has insisted Krit to take his bed and now trying to sleep with that decision.

He takes out the plastic bottle which has been in his pocket for a while. In the dark, its label is hard to recognize, but he knows exactly what pills it carries. All of the tablets inside are part of his plan, which now has been delayed due to the unexpected reunion. Tonight was supposed to be the last night of his life, but as he has asked Krit to stay, he doesn’t want to leave his friend in trouble next morning.

Another day.

He snorts at the thought of extending his time on this Earth. Still, he is glad the last person he ever encounters can possibly be Krit, his pretty, talented friend with the pretty giggles and a dream to chase. But then, the sudden unlocking sound from his bedroom makes him tuck away the bottle quickly.

“I can’t sleep alone on a strange bed.” exclaims the dancer as he climbs onto the couch and nest himself neatly next to his friend, face resting on the other’s shoulder.

With Krit warm figure laying by his side on the narrow space, Billkin can feel all the blood in his body is streaming up to his face. He adjusts himself a bit to give his friend a better spacing and to hide the embarrassingly thumping sound inside his chest, but the attempt only pushes them closer.

“Old habits die hard?” wonders out loud the journalist as the current position awaken reminiscences from his younger days, when both of them would spend the weekend together while their moms meet. At the end of the play, his friend could never fall asleep by himself. But now, at this distance where their faces are only one palm away from each other, the most vivid reminiscence rewinding in his mind is their melty, minty kiss at Heaven.

Silence slips onto them restfully without a force to speak, allowing Krit to keep his eyes closed while listening to the thumping beat dancing on the top of his friend’s chest, a sound that tells him the other one is as fervent as he is, but at this stage, any further motion may just be too skin-deep. The dancer is not less nervous himself, especially with a favor, which he hopes, with all his heart, that his friend will agree to give.

“Kin, do you think you can… take me to your mother?”

—

—

After the question last night, he has agreed to let Krit meet his mom. The former journalist was reluctant as first, but not because he did not want his friend to meet her, but because of his own fear of facing his mom again after having decided to never come back. The last time he visited her was already three weeks ago. He stays updated on her condition once every two days, but after a long while not facing this issue, it’s not easy to step in there again.

The ponderous rain yesterday has done the air of Bangkok a good deed. It must have cleansed out all the dust clogging the air since Summer, and returned a tranquil, placid look to the streets of this city, or it’s just a change in his vision and thoughts when he finally sees Krit waiting for him in front of the nursing home when the taxi slowly pulls over to the side. Through the glass window of the car, the familiar slender figure is a lull to his messy mind, just like what the rain last night did for the heart of this city. His friend waves at him with a blithe ******ile that somehow eases the uncertainty in his steps into the nursing home.

“How do you know my mom likes these?” asks the former journalist when his attention landed on the ******all bouquet of pink roses in Krit’s hands.

“I don’t. I just know my mom used to love having these at home when your mom came by, so I want to bring these to her, as a reminder of their friendship.”

On the blush petals of the flowers, another reminiscence from his younger days has comeback. If it wasn’t for his friend’s attentive memory, he would have forgotten there used to be times like that in his life as well.

Not only until Krit slightly pulls the hem of his shirt that he realizes they are already standing in front of her room. Surrounded by four walls of pink roses pattern, his mom is sitting alone on her green chair by the window, where trails of sunshine is brushing through her grey hair. The rain last night must have also weeped through this place, leaving its long trace of water flowing down the glass surface. She frowns at the men standing by her door, then utters out loud.

“Who is it?”

Before he can answer, Krit has already stepped towards where she is, placing the bouquet on her table and kneeling down by her seat. He gently grasp her hands and caresses her skinny fingers while looking back into her wrinkled brown eyes.

“Good morning, I hope you still remember me.

Her eyes stop trembling the moment they meet his face, as if his presence has brought back a memoir that she’s been keeping away in the deepest corner of her memory.

“Claudine? Claudine, you’re back to me! My love!” The lady cries out with tears streaming down from her delightful eyes. She squeezes his hands and bends down to embraces him with all the strength that time still spares her. She brushes his hair and places softest kisses onto his cheeks, nesting his face in between her palms and gazing at him as if she has finally found her forgotten treasure.

“I’m sorry. My mom has passed away a few years ago. But I’m sure she has never stopped loving you.” exclaims the dancer, who has settled himself on the chair next to her and has still hold her hands for a while, before showing her a humble photograph that has faded with time. “She has always kept this in her diary, with notes written on the back of it. Do you want me… to read it to you?”

The old lady slowly moves her gaze to the photograph, which carries the image of two women looking at each other with mellow ******iles and hands interlacing. Both have a bud of pink rose upon their left chest, close to where their hearts are. She caresses the faces on the photograph, then humbly nods to let Krit know she is reading to listen.

Krit squeezes her hands once more, before reading to her the faded hand-written message.

 

My dear Chermarn,

I don’t know if we can ever meet again.

But know that my heart is yours, always, unchanged.

 

-Claudine

 

—

The former journalist is still gathering himself after the event at the nursing home. All this time, he has always thought they were just really good friends. His mom were always so joyful when Krit and his mom came over. She would spend hours cooking the best food, humming her favorite songs, or even put on her favorite dresses and necklace, a joy he rarely saw sparking in her eyes whenever she was with his dad.

Even though he knows she would soon forget what just happened, he thought it was best for her to keep the photograph Krit brought over, along with the pink roses that she couldn’t take her eyes off when they said goodbye.

He peeks over to check on the friend sitting next to him on the ride home, whose eyes are still affixing on the moving surrounding outside of the car window. He can feel the silent melancholy wrapping its invisible arms around his friend when not a single word has been voiced since they left the nursing home. And so he moves a bit closer to his friend, then slips his hands onto the other’s cold hands, giving it a firm press and caresses the other’s fingers in hope to warm them up, as well as the grief his friend is trying to embrace.

They both remain silent on the rest of the ride, until they part ways at a station near Billkin’s home. As much as he wanted to ask if Krit wanted to come home with him, he thought the invitation would be irrational considering their status.

The former journalist finds the bottle of pills still tucked under the couch when he was resting after a long day. He realizes just now, he hasn’t thought of this plan at all for the past hours, and it doesn’t feel so bad. Anxiety once again hits him out of nowhere about what he will continue to do if this stage ever passes.

You can do everything right and still feel sad at night.

He whispers to himself. For the first time ever, he thinks of getting help, because of the bliss shining upon his mother today, which he hasn’t seen in such a long time. He is still astounded by the power of true love on his mother, and now, to him, when he cannot get Krit out of his mind.

They just parted a few hours ago, and he already misses his friend so bad it suffocating. The taste of their kiss slowly makes it way back to the top of his tongue, vividly. He looks at his fingertips and recalls the soft skin that he was lucky enough to hold. It would be a lie to say he didn’t want to sink his lips deep onto the collarbones right under his friend’s slim neck, but he doesn’t feel right thinking about his friend that way, even when the obvious hardness inside his pants is saying otherwise. And then his phone rings of a new call when he was shaking himself off the inappropriate thought.

“Hey.” answers the man who is trying his best to clear his voice.

“Hi.” chuckles Krit at the seriousness of his friend. He continues after a short pause. “Thank you for taking me to your mom today.”

“I think she enjoyed your visit too.” replies the former journalist with a thorough appreciation for his kind friend. “So, thank you.”

They both keep silence after that to listen to each other’s thoughts and breathe, before Krit finally speaks up, with a certain nervousness in his voice.

“I have a showcase performance at the academy next week. Do you think… you can make it to the show that night? I was told that I can bring a family member, or a friend. I-I mean, if you’re busy I totally understand. You can say no-“

“Hey, I’ll be there. Absolutely.”

He quickly response with definiteness, as if he is afraid Krit could change his mind any second. The man himself has never felt more certain in his life.

—

—

Krit waves at the familiar figure making his way up to the stage to congratulate him after the successful showcase, with a bouquet of pink roses. The dancer throws himself into the sincere open arms of his childhood friend. The embrace feels so kind, sincere and warm that none of them wants to let go, but when his stomach growls of hunger after a 2-hour performance, the former journalist giggles at the embarrasses expression of his friend.

“Would you like some Japanese food? I know a place.”

The dancer nods in pure excitement. The preparation for the showcase has stressed him out so much that he hasn’t been able to eat properly, so food is the best idea one can offer him. But more importantly, he hasn’t met Billkin in nearly a week, and he longs for his friend so much, that if the friend didn’t ask him out, he would have found an excuse himself

They spend the next couple of hours dining out in a hideaway Japanese restaurant. The dishes are amazing, but what’s keeping the exploding appetite for both of them is how they are obviously yearning for loving gaze and touches every time one’s thigh brushes accidentally against the other’s.

“Are you going home now…?” asks the former journalists when they are both standing at the taxi point waiting for the next ride.

“I think…” replies the dancer with hesitance. “Unless something comes up-“

“Would you like to come over?”

The former journalist finally gathers himself to speak up. He knows he misses his friend’s body a lot, but most of all is his sweet presence around him. It calms him down in a way that he feels safe enough to confess his thoughts. Still, it’s inevitable to feel nervous waiting for an answer. But again, his attentive friend has noticed his anxiety and quickly grasps his hand, interlacing their fingers to each other’s as a silent signal for agreement.

Their ride home has never been so lengthy. Even with their knees rubbing against each other and hands never let go, the seats are just not close enough. So as soon as the car pulls over and payment is done with an innumerable amount of change they leave to the driver, they giggles in between kisses, from the moment they drag each other into the lift to the hall that leads to the former journalist’s house.

The door hasn’t even closed yet when the dancer runs his fingers through the thick hair of his lover, and takes in the sight of the man who’s also gazing back at him with eyes full of affection while pinning him to the wall. Between breathes, he places slow and soft kisses on the other’s forehead, down to the top of his nose and finally giving gentle brushes to their lips, before both ecstatic tongues find their way to each other as fast and robust as two opposite magnetic poles.

His lover is no less eager with his hands guided to embrace the ******ooth skin underneath, this time with much more care and yearning. Billkin re-explores the curves of Krit by running his fingers along his backline, before moving his hands back again to his slender chest, finding the noticeable shape of a hard nipple carrying a cold metal ring. He pulls it slightly to give his man a boost, which he wasn’t sure at first, but then all uncertainty is washed away once Krit gives out a loud moan into their kisses and grinds his hardness even more sturdily against his.

“K-Kin! Not fair!” giggles the dancer in hazy vision as he can feel the electric effect when his ring is flicked, sending him to the next level of yearning for his lover’s body. He grips onto the person in front of him and pushes them even closer to each other.

“But you like that, don’t you?” whispers Billkin into the dancer’s reddened ear while pulling the ring some more times and suck hard onto his collarbone, leaving a bold crimson mark on the fair skin before undressing his top completely, revealing a body glittering in heat and sweats with a blushed color of skin, in contrast to the dark grey couch they are settling on.

But Krit doesn’t answer. Instead, he bends down and sink his teeth onto the moving adam’s apple of the man in front of him, as a loving punishment and reward for driving him frenzied unexpectedly. Still, he finds his ways back to those lips to relive the appetite.

They can both feel each other’s length is also growing nonstop to the point where both of their pants are getting annoying. And so they both undress the rest of any clothe still lingering on, exposing the rawest, truest forms of their emotions: vulnerable and yearning for each other’s embraces. They clash into each other again, pressing their chest against the other where both hearts are beating so intensely with a force that might bruise their ribs. Krit switches on top of his man’s thighs just like the day they met at Heaven, and opens his mouth to suck onto his lover’s fingers, whose other hand is rubbing their erection together, disclosing a slight difference in size, but not fervency.

“Kin! Prepare me, hurry!” implores the dancer with his eyes half close and fingers running down the other’s chest, leaving a trail of heat that hushes the former journalist to brush his wet fingers onto the curves of his lover’s ******ooth cheeks and gives them a tight grasp before slipping his thump into another hidden corner and discover an impulsing rim already waiting for his touch.

As the first two fingers slide in, Krit bends his head backward, letting out a delirious moan while impelling his hardness even more strenuously into his lover’s palm. He briefly huffs expressing disagreement when he can feel the damp palm leaving his zone to shield his back, but moans loudly again when a wet sensation switches in between his hard, rosy nubs, sucking them in and nibble them sometimes with teeth.

“Oh, this is Krit’s little favorite spot, isn’t it?” ******irks the former journalist when he peeks over to the face of his lover now covered in blush and the tip of his length that just leaks out a few drips of pre-cum.

Surprisingly, the dancer whispers back, with voice still trembling from the unrestrained movement of the tongue on his chest and the fingers shifting in and out playfully inside of him, making the dancer gasps and moans in a hallucinating state of mind. “No…”

“No?”

“No… not Krit’s. A-Ah An…!”

As the words escape his swollen lips, Billkin seems to have acknowledged something. He pushes a third finger into the dancer’s deeper corner, squeezing another groan out of his lover’s throat. He presses in a few times, before murmuring something back in a rough voice.

“So, Angel, what would you like next?”

“Can I… ride you?” whispers back his lover with nearly a begging tone.

And when the former journalist nods enthusiastically for consent, he quickly grabs the condom lying somewhere in his tote bag and rips it open. A chain of moans immediately escapes the back of his lover’s throat as the chill, slender fingers wrap around his heat spot perfectly and gives it a few solid strokes before sliding that condom on him in one go

The dancer opens his hazy eyes and thrusts into the former journalist’s mouth again, sucking on the tip of his tongue, while finally dip himself down onto the swollen hardness waiting for him underneath. His lover gasps at the tightness gliding down all of his length. He’s been with a few partners before, but none of them has ever sucked him in with such frenzy.

They both moans into each other’s breathes as the former journalist begins to move his hips up with force, while his lover also starts to ride him in a rhythm that makes him slide in even deeper, reaching that hidden gland that would make the dancer twitches violently between their bellies. Another trail of pre-cum has gather on his tip just now, hinting a very close climax.

“You’re a bad Angel.” groans out Billkin as Krit just sinks down again to the bottom of his hardness. And that’s when the shining metal ring hits his sight again. “Therefore you should be punished.”

Before the dancer can protest, he runs his tongue over the pierced nub, thrusting up another powerful push into his depth and at the same time, wrench the ring with his teeth while his hand also pulls the other reddened nipple, making the dancer almost let out a maniacal scream while gripping his neatly trimmed manicure into the flesh of his lover.

It only takes a couple more dips for Krit to twitch intensely and release all over their bellies while the other also spills completely inside the condom.

The dancer collapses into the open arms of his lover, who is placing the softest kisses onto his lips and brushes his face against the breathes slowing down from the orga******, purring with appreciation and affection. Billkin lets him rest on top of his chest while listening to their syncing heartbeats. As much as he wants to stay like this for as long as he can because he is still wrapped around very tightly, and he doesn’t want to bother Krit in his sleep, the dancer, however thinks otherwise, despite the sticky mess between them.

“Stay inside. I want to feel you like this.”

He whispers, before nesting his face back into his lover’s chest.

Silence once again slips onto them, this time with adoration and yearning, even after the fresh love-making just moments ago.

—

—

Billkin wakes up to the ******ell of fried rice and the sound of his boiling kettle in the kitchen, where his lover is scrolling through the phone with a mellow ******ile upon his lips. Instead of saying good morning right away, he takes his time watching the dancer. From this distance, it is either the trail of sunshine that has sneaked in from the window nearby brushing through his lover’s hair, or the glow purely coming from his own eyes of affection. For a second, he wonders how the person he’s looking at has been able to save him from whatever plan he’s had, giving him a second chance and a lots of courage to keep going.

He inhales another deep breathe before walking up to gives Krit a lot of ******ooches. The dancer breaks a good news to his man, that thanks to the successful performance last night, he has been casted on another project, which will allow him to stop working at the club and focus on a more solid career. As the email is read out loud, Billkin can’t help but shower the man in all the fondness he can ever name in this world, burying his nose deep onto his lover’s nape and taking in that sweet tropical scent he’s been yearning for.

Later that morning, he pops the bottle of pills open and flush all the capsules down the toilet, before getting himself ready for an interview with an NGO that fights for gender equality in marriage and consultancy for LGBTQ+ couples who are looking for financial strategies.

He also plans to visit his mother that weekend, with Krit and another bouquet of pink roses.