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merryfuture2023-07-12 01:41 pm
staygame) wrote in merryfuture2023-07-12 01:41 pm
Entry tags:
2gether the series: to be your only (2020)
to be your only (ao3 link, see original work for author's notes) | 2gether the series, man/type, mature, 3.7k words
tags: post-canon, engagement, no archive warnings apply
written for: yuletide 2020
---
Maybe it's a testament to Type's usual lack of romanticism, or maybe it's a result of Man's obliviousness, but Man has no idea that Type is actually proposing to him until he hears the words, "Will you marry me?" This, despite the private rooftop table, surrounded by fairy lights, and the way that Type had ahemed and suggested that Man wear his favorite blue shirt as they got dressed earlier, or the fact that Type had gotten down onto one knee with something in his hand. It could even be that small part of Man that's been convinced all along that Type will leave him for someone further up the corporate ladder that rationalizes the gesture like oh, cool, P'Type really wants to emphasize that he loves me.
Either way, Man responds with a shocked, "That's what you're doing?"
Type shifts on his knee and gives Man a look. "I kind of assumed it was obvious."
"I always say you're the one with all the brain cells between us," Man points out.
"That's because you've had at least two concussions since I've met you," Type says. He lifts the ring box higher, thrusting it forward. "Can you say yes now? This is hurting my knee."
"Yes," Man says, nearly choking on the word as the muscles in his throat tighten, tears pricking in his eyes. "Duh."
Then Type reaches into his pocket. In his free hand, he extends to Man—the same as he'd done so many years earlier, before they'd even known each other's names or what an important moment it would turn out to be—a packet of tissues. "I thought you might need this," he says, and Man begins to cry for real.
Man had managed to pull himself together after a few minutes, but the waterworks start right back up when the door to the roof opens and their friends come spilling out.
Boss reaches him first, blowing a fistful of confetti into Man's face before pulling him into a bone crushing hug. "I'm so happy for you," Boss says, sounding like he might cry himself. "I'm your best man, right?"
"I'm obviously his best man," Sarawat says, pulling Man away from Boss and into a hug of his own. "Right?"
This devolves into an argument about who's most fitting to be Man's best man—"I've known him longer", "We met him at the same time"—interrupted when Tine comes over and fixes a party hat on Sarawat's head, flattening his deliberately messy hair.
"I'm glad you're marrying my brother," Tine says to Man, smiling warmly.
They've never really been close, but Man is suddenly struck with the urge to embrace Tine. After all, it was his boy troubles that led Type to showing up and unintentionally reunited Man and Type all those years ago. It's possible their paths would've never crossed again if Type hadn't felt the need to go all overprotective older brother on Tine and Sarawat. Funny how fate works.
Tine is nice enough not to question the hug. After a moment, Sarawat coughs behind them and Man releases Tine back to his boyfriend.
Man mingles around the party, greeting more friends from college, a few of his favorite coworkers, and the guy that Type has played badminton with three days a week for the last two years whose name he can never seem to remember. He's had a beer in his hand the whole time, both because he deserves to get drunk but also just to see the fairy lights glinting off his ring every time he lifts the bottle to take a sip. It's a simple gold band, unpretentious and practical. Just like Type.
Speaking of which—
He finds Type on the other side of the roof, looking out over the city. The music is quieter over here, the light from the party diffused, and when Man settles next to Type, it almost feels secluded. "You okay?" Man asks, nudging Type with his elbow.
Type nudges back. "Yeah, I'm just taking a break from socializing," he says.
"You know, you didn't have to do this," Man says. He finishes the last swallow of his beer. "The whole party thing."
"I know, but it makes you happy."
"And you like making me happy, right?" Man asks, leaning fully into Type's space. He watches Type's face fight a smile. "And that's why you want to marry me, right?"
"That's why I want to marry you," Type affirms.
In the distance, the Spotify playlist has shuffled to a slow song, Earth Patravee's gentle voice filtering through the conversation and laughter. Man lifts Type's hand, pausing for a moment to admire the matching gold ring before stretching out their arms in a waltz. "May I have this dance?" Man asks.
They'll need to practice before the wedding, Man thinks, removing his toes from the top of Type's right shoe, and then he lets himself get lost in the sway.
Type takes to wedding planning the way he takes to most things in his life—by making a lot of spreadsheets and bossing Man around.
"We will each give each other's parents 200,000 baht and 5 baht gold," Type says on a Sunday morning, before Man has even rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "It's only fair we should both give sin sod."
"Are you sure you're worth that much?" Man asks, still processing the information. "You're kind of old for an unmarried girl."
Type smothers Man's face with a stray throw pillow, until Man manages to say, "I'm kidding! I'm kidding. Baby, you're worth a million baht," around a mouthful of pillow.
"I think it's probably best to do the engagement ceremony with both sets of parents," Type continues. "I do not need my homophobic aunts asking which one of us is the bride."
He's sitting up in bed, scrolling through his iPad with his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. The reading glasses are a fairly recent development, one that Type hates because they remind him that he's getting older and that Man enjoys because glasses make Type look even smarter. Man rolls over on his side to enjoy the view—Type's bed head, the patch of decolletage revealed by his pajama top, the glasses giving him sexy professor vibes.
"I've already found a decorator who does gay weddings," Type is saying.
"What do you need me to do?" Man asks.
"Trim your beard," Type says, looking down at Man with a sly smile. "I've got beardburn on my thighs from last night."
Man throws an arm over Type's stomach, snuggling in close so that he can rub his bearded chin on Type's exposed chest. Then he whines, "P'Type, you can't just plan the entire thing yourself. You're not the only one getting married, you know."
"Do I trust your taste?" Type asks, and Man digs in his chin harder. "Okay, okay. I'll let you look at the potential caterers with me. And work on your guest list."
"Man, you cannot invite 'that nice lesbian from Sarawat's old band'," Type says, holding up Man's guest list. He's looking at it with the scrutiny of someone who just got an unexpectedly large bill and is now searching for tabulation errors.
"Why not? She's nice and funny."
Type narrows his eyes at Man. "You don't even know her name."
"I do know her name," Man insists.
"You're not allowed to check Facebook," Type says. Man puts his phone down.
"Man," Type says when he reaches the bottom of the list. "Why is Lisa from Blackpink on your guest list."
Man blinks innocently. "I just thought she would appreciate an invitation."
It turns out that weddings are kind of a lot. First, there's the engagement ceremony with both of their families, making a big show of the bundles of cash and the gold rings they'd taken off just to give each other again. Then there's the appointment with the monk to pick out the most auspicious date. Man had been content to just point to any weekend on the calendar, but both his mom and Type had balked at the idea, so they had to sit down with a monk who looked at their birth charts and the lunar calendar and produced, after some deliberation, a date of September 5th.
There's trips to multiple venues, ranging from impersonal ballrooms to a riverside courtyard so far out of their budget that Type's eyes had nearly bulged out of his head when the coordinator revealed the price. There's food, decorations, guest lists, souvenirs, monks, flowers, photographers, alcohol, all of the trinkets belonging to some tradition or another. Type's wedding spreadsheet—titled Wedding 2026, to which Man had asked, "Are you planning on having another wedding?" and Type responded, "It's for organizational purposes and you know that"—has more tabs at the bottom than his meticulously thorough household budget spreadsheet.
It's all just. A lot.
After dinner, Man watches Type change a number in the guests column and then sigh at the new total. A lump forms in Man's throat. "I'm sorry," he says.
Type doesn't look away from the screen. "What for? Did you do something?"
"I'm not doing enough," Man says. If he'd gotten a better job after graduating, if he'd valued salary over a desire to help people, if he'd worked harder to get a promotion then Type would not be frowning this much. They wouldn't have to be concerned about the budget. They could even book that riverside venue, if they wanted.
Now, Type's head snaps up. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm supposed to be taking care of you," Man says. In his lap, he twists his engagement ring around his finger, needing something to do with his hands. "I should be the one who's contributing most of the budget, not you."
"Man—" Type starts.
"You shouldn't have to be stressed out. Because of me."
Type lays a hand on top of Man's. "Let me speak now," he says, firm but not unkind. "I'm not stressed because of you. I don't care how much you contribute. You don't need to take care of me, we can take care of each other."
"But you said—" Man thinks back to that half-empty classroom, the way that Type had wrapped his confession up in a reprimand. "That was the deal, right? I find a way to take care of you."
"Well I was wrong then, okay?" Type says. Man raises an eyebrow, because Type admitting to being wrong is a rare phenomenon, but here he's given it away without much of a fight. If Man wasn't too busy feeling bad about himself then he'd ask Type to repeat it on camera. "Taking care of someone isn't just about money. You take care of me every day. You make me laugh, you make me feel supported, you make me feel loved. That's contributing too."
"But I want to take care of you," Man says. He squeezes Type's hand in his own. "I want to provide for you. I want you to have everything that you want."
Type has to tilt his head to meet Man's eyes. He's smiling a little, which feels unfair. "I already have everything I want." He shifts on the couch, his knees touching Man's, both hands holding Man's now, each new point of connection soothing over Man's worries. "And the wedding is fine. It's manageable. I'm just complaining."
"You do like to complain," Man says.
"It's one of my favorite hobbies," Type agrees.
After a moment, Type nudges Man's knee. "Are we fine?"
Man responds by pushing himself into Type's lap, winding his arms around Type's neck and pulling him in for a hug. "We're always fine," he says. Type tries to shove him away, laughing, but Man only squeezes tighter.
Man's bachelor party takes place the Thursday before the wedding. It's just the three of them, though when Man sits down at the bar table, Boss points to Sarawat and says, "Just so you know, he wanted to go with Tine."
"Hey," Sarawat protests. Then to Man, he says, "Nothing personal."
"I expected nothing less from you," Man says.
Boss had asked Man the day before if he was sure that he didn't want to invite anyone else, maybe some friends from work? But Man had turned him down. It felt important that it was the three of them like always, his best friends since the first day of high school. The two class clowns and their sullen companion. He loves them almost as much as he loves Type.
A waitress stops by their table with a tray of waters. Boss touches her arm. "He's getting married on Saturday," Boss says, gesturing to Man. "Make sure you treat him well."
She startles, taking a reflexive step backwards. "Um, this isn't that kind of bar—"
"He's marrying a man," Sarawat cuts in, as Man covers his face apologetically. "To be clear."
"Oh," the waitress says, relieved.
Man kicks Boss under the table. "He meant, like. Free drinks or something. Please ignore him. We'll take a pitcher of whatever's on tap."
They spend most of the evening reminiscing about old times. The prank in high school that had landed the three of them cleaning graffiti off of the PE shed for an entire month, Sarawat clumsily courting Tine, Boss even more clumsily courting Pear. At some point, Boss ends up sitting next to Man, his arm thrown over Man's shoulder.
"I always liked you with Type," Boss says, yelling even though the music isn't really that loud. He's often yelling, anyway. "I know I called him a fuddy duddy once, but I think it's really cool that he's, like, a real adult."
"We're real adults now," Man says. He's going to be twenty-five in two months. Type is almost thirty. God, Man was just a teenager when they met. The passing of time is crazy.
He's not sure what kind of face he's making, but whatever it is, Sarawat nudges a glass of beer across the table. "Now isn't the time for a quarter life crisis."
They head out around eleven, stumbling down the party street through the crowds of twenty somethings and tourists. Boss orders them cocktails from a VW bar while Man gorges himself on fried fish balls and roti and mango sticky rice, happy and full of carbs. The band playing at the outdoor bar across the street is shit, but it doesn't quite ruin the vibe, except for Sarawat's eye twitching every time the guitarist plays a sour note.
It's like—"It's like, guys. I love you," Man says. He wipes his fingers, sticky with sauce and then licked clean, on his pants leg, and reaches for his friends' hands. "You're both my best men. You're the best men in my life. Except for P'Type."
He thrusts out his glass. "Toast with me!"
Things spiral out of control from there. At some point, he attempts to show a skeptical bar hostess that he can do a cartwheel and promptly collapses onto the filthy pavement. Sarawat helps him up, saying, "Watch it, Type won't marry you if you smash your face up two days before your wedding."
"No," Man insists, "P'Type would love me no matter what I looked like. Even if I was ugly. Even if I was balding."
"What if you had feet for hands?" Boss asks, which strikes Man as the funniest thing he's heard all night. He laughs, swaying, for a full minute.
Man doesn't realize he's wandered away from his friends, or even that he's made a phone call until he hears Type's voice on the other end of the line. "Hello?" Type says, sounding immediately concerned. "Are you okay?"
"Would you still love me if I was a raccoon?"
"Would I still love you if you were a raccoon?" Type repeats. Man presses his phone even closer to his ear, barely making out Tine's confusion in the background over the EDM spilling out of a nearby club. "Do you mean if you were a raccoon when we met?"
"No," Man says, because hello, how would a raccoon get into university? Or attend a lecture about unlocking one's inner potential and happen to stumble upon the man of his dreams? "Like, you wake up tomorrow and I'm a raccoon lying next to you in bed. Would you still love me?"
"No," Type says, and then, "Are you high?"
Man frowns. "You wouldn't love me?"
"I wouldn't love you the same, because you being a human man is very important to me," Type says, speaking slowly, two fingers probably pinching the bridge of his nose, but Man can hear the underlying fondness. He's spent years honing in on that fondness. He's a regular fondness detective. "That being said, I would let you live in our apartment as long as you didn't make a mess. I'd buy you a nice dog bed to sleep in."
"I bet you would make a cute raccoon," Man tells him.
"Where are your friends? Are they taking care of you?"
"Phi, I love you."
Type lets out a laugh. The warmth of it fills Man's chest. He clutches his phone tighter in his hand.
"I love you too," Type says.
On the morning of their wedding, Man finds Type in the hallway outside of their neighboring hotel rooms, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, possibly sleeping standing up.
"Hey handsome," Man says, sliding up next to Type. "What do you say we get out of here?"
One corner of Type's mouth tilts up in a smile. "You're cute, but I'm not sure my future husband would approve."
"Forget about him."
Type does look handsome. They'd gone with cream-colored jackets, patterned silk with golden threads running through. The mandarin collar draws Man's attention to Type's strong jaw, and his hair is styled up off his forehead. His ears look even cuter than usual. Affection bubbles up warm in Man's chest, and he loops his arms around Type's neck for a hug.
"You're shaking," Type says, leaning his head back to look at Man. "Are you nervous?"
"I just had, like. A lot of coffee," Man says. He'd chugged the Americano that Sarawat had brought him and then attempted to drink Sarawat's own Americano before it had been plucked out of his hands. "And some shots of rum." Those courtesy of Boss.
"It's seven in the morning," Type points out, mildly alarmed.
"It's going to be a long day," Man says. There are nine monks waiting for them at the temple, just the start of the whole process. Man considers himself a pretty decent Buddhist, not someone to turn his nose up at tradition, but he wouldn't mind skipping ahead to all the drinking and dancing and cake. Or even the very end, where he will get to press Type into a soft hotel bed and ruin his neatly coiffed hair.
Type nods. "That's why I don't plan on doing it again."
But if the holy water and the clay and the alms will give him a good life with Type, then maybe it's worth it.
"Hey," Man says, taking a step back and straightening his jacket. "Do you want to hear a preview of my vows?"
The look on Type's face says that he knows Man is going to say something absurd, but he loves Man too much to stop him. It's a look Man hopes he'll still see thirty, forty years down the line, when their skin is wrinkled and their hair gray. "Sure."
Man clears his throat. "Love is patient, love is—"
"Stop," Type groans.
"—kind. It does not—"
"I want a divorce."
"We're not married yet," Man says.
"Good, that will make the divorce easier."
Tine pokes his head out from one of the hotel rooms. "Are you guys ready? Mom says the shuttle is leaving in twenty minutes."
Man reaches for Type's hand, their fingers intertwining with the ease of much practice. Type smiles. Man is the luckiest person in the entire world, he feels sure. "Yeah. We're ready."
tags: post-canon, engagement, no archive warnings apply
written for: yuletide 2020
---
Maybe it's a testament to Type's usual lack of romanticism, or maybe it's a result of Man's obliviousness, but Man has no idea that Type is actually proposing to him until he hears the words, "Will you marry me?" This, despite the private rooftop table, surrounded by fairy lights, and the way that Type had ahemed and suggested that Man wear his favorite blue shirt as they got dressed earlier, or the fact that Type had gotten down onto one knee with something in his hand. It could even be that small part of Man that's been convinced all along that Type will leave him for someone further up the corporate ladder that rationalizes the gesture like oh, cool, P'Type really wants to emphasize that he loves me.
Either way, Man responds with a shocked, "That's what you're doing?"
Type shifts on his knee and gives Man a look. "I kind of assumed it was obvious."
"I always say you're the one with all the brain cells between us," Man points out.
"That's because you've had at least two concussions since I've met you," Type says. He lifts the ring box higher, thrusting it forward. "Can you say yes now? This is hurting my knee."
"Yes," Man says, nearly choking on the word as the muscles in his throat tighten, tears pricking in his eyes. "Duh."
Then Type reaches into his pocket. In his free hand, he extends to Man—the same as he'd done so many years earlier, before they'd even known each other's names or what an important moment it would turn out to be—a packet of tissues. "I thought you might need this," he says, and Man begins to cry for real.
Man had managed to pull himself together after a few minutes, but the waterworks start right back up when the door to the roof opens and their friends come spilling out.
Boss reaches him first, blowing a fistful of confetti into Man's face before pulling him into a bone crushing hug. "I'm so happy for you," Boss says, sounding like he might cry himself. "I'm your best man, right?"
"I'm obviously his best man," Sarawat says, pulling Man away from Boss and into a hug of his own. "Right?"
This devolves into an argument about who's most fitting to be Man's best man—"I've known him longer", "We met him at the same time"—interrupted when Tine comes over and fixes a party hat on Sarawat's head, flattening his deliberately messy hair.
"I'm glad you're marrying my brother," Tine says to Man, smiling warmly.
They've never really been close, but Man is suddenly struck with the urge to embrace Tine. After all, it was his boy troubles that led Type to showing up and unintentionally reunited Man and Type all those years ago. It's possible their paths would've never crossed again if Type hadn't felt the need to go all overprotective older brother on Tine and Sarawat. Funny how fate works.
Tine is nice enough not to question the hug. After a moment, Sarawat coughs behind them and Man releases Tine back to his boyfriend.
Man mingles around the party, greeting more friends from college, a few of his favorite coworkers, and the guy that Type has played badminton with three days a week for the last two years whose name he can never seem to remember. He's had a beer in his hand the whole time, both because he deserves to get drunk but also just to see the fairy lights glinting off his ring every time he lifts the bottle to take a sip. It's a simple gold band, unpretentious and practical. Just like Type.
Speaking of which—
He finds Type on the other side of the roof, looking out over the city. The music is quieter over here, the light from the party diffused, and when Man settles next to Type, it almost feels secluded. "You okay?" Man asks, nudging Type with his elbow.
Type nudges back. "Yeah, I'm just taking a break from socializing," he says.
"You know, you didn't have to do this," Man says. He finishes the last swallow of his beer. "The whole party thing."
"I know, but it makes you happy."
"And you like making me happy, right?" Man asks, leaning fully into Type's space. He watches Type's face fight a smile. "And that's why you want to marry me, right?"
"That's why I want to marry you," Type affirms.
In the distance, the Spotify playlist has shuffled to a slow song, Earth Patravee's gentle voice filtering through the conversation and laughter. Man lifts Type's hand, pausing for a moment to admire the matching gold ring before stretching out their arms in a waltz. "May I have this dance?" Man asks.
They'll need to practice before the wedding, Man thinks, removing his toes from the top of Type's right shoe, and then he lets himself get lost in the sway.
Wedding vows, 1st draft:
P'Type, do you remember our trip to Japan? You came down with something as soon as we landed. You threw up in the hotel elevator, remember? And you stayed in bed for three days and you kept apologizing to me for wasting our vacation. I know it sucked for you at the time, but the funny thing is, it was one of the best vacations I ever had, because you let me take care of you. And we spent three days just lying there, watching TV shows we couldn't understand and talking to each other. I remember thinking that it was amazing we never seemed to run out of things to talk about. I want to grow old and grey with you, and still never run out of things to say.
Type takes to wedding planning the way he takes to most things in his life—by making a lot of spreadsheets and bossing Man around.
"We will each give each other's parents 200,000 baht and 5 baht gold," Type says on a Sunday morning, before Man has even rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "It's only fair we should both give sin sod."
"Are you sure you're worth that much?" Man asks, still processing the information. "You're kind of old for an unmarried girl."
Type smothers Man's face with a stray throw pillow, until Man manages to say, "I'm kidding! I'm kidding. Baby, you're worth a million baht," around a mouthful of pillow.
"I think it's probably best to do the engagement ceremony with both sets of parents," Type continues. "I do not need my homophobic aunts asking which one of us is the bride."
He's sitting up in bed, scrolling through his iPad with his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. The reading glasses are a fairly recent development, one that Type hates because they remind him that he's getting older and that Man enjoys because glasses make Type look even smarter. Man rolls over on his side to enjoy the view—Type's bed head, the patch of decolletage revealed by his pajama top, the glasses giving him sexy professor vibes.
"I've already found a decorator who does gay weddings," Type is saying.
"What do you need me to do?" Man asks.
"Trim your beard," Type says, looking down at Man with a sly smile. "I've got beardburn on my thighs from last night."
Man throws an arm over Type's stomach, snuggling in close so that he can rub his bearded chin on Type's exposed chest. Then he whines, "P'Type, you can't just plan the entire thing yourself. You're not the only one getting married, you know."
"Do I trust your taste?" Type asks, and Man digs in his chin harder. "Okay, okay. I'll let you look at the potential caterers with me. And work on your guest list."
"Man, you cannot invite 'that nice lesbian from Sarawat's old band'," Type says, holding up Man's guest list. He's looking at it with the scrutiny of someone who just got an unexpectedly large bill and is now searching for tabulation errors.
"Why not? She's nice and funny."
Type narrows his eyes at Man. "You don't even know her name."
"I do know her name," Man insists.
"You're not allowed to check Facebook," Type says. Man puts his phone down.
"Man," Type says when he reaches the bottom of the list. "Why is Lisa from Blackpink on your guest list."
Man blinks innocently. "I just thought she would appreciate an invitation."
Wedding vows, 6th draft:
I thought I loved you at first sight, but that wasn't love. I mean, don't get me wrong, it was a nice feeling, but it wasn't love. Not like I love you now. I told you that I would follow you for the rest of my life, but I didn't know then what it meant to want to devote your whole life to someone. Now that I know you, all of your good sides and your bad sides, all of the little things that make you special, I can really say it and mean it. I want to follow you forever.
It turns out that weddings are kind of a lot. First, there's the engagement ceremony with both of their families, making a big show of the bundles of cash and the gold rings they'd taken off just to give each other again. Then there's the appointment with the monk to pick out the most auspicious date. Man had been content to just point to any weekend on the calendar, but both his mom and Type had balked at the idea, so they had to sit down with a monk who looked at their birth charts and the lunar calendar and produced, after some deliberation, a date of September 5th.
There's trips to multiple venues, ranging from impersonal ballrooms to a riverside courtyard so far out of their budget that Type's eyes had nearly bulged out of his head when the coordinator revealed the price. There's food, decorations, guest lists, souvenirs, monks, flowers, photographers, alcohol, all of the trinkets belonging to some tradition or another. Type's wedding spreadsheet—titled Wedding 2026, to which Man had asked, "Are you planning on having another wedding?" and Type responded, "It's for organizational purposes and you know that"—has more tabs at the bottom than his meticulously thorough household budget spreadsheet.
It's all just. A lot.
After dinner, Man watches Type change a number in the guests column and then sigh at the new total. A lump forms in Man's throat. "I'm sorry," he says.
Type doesn't look away from the screen. "What for? Did you do something?"
"I'm not doing enough," Man says. If he'd gotten a better job after graduating, if he'd valued salary over a desire to help people, if he'd worked harder to get a promotion then Type would not be frowning this much. They wouldn't have to be concerned about the budget. They could even book that riverside venue, if they wanted.
Now, Type's head snaps up. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm supposed to be taking care of you," Man says. In his lap, he twists his engagement ring around his finger, needing something to do with his hands. "I should be the one who's contributing most of the budget, not you."
"Man—" Type starts.
"You shouldn't have to be stressed out. Because of me."
Type lays a hand on top of Man's. "Let me speak now," he says, firm but not unkind. "I'm not stressed because of you. I don't care how much you contribute. You don't need to take care of me, we can take care of each other."
"But you said—" Man thinks back to that half-empty classroom, the way that Type had wrapped his confession up in a reprimand. "That was the deal, right? I find a way to take care of you."
"Well I was wrong then, okay?" Type says. Man raises an eyebrow, because Type admitting to being wrong is a rare phenomenon, but here he's given it away without much of a fight. If Man wasn't too busy feeling bad about himself then he'd ask Type to repeat it on camera. "Taking care of someone isn't just about money. You take care of me every day. You make me laugh, you make me feel supported, you make me feel loved. That's contributing too."
"But I want to take care of you," Man says. He squeezes Type's hand in his own. "I want to provide for you. I want you to have everything that you want."
Type has to tilt his head to meet Man's eyes. He's smiling a little, which feels unfair. "I already have everything I want." He shifts on the couch, his knees touching Man's, both hands holding Man's now, each new point of connection soothing over Man's worries. "And the wedding is fine. It's manageable. I'm just complaining."
"You do like to complain," Man says.
"It's one of my favorite hobbies," Type agrees.
After a moment, Type nudges Man's knee. "Are we fine?"
Man responds by pushing himself into Type's lap, winding his arms around Type's neck and pulling him in for a hug. "We're always fine," he says. Type tries to shove him away, laughing, but Man only squeezes tighter.
Wedding vows, 10th draft
Just so you know, I never finished reading Sunset at Chaophraya. But I did watch the movie back then, just in case you asked me about it again. If I was Kobori I would simply defeat the Europeans myself if it meant I could be with my true love. RIP to your soldiers, but I'm different.
Man's bachelor party takes place the Thursday before the wedding. It's just the three of them, though when Man sits down at the bar table, Boss points to Sarawat and says, "Just so you know, he wanted to go with Tine."
"Hey," Sarawat protests. Then to Man, he says, "Nothing personal."
"I expected nothing less from you," Man says.
Boss had asked Man the day before if he was sure that he didn't want to invite anyone else, maybe some friends from work? But Man had turned him down. It felt important that it was the three of them like always, his best friends since the first day of high school. The two class clowns and their sullen companion. He loves them almost as much as he loves Type.
A waitress stops by their table with a tray of waters. Boss touches her arm. "He's getting married on Saturday," Boss says, gesturing to Man. "Make sure you treat him well."
She startles, taking a reflexive step backwards. "Um, this isn't that kind of bar—"
"He's marrying a man," Sarawat cuts in, as Man covers his face apologetically. "To be clear."
"Oh," the waitress says, relieved.
Man kicks Boss under the table. "He meant, like. Free drinks or something. Please ignore him. We'll take a pitcher of whatever's on tap."
They spend most of the evening reminiscing about old times. The prank in high school that had landed the three of them cleaning graffiti off of the PE shed for an entire month, Sarawat clumsily courting Tine, Boss even more clumsily courting Pear. At some point, Boss ends up sitting next to Man, his arm thrown over Man's shoulder.
"I always liked you with Type," Boss says, yelling even though the music isn't really that loud. He's often yelling, anyway. "I know I called him a fuddy duddy once, but I think it's really cool that he's, like, a real adult."
"We're real adults now," Man says. He's going to be twenty-five in two months. Type is almost thirty. God, Man was just a teenager when they met. The passing of time is crazy.
He's not sure what kind of face he's making, but whatever it is, Sarawat nudges a glass of beer across the table. "Now isn't the time for a quarter life crisis."
They head out around eleven, stumbling down the party street through the crowds of twenty somethings and tourists. Boss orders them cocktails from a VW bar while Man gorges himself on fried fish balls and roti and mango sticky rice, happy and full of carbs. The band playing at the outdoor bar across the street is shit, but it doesn't quite ruin the vibe, except for Sarawat's eye twitching every time the guitarist plays a sour note.
It's like—"It's like, guys. I love you," Man says. He wipes his fingers, sticky with sauce and then licked clean, on his pants leg, and reaches for his friends' hands. "You're both my best men. You're the best men in my life. Except for P'Type."
He thrusts out his glass. "Toast with me!"
Things spiral out of control from there. At some point, he attempts to show a skeptical bar hostess that he can do a cartwheel and promptly collapses onto the filthy pavement. Sarawat helps him up, saying, "Watch it, Type won't marry you if you smash your face up two days before your wedding."
"No," Man insists, "P'Type would love me no matter what I looked like. Even if I was ugly. Even if I was balding."
"What if you had feet for hands?" Boss asks, which strikes Man as the funniest thing he's heard all night. He laughs, swaying, for a full minute.
Man doesn't realize he's wandered away from his friends, or even that he's made a phone call until he hears Type's voice on the other end of the line. "Hello?" Type says, sounding immediately concerned. "Are you okay?"
"Would you still love me if I was a raccoon?"
"Would I still love you if you were a raccoon?" Type repeats. Man presses his phone even closer to his ear, barely making out Tine's confusion in the background over the EDM spilling out of a nearby club. "Do you mean if you were a raccoon when we met?"
"No," Man says, because hello, how would a raccoon get into university? Or attend a lecture about unlocking one's inner potential and happen to stumble upon the man of his dreams? "Like, you wake up tomorrow and I'm a raccoon lying next to you in bed. Would you still love me?"
"No," Type says, and then, "Are you high?"
Man frowns. "You wouldn't love me?"
"I wouldn't love you the same, because you being a human man is very important to me," Type says, speaking slowly, two fingers probably pinching the bridge of his nose, but Man can hear the underlying fondness. He's spent years honing in on that fondness. He's a regular fondness detective. "That being said, I would let you live in our apartment as long as you didn't make a mess. I'd buy you a nice dog bed to sleep in."
"I bet you would make a cute raccoon," Man tells him.
"Where are your friends? Are they taking care of you?"
"Phi, I love you."
Type lets out a laugh. The warmth of it fills Man's chest. He clutches his phone tighter in his hand.
"I love you too," Type says.
Wedding vows, final draft
Type, I promise to stay by your side for the rest of our lives. I promise to trust you, to encourage you, and to cherish you. I promise to laugh with you in the good times and to comfort you in the bad times. I can't promise that I will cut down on my carbs or remember to fill up the gas tank when I drive your car, but I can promise that I will love you every day, when we are together and when we are apart. You're my friend, my partner, the person who means the most to me in the world. Through all that life may bring us, I give myself to you.
On the morning of their wedding, Man finds Type in the hallway outside of their neighboring hotel rooms, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, possibly sleeping standing up.
"Hey handsome," Man says, sliding up next to Type. "What do you say we get out of here?"
One corner of Type's mouth tilts up in a smile. "You're cute, but I'm not sure my future husband would approve."
"Forget about him."
Type does look handsome. They'd gone with cream-colored jackets, patterned silk with golden threads running through. The mandarin collar draws Man's attention to Type's strong jaw, and his hair is styled up off his forehead. His ears look even cuter than usual. Affection bubbles up warm in Man's chest, and he loops his arms around Type's neck for a hug.
"You're shaking," Type says, leaning his head back to look at Man. "Are you nervous?"
"I just had, like. A lot of coffee," Man says. He'd chugged the Americano that Sarawat had brought him and then attempted to drink Sarawat's own Americano before it had been plucked out of his hands. "And some shots of rum." Those courtesy of Boss.
"It's seven in the morning," Type points out, mildly alarmed.
"It's going to be a long day," Man says. There are nine monks waiting for them at the temple, just the start of the whole process. Man considers himself a pretty decent Buddhist, not someone to turn his nose up at tradition, but he wouldn't mind skipping ahead to all the drinking and dancing and cake. Or even the very end, where he will get to press Type into a soft hotel bed and ruin his neatly coiffed hair.
Type nods. "That's why I don't plan on doing it again."
But if the holy water and the clay and the alms will give him a good life with Type, then maybe it's worth it.
"Hey," Man says, taking a step back and straightening his jacket. "Do you want to hear a preview of my vows?"
The look on Type's face says that he knows Man is going to say something absurd, but he loves Man too much to stop him. It's a look Man hopes he'll still see thirty, forty years down the line, when their skin is wrinkled and their hair gray. "Sure."
Man clears his throat. "Love is patient, love is—"
"Stop," Type groans.
"—kind. It does not—"
"I want a divorce."
"We're not married yet," Man says.
"Good, that will make the divorce easier."
Tine pokes his head out from one of the hotel rooms. "Are you guys ready? Mom says the shuttle is leaving in twenty minutes."
Man reaches for Type's hand, their fingers intertwining with the ease of much practice. Type smiles. Man is the luckiest person in the entire world, he feels sure. "Yeah. We're ready."