Sketch

The pillow feels good against his cheek.

He couldn't bring himself much sleep, and on the wee hours before dawn there he is, staring at the serene expression of the boy in his arms, gently playing his fingers through the tangles of the hair messed on his shoulder. He wants to brush the bangs away from the forehead of his friend, to touch him tenderly, to caress his temples.

They spent the night talking about the long days of childhood summers without each other in their lives, their arcane loss and loneliness, what had happened to you I wish you'd been fine I love you.

He wishes Mew had been fine, or he had been fine at least. He would like to reach the other's heart, hankers for the strength to pull him out of the desperate darkness. It was Mew who hauled him out when they all realized that Tang would never go home. In vain, to no avail. But the stubborn, lonely young pianist tried, so why couldn't he? Because he is there too he could not muster his strength, if he ever has.

How can he help someone out of the shadows when he sinks deeper as every day passes into the unfathomable void of tedium? The thought frightens him, but he couldn't imagine Mew trapped in an atrocious world laced with tales of sadness and seasoned with the taste of dark fear. He would not see him like that, would take him away, would not let him be. No way.

For a moment, he caught himself staring at Mew and found the closed lids, the faintly wet lashes. He wonders what phenomenon is going on in the obstinate core of Mew to make him respond like that in his sleep. He knows Mew could be very fragile and sad but could for sure take care of himself, living in tranquillity within the noise of the world they feel to be isolated from.

Still he can't stop thinking about Mew, especially when he is the only person he certainly wants to hangout with. He has other friends of course, but they mostly drink on Fridays and smoke cigarette sticks, bum around the plaza and chatter about romances with girls─above all about his relationship with Donut. He is fine with those, although girls don't seem to interest him and he can't see the logic to narrate Donut's impetuous whinings. But Mew is different. Mew doesn't give a damn about the troublesome romances or his despotic mother or his sexual preference. And Mew knew the strife circumstance brought that has been smashing his family for years, the emotional turmoil's that is distressing him.

In the sudden twitch of heart, his thoughts shift to the what-ifs that are thus going to send his mother in scorn and scrutiny: What if it is Mew he is sitting with beside the glass walls instead of Donut in the café after school, talking to the phone every night about anything under the sun (and the moon and the stars and the skies), taking on a date at Siam Square on Christmas Day.

He looked up at the thoughts he imagines to appear like a comic balloon above his head. He curled a smile, chuckling silently at himself, and graced his open arm to shoo away the balloon when Mew drowsily grazes his head on his chest. He looked down and realized that he only goes deeper in the slumber, finding a comfortable position in his embrace. He finds himself with a slight thud from the inside of his chest, but manages to wane out the tense.

Slowly, he circles his arms around Mew while lying on one side and pulls him in a firm hug, running his fingers thru the hair of his friend, his other hand loosely holding the other's slender waist, sometimes caressing through the back. His cheek is gauchely pressed against the softness of the pillow, his lips brushing the mess of the bangs, their legs entangled together. Hugging male friends would make him feel like a fag, but with Mew, intimacy never mattered.

He dozed in their soporific position for a while, and woke up in the first sign of morning light. Time to get up, said a voice in his mind and he sees a glimpse of his mother panicking with paranoia. Glancing at Mew, he decided to pull out from the hug without waking him. He wishes Mew to walk him to the front door, bid him take care with a hand waving good-bye and lips curling into an adorable smile. But he'll rather wait for another chance than break the hush of the gentle mood.

He caught himself staring at the incomplete wooden Christmas toy he bought Mew as a souvenir from Chiangmai few years ago before writing a note on a post-it memo he found on the computer desk. You were sound asleep in my arms. I tried not to wake you.He thinks of saying a few things but finds it inappropriate and doubts if he ever has words. That night they spoke of loneliness and resentments like adults, drifting through the tantrums as if there's no hope in their hands. But they are young and gay, exhilarations must replace their forebodings, and that shall last forever.

He sticks the note on the bed post near the desk and stares for a moment at his dozing friend, confused but holding on. Anguished but caring. Without hesitation, he meekly gives Mew a lingering kiss on the forehead, rolls the curtains free from the ties, walks out of the room and closes the door in an unperturbed manner.