Golden Blood

Khem wakes to violence.

Not the dramatic kind—no alarms screaming, no disasters—but the persistent, deeply irritating shake of his body, like someone is trying to rattle the sleep straight out of his bones.

“P’Khemmmm,” a voice sings, far too cheerful to be humane. “Phi- wake uuuuppp!”

Khem groans and rolls onto his side, face burying itself into the pillow. He clamps his eyes shut like that might protect him. Like ignoring the world has ever worked before.

The shaking pauses.

Then resumes. Harder.

“P’Khem,” Jett says, smug and victorious. “I know you’re awake.”

“Stop,” Khem mumbles, voice thick and useless with sleep. He swats blindly in the direction of the sound, fingers brushing fabric. A sleeve. He grips it weakly, like holding onto Jett might anchor him back into unconsciousness. “Five more minutes.”

“No,” Jett says, immediately and decisively. “Absolutely not. You said that forty minutes ago.”

Khem groans louder this time, rolling onto his back. The ceiling swims above him—white, cracked slightly near the corner, familiar enough that he doesn’t need to squint to know it’s real. Sunlight leaks in through the thin curtains, bright and intrusive. He winces.

Sunshine is annoying. Harsh. Way too awake.

Jett looms over him, hands on his hips, expression already exasperated. His hair is sticking up in several directions, like he ran his fingers through it one too many times. He’s dressed already—jeans, a loose white dress shirt, messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

Traitor.

“P’Khem,” Jett says again, softer now, like he’s trying a different tactic. “We’re going to be late. Again. And Somchai already hates us.”

“He does not hate us,” Khem mutters, dragging his forearm over his eyes. “He hates you.”

“That’s not comforting.”

Khem peeks at him through his fingers. Jett is grinning despite himself, amber-brown eyes bright and alive in the morning light. He always looks like this—like he wakes up already halfway through the day, fully charged. Khem doesn’t understand how that’s possible.

“What time is it,” Khem asks, dread pooling in his stomach.

Jett checks his phone. Makes a face. “We were supposed to leave ten minutes ago.”

Khem sits up too fast.

The room tilts. His vision spots for a second, black creeping in at the edges. He sways, hand flying out to grab the edge of the bed. Jett’s grin drops immediately.

“Whoa—hey,” Jett says. “Careful.”

“I’m fine,” Khem insists, though his head is pounding now, a dull ache behind his eyes. He presses his palm flat to his chest, grounding himself in the steady rhythm there. Thump. Thump. Alive. Normal.

It passes quickly. Everything always does.

Jett watches him for a second longer than necessary, then shrugs it off. “You stayed up too late again, didn’t you.”

“No,” Khem lies, poorly. “Okay, yes. But it wasn’t my fault.”

“It never is.”

Khem kicks the blanket off his legs and swings them over the side of the bed. The floor is cold against his feet. He shivers. His sketchbook lies open on his desk, charcoal smudges ghosting across the page—half-finished, abandoned sometime past midnight. He vaguely remembers staring at it, frustrated, unable to make the lines do what he wanted.

He hates that feeling. Like something inside him knows what it wants to say, but his hands can’t translate it.

“Did you eat?” Jett asks, already rifling through his bag.

“I will,” Khem says. “Later.”

“That’s not an answer,” Jett replies, fixing him with a stern, motherly look.

“It’s an intention,” Khem says, pulling a face at him.

Jett snorts. “You’re going to pass out one day and I’m not carrying you.”

Khem smiles faintly as he stands, stretching his arms over his head. His joints pop quietly. His body feels... off. Not bad. Just wrong in a way he can’t name. Like he didn’t sleep as deeply as he thought. Like something tugged at him while he was unconscious and only just let go.

He ignores it.

He always ignores things like that.

In the bathroom, he splashes water on his face and stares at his reflection. Warm brown eyes blink back at him, slightly puffy with sleep. A thin scar near his eyebrow—old. Faded. He touches it absently, then pulls his hand away, uneasy without knowing why.

Blood never came from that scar. He remembers that much.

He grabs his bag, shoves his sketchbook inside, and follows Jett out into the hallway. The dorm smells like cleaning supplies and morning sweat. Doors slam. Someone laughs down the hall. Life, loud and ordinary.

He locks their door just as Jett turns to the room beside theirs.

Knock-knock-knock.

No answer.

Jett knocks again, this time in a deliberate rhythm.

Knock... knock-knock-knock... knock...

(pause)

knock... knock.

Khem steps up beside him, smirking, and joins in—palms flat against the door, banging enthusiastically.

“P’Khem!?” Jett exclaims, staring at him like he’s been betrayed. Then he laughs and joins in again, the two of them pounding on the door like monkeys hitting glass at the zoo.

The door suddenly swings open.

Jett yelps, stumbling back half a step before catching himself on the frame. His hand flies dramatically to his chest. “Ai—Mut!” he snaps, half-laughing, half-offended. “Are you trying to kill me before eight in the morning?”

Mahasamut Chakan stands in the doorway, expression flat and unreadable. His hair is damp, black strands clinging to his forehead like he just showered. He’s dressed in a loose white dress shirt and black basketball shorts, bare feet against the cold tile.

Calm. Collected. Entirely unbothered.

“You were loud,” Mut says simply.

“That was the point,” Khem replies, grinning, breath still uneven from laughing. He drops his hands and leans his shoulder against the wall. “Good morning, Nong Mut.”

Mut’s eyes flick to him—just for a second. Something quiet passes through them. Recognition. Familiarity. Maybe relief.

It’s gone almost immediately.

“Morning, P’Khem,” Mut replies. Then, glancing at Jett, “You’re annoying.”

Jett beams. “I know.”

Mut steps aside, letting the door open wider. His room is dimmer than theirs, curtains still half-drawn. The bed is neatly made, deliberate rather than obsessive. No clutter. No mess. Just a backpack by the desk and a pair of sneakers lined up precisely against the wall.

“Class?” Khem asks.

Mut nods, grabbing his bag. “Studio. Eight-thirty.”

“Same,” Jett groans. “Architecture people are insane for scheduling that early.”

“We didn’t schedule it,” Mut replies calmly. “You just wake up late.”

Jett gasps, scandalized. “P’Khem, did you hear that?”

“I did,” Khem says easily. “He’s right.”

“Traitors. Both of you.”

Mut’s lips twitch—not quite a smile.

Close enough that Khem notices.

They fall into step as they head down the hall together, the dorm already buzzing with movement. Someone barrels past them with a muttered apology, backpack clipping Jett’s shoulder. A door slams. The elevator dings somewhere below, impatient. Morning presses in from every direction, loud and unavoidable.

Outside, the heat hits them all at once.

Bangkok doesn’t ease into the day—it drops it on you. Humidity thick enough to cling to skin, sunlight bouncing hard off concrete, noise swelling like it’s already noon instead of barely morning. Khem squints, tugging his bag higher on his shoulder, fabric sticking uncomfortably to his collarbone.

Jett stretches his arms over his head and yawns so wide it’s practically a performance. “I need coffee.”

“You always need coffee,” Khem says.

Jett scoffs, shooting him an offended look. “Ideservecoffee,” he says, voice pitched with dramatic injustice.

Mut walks a little ahead of them, hands tucked into his pockets, gaze fixed forward. He moves like he knows exactly where he’s going—never rushed, never hesitant. There’s something steady about him that Khem finds grounding. Anchoring, even.

They pass a street vendor setting up breakfast—plastic stools clacking against pavement, a metal cart rattling softly as it’s pushed into place. The smell of hot oil and fried dough curls through the air.

Khem’s stomach twists.

Food smells good. He knows that much. But the thought of eating leaves his mouth dry, hollow in a way that feels too empty.

“You okay?” Jett asks, slowing when Khem does.

“Yeah,” Khem replies automatically, smiling to sell it. “Just tired.”His stomach betrays him with a low growl. He winces, then laughs lightly. “And—okay, maybe a little hungry. Can we get something really quick?”

He gestures back at the vendor they just passed.

Jett nods immediately and turns to Mut. Khem does the same.

Mut stops and looks between them. “Why are you both staring at me?”

“P’Muuuut~,” Jett sings, sliding closer and looping his arms around Mut’s arm. He tilts his head, eyes wide and pleading. “Can you pay for our fooood?”

Mut scoffs, peeling Jett off him without effort. “Just because I have a job doesn’t mean I’m wasting my money on you.”

“Nong Mut,” Khem says, softer, smiling wide and entirely shameless. “Can you buy me something?”

Mut looks at Jett. Then back at Khem.

“...Sure, P’Khem.”

He turns on his heel before Jett can protest. Khem lights up and follows immediately, leaving Jett behind, staring at them like he’s just witnessed a personal betrayal.

“Unbelievable,” Jett mutters, hurrying after them.

Khem orders quickly, careful not to look at the sizzling oil too long. Mut pays without comment, not buying anything for himself. Jett orders last, loudly lamenting as he pulls out his own wallet. They stand off to the side, eating fast—heat, grease, and morning pressing in all at once—before continuing toward campus.

By the time they arrive, the sun has climbed higher, buildings casting sharp, geometric shadows across the pavement. Students cluster everywhere—laughing, complaining, scrolling through phones. Familiar faces. Familiar chaos.

“P’Dao!” someone calls from across the courtyard.

Dao turns, waving brightly, Koh right beside her, already mid-sentence about something animated. Dao’s smile softens when she spots them, eyes lighting up.

“Morning!” she says when they meet. “You’re late.”

“We’re on time,” Jett argues immediately.

“You say that every day,” Koh replies, amused. Her gaze flicks to Khem, sharp and assessing. “You look pale, Nong Khem.”

Khem blinks. “Do I?”

Dao’s brows knit together slightly. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Some,” he says—again. The word comes too easily.

Koh and Dao exchange a look. The kind that meanslater.

Before either of them can push, another presence joins the circle—smooth and unhurried.

“Morning.”

Khem feels it before he registers it. A subtle shift in the air, like attention bending inward.

Peerapat Khongsuk stands beside Dao, posture relaxed, expression soft as he looks at her. He’s dressed neatly, as always—pressed white shirt, slacks, everything deliberate. His gaze lifts, meeting Khem’s briefly.

“Morning, P’Peem,” Khem says, polite. Easy.

“Morning, Nong Khem,” Peem replies.

His voice is calm. Normal. But something in his eyes sharpens—like he’s looking through Khem instead of at him. Then his gaze slides to Mut.

Mut stiffens beside him. Just barely.

Khem doesn’t notice. He’s distracted by a sudden chill sliding down his spine, sharp and unwelcome despite the heat. His heart stutters once, then settles back into a steady rhythm.

“P’Peem,” Jett says, eyebrows raised, “why are you even over here? Isn’t your faculty, like, a twenty-minute walk from this one?”

Dao turns toward Peem, fingers lacing with his.

“I second this,” Koh adds, lifting her hand like she’s in class.

“I want to walk my girlfriend to class,” Peem replies easily, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Why else would I be here?”

Dao blushes instantly, smile stretching wide.

“I was just aski—” Jett starts, only to be cut off.

“Oh! This weekend,” Koh says suddenly, eyes sparkling with mischief. “What are you guys doing? I wanna go on a trip. P’Peeeem~”

Peem looks down at her, genuinely confused. “What?”

She giggles and turns to Dao, clearly conspiratorial. Khem sighs softly—he knows they planned this.

“P’Peem,” Koh continues, nudging Dao’s arm, “you should take all of us somewhere. Right, Dao?”

Dao nods eagerly, looking up at Peem. “Yeah...?”

“What kind of trip?” Khem asks, cautious.

“Nong Khem, nothing dangerous,” Koh says quickly, waving her hands like she’s smoothing the air. “Just maybe a weekend away. At P’Peem’s brother’s hotel.”

Jett’s eyes widen. “Oh—that actually sounds amazing. Free hotel rooms?! Wait—could we get a suite for free?!”

He hops directly in front of Peem, forcing the group to stop just inside the building.

Peem rolls his eyes, shoulders lifting in a shrug. “It could be fun. It’s up to my brother, though. But, you just want the pool and drinks- Right?”

“Yes and no,” Koh replies instantly. “The drinks would be amazing, but I really just want to eat expensive food without paying.”

Peem chuckles, glancing at the watch on his wrist- sleek. Expensive. “We’ll talk about it after class. I have to go. So do you.”

He pulls Dao in by the waist, kisses her quickly, then cups her cheek, thumb brushing gently before stepping away. “See you.”

He waves once and disappears down the hall.

They wave back, splitting off soon after. Dao and Koh peel away toward the stairs, voices already rising again. Khem, Jett, and Mut head for the second floor.

° ° °

Khem, Jett, and Mut slip into their classroom just as the chatter inside starts to settle.

The room is already half full—rows of desks, sunlight spilling through tall windows, ceiling fans humming lazily overhead. Someone laughs too loud in the back. A chair screeches as it’s dragged across the floor. The professor hasn’t arrived yet, which means there’s still a thin layer of chaos clinging to the air.

Jett drops into a seat dramatically, letting his bag thud to the floor. “I swear, if this class is boring today, I’m leaving.”

“You say that every time,” Khem says, sliding into the seat beside him.

“And yet,” Jett replies, spinning a pen between his fingers, “I’m still here. Tragic, ain’t it.”

Mut takes the seat on Khem’s other side, posture relaxed, eyes already flicking to the board like he’s mentally preparing. He sets his bag down neatly, movements efficient, then leans back with his hands resting behind his head.

“If you hate this class so much,” Mut says casually, “why don’t you just drop out? I’m tired of hearing you cry all the time.”

Jett gasps dramatically, clutching his chest like he’s been stabbed. “Cry?Me? P’Mut, that was uncalled for.”

“If I drop out,” Jett continues, voice rising theatrically, “who will ever annoy the living fuck out of you? If not me, then whooo~?”

Khem lets out a small laugh, ducking his head. Mut rolls his eyes and shrugs.

“Honestly,” Mut says, turning slightly toward Jett, “I’d rather P’Khem annoy me than you.”

Khem instinctively leans back so Mut has a clear line of sight.

The room goes quiet between the three of them.

Jett’s mouth falls open. Just... fully open. He stares at Mut like he’s just been betrayed on a deeply personal level.

Khem loses it.

He bursts out laughing, hand slapping against his knee as he bends forward. “I’m— I’m sorry,” he wheezes, not actually sorry at all.

“Well fuck,” Jett says, throwing his hand into the air. “I’ll just go fuck myself then, I guess.”

He twists dramatically in his chair, turning his entire back to them, shoulders hunching as he starts fake-sobbing. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

Mut gives Khem alook. Flat. Judging Khem, still laughing, reaches out and pats Jett’s back. “It’s okay, buddy,” he says between breaths. “I know. Being rejected hurts.”

Jett spins around so fast his chair squeaks. “REJECTION?!” He stares at Khem, horrified. “Wait— I never confessed my feelings for Mut—”

Mut nearly chokes, coughing sharply as he straightens in his seat. “What?”

Khem freezes, both hands flying to his mouth as his eyes dart between them. His shoulders shake violently as he tries—and fails—not to laugh.

Jett processes his own words and immediately panics.

“No— no— I don’t have feelings for you!” he blurts, hands waving frantically in the air. “I swear. Trust. You’re my bro.Onlymy bro. We are bros. Bros only. Strictly bro-zone.”

Khem completely loses it.

He laughs hard enough to bend forward again, hitting his knee as a few nearby students glance over. Mut snorts despite himself, shaking his head as he leans back and looks toward the board.

“Yeah,” Mut says, lips twitching. “Bros.”

Jett smacks the back of Khem’s head. Not hard—just enough to sting.

“Ow—!” Khem laughs, hands up defensively. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

He finally calms down, breathing evening out as he leans back in his chair, cheeks warm from laughing too much.

“I hate you both,” Jett mutters, crossing his arms and staring straight ahead.

Right on cue, the classroom door opens. The professor steps inside, papers tucked under one arm, expression already tired. The room quiets almost immediately. Class begins.