We Shield The Sky

The air in the faculty building felt charged, thick with an unspoken tension that Sky could taste on his tongue the moment he stepped inside. It was a familiar metallic dread, one that coiled in his stomach, but he pushed it down. His final model was due by three, and the precision of its tiny, glued joints offered a temporary sanctuary from the unease. He lost himself in the meticulous world of scale and measurement until Rain’s cheerful, if slightly scattered, arrival pulled him back to reality.

Lunchtime was their ritual. As they walked toward the cacophony of the cafeteria, Rain chattered about Phayu’s latest custom bike design, his hazel doe eyes bright with affection. Sky listened, a faint, almost imperceptible softening around his own brown eyes. In Rain’s sunlight presence, the world felt momentarily safer, the shadows held at bay.

That safety shattered when two senior students intercepted them at the cafeteria doors. “Som needs you in the council room. Now,” One said, her tone clipped. Rain’s sunny expression clouded instantly. He rolled his eyes dramatically, a lock of his soft brown hair falling across his forehead. “Here we go again. Probably just wants to watch us jump. I’m starving.”

Sky felt a cold knot tighten in his chest. Interactions with Som were never fun. But conflict was a trigger he avoided at all costs, the ghost of old screams echoing in the silence of his mind. He gave Rain a light, steadying nudge with his shoulder. “Let’s just go. Quicker we go, quicker we can leave.” His voice was low, a calm surface over a churning depth.

They skipped lunch, their footsteps echoing in the suddenly too-quiet hallway. The council room door loomed ahead. Inside, Som was pacing, his posture rigid with a fury that seemed to vibrate off him. At twenty-three, he carried himself with a petulant authority that grated on everyone. His obsession with Phayu was an open secret, and his hatred for Rain—the man who had won Phayu’s heart—was its poisonous offshoot. Unable to touch Rain directly for fear of Phayu’s formidable wrath, Som had found a proxy: Sky, Rain’s inseparable shadow.

The moment they entered, Som whirled on them. “Why did you take so long?!” He shouted, the words bouncing off the sterile walls. “If you aren’t serious about being Council members, you might as well just quit! We don’t need lazy members like you!”

Rain’s patience snapped. He sneered, his ADHD-fueled impulsivity overriding caution. “If it weren’t for Sky, I wouldn’t have wanted to join this stupid council either. You just like the sound of your own voice.”

Sky’s porcelain skin paled further. The raised voices, the aggression—it was a cocktail that sent sharp, invisible barbs against his nerves. He could feel the old panic, cold and slick, beginning to stir. He had to stop this. He stepped forward slightly, placing himself subtly between Rain and Som’s glare, a habit born of a protective instinct so deep he never questioned it.

“Enough,” Sky said, his voice quiet but slicing through the tension with unexpected clarity. He kept his eyes lowered, his soft black bangs a curtain between him and Som’s venom. “You said there was a task. What is it?”

Som’s eyes glittered with malice. He shoved a thick folder into Sky’s chest. “The annual faculty charity gala. You two are on the decorations committee. All of it. Planning, budgeting, manual labor. Every last streamer and centerpiece.” He smirked, a cruel twist of his lips. “P’Phayu is one of the keynote alumni sponsors. I’m sure Rain will want everything to be… perfect for his boyfriend.”

The jab was deliberate, designed to inflame Rain and corner Sky with a massive, public project. The gala was in six weeks. It was an impossible load on top of their architectural studio deadlines.

Rain spluttered, outraged, but Sky’s hand found his arm, squeezing gently. A silent plea: Don’t. It’s what he wants. Sky simply nodded, taking the heavy folder. “We’ll handle it.”

As they left the oppressive room, the weight of the folder in Sky’s hands felt like more than paper. It was a sentence. Rain immediately launched into a furious, rambling tirade against Som, his words tumbling over each other. “He can’t do this! I’m telling P’Phayu! He’s only doing it because he’s jealous and pathetic and—”

“Rain,” Sky interrupted, his voice weary. “Telling P’Phayu will only make it worse. He’ll find another way.” He understood the dynamics of torment all too well. It was a game where the rules always changed to favor the tormentor.

Rain deflated, his protective fury melting into concern as he truly looked at his best friend. Sky’s shoulders were tense, his knuckles white where he gripped the folder. The carefully constructed aloofness was there, but Rain could see the faint tremor in his hands. “Sky… are you okay?”

Sky didn’t answer directly. He looked down at the daunting task in his hands, then out the window where the afternoon sun glinted off the city skyline. His mind, against his will, drifted to Prapai. To the infuriating, persistent playboy who had crashed into his life and slowly, impossibly, begun to dismantle his walls. Prapai, who would doubtless hear about this and swoop in with over-the-top, lavish solutions that would make Sky feel indebted and flustered. A strange, foreign warmth pushed back against the cold dread in his stomach. He was jealous of the way Prapai commanded a room, how he could probably charm the entire decorations budget out of a corporate sponsor with a single smile. Not that he would ever admit it.

“We’ll start tonight,” Sky said finally, his gaze steadying. “We can use the design studio after hours. We’re architects. We can design a party.” He said it to reassure Rain, but also to convince himself. He had survived worse. He had built a life from ruins. A gala decoration was just another structure to design, another problem to solve. And if the thought of Prapai’s proud, irritatingly handsome face watching him pull it off gave him a secret, fierce motivation, that was no one’s business but his own.

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The soft glow of the desk lamp cast a warm pool of light over the spreadsheets and sketches littering the small table in Sky’s old dorm room. Outside, the evening had settled into a deep indigo, punctuated by the distant sounds of the bustle of the main road winding down. Rain tapped his pencil absently against his temple, his hazel eyes fixed on the meticulous columns of numbers Sky had drafted for the faculty charity gala’s budget.

Sky’s pen moved with a quiet, precise scratch across the paper, his black bangs occasionally falling forward to brush his porcelain cheeks. He would push them back with a practiced, unconscious gesture, his brown eyes never leaving his work. The room held the familiar, comforting scent of old books, ink, and the faint, clean fragrance that always clung to Sky—like rain on concrete.

Rain’s tapping slowed, then stopped. He watched his best friend, a knot of guilt tightening in his chest. Sky looked so focused, so unassuming, yet he was bearing a weight Rain felt responsible for.

“Sky,” Rain began, his voice uncharacteristically small, cutting through the comfortable silence. “I’m sorry. Because of my relationship with P’Phayu, you ended up becoming a victim of P’Som.”

The scratching of the pen ceased. Sky looked up, his gaze sharp and clear. He set the pen down deliberately. “Rain,” He said, his voice calm but firm, a tone he reserved for moments when Rain’s ADHD-driven thoughts spiraled into unnecessary self-blame. “Never apologize for a relationship you wanted for yourself. This isn’t your fault; some people just want to lash out because they lost to you. But that doesn’t mean you’re in the wrong.”

He leaned forward slightly, his expression earnest. “They were given the chance to win P’Phayu’s heart, but you were the one who succeeded. P’Phayu chose you. You should be proud and happy that you chose him too, instead of apologizing.”

Rain whined, a soft, frustrated sound. “But because they didn’t dare to bully me directly—fearing P’Phayu would find out—you ended up having to bear the brunt of it instead. I don’t like that. I see the way P’Som looks at you during committee meetings, the petty tasks he assigns, the way he dismisses your ideas before even hearing them out.” Rain’s protective instincts, always fierce where Sky was concerned, flared hotly. Sky was his person—brilliant, resilient, and secretly so soft beneath that aloof exterior.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Sky’s lips. It was a rare sight, a slight softening around his eyes that Rain had learned to cherish. “They’ll get bored eventually,” Sky said, his voice low. “Their actions are a reflection of their own emptiness, not our worth. Now,” He nudged the budget sheet toward Rain, “Help me allocate the funds for the catering division. Your perspective on the dessert spread is less… austere than mine.”

Rain pouted, his lower lip jutting out, but he pulled the spreadsheet closer. As he scanned the numbers, he muttered under his breath, the words a grumble of righteous indignation, “They have no idea that your boyfriend is just as scary as P’Phayu.”

Sky’s hand stilled for a fraction of a second. A faint, warm flush crept up his neck. He would never admit, not even to Rain, how the mere mention of Prapai could send a thrill through him—a complicated mix of security, passion, and a possessiveness he fought to keep locked down. The memory of Prapai’s unwavering, intense protectiveness, a force as formidable as Phayu’s but tailored solely for him, was a secret armor he wore. Som’s petty torments felt insignificant against the fortress of Prapai’s devotion.

“He’s not scary,” Sky corrected quietly, his eyes back on his notes, though the ghost of that smile remained. “He’s… persistent.”

Rain snorted, a sunny grin finally breaking through his gloomy expression. “Persistent. Right. And tigers are just… overly affectionate cats.” He pointed a finger at the catering column. “We need to double the budget for the mini-croissants. Non-negotiable.”

As they fell back into their work, the dynamic between them was a familiar dance. Rain’s ideas bubbled over with enthusiastic, sometimes chaotic creativity, while Sky’s methodical nature shaped them into viable plans. The dorm room, a temporary haven amidst their transition felt like a capsule of their friendship. Here, they were just Rain and Sky, best friends tackling a project, far removed from the complexities of their powerful partners and the jealousies they incited.

Yet, the shadow of Som’s malice lingered at the edges of the warm light. Sky, for all his calm reassurances, felt the familiar, cold tendrils of anxiety whisper at the base of his spine. The trauma of his past, the violation that had made him build such high, cold walls, made him hyper-aware of predatory intentions. Som’s were petty, but they were intentions nonetheless. He pushed the feeling down, focusing on Rain’s lively debate about chocolate fountain logistics. His friendship with Rain, this bright, loyal soul who saw the real him through the cracks in his armor, was worth any amount of petty drama. And somewhere, in the back of his mind, was the steady, unwavering certainty of Prapai—a love that had dismantled his hatred for playboys and taught him the meaning of safe passion. Let Som try his games. Sky was no longer a victim; he was a survivor, cherished, protected, and quietly, fiercely loved.

He met Rain’s animated gaze over the spreadsheet, and for a moment, the anxiety receded, replaced by a simple, profound gratitude. They were in this together, as always.

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The committee room was as still and silent as a tomb at that early hour. Rain’s sneakers squeaked aggressively on the polished linoleum floor, a sharp contrast to Sky’s nearly silent footsteps. The air smelled faintly of dust and old paper, underscored by the flat, artificial light humming from the overhead fluorescents. Sky’s shoulders were already tense, a protective hunch that had become his default posture in the weeks since Som had set his sights on them.

Rain paced the length of the empty table, his restless energy vibrating in the quiet space. “He definitely said morning. I saw the notification myself,” He muttered, pulling out his phone to check the group chat for the tenth time. His hazel eyes, usually so bright and doe-like, were narrowed in frustration.

Sky leaned against the doorframe, his soft black bangs veiling his downcast brown eyes. He didn’t need to check his phone. The hollow feeling in his stomach, the one that had nothing to do with missing breakfast, told him everything. This was deliberate. Another meticulously crafted humiliation. He watched Rain’s agitation build, a familiar sense of dread coiling within his own chest. Last time, the false meeting time had left them floundering, publicly scolded for missing crucial information. Sky had spent that entire night afterward finishing the budgeting report alone, his hands trembling over the spreadsheet as Rain succumbed to exhausted sleep on his dorm room floor. The memory was a fresh bruise.

“Maybe we misread it,” Sky offered softly, the lie tasting like ash. He just wanted to de-escalate, to get Rain away from this room that felt like a trap.

“We didn’t,” Rain snapped, then immediately winced, his sunshine personality breaking through the clouds of his anger. He looked at Sky, really looked at him—at the porcelain skin made paler by fatigue, at the shadows under those guarded eyes. Sky hadn’t slept. For him. Because Rain’s ADHD-addled brain had shut down mid-task, leaving Sky to carry the weight. Again.

Sky’s phone buzzed. It was Sig. Rain watched as Sky answered, his voice low and steady. “Sig? Is there a committee meeting this morning?” A pause. Sky’s expression didn’t change, but his free hand curled into a loose fist at his side. “I see. Thank you.” He ended the call. “There’s no meeting. It’s scheduled for this afternoon.”

Rain saw red. A hot, righteous fury surged through him, washing away all reason. Som was in a morning studio class. He could picture the older student’s smug, handsome face. Without a word, he turned on his heel, intent on storming down the hallway, ready to confront the tormentor who hid behind seniority and false charm.

A hand closed around his wrist. Cool, slender fingers, but with a surprising strength. Sky.

“Rain,” Sky said, his voice a calm, flat pool amidst Rain’s tempest. “Let’s get breakfast first.”

Rain tried to pull away. “Sky, he can’t just—”

“I’m hungry,” Sky insisted, a flicker of something vulnerable in his brown eyes. It was a plea, not for food, but for peace. For a moment’s sanctuary. “You promised me khao tom after the all-nighter. The pork and ginger one from the cafeteria.”

The fight drained out of Rain as quickly as it had flooded in. He looked at his best friend—the one who was fierce and cold to the world yet had stayed up, patient and meticulous, to cover for Rain’s forgetfulness. The one who carried invisible, unimaginable weights yet still reached out to anchor Rain now. Sky’s jealousy over Prapai, his quiet fan-girling over WIK songs, his steadfast, unspoken loyalty—these were parts of him Rain cherished fiercely. He would raze the world for Sky. But sometimes, protecting him meant walking away from a battle.

Rain’s shoulders slumped. He flipped his grip, so he was holding Sky’s hand instead. “Okay,” He relented, his voice rough. “Okay, breakfast first. The good khao tom.”

He tugged Sky gently out of the committee room, away from the oppressive silence and the ghost of Som’s mockery. As they walked down the brightening corridor toward the bustling cafeteria, Rain stole a glance at Sky. The tight line of his jaw had softened just a fraction. The simple act of leaving that room, of choosing warmth and broth over cold confrontation, felt like a small victory.

His mood might improve after leaving the committee room, Rain thought, hoping it was true. He would let Sky have this quiet moment, this ordinary act of sharing a meal. The confrontation with Som could wait. For now, protecting Sky’s fragile peace was the only mission that mattered. They would face the afternoon meeting together, fortified by ginger and rice and an unshakeable, if quietly understood, devotion.

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The clatter of trays and the murmur of morning conversations filled the university cafeteria, a familiar symphony to Rain’s ears. He watched Sky, his best friend, intently studying the menu board, a slight frown of concentration on his face. It was a peaceful, ordinary moment, which meant Rain’s mind was free to buzz with the lingering irritation of their problem with Som. His fingers flew over his phone screen, typing out a quick summary in the group chat named ‘Sky’s Guardians’—a title Prapai had insisted on, much to Phayu’s amused exasperation.

Rain :Som played us again. Same stuff. Glaring, nasty comments about me being ‘unworthy.’ He’s still using Sky to get to me. What’s the move? I don’t want to drag you guys here unless it’s a last resort.

The reply was almost instantaneous. Phayu, ever the strategist, wrote:

Phayu :You said there’s a committee meeting for the faculty’s design showcase this afternoon. Som is on the committee. See how he behaves there. If he’s openly hostile or tries to undermine either of you, you have my full permission to remind him exactly who you are dating. Use my name.

Rain could almost hear Phayu’s calm, authoritative tone, a steady anchor in his sometimes-chaotic world.

A second later, Prapai’s response popped up, the words vibrating with a protective ferocity that made Rain’s lips twitch into a smile.

Prapai :Call the dean. I’ll have him expelled by dinner. He touches a hair on Sky’s head, and he’s finished.

Rain snorted softly, shaking his head. Typical Prapai. From playful charmer to ruthless CEO in the blink of an eye, all at the mere suggestion of a threat to Sky. He pictured Prapai in his sleek office, his usually warm onyx eyes turning to chips of ice, his fingers poised to make a call that would end a student’s academic career without a second thought.

Phayu’s follow-up was swift, a voice of reason.

Phayu :Pai, that’s a nuclear option for a first strike. Let’s see if a warning shot works first.

Prapai’s reply was firm, final, and so utterly devoted it made Rain’s heart swell with affection for the man who loved his best friend so fiercely.

Prapai :Then teach your junior not to mess with my Sky.

My Sky. The possessive term wasn’t about ownership, Rain knew. It was about belonging, a declaration of a love so deep that Prapai considered Sky an extension of his very soul. It was the same way Phayu would say My Rain with a quiet intensity that steadied Rain’s scattered thoughts. Sky, blissfully unaware of the digital shield being fortified around him, returned to the table with a bowl of congee, his expression soft and open.

Rain tucked his phone away, a warm sense of solidarity settling over him. He wasn’t in this alone. He had Phayu, his pillar of strength and quiet power, who trusted him to handle things but offered the full weight of his reputation as a weapon if needed. And he had Prapai, a force of nature contained within a charming smile, whose love for Sky transformed him into a guardian willing to level entire institutions. Together, they were an impenetrable fortress.

Som, with his petty jealousy and fabricated stories, was playing a dangerous game. He saw Rain as a clumsy, forgetful boy and Sky as a quiet, easy target. He didn’t see the network of fierce, unwavering love that surrounded them. He didn’t understand that tormenting Sky was an indirect challenge to a revered head mechanic and a powerful, connected CEO. He was poking a bear and a dragon simultaneously, all while believing he was just hassling two harmless underclassmen.

As Sky began talking about his studio project, his eyes lighting up, Rain made a silent promise. He would follow Phayu’s plan. He would give the warning. But a part of him, the protective part that mirrored Prapai’s own, hoped Som would be stupid enough to test them. Just so Rain could see the arrogant senior’s face pale when he realized the ‘unworthy’ boy he disparaged was backed by men who moved in worlds he could only dream of—and who loved their partners with a terrifying, beautiful intensity. For now, he just smiled at Sky, the secret guardian in his pocket, and let the morning sunlight wash over them.

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The late afternoon sun cast long, golden fingers across the university courtyard, painting the familiar paths in warm light. The day had unfolded with the usual rhythm of lectures, studio work, and the quiet hum of focused energy. For Sky and Rain, their shared project was a comforting constant, already saved and polished, needing only a final review before submission.

As they exited the classroom, a subtle tension threaded the air. Rain walked slightly ahead, one hand pressed to his temple, massaging a headache born from the last, overly dense lecture. Beside him, Sky’s brow was furrowed in concentration, his phone screen illuminating his porcelain skin as he scrolled through the report for the faculty’s annual charity gala committee. The document was Som’s latest ambush—a task assigned just yesterday for a meeting whose time had been secretly changed.

Sig and Por followed a few steps behind, their usual easy banter tempered with concern. “So, did Som stir up more trouble today?” Sig asked, his voice carrying on the mild breeze.

That was all the invitation Rain needed. He spun around, his hazel doe eyes flashing with indignant energy. “He changed the meeting time without telling us! And then yesterday, he drops this whole report on us like it’s nothing!” Rain’s words tumbled out, hands gesturing animatedly. “But it’s fine. P’Phayu said I can use his name. If P’Som doesn’t back off, I’ll call P’Phayu right there and he can deal with him.”

Sky let out a long, weary sigh, the sound almost lost in the rustle of leaves. He finally looked up from his phone, his dark brown eyes meeting Rain’s. “Just promise me you won’t get physical, Rain. If you punch P’Som, explaining that to P’Phayu will be more complicated than this report.”

Rain snorted, a proud, sunny smile breaking across his face. “As if P’Phayu would ever let me get hit. He’d turn into a complete monster if he saw a single bruise on me.” He puffed out his chest slightly, the love and security Phayu provided him a visible armor.

Sky shook his head, a resigned but fond gesture, his soft black bangs shifting. “Because only he is allowed to… adorn your body,” He stated dryly, voicing the unspoken truth they all understood.

“Of course,” Rain beamed, the simple words holding a universe of devotion.

The group fell into a companionable silence as they walked. Sky’s gaze drifted away, the administrative stress momentarily replaced by a quieter, more personal thread of thought. His fingers, which had been tight around his phone, relaxed slightly. He thought of another man, one with a charming, relentless smile and eyes that saw too much. Prapai. He wondered, with a faint, internal prick of something he refused to name as jealousy, if Prapai was at the race track with his uncle, Wik. The thought of Prapai’s effortless charisma, often wielded like a weapon, sent a familiar, defensive chill through Sky, even as a part of him—a part he kept locked away—ached for its warmth.

Sig and Por shared a knowing look behind their friends’ backs. They saw the protective circle that surrounded Sky: Rain with his fierce, sunny loyalty, Phayu with his formidable, silent strength, and Prapai, who had somehow scaled Sky’s high walls. They were content to be part of the outer ramparts.

“Ice cream?” Por suggested, breaking the quiet. “My treat. We survived another day of Som’s schemes and architectural thermodynamics. That deserves celebration.”

Rain’s headache seemed forgotten instantly. “Yes! With extra chocolate dip!”

A small, almost imperceptible smile touched Sky’s lips. It wasn’t the wide, radiant beam Rain could produce, but it was real. It was for his friends, for this moment of normalcy. He gave a slight nod. “Alright.”

As they turned toward the campus shop, the shadows grew longer, stitching the group together into a single silhouette. They were a patchwork of personalities—the sunbeam, the fortress, the loyal jesters—each carrying their own hidden weights, but walking forward together. The report, the meeting, even Som’s pettiness, could wait. For now, there was the simple promise of sweetness, shared laughter, and the unshakable understanding that whatever came next, they wouldn’t face it alone.

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The committee room, usually a space of collaborative buzz, felt like a pressure cooker about to whistle. The lingering sweetness of ice cream on their tongues had soured, replaced by a metallic taste of apprehension. Sky, seated as far from the committee chair as Rain could physically maneuver him, focused on regulating his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. The familiar, cool weight of his anxiety was a cloak he wore under his clothes, but today it felt heavier, tightened by Som’s predictable disdain.

For fifteen minutes, the meeting chugged along with mundane updates. Por distributed revised schedules while Sig cracked a quiet joke about the printer, lightening the mood for their small corner. Sky kept his eyes on his notebook, tracing the lines of a structural sketch with his pen, a grounding technique. Then came his name.

“Wasuthorn. The floor is yours for the gala proposal,” Som announced, not looking up from his phone.

Sky stood, his posture straight, his voice clear and measured as he began. He presented the design concept: a “Starlit Garden” theme utilizing sustainable, locally-sourced materials to transform the faculty courtyard. He detailed the planning timeline, the volunteer coordination, and the precise, conservative budget breakdown he’d painstakingly prepared over one night. His logic was elegant, his vision beautiful and achievable.

Som listened, or rather, he let the words hang in the air until Sky finished. Then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, he began. “Uninspired. Impractical. A fiscal fantasy.” Each of Sky’s points was met not with critique, but with contemptuous dismissal. The proposed bamboo structures were ‘flimsy.’ The local florist partnership was ‘amateur.’ The budget was ‘a child’s wish list.’

“We’re wasting committee time with this,” Som concluded, his tone slick with condescension. “It lacks any real understanding of scale or impact.”

Rain, whose leg had been bouncing with pent-up energy since the first insult, flushed a deep red. “That’s not—” He started, voice rising.

Under the table, Sky’s hand shot out, his fingers wrapping firmly around Rain’s wrist. The grip was tight, an anchor. Sky didn’t look at his best friend; his brown eyes, usually so guarded, were fixed on Som, a quiet storm brewing in their depths. He took a soft, deliberate breath, the one Prapai had taught him for moments like this.

“So,” Sky said, his voice deceptively calm, cutting through Rain’s sputtering. “If my proposal has no merit, how would you suggest the committee proceed? What is your solution?”

Som smirked, as if he’d been waiting for the invitation. He set his phone down and launched into his own proposal. As he spoke, Por and Sig exchanged a look of dawning horror. Rain’s jaw went slack.

It was Sky’s proposal. Verbally repackaged, but undeniably his. The ‘Starlit Garden’ became ‘Celestial Canopy.’ The sustainable bamboo was now ‘artisanal renewable lattice.’ The local florist was a ‘strategic botanical partner.’ The budget numbers were identical, just rearranged. Som delivered it with arrogant ownership, as if conjuring it from his own genius.

Rain felt Sky’s hand tremble slightly in his grasp before the grip tightened again, turning knuckle-white. Sky said nothing. He just watched Som, his porcelain face an impassive mask, but Rain, who knew every micro-expression, saw the flicker of cold fury in his eyes—a fury that ran deeper than plagiarism, touching a old, dark place of powerlessness he vowed never to feel again.

Som finished with a flourish. “That is how a visionary plan is presented.”

The room was silent, save for the hum of the overhead lights. The other committee members looked anywhere but at Sky. The theft was brazen, absolute.

Sky slowly released Rain’s wrist. He gathered his papers, the ones Som had just rendered obsolete, his movements precise and controlled. He didn’t sigh. He didn’t argue. He simply stood, the quiet epicenter of a profound injustice.

Rain looked from his best friend’s rigid back to Som’s smug face, and he knew, with a certainty that burned in his gut, that this was far from over. Sky’s silence wasn’t surrender; it was the calm before a calculated storm. And Rain, Por, and Sig would be right there beside him, ready for when the clouds broke.

The fluorescent lights of the studio flickered, casting long, jagged shadows across the drafting tables. The air was thick with the scent of graphite and stale coffee, but it was the tension radiating from the center of the room that made the atmosphere truly suffocating.

Sky stood motionless, his posture rigid, his porcelain skin appearing almost translucent under the harsh overhead glare. His brown eyes, usually guarded and aloof, were fixed on a point somewhere beyond the wall, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. The trauma he kept buried deep beneath his calm exterior threatened to surface, triggered by the blatant, aggressive theft of his intellectual labor.

Rain, his hazel eyes flashing with a protective fire, didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, his sunshine personality eclipsed by a sharp, biting indignation. He turned his gaze toward Som, a senior whose reputation for cutting corners was only matched by his arrogance.

“The design you just described is literally the same one Sky explained ten minutes ago,” Rain scoffed, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the other students. He rested his chin on his palm, his tone dripping with a calculated, petulant disdain that masked his underlying fury. “I bet you couldn’t even explain the budget required for that idea—even though you were the one who told Sky to handle the design planning and budgeting. I never knew that a senior of mine—who happens to be one of your juniors—would stoop to such petty tricks, not to mention shamelessly plagiarizing Sky’s idea right in front of everyone. Is this the kind of junior you have, P’?”

The room went deathly silent. Sig and Por, standing near the periphery, exchanged a look of grim solidarity. They knew the cost of crossing someone like Som, but they also knew the fragility of Sky’s peace.

Som’s face contorted, his composure shattering like glass. He didn’t have the intellect to defend his plagiarism, so he resorted to the only weapon he possessed: vitriol. He began to shout, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. He lashed out with reckless abandon, spewing insults about Rain’s relationship with Phayu, mocking Sky’s silence as a lack of creativity, and dragging every personal detail he could scavenge into the light.

“You think you’re so smart, Rain?” Som spat, his face flushing a deep, ugly red. “You and your little group of misfits. You’re nothing but a parasite, and your friend there—that cold, broken doll—he’s lucky anyone even looks at his pathetic sketches.”

Sky’s breath hitched. The mention of his past, the subtle, cruel jabs at his trauma, made the room spin. He felt a familiar, icy grip on his chest—the anxiety disorder he fought so hard to contain.

Rain didn’t back down. He stepped closer to Som, his ADHD-fueled focus narrowing into a singular, dangerous point. “You’re loud, Som. But you’re empty. You stole the work because you’re incapable of producing anything of value yourself. Keep shouting. Everyone here sees exactly what you are.”

Sig and Por moved in, flanking Rain and Sky, their presence a silent, immovable wall. They were the protectors, the ones who knew that in a world that tried to break them, their loyalty was the only crime they were willing to commit.

Som continued his tirade, his words becoming increasingly erratic and desperate, but the power had shifted. The students in the room weren’t looking at the design anymore; they were looking at the thief. In the cold, clinical light of the studio, the truth was laid bare, and for the first time, the predator looked smaller than the prey. Sky took a deep, shaky breath, his fingers curling into his palms, finding strength in the presence of his friends. The battle for their integrity had begun, and they were far from finished.

Sky’s fists clenched under the table, his usual cold demeanour struggling to hold. He hated unfairness, hated bullies. But just as Sky was about to confront Som, Rain, with a surprising calm that belied his usual fidgety nature, placed his phone flat on the table, screen down.

“Did you hear everything?” Rain’s voice, quiet but firm, cut through the murmurs of packing up.

Everyone in the committee room looked confused. Sky’s brow furrowed, a silent question forming in his mind. He glanced at Rain, who offered a small, reassuring smile. Som, initially startled, recovered quickly, a condescending smirk tugging at his lips. “Hear what, Rain? The meeting is adjourned.”

“Rain, who are you talking to?” Sky asked, his voice low. He knew Rain sometimes talked to himself when lost in thought, or muttered to Phayu during calls, but this felt different, too deliberate. His anxiety, always a quiet companion, stirred, wondering what new chaos Rain might have accidentally stumbled into.

But another voice answered Sky’s question—a voice coming directly from Rain’s phone, which was resting innocently on the table. It was deep, resonant, and utterly unmistakable.

“Yup, we heard everything, from start to finish. We even recorded it.”

Sky’s blood ran cold, then hot. He was 100% certain. That voice, laced with an underlying steel he rarely heard, belonged to only one person. “P’Phayu, is that you?” He blurted out, a mix of disbelief and a strange sense of vindication washing over him. The entire room went silent, every head snapping towards the phone, then to Rain, then back to the phone.

The voice on the phone ignored Sky’s question, its focus unwavering. “Next time, we’re going to work on how you communicate with your friends, Sky,” Phayu said, a faint warning in his tone that made Sky’s cheeks warm with a flush of embarrassment mixed with a flash of pique. Did he just call me out in front of everyone? Sky’s independent nature bristled, but the logical part of his mind knew Phayu was right; Sky often bottled things up.

Then, Phayu’s voice shifted, turning colder, sharper, like a honed blade. “Right now, I’m going to talk about how your committee president—someone who is supposed to lead you—blatantly plagiarized a junior’s idea. Not to mention the unfair treatment he acted out, simply because Rain is officially with me and Sky is Rain’s friend. You want to explain this bullshit, Som?”

The silence in the room became absolute, a suffocating vacuum. Everyone present was utterly shocked to hear the voice of Phayu—their beloved senior, the faculty heartthrob, the brilliant architect whose work was revered. Murmurs, sharp and quick, erupted before being immediately stifled. No one dared to challenge Phayu, even indirectly.

Som, in particular, looked as if he’d been struck by lightning. His face, usually composed, drained of all color, leaving him ghastly pale. His jaw slackened, his eyes wide and unseeing as they stared at the unassuming phone on the table. He was speechless; being sternly confronted by his idol and crush—who had discovered his underhanded schemes—was a crushing defeat. It landed like a physical blow, coming right after Rain had ‘snatched’ Phayu away from him. In his twisted perception, Phayu was his, and Rain had stolen him. (Though, in reality, Phayu had never even been close to Som; it was merely Som’s own delusion that he liked him back, a fantasy carefully cultivated over years of unrequited obsession).

Sky watched Som’s face crumble, a grim satisfaction unfurling within him. He saw Sig and Por exchange wide-eyed, triumphant grins. Sig even gave Rain a subtle thumbs-up. Rain, ever the thoughtful one, offered a small, apologetic shrug in Sky’s direction, a silent plea for forgiveness for the public reprimand, but his hazel eyes held a spark of righteous anger. He had been planning this, Sky realized. This was Rain’s quiet, devastating brilliance. His ADHD might make him forgetful, but his protective instincts were laser-focused.

“I… I didn’t…” Som stammered, finally finding his voice, but it was weak, reedy, utterly devoid of its earlier arrogance. “It was a misunderstanding, P’Phayu. Rain… Rain misunderstood my feedback. I was merely… refining his concept.”

Phayu’s voice, if possible, grew even colder. “Refining? You presented it as your own. We have the full audio, Som. Every word. Including your disparaging comments about Rain’s ‘lack of experience’ and Sky’s ‘unprofessionalism’ simply because they are my people.” The possessive pronoun sent a shiver down Sky’s spine, a complex mix of discomfort and warmth. Phayu rarely made their relationship public, let alone his protectiveness over Sky, who wasn’t even his boyfriend.

Sky glanced at Rain, whose face was now set, no longer apologetic. He had endured Som’s bullying for weeks, the casual slights, the subtle sabotage. He had tried to be kind, to see the best in everyone, but this plagiarism was a step too far. And now, Phayu was delivering the justice Rain was too gentle to inflict himself.

“The university values originality, Som,” Phayu continued, his voice echoing with authority. “And it certainly doesn’t condone bullying or using one’s position to stifle junior talent out of personal spite. I’m quite certain the Dean would be very interested in this recording, especially since you are a committee president.”

Som flinched as if struck. The Dean. That was a threat he couldn’t ignore. His entire academic future, his carefully constructed reputation, was hanging by a thread. The committee members, who had remained silent witnesses to Som’s biased actions, now averted their gazes, silently condemning him. They knew Phayu wasn’t bluffing.

“P’Phayu, please,” Som finally managed, his voice now a desperate plea, utterly stripped of pride. “Don’t… don’t tell the Dean. I can… I can fix this. I’ll make sure Sky’s proposal is accepted. I’ll apologize. I… I’ll do anything.” His eyes darted frantically around the room, landing momentarily on Rain, then Sky, before returning to the phone as if it were a judge and jury all at once.

Phayu let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Too late for that, Som. The damage is done. The idea of your leadership, your integrity, is shattered. As for Sky’s proposal, that’s his decision now. And I suggest you apologize to him directly, and to Rain, for your deplorable conduct. But don’t think for a second that this will simply disappear.”

There was a finality in Phayu’s tone that left no room for negotiation. He hadn’t asked if Sky wanted his proposal accepted, he said it was Sky’s decision. This was Phayu, not just an angry boyfriend’s best friend, but a mentor, an architect, a force of nature. He was ensuring that Rain and Sky, his people, were not only protected but also empowered to make their own choices.

A small tremor ran through Sky. He was used to being independent, to handling things himself, even if it meant bottling up his feelings. But hearing Phayu, a person of such stature and influence, openly defend him and Rain, it was a foreign, overwhelming feeling. It chipped away at his carefully constructed emotional walls, letting in a warmth he hadn’t realized he was missing. For all his aloofness, Sky was deeply loyal to Rain, and seeing Rain’s sunshine dimmed by someone like Som had ignited a fierce protectiveness. Now, Phayu had extinguished that threat with cold, calculated precision.

“Rain,” Phayu’s voice softened slightly, a stark contrast to his earlier severity. “Is that enough for now? I can come over if you need me to.”

Rain’s hazel eyes met Sky’s, then glanced at Sig and Por, who nodded encouragingly. He picked up his phone, his finger hovering over the screen. “It’s enough, P’Phayu. For now.” His voice was still quiet, but the spark in his eyes had returned, stronger than before. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, my clumsy boy,” Phayu replied, the affection clear even through the speaker. “And Sky, I mean what I said. We’ll talk about communication. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

Sky, despite everything, managed a small, almost imperceptible smile. He knew Phayu wasn’t being malicious; he genuinely cared. And for a boy who had built walls around himself, that care, even with its underlying admonishment, felt strangely comforting.

Rain ended the call. The silence returned, but this time it was different. It was heavy with the weight of Phayu’s verdict, with the unraveling of Som’s authority. Som sat slumped in his chair, his delusions shattered, his ambition in tatters.

Sky looked at Rain, at his best friend, who, despite his apparent flaws, possessed a strength and integrity that could move mountains—or at least, bring the mighty Phayu to his defense. He squeezed Rain’s arm, a silent acknowledgement of Rain’s bravery and Phayu’s intervention. This wasn’t just about a project anymore. This was about justice, about standing up to a bully, and about the quiet power of love and loyalty that bound them all. The committee room, once a stage for Som’s petty tyranny, had become an arena for Phayu’s swift, decisive verdict. And the truth, once recorded, could not be erased.

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The committee room air still clung to them, heavy with unspoken accusations and the acrid tang of humiliation. Som, pale and defeated, scurried away from the student council office, his shoulders hunched, not daring to meet anyone’s gaze. The quick, decisive intervention by Phayu had left him thoroughly exposed and shamed. But it was Ple, Som’s younger sister and a classmate of Rain and Sky, who truly caught Sky’s attention. She stood a little distance off, her eyes, usually warm and familiar, narrowed into slits of resentment as they flickered between Sky and Rain.

Ple had once been part of their easy group, a bubbly presence in their architecture classes. But Phayu’s sudden, undeniable presence in Rain’s life had cleaved their friendship apart. Ple, like many others, harbored a fervent crush on the faculty’s ‘god,’ and Rain, with his bright hazel eyes and sunshine smile, had effortlessly claimed a prize Ple had only dreamed of. That unspoken jealousy had festered, slowly turning her away. She hadn’t participated in Som’s bullying—her conscience, perhaps, or a lingering thread of their old friendship, prevented that—but she hadn’t stopped it either. And now, seeing Phayu, formidable and unyielding, step in to dismantle Som’s scheme, Ple’s defiance was tempered by a raw, unadulterated fear. Her glares were potent, but her feet were rooted, a silent acknowledgment that Phayu’s wrath was not to be trifled with, and that approaching his boyfriend’s best friend was an invitation to it. Sky, with his black hair falling softly over his brown eyes, felt the prickle of her gaze but offered no reaction, his porcelain skin as impassive as ever. He just wanted to leave.

Rain, however, was incapable of such detachment. His own brown hair, usually a playful mess, seemed subdued, his hazel doe eyes wide with concern. “Sky, are you… are you okay?” He asked, his voice soft, almost a whisper, as they walked away from the scene, leaving the remnants of the tension behind. Rain, ever the protector, despite his own occasional clumsiness and ADHD-fueled tangents, was hyper-focused on his best friend. “Should P’Phayu step in and speak to the faculty dean about Som? This isn’t right, what he tried to do to you.”

Sky didn’t need to consider it. The idea of more official procedures, more confrontations, made a knot tighten in his stomach. His past, a landscape scarred by trauma and anxiety, screamed for quiet, for escape, not escalation. He simply shook his head, the soft bangs brushing his eyes. “No, Rain. It’s fine.” He didn’t want to explain, didn’t want to rehash. He just wanted to be somewhere safe, somewhere familiar and comforting. “Can you... can you take me to Prapai’s family home?”

Rain didn’t question it. He simply nodded, his features softening. He understood. Sky rarely asked for anything directly, and when he did, it was usually for the simplest of comforts. They walked in comfortable silence to Rain’s car, a worn but reliable vehicle that had seen countless late-night drives between dorms and study sessions. The city lights blurred into streaks of color as Rain navigated the familiar routes, the hum of the engine a soothing backdrop to Sky’s quiet contemplation. Sky watched the world rush by, his mind replaying the committee room scene, Phayu’s cold fury, Som’s pathetic retreat, Ple’s simmering hatred. It was all so… loud. He craved the quiet that only one person could truly offer.

Soon, the familiar, imposing gates of the Sangngey estate came into view. Rain pulled up to the security checkpoint, a brief nod exchanged with the guard, and then drove up the winding driveway. The mansion, even at night, exuded an aura of grandiosity and history. Sky felt a small sigh of relief escape him.

“Thanks, Rain,” Sky said, unbuckling his seatbelt. He turned to his best friend, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. “And tell P’Phayu... thank him for me.”

Rain returned the smile, a bright, sincere flash of his usual sunshine. “I will. Make sure you get some rest, okay?” Sky nodded, already opening the car door. He watched Rain drive away, then turned and headed straight for the mansion’s entrance. The staff, accustomed to his presence, greeted him with warm smiles as he moved through the opulent halls, his steps purposeful. He knew exactly where he would find him.

Prapai’s room was on the second floor, a sanctuary of ordered chaos that perfectly reflected its occupant. Sky pushed the door open quietly, his gaze immediately drawn to the figure on the expansive balcony. Prapai stood there, tall and broad-shouldered, silhouetted against the inky canvas of the night sky, his head tilted back as if communing with the stars. He was always so calm, so grounded, even in the most turbulent of moments.

Without a word, Sky walked out onto the cool tiles of the balcony. He approached Prapai from behind, his hands instinctively reaching out, wrapping around his waist. He rested his cheek against Prapai’s back, feeling the solid warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart against his own. It was a rare display of vulnerability for Sky, who usually maintained a façade of cool independence, but with Prapai, the walls he meticulously built around himself simply crumbled.

Prapai didn’t flinch, didn’t even turn. He simply clasped Sky’s hands, which were now resting on his stomach, his thumb gently caressing Sky’s knuckles. His voice, a low rumble that vibrated through Sky’s chest, was laced with an almost uncanny understanding. “Rough day, my Sky?”

Sky let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. He closed his eyes, inhaling Prapai’s familiar scent—a blend of expensive cologne, clean linen, and something uniquely Prapai, something that spelled safety. “Your best friend, Phayu,” Sky muttered, his voice muffled against Prapai’s shirt, “is a dangerous person.” He didn’t mean it as an insult, more an observation, tinged with a grudging respect and perhaps a faint, unacknowledged flicker of jealousy at the intensity of Phayu’s protectiveness. Sky admired Phayu, even fanboyed over his uncle Wik, but Prapai was his.

A soft chuckle vibrated through Prapai’s chest, a sound that always eased the tightness in Sky’s own. “We’re cut from the same cloth, Sky,” Prapai replied, his voice a smooth balm. He finally turned slightly, shifting so Sky could press closer, his arms wrapping more securely around him. “If anyone hurts the people we cherish, we can turn into monsters.” His gaze found Sky’s, dark and intense, a promise of fierce protection shimmering within them. “But when we’re with the ones we love,” Prapai continued, his eyes softening, “we’re nothing more than a puppy and a kitten.”

Sky leaned into the embrace, letting Prapai’s words wash over him. The ‘cold and aloof’ facade he presented to the world melted away in the warmth of Prapai’s arms. He was not just an architectural student, smart and independent; he was a young man with a history that haunted him, an anxiety that often crippled him. But here, in Prapai’s embrace, the monsters of his past seemed to shrink, and the harsh realities of the day faded into the background. He was just Sky, cherished and safe, held by the man who saw past his walls, the man who understood the depths of his unspoken fears and loved him anyway. He was Prapai’s kitten, and Prapai was his monster, his protector, his home. And for tonight, that was more than enough.

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