(Art = 13)

Art was thirteen now. The age where you're supposed to be tough, but every scrape and insult still stings. Old enough to know what that night months ago had meant, yet young enough to have absolutely no idea what to do about it. The awkwardness from the encounter had settled between himself and Thanom into a new, unspoken barrier.

Art was sitting on his heels, mechanically pulling weeds from the herb garden. He kept his head down, searching his brain for the right words and not finding them. His head was spinning. Thanom seemed to be avoiding him all morning.

Art got up, brushed the dirt off his khaki shorts and went for a walk.

It didn't take much to spark some kids. A glance. A quiet moment they couldn't understand. This time, it was a small patch of moss that bloomed under Art's foot as he walked. They didn't like it.

They had him cornered against the fence. Three older boys—mean, bored, and desperate to feel superior to someone. If you don't have a surname, you don't have a past, and no past means you're fair game.

"Hey, Meung," the leader sneered.

The word hit like spit in Art's face. It was the crude, disrespectful "you" reserved for enemies or filth—a word that stripped away any pretense of politeness.

"Look at him," the leader continued, dragging the toe of his sandal through the moss and kicking dirt onto Art's shoes. "He's got mold growing on him now? Bet Meung eats dirt when no one's looking."

"Maybe he spawned from the mud," the third boy laughed. "Just a temple mutt nobody wanted living off the monks' leftover rice."

The second bully shoved him hard in the chest. Art ground his molars together and waited with his arms at his sides for the harassment to end.

"Back off."

Thanom stood at the edge of the clearing. He looked solid; feet planted wide, fists clenched. But what was really unnerving was his face—calm and still, like a viper about to strike.

The leader turned, ready to sneer, but the look of recognition in Thanom's dilated eyes stopped him cold.

"You're acting low, Horn!" Thanom said, his voice dropping with spite. "Lower than the dirt you're talking about."

"Stay out of it, Thanom. It's none of your business."

Thanom took a step forward.

"He's my Nong," Thanom stated, "and that makes him higher than you." He stared Horn down with an uncanny glow in his eyes. "You want to touch him, you go through me first."

Horn hesitated. To fight someone protecting their kin invited bad luck, but backing down in front of his own underlings was worse. He stepped forward and shoved Thanom's shoulder, but the other bullies pulled away. Fight Thanom? That was just stupid. Everyone knew he had fought off a whole gang and nearly killed one of them. The hierarchy shifted in seconds. Though younger, Thanom had claimed seniority, by dominance.

He suddenly lunged forward with blinding speed, his leading hand leaving a faint violet streak in the air. Horn stumbled, flailing to keep his balance. Thanom grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the fence, which rattled violently.

Horn's eyes welled up with tears. He was clearly in over his head, and began to whisper, "Please… Thanom," but the effort was futile. Thanom's eyes were pitiless and burning.

Art watched breathlessly as Thanom held the pleading boy against the fence with his free hand balled into a fist, ready to strike. Then the fist ignited.

Panic flooded through Art's chest as he jumped between the boy and Thanom, positioning himself to shield the sight of the supernatural occurrence from the other bullies.

He grabbed Thanom's smoking hands and held them tightly, against his own shirt to smother the fire.

The cotton fabric instantly charred, turning brown and smelling strongly of burnt cloth, but Art didn't let go.

Then a scream fueled by terror, pain, and the sudden urge to protect ripped out of his throat.

The ground answered.

The patch of moss at their feet exploded. A blast of dirt and tangled roots shot upward like a geyser, showering the bullies in grit and debris. A tree branch snapped with a crack like a gunshot, swinging down to graze Horn's shoulder. Roots burst from the topsoil, whipping around the other bullies' ankles.

They all scrambled back, shielding their faces from the sudden storm of dirt. "What the hell?" one of the boys yelled, spitting dust. They looked at Art—chest heaving, red faced, and shrieking like a hungry ghost—and then at the tree above that seemed to be shaking with his movements.

"Run!" Horn shouted, eyes wide with horror. "This place is haunted!"

They turned and fled, tripping over each other to escape from the possessed kid and the garden that attacked them.

Thanom was shaking with adrenaline, hands still trapped in Art's grip. He stared at Art, astonished. The boy who never made a sound when he was hurt had just screamed the forest down.

Art was panting, his eyes watery. He let go of Thanom's hands, slid down against the fence and sat on the ground. "Are you okay?" he squeaked out, voice hoarse and exhausted.

Thanom looked down at the black marks he had just burned into Art's shirt, then at a broken branch laying on the ground between them. Then he grabbed Art's wrist.

"Come on," Thanom said. His voice was strained.

Art stood up, dusting off his knees with his free hand. "Thanom. I—"

"Let's go." He gestured aggressively toward the banyan roots, staying close behind Art. Thanom's body temperature was baking like a furnace, shielding Art's back while herding him into the shadows.

They walked until the noise fell away behind them, until it was only the two of them.

Thanom pulled Art into the alcove, where the banyan tree draped elongated shadows across the mossy cement. As they ducked into the narrow gap between root and stone, the branches above stirred—slowly, deliberately.

Vines dropped, sealing the alcove in a heavy green shade. The faint scent of sweet sap and fresh leaves permeated the air around them.

Art did not resist as Thanom swung him around. Thud. They now stood face to face, Art's back pressed firmly against the wall behind them.

The space between them had shrunk significantly.

Thanom's hands hit the stone on the side of Art's head, caging him in. "You screamed," Thanom breathed out.

"Your fire was showing," Art countered, looking confused and exhilarated by the intensity of the moment. "Your hands were on fire, Phi. You would have burned them."

Thanom leaned in, his forehead pressing against the wall next to Art's temple. He was quaking. "They shoved you. They treated you like garbage. And you... you protected them?"

Art held his tongue, but he felt the tree listening. Responding. To him. To them. With Thanom's cheek so close by, Art felt mesmerized.

Then he looked up. "If you hurt them, you get in trouble. If they'd seen your fire I don't know what would have happened."

Thanom pulled back and laughed. "So your solution was to attack them with a tree?"

Art smiled and reached up to stroke Thanom's cheek. He let it happen, his eyes open and unguarded — before he pulled back.

Thanom closed his eyes. "Art… don't."

"You should stay away from me." Thanom sounded ragged. "I almost melted his face off, and… I wanted to. I liked it."

His eyes filled with tears, glassy and raw. "Your shirt. I'm… you grabbed me… you should stay away from me. I'm… I'm… dangerous and you—"

"What?" Art cut Thanom off, reached up and held his face. Thanom looked away to the side.

"You're not dangerous," Art said stubbornly, and turned Thanom back to face him again. "You just got angry."

"I burnt you." Thanom's voice fractured. "Why didn't you run with the others?"

"Run with the guys that bullied me?" Art asked and took a step closer. "You didn't hurt me and I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be."

"Well, I'm not. Why should I be? You always protect me. You would never hurt me."

They were close again. Thanom saw the stubborn set of Art's jaw, and those eyes that refused to judge him, almost iridescent in the half-light of the alcove. There was something unspoken in Thanom's gaze. Something wide and scared and wanting.

Neither of them moved. The atmosphere around them felt alive, though they were hardly touching. Thanom's shoulders tilted forward—just enough for their chests to nearly meet.

Thanom's face moved close enough that Art could feel his warm breath on his lips. The scent of crushed moss and rain was overwhelming in the enclosed space, but under it, Art could smell him—faintly coconut, with the distinct smokiness of a fresh fire on a cold night.

Thanom's gaze dropped to Art's lips. Then, slowly, his eyes drifted down to the deep, black crusted marks on the cotton shirt where Art had smothered Thanom's flaming hands. The faint smell of burnt hair lingered in the fabric.

Thanom choked back a sudden painful urge to weep and held his breath. With trembling fingers he pressed aside the remnants of blackened fibers, dreading what lay beneath them.

There were no burns. Thanom touched the spot in disbelief. Art's bare skin felt impossibly cool and unblemished.

Thanom finally exhaled, his hand falling. Scalding tears slipped free, cutting a path down his cheek before dropping onto Art's collarbone.

Art let himself lean in, tilting his chin up, just a fraction. A dare. Do it.

Thanom pressed his forehead to Art's. He leaned in, sliding his hand down, touching Art's pinkie before threading their fingers together.

We're going to kiss. We're going to —

"Thanom?"

Mali's voice in the distance.

Thanom jerked back, and it all vanished.

"I..." Thanom's voice cracked. His fingers slipped from Art's.

He stepped away, toward the sound of his sister. Leaving Art alone against the wall, chest hollow, hand still aching for the shape of Thanom's fingers.

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

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