The rains had returned and passed again.

Art and Thanom were fifteen now. Fifteen was a mess of hormones and nerves that they were both forced to endure.

The change had not been graceful. Thanom had shot up, his limbs suddenly too long for his body. He moved with a restless, pent-up energy, constantly bumping into doorframes or knocking over cups. His voice was a traitor that cracked mid-sentence, dropping to a childish squeak without warning.

Art hadn't grown as fast, but his face had lost its softness. The round cheeks were gone, revealing a sharp jawline.

Their hands no longer looked like children's, but their hearts remained as confused as ever.

It was late, and the dormitory was filled with the sounds of sleep—heavy breathing, the rustle of sheets, and the occasional mumbles and moans.

Art couldn't sleep. The air was thick, pressing down on his chest.

He slipped out of bed, the floorboards cool against his bare feet. He walked down the hall, past the peeling yellow paint, to the small balcony at the end of the second floor.

He pushed the door open. Thanom was already there.

He was sitting with his back against the wall, one leg drawn up, the other stretched out long across the stone. He was looking towards the forest, his eyes unfocused.

Thanom's shoulders rose toward his ears when Art stepped outside.

"Couldn't sleep?" Thanom asked.

His voice cracked on the word sleep—a high, humiliating squeak.

A year ago, they would have laughed. Now, Thanom cleared his throat aggressively, his ears turning bright red in the darkness.

Art hid a smile. He swallowed the nervous lump in his own throat and sat down.

"It's stupid hot," Art said.

He sat close enough that he could feel the radiant heat coming off Thanom's arm. They sat in silence for a long time. The distance between them was barely six inches, but it felt like a canyon.

Art looked at Thanom's hand resting on the stone. It was big now. The knuckles were rough.

Art wasn't sure what made him do it. Maybe it was the night. Maybe it was the ache that hadn't left him in all these passing years.

He shifted his hand. Just an inch.

Thanom went still. His pinky finger moved. It slid across the gritty stone until it brushed against Art's.

The contact made every nerve end fire at once.

Art tilted his hand, broadening the contact. Skin against skin.

He dared a glance. Thanom was biting his lip so hard it turned white. He looked nervous.

Then, Thanom turned his head. Their eyes met.

The world around them seemed to vanish. Even the song of the crickets dropped away. The only sound was the ragged intake of Thanom's breath.

Thanom's gaze dropped to Art's lips.

He was shaking as he leaned in, reluctant to cross the line they had kept all these years.

Thanom's hand lifted. It hovered near Art's jaw. Art could feel the heat of his palm like an open furnace door.

Art leaned forward, closing the last millimeter.

Their lips barely brushed—

CREAK.

A door opened down the hall. Heavy footsteps thudded against the wood floor. A toilet flushed, loud and jarring.

The moment shattered.

Thanom pulled away reflexively. His hand dropped as he scrambled backwards, his elbow hitting the stone wall with a dull thud.

"I—" Thanom's voice failed him.

He looked at Art with panicked eyes, then stood up and fled, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor. Art was left sitting alone on the balcony, his lips still tingling with anticipation.

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

Thanom stumbled into the bathroom. He slammed the stall door shut and locked it, his hands shaking so hard he missed the latch the first time.

He braced his hands against the cool wall. His breath came in fractured gasps.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

His heart was stampeding. The brush of Art's lips was still there. The scent of Art's skin, lemongrass and rain, filled his head.

It was raw desire, and underneath it, coiled just as tight, was terror. Of how his hands destroyed random objects. Of what they might do to something more precious.

Thanom stumbled out of the stall and went to the sinks. He twisted the tap, desperate for cold water.

He shoved his hands under the stream.

HISS.

The water didn't cool him. The moment it touched his skin, it boiled.

The porcelain groaned from the rapid temperature shift. Steam billowed up from the sink, lavender-tinged and thick. Thanom stared at his hands. They were glowing—a faint, violet light pulsing under the skin. The mirror fogged over, the condensation hissing against the heat.

The power inside him was reacting to the storm in his blood. It was feeding on his panic, and on his deep yearning for Art.

He splashed the scalding water onto his face, not feeling the burn, just feeling the nauseating reality that he couldn't turn it off. He gripped the edge of the porcelain sink, watching the ceramic begin to smoke under his fingers.

I'm going to hurt him, Thanom thought, staring at his glowing hands. If I touch him like I want to... I'm going to burn him alive.

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

Later that night, long after the steam had cleared, Art finally stood to go back to bed. He walked quietly down the hall and discovered that he wasn't alone. Peach was sitting sideways on the banister of the main staircase. She was barefoot, staring into the shadows below, tossing a pebble up and catching it.

Toss. Catch. Toss. Catch.

"Did you kiss him?" she asked.

Art's heart skipped a beat. "No."

Peach nodded like that was the expected answer. She caught the pebble and held it tight in her fist.

"But you would have. Right?"

Art didn't respond. He couldn't lie to her.

She turned to look at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"It's okay," she said. "You don't have to say it. The echo is loud enough."

She hopped off the banister and walked past him toward the dorm.

"Be careful, Art," she whispered. "Sparks catch fast in the dry season."

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

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