06. THREADS OF ONESELF

By mid-afternoon, irritation still dogged Ko relentlessly. He decided to swim to relieve stress, but after showering in the locker room, he found Pheem sitting on a bench, waiting for him. He hadn’t expected it, but it wasn’t unusual either.

Even without being called, if something was important, Pheem always showed up on his own.

“Hey, I was going to go up to your room, but the butler told me you were here. Waiting in the locker room like this seems suspicious. Hey… did something happen?” Pheem asked.

“No, nothing. I’m just a little frustrated. The person I was supposed to meet didn’t come, so I didn’t wait,” Ko said.

To avoid thinking about Jira, Ko changed the subject. “And you? What brings you here?”
Pheem hesitated. When he was about to speak, fear stopped him. Ko, knowing his friend’s intentions, got straight to the point.

“It’s about your department, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Since you’ll be busy with Library, could you keep my team and department intact for another year? It’s too soon to make changes. At least wait until the system is stable.”

“Then compete with me. If you win, I won’t fire your people.”

Ko opened his locker, pulled out an extra swimsuit, and tossed it to Pheem, who caught it and began changing without even looking for a bathroom.

They were used to this. It was normal between them. Without their work masks, they were friends sharing joys and hardships, eating together, sleeping together, and supporting each other through tough times.

Though they sometimes fought, their bond was unbreakable.

But reality couldn’t ignore certain conditions. Work was part of them, and while Pheem couldn’t deny that Ko was a loyal friend, as a boss, he was so demanding that many resented him.

“Fine. If I accept the challenge, you have to keep your promise.”

 

Meanwhile…

“Khun Kriwit, please.”

Jira stopped at the hotel reception desk, speaking politely to the employee. He wanted to bite his tongue. He had announced his resignation firmly, but a day later, here he was, trapped again in the cycle of his emotions. The reason was simple: money, money, and more money.

The balance in his account gave him hope for about two minutes, until despair returned, remembering that he still had to return part of it to Ing, his benevolent creditor who didn’t charge interest.

Although he had paid a portion, he still owed nearly half the debt. Pressed by circumstances, finding a new job didn’t guarantee he could repay it soon. The only way to free himself, pay off his debt, and have something to live on was the person who gave him orders like he was programming an AI.

Ko Kriwit was Jira’s only option.

“Your name, please?” asked the employee. “Jira.”
“One moment, please.”

The sound of typing filled the air. Jira watched the employee expectantly, but the response deflated him.

“Uh… it looks like the appointment was canceled at ten this morning.”

“Could you contact Khun Kriwit again? Tell him I have something important to discuss.”

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the employee replied, refusing immediately. Jira ran his hands through his hair in frustration.

At that moment, the butler appeared, and Jira seized the opportunity to turn the crisis into an advantage.

“Mr. Butler! Do you remember me?” “Yes, Mr. Jira.”
Jira exhaled in relief at being recognized and approached confidently to ask for help.

“I want to see your boss, but the staff won’t let me without an appointment. Could you help me?”

The butler looked uncomfortable. He glanced around at the staff, then adopted a serious tone.

“Please, follow me for a moment.” Discreetly, he led Jira to a corner to speak.

“The suit you sent back has already been delivered to Mr. Ko.”

“And? Did he get angry?” Jira asked, expecting an explosive reaction. The older man shook his head.

“No, because I didn’t deliver the note you had attached with the suit.”

Jira fell silent, suddenly remembering his impulsive decision: he had included a provocative post-it. But since it hadn’t reached its recipient, he was baffled… and even more so when the paper returned to his hands.

“Wow, the butler really protects him, huh? Not even when I insult him does it get through.”

“It’s my duty,” the butler said. “But partly, I do it because I don’t want you two to have problems. I think you’re someone special to Khun Ko.”

“Already special, huh?”

“Normally, he doesn’t let anyone up to his room. If you really want to see him, I’ll help you this time.”

 

The two bodies leaned at the edge of the pool, hands gripping the border. A digital watch app counted down.

Three, two, one…

With the sound, Ko and Pheem dove into the two-meter-deep pool. They swam freestyle with such strength, precision, and rhythm that they looked like athletes fiercely competing for speed.

The water splashed widely, but the taller body gained a slight edge, turning first. Although it was only a few seconds ahead, victory went to the one who touched the pool’s edge first.

Pheem emerged triumphant, Ko followed, breathing heavily. Though he lost, he wasn’t resentful.

“I won!” Pheem exclaimed. “Yes, yes,” Ko replied.
“My department stays, right? Don’t touch it,” Pheem waved. Ko accepted defeat gracefully, yielding to his friend’s negotiation.

It’s just a department that will keep running a little longer. Not a big obstacle, Ko thought.

As the agreement between the two company founders concluded perfectly, the arrival of another person disturbed the balance.

The elevator doors opened. The butler escorted Jira to the pool area, lifting the ‘Cleaning in Progress’ sign for him to pass through. Without a word, the butler set the sign back in place and excused himself.

Jira strode across the pool area, calling to Ko from the other side: “What, did you even close the pool so you could swim alone?”
“Damn it, you’re impossible to get rid of! How did you get up here?” Ko cursed, while Pheem, seeing Jira’s face, was surprised. Who would’ve thought the guy he met by chance at the Burnout Bar would show up here?

In this tense moment, Pheem tried to avoid eye contact by putting on his goggles, but it didn’t help-Jira noticed and greeted him first.

“What a coincidence running into you!” “You know each other?” Ko asked quickly. “No,” Pheem replied immediately.
His expression betrayed discomfort, which Jira noticed. Understanding Pheem’s intentions, he decided to play along.

“Well, let’s just say we don’t know each other. We just happened to cross paths.” “Where?” Ko pressed.
“At the Burnout Bar,” Jira answered, making Ko frown. He glanced at Pheem, who tried to slip away discreetly.

“We’ll talk later. Go upstairs and wait for me. Use my bathroom if you want,” Ko said. Pheem nodded, threw a concerned glance at Jira, and left.

“And you, what are you doing here?” Ko asked Jira.

Jira, remembering his purpose to request returning to work, adjusted his tone to sound friendly.

“I want to work with you again.”

Ko smiled, leapt out of the pool, and strode toward Jira. He leaned in, whispering in his ear: “Sorry, but you missed the ten o’clock appointment. Your only chance is gone. Leave.”
The tall man grabbed a towel from a chair by the pool and dried himself off with a nonchalant air, as if deliberately provoking Jira.

“I went to the trouble of coming here to ask for a crappy job like this. Why would I leave?” “There are no crappy jobs for you.”

“Then let me work with a crappy person.”

“Sorry, but I’m too nice,” Ko said with a mocking smile that exasperated Jira. “Just tell me what you want.”
“And why should I take you back?”

“Because you need me. I suppose I understand you,” Jira said confidently. “You won’t find anyone as good as me for this.”

They stared at each other, reading one another’s intentions. Taking advantage of the moment of confusion, Jira pulled a tube slung over his shoulder, opened it, and showed Ko the drawing. The bold, striking image left Ko momentarily speechless.

“Why are you showing me this?” “It’s a portrait of you.”
Ko was still confused, but surprise mixed with curiosity. He hadn’t expected Jira to produce something so unexpected.

The fluid, lively lines on the paper reflected the artist’s feelings. Even someone not immersed in art could appreciate them. Ko’s handsome face studied the drawing intently before turning to the artist with a softer expression.

“You bring me a risqu portrait of myself. Don’t you think it’s a bit… vulgar?” “Hey, it’s art! Don’t think badly of it,” Jira replied.
“Let’s get to the point. Do you want to work again, or what exactly are you looking for?”

“Before, I never managed to paint something I was fully satisfied with. I was burnt out for a long time. But after meeting you, I feel my work has improved. I want you to be my model to perfect my technique.”

“Are you serious, or are you joking with me?” Ko asked immediately, incredulous. “Look me in the eyes.”
Jira stepped closer, so close that Ko, startled, instinctively stepped back. “Don’t mess with me.”
“Alright, alright, listen. I’ll keep working for you as before, even for a lower salary. But in exchange, I want you to be my model for painting.”

“Wait a minute,” Ko said, but Jira interrupted. Aware he didn’t have much negotiating power, he continued with his conditions.

“For every piece I do for you, you pose for me once. I just finished a piece for you, so now it’s your turn.”

“Isn’t that asking too much? Why would I accept such an unreasonable proposal? I have to pay you and also waste time posing.”

“Aren’t you curious to see how someone else sees you? I swear, I’ll work for you without complaints-just let me paint your portrait again.”

“No.”

“Just once. If it doesn’t work, I’ll stop. And I’ll keep working for you anyway.” Jira raised his hands in surrender, desperate to prove his talent.
Ko began considering the proposal. Although it wasn’t appealing, something in Jira’s pleading eyes prevented him from outright rejecting it. Finally, he agreed-with a crucial condition.

“Fine, let’s try. But here’s my condition: from now on, whatever you do, if I give you an order, you follow it, no matter how bad it seems.”

Jira nodded, and the man known as his boss continued firmly: “No drama, no softening up, no compassion, no hesitation. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Though feeling some reluctance, Jira thought that was enough. He extended his hand toward Ko.

“Give me back my drawing.”

“Wasn’t this portrait of me supposed to be a gift?” “If you want it, keep it.”
“I don’t want free things. How much is it?” “Whatever you think it’s worth-transfer it.”
Jira wasn’t expecting a large sum. He was so used to his work being undervalued that he found it hard to believe anyone would pay. Whether it was a thousand or a hundred, he would accept it all.

“I’m free Friday morning, but only for two hours. Not a minute less, not a minute more.”

Ko spoke, storing the drawing in the tube with an indifferent expression, in contrast to Jira, whose mix of excitement and surprise was written across his open mouth.

“Perfect! Friday, then. Don’t let me down.”

“Well, you’re not leaving yet.” “Alright, see you then.”
Jira’s slim figure dashed out of the pool area so quickly that in the blink of an eye, he was gone. Ko remained in place, laughing to himself. After a moment of reflection, his expression returned to its usual serious state.

He wasn’t sure if he had made the right decision-but it was too late to regret it.

 

“So what kind of burnout do you have? What’s so serious that you go to that place?”

Ko returned to the room, his steps heavy, holding the tube with the drawing. Seeing his close friend on the sofa, he bombarded him with questions without consideration.

“Don’t ask me. Since when do you care with that face?” Pheem replied in the same annoyed tone. Why should he be the only one to give in?

“Yes, of course I don’t care. But I want to know if you ever talked about me.” He meant the relationship between Pheem and Jira.
“Damn it, Ko! You made me sign an NDA. What was I supposed to talk about? I don’t even tell my mother when she asks about you. Besides, that bar works with a system of random chats with strangers. When would I have time to talk about you?”

Hearing this, Ko had no more doubts. He nodded understandingly, staring at Pheem as he gave a clear instruction.

“I allowed Jira to work as my representative. From now on, I don’t want any personal relationship between you two.”

“Yes, yes, can you stop ordering now?” “It’s not an order. It’s a company rule.”
“Finished talking? Because I want to leave.” “Go ahead.”

Pheem left the room, almost kicking the door in frustration. It wasn’t until the door closed and he took a few steps that his irritation began to fade after seeing a message from Jira. The content was simple-just an apology-and he didn’t give it much importance.

Because no matter what damn rules Ko imposed, he didn’t have the power to completely cut off contact. As long as Ko didn’t find out, everything was fine.

 

The doorbell rang shortly after Pheem left. Ko signaled to the person outside and saw the butler enter with a bag.

“The doctor sent a new prescription,” the butler said.

“Thanks.” Ko extended his hand to take the bag, then retrieved the tube with the drawing and handed it to the butler.

“Here’s a drawing. I want you to have it framed.” “I will take the utmost care of it, sir.”
The butler left the room silently, leaving Ko staring at the closed door while calculating in his mind how much Jira’s drawing should really be worth.

 

It was already past midnight.

Jira lay in bed, chatting happily with Pheem. They talked about finding a free day to go out and relax. Suddenly, a notification sounded. It was a message from the banking app.
Looking closely, he saw that three hundred thousand baht had been transferred to his account.

He jumped up in disbelief, hands trembling as he opened the app to confirm. The money was there-really transferred.

There was no need to guess: only one person would pay such a large sum.

He clearly remembered the midday conversation with Ko about buying the drawing, but he never imagined Ko would value it so highly. It was the first time anyone had recognized the worth of his work. The first time he hadn’t had to slash the price repeatedly. And it was also the first time he decided to sell a piece to the person who had inspired it-even if that person wasn’t particularly interested in art.

But wasn’t mere acknowledgment of his existence enough?

Jira fell back onto the bed, so happy that words failed him. He stared at the numbers in his account, forgetting entirely to reply to Pheem’s message.

 

The next morning, Jira woke early to shower and get dressed. He prepared his drawing materials: rolled up the paper and put it in a plastic tube, grabbed pencils, a palette, and brushes, and packed them into his backpack. Once ready, he put on his shoes, opened the door, and left the room.

It didn’t take long to reach the hotel. This time there were no arguments with the motorcycle taxi driver over exaggerated fares. He came by taxi, sitting comfortably in the back seat, and stepped out with a composed air.

The butler didn’t accompany him to the upper floor as before. No checks on his belongings, no confiscation of his phone. But this time, the host surprised him by sending an access card through the butler, allowing him to go straight up to the penthouse by elevator.

It was a small but significant step: the two were slowly approaching each other as colleagues with mutual benefit.

Jira pressed the doorbell but received no response. He tried again and again, but the silence persisted. He was about to give up when the door suddenly opened, revealing the room’s owner with a completely rigid expression.

His hair was messy, he wore a tracksuit Jira had never seen before, and the smell of alcohol was strong even from a distance. His face frowned instinctively, and before Jira could even greet or ask anything, the other spoke, leaving him utterly bewildered-as a chicken unsure where to stand.

“What did you come for?”

“Huh? Did you hit your head or what? We agreed I’d come to draw! Don’t tell me you forgot.” “Yeah… I forgot.”
Just hearing that, Jira saw the young man’s face twist. Looking at his legs, he realized he was getting his payback.

“Stop acting difficult and let me in already.”

“I’m not listening. Honestly, I’m not well right now.”

Jira tried to push the door to enter, but Ko, clearly not in good shape, held it firmly from inside. Eventually, the taller man couldn’t resist any longer and ran to the bathroom to vomit in the toilet. Jira froze, stunned. He hadn’t imagined the other was so bad off. Concerned, he followed him.

The sound of vomiting came from inside, but Jira didn’t dare invade his personal space. He could only wait by the door, until a few minutes later Ko emerged, pale and exhausted.

“Are you okay?”

“After throwing up, I feel a bit better.”

The dark circles on Ko’s attractive face were pronounced. Jira remembered he had struggled with insomnia before, though he had never delved into the details. In truth, he had no right to ask-or know-more than what Ko wanted to share.

“Are you sure? Want me to call the butler?”

“No need. It’s just the effect of a new sleeping pill. Nothing serious.”

With long strides, Ko went to the cluttered desk. He grabbed a bottle of plum liquor and drank straight from it, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

If he were a friend or someone close, Jira would probably have scolded him endlessly. Barely admitting insomnia, and now he woke up drinking recklessly-hardly a way to improve his state.

“Hurry up and finish your work already.”

Of course, Ko was his boss, not his friend. Jira didn’t insist. Instead, he set up his drawing materials near the sofa, which piqued the other’s curiosity.

“Besides me, have you drawn anyone else?” “Of course.”
“And Liu?”

“What kind of compensation are you expecting?” “What did you feel drawing her?”
“It was fine. At least she didn’t have a tongue as sharp as yours. But it was a shame my technique didn’t evolve much, so I had to keep testing different models.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Where do I sit, what do I do?”

“You don’t have to pose. Just act naturally, as if I weren’t here. Do what you normally do when you wake up.”

“Can I shave my beard?” “Whatever you want.”
Ko didn’t ask anything else. He walked to the bathroom and stopped in front of the mirror by the sink. Jira followed to the doorway, watching intently. As soon as the taller man began applying shaving foam, Jira lifted his sheet of paper and started sketching.

“Do you really have to draw me while I shave?” Ko asked in a low, rough voice, somewhat unsettled. But Jira chose not to respond, running through the instructions he had been given in his mind.

“Shhh… Remember, I’m not here. Forget it.”

Ko felt a bit annoyed and frustrated receiving orders, when usually he was the one giving them. But having already agreed, he resigned himself. He shaved with skill, eyes still focused on his own reflection.

“This feels like you’re drawing my soul.”

Jira didn’t reply. He simply continued tracing lines with his pencil as Ko rinsed off the foam. “Normally, after shaving, I take a shower.”
“And what’s different today? Go ahead.”

He said it seriously. Ko took a small towel to dry his face, then began removing his clothes with some hesitation. He turned to glance at Jira once more.

“Don’t look at me.”

He said it with his mouth, but his body did the opposite: pressed against the wall like a gecko, in a scene so strange it almost spooked Jira.

“Right now I’m just a little fly. You don’t have to pay attention.” “Terrifying.”
Jira didn’t respond. He just let the man undress completely. Ko stepped into the shower while the young artist remained focused on his sketch.

The sound of water hitting his body and the tile floor created a relaxing atmosphere, though they still lacked true familiarity. Ten minutes later, the water stopped. Ko ran his hand across the fogged mirror to speak to the other side.

“Can you pass me the towel?”

Jira didn’t move. Receiving no answer, Ko left the shower area and grabbed the towel himself, though awkwardly.

“What’s wrong? Speechless?” Ko stared at him silently.
“No reason to get nervous. Last time we met, you said I was like air, that you didn’t feel anything. You even undressed in front of me. You’re just doing the same again. Or… has something changed?”

Ko lowered his gaze to the drawing, then back to the artist. “It’s just… we didn’t know each other before. Now we do.”
With the towel, he dried his wet hair while maintaining eye contact with the young man, who also watched silently. The tension eased for a moment, until Ko put on a robe.

“Do you always wear a robe when you’re alone? Do what you normally do, like always.”

Another long sigh. Ko discarded the robe carelessly, went to the closet, and pulled out a pair of boxers to wear.

He took his laptop and sat at the desk, but noticing Jira’s unwavering gaze, he became even more nervous. He changed his mind, poured himself some plum liquor into a glass, sipped it, and set it aside.

At that moment, Jira crumpled the paper and tossed it, prompting Ko to ask: “Why did you throw it away?”
“It’s normal. First sketches always look bad. But once you relax, something beautiful will come out. For now, you should just relax a bit.”

“I can’t! And before blaming me, better blame your drawing skills.”

Jira was exhausted, but he didn’t give up. He drew on every bit of experience he had, applying it especially to Ko.

“Let’s see… when you were a child, what did you do that made you feel calm?” “I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but as a kid, I liked folding clothes.”
“Folding clothes? Doesn’t seem very you, but I’d like to see it.” “Now it just feels like a hassle.”
“Come on! After saying that, at least do a little.”

Not wanting to waste the moment when Ko seemed more approachable, Jira offered to take the clothes out of the closet. Curiously, despite his wealth, Ko’s clothes were surprisingly simple: T-shirts in basic colors like black, white, and gray.

After tossing several T-shirts on the floor, the young man called him to the center of the room. At first, Ko resisted, but after some patient persuasion, he finally sat on the floor, surrounded by his own clothes.

“Why do you wear such basic clothes? With the money you have, you could pick more stylish colors.”

“The money’s mine, isn’t it?”

Jira muttered under his breath, itching to respond sarcastically, but he restrained himself and focused on drawing. He sat nearby, ready to begin a new sketch.

Ko hesitated for a moment but finally started folding the clothes for the first time in years. He did it with surprising skill and care, leaving Jira a little impressed.

“Did your mother teach you?” “My uncles did.”
“Your uncles?”

“People from my family’s old workshop.”

“Ah, right, your family had a clothing factory before. No wonder you know measurements,” the young man remarked, hands still moving over the paper.

“You also have a sensitive side. Wouldn’t hurt to use it from time to time.” “It’s useless. Being sensitive just lets people take advantage of you.”
“How’s that? You can tell me if you want,” his big eyes met Ko’s for a moment, trying to peer into his inner world. He hoped Ko would share something deeper than what appeared on the surface.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“If you don’t open up, the drawing will turn out wrong. I redo it over and over, and it’s still the same. I just want to draw something that’s really you.”

Jira knew this was his last chance. He didn’t want all this effort to be in vain. If there wasn’t a next time, he wanted this one to end beautifully.

Ko’s sharp eyes stared back at him. After a moment, he decided to reveal a part of his past. “See these T-shirts? They’re simple, but do you know what their advantage is?”
“…”

“…They’re made by machines.”

Jira’s hands froze. He slowly lowered the paper, trying to understand what Ko was trying to convey.

“Since my family went bankrupt, I never wore designer clothes again. Because they remind me of who made them.”

“And remembering them isn’t a good thing?”

“My parents were employers who valued workers above all else. Even when the economy was bad or the clothes didn’t sell, they kept everyone on. In the end, the company couldn’t sustain itself, and they had to sell it to one of the big corporations.”

Silence settled between them. After a while, Jira decided to break it. “To which company? Mr. Thames’s?”
“He was one of the buyers, yes. But it made me understand not to depend too much on people. People are unpredictable. They make mistakes, constantly. Statistics show it: humans act on impulse.”

“So… you want revenge on Mr. Thames?”

“I wouldn’t do something that emotional. It’s just business. By the world’s logic, either you eat… or you get eaten.”

Ko finished folding the fabric. His slender body sank slowly onto the pile of clothes, lips murmuring:

“When I was a kid, whenever I had free time, I would sneak off to sleep on piles of fabric. It was so comfortable… and in the afternoons, with the heat, I’d get so sleepy. All I needed was to turn on a fan… and I’d fall asleep.”

He longed for that feeling, but never could recover it.

“I think you were happier sleeping on those fabrics than following logic.”

“Don’t act like a know-it-all. No matter where I sleep, I’ll never feel that childhood happiness again. Ever since I grew up, I haven’t slept a full night without waking up.”

Ko had dealt with chronic insomnia for years, waking in the middle of the night in a panic, afraid of things that hadn’t happened yet but seemed inevitable. He never found peace, awake or asleep.

“And what stresses you so much you can’t sleep?”

Ko chose not to answer. Jira didn’t press. He kept drawing, inspired by the vulnerability of a man who, though seeming an unyielding tycoon, now looked more beautiful than he’d ever imagined.

“You ask me, but what about you? Why do you want to draw me?” Ko slowly closed his eyes, his voice softening almost to a whisper. “I think you could make my work better.”
Jira traced Ko’s body for a while longer before confessing a curiosity-laden thought: “You’re the first person to buy my work at such a high price. What did you see in it?”
No answer-just silence and soft breathing. When Jira leaned closer to look, he realized Ko had fallen asleep.

He reached out to gently touch his handsome face, but Ko didn’t stir. He was truly asleep.

“Couldn’t sleep, huh? And now you’re out cold in front of me, damn it!” Jira grumbled, but kept drawing with enthusiasm.

The fresh breeze, the quiet atmosphere, and the free movements gave him a feeling unlike any other artistic creation. Jira alternated his gaze between the paper and the real face of his model. A sudden warmth rose inside him.

His pale face flushed, a blush crossing his cheeks.

Ko always wore a cold expression, indifferent to others’ feelings-even asleep. But for some reason…

The more he looked at him, the more embarrassed he felt, though he couldn’t tear his eyes away for a single second.