# Special Episode: Songkran 2026 — The Escape in Pattaya On the afternoon of April 13th, the heat over North Pattaya shimmered so violently it looked as though the whole road were melting beneath the sun. Deep inside an alley so narrow that larger vehicles barely bothered to turn in, an old boxing camp called **Suthisak Gym** sat in quiet hiding behind a faded signboard. The smell of boxing liniment, sweat, and old leather from the hanging sandbags blended into the unmistakable scent of a place where people came to get hurt on purpose. The final clang of metal rang out before a brief wave of silence settled over the gym after training. Valentin Henri-Leclerc dropped onto a long wooden bench near the exit. He had already showered and changed. The brand-name white shirt he wore was clean, crisp, and expensive enough to look absurdly out of place against the peeling cement walls of the gym—especially paired with **Masaya’s Muay Thai shorts**, which the trainer had specifically prepared for him to wear during practice. Altogether, he looked less like a man who belonged here and more like a luxury item placed in the wrong setting. His slate-blue eyes rested on the iron doorway, the expression on his face carefully neutral, as though he were trying to press his irritation down beneath a layer of practiced calm. Valentin’s life rarely allowed room for the word *delayed*. Every day of his was arranged like clockwork. The driver arrived early. The team prepared his route in and out. His manager knew where he should be, what he should eat, and how many minutes he should or should not spend speaking to anyone. But today, everything had gone wrong. The car that should have been waiting to take him back the moment training ended had been pulled away by his manager for some sudden errand. So Valentin was left sitting in an old boxing camp with no air conditioning while the whole city threatened to collapse into a sea of traffic for a festival he himself still did not entirely understand. He lifted his wrist to check the time yet again. That evening, he had an interview with Thai media at the Hilton Pattaya. He still needed to return to his luxury hotel on Phra Tamnak Hill, change, check his skin, drink the right amount of water, avoid salty food, and rest his eyes for at least twenty minutes before the event. That was how things were supposed to go. “Getting hot? You?” A deep voice sounded beside him. Valentin turned to see Masaya Daisen approaching with two bottles of water in his hands. The younger man was still wearing a gray BNX stringer tank top. Sweat glistened faintly on his tanned skin after spending the last two hours supervising Valentin’s training. His broad shoulders and heavily worked back stretched the shirt in a way that made it seem as though it had been designed for him alone. Masaya held one bottle out. Valentin took it—and paused. The bottle in his own hand was perfectly dry. Not a single bead of condensation clung to it. Meanwhile, the bottle in Masaya’s hand was still cold and damp, faintly slick with moisture. Valentin looked up at him without saying anything. Masaya merely twisted open his own bottle, took a long drink, and sat down beside him as if that small difference were nothing at all. But Valentin knew it was not nothing. Masaya remembered the smallest details about him. The fact that he disliked wet hands. That he hated a damp collar. That his brow tightened every time something stained or smeared before he was ready for it. This man was not eloquent, not polished, and certainly not flattering in any conventional way—but he noticed things other people overlooked with unnerving precision. “Thanks...” Valentin said it quietly, adjusting the **small portable fan in his hand** a little closer toward himself. Masaya leaned back slightly, lifting the bottle for another drink while staring in the same direction as Valentin, without feeling any need to fill the silence. From the mouth of the alley came drifting bursts of noise—children’s laughter, shrill shouting, and the splash of water thrown with reckless delight. Valentin glanced toward the sound in curiosity. For days, he had seen colorful posters, floral shirts, beachside music festival billboards, and trucks packed with people and water barrels pass through the city. But he had never stopped to ask what any of it truly meant. “What day is it today?” he asked. “Why is it so loud outside?” Masaya’s mouth curved a little. “Today... first day of Songkran.” He pointed toward the front of the alley. “Thai New Year... new year for Thai people. Kids from camp... playing water fight outside. Interested... go see?” Valentin stilled for a moment. The word *Songkran* made him think of tourism campaigns more than something that could genuinely intrude upon the structure of his day. “Water fight?” he repeated softly. “I still need to go back and get ready for the interview. And my manager definitely won’t like it if I get wet... or if someone recognizes me and crowds around.” Masaya did not wait for him to finish. He stood, then reached down and caught Valentin by the wrist—not hard, but firmly enough to stop every excuse in its tracks. That hand was rough from gloves, pads, and endless training, and yet strangely warm. “This alley very deep,” Masaya said. “Only five, six kids. Safe.” His dark eyes held Valentin’s directly, without a trace of teasing. “I promise.” Valentin hated empty promises more than most things. Yet somehow, when the words came out of Masaya’s mouth, they sounded so plain they felt almost like truth. “Let’s go,” Masaya said. “It’s fun.” Whether it was the heat, the boredom, or the pull of that gaze, Valentin could not have said. But he stood and followed him out from beneath the gym’s roof, leaving his perfect schedule sitting behind for a while. The moment he stepped into the sunlight, laughter, cool water, and the earthy smell of wet concrete rushed straight at him. Five or six boys stood around a giant plastic water barrel, some armed with bowls, some with brightly colored water guns, all of them drenched. The instant they saw Valentin, they froze. He knew that look well. It was not fear exactly. It was the kind of stiffness people had when faced with someone who looked too expensive to touch. The spotless white shirt, the good shoes, the striking face, and the distance he seemed to carry around himself without meaning to made him look less like a person and more like something forbidden. But the moment they saw Masaya, the boys shouted. “P’Masaya is here! Get him!” Water came flying at the trainer in a united assault. Masaya laughed at once—loudly, openly—and did not even try to dodge. He let them drench him until the gray tank clung to his body and the lines of his muscles showed more clearly than before. Water slid down his tan skin in bright streaks under the sun. Valentin stood a little apart, watching. He could see the joy of it, but it still felt as if there were a sheet of glass between him and the scene. Masaya looked back at him, and something sharper entered his smile. He scooped up a palmful of water from the barrel and flung it straight at the front of Valentin’s shirt. The cold soaked through the thin fabric immediately. Valentin jolted. “Masaya!” “You...” Masaya laughed. “Come on. Have fun.” The boys grew bolder the moment they saw Masaya make the first move. One of them held out a giant water gun to Valentin with awkward hesitation. He accepted it before he had fully thought it through and then stopped short, briefly startled by himself. He should have refused. He should have laughed politely and stepped back into the gym. He should have remembered that he still had to appear in front of cameras that evening looking as flawless as possible. But instead, he lifted the water gun and fired a clumsy stream back at Masaya. Laughter broke loose at once—both from the boys and, to his own surprise, from him. At first, it came out uncertainly. But not long after, Valentin realized he was laughing for real—laughing without caring whether the angle of his smile was camera-ready or where anyone might be standing. Water splashed in his face. He blinked hard. His carefully styled hair fell loose. Children shouted over one another in the narrow alley until the whole afternoon seemed brighter than it had any right to be. Just then, a flower vendor’s sidecar motorcycle rolled past the alley entrance. Masaya waved it down immediately, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small ziplock bag of cash—as though he had prepared in advance for the fact that he would end up soaked. A few seconds later, he returned with a fresh garland of purple orchids. The cool scent of flowers drifted toward Valentin together with the heat of Masaya’s body. Masaya lifted the garland and carefully placed it around his neck. The damp tips of his fingers brushed Valentin’s skin at the throat, and something in Valentin’s chest seemed to flinch in response. “You...” Masaya said slowly, as though choosing each word. “Suay...” Valentin blinked. Masaya searched for the English for half a second, then added, “Purple... suits you.” The word *suay* was not quite right. Valentin knew it. Masaya probably knew it too. But he did not correct himself. And that was what made it hit harder than a perfectly phrased compliment ever could have. The garland cost almost nothing. Yet in that instant, Valentin felt as though something he had kept braced and locked inside himself for years had begun to crack. The walls of perfection, caution, and emotional distance he had built between himself and everyone else were trembling beneath the touch of this man whose English was awkward and whose sincerity was not polished enough to hide itself. He parted his lips, about to say something— But the shrill ring of a phone from inside the gym cut through the moment. Reality returned all at once. Valentin hurried back inside, saw his manager’s name on the screen, and answered with a face that had already gone cold. On the other end was his thirty-five-year-old French manager, known in the industry for his meticulousness, severity, and obsession with keeping every variable under control. Now, though, the man’s voice was tight with undisguised panic. “**Valentin ! Tu es encore à la salle ? C’est le chaos total ici ! Tu sais que le festival Songkran a complètement paralysé Pattaya ? Écoute-moi bien : NE BOUGE PAS !**” *(Valentin! Are you still at the gym? It’s total chaos here! Do you realize the Songkran festival has completely paralyzed Pattaya? Listen to me carefully: DO NOT MOVE!)* Valentin stood there in silence, his jaw beginning to tighten. “**J’essaie de trouver un autre chauffeur, mais personne n’est libre. Reste joignable, je te rappelle dès que j’ai du nouveau !**” *(I’m trying to find another driver, but no one is free. Stay reachable—I’ll call you the moment I have any update!)* The frustration that had been building all afternoon finally broke. “**Mais pourquoi le trajet a été si mal planifié ? Tu ne savais pas que c’était Songkran aujourd’hui ?! Écoute-moi bien : trouve quelqu’un pour me récupérer dans les dix minutes. Sinon, je rentre à l’hôtel à pied !**” *(But why was the route planned so badly? Did you not know it was Songkran today?! Listen to me: find someone to pick me up within ten minutes, or I’ll walk back to the hotel!)* The voice on the other end nearly shrieked. “**Marcher ?! C’est hors de question ! Ne sois pas imprudent ! Ne prends surtout pas de vélo ou quoi que ce soit de stupide ! Si tu te blesses, qu’est-ce qu’on fait ? Et si les gens te voient et te prennent en photo tout trempé ? Ce serait un désastre ! Non, non, non...**” *(Walk?! Absolutely not! Don’t be reckless! And don’t you dare get on a bike or do anything stupid! If you get hurt, what do we do? And what if people see you soaked and take pictures? It would be a disaster! No, no, no...)* Valentin glanced at his reflection in an old pane of glass inside the gym—the wet marks on his shirt, the purple orchids hanging at his throat, the pale streak of powder across one cheek where one of the children had touched him. Then he hung up. The silence that followed made him hear his own breathing more clearly than before. “Something... wrong?” Masaya approached without crowding him, without pressing, simply asking in a tone that suggested he would listen if Valentin chose to answer. Valentin explained it briefly: no ride, impossible traffic, and a manager spiraling toward hysteria. Masaya listened, then gave a single nod. “You wait,” he said. “I handle.” And with that, he disappeared into the glass-walled office. Valentin remained standing where he was, watching through the panel as Masaya spoke to another man—**Marc, the twenty-six-year-old son of the gym owner**. Slightly smaller than Masaya, around one hundred and seventy centimeters tall, Marc had lean muscle, tanned skin, and the polished good looks of someone who took care of himself. The two exchanged a casual fist bump. They laughed at something together with easy familiarity, and something sharp stirred under Valentin’s ribs. He knew Marc’s reputation. Smart. Business-minded. The one trying to revive his family’s old gym. The one who had brought in a handsome foreign fighter like Masaya to become the “face” of the place and build buzz around it. The one who had pitched the gym well enough that Valentin and his team had actually chosen to come here. The sight of them together unsettled him more than it should have. Masaya looked too comfortable with him. Too much like himself in a way Valentin was not yet sure he had ever seen in full. *Asians probably understand each other better anyway.* The thought came without permission. And he hated it. A few minutes later, Masaya came back wearing the kind of smile people had when the problem was already solved. “My friend take you to hotel.” “For real?” “Real.” Masaya nodded. “I go too. Safe.” At that exact moment, an engine revved at the mouth of the alley. A brightly painted Tuk-tuk swung in, music thumping from a small speaker. Marc leaned out from the driver’s seat and waved as though he were picking up friends for a joyride, not transporting an international film star. “I heard what happened. No worries, I got this,” Marc said confidently. “Come on! I promise you’ll be at the hotel in ten minutes. This is my uncle’s Tuk-tuk—I borrowed it. Tuned it up nice. **This is basically a sport car for me, man.**” Valentin stared at the vehicle. Then he looked past it, as if perhaps a real car might still be following behind. Nothing. His gaze moved over the three-wheeled metal contraption again—a vehicle so absurdly unsafe that he almost wanted to turn and search for hidden cameras. No doors. No seatbelts. Bare metal bars. A seat that looked wholly unqualified to support even the dignity of someone like him. *Is this some kind of joke?* “You get in,” Masaya said simply. “Safe.” It was not faith in the Tuk-tuk. Not faith in Pattaya’s road safety standards during Songkran. And certainly not faith in Marc’s cheerful promise of *ten minutes*. It was faith in the one saying it. And that was far more dangerous. Valentin climbed into the back without argument, even while cursing himself inside his own head. He tried to fold his long legs into place with all the gracelessness of a man completely unsuited to such a vehicle. Masaya was about to follow when the boys came running over again. “P’Masaya! Wait, wait! We haven’t powdered you yet!” Masaya laughed and crouched willingly so the children could smear white powder across both cheeks. He even dabbed some back onto their faces, and the alley filled with fresh laughter. Watching the scene, Valentin felt something inside him slowly loosen. “P’! Powder that big brother too!” one of the boys called, pointing at him. Masaya turned with a questioning look. “You... powder okay?” It was such a simple question. And yet Valentin hesitated. Would it break him out? Would his manager lose his mind? What if the hotel’s air conditioning was too cold afterward and irritated his skin? But in the end, he nodded and climbed down from the Tuk-tuk of his own accord. He was not entirely sure why. Maybe because he had spent the whole afternoon refusing anything that fell outside the plan and had grown tired of himself. Masaya came to him first. The trainer’s thumb—rough from training—touched his cheek lightly, carrying softened white clay powder on the pad of it. The touch was gentler than it had any right to be. It also made Valentin’s heart beat much harder than was remotely reasonable. Then the children came in timidly, dusting his face as if, now that permission had been granted, this impossibly expensive-looking stranger had finally become a person they were allowed to touch. Another boy handed the giant green water gun back to Masaya, speaking quickly in Thai. “P’Masaya, this... give it to that big brother for me, okay? I think he’ll like it.” Masaya accepted it with a small smile on Valentin’s behalf, then gave him a subtle nod that said it was time to get back into the vehicle. Valentin looked at the bright green plastic gun in Masaya’s hand and, despite himself, smiled. A slow warmth spread through him—the sort no makeup artist, driver, or five-star suite had ever managed to provide. They climbed back in. Valentin shifted to the innermost side of the seat. Masaya sat on the outside beside him as naturally as if that were simply where he belonged, the giant water gun still held firmly in one hand. “What is that, Masaya?” Valentin asked, curious. “The kids give water gun to you.” Masaya glanced at it, then back at him. “They say... you should like.” Valentin blinked. Masaya lifted it a little, explaining further. “I hold it for you. You need two hands... hold the car tight.” Valentin frowned faintly at the warning but nodded. “I thought they were afraid of me.” “You famous. Kids like you,” Masaya said with a soft smile. “But sometimes... scared. Many times, you have bodyguards everywhere. Today, you play with them. So they like.” The answer was so simple that Valentin fell quiet for a moment. Something warm spread strangely through his chest. He was not used to being liked in a way that involved no advantage, no setup, and no one trying to get anything from him. “Next time, I’ll have to thank them myself, then...” he said softly, before turning his eyes to Masaya. “Thank you.” Masaya only nodded, as though none of this were worth making into something bigger. From the driver’s seat, Marc shouted back, “We’re about to hit the main road! I’m driving faster now!” Valentin got his answer less than thirty seconds later. The moment the Tuk-tuk reached the road, Marc slammed down on the accelerator. The engine snarled. The whole vehicle lunged forward with far more confidence than seemed mechanically justified. Valentin jerked violently and grabbed for the metal frame overhead in complete loss of composure. “Holy shi—! Masaya!” he shouted over the wind. “Are you sure your friend is going to get me to the hotel alive?!” Masaya laughed—really laughed—as though the whole thing were fun rather than alarming. “I promise! Safe! Trust Marc!” Then the Tuk-tuk made a hard turn onto Sukhumvit Road, and the force threw Valentin sideways at once. Before he could react, a powerful arm wrapped around his waist from behind. Masaya pulled him back flush against his own body with enough force that there was almost no space left between them. His voice sounded close against Valentin’s ear. “You—grab on! Hurry, find grip now!” In that instant, Valentin’s whole world shrank to three things: the wind, the faint scent of boxing liniment and sweat from Masaya’s skin, and the arm locked around his waist. Masaya’s chest behind him was hard, warm, and impossibly steady. The floor of the Tuk-tuk trembled beneath them, but Valentin no longer felt truly unsafe—not with someone else acting as a barrier between him and every risk. Masaya did not only hold his waist. He braced one **strong shin** against the floor and the seat frame, blocking both Valentin and his expensive duffel bag from sliding off during the sharp turns. The grip was not rough. Just certain. Valentin closed his eyes for a moment and let the wind strike his face, still streaked with pale powder. And admitted something to himself quietly: He did not only want a good trainer anymore. He was starting to crave this. To crave the feeling of *losing* every time he fell under this man’s protection and control. Around Masaya, he felt smaller... and what alarmed him most was that he wanted that feeling more and more. The city blurred by through mist, sunlight, and splashes of water. Marc shouted something from the front. Masaya answered with a laugh. The two of them slipped into that easy rhythm of old friends again, and the small, irritating sting inside Valentin’s chest returned at once. He did not like how comfortable Masaya could be with someone else. He did not like the possibility that this softened, easy expression—that unguarded warmth—might not belong to him alone. *Please let Marc be just a friend.* There was no use pretending the thought meant anything else. By the time the Tuk-tuk climbed Phra Tamnak Hill and slowed near the luxury hotel roundabout, Valentin realized too late that Masaya’s arm had already loosened and slipped away from his waist. The loss of that warmth left him feeling lighter. And a little hollow too. Masaya climbed down first, then turned and waited for him as though that were the most natural thing in the world. Once Valentin stepped onto the pavement, Masaya handed the water gun back—but instead of leaving it at that, he lightly caught the strap of Valentin’s duffel bag, stopping him long enough to make him listen. “You have interview tonight, right?” Masaya asked. Valentin nodded. “Then no spicy. No salty food,” Masaya said, counting things off with stern seriousness. “No puffy face. Tomorrow training, ten a.m. Eat protein—up to one hundred sixty grams. But careful with bloating.” Valentin lifted a brow, amused. “I know.” “And drink a lot of water. Lots of water.” Masaya still had not let go of the strap. His dark eyes moved over Valentin’s face and paused at the droplet hanging from the tip of his nose—as though he were fighting the urge to wipe it away himself. As though he also wanted to say a dozen other things: don’t let the hotel air conditioning make you sick, go take a warm shower right away, don’t stay up too late. But in the end, he kept all of it locked behind the same silent restraint. “You got very wet today. Be careful. If tomorrow not okay, tell me. Don’t force.” “You sound like you’re bossing around a child, Masaya,” Valentin teased. Then, gently, he placed his hand over Masaya’s where it still held the strap. For the briefest second, Masaya flinched as though burned and pulled his hand away. A flash of confusion crossed his eyes before he buried it beneath that steady, unreadable calm again. “I...” He paused. “Just want you ready. Tomorrow is leg day. You need much power.” Valentin let out a soft breath of laughter. “Okay, Trainer... see you tomorrow.” He adjusted the orchid garland still hanging at his throat and walked into the hotel lobby under the stunned stares of the staff, who saw him soaked through, powder on his cheek, and carrying a cheap plastic water gun in one hand. But whatever those looks meant, Valentin knew one thing with perfect clarity: He was not ashamed in the slightest. If anything, he felt as though he could breathe more fully than he had in days. **Valentin had chosen the right teacher after all...** Just before stepping through the revolving door, he turned back once more. Masaya was still standing there, watching him in silence, as if he had forgotten he could have gotten back into the Tuk-tuk long ago. The revolving glass carried Valentin back into the cold, immaculate world of the hotel. But the last image he saw before the door closed was still that of a tan-skinned young man in a wet tank top standing motionless outside, as if letting his gaze follow Valentin all the way in. Outside, Masaya remained there until Marc finally shouted, “Hey! Are you going to stand there guarding his hotel all night? Get in already! **Bro, let’s go!**” The voice snapped him back. Masaya climbed into the rear seat again. It felt strangely spacious now without Valentin beside him. Marc pulled away at roughly the same speed as before, but this time Masaya did not laugh. He sat with his arms crossed, looking down at the hand Valentin had touched only moments ago, and realized he was thinking something a trainer had no business thinking. *Why didn’t I want us to reach the hotel that fast?* “What’s with you?” Marc called through the mirror. “You stressed about your client or what?” Masaya was quiet for a moment before answering flatly, “No... just thinking tomorrow I need to train him better.” But that was not the whole answer. The real answer was that the concern he felt for Valentin no longer stopped at protein intake, bedtime, or squat form. It had already gone far beyond the word *duty*—quietly, and too far to walk back from. And it seemed that this year’s Songkran would become a day neither of them would ever forget. ### Disclaimer This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The events described in the "After the Cut" series, including the characters Valentin, Masaya, Marc, and locations such as Suthisak Gym in Pattaya, are entirely fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. Additionally, while the story incorporates Thai, English, and French languages, these may not be 100% accurate and are intended solely for creative expression and atmosphere.