Chapter Text
The late afternoon heat had already turned the paving stones of Thammasat’s Rangsit campus into slow-burning coals. Students streamed between the engineering faculty building and the tree-lined walk toward the canteen, their chatter rippling like the steady hum of an insect field.
Perth sat in the shade of a flame tree with a half-finished iced latte sweating onto his sketchbook. His pencil hovered above the page, then dropped again; the lines of the pavilion he’d been trying to capture refused to stay straight. Across from him, Aim sprawled out on the bench with her phone balanced on her knees. Win leaned back against the tree trunk, earbuds in, half-listening, half-pretending not to.
“Tell me you saw the post,” Aim said suddenly.
Perth didn’t look up. “Which post? You have about a hundred.”
“The Heirs’ party, obviously.”
Win cracked one eye open. “She’s been talking about it for an hour.”
“I have not! I’m simply keeping you informed.” Aim held out her phone. On the screen, a gilded crest shimmered under a black background: THE HEIRS – WELCOME NIGHT @ THE PAVILION.
Perth took a slow sip through his straw. “Right. Another one of their royal gatherings.”
“You’re so cynical,” Aim sighed. “You have to admit they make things interesting around here.”
He didn’t deny it. Everyone knew The Heirs—five impossibly rich students from families whose surnames opened doors. They weren’t a club, not officially, but they might as well have been. Architecture’s Santa Pongsapak Oudompoch, all charm and camera flashes. Sports Science’s Est Supha Sangaworawong and Sky Wongravee Nateetorn, who dominated every inter-faculty tournament. Fine Arts’ Boom Tharatorn Jantharaworakarn, rumoured to have turned down a gallery residency in Italy.
They had money, power, and that magnetic, untouchable energy that made people whisper as they passed.
Aim zoomed in on a candid photo in her feed—Santa laughing in the courtyard, white shirt sleeves rolled, sunglasses pushed into hair that looked annoyingly perfect even in the humidity. “Look at him. That man was designed in a lab.”
Perth smiled despite himself. “And then released onto campus to ruin everyone’s GPA.”
“You’re not immune,” Win murmured, voice lazy.
“I’m busy being realistic,” Perth said, flicking at his sketchbook. “They’re… fine. Just people who happen to have a fan club.”
Aim rolled her eyes. “You’d still go if you got invited.”
“I’d still have studio work.”
The conversation drifted on, dissolving into talk about projects and cafeteria food, but the image of that gilded invitation stayed printed behind Perth’s eyelids. It wasn’t that he disliked the Heirs; he simply didn’t see the point of orbiting around them like everyone else did. Still, curiosity itched quietly under the surface—what did a night in their world even look like?
When the last of the light began to bleed gold over the rooftops, they packed up to head toward the canteen. Perth trailed behind, fingers tapping against the sketchbook cover. Near the bulletin board, a folded piece of thick ivory paper slipped to the ground at his feet. He bent to pick it up.
Embossed crest. Elegant lettering.
The Heirs cordially invite you to Welcome Night at the Pavilion. Saturday, 8 p.m.
He looked around, but whoever had dropped it was already gone. Only the echo of laughter from down the walkway—light, confident—remained. Perth turned the card over in his hands, bemused. His friends were going to lose their minds.
****
The lunch crowd thinned as the sun shifted west, streaking long bars of gold across the canteen floor. Trays clattered into bins; chatter dissolved into the echo of shoes and chair legs. At the far corner, four students lingered, their laughter still drawing the occasional glance.
Santa stretched his arms over his head until his back popped, earning a theatrical sigh from Sky.
“Do you ever sit still?” Sky asked.
“Not if I can help it,” Santa said. “Stillness is for statues and sleepy people.”
“Or for anyone trying to eat in peace.” Boom spoke without looking up from his tablet. His thumb swiped across a half-finished sketch: a rough study of the river at sunset.
Est grinned. “You could just tell him you like the noise. Secretly keeps you awake.”
“Secretly keeps me regretting my life choices,” Boom countered, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
They were four contrasts sharing the same orbit. Est, the calm centre; Sky, loud and competitive; Boom, precise and detached; Santa—who filled the empty spaces with movement and sound until the room felt alive. Around them, the remaining students hovered in a kind of respectful distance, as though crossing into that circle might trigger a silent alarm.
When a pair of first-years walked by, whispering Santa’s name, the boy smirked. “Fan club’s early today.”
Sky tipped his head toward Santa with mock solemnity. “Public relations never sleeps.”
Est rolled his eyes. “Maybe focus that energy on our group presentation.”
“I already did my part,” Sky said.
“You talked for ten minutes about the emotional significance of naps.”
“Exactly. Inspirational.”
After a while they drifted out of the cafeteria and into the courtyard, the heat blurring into a comfortable haze. Sky walked ahead, phone pressed to his ear, barking instructions to someone from the sports faculty. Est slung his bag over one shoulder, chatting idly about weekend training schedules. Boom lagged behind, snapping photos of shadows on the pavement.
Santa fell into step between them, sunglasses hanging from the collar of his shirt. “So,” he said, “everything ready for Saturday?”
Est nodded. “Security’s sorted. Pavilion’s booked. You just have to not start trouble.”
“Trouble?” Santa feigned innocence. “I’m a gracious host.”
“Last year you started a drinking contest with the law faculty.”
“They challenged me.”
“You accepted.”
Santa grinned. “And won.”
Sky looked back over his shoulder. “If this party ends with the dean calling again, I’m pretending I don’t know you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Santa said lightly. “This year’s about good impressions.”
Est gave him a look. “Since when?”
“Since now.” He flicked at a low branch as they passed under the shade of the flame trees. The flowers were just starting to turn, red petals scattered across the path like lazy confetti.
They reached the courtyard near the architecture building where students sprawled with laptops and iced drinks. The group slowed automatically; this was Santa’s territory. A few classmates called out greetings. Someone asked about the guest list.
“All in good time,” Santa said, answering with that effortless ease that made people lean closer even when he gave them nothing concrete.
Sky checked his watch. “Training. Est, you coming?”
“In a bit,” Est replied.
“Boom?”
“Studio.”
“Santa?”
Santa waved them off. “Go sweat. I’ll catch up.”
When they were gone, the courtyard quieted. Santa leaned against the railing overlooking the river path, the city shimmering faintly beyond. From here, he could see the steady flow of students moving between buildings—tiny vignettes of campus life framed by bougainvillea and glass.
Something white caught his eye. Near one of the benches, a student bent to retrieve a folded card that had slipped from a bag. Broad shoulders under a pale shirt, sketchbook tucked beneath one arm. The faintest smile ghosted across Santa’s face before he pushed his sunglasses back on.
He turned toward the faculty steps, the sound of distant laughter carrying on the breeze. The card in that student’s hand gleamed once in the sunlight—the embossed crest catching fire for a heartbeat before the shadows claimed it again.
“Saturday,” Santa murmured to himself, the word almost lost under the rustle of the trees. Then he straightened, slid his hands into his pockets, and walked off toward the architecture building, the easy rhythm of his stride betraying nothing of what he was thinking.