META'S POV:
The air burned in my lungs, each ragged gasp a desperate claw for more. My legs, small and clumsy, pumped as hard as they could, but it wasn't enough. They were behind me, a faceless, shapeless mass of rage, their accusations echoing in my ears like a death knell. Thief! Always the thief! It was always the same reason, the same baseless blame. I could already feel the phantom sting of their blows, the inevitable pain that would follow. When they found their real culprit, they would never apologize. Just dismiss it with a shrug and a muttered, "Well, you look scary, and you're from that family. We just assumed." The unfairness of it all, the crushing weight of their prejudice, fueled my desperate flight. I needed to run, to disappear, to outpace their cruelty, but I was just a child. A small, insignificant target against their towering fury.
Their footsteps thundered closer, closer. My vision blurred with tears and exhaustion. Then, a rough hand clamped onto my shoulder, yanking me back. Another grabbed my arm, then my hair. I hit the ground hard, dirt filling my mouth. The kicks began, sharp, stinging blows to my sides, my back, my head. Each impact sent a fresh wave of agony through my small frame, knocking the air from me, leaving me gasping for breath that wouldn't come. I curled into a ball, trying to protect myself, but it was useless. They were relentless, their faces contorted with a righteous anger they didn't deserve. I hated them. I hated them with every fiber of my being. I cursed them in my mind, a torrent of silent, desperate rage, because it was the only weapon I had. The only way to fight back against the injustice that consumed me. The blows continued, dulling with each impact, until my body was nothing more than a bruised, unresponsive weight. I couldn't move. I couldn't even whisper another curse. Just the crushing despair, the familiar taste of defeat.
Then, a loud, undeniable growl ripped through the oppressive silence, jarring me violently from the nightmare. It wasn't the sound of angry adults or my own ragged breath, but something entirely different, something almost... comical. A stomach. A very, very loud, very, very hungry stomach. "Glorp... glorp..." it echoed, an absurd accompaniment to my fading terror.
My eyes snapped open. Sunlight, stark and unwelcome, momentarily blinded me. I was on the university rooftop, not a dusty alley. And just above me, blocking out the sky, was a book. Specifically, a large, well-worn textbook, currently being lifted from my face by a smaller, surprisingly soft hand. And beneath the hand, framed by the textbook's edge, was the wide, mortified face of Thyme, his cheeks flushed, his mouth forming a silent "o."
"Urgh... my stomach..." he mumbled, his eyes darting from my face to his midsection, then back to my face, quickly realizing I was awake. The loud, almost comical rumble that had shattered my nightmare had, against all odds, been his. It was the antithesis of everything in my dream: loud, unashamed, and utterly human. And it had pulled me from the deepest parts of that recurring childhood terror.
I pushed myself up, shaking off the lingering chill of the dream. "What was that?" I grunted, my voice rougher than usual.
Thyme nervously lowered the book, clutching it to his chest. "Uh... nothing! Just... a noise. You know. Normal noise." He tried to look innocent, but his stomach rumbled again, a betraying growl that echoed his earlier performance. His face turned an even brighter shade of red.
I stared at him, this walking contradiction who, despite his apparent fragility and penchant for attracting mobs, had the loudest digestive system I'd ever encountered. It was frustratingly, impossibly... endearing. Or maybe just so jarringly normal it felt like a splash of cold water on my nightmare-addled brain.
"Trying to check if I'm sleeping?" I asked, a lazy smirk spreading across my lips. The mischievous glint, a rarity in my usually guarded eyes, was probably clear. He'd been hovering, that much was obvious.
"No! I was..." Thyme stammered, his face a contorted mess of panic and failed excuses.
"Stop making excuses. It's clear you're one of my admirers," I stated, the obnoxious certainty in my voice deliberate, an unshakeable arrogance I cultivated to keep people away. He glowered, his small frame bristling with indignation, clearly wanting to punch me but wisely assessing my physique. My smirk widened.
"I don't care what you think about me," he snapped, his frustration boiling over. "I'm tired of being misunderstood by a bastard like you!" He glared, then turned his back on me with as much dignity as his stomping feet would allow, marching back to the chair he'd been sitting in.
I let out a loud, booming laugh that echoed across the rooftop. "You are funny!" His outrage, his easily triggered indignation – it was genuinely amusing.
He stayed facing away, shoulders rigid. "I was just joking, you know. I know you're not my admirer... I don't think I have an admirer who has such a loud, rumbling stomach."
His shoulders stiffened even further. "I... it didn't happen! Stop saying nonsense!" he tried to deny, the words muffled, even as I knew the damning evidence had just vibrated through the very air we breathed. I just laughed harder.
"Stop laughing at me, you stupid giant gorilla!" The words, sharp and unexpected, flew from him. His hand immediately clamped over his mouth, as if he could stuff them back in. Shit! I watched him, expecting him to recoil further, maybe even apologize for the insult. Instead, he just stood there, looking like a caught mouse.
I tilted my head, my laughter finally subsiding into a low chuckle. "Okay, okay. I'll stop laughing at you, Snotty Kid."
Snotty Kid?! His jaw dropped. Heat rushed to his face. I could practically hear his internal meltdown, the frantic gears of his mind trying to process the indignity of being called a kid when he was clearly in university. But then, a flicker of self-preservation kicked in, and he wisely remained silent.
I swung my legs off the chair, sitting up. "I'm also hungry," I announced, as if it were a profound revelation, my stomach giving a less dramatic but still noticeable protest. "Do you want to join me?"
His brain sputtered. "Are you serious? Do you think I'm a kid who will join a stranger because they invited me to eat?" he shot back, pure reflex. The idea was clearly preposterous to him. A total stranger. A rude, arrogant, gorilla-like stranger.
"But I'll treat you anything you want," I added, a hint of a challenge in my eyes. I watched as the words "free meals," those universally beautiful words, visibly warred with his pride. His resolve wavered, a clear battle playing out on his expressive face. He was hesitant, battling his self-respect against his perpetually hungry stomach. This guy was annoying, beyond annoying, but... free food.
"Unless you'd rather keep listening to your stomach attempt a symphony," I deadpanned, already walking towards the rooftop exit. "Your choice."
He scrambled to his feet, a huge, relieved smile breaking across his face. "No, no! A treat sounds great! Anywhere with food, I'm not picky!" he chirped, quickly falling into step beside me. His initial embarrassment seemed to have vanished the moment "free food" entered the conversation. This kid's priorities were... interesting.
As we started down the stairs, Thyme was surprisingly... twitchy. His head swiveled from side to side, eyes darting, as if he expected a ninja ambush in the deserted stairwell. "Do you... do you notice everyone looking at us?" he whispered, pulling me to a sudden halt on a landing. His voice was low, laced with genuine anxiety, and he gestured vaguely down the busy hallway below, where indeed, a few heads seemed to turn in our direction.
I glanced over my shoulder. It was just the usual university bustle, but Thyme was practically vibrating with tension. "Ignore it," I grunted, already moving. "Who cares?" Honestly, I was still shaking off the dream, and the last thing I needed was his paranoia. My usual way of dealing with unwanted attention was to simply project an aura of "don't even think about it," which usually worked. His approach, it seemed, was to attract it like a moth to a flame.
We reached the ground floor and, following Thyme's lead, headed towards the student parking area of his Science faculty. y stomach rumbled again, a less polite reminder of my hunger. 'Damn it,' I muttered, digging for my car keys out of habit. My BMW wasn't here. It was 500 meters away, parked safely near my own building. No chance of a quick getaway today.
Thyme's twitchy energy returned, but now it was tinged with a glimmer of a solution. "Oh! I have a bike! My faculty's parking is just nearby, I can get it!" he offered, his eyes still scanning the faces of passing students who were now definitely giving us prolonged, whispering stares. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, constantly expecting something to jump out from behind a bush.
"A bike?" I raised an eyebrow. I hadn't ridden a bicycle since I was a kid. But given my current hunger and the strange attention we were getting, I decided not to argue. "Fine. Lead the way."
We walked towards the specific bike racks within the faculty parking lot, and the looks from other students became more pronounced. Thyme seemed to shrink into himself with every passing glance, his shoulders hunching. What the hell is going on with this kid? I thought. I was used to people looking, but this was different. This was... intense. And whatever it was, it was clearly making him incredibly uncomfortable. He was pale, his eyes wide and anxious, like he expected the ground to open up and swallow him whole.
Finally, we reached a bike rack where a brightly colored, slightly-too-small-for-him bicycle was chained. It looked like something a primary schooler would ride. Thyme fumbled with the lock, his hands visibly shaking.
"Here it is!" he announced, as if presenting a luxury sedan. He tried to swing his leg over it, but paused, looking up at me. "Uh, it's a bit small for two. You can sit on the back, but... it might be a tight squeeze."
I crossed my arms. Even if I miraculously fit, the thought of him pedaling us through campus, a giant gorilla on a child's bike, was just... no. "You're too small," I stated bluntly. "I'll drive. You get on the back."
Thyme hesitated, a flicker of something that looked like embarrassment, then resignation, crossing his face. "B-but... I'm heavier. It'll be hard for you."
"I'm bigger than you," I countered, already taking the bike. "It'll be fine. Get on."
He sighed, a small, defeated sound, and climbed onto the tiny rear rack. He looked incredibly awkward, perched precariously, his legs dangling. His face, still flushed from the chase and the general weirdness of his life, now had an added layer of pure, mortified shyness. He looked like a child being taken for a ride by an older brother, except the older brother was me, and I was about to make him regret it.
"Hold on," I instructed, already feeling the ridiculousness of the situation. I was about to drive this clown car with an oversized kid on the back, while the entire university stared. Great.
Thyme didn't hug my waist. He held onto the back of my shirt, his fingers gripping the fabric like a lifeline, keeping as much distance as humanly possible. His entire body was rigid. He clearly didn't want to touch me more than absolutely necessary.
"You need to hug my waist so you don't fall off," I said, eyeing him in the rearview mirror.
"I'm fine!" he chirped, his voice strained. "I have a good grip!"
I smirked. "Suit yourself, Snotty Kid."
I started pedaling, slowly at first, past more groups of students who stopped and openly pointed, whispering frantically. Thyme visibly wilted, trying to make himself smaller. This was definitely causing him extreme distress, which, honestly, was kind of amusing.
Then, I decided to have a little fun. The road was clear, and it was a downhill slope. I pressed down, accelerating the bike, putting some serious power into the pedals. The little bike shot forward, picking up speed, faster and faster.
"Whoa! Hey! Slow down!" Thyme shrieked from behind me, his voice a mix of terror and indignation. He was bouncing around on the tiny rack, flailing. "I'm going to fall! Meta! META!"
I kept accelerating, enjoying the sheer chaos. The wind whipped past us, and the bike wobbled wildly.
"AHH!" Thyme screamed, and then, with a desperate lunge, his arms wrapped tightly around my waist, his face pressed against my back. His grip was surprisingly strong, almost bruising.
"See?" I called over my shoulder, a triumphant grin on my face. "Told you you'd fall. Now hold on tight, Snotty Kid. We're almost there." I maintained the ridiculous speed, enjoying the fact that he was now forced into physical contact with me, despite his earlier protests. The sheer, unadulterated embarrassment emanating from him was almost palatable. And for some reason, it made the whole absurd situation feel a little less like a recurring nightmare and a lot more like a surprisingly entertaining ride.
We ended up at that little, out-of-the-way restaurant a few blocks from campus, the one with the surprisingly good khao pad and sweet iced tea. It was quiet, tucked away from the main student haunts, which suited me perfectly. Thyme, however, was in his element.
He ordered enough food for three people, a feat I still found baffling given his relatively slender frame. But the moment the first dish, a steaming plate of Pad See Ew, arrived, his eyes practically sparkled like a kid on Christmas morning. "Whoahhh, this smells amazing!" he'd exclaim, his voice bright with unadulterated glee. He didn't just eat; he attacked his plate of noodles with an enthusiasm that was both alarming and strangely endearing. He took giant, shovel-like bites, completely oblivious to how utterly joyful a grown man could look while devouring a simple meal. A stray grain of rice, or perhaps a bit of caramelized noodle, clung to his cheek, a testament to his single-minded focus. And when he smiled, it was a wide, genuine, almost blinding beam that seemed to stretch from ear to ear. He was truly a "Master of Food Who Smiles While Eating," just as I'd heard through the campus grapevine. It was fitting.
I watched him, a strange mix of amusement and bewilderment settling over me. He ate with an uninhibited relish that was almost contagious. There was no pretense, no self-consciousness, just pure, unadulterated happiness over a plate of noodles. His cheeks puffed out with each mouthful, his eyes sometimes closing in blissful concentration. Every now and then, he'd look up, mouth full, and offer me a bite with a hopeful gaze, or try to start a conversation about the optimal chewiness of the squid. "You really have to try this! The texture is just... perfect! It's got that bounce, you know?" he'd insist, holding out a forkful of something suspiciously saucy. I mostly grunted in response, or just shook my head, but he didn't seem to mind my monosyllabic replies. He just kept chattering away, his voice bright and earnest, about food, how much he loved it, and how he wished he could cook more. It was like watching a perfectly fed, very happy puppy that had just discovered the ultimate chew toy.
As the meal progressed, he moved onto the Tom Yum soup, carefully blowing on each spoonful before slurping it down with relish, then the crispy spring rolls, each new dish met with fresh excitement. "The crunch on these spring rolls is incredible!" he announced after an especially loud bite, a bit of lettuce and flaky pastry flying precariously close to my face. I blinked, narrowly dodging it. He seemed utterly oblivious, already reaching for another, his fingers stained with sauce. He'd occasionally pause mid-chew, eyes widening as if a profound culinary secret had just been revealed to him, before digging back in with renewed vigor, sometimes humming a little tune to himself.
It was during one of these energetic, food-fueled pauses, as he paused with a half-eaten shrimp in mid-air, that Thyme's eyes, still bright with the joy of eating, flickered towards the other tables. His smile faltered, just a fraction. He subtly glanced around the small, quiet restaurant, his movements becoming less boisterous. I followed his gaze. A few diners, mostly young women scattered among the lunch crowd, were definitely looking in our direction, quickly averting their eyes when they realized they'd been caught. It was the same kind of furtive glances we'd received on campus, but here, in the subdued lighting of the restaurant, they felt more pronounced, more lingering.
"Hey, do you... do you think people are looking at us?" Thyme mumbled, his voice much quieter now, a nervous edge creeping into it. He let the shrimp fall back onto his plate, poking at his remaining rice with his fork, his earlier enthusiasm visibly dimming. The shift was almost instantaneous.
"People always look," I replied, shrugging, picking up my glass of iced tea. It was a fact of my life, a dull background hum I'd long learned to ignore.
"Yeah, but... it feels different," he insisted, pushing his plate away slightly, as if the food had suddenly lost its appeal. He looked genuinely uncomfortable, his gaze fixed on a loose thread on the tablecloth, avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room. "Like... they're whispering. Can't you hear it?"
I took a sip of my iced tea. Whispering? What's he going on about now? I hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary, no distinct words, just the usual restaurant murmur. But his distress seemed genuine, his earlier vibrant energy replaced by a nervous fidgeting. "Just ignore it," I told him, perhaps a bit too dismissively. "It's a public place. People look at other people."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, dislodging a few strands. "I guess," he said, but his eyes still darted around the room, as if expecting someone to approach, to confront him. He ate the rest of his meal more slowly, the vibrant energy replaced by a subdued wariness. The easy, unselfconscious joy he'd radiated moments before had retreated, leaving him looking smaller, more vulnerable. It was an odd shift to witness, and for a fleeting second, a strange, unfamiliar irritation sparked within me. Not at him, but at whatever it was that made him so acutely aware of every lingering glance, whatever invisible burden he carried that could so swiftly extinguish his otherwise infectious happiness.
Little did I know, this perfectly ordinary, slightly bizarre meal would become the very spark that ignited the next, far more public, and infinitely more annoying, phase of my life. A single picture, taken by some unseen busybody in this very restaurant, would turn a quiet lunch into a campus-wide declaration, dragging me, Meta, into the tangled, chaotic world of Thyme. And it was all because I'd let his ridiculously loud stomach convince me to buy him a meal.