The subtle weight of Arthit's head settled gently against Daotok's left shoulder, his breath warm and even as he drifted into a nap. Seated together in the bustling airport lounge, Daotok sat as still as stone, careful not to shift or disturb him. Arthit had barely allowed himself a moment's rest in weeks, working relentlessly until the very last minute before their departure. The moment their obligations wrapped up, he'd insisted on a new adventure—something far from the ordinary.
Now, here they were, waiting to board a flight bound for Russia. Their destination: Mount Elbrus, the tallest peak in Europe and a dormant volcano cloaked in snow year-round. For Daotok, seasoned in hiking and mountaineering, the challenge was more exhilarating than intimidating.
Arthit had kept his promise. After their wedding, he had taken Daotok to places scattered across the globe—some popular, others so remote they didn't appear on tourist maps. Each destination came with its own lessons, its own magic, and Daotok found himself changed by every journey.
When it was time to board, Arthit barely stirred. He slept through the entire flight, his exhaustion melting into peaceful slumber. By the time they landed in Moscow, he was alert and vibrant, the spark in his eyes returning as if he hadn't just endured weeks of back-to-back work.
Despite being summertime, the Moscow air nipped at their skin with temperatures hovering around 15 degrees Celsius. Daotok, used to tropical climates, shivered slightly, but Arthit—though never fond of the cold—carried his bag without complaint. After grabbing a quick bite, they made their way to their accommodation, ready to rest before catching a domestic flight the next morning.
That evening, they wandered the city streets hand-in-hand, admiring the architecture and snapping quiet photographs. The next day, they boarded a short flight to Mineralnye Vody, the gateway to the Caucasus Mountains. Upon arrival, they rested, knowing the real journey was only just beginning.
Their guides met them the following day for the drive to Terskol—the final outpost before the mountain ascent. The landscape shifted gradually, the urban sprawl giving way to rugged alpine beauty. As they arrived in the village nestled beneath towering snowcapped peaks, the air grew colder and crisper.
After checking in to their modest lodgings, they ventured out to shop for climbing gear. Daotok had done his research and knew local equipment was often more suitable for the region's harsh conditions. They picked out crampons, insulated boots, down jackets, and helmets, and ended the day with a heavy dinner. The guides reviewed the climbing plan once more before dismissing them to rest.
Later that night, Daotok lay beside Arthit in their room, scrolling through Instagram when a familiar post caught his eye.
"Looks like Typhoon's in Norway," he murmured, tilting the screen to show Arthit a selfie of Typhoon and his boyfriend, beaming beneath a waterfall.
Arthit leaned over lazily. "Is the brat on summer break already?"
"Don't call Typhoon a brat," Daotok chided.
"I wasn't talking about him—I meant Fah," Arthit said, grinning mischievously. "Norway, huh? Interesting."
"Yeah."
"I should post a better photo just to one-up them," Arthit muttered, showing off an image Daotok had snapped of him in Moscow earlier that day.
Daotok nodded as a notification popped up on Arthit's phone. "Everyone's still asking about concerts. Even under photos that have nothing to do with music."
"Well, that's not surprising," Daotok replied. "You've got fans in every corner of the world."
"Direk still hasn't given me the green light to say anything."
"Don't stress," Daotok reassured him. "Your agency is planning a huge surprise. Just be careful. If you slip on the ice and crack your skull, you won't be able to sing at all."
"Hmm. What if that really happened?"
"Then you can write songs for someone else."
"Who?"
"Someone with a beautiful voice. Like me."
Arthit snorted. "Start by learning how to speak with more than one tone."
"I'd be more worried about you falling. With your brain, though, I doubt anyone would notice the difference."
"Rude!" Arthit gasped. "After that roast, you'd better kiss me."
"Not happening."
"Fine. If we climb this mountain, then Everest next, right?"
Daotok raised an eyebrow. "You're serious?"
"Why not?"
"It's risky. But maybe... if I improve enough." He paused. "Everest is the dream."
"I'm not even a fan of snow," Arthit grumbled.
"There are other mountains. Ones without snow."
"Then why are we here?"
"Because you're the one who suggested it," Daotok said, smirking.
"Me?"
"You were dead tired from work, said it in passing. I started planning that same night."
"Right... I woke up and you were packing our bags. I was like, 'We're going to Russia?' And you said, 'Yep.'"
Daotok chuckled. "Anyway, here we are. Let's sleep. We need to acclimatize tomorrow."
He switched off the light, and the room fell into silence.
☆☆☆☆☆
The next morning began with a light climb to help their bodies adjust to the altitude. Terskol sat at around 2,500 meters, but their target that day was 3,800. The trail was steep but scenic, lined with alpine meadows and a river that glittered in the sunlight. As they crested a ridge, Mount Elbrus loomed ahead—majestic and distant, its twin peaks wrapped in mist and snow.
The group paused to take photos before heading back down. The excursion took six hours, but Daotok found it manageable. That night, they relocated to the Huge Refuge at 3,600 meters and prepared to climb again the next day, this time to 4,000 meters.
Snow blanketed the ground now. Fully geared, they moved slowly up the slope. Arthit remained upbeat, energized by the challenge. Daotok, on the other hand, was worn down by the cold and exertion. The moment they returned to their lodging, he collapsed onto the bed in a haze of fatigue.
"You don't exercise enough," Arthit teased, barely winded.
"I exercise every day, " Daotok mumbled from beneath a blanket. "How are you still so fit?"
"I write lyrics while doing push-ups. You didn't know?"
"Your coworkers must hate you," Daotok grumbled.
Arthit said something else, but Daotok was already drifting off.
☆☆☆☆☆
The following day brought terrible weather—thick snowfall, harsh wind, and low visibility. They pushed on toward Upper Pashtukov Rock at 4,800 meters, battling the elements.
"You okay?" Arthit called from behind.
"I'm fine," Daotok lied. His lungs ached from the effort.
Step by slow step, they ascended. Once they reached their target, they returned to the refuge. Daotok collapsed again, exhausted beyond words. They were advised to rest the next morning, so he awoke later than usual. From his bed, snow-covered peaks glistened in the soft morning light. He grabbed his phone to take a photo. Arthit, still half-asleep, sat up with a nest of hair tangled around his head.
"You'll need a haircut when we get back."
"Me?" Arthit asked groggily.
"It's getting long."
He pulled a comb from his bag and tried to tame the mess. "You look like a woodpecker," Daotok said. "Not that it matters. The hat will cover it."
"You think I should keep up my image?" Arthit asked with a smirk. "Even the guides know who I am."
"You've never cared much about appearances."
"True. Handsome is handsome."
"Exactly. Now go wash up."
"Why wash up? It's freezing. Let's just sleep some more," Arthit mumbled, still half-asleep, his voice muffled by the thick blanket wrapped around his head. He lazily reached for Daotok, dragging him back into the warmth of their shared sleeping bag.
Daotok sighed. He was used to this now—Arthit's relentless resistance to anything remotely productive before 10 A.M. Still, he gently untangled himself and managed to coax the man upright with considerable effort.
"You're really gross," Daotok muttered playfully as he pushed open the tent flap, the frosty air stinging his cheeks.
Arthit squinted at the bright snow and groaned. "I need to pee. Can I just go here?"
"No," Daotok said firmly, pulling him by the arm. "If your pants get wet, it'll only make the cold worse."
"Fair point. Where's the bottle, then?"
Daotok shot him a look. "The outhouse is just outside. Come on. And stop leaning on me—you'll take us both down."
Grumbling, Arthit trudged beside him through the snow toward the outhouse. When he returned a few minutes later, freshly washed and teeth brushed, his eyes had finally opened all the way.
"All right, I'm up. What's next?"
"Practice. Ice axes, fixed ropes—safety basics."
"I already know how to use them. Let me sleep."
"It's for your safety."
Arthit rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine."
By the afternoon, they were training with the guides—climbing techniques, emergency drills, what to do if someone slipped into a crevasse. Practicing next to a real drop made Daotok's stomach lurch at first, but as the sun crept higher and he got used to the gear, his nerves turned into a quiet excitement. He even started to enjoy it.
That evening, they turned in early, knowing the final push to the summit would begin just after midnight. The last stretch was nearly a thousand meters—an intimidating thought. At exactly 11:45 P.M, the alarm chirped to life, jarring Daotok awake.
Around him, the room was cloaked in darkness, with only faint murmurs filtering in from outside—the sound of other climbers getting ready. He turned and nudged Arthit, who had wrapped himself like a burrito in their sleeping bag, only the top of his head visible.
"Arthit," he whispered. "It's time."
To his surprise, Arthit's eyes flew open and he sat up with unusual energy.
"Let's go!"
Daotok smiled, matching his enthusiasm. They layered up, checked their gear, and stepped outside. Their guides were already waiting, headlamps on and breath clouding in the cold air. Only the base camp lights cast a faint glow across the snow-blanketed ground.
After a final check of their harnesses, boots, and insulated clothing, they boarded the snowcat—a small, enclosed vehicle built for snowy terrain—that would carry them to Pasthukov Rock, their true starting point. As they began the climb, trekking poles helped steady their steps through the thick snow. Headlamps lit up the trail ahead, a glowing procession of climbers snaking up the mountainside. At around 5,000 meters, a soft light tinged the horizon.
Dawn was approaching. Daotok paused and turned to look back. The view took his breath away. Far below, peaks rolled endlessly into the distance, dusted in white. The sky was shifting into brilliant shades of indigo and burnt orange. It felt like standing on the edge of heaven. Beside him, Arthit had also stopped, quiet and still.
"This is insane," Daotok murmured, pulling out his camera to capture the moment—and, of course, Arthit's stunned face.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said as he snapped a photo.
"Yeah," Arthit replied, eyes locked on Daotok with a teasing smile. "You're beautiful."
Daotok blinked. "I meant the view."
"Who's this 'view' you're complimenting, hmm?" Arthit joked. "Should I be jealous?"
"Let's just keep walking."
"Okay, okay," Arthit chuckled. "But yeah... It really is beautiful. You don't see anything like this down below."
As the sun crept higher, more climbers paused to admire the glowing snow, the smaller peaks catching golden light. Daotok snapped more pictures, savoring the moment. The guides chatted with them during rest breaks, keeping everyone relaxed. One of them turned out to be a fan of Arthit, recognizing him from online videos. Apparently, seeing him unfiltered and makeup-free only made him more attractive in their eyes. Arthit, ever charming and good-humored, laughed along with them, easily making friends.
Eventually, they reached the Saddle—a curved stretch nestled between Elbrus's twin peaks. The West Summit was their goal: higher, harder, and far more challenging. With ice axes in hand, they moved cautiously up the final stretch, navigating the steep incline with ropes secured tightly to the slope. Every step demanded focus. The cold bit at their skin despite the gear, but Daotok felt a thrill deep in his chest.
"How are you doing?" Arthit asked, breathing heavily beside him.
"It's fun," Daotok said honestly. "What about you?"
Arthit grinned. "Yeah, it's fun."
The path narrowed, flanked by sheer drops on both sides. One wrong step could be deadly. Still, they climbed—together, steady, determined. And then, finally, they stood at the top of Mount Elbrus. Daotok let out a long breath, his chest swelling with pride and wonder. Around them stretched the Caucasus Mountains, a vast, snow-covered kingdom beneath a cloudless sky. They took photos, laughing between gasps of cold air, holding onto the euphoria of standing on Europe's highest peak.
"You look so happy," Arthit said, brushing snow off Daotok's hair.
"I am! This is amazing. Aren't you?"
"Of course," Arthit said, voice soft. "This was incredible."
"I wonder what the views are like on other mountains..." Daotok mused.
"Tell me where, and I'll take you," Arthit promised.
"I want to go again," Daotok said, his eyes shining.
"Then we will," Arthit replied.
Their descent was gentler—easier to breathe, easier to talk. Back at base camp, Daotok scrolled through his photos, warmth blooming in his chest. This adventure had tested them, thrilled them, and bonded them even closer. No view, no summit, no height meant anything without Arthit beside him. That was what made the journey beautiful. Later, as they prepared to return to Moscow, Arthit stepped out of the bathroom, frowning.
"My nose is peeling. It stings like hell."
"Let me see," Daotok said, standing up. Arthit leaned down, letting him examine the flaky skin across his nose.
"It really is peeling," Daotok said, then touched his own nose. Smooth.
"Mine's not."
"What? Why not? That's not fair!"
"I don't know—good genes?"
"Fine, I'll peel your nose myself. Bring it here."
"You're insane," Daotok said, laughing as he dodged the threat. "Hurry up and get dressed."
"Yeah, yeah."
Even in the smallest moments, the world felt warmer with Arthit around.